Wenna

by Virginia Taylor

  He had married the most admired debutante of this season. Added to a pair of wide blue eyes was a captivating smile, a charming voice, and the sort of elegant curves that made a man’s palms sweat. His body craved the marital rights he wouldn’t take, but he couldn’t let a devious twenty-year-old tempt him to risk siring a child again.

  After attiring himself more suitably in brown striped trousers and a red tie, he walked down to the breakfast room.

  One of the maids, bearing a tray full of food, stopped and smiled. “Mistress is having luncheon served in the dining room today, sir.”

  With a tilt of his eyebrows, he changed direction to the indicated place, a vast area blessed with two sets of multi-paned Georgian windows. The sun beamed in, lighting a room furnished mainly in heavy mahogany furniture and dull pink velvet. For the last few months, he and his father had eaten in the breakfast room, a smaller annex closer to the kitchen. Apparently, his young wife had greater pretensions.

  “Good of you join us,” his father, Alfred, said, his face set on harsh lines.

  Like Nick, Alfred was tall. During the past years, his neatly trimmed beard had begun to fleck with gray, though his hair was still dark. Dressed as a country gentleman, he wore buff trousers and a brown jacket. “Can the racing fraternity spare you?”

  Nick moved to the foot of the table. Charlotte, her dark hair perfectly knotted on the nape of her neck and wearing a smart layered crinoline, sat on his father’s right. Plainly dressed Sara sat on his left.

  “There’s no meet today, otherwise, as you know, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Serve yourself from the side-table.” His father eyed him. “There’s food aplenty, though this little miss”—he indicated Sarah—“never eats luncheon.”

  The waif contemplated the empty plate in front of her, her mouth firm. “I’m not hungry. I said I only wanted a peach.”

  Nick rose to his feet and jerked the bell pull. “We’ll have a peach,” he said to the maid who answered.

  “The peaches is preserved, as Cook told the mistress.”

  Nick caught Cousin Sarah’s catlike glance. “Won’t that do for you?”

  Sarah nodded and heaved a sigh.

  A manservant stepped into the doorway. “Your pardon. The coachman wants a word with Mr. Nicholas.”

  “Could you relay the message?” Nick shook out his table napkin.

  “He says not.”

  “Send him in, then.”

  The coachman, Bookmaker Harvey, a stubby knowing fellow with gray side-whiskers, who had apparently been standing just out of sight, smacked his hat on his moleskins as the manservant retreated. “Got this letter here, Mr. Nicholas. And a horse.”

  “You’re not considering bringing a horse into the house.” Alfred almost rose to his feet.

  “Got the horse outside. Got the letter here in my hand.”

  “Stay where you are. The ladies won’t want your great dirty boots in the dining room.”

  Nick eyed Harvey’s well worn but clean boots. “I’ll see the letter.” He perused the page signed by his friend of twenty years and massaged his forehead. “Walk the horse. I might send her back.”

  Alfred frowned. “Who would send you a horse?”

  “Tony.” Nick quickly scanned the papers that came with the letter. “He says Blue Bobbin jumped into the wrong paddock and met with an unsuitable mare.” He lifted his glass of wine and finished half.

  “Bound to happen.” Alfred reached for the salt. “A ruddy great stallion like that. He belongs to Tony Hawthorn,” he explained to Sarah and Charlotte. “Bred by his father. Been dead eight or so years—his father not the horse. He made a tidy sum on the stallion at the racetrack, Tony that is, and he put him out to stud. That’s, er...” Glancing at Sarah, he cleared his throat. “Used him for breeding purposes.”

  “And in the intervening years, Tony has made a fortune from him. I’ve made a guinea or two as well.” Nick finished his wine and refilled his glass. “His progeny are the best blood stock in the country, except, Tony says, for the mare outside. Her sire had a pedigree a mile long, but her dam was a hack. Tony thought Charlotte might like the mare for a riding horse.” His jaw clamped.

  Sarah gasped. “A horse. Charlotte, you’ve always wanted a horse of your own.”

  Charlotte sat unmoving. “Yes, I have always wanted a horse of my own. I happened to mention that once in conversation with Mr. Hawthorn.”

  “He is calling this a wedding present.” Nick watched her with narrowed eyes, hoping she would have the good taste to reject the gift. Hawthorn ought to know better. His delightful wife would surely be hurt if she knew he was handing out gifts of livestock instead of leaving well enough alone.

  “Is a horse a common wedding present?”

  “Would you have preferred rubies?”

  “I would rather have a horse than anything else in the world.”

  “And so, we will accept the gift, although you can hardly expect to ride.”

  Her eyebrows drawn, Charlotte met his gaze. “If you won’t let me ride, I see no point in having a horse.”

  Nick, shrugging, turned to the coachman. “Stable the mare with the others.”

  At that moment, the fruit arrived. Cousin Sarah decided to out-stare her plate.

  Nick glanced at her. “Not to your taste?”

  She gave him a placating smile. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

  Nick wondered why he had bothered. He didn’t care whether she ate or not. Nor could he maintain interest in a conversation with his wife that appeared to be going nowhere. He quaffed his wine, made his apologies, then left, arriving at his club in the city center some half hour later.

  Dixon, the owner, greeted him. “Lookin’ for a meal or a bout, sir?”

  “More like a fight,” Nick said, still annoyed that he had been forced to accept Tony’s reprehensible gift.

  Dixon inclined his head and indicated the large gymnasium sited down a flight of stairs. Most of the light came from the high windows, leaving the walls lined with punching bags. A few were being treated to a pounding. Two boxing rings filled the center of the area. Currently, both rings were being used, and Dixon’s bruisers were either idling or skipping the ropes to warm up for a bout with any likely club member. “You ain’t been here for some weeks. How’s your condition?” Ben, his usual sparring partner, asked.

  “Middling.”

  The man grinned. “Best you work off your choler with a bag rather than me, then, Mr. Alden.”

  Nick nodded curtly and left for the dressing room where he stripped down to his smalls. When he returned to the main area, he bandaged his fists and worked up a sweat. He needed a drink but, apparently, Dixon had decided to serve only watered ale today. Nick downed two, which barely moistened his throat. Still irritable, he aimed a high hard punch at his bag, which was grabbed by two large hands.

  A head appeared to one side—a head filled with carroty hair and brighter sideburns surrounding a strong-boned face usually described as interesting. “Work, you fairy. Stop playing at boxing.”

  Nick aimed a punch close to Luke Worthing’s nose. “What did you call me?”

  “Daisy. Sprite. Girly-boy.” Luke, a friend since schooldays, dropped his hold on the bag. “Bastard.”

  “Your fortnight in the country didn’t do much to improve your vocabulary.” Nick shot a dismissive glance at Luke’s hardy body. “Do a round with me. Though, perhaps you’d rather join me upstairs for a drink. A good sustaining bottle or two will solve more problems than a pounding.”

  Before Nick could take a step, Luke grasped his upper arm and swung him around. Encouraged by the color of his hair, Luke had a quick temper. “Not my problems. I don’t drink to forget. I remember. And I remember exactly what you said on your wedding day, you bastard,” he said, his voice oiled with anger. “You’d known her for a couple of months. Why in hell did I never know that?”

  Nick shrugged.
>
  Luke moved a step back, legs apart, his big hands clenched on his hips. “You made a fool of me,” he said through his teeth. “She never even let me put my hand on hers.”

  “Apparently, one man at a time is enough for her.”

  “Apparently, when she no longer wanted to know you, you decided to force her.”

  “Do you want everyone to hear you?” Nick held Luke’s gaze.

  Luke snorted. “I can’t imagine why you saw the need to mishandle her. The fact that you’ve consumed most of the grape-stock in the colony would excuse you to others, but not to me. Your behavior was disgraceful.”

  “The dear creature forgave me. Accept it.”

  “Whenever you appear, the dear creature sees nothing but a face that sends angels into spasms of jealousy.” Luke half turned, a disgusted expression on his own face. “I hope you’ve saved her reputation by this marriage.”

  “Unless you’ve been gossiping, I presume so.”

  “Gossiping about what?” Luke’s mouth clamped.

  “Exactly.” Nick unwound the bandages on his fists.

  “I should have broken your damned nose that night instead of slinking off.” Luke clenched his hands at his side. “But she already has enough people talking about her. Even now I can’t believe she’d been conducting a secret relationship with a soak like you.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Believe what you like. It makes no difference to me. Now, I’m off to find a bottle. I haven’t seen a tall enough glass today.”

  Luke jammed his hands into his pockets, hunching. “Do you plan to play the faithful husband?”

  “I don’t intend to embarrass her.”

  “I ought to beat you to pulp.”

  Nick twisted his mouth. “Wait until I’m falling-down drunk, and you might have a better chance.”

  He left his friend staring daggers after him and strolled upstairs for more convivial company. Charlotte couldn’t have forced him to marry her, despite deliberately involving him in a compromising situation. He didn’t believe in honor or duty.

  He did, however, believe in justice. His family deserved an heir. His great-grandfather in England had been an only child, as had his grandfather and his father. Nick, as well, was an only child, not that his mother hadn’t tried to rectify this situation. She had conceived four babies after him. All had died before birth. His mother had died with the last.

  If Nick turned up his toes without issue, his father’s great effort in making his fortune in the colony of South Australia would be entirely wasted. The least Nick could do was continue the family line, though with a twist. Charlotte was already carrying an heir, but not of Nick’s faulty seed.

  The gift of the horse and the attached story of the wandering stallion had finally confirmed Nick’s reluctant suspicion that the next Alden heir had been bred by hardier stock, that of Tony Hawthorn.

  Meet the Author

  From art student to stylist, to nurse and midwife, Virginia Taylor’s life has been one illogical step to the next, each one leading to the final goal of being an author. When she can tear herself away from the computer and the waiting blank page, she immerses herself in arts and crafts, gardening, or, of course, cooking. You can visit her website at www.virginia-taylor.com, and tweet her @authorvtaylor.