by Jenna Jaxon
The grief, the loss. It rolled off of her in giant, tangible waves.
She hid much of it behind a cool and dignified demeanor, but he felt it nonetheless. She’d fade away into despair if she didn’t shake this gloom. And that would be a shame.
He stole a sideways glance at the woman draped in black and caught his breath.
Not that she appeared excessively pretty. Attractive, yes. But so much more.
Long elegant neck. Despite the sorrow wearing her down, she held her head proudly. Never in his life had he met a woman with more dignity. He vaguely mused that royalty could learn a thing or two from her as he steered them both around a broken branch on the trail. It must have fallen during the last rainstorm.
She hadn’t responded to his taunt. In fact, she’d barely spoken to him at all. Why would she stoop to engage in meaningful conversation with a man born for labor?
Why indeed?
“Don’t you like the child?” He’d wondered this on more than one occasion now. For it was odd that, as the child’s grandmother, she ignored opportunities to hold the baby. She often made excuses to leave the room on the few occasions when the nursemaid presented her.
“I love the child.” She spoke abruptly. “How could I not?”
Her statement lacked conviction. She didn’t sound like a doting grandmother. Her gaze evaded his, but she couldn’t hide the hint of disappointment hovering in the back of her eyes.
Perhaps the duchess resented the hasty marriage of her daughter-in-law to the distant heir. From what Thomas could recall of his daughter’s words, her friend, Sophia, had found herself with child upon the death of her young husband. And then quickly remarried the current duke.
And even a fool could see that the newly married couple held affection for one another. Almost as though it had been a love match.
“You resent Prescott’s swift marriage to Lord Harold’s widow?” He’d prod this duchess to assuage his curiosity. He had nothing to lose by doing so.
The fascinating woman beside him shook her head and closed her eyes. God, but she carried a subtle beauty to her…
“I do not. Of course, I do not.” Her demeanor cracked ever so slightly. “Dev is my nephew. His loss has been great as well. I wish him nothing but happiness.” Ah yes. Prescott had lost his father that day.
“And her grace? Little Harriette’s mother?”
“Sophia is a lovely and kind-hearted girl.”
Thomas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then why would she avoid the baby? Why wouldn’t she find joy in her grandchild? He was a man of facts and figures and something about this woman wasn’t adding up.
A breeze danced through the trees overhead, shaking what would likely be the last of the season’s leaves onto the path in front of them.
“It looks as though it might rain.” Her cultured voice sounded colder than the temperature as she extracted her hand from his arm. “I don’t wish to be caught in a storm.”
But Thomas would not allow her to return to her separate residence unchaperoned. He casually clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “Lead the way, your grace. I’ll not leave you to your own devices.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Even in her diminished state, the woman commanded better than any manager he’d ever hired. “I came out alone, I can just as easily return.”
But Thomas was no manager. And he was no servant or merchant to be dismissed so easily by even a duchess.
By God, he was one of the wealthiest men in England. He didn’t dwell on this fact and never spoke it aloud. He’d toiled most of his life, taken calculated risks with everything he owned, but he knew it could all be gone in the blink of an eye. He’d never take security and comfort for granted.
“After you, your grace.” He indicated the path leading toward the dowager house on the edge of the property.
As she shook her head and marched off in front of him, he almost thought she’d rolled her eyes.
But that was impossible. Duchesses never rolled their eyes.
Especially not this one.
***
“Was that the vulgar industrialist? One of the duchess’ friends’ fathers?” Millie, Loretta’s maid for the past twenty years, scowled out the window as she watched Mr. Findlay’s disappearing figure. “He needs to learn his place, I’d say.”
Loretta breathed a sigh of relief at the closing of the door. Whether she felt it from closing the storm out, or the disturbing man, she couldn’t say.
And yes, a part of her agreed with her maid’s assessment.
But that didn’t mean she would tolerate the observation. She could not allow Millie to disparage Sophia’s guests. “He is a guest at Eden’s Court, Millie. And I’ll thank you not to refer to one of her grace’s guests as vulgar.”
Loretta handed her wrap over and began removing her gloves. A seam was coming unraveled on the left one. Normally, she’d have replaced them by now, but it hadn’t mattered. Had Mr. Findlay noticed? Mildred clucked her tongue with a pout as Loretta handed over the gloves.
“As you wish, your grace.” But her words carried no conviction. Millie could be loyal to a fault.
“And would you mind mending the left one?” Loretta indicated the opened seem.
“Of course. A spot of tea before supper?”
Loretta nodded. Something without spirits.
During the first few months of mourning, she’d found herself drinking more than her fair share of brandy in order to sleep. She’d even taken laudanum on a few occasions.
She’d buried her grief in lethargy. Too much. The compulsion to overindulge had frightened her. She no longer drank any spirits at all.
Just tea.
Hot tea.
“Let’s get you warmed up.”
Loretta nodded and again wondered if Mr. Findlay had noticed the tear in her gloves. Prescott would have berated her for it. He’d always demanded perfection from those in his protection.
Lucas, her eldest, had managed the pressure in stride. He’d hardened, similar to his father.
Harold, on the other hand. Sweet, dear Harold hadn’t done as well.
She refused to dwell on him tonight.
CHAPTER TWO
The next afternoon, Thomas watched the doorway over the top of his glass as she entered. The austere style of her upswept hair emphasized her nobility but also drew attention to her slim, feminine neck and shoulders. She wore black, yet again, today. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in any other color. A simple round collar with long sleeves, the frock ought to wash out her complexion, it ought to look atrocious. But on her…
Thomas shook his head.
Although several guests had already come down to the salon, the duchess had arrived late. The younger duchess, dressed in a pale pink concoction, greeted the older woman and led her toward a high-backed upholstered chair with all due respect. Thomas chuckled to himself at the duchess’ irritation. With a regal nod, she excused the younger woman to attend to her other guests.
Likely she’d done the same numerous times during her own reign as Duchess of Prescott.
The young duchess sent a grimace toward her husband, who then raised his shoulders in a casual shrug. They obviously found themselves at something of a loss as to how to deal with the widow.
She’d belonged here all her life, and yet now, somehow, she didn’t. Or she didn’t think she did.
What a horrid lot women had! Even duchesses lacked the independence of a hardworking man.
“The widow,” a voice sounded near his ear, “no longer takes spirits.” Mrs. Goodnight, one of Cecily’s friends’ mothers had crept up behind him.
He resented that she’d caught him watching the duchess. He resented even more the gleeful spite he heard in Mrs. Goodnight’s voice.
“I’ve witnessed many a strong man taken down by spirits.” He spoke non-committally,
The duchess would not appreciate such gossip. Surprisingly, he didn’t wish for her to think he would stoop so low as to
discuss her personal inclinations with such a busybody as this Goodnight woman.
“Yes. Well.” The woman, who must have at one time been a beauty, grimaced. She’d obviously expected a different response from him.
Thomas tugged at his cravat, averting his gaze to another cluster of guests.
His beautiful daughter, Cecily, mingled naturally in the fine salon. And she was happy. Thank God, she had finally found happiness — despite the debacle of a marriage he’d promoted for her to the Earl of Kensington.
Stephen Nottingham, Cecily’s husband, was watching her as well, a tender expression in his gaze. If Thomas had done nothing in his life, he’d always know he’d raised a fine daughter — and she’d gone on to find happiness.
“Poor, dear lady,” Mrs. Goodnight’s voice carried that tone which was meant to sound sympathetic, but in truth, veiled insult. “To lose so much at once and then later be dealt such a blow as the child’s uncanny coloring.”
Thomas blinked. The child’s coloring? What was she nattering on about? Why ever would the child’s coloring be another blow?
Mrs. Goodnight waved one hand in the air and laughed. “Oh, you men! Never paying attention to the details that matter. Why Little Lady Harriette, you’ve seen her. She’s the spitting image of the duke.”
Black hair. Black eyes.
But of course.
He performed a little mental math and the truth of the child’s paternity dawned on him. Not the spitting image of Lord Harold, the young duchess’ husband at the time of conception. Not the spitting image of the widowed duchess’ son.
The child was not her granddaughter, merely a great niece. And yes, yes. Something of an insult, he’d imagine.
A stirring at the door signified new arrivals. The babies, carried by two mop-capped women, had arrived. Little Finn, who already was reaching for his mama, and the other with a thumb in her mouth, looking about for one of her parents. Pride burst within him as he watched Cecily lift the boy high into the air, and he realized at the same time, that the duchess had been denied even this.
The little girl’s eyes indeed matched those of her father, black as night and her hair nearly the same.
When his gaze swung to where the duchess sat, he watched her smile tightly. Of course, she loved the child, but… her son…
Thomas raised his brows at all the ramifications of this epiphany.
“I think I’d be even more inclined to take spirits, if I say so myself.” Mrs. Goodnight, observant woman that she was, had watched him closely as he’d contemplated her remark. “Darling child, though, she is.”
“Beautiful baby,” he agreed, wishing to extract himself from this woman’s conversation. A cool hand dropped onto his arm though.
“Although I can’t say I’d do it again. Raising a child leaves one with little opportunity to pursue one’s own… interests.”
Upon those words, Thomas realized, he just might be one of those interests to which she referred.
He must excuse himself before getting caught in this woman’s crosshairs.
***
Loretta’s eyes drank in the sight of Sophia and Dev’s precious little girl. She wanted to squeeze and kiss the child without wishing she was Harold’s. She wanted to bury her face in the sweet fragrance of the child’s hair.
Children signified the future. They signified hope.
Harold, Lucas, Prescott… they were her past. Why hadn’t they taken her with them?
She pinched her lips at the thought and turned her head.
This world belonged to Devlin and Sophia now. Loretta tried to keep herself to the dowager house but Sophia insisted, often coming herself to deliver invitations. To dinner. Brunch. Tea. And what excuses could Loretta use?
Loretta considered herself something of an imposter.
Even Mr. Findlay fit into this gathering better than she did. How ironic was that?
Her gaze flitted across the room to where he stood with Mrs. Goodnight.
Good Lord, was the woman flirting with him? The imposing man shuffled his feet and lifted one hand to tug at his already loosened cravat. His gaze shifted uncomfortably around the room. He’d never pass for a gentleman. All the money in the world couldn’t purchase enough refinement to repair his manners.
A shiver swept through her.
Mrs. Goodnight didn’t seem to take issue with those manners, though. In fact, she seemed quite impressed by him, in general. Or perhaps it was just that she was impressed with the man’s bank account. Loretta had known for years of the Goodnight’s financial woes…
Mr. Findlay took one step back, and then another, in a subtle attempt to escape the married woman’s attentions. He’d have mercantile beliefs about marriage, no doubt. He’d not understand that wedded couples often found pleasure and comfort outside of their marriage.
Even Prescott…
Loretta dropped her attention to her folded hands. She’d never done so herself. She wouldn’t have known where to begin.
And what, on earth, had caused her to even think such a thought?
“You ventured out of your hideaway.” Mr. Findlay had made his escape and had apparently chosen to provoke her now. She straightened her spine.
“I am a sociable person.” She refused to take his bait. Such an aggravating man.
He chuckled, evoking a strange warmth in her chest. “Of course, you are, Duchess.”
Sophia glanced across the room upon hearing the title spoken but Loretta shook her head. Sophia was a dear, dear girl and would be a wonderful duchess in her own right. Was a wonderful duchess in her own right, Loretta corrected herself.
Without permission, Mr. Findlay lowered himself into the chair beside her. Leaning forward, resting his elbows along his knees, he appeared at a loss of words for a moment. “There is a property, an estate located some ten miles south of here. I’m considering purchasing it and would appreciate a woman’s opinion. Would you be up to driving down there with me tomorrow? Cecily had intended upon joining me but it seems the younger set is planning a shopping expedition into town for some last minute Christmas gifts.”
This was the last thing Loretta expected him to say. A drive? With Thomas Findlay? She’d have laughed outright at the thought less than two years ago. She was likely to laugh at such a thought now.
Only… there was nothing improper in driving alone with him. She wasn’t a young miss, for heaven’s sake. She was a widow nearing her dotage.
He was just so… common. Either he’d embarrass her or bore her to tears.
She turned her head just enough so that she could study his stark profile.
Yet if she did not go with him, how would she spend her day? Sophia no longer required her assistance in managing the staff or doing anything else for that matter.
Loretta, quite frankly, had absolutely nothing else to demand her attention.
“What is the name of the estate?” She knew something of most properties in the area. She’d like to know ahead of time if the adventure would prove to be a waste of time.
“Talon’s Gate,” he supplied.
She’d not heard of this one.
“You wish to purchase it as an investment?” Surely, the man didn’t intend to settle down.
He smiled a bit self-consciously. “I’m a grandfather now. I need a home where my grandchildren might visit me.”
“Grandchildren?” He only had one. “Is the Countess…?”
Mr. Findlay winced. “I’ve not said a word. You heard nothing from me.” And then he covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head. “Cecily will have my hide.”
Ah, another child.
“I believe the weather will hold. Will you make the journey with me?” He persisted with his original question.
Perhaps it would rain tomorrow. Or snow. “If the weather holds.” she nodded. Thick clouds hovered in the distance. Likely, she’d be saved from having to spend several hours in this man’s presence.
A small cry pierced the sounds of sev
eral different conversations in the room. Sophia gently bounced the baby in her arms. “Hush now, darling.” She soothed, patting the top of her daughter’s head. The child scrunched up her face and let out a second cry.
In a surprising move, Mr. Findlay rose and crossed with arms outstretched. “May I? I’ve learned a particularly affective trick with my grandson.”
The young mother looked indecisive for a moment but with a reassuring glance from Cecily, handed the child over.
With Sophia fussing over the long lacey dress, Mr. Findlay turned the baby girl so that she rested her stomach along his arm and proceeded to pat her bum heartily. Surprisingly, the baby stopped fussing.
Whether he’d simply scared her into silence, or she found the motion soothing, Loretta couldn’t say. But as he paced across the room holding the child thusly, a murmur of approval sounded from more than one of the other guests.
And then he lowered himself into the seat beside her once again. This time with the baby lying, face down across his lap. He jostled her gently by bouncing one foot.
Unable to stop herself, Loretta reached over and ran her fingers along the child’s cheek.
“She is beautiful.” Although not Harold’s child, Loretta had always loved her nephew dearly. Her nephew had spent a great deal of time in their household. He and Justin White had practically been raised as brothers alongside her own two sons. This beautiful baby was Dev’s flesh and blood.
Mr. Findlay moved to turn the baby upright, tangling the skirts of the ornate gown once again, so that Loretta had to adjust them.
“Why, in God’s name, would anybody dress a child in something long enough for a fully grown adult?” Mr. Findlay groused as he tried to settle Lady Harriette upright upon his lap.
“Give her to me.” Loretta demanded, drawing a sardonic lifting of the brow from the annoying man. “And the gown is lovely.”
She reached across and placed her hands beneath the baby’s arms, inadvertently touching more of Mr. Findlay’s firm chest and arms than she’d anticipated. Such a contrast, the baby’s fragile and tender body, covered in white muslin and lace, against this hard, unfamiliarly muscled man clad in wool and linen.