“I might like another myself.” Tye came down beside Hester and reached for the teapot, making sure his hand bumped hers, exactly as he had the first night when they’d shared a meal.
Yea, verily, a blush. For certain, seeing him and touching him provoked her to blushes. “Tea, Miss Hester?”
“Please.”
He fixed her a cup with cream and sugar, while she troweled butter onto a scone. Thank God the child was there to chaperone, or he might have begun asking the lady personal questions about what caused her blushes.
Fiona kicked the rungs of her chair, the same way Joan still did when bored. “Uncle Tye said he sang Rowan a lullaby. Nobody sings me any lullabies.”
Tye passed Hester her tea. “Shall you be going to bed before supper, Niece? I’ll be happy to sing you a lullaby right now if you are.”
“No.” She smiled, generously conceding the point. “But I’ll be going to bed after supper. You could sing to me then.”
“No such luck.” Tye peeled a raisin from the scone in Miss Hester’s hand. “I’m engaged to serenade my horse after supper. It helps settle his equine nerves, to say nothing of my own.” He popped the raisin in his mouth, but not before he caught a half smile from the woman trying to ignore his presence while they sat side by side on the same bench.
She smelled good—clean, flowery, lemony, and feminine, and it made his male brain recall that fragrance of hers combined with lavender-scented sheets and the earthy aroma of spent lust.
Spent lust being a degree short of sated lust.
“Did Rowan’s nerves necessitate a hack in this rain, my lord?” Hester hid behind her teacup, reminding Tye he’d dodged the day’s first two meals. No wonder the lady was hesitant.
“Rainy days are hard on the beast when he’s confined to his stall, and a call on Balfour was in order. He sends his greetings.” Tye resisted the urge to appropriate a bite of Hester’s scone. She was eating slowly, tearing off a nibble or peeling off a single raisin and putting it into her mouth.
Innocent behavior. He could observe her doing the same thing any morning in the breakfast parlor—if he wanted to start the day losing his sanity.
“I’d best be changing into dry clothes. Fiona, if no one has explained multiplication to you, I will take on that challenge tomorrow.”
“Like be fruitful and multiply?” Fiona’s innocent question hung in the air, while Miss Hester’s lips curved, and she abruptly appeared fascinated by her remaining bite of scone.
“That is an archaic biblical reference, child. What I have in mind is done on paper with a pencil and a good deal of careful thought. Miss Hester, I will see you at supper.”
He managed a dignified exit in damp socks, which was no small feat, even for the firstborn son and heir of an English marquess. He was standing before the fire in his bedroom, peeled down to his damp breeches and bare feet with a tumbler of whisky in his hand, when the first glimmer of a fascinating—if improbable—idea stole into his tired, frustrated, and not a little resentful mind.
* * *
“I hope Uncle Tye stays with us until Mama and Papa come back.” Fiona reached for a scone, but must have seen the promise of retribution in Hester’s eyes. The child snitched a single orphaned raisin from the tray instead.
“He’s a busy man, Fee. I doubt he can bide with us the entire summer.” She doubted her nerves could stand such a thing either: Tiberius Flynn, sleeping one unlocked door down from her, night after night.
“Why is he busy? Does he have other nieces?”
“Not that I know of, but he has estates, younger sisters, and parents. I’m sure there are many demands on his time.”
Fiona frowned, but it wasn’t a frown of displeasure. Hester was coming to know the child well enough to see that this was an expression of thoughtfulness. “Why doesn’t Uncle want anybody to know he’s nice?”
Why, indeed? Spathfoy wasn’t a friendly man, and he certainly made no effort to cultivate charm. She no longer viewed this as a shortcoming, having met a few too many friendly, charming scoundrels.
“Maybe he’s shy.” Shy enough that he’d fix her a cup of tea, touch her hand, and steal a raisin from her scone, but never once smile at her.
Fiona snitched another orphaned raisin. “Uncle is shy? I don’t think so, but he’s very careful. He guddles people the way he guddles a fish.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” An image of Spathfoy’s hand stroking slowly over Hester’s stomach had her pulse fluttering.
“He is stealthy.” Fiona hunched down closer to the table and dropped her voice. “He is polite and quiet, and uses a great lot of big words, but he has very good manners. My other uncles don’t have such good manners.”
“Your other uncles know you better, Fee. Spathfoy is more guest than uncle. When you know him better, he might be less formal.”
“He made me a cup of tea, right here in this kitchen. Mrs. Deal will have kittens.”
“He made me a cup of tea too”—exactly the way she preferred it—“so she’ll have to have two litters. Would you like to help me practice my Gaelic over a game of matches?”
“You promise you won’t let me win?”
Hester rose and carried the tray to the counter. “I shall pummel you flat, but we must practice my Gaelic while I defeat you.”
“I bet Uncle could pummel you flat.”
Hester took the child’s hand and remained silent. She feared in some of the ways that mattered, Spathfoy had already pummeled her flat. She very much looked forward to her next pummeling, when she hoped she might return the favor to him. Aunt Ariadne had been quite correct to recommend that Hester avail herself of Spathfoy’s subtle charms.
And if he stayed the entire summer, Hester would avail herself of those charms as often as the gentleman’s shyness allowed her to.
* * *
Tye tried writing to his father.
He needed to convey to the old man how dim-witted—and unsporting—this plan to uproot an innocent child was. He wanted to intimate to his father how urgent Tye’s own exodus from Scotland had become—how close he found himself to committing irredeemable mischief with one Hester Daniels, who might not be best pleased to see Fiona taken south. He had to explain to his father how very decent Balfour had been to Fiona and to Tye both, and how deserving the Scottish earl was of decent treatment in return.
All of which would be so much wasted ink. Quinworth had spoken, and the universe was to promptly order itself accordingly.
Despite the impact on a little girl.
Despite the strain on Tye’s self-discipline.
Despite the stain on Tye’s honor.
Tye stared at the empty glass in his hand, and once again the sly, outlandish idea called to him. He dipped the pen and tried to start his epistle to the marquess, except the plan taking shape in Tye’s brain was too fascinating, too strangely appealing, to permit the composition of a properly filial epistle. A list developed on the piece of paper before Tye, a list of reasons why this plan made perfect sense:
As his father’s sole, direct male heir, Tye had to marry.
His father was pestilentially determined that Tye should marry sooner rather than later.
Tye’s mother would have to attend the wedding ceremony, and it would please Tye inordinately to see his parents behaving as a couple in public.
The young lady was in need of a husband—all young ladies were in need of husbands, but this one needed a husband of sufficient social stature to scotch the remaining whiff of scandal clinging to her good name.
The lady was of childbearing age, for all her attempts to retire to the shelf.
The lady was impoverished and would be at pains to make a good match without a decent dowry.
The lady was quietly pretty and sensible, also quite passionate.
Tye scratched out the last line. A gentleman wouldn’t remark on a woman’s capacity for passion—a gentleman wouldn’t allow himself the opportunity to notice such a thing.
The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece Tye must kidnap.
Another lining through.
The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece whom Tye would escort to the family seat, and the lady’s presence would aid the child in adjusting to her improved circumstances.
Improved was a stretch. He scowled at his list, scratched out “improved,” and wrote “new.”
Two minutes later he balled up his list and tossed it into the fire. Hester Daniels was a nobody—a younger daughter of a mere baron, and her brother was all but disdaining to use the title. As much as Tye might find the lady suitable, Quinworth would make her life hell.
Whisky was putting odd notions in his head. He stared at where the fire was consuming the crumpled list, turning paper to ash.
Hester wasn’t his mother, though. She wouldn’t run off if Quinworth turned up difficult. Hester could give the old man what for and never even raise her voice.
And she was quite passionate.
He started making another list.
* * *
Ian watched his wife climb into bed, something a year of marriage ought to have made into a prosaic, end-of-day sight.
Though it hadn’t. Each and every night, he feasted his eyes on the way firelight brought out red highlights in her dark hair. Each and every night, he waited for the moment she settled on the mattress, drew her nightgown over her head, and ranged her warm, female curves along his tired body.
“Come to bed, Husband. You’ve been brooding at that fire since we came down from the nursery.” She tossed off her nightgown, drew the covers up over herself, and lay back against the pillows.
Ian crossed the room, laid his dressing gown over her nightgown at the foot of the bed, and climbed in beside her. “The rain has made your son sleepy, I’m thinking. He hears it like a lullaby.”
“Growing has made him sleepy. He’ll likely be every bit as tall as you.” She cuddled up; he looped an arm around her shoulders and felt some of the day’s tensions ease out of him.
“He’ll be taller, because his mama is a fine, strappin’ countess who brings her own height to the equation. Do you think the lad would be up to a social call later this week?”
“To see Lady Ariadne? Of course.” She traced a single finger over Ian’s breastbone. “What has you in such a taking, Husband? I know Spathfoy came to visit this afternoon, but he didn’t stay long.”
Ian trapped her fingers in his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Damned man is intent on taking Fee south, Augusta. I’m not sure I can stop him.”
She rose up on her side, peering at him by the dying firelight. “How can he just take Mary Fran’s daughter, Ian? Do you mean for a visit?”
“No, my heart, I do not mean for a visit. Quinworth has taken some notion to retrieve his long-lost granddaughter, and Spathfoy is charged with seeing it done.”
Augusta was silent for long moments after she resumed her position at Ian’s side. “This is not good, Ian. Quinworth is an old-fashioned aristocrat who probably thinks children should be seen and not heard.”
Old-fashioned aristocrats were capable of worse notions where little girls were concerned—or not so little girls. “Spare the rod and all that rot. Fiona will not deal well with such treatment. Mary Fran grew more rebellious the more Grandfather tried to set limits for her. Fiona will be no different.”
“Doesn’t he need to file some sort of lawsuit?”
“Yes, he does, but I’m thinking he’d do so in English courts.” Ian stroked a hand over his wife’s hair, the very feel of it soothing his worries. “Gordie was English, so his children would arguably be English.”
“But Fee was born in Scotland to a Scottish mother.”
“Who was married to an Englishman at the time of the child’s birth.”
Augusta cradled Ian’s jaw, then drew a finger scented with lavender across his lips. “Do we know exactly when Gordie died? I thought Fee was a posthumous child.”
“She…” He fell silent. They’d gotten word of Gordie’s death after Fee’s birth, but the ocean was wide, the Canadian wilderness almost as vast, and Ian had never gotten an exact date. “Wife, you give me hope, but at best, all I can do with this issue is slow Quinworth down. Spathfoy says the old man has Gordie’s will, and Gordie’s wishes are made very plain therein. Fee’s to go to her father’s family.”
“If I didn’t hate Gordie Flynn before…”
“He was trying to do what was best for his child, Augusta.”
“And I will do what is best for my husband.” She rose up and straddled him in all her naked glory. “When do Mary Fran and Matthew plan to get home?”
“That’s just it.” Ian wrapped a hand around her nape to urge her down within kissing range. “I haven’t heard a damned thing from them. I’ve sent a dozen wires, and they haven’t answered a one.”
She brushed his hair back from his brow, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and set about distracting him from the substantial worry Fee’s situation had become.
* * *
For two days, a cold, miserable rain fell without pause, though in Hester’s heart, she felt a slow sunrise. Spathfoy did not ride his horse out, but had a footman take correspondence into Ballater for him both days.
Hester had peeked at the addresses. They were letters to family, to the marquess, and to Spathfoy’s sisters, at least one of whom was residing at the family seat in Northumbria.
Hester liked that he wrote to his sisters, didn’t just append little postscripts for them to the marquess’s missive. She liked that Spathfoy took tea with Aunt Ariadne in the afternoon and listened to the old woman prattle on about “dear Prinny” and “poor old George,” as if they’d been neighbors of hers for years.
Which, given that Aunt had bided in London with two of her husbands, they very nearly had.
Hester also liked that last night’s evening meal had been shared by her and the earl alone, Aunt Ariadne claiming the damp was making her bones ache fiercely.
Hester did not like that Spathfoy hadn’t made one single overture of an intimate nature, though he was doing a creditable job of entertaining Fiona at cards as the afternoon wore on.
“You can’t cheat at this game,” Fiona admonished him. “I’ll watch you every minute, you see, and the cards are all right before us. There are two ways to cheat. You can peek at the cards as you lay them down, or you can peek at them if I have to get up, say, to fetch a cup of tea.”
She was shuffling the cards as she spoke, her hands appallingly competent for such a small child.
“And are we permitted to wager?” his lordship asked. They were on the rug in front of the hearth, the earl sprawled on his side, while Fee sat cross-legged on a pillow before him.
She paused in her handling of the cards. “Is wagering permitted, Aunt? I haven’t much money, because I’m saving it up for a present for Mama when she comes home.”
“I’m not going to be a banker for either of you.” Hester put her novel aside. She hadn’t absorbed a single word the entire time she’d been curled in her wing chair, though the pretense had allowed surreptitious enjoyment of the sight of Spathfoy at leisure. “You could wager favors, I suppose. Say, a ride on Rowan for some favor of the earl’s choosing.”
“Uncle already promised me a ride.”
Spathfoy eased up to tailor-sit across from the child. “We could wager future favors.” His gaze traveled from the cards Fee was shuffling to where the ruffled hem of Hester’s petticoat peeked from beneath her skirt.
Fiona peered at the top card, then returned it to the deck. “You mean we could ask each other for anything? I could ask you to teach me to ride Rowan?”
“You might.” He studied Hester’s hands now, making her skin heat as she tucked her hem over the lace at her ankles. “Or we might agree on some limits, like something that can be done in the space
of an hour.”
His voice had taken on a particular depth, reaching into Hester’s body and creating low and private stirrings—and she was certain he knew exactly what he was about.
“I could ride Rowan for an hour?” Fee started laying cards face down in tidy rows. Then she paused. “What favors would you ask of me?”
“Now that is a challenge.” Spathfoy considered Hester while he spoke. “What could a lovely young lady offer that I might seek to gain through a wager rather than simply by asking?”
Hester picked her book back up. “You can talk about wagering all afternoon, my lord, or you can go quietly to your fate. Fiona is wicked smart at the matching game. She has a gift for it.”
“You’ve a passion for the game, Niece? Your grandmother enjoys cards as well, though there are few who will play against her when she’s on her game.”
He took part of the remaining deck and set about finishing the rows Fiona had started. Hester concluded the verbal skirmish was over, but it put the past two days in a different light. She recalled Spathfoy holding her chair at breakfast, leaning down just a little too far to wish her good morning while she adjusted her skirts.
Oh, the scent of him, first thing in the day…
And the utter wonder of awakening in her own bed, only to realize Spathfoy had carried her there as she’d slept, covered her up, then laid her nightgown and wrapper across the foot of her bed.
He’d handled her clothing.
He’d handled her.
And when they were at table, she could not reach for the salt without his hand brushing hers, though he never by word or expression gave it away as anything other than inadvertence.
He was flirting with her. His approach was so subtle, so utterly Tiberius Flynn, she hadn’t recognized it.
She turned a page. “When you beat him, Fee, you mustn’t ask anything too terribly difficult of him. Your uncle isn’t used to being humbled by young ladies and their passions.”
Hester was still congratulating herself on that salvo when Fiona went down to defeat, having a mere eight matches to the earl’s eighteen.
Once Upon a Tartan mt-2 Page 18