A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  “That profit belongs to you,” Thorne said.

  “And believe me, I use the solicitors my own family hired to manage my funds. I could not do the same with the girls’ dower portions, but I receive regular reports and forward them to my lawyers. Charles put the money in the cent-per-cents, and there it will stay until Bancroft can finagle a way to steal from his nieces.”

  This recitation left Thorne wanting to stand his brothers to a pint at the posting inn. Dornings argued, teased, squabbled, and occasionally engaged in fisticuffs with one another, but they weren’t prone to this sneaking, mean-spirited contention.

  “I’m sorry you are beset by a traitor in the person of the one man you ought to be able to rely on,” Thorne said. “The law is on your side, though, and the girls are thriving in your care.”

  “They are,” she said. “I should not air the family linen like this. I do apologize. Bancroft’s objective is to bother me, and I must deny him that satisfaction. You brought books.”

  Thorne had considered bringing her flowers. The Dorning Hall conservatory always had a few specimens in bloom, but flowers would have been a presumption.

  “I brought recipes.” He passed over his father’s notebooks and the French herbal.

  She leafed through the French volume first, then set it aside. “Nothing remarkable there. Heavy on the lavender, but then, French lavender is good quality.”

  With Papa’s journals, she took more time, even getting up to pace as she read, then coming to a halt in a slanting beam of sunshine. Her strawberry-blond hair turned to copper and golden highlights as she stood, head bent, finger tracing down a page.

  She belonged here, in this greening wood, birds flitting through the canopy, a few bluebells teasing at her hems. If Thorne could have characterized the scent of the place in one word—damp earth, new grass, a hint of cedar and flowers—he would have used the word renewal. The clearing smelled of hope, resilience, and beauties yet to bloom.

  “These notes are all very interesting,” she said some moments later. “I would like to study them at greater length, but nothing that I’ve seen will yield a recipe I could comment on knowledgeably, Mr. Dorning. I’m sorry.”

  Thorne had waited while she’d leafed through six entire notebooks. “Nothing is of any value? My father was one of the most learned and avid amateur botanists in the world. Surely something among those notes must point in a useful direction.”

  It had to.

  “That could well be,” Margaret said, pacing back to the tree. “But I cannot comment on those notes. They all relate to medicinal tonics, lotions, and plasters. Hannah Weller might be able to help you if that’s the direction you seek to take your enterprise.”

  Thorne rose, resisting the impulse to kick the downed tree. “I seek to take our enterprise in any profitable direction that I can achieve in the next ninety days. If Dorning Hall is not to supply London with tonics and plasters, then we’re eschewing half the products we could easily manufacture.”

  She stood toe to toe with him, adding a whiff of orange and clove to the olfactory bouquet of the clearing.

  “I will not involve myself in any undertaking purporting to deal with medicinals, Mr. Dorning. I know fragrances, I enjoy them. Medicinals are beyond my purview. Too many people dabble in medical lore without the proper knowledge, and much harm results.” She shoved the journals at him. “What are those?”

  The two children’s books lay where Thorne had left them on a boulder in the dappled shade of a sturdy beech tree.

  “Those are for the girls.” The children’s stories became an awkward offering, given the lady’s refusal to assist Thorne with medical products. London’s myriad apothecaries did a booming business in patent remedies, tisanes, and liver pills, alas for the Dorning brothers.

  “You brought books for the girls?” She picked up the one with the better illustrations. “Why?”

  “Because rainy days require books, and England has more than its share of rainy days.” The late earl had said as much, and when in a magnanimous mood, he’d read to his children on gloomy afternoons.

  Mrs. Summerfield subsided onto the tree trunk. “These illustrations are marvelous.”

  While this meeting in the woods was a complete waste of time. Every rural household made up a few remedies—willow bark tea, mustard plasters, comfrey salve, chamomile tea, calendula tinctures. Thorne had little idea how those concoctions were put together, though, much less which ones could be made cheaply in quantity and which were harder to create.

  “You are frustrated,” Mrs. Summerfield said, closing the book of adventures.

  “I am worried,” Thorne said, taking the place beside her. “Casriel lit upon a fine notion—develop the herbal resources at Dorning Hall—but he was sparing with the details. Months later, and I am still vague on the details myself. I have lived my entire life at Dorning Hall. I know where every rosemary border or patch of mint is planted, but I don’t know what to do in order to—”

  She put her hand on his arm. Only now did Thorne realize that for the lady of the manor to go abroad in the spring sunshine without a parasol, bonnet, or gloves was unusual. Hartley’s visit had upset her even more than she’d allowed Thorne to see.

  “I must be careful,” she said, hugging the book to her chest. “Bancroft is poised to meddle, and if he got wind that I was associated with your venture, he’d find a way to use that against me.”

  What hold could Bancroft possibly have over a woman as self-possessed, practical, and secure as Margaret Summerfield seemed to be?

  “He’ll interfere with the children?”

  “All he has to do is bring a suit in Chancery, and the expense and scandal will ruin me. I hold a life estate at Summerton, but I can’t sell the property because the remainder goes to the girls. I have cash enough for my needs and a bit put by, but I have a widow’s mite compared to what a protracted lawsuit would entail. Besides,”—she hunched in on herself, as if the clearing were suddenly chilly—“Bancroft would win. The judges would find in his favor, and I’d be lucky to see the girls once a week from across the churchyard.”

  The situation at Summerton was complicated, and Thorne did not like complications. He liked even less the idea that Bancroft Summerfield was making Margaret’s life difficult.

  “What if you remarried?” Thorne asked. “What leverage would Bancroft have if you became Mrs. Hawthorne Dorning of Dorning Hall?”

  Chapter Eight

  Long, long ago, as a schoolgirl with a head full of fancies, Margaret had fallen asleep whispering the words Mrs. Hawthorne Dorning to her pillow. In a darkened room, while she dreamed of a strapping youth with a blazing smile, those words had been daring, sweet, and silly.

  In this sunny glade, the words were still daring and sweet, but Margaret was no longer that fanciful girl. Perhaps the words weren’t silly either.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I should beg your pardon,” Mr. Dorning said, rising. “That was no sort of… no sort of anything.” He crossed the clearing and almost tromped on the few bluebells in bloom. “I did not expect to have this discussion with you today.”

  “Did you expect to have it with someone else?” He’d never married, never courted a woman that Margaret knew of, and yet, he was well liked and much respected. Of all the Dornings, Hawthorne was the first to put his hand to any difficult communal task, the first to help a neighbor beset by accident or illness.

  “I did not expect to raise the topic of holy matrimony with anybody for quite some time,” he said, “but then Willow took a lovely wife, Casriel found his countess, Ash is admiring a lady from afar, and a man gets to thinking.”

  “About me?” The notion was so endearing—and so ironic—Margaret couldn’t help but smile.

  “Of course about you,” Hawthorne said, retracing his steps. “About matrimony, and perfumes, and tisanes, and,”—he looked up at the ash and beech branches entwining overhead—“about armies marching across the Asian ste
ppes.”

  He’d brought books for the girls, and now this…

  “They are good girls, Hawthorne Dorning. The best, and should you find the prospect of becoming a step-uncle unappealing…”

  He cocked his head, as if waiting for her to switch back into English. “I like children. Like them a lot. When my niece left Dorning Hall for her fancy school, I moped for three months. My only consolation was that Casriel was moping worse than I and needed cheering up with an occasional cuff on the back of the head.”

  “You like children.” Memories of Hawthorne with this or that tenant’s son on his shoulders while he walked between windrows of raked hay, or at his side when he laid a hedge came to mind. He did like children. He was patient and had the knack of making children feel included and useful instead of in the way and bothersome.

  Even Charles hadn’t had that gift.

  “You want my perfume recipes.”

  “I do. I haven’t made a secret of that. What do you want, Margaret?”

  Another woman might have been put off by his honesty. Margaret treasured him for it—more irony.

  “I want for Charles not to have died so young. I want Bancroft to charm his way into the good graces of some heiress so he’ll leave me and the girls alone. I want…”

  What did she want? Hawthorne was an earl’s son and thus undeniably eligible. He had no vices that Margaret knew of, and he cared deeply for the land. He liked children. He valued her expertise with perfumes, which she’d all but set aside when Charles had died.

  Another loss to lay at Bancroft’s feet. Another complication.

  “I never thought to remarry,” she said. “I am content with my life at Summerton. I envisioned myself raising the girls, setting aside a little coin each year, minding my own vine and fig tree, as it were.”

  “Never having any children of your own?”

  The question hurt, more than he could know, but then, Margaret had kept much about her circumstances private. Only Charles had had all the facts, and he’d taken those confidences with him to the grave—she hoped.

  “I’m happy to have the raising of the twins.” Overjoyed, even as she lamented that a young couple had died and would never see their offspring grow up.

  “And that’s all you want? To live out your days with Bancroft sending spies to call on you, ignoring his nieces unless he can use them as pawns, pretending that your ability to concoct fragrances isn’t—what did Hannah Weller call it?—just short of divine inspiration?”

  Bancroft was a problem, true. Hunting for an heiress amid Mayfair ballrooms was expensive work, and even were he successful, he’d have to contribute something to the bride’s settlements. His management of Summerfield had got off to an impecunious start, and large estates did not reverse course easily.

  “What about you?” Margaret asked, rising. “What do you want?”

  She made the mistake of allowing her gaze to stray to Mr. Dorning’s mouth. That tender, adept, smiling, clever, kissable male mouth…

  “I enjoy copulation,” he said, “if that’s what you’re asking. Enjoy it a lot. I’m not looking merely for a business partner, Margaret, but neither am I looking for somebody whose entire role is to sit at the far end of my dinner table. I contemplate taking a wife, and it did occur to me that you and I would suit quite well, in many regards.”

  They would suit. They were both practical people, and the idea that Margaret could be a business partner of sorts… Though how practical was it to recall a man’s kisses when trying to think clearly about his courtship overtures?

  Bancroft would object to the marriage, strenuously, if given the chance.

  “I must consider this,” Margaret said. “I must give the notion of marriage to you careful thought, and you are not to badger me for a response. I can promise you nothing, Hawthorne, other than that I will ponder my options.”

  And ponder what marriage with a man who liked copulation a lot might mean.

  “Good for you,” he said. “The decision wants careful consideration, and if you do look with favor upon my suit, we must negotiate the terms upon which the marriage will go forward. I realize I am not my titled brother, or my charming brother, or the one who’s clever with numbers, or the fellow who can take on a London club and turn it into a profitable venture. I am not—”

  Margaret put her fingers over his lips. “You are the one who works hard, who never complains, who behaves well under all circumstances, who is loyal to his loved ones, and who knows how to kiss a woman so she dreams delightful dreams and stares out of windows, hoping to see you riding over the hill.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  He wasn’t blushing, but he’d taken to staring at the bluebells across the clearing. His eyes were the color of the little blossoms.

  “You are all of that, and you are the man I’d like to kiss right now.” Before I lose my nerve.

  He took her in his arms and turned so he could half-sit, half-brace himself against the fallen tree. “As it happens, I am abundantly willing to be the man you kiss.”

  He tucked Margaret into the vee of his spread legs and bussed her cheek. “Your turn, Mrs. Summerfield, and I’ve been dreaming delightfully of you too.”

  Casriel had made a love match, as every gossip in the shire felt bound to remark whenever the subject of the earl’s marriage came up within Thorne’s hearing. Willow had made a love match, as had both of Thorne’s sisters. If Lady Della Haddonfield ever brought Ash up to scratch, their union would be one of sheer romance writ large.

  As Thorne wrapped his arms around Margaret, he wondered if half a love match was better than no love match at all.

  He’d admired Margaret Summerfield from a respectful distance for years, even when she’d been plain Miss Margaret Mallory living quietly with an elderly aunt. Margaret had a spark about her not of wildness, but of wilderness. Sunlight loved her, her smile spoke of blue skies, and her way of moving wanted fields to hike and wooded trails to wander.

  Thorne had had nothing to offer her as a mere youth, then he’d gone off to university. On summer holidays, he’d watched her at the assemblies as she danced with every other bachelor. By the time he’d come home to Dorset to stay, she had married Charles Summerfield, and Thorne had wished them both well. The happy couple had gone on an extended wedding journey—a relief, that.

  Dorning Hall had needed a steward and as much free labor as the brothers could offer. Life, season by season, had gone on.

  And now, Thorne was to again kiss the lady he’d once pined for—or be kissed by her. Margaret gradually let him have her weight. She was no sprite, which suited him wonderfully, for he was the family plough horse. Her arms came around his waist, inside his coat, and she rested her cheek against his chest.

  “I had forgotten,” she said. “I have forgotten so much, as if I’d brewed a potion to becloud my memories.”

  “What have you forgotten, Margaret?” Thorne could guess, but he wanted to hear her say the words—and he wanted to take down her hair. He settled for stroking her back as desire stirred and a breeze teased at the wildflowers.

  “I had forgotten the sheer pleasure of a sturdy embrace,” she said. “The warmth of a man’s body. The sensations of nearness, and”—she paused to sniff at him—“the trust that goes with intimacy. You use lavender soap with a dash of peppermint. Peppermint is easy to overdo.”

  Thorne kissed her on the lips rather than let her pursue that thought. “I hope my kisses are flavored with joy. Care to investigate?”

  She did investigate, setting a leisurely pace while she plundered Thorne’s mouth—she tastes sweet, was the extent of his discernment—and pressed close everywhere they touched. Thorne let himself become aroused, for Margaret was certainly waxing enthusiastic. She stroked her palms over his chest, then went a-viking around his waist and over his hips to clutch him by the bum.

  Why didn’t I bring a blanket? The thought formed in Thorne’s mind as Margaret drew away, finishing the embrace with a glancing
caress to his falls.

  “Refreshing your recollections?” Thorne asked.

  That was the wrong thing to say. Margaret’s smile faltered, and she took a step back. “I’m sorry. I miss Charles, in many ways, but our union… This is awkward.”

  Thorne did not dare touch her, because what she had to say mattered, and the moment might not arise again.

  “Margaret, I’m glad your marriage was happy. I’m glad Charles was a proper and doting husband to you. You deserved that, and I’m sure you made him a wonderful wife. Speak of him as you need to, miss him, wish he hadn’t died. I am attracted to you and I respect you, but that you loved Charles and cherish his memory must never come between us.”

  “You mean that.”

  “Of course.” Especially the part about being attracted to her and respecting her.

  She took the place beside Thorne on the log. “Charles and I were friends, good friends. Still, I did not expect that our marriage would be anything other than a cordial union, pleasant for all concerned. Perhaps we’d have a child of our own—Charles wanted a child—but that wasn’t meant to be. I never expected he and I would grow as close as we did. I don’t think he anticipated that either.”

  “So you lost not only your husband, but also your best friend when Charles died.” Thorne’s best friends were his brothers, and one by one, life was stealing them away. Far better to lose them to life than to death.

  “Yes, exactly, and we didn’t foresee the girls coming to live with us. Charles was a doting and devoted uncle, but then influenza orphaned the girls, and he became their guardian.”

  “And you became a sort of mother.” Margaret apparently inhabited that role naturally, right down to the slight lack of confidence that troubled many a loving parent.

  “That word…” She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her cloak. “Bancroft hovers at my elbow, waiting to pounce. He might allow me to raise the girls in peace if I’d wink at his plundering of their bequests. I refuse to wink. That is all the money they will have in the world, and a lady cannot count on marriage to provide security for her entire life.”