Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5)

by Sally Britton

  She tipped her head to the side, the better to see him from beneath her bonnet’s brim. “I am certain you know how inappropriate that question is, Mr. Duncan.” One corner of her mouth curled upward. “But I suppose it cannot hurt to tell you of it, now that he has made you a part of the situation by speaking so openly before you. You must understand, my husband died unexpectedly. He was thrown from his horse while riding.” She shivered and pulled her light blue shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “He fell into a coma and died. We sent for Frederick right away. He did not live far from us. He was studying to be a solicitor. Frederick took care of everything. He saw everyone who came to settle debts, to pay their respect. I existed in a sort of—a sort of fog.” She shrugged. “I stayed in my rooms with Caroline. My mother lived in Bath at the time. She came to me as soon as she received word of what had happened.”

  Neil tried to keep his eyes on the road, though a pang of sympathy made him wish to reach out to her. Yet he doubted she would appreciate any physical gesture from him. Honorable women tended to withdraw if he offered so much as a hand to hold.

  “The solicitor came and read the will, then told Frederick and me the state of my husband’s accounts. Everything was gone, he said. Frederick was greatly distressed. Only our family house in the country remained, as it was tied up in an entail. We left Ipswich for the country, where my mother met us, and Frederick shut himself away in my husband’s office to go through the accounts.”

  She paused in the telling, and when Neil glanced at Teresa, he saw that she had closed her eyes, lifting her face to the morning sunlight. The soft lighting colored her cheeks a lovely shade of pink and glinted off the tips of her dark eyelashes.

  The woman’s natural beauty made him swallow and turn before she could see how he stared. If she caught him admiring her, it would only cause her discomfort. He spoke as normally as possible, ignoring the stirring in his chest. “What did he find in your husband’s books?”

  Teresa opened her eyes, looking up at Neil with a pained smile. “Frederick refused to tell me at first. He grew more and more irritable by the day. When I finally came out of my grief enough to ask what had happened—I thought Henry had been swindled, and we might take his robber to court—Frederick told me that Henry had gambled all the money away. Including the ten-thousand pound fortune my father left specifically for my use, for any of my daughters, should I find myself without a husband.”

  That explained her reaction to Caroline’s attempts to win a kitten. She would not look upon any sort of gambling with tolerance.

  Something about the story did not sit right with him. “You saw no evidence of your husband’s difficulty prior to his death?”

  Her gaze fell to her lap, where she laced her fingers together. She wore no gloves. “I saw nothing that would even make me suspect he gambled. Not like that. But some people are good at hiding such things, I suppose.”

  As Neil’s family had expertly hidden any number of indiscretions over the years, even from him though he was apparently a product of such a thing, he believed her. And yet. A decade of marriage was a long time to hide such a thing from someone as intelligent as Teresa.

  “I try not to think on it,” she said. The wagon went over a bump that made the baskets of cherries clatter, and Teresa shifted to look into the bed of the wagon, her movement bringing her closer to him, her shoulder brushing his. Apparently satisfied, she turned forward again, still near enough her skirt brushed the side of his boot.

  Teresa continued the conversation, sounding contemplative. “It is better to remember the good years with Henry rather than the lie. He was a very good husband. I loved him, and Caroline adored him. She does not know about his gambling. I hope she never will.”

  “I will not speak of this to anyone,” Neil promised, watching her from the corner of his eye. How could any man betray her trust? The woman had the bearing of a duchess, even if she had never been more than a gentleman’s wife. And this was her figure, her manner, at thirty years of age and after hard toil. As a younger woman, her debut had likely set many a bachelor on the idea of marriage.

  “Thank you.” Then she nudged his shoulder with hers, telling him she had known all along how near they sat, and she did not mind it. He almost smiled. “Do you intend to tell me any of your history now, Mr. Duncan?”

  His pleasant mood sank away, and he bent to rest his elbows upon his knees. The posture would horrify his mother. He spoke with disinterest. “What do you want to know?”

  Rather than being put off, she seemed amused. “Oh, do not grouse so. I have no wish to pry into anything. I only thought it would be nice to get to know you better.”

  Neil bit the inside of his cheek and cocked his head to the side. “Nice?” he repeated, the trivial word somehow insulting in any context.

  She raised her dark eyebrows at him. “Yes. Nice. Pleasant. Perhaps even enjoyable. I know nothing about you except your name, and that you were brought up to be a gentleman. How old are you?”

  He chuckled and rubbed at his chin, wishing again for a razor. It would not be long until he had a full beard. “I am five and thirty.”

  “Such an advanced age,” she said, eyes overly large. “I can claim five years less experience than you, sir.”

  “I thought women did not reveal their ages, on principle.” He knew his own mother never admitted hers, and Olivia had taken to forgetting which birthday she celebrated after her twenty-fifth.

  “I suppose some do not. I have never seen harm in it. We all age the same, do we not?” Teresa had her hands folded in her lap again. “Do you enjoy the theater?”

  Neil answered her questions, benign as they were, for the remainder of the drive. She asked nothing more personal than his age, did not delve into his history at all, and merely asked for his opinions. They spoke of the arts, music, and she tested him on his French. The woman had an excellent grasp of the language, and apparently knew more Spanish than he did, but no Greek. They compared experiences in London, where she had only been once, but found they were both familiar with Ipswich.

  And once, he made her laugh. A sound so light and joyous, as lovely as her singing, that he immediately held it close and committed it to his memory.

  It had been ages since Teresa’s thoughts had bordered on optimistic. All her plans until Mr. Duncan arrived had centered on surviving through the winter. But with a wagon at her disposal, cherries to sell, and a box with packets of her herbs as another possible source of income, the day was bright with hope.

  All because a man had appeared, however unlikely, needing shelter as much as she needed his help.

  Her training as a gentlewoman had not let her down on their long ride to Southwold. With pleasantries, she passed the time, and somehow kept herself busy enough talking that she forgot how nervous she ought to be.

  They arrived at market near eight o’clock. Southwold’s streets were lined with farmers and carts, and a kind farmer directed them to where most of the fruit sellers had set up their wares. The crowds of horses and people made for enough noise that Teresa knew she would have a headache before long.

  Mr. Duncan helped her arrange the wagon and a stool. Then he bowed. “If you do not mind, Mrs. Clapham, I would excuse myself for a short time. I have a purchase or two to make, but I will return to assist you shortly.”

  Shopping. What a lovely thought. Teresa nodded at once. “Of course, Mr. Duncan.”

  “Have you need of anything I might find for you?” He took a step backward toward the crowded road.

  “I cannot think of a single thing.” It was a bit of a stretch of the truth. Teresa could not think of only one thing, but knew of dozens of items that might help her family—things they needed and even more they might want. But she did not have the coin in her hand yet.

  “‘Scuse me, missus, what’s yer price for the cherries?” The inquiry pulled her attention from Mr. Duncan, and she saw him slip away.

  The next hour passed quickly, and with a
great deal of success. Her first customer was an innkeeper, but after that came a cook’s assistant from one of the larger houses and she bought a whole basket of cherries, and then an apothecary proclaimed loudly that hers was the best fruit he had seen all day, which brought other customers closer. Some bought only a few for a treat, others enough to preserve. By the end of the second hour, her cherries were nearly gone, and Teresa had a tidy sum of money in the pouch concealed behind her apron.

  Mr. Duncan returned, clean shaven and with a crooked smile on his face as though he had been up to some mischief. “Mrs. Clapham, it seems you are nearly out of product.”

  “I know.” She bounced on her toes once, unable to hide her cheer. “It has been wonderful. But what happened to you?” she teased. “You have lost something.”

  He raised his hand to his chin, turning to grant her a view of his rather dashing profile. “What do you think? I contemplated keeping the whiskers, but I find I am more fond of being without.”

  The pleasant mood made her tongue looser than normal. Teresa did not stop herself from laughing and saying exactly what she thought. “You know well enough how handsome you are. You do not need me to confirm it.”

  His eyes, more green than brown in the sunlight, widened and shifted to stare at her. “Do you think me vain, Mrs. Clapham?”

  At that moment, a young woman sidled up to the cart, peering into it with interest. Mr. Duncan quirked an eyebrow at Teresa. Rather than answer his question, she turned to the prospective customer. “Would you like some cherries, madam?”

  The woman peeked at Mr. Duncan from the corner of her eye. “I had in mind a tart recipe. These would be perfect. What’s your price?”

  Teresa named the price, but the young woman smiled and shook her head.

  “That is too dear for me just now, missus. But I thank you.” She started to back away, casting one last appraising glance at Mr. Duncan, who merely stood with arms folded and a disinterested expression.

  “There, you see,” Teresa said, coming to stand next to him, their arms almost brushing. “She did not come to look at cherries, but at you.”

  “How many male customers have you had today? I imagine most of them came this direction for a similar reason.” He leaned one shoulder against the back of the wagon, that almost rakish smile reappearing.

  She laughed and waved at the air between them, brushing his compliment away. “I am a widow with an eleven-year-old daughter nearly as tall as I am.”

  Though he opened his mouth to answer, another person appeared. A servant, seeking cherries for her mistress. Then came another, and another, until the cherries were gone. Teresa climbed into the wagon and stacked her empty baskets. She had sold a few, along with the cherries inside, which would mean a making purchases of baskets closer to home. But she had enough to purchase shoes for Caroline, the fabric for warm winter coats, and money to put by in case of any emergencies.

  Mr. Duncan prepared the horse, then took them out of town the way they had come in. “Do you feel the day went in your favor?” he asked.

  “I feel many things are in my favor of late.” Teresa watched the people they passed, smiling to herself. “And what of your day? You were gone for some time.”

  “So I was.” He offered her the reins. “Would you mind taking hold of these a moment?”

  Amused, Teresa accepted, and he reached into his coat to pull out a pair of thick leather gloves. “It took me some time to find these.” He slipped them on, then took out a slim book. “And here, a small collection of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, for you and Miss Caroline.”

  “Oh, you did not have to—”

  “Of course not. But I wanted to. I also have a bag of sweets for the ladies to enjoy.” He tucked the book back inside his coat and reached for the reins again, which she gave up to him freely. He faced forward, his attention on the road.

  “Mr. Duncan, you are too kind.”

  “Not really. I left you to yourself all morning.” He shrugged his shoulders, almost as more of a stretch than a gesture. “I knew you could take care of things on your own, though. Apart from being an attractive woman, you are highly capable.”

  Teresa should not have spoken so openly to him about his looks. It invited such comments to be returned in kind. “I think we had better leave our opinions about such things unsaid, Mr. Duncan.”

  “That would likely be wise. The last time I complimented a lady, her husband threatened to call me out.” He sighed deeply, and Teresa almost laughed.

  “That is a jest, surely.”

  He turned just enough in her direction to offer a wink. “Perhaps.”

  Teresa bit her lip, trying not to grin. The man’s behavior was never exactly inappropriate, but she sensed a great deal of playfulness hiding beneath the surface of his polite veneer. If she had not adapted to the working class life, if she had met him in a ballroom or at a card party, perhaps she would glimpse even more of his wit and charm.

  The drive home was more pleasant than the one to town, and they stopped to eat a simple repast of bread, fruit, and cider while the horse watered himself at a stream. Teresa nibbled at an apple while reading through the book of sonnets, already planning on which she would ask Caroline to memorize first.

  Some were likely inappropriate for such a young girl, given how passionately themes of love were proclaimed within them. But Shakespeare was an essential part of any English child’s studies.

  Mr. Duncan sat with his legs stretched before him, leaning back upon his elbows, watching the horse at the stream. The road was within an easy distance, and more than one person had passed since they had stopped for a rest.

  “I have been thinking,” Mr. Duncan said abruptly, “about your late husband.”

  Teresa lowered the book, keeping her place with her thumb. “I beg your pardon? Thinking of Henry? Whatever for?”

  “You were married to him for ten years. I come from a family full of secrets. Even if I could not tell what someone was hiding from me, there were always signs of secrets. Was there truly nothing that made you wary of your husband’s behavior?”

  Her throat tightened on her last swallow of apple, and Teresa had to drink more cider to rid herself of the unpleasant sensation before she could answer. “There was nothing. I have thought on it again and again, but perhaps he was a very good actor. Or he did not think it wrong, so he did not behave as though there was anything amiss.”

  That answer did not seem to convince Mr. Duncan. He leaned all the way back, tucking his hands behind his head. The man was long, from head to toe, and he certainly filled his clothes out well, though she would never call him a broad man. He had an elegant, trim and masculine stature.

  Did men object to being called elegant?

  Teresa pushed that wayward thought aside and brought her focus back to the topic at hand. “The solicitor and Frederick were very clear on the matter. Henry lost everything he could lose. And then some.”

  “My brother is a gambler,” Mr. Duncan said, his eyes still on the clouds drifting overhead. “It is not something one can hide, when they feel the call to cards. It becomes something of an obsession, the way others rely upon drink or laudanum. They find any excuse to sneak away to tables. They constantly think of getting away from company to feed the hunger.”

  With a sick twist in her stomach, Teresa closed the book. “I never saw Henry behave in such a way.” Her words sounded defensive, even to her. But she had no wish to continue the conversation. None at all. To distract herself from the topic, she began tidying away their food back into the basket her mother had packed. Mr. Duncan did not move to help her, but he did turn his head to watch.

  “Teresa—”

  She dropped their tin cups into the basket with a loud clatter. “Mrs. Clapham.”

  He sat up then, bringing up his knees and resting his forearms upon them. “I beg your pardon. That was a slip of the tongue.”

  “That, I do not believe. You were testing me. Come. I need to return home. There is
work to be done.” She lifted the hamper and went to the wagon. She heard him sigh, and then he called to the horse. Teresa climbed atop the wagon without assistance and took her seat.

  She told herself she had grown upset because Mr. Duncan had become too familiar, had asked too many personal questions. But he had not. Not really. Yet the turn in conversation to Henry’s gambling had unsettled her.

  Nothing about Henry gambling had ever made sense to Teresa. It had been easier to put aside thoughts of those circumstances once she, her mother, and Caroline came to the farm. To think on it again, to try to understand what she could not, merely to soothe Mr. Duncan’s curiosity, would only prove a frustration to her.

  Never mind that her pride had been hurt, too. The man had dared to compliment her looks, not once but twice that day. Seeing him as anything other than a laborer would not be wise. Even if he was a gentleman, and witty, and charming. Nothing could ever come from a flirtation with such a man, especially given her current state.

  Teresa looked down at her hands, brown and calloused, her nails short and her knuckles rough from work. They were not the hands of a lady. They never would be again.

  She was a farmer. And he was a temporary hireling, likely to return to his family once their problems were resolved, leaving her behind upon her patch of dirt.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Neil stood beneath one of the cherry trees, now stripped of fruit by birds as well as the people on the farm. Mr. Putnam, leaning heavily on a rough-hewn cane, stood next to him. “You see that branch, there? It’s not got a leaf or stem upon it. You need to get it down, before it hurts the rest of the tree.”

  “It is only a dead branch.” Neil folded his arms over his chest and peered up into the shadows of the tree. “Surely it can stay where it is until the wind brings it down.”

  But the old man shook his head. “Nay, lad. The branch may be blighted. Cherry trees, they are forgiving if the bad branches are removed right away. But if it’s left, the whole tree could be sick by next spring. You need to go through the orchard and cut off every limb not bearing leaves.”