What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  Harry was telling Harriet stories of their childhood now, and Harriet was hanging on every word. Pen took another sip of ale.

  There must be a man I can marry who would make a good father for Harriet.

  She would hope for the best with regard to the new vicar.

  No, she had a better option than passively hoping and praying. She’d talk to Harry. Harry was the duke’s friend. Perhaps he could persuade the man to send the village a young, kind, unmarried vicar. Harry, too, would want the best for Harriet.

  But when and where could they discuss it? Not here or now. She didn’t want Harriet listening in. And in any event, she should be getting back. It must be . . . She consulted her watch and gasped.

  That got Harry’s attention. “What is it, Pen?”

  “It’s almost three o’clock. I had no idea it was so late. I need to go. I have to check the hops again. But don’t let me hurry”—she looked at Harry’s and Harriet’s empty plates—“you.”

  Harry laughed. “We’ve been waiting for you. You were woolgathering.”

  “Oh.” She looked in the basket. “Oh, dear. It seems we’ve managed to eat almost all of the food Dorcas packed. You won’t have any leftovers for your supper, Lord Darrow.”

  “Miss Dorcas will give Papa more, Mama.”

  “Harriet is of the opinion that all I need do is compliment Miss Dorcas on her cooking—which I will have no trouble doing—and she’ll refill the basket.”

  All Harry need do was smile at Dorcas and she’d empty the larder into the basket for him. “Harriet is likely correct.”

  “Of course, I am, Mama!” She hopped up. “Let’s go, Papa.”

  They gathered up the plates and cups. Harry reached for his waistcoat as Pen tried to stand—oh!

  Her foot had fallen asleep. Well, or perhaps she shouldn’t have had that Widow’s Brew. She lurched, tried to catch her balance—

  Harry caught her, hauling her up against his chest. His almost-naked chest. There was only a thin linen shirt between her cheek and his hard muscles. His arms came round her, holding her close.

  And once again, she was surrounded by his smell. Oh, God. She drew in a deep breath. Her heart—and other organs—softened, wanting to let him in.

  Stupid!

  “Are you all right, Pen?” he murmured by her ear.

  Think about something else. Greenflies! Mildew!

  “Yes.” Move away from the man. “I’m f-fine.” She put her hands on his chest . . . Push!

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she managed to put some space between them. She stepped back farther.

  “It was just that my foot fell asleep.” She raised her skirt slightly and twisted the relevant body part right and left. “See? It’s fine now.”

  “Very fine.” His voice was a bit thick with—

  He’s staring at my ankle!

  She dropped her skirt at once. “Yes. Well. We’d better be going.”

  “Yes,” Harriet said. “What’s taking you so long?”

  Harry laughed and picked up his waistcoat. “Nothing.”

  * * *

  Harriet had done far better than Pen batting apples, Harry thought as he watched his coltish daughter skip on ahead. It was true that he was a better teacher now—he hoped he had more patience and skill than he’d had as a young boy—but Harriet might also have more innate talent.

  He felt an absurd bubble of pride. He’d always been good at any sort of sport. Perhaps Harriet had got something more than a silver streak from him.

  I wish I could teach her to ride. I could if I can persuade Pen to move to that empty house at Darrow.

  It would not be easy. Most women would jump at the chance to live a life of leisure in a pleasant, sturdy home, but Pen wasn’t most women. She was very independent. Ridiculously so.

  Perhaps if I present it as an opportunity for Harriet . . .

  Pen would do anything for Harriet. Look at how she’d been willing to marry that bloody vicar.

  “I have something I wish to discuss with you, Lord Darrow.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?” He looked over at Pen. She’d refused to take his arm, of course, and was keeping a good couple feet between them.

  Just as well. Every time she touched him—or he touched her—he felt as if he was going to burst into flames. No, worse. He felt as if his ballocks were going to explode. He wanted—painfully wanted—to bury himself in her hot, sweet body.

  His randy cock swelled with enthusiasm.

  “I, er . . .” The color rose in her cheeks and she looked away.

  Interesting. Hmm. Perhaps I can seduce her into moving to Darrow.

  Pen had had strong physical needs the summer they’d been together, needs she’d not been shy about letting him satisfy. Lord, she’d been so wonderfully lusty every time they’d coupled. He’d never before or since bedded a woman who’d shown such pure enjoyment in tupping.

  “It’s a matter of some delicacy.”

  “Oh?”

  She must have had other lovers—a woman of such strong appetites couldn’t live like a nun—and yet . . .

  How would she have managed it? She’d had sole responsibility for Harriet, a duty he could see she took very seriously. And she’d lived at the Home for years. He thought himself a brave man, but he wouldn’t have the courage to enter those female-ruled halls with carnal intentions.

  If it had been almost ten years since she’d had a man between her thighs, she must be going mad with frustrated desire. It would only be charitable of him to relieve her distress.

  Yes! His cock was one hundred percent behind that plan.

  She was still attracted to him. He was certain of it, just as he was certain she would have let him kiss her in the hopyard if Harriet hadn’t arrived at that precise moment. He’d recognized the intent, focused look in her eyes. He’d seen that look so many times that last summer at Darrow. And when she’d stumbled getting up just now and he’d caught her, she hadn’t pushed away from him at once but had stilled, pressing her cheek against his chest.

  But even more telling was the moment he’d asked her about the meat pie. Her eyes had been much more than intent then—they’d been burning with passion. He’d been close enough to feel—and hear—her breath coming in little pants just as it had when she’d been seventeen, naked and desperate under him, straining for her release.

  If Harriet hadn’t been on the blanket with them, he would have kissed Pen, laid her back, and come into her in one long, glorious thrust, lodging his cock so deeply inside her, he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  And now his cock was so thick and his balls so hard, he could barely walk.

  “Yes.” She bit her lip. “I, er—”

  This got more and more interesting. What could she—

  “Can I spend the rest of the afternoon with you, Papa?” Harriet had skipped back to them.

  Whatever Pen wished to discuss, she wasn’t going to be able to do it now with Harriet here.

  “Certainly.” Wait. This wasn’t completely his decision to make. “If it’s all right with your mother, that is. I don’t want to take you away from any important chores or lessons.”

  Harriet turned to Pen. “May I, Mama?” She hopped from foot to foot as if her feelings were so intense they’d taken control of her body. “Papa won’t be here long. Only a few more days.”

  Her words slammed into his gut like a fist. “Only a few more days” wasn’t long enough.

  “Pleeeeease?” Harriet drew the word out until she ran out of breath. “I promise I’ll be back in time for supper.”

  Should I mention the house at Darrow now?

  It was on the tip of his tongue to do so. This was the perfect setup. He’d dangled prizes of all sorts in front of men and women in countless negotiations over the years, and the tactic that worked best was to persuade someone else to latch on to the scheme, too. Pen might be able to turn him down, but she’d be hard-pressed to withstand her—their�
��daughter’s entreaties.

  Right. Their daughter.

  This wasn’t a matter of national interest or even just an intellectual game he was playing. There was a child involved. His child. Harriet would be crushed if Pen refused to consider moving, which she might do.

  He’d have to deal with Pen directly.

  Very directly.

  His randy cock thought that was an excellent idea.

  Pen sighed. “Very well. But after supper you must do your reading and arithmetic problems.”

  Harriet leaped into the air and then did a little jig before saying, “I promise, Mama.” She turned to Harry. “What shall we do, Papa?”

  Harry laughed. “You tell me. I’m the visitor.” He grinned. “You can show me some of your favorite places. How’s that?”

  “Oh, yes.” She took his hand—the one on Pen’s side since it wasn’t holding the empty picnic basket—and skipped along beside him. “I’ll show you the barn—and the barn cats! There’s the sweetest little gray one I named Mist, and an orange one I think I’ll call Pumpkin. Or maybe Tiger. I haven’t decided yet. And a black one I was going to name Night, but then I saw he had a little white streak between his ears so now I think I’ll call him Earl instead. Or Darrow.” She smiled up at him. “For you, Papa.”

  “Ah.” There was something touching and ridiculous about having a barn cat named for him, but his main emotion was an odd, painful . . . wistfulness?

  It wasn’t a feeling he ever remembered having before.

  He’d been happy living by his wits during his years working for the Crown. He’d never minded the constantly changing scenery, both of land and people. He’d thrived on the variety—it was one of the things he missed most now that he was tied down with all the responsibilities that came with the title.

  But perhaps there was something to be said for family. For having children and a plot of land to call your own.

  Not that the Earl of Darrow’s holdings could be called “a plot” of land.

  He should be happy he felt this way. It was one more sign that it was time to stop stalling and marry Lady Susan.

  Harriet frowned. “Though I don’t know if it’s a boy cat or a girl cat. I asked Miss Winifred—she knows about lots of things besides horses—and she said the kittens are still too little to tell.” She looked up at him hopefully. “Can you tell?”

  He knew next to nothing about cats. If a reputed expert on the matter wouldn’t venture an opinion on the creatures’ gender, he certainly was not going to. “I’m happy to meet the kittens, Harriet, but I can’t presume to know more than Miss Winifred.”

  “Oh.” Harriet looked crestfallen. That would never do.

  “You could still name the cat Darrow, you know. Darrow isn’t a girl’s or a boy’s name—it’s a title.”

  Harriet frowned. “It sounds like a boy’s name to me.”

  “Well, how about this? Once you know if the kitten is a boy or a girl, you can call it Lord or Lady Darrow, as the case may be.”

  Harriet thought about that a moment and then beamed at him. “I like it! That’s what I’ll do.”

  He felt absurdly pleased with himself—more pleased than when he’d helped negotiate the stickiest point in an international agreement.

  He looked over Harriet’s head at Pen—she was clearly trying not to laugh.

  “I see you have an exciting afternoon ahead of you, Lord Darrow,” she said, snickering.

  All right, it was ridiculous. He’d laugh, too, if anyone told him he’d be spending an afternoon with barn cats and a nine-year-old girl.

  He grinned. “Indeed, I do.”

  They’d reached the manor, and Pen stopped. “This is where I must leave you, Lord Darrow. Unfortunately, we’re too close to harvesttime for me to be able to take an entire afternoon off.” She frowned. “Though I did hope to discuss that, er, matter with you.”

  He smiled. Perfect. “And I have something I wish to discuss with you. Perhaps you could come down to the cottage after supper, when all your duties are attended to, of course.”

  She smiled. “Yes. That would be splendid.” She frowned again. “It might be a bit late, if that’s all right.”

  “Any time is fine. I can begin work on my report to the duke while I wait for you.” He grinned. “You might even have some suggestions of additional things I should bring to his attention.”

  Her face lit up, whatever matter that was concerning her momentarily forgotten. “Yes, indeed. I would be happy to do that.” Then she turned to their daughter. “Don’t run the poor earl ragged, Harriet, and do be sure to get back in time for supper.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Harry believed he saw Harriet roll her eyes, but thought it best not to comment on the matter.

  “Let’s take this basket to Miss Dorcas, Harriet,” he said instead, “and see if she’ll be kind enough to refill it while we are busy with the kittens and whatever other treats you have in store for me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pen hurried across the field toward the woods. She’d meant to leave for the cottage earlier, but one thing after another had delayed her. First, there’d been supper, and then she’d had to see that Harriet did her schoolwork.

  She felt the little hum of pride she always did when she thought about Harriet and her studies. Her daughter was very bright—even Iris, the Home’s teacher, said so, and she should know. She’d taught for years at a girls’ boarding school before she’d come to Puddledon Manor. Harriet should do very well for herself when it came time for her to make her own way in the world, especially if she was given the right opportunities.

  Which Pen was determined to see that she was. Pen’s marrying a vicar—though obviously not Godfrey—would be a good step toward that goal. It would give Harriet respectability as well as a home. By the time she was ready to marry or to fend for herself, no one would remember the story of her connection to the Earl of Darrow. They would think of her as Vicar Somebody’s daughter.

  Well, unless the Earl of Darrow insisted on being part of her life. But surely having Harry’s support could only help Harriet, especially if Harry managed to do all his supporting behind the scenes. He would want what was best for his daughter.

  Except he’ll have other daughters—and sons—by then.

  She felt a momentary stab of . . . discomfort.

  Ridiculous! The whole point of him marrying Lady Susan—or whichever well-bred woman he ultimately chose—was to have children. To get an heir and a spare.

  She must be realistic. He’d been very good with Harriet today and had seemed to really care about her, but it was simply human nature to focus on what—or who—was right under your nose, especially when they lived in your house and carried your name. Once Harry left Little Puddledon, Harriet would be, as the proverb said, “out of sight, out of mind.”

  Perhaps I can get him to set up some sort of financial arrangement for her.

  No. That felt too much like begging. She’d managed perfectly well without him for the last decade. She’d manage just as well for the next. And if things did get difficult, then she could ask. But chances were, if he helped her with the vicar issue now, she’d not have to come hat in hand to his door later. She must remember to point that out.

  Should I try to hint around about it or should I just be blunt?

  Blunt might be best. She wasn’t terribly good at hinting.

  She reached the path to the cottage, started down it—and promptly stumbled over a tree root. Blast! She managed to catch her balance before she went sprawling in the dirt.

  It was very difficult to see. The sun was low in the sky, and there were deep shadows under the trees. She should have come earlier.

  She started walking again, paying more attention to where she put her feet. It had been hard to get away even after Harriet had finished her schoolwork. Harriet had been so excited and happy, she’d wanted to tell Pen every detail of the few hours she’d spent with her father.

  Pen had never s
een the point of fathers—beyond the moment of conception—until today. Her own father had been horrible: bigger and stronger than she, easy to anger, often drunk. She flinched, remembering how she used to hold her breath and lurk in the shadows so as not to set him off. It had been such a huge relief to finally get free of him and be in control of her life. She never wanted to go back to living in the constant anxiety she’d lived in at Darrow.

  But after seeing how Harry had encouraged Harriet both to ride his horse and to keep trying to hit those apples . . . Perhaps there were some positive things a proper father could contribute.

  Ah, there was the cottage. It looked dark. She hoped Harry hadn’t gone to sleep already.

  A shocking image of Harry spread naked on the cottage bed burst uninvited into her thoughts.

  She shoved it back out. No good could come from letting her imagination travel that treacherous path.

  Except that was exactly the path her blasted imagination most wished to travel.

  She lifted her hand to knock—and paused.

  When she’d left Harriet just now, she’d told her she was going to the cottage and would try not to wake her when she got back—and Harriet had grinned. Dear Lord! She’d thought her daughter too young to see a romance under every bush, but perhaps she was mistaken. There had been that suspiciously matchmaking-like maneuvering she’d done on the blanket at luncheon.

  Ha! Harriet doesn’t need to look under any vegetation for a romance. She saw you clearly in the hopyard and the apple orchard.

  There had been nothing to see. Harriet couldn’t have discerned—or understood—the . . . need Pen had felt. She’d just been happy her mother was talking to her father. Anything else was Pen’s imagination.

  She frowned at the door. But if I go inside . . .

  Excitement fluttered in her . . . chest.

  She squashed it. She was in control of herself. She was only coming here as Harriet’s mother. She had no interest in Harry beyond his role as Harriet’s father—well, and perhaps as the duke’s emissary.

  Right. She’d never been a good liar.

  She lifted her hand again to knock just as the door swung open.