Pen’s frown deepened, a thread of annoyance in her tone now. “That’s because you aren’t opening your eyes and looking. We wouldn’t be living in some fairyland, Harry. We’d be here in England, at Darrow or one of your other estates.”
“So?” Where was she going with this?
“So, think how people will treat me and Harriet and any other children we might have.”
Anger flickered again. “They will treat you properly or answer to me.”
“No, they won’t. They’ll whisper and point and avoid us—and that’s if we are fortunate.” She glanced at Harriet again. “I don’t mind it for myself—”
She stopped and sighed. “No, that’s not true. I would mind it, but what would kill me is seeing people treat our children cruelly. I know how I’ve reacted to Verity torturing Harriet for just a little while. It would be much, much worse if I had to live in a village of Verities.”
“No. You’re wrong.” Of course, she was wrong. She knew nothing about the ton. He would explain matters and then she would see. “Many members of the nobility have children born on the wrong side of the blanket. They—”
Pen cut him off. “Did you listen to yourself, Harry? Did you hear the words you used? Would you wish to be born on the ‘wrong’ side of something?”
He frowned, opened his mouth—and then closed it. He could not truthfully say yes.
“Poor Harriet is already illegitimate,” Pen said. “There’s nothing I can do about that. I tried. I made up a husband who died in the war—and then that lie blew up in my face. I can’t honorably put other children in that position.”
Aha! That was the crucial point. “But this is different. This time I’ll be there to support you. You won’t be alone.”
He leaned forward, as if he could magically pull her agreement from her by force of will. “I’m a powerful man, Pen. I made my fortune on the Continent, and now I’ve also got the wealth and influence of the title. I can and I will protect you. And support you. You and our children will want for nothing. And when it comes time for Harriet—and any other daughters we might have—to marry, I’ll provide dowries for them.”
Pen did not look persuaded. “And if we have sons?”
He blinked. He hadn’t thought of sons. “Then I’ll find them trades.”
“What if our first son is born before you have a son with Lady Susan, or whomever you marry? Will our son care that his younger half brother gets what would have been his, if only he hadn’t had the misfortune of being my son, too?”
“Of course n—” He stopped. Perhaps that would be a bitter pill to swallow. He’d never envied Walter the earldom, but then he’d never had any sort of claim to it.
Just as his illegitimate son would have no claim to the title in law, but setting younger brother above older brother . . .
“Precisely.” Pen shook her head. “I truly don’t know the answer to that question. Will your legitimate and illegitimate children grow up together? Will they be friends? Or will my children feel—or be made to feel—inferior?”
He sat back. “I said I was powerful, Pen. I am. I won’t let our children be made to feel inferior to anyone.”
Pen’s right brow winged up. “Even the Prince Regent can’t command people’s emotions. You may be able to force people to pretend to accept them, but that is not the same thing.”
He wanted to argue the point, but he couldn’t.
“And what of your wife? Are you going to force her to accept Harriet and her siblings?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, I won’t try to compel Lady Susan to be kind to them, but I can—and will—compel her not to be cruel.”
“My, that sounds like a harmonious union.”
“Sarcasm does not become you.” He shifted on the blanket. “You may have a point, but I suspect in Lady Susan’s case, she couldn’t be bothered to notice her own children, let alone yours.”
Pen didn’t reply to that. She just gave him a look that he was afraid was a mixture of horror and pity.
He shifted position again. It doesn’t matter. I only need Lady Susan to get an heir. That’s all.
“The advice Jo gave me last night,” Pen finally said, “was to not act in haste but to wait until after you wed. Then, I could base my decision on observable facts, not mere wishes and dreams.”
She paused, pressed her lips together—and then shook her head as if dismissing some thought or, worse, some dream.
“And waiting to decide would be good for the Home, too. It’s almost harvesttime, Harry. If I leave now, before the hops are safely picked and drying in the oast house, we might lose the crop. I’m the only one who knows precisely what to look for to keep the plants healthy.”
She leaned toward him, frowning. “And if we lose this harvest, we’ll have to cut—perhaps drastically—our Widow’s Brew production. That will put us back on shaky financial ground, even with the duke’s support.”
He didn’t like what she was saying, but he did have to admit it made some sense.
“Very well. I can wait until—what?—September or October to have you with me. In the meantime, I’ll offer for and marry Lady Susan.” And hopefully get her with child—with my heir.
Pen went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “It was good advice, but . . .”
His stomach knotted. “But you aren’t going to take it?”
He didn’t need to ask. Her tone made her position clear—and he could tell it wasn’t a position he was going to like.
“I thought I would at first, but the more I considered it, the more I realized I didn’t need to wait. I’ve already decided. I can’t go off with you, Harry. I’d be giving up too much. I’ve made a place for myself here. I’m needed and I’m respected.”
Panic was making him short-tempered. “I need you.”
“Do you?” Pen sighed. “Maybe you do, and if so, I’m sorry for it. But as I tossed and turned last night, trying to imagine all the arguments, I realized there were more important reasons I have to say no.” She looked at him. “I don’t want to share you, Harry. And it’s not fair or honorable of me to ask your wife to do so.”
“I assure you, Lady Susan won’t care.” He forced his lips into a grin. “Once she’s given me my heir and spare, she’ll happily hand me over to you to have all to yourself.”
Pen shrugged. She didn’t look at all persuaded.
“It’s true.”
“Oh, I believe you.” She looked away, down at the pond.
He followed her gaze. Harriet had taken off her bonnet and was using it as a basket to carry a growing collection of crab apples.
Harriet waved.
Pen waved back. “When I first heard the rumor that Harriet was Walter’s, I felt physically sick.”
He’d felt sick, too. He felt sick now.
“But it wasn’t just the notion of Walter touching me that made me ill, it was the thought that people believed I had lain with a married man. That made me feel like a whore.”
“What?!”
“Shh!” She looked down at Harriet again—as did he. Fortunately, Harriet hadn’t heard them—or was very good at pretending she hadn’t.
He lowered his voice. “You aren’t a whore.”
“Why? Because I don’t charge for my services?”
“That’s not it, and you know it.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do know it. And I actually don’t fault women who must earn their keep on their backs. I was close to doing that myself after Aunt Margaret died. I likely would have, if I hadn’t found the Home. There aren’t many jobs open to women, Harry. And Harriet and I had to eat.”
Pen said this all so matter-of-factly, he was simultaneously appalled and impressed.
And angry. He should have been there to help her. He should have considered something—someone—could have come from all the swiving he and Pen had done that summer. It would have been astounding if Pen hadn’t conceived.
“By the time the sun rose, I’d concluded that, for me,
marriage changes things. When you marry, you take a vow before God, don’t you, to ‘forsake all others’?”
He shifted on the blanket again. “Er, yes. I suppose so. But no one actually keeps those vows, Pen, at least not among the ton.”
He should have expected Pen to think this way. She was, well, from the lower orders, who were more pious than their noble brethren. Zeus, he could just imagine the reaction he’d get if he said such a thing in White’s or any of the other gentlemen’s clubs. There would be shocked silence, followed by uproarious laughter—and perhaps an escorted journey to Bedlam.
Pen scowled. “Well, perhaps they should. Or at least they should try. Promising something you have no intention of doing is lying.”
“Technically, yes.” He thought about trying to explain what everyone in the ton knew the vow really meant: a man would be discreet in his extramarital adventures, and a woman would wait until she’d produced an heir and spare before embarking on her own assignations.
“Literally yes.” Pen held his gaze. “Harry, if you can’t imagine loving Lady Susan, don’t marry her. You deserve—and the children you have with your wife deserve—that your union start off in love.” She looked down for a moment. “During the night, I—I tried to put myself in Lady Susan’s place. I felt pity for her, Harry.”
“Misplaced, Pen. Trust me on that. Lady Susan Palmer is more likely to be annoyed if not appalled should I profess undying love. She wants a marriage of convenience as much as I do.”
Pen stared at him and then frowned. “I suppose I must believe you, if you say it is so. But if I agreed to be your mistress, I would feel I was in the wrong. I would be contributing to the failure of your marriage and betraying a fellow female.”
He was equal parts impressed with and frustrated by her position. “Pen, my marriage will only fail if I don’t get an heir. Everything else is unimportant.”
Pen scowled at him. “No. Love is important. You must know that, if you truly love me.” She shook her head. “Why can’t you hope for an heir and love, Harry? Lady Susan is not the only well-bred female in England. Look some more. There must be someone who has the proper pedigree and whom you could come to care for.”
Good God! “I already told you. I looked all Season and didn’t find such a paragon.” Did he sound a bit tetchy? He knew Pen meant well, but she just didn’t understand.
“So then look longer.” She sat back. “All I know is that I will not be the person who comes between you and your wife.”
His hands balled into fists. God give him patience. He wanted to shake some sense into her. Or, better, kiss her until she agreed to be his mistress.
Well, he could wait a little longer. He’d come back to Little Puddledon from time to time to visit Harriet. After a month or two or three of celibacy, Pen’s tune would change. Such a passionate woman must require regular, vigorous tupping to keep her humors in balance. He could—
No, he could not. Pen had gone years without a man. She was not going to be seduced into changing her mind. And it would be wrong of him to try.
She’d always had her own strict code of honor. It had been one of the things—besides her face, her figure, and her lusty sexual appetite—that had drawn him to her.
“Very well.” His mouth tasted like ashes and he felt as if he’d lost that brawl with the vicar. “But I will still wish to see Harriet, you know. I plan to visit Little Puddledon regularly.”
Pen nodded. “But not too regularly. I don’t want Harriet expecting something you can’t sustain once you have a family.”
Was she trying to infuriate him? If so, she was succeeding brilliantly. “Harriet is part of my family.”
“I know. It’s just once you marry—”
“For the love of God, Pen, will you stop? Give me some credit, if you please. I am not going to crush my daughter’s feelings.”
Pen’s mouth hung open a moment, and then she flushed. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”
“As well you should be.” He struggled to control his temper. Nothing would be served by ripping up at Pen. And his ire couldn’t be laid at her door completely—he was quite aware that sexual frustration played a role, too. “I would hope you know me better than that.”
“I do.” Pen’s posture stiffened, as if she suddenly had a rod up her back. “But I’m Harriet’s mother, Harry. My first duty is to protect her.”
“From her father?! What sort of a monster do you take me for?”
Pen’s eyes widened, but then she stiffened another inch. “I know you’d never intentionally hurt Harriet, but I also know you can’t really say what your marriage will be like until you’re in the midst of it.”
That was true, but it was also immaterial.
“Pen, it doesn’t matter.” Perhaps she could be forgiven for her doubts. He’d not been here for Harriet’s first nine years. She might well have persuaded herself he didn’t care. “I’ll agree that I can’t know how marriage will change my life, but I give you my word that I will never abandon Harriet.” He held Pen’s gaze. “No matter what happens between us, no matter whom I marry or how many other children I have, Harriet will always be my daughter, my firstborn, and I will always be her father.”
Pen studied his expression, and then she nodded.
“Mama. Papa,” Harriet called from the pond. She’d found a log to sit on. “Are you finished talking yet?”
“Almost,” Pen called back. “Just a little longer.” She turned back to him. “I had one other matter I wished to raise with you.”
“All right. What is it?” Any topic must be better than the one they’d just got through.
Or maybe not. Pen was taking an infernally long time to say anything.
“Pen, Harriet won’t wait forever. What did you wish to discuss?”
She sighed. “You won’t like it.”
His stomach tightened. “Well, then, tell me it straightaway before the anticipation does me in.”
She took a deep breath. “I never told you why I came down to the cottage last night.”
He forced a grin in the hopes of lightening the atmosphere. “What? It wasn’t to seduce me?”
She frowned at him, but she laughed, too. “This time I didn’t seduce you. You seduced me.”
He dropped his voice. “We seduced each other. And it was good, wasn’t it, Pen?”
“Yes, it was good. It was always good with you, Harry.”
Then why won’t you be my mistress?
He had heard all her arguments, but none of them cured the need throbbing in his cock.
And in his heart.
If only it were Pen, rather than Lady Susan, who was an earl’s daughter.
“I wanted to talk to you about the new vicar,” Pen said.
“What?” How had they got to the new vicar?
Her brows furrowed. “The duke will replace Godfrey, won’t he? It could be very uncomfortable if he doesn’t.”
For a brief moment, Harry wondered if Godfrey staying on would be the push he needed to get Pen to come live at Darrow, but he rejected the thought almost as soon as it formed. It was beneath him. And even if Pen wasn’t so directly involved, he couldn’t in good conscience turn a blind eye to the scoundrel’s behavior. It was not a stretch to say the vicar was a rapist.
“I should think so. I will definitely recommend it.”
Pen nodded. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. She suddenly seemed nervous. “Then, do you suppose . . . would it be possible . . . could you suggest . . .”
“Just spit it out, will you?”
That annoyed her—and got her to say her piece.
Unfortunately.
“Could you ask the duke to consider replacing Godfrey with a respectable, unmarried man? One that’s not too young, but not too old, either.”
“Why would you care about the vicar’s age or marital state?” He was afraid he knew the answer.
“I’m, er,”—she looked away—“hoping to marry him.”
The w
ords lodged like an arrow in his heart. He grunted—it was all he could manage when he was howling in pain inside.
“I know you say you’ll be part of Harriet’s life, Harry—”
That freed his tongue. “I don’t just say it. I swear it.”
Pen nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. I know. I believe you, truly I do, but I still think Harriet would benefit from having a father.”
“I’m her father.”
“I know. I know. I meant a man who could act as her father. Who would be my, er, husband and so give us a real home.” Her cheeks were flushed. “That’s why I approached Godfrey—I wanted a home for Harriet.”
She met his gaze. “Harriet saw through him at once, you know. She has your shrewd ability to size up people.” She shook her head. “I should have listened to her.”
She shook her head again, a bit harder, as if to dispel the thought. “I’ll do better next time. Next time you can be sure I will listen to Harriet.” And then she smiled. “So, do you think you can persuade the duke to send us a nice, marriageable man?”
He was not going to act as Pen’s matchmaker—the notion was revolting.
“Grainger would laugh at me—or suggest I look for a comfortable bed in Bedlam—if I did anything so peculiar. He has no reason to listen to my advice with regard to vicars. I know next to nothing about procuring one.”
Pen’s shoulders slumped. “But you can mention my situation, can’t you? It can’t hurt.”
It hurt far too much. “What about love, Pen? Didn’t you just tell me I shouldn’t marry Lady Susan if I don’t love her?”
“Yes, but that’s different.”
“How?”
She looked at him as if he were a complete noddy. “You’re a man. An earl! You just said yourself you are wealthy and powerful. You have far more control over your destiny than I do over mine.”
She bit her lip, clearly frustrated. “If it weren’t for Harriet, I wouldn’t be husband hunting, Harry. But I’ve concluded if I marry now, by the time Harriet is of age to wed, people will have forgotten that she’s your bastard.”
Rage and pain roared through him at her words.
He was quite proud of himself. He didn’t shout or curse. He just stood.
What Ales the Earl Page 20
