What a Lady Demands

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “I ride well enough.” Which was likely to mean, well enough for a young lady of her standing. She’d do fine on a gentle ramble across the fields, but she’d likely not hold up to a grueling daylong jaunt across his property, stopping at every last tenant’s cot. “I thought I’d accompany you and see how difficult the terrain is.”

  “And who will be overseeing the boy while you’re off on this escapade?”

  “If he cannot join us, you could leave him in the care of whoever was looking after his needs while you were between governesses.”

  He knew he should have contacted another agency. The young ladies agencies sent him understood their position and would never have dreamed of questioning him or showing the least bit of boldness. They obeyed his wishes meekly. But none of them had managed to teach the boy a damned thing.

  And this girl had, without the least idea what she was doing. He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I suppose Mrs. Carstairs can look after him for a few hours.”

  “But doesn’t she have enough to do? I honestly think it best if Jeremy joins us.”

  Good God. Just when he thought she’d showed him both sides of her face, she went and produced a third. Best not think where the extra cheek is coming from. Not if he wanted to sit a horse. “And how do you propose he join us? Shall he learn to ride by magic? Show himself an unexpected expert in the saddle without the least bit of instruction? Shall I pull a mount of the proper size out of…thin air?”

  Lord help him, he’d nearly said my arse, which would hardly be appropriate, especially given the tenor of his thoughts where Cecelia was concerned.

  “I propose he ride double with one of us.” A devilish gleam came into her eye. Damn it all, but he hated that impish spark. “It shall have to be you, since propriety demands I sit side-saddle.”

  “I don’t really—”

  “It’s decided.” She gave a firm nod. “Be honest; you cannot come up with a more efficient plan. If we bring him along, he’ll get some much-needed fresh air, and he can begin his education in estate management straight off. You have to admit, that’s much more practical than teaching him Latin.”

  He could not come up with a single argument against her, at least not one that didn’t require explanations he’d rather not give. Not that they were any of her affair. Right. He could indulge this whim of hers today and get his estate business out of the way. With any luck, the boy would be bored silly by the entire project within an hour or so and whine to go back home. Then Cecelia could keep him occupied with lessons and out of his way.

  And Lind could concentrate on Battencliffe. In fact, rather than have his man of affairs accompany him on his rounds, it was high time he sent Boff back to London.

  Chapter Ten

  “I have wonderful news,” Cecelia crowed as she swept into the nursery. She’d already changed into her oldest gown, dark brown and of heavy muslin, the closest thing she owned to a riding habit. “We are going on an outing.”

  Jeremy looked up from his soldiers. He’d neglected his troops of late while working on the business of writing his name. No doubt he felt they were due for extra drills. “Will we run into my father like last time?” His tone sounded less than enthusiastic. “It was far more fun without him.”

  “I can promise you we won’t run into him.” Cecelia injected an extra dose of cheer into her voice for good measure. “He’s coming with us, you see. He’s agreed to take you up on his horse with him and bring you on his tour of the estate.”

  Jeremy stood, his expression changing rapidly before settling into something like cautious hope. Cecelia couldn’t help but remember the adoring way he’d gazed at his papa before Lindenhurst scolded them for venturing too close to the pond. Well, here was a chance for father and son to become better acquainted.

  “Won’t that be fun?” she prompted.

  A tentative smile formed on his lips. “Perhaps.”

  “I’ve had a talk with him as well about getting you a pony and having Regan give you some riding lessons.” She strode to Jeremy’s wardrobe and took stock of the contents. He’d need to put on proper trousers if he was to go riding. “Once you’ve learned to stay in the saddle on your own, your papa might take you around on a regular basis.”

  “Do you think he would do that?” The child’s inflection told her all she needed to know. He didn’t trust his good fortune.

  “Let’s see how today goes, at any rate.” She shook out a pair of woolen trousers, worn and likely scratchy. She could only hope they still fit him. “You never know. You might be a natural horseman.”

  He glanced at his tin troops like he was trying to decide if he might betray them by climbing into a saddle. “Do you think so?”

  “We’re not going to know until we’ve tried, are we?”

  Half an hour later, she’d seen the boy changed into the trousers and a pair of sturdy shoes. Along with the pony, he’d need boots and breeches. Now he made his way to the stables, moving cautiously, partly out of fear of tripping, no doubt, but Cecelia couldn’t help but wonder if he was afraid his father might change his mind about taking them out.

  But no, Lindenhurst stood in the stable yard holding his huge chestnut by the bridle, while Regan tightened a girth about a gray mare. Cecelia chewed on her lower lip. She hadn’t gone riding in ages herself, but her mount looked gentle enough. Lind used a mounting block to heave himself astride his horse. Regan boosted Jeremy up in front of him and showed the boy how to grip with his thighs. In no time, Cecelia sat sideways, arranging her skirts over her legs as best she could, and they were off.

  Cecelia concentrated on keeping her seat through a brain befogged with lack of sleep. Thank goodness Lindenhurst had agreed to the outing, because, beyond making his son happy, it meant she didn’t have to concentrate on lessons. In fact, if she’d been in a clearer state of mind, she’d have suggested they go alone and let her sleep. Not that she’d have been able to.

  Not with Eversham hovering like a storm cloud on the edges of her thoughts.

  However Lindenhurst felt about his son, he at least set a gentle pace while the boy got his bearings in the saddle. Jeremy looked about him, the breeze blowing his golden-blond hair in ragged locks across his forehead, and a tentative smile spread across his cheeks. If his expression could speak, it might have proclaimed, I can do this. I’ve found something I can do.

  Despite her worries, a feeling akin to hope blossomed in Cecelia’s heart, along with the warm satisfaction that she’d given this lonely boy something else. She’d shown him how to write his name, and she’d discovered the key to easing his mobility, perhaps. No one could ever take that away from him.

  Please, please, let Lindenhurst see this as a good thing and procure him a pony.

  Lindenhurst, on the other hand, held himself stiffly, wincing slightly with each shift in the saddle. He held the reins in one hand, his free arm wrapped loosely about Jeremy’s waist. He wouldn’t let the boy fall, but something about the contact made him too tense to relax into the horse’s gait. He was too proud to complain, but Cecelia suspected his leg would be aching before they turned for home.

  And given the child’s inexperience, they couldn’t move faster than a walk for now. The day promised to be excruciating for Lind.

  They took the gravel path that wound through the sloping lawn, past the sheep cropping the grass on the lower terraces and the copse, and out into the parkland. Before long, a few tenants’ cottages came into view beyond a hedgerow. They stood in a snug huddle in the midst of fields of ripening oats and barley. In front of one of them, several young children chased after an iron hoop. A gangly boy held a stick, with which he struck the metal ring to keep it rolling. A flock of chickens scattered before them, clucking peevishly, while a brindle dog nipped at their heels.

  A woman of indeterminate age, her belly round with child, emerged from the door, bearing a basket of laundry. She shouted something in the direction of the children, but the wind seized her words. An older boy snatche
d at the hoop before it rolled away, and the rest of her brood stopped in their tracks.

  Jeremy watched the entire scene unfold with round eyes.

  Good heavens, had he even known children his age lived within walking distance of the manor? The way he stared at them suggested he hadn’t.

  Unwilling to let the opportunity pass by, Cecelia nudged her mare toward the cottage. “And who have we here?” she asked Lindenhurst.

  “That’s Mrs. Powell. Her husband is probably hard at work in his forge.” He nodded toward a low structure that stood apart from the others. A plume of smoke rose from the red-brick chimney.

  She eyed Jeremy. “Should we stop and say good morning?”

  “I passed this way the other day with Boff,” Lind said. “I didn’t see anything amiss.” Indeed, all the cottages gleamed beneath fresh coats of whitewash, their thatched roofs snug against the frequent rains, their patches of garden neat and orderly.

  She looked pointedly at the boy. “You weren’t with Jeremy then.”

  He glanced down. “And what do you expect to come of it now?”

  He’d kept the question deliberately vague, but she caught the meaning behind it well enough. If Jeremy alit he would not be able to keep up with the other children, no matter how longingly he watched them. Still, Lind nudged his horse forward, leaving Cecelia to follow.

  The Powell children, for their part, surrounded their mother, staring at the horses. The chickens milled about their ankles, pecking at the bare ground.

  Mrs. Powell, alerted by their sudden interest, turned and dipped her head. “My lord. Back so soon?”

  He touched his hat. “Just checking that the repairs to your fence are holding up.”

  “Aye, they are at that, same as three days ago.” She grinned, showing a gap between her teeth. She may be all of thirty, but her skin held a rough and reddish quality that made her look older. “That blasted pig hasn’t managed to dig under it again. Not yet.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “That animal,” she went on with a shake of her head. “Polly, I says to myself, the next time that pig tries to escape, I’ll turn it into bacon. Old Mrs. Thompson could use some.” She jerked her head toward one of the other cottages. “She’s still doing poorly, ye see. I do for her as I can, but I’ve got me own to tend to.”

  Lindenhurst cleared his throat. “I’ll have a word with my cook. She’ll have a basket prepared.”

  A young girl, perhaps Jeremy’s age, perhaps a year or two older, peeked from behind her mother. She regarded Lindenhurst’s great beast of a horse with rounded eyes, but her gaze soon alit on Jeremy. “Who are you?”

  “Ye know better than to speak to yer betters, Emmy.” Mrs. Powell turned to the girl. “Ye don’t have any call speaking to his lordship unless he addresses ye first.”

  Emmy nodded, but the glance she cast at Jeremy brimmed with curiosity. “I didn’t think he had kids like we do.”

  “Well, he does, but there ain’t no call to remark on it. Now into the house with ye.”

  After another cautious look at Lindenhurst, Emmy defied her mother’s order. “Do ye like to play?”

  “I play with my soldiers,” Jeremy replied.

  “But what about other kids?” the girl persisted. “Do ye like Hide-and-Seek? Or Simon Says?”

  Simon Says. At the name, a chill passed along Cecelia’s spine. Eversham enjoyed a perverse version of that game. And he’d been watching her closely enough to send a letter here. What were the odds? A quick survey proved the land about empty of all but Lind’s tenants, but she couldn’t shake the feeling Eversham might be hiding in the hedgerow. Watching. Waiting.

  “Who have you been playing with?” Cecelia blurted.

  “No one. Just me brothers and sisters.”

  Of course. Cecelia shook herself. Silly of her to even think Emmy might have played with someone older and more dangerous. Cecelia was being overly cautious. And Eversham’s tastes had never run to small children—at least not so young as Emmy. He hadn’t even realized Cecelia was only sixteen when he’d first taken up with her.

  “Where did you get your hoop?” she asked quickly, to cover the moment. Besides, the Powells’ game had recalled a far more pleasant memory from her childhood, one she might put into practice with Jeremy.

  “Me dad made it. He makes them for the cooper.” Another cautious look at Lindenhurst. “This one wasn’t right, so he gave it to us.”

  “Go on with ye,” Emmy’s mother interrupted, giving the child a swat on the back of her skirt. “Boys such as him don’t play with the likes of ye.”

  Lindenhurst spurred his mount on, but Jeremy turned in the saddle as far as he could, so he could stare after the small family. The look on his face could only be described as hungry.

  —

  Much later that day, Cecelia slipped into the library. Heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, casting the shelves of books into dusty shadow. The space smelled of old paper and leather. She picked her way along the wall, until she could part the velvet and let in a bit of light. She would need it to peruse the titles.

  Fatigued from the morning’s ride, Jeremy was content to stay in the nursery and practice writing his letters, while Cecelia searched for a book she might read to him. A very specific sort of book; she trusted a former officer possessed volumes on military history, hopefully at least a few comprehensible to a young boy with no experience in such matters. If she was ever to entice Jeremy into learning to read for himself, she’d have to prove to him that books worth reading lay within his grasp.

  She glanced at the ranks of tomes, each bound to match its fellows like troops in dress uniform. And like a parade uniform, most of the books looked untouched. Lind had certainly spared no expense in stocking his library, but it also seemed he spent very little time here.

  Cecelia scanned the titles. The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Castle of Otranto, and other such works lined one shelf. And who’d have expected Lind to be an aficionado of Gothic novels? Or had his wife put the collection together? Yes, there was Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, not as dark, perhaps, but of a decidedly feminine bent.

  She moved to another shelf. De Re Militari. Blast it all, these titles were in Latin. Caesar, Herodotus, Thucydides. It would be years before Jeremy was ready to take those on. L’Art de la guerre. That looked promising—assuming she could teach Jeremy enough French. At least Justine didn’t figure among Lindenhurst’s French titles. A shudder passed through her at the memory. Being forced to read that work was enough to make her wish she’d never learned French.

  Clearly none of these books would catch Jeremy’s eye right away. She couldn’t even read most of them, and even if she could, she wondered if they’d serve as a better cure for insomnia than a dose of sleeping powder. She’d have to hope Lindenhurst would keep her on long enough to hear back from Miss Crump. If Cecelia could set up a regular correspondence, she’d definitely be able to ask the woman for pointers.

  The click of the door opening caused her to whirl. Lindenhurst advanced into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “Mrs. Carstairs mentioned I might find you here.”

  “Did you require anything from me, my lord?” Heaven help her, even as she asked the question, she recalled his lips pressed to hers. His tongue questing. And they were as good as alone in the library. That particular awareness pooled in the pit of her belly as heat. All he had to do was close the door, and they could continue their explorations.

  Not that she had any right even considering the possibility.

  “No.” He came to a halt and leaned a shoulder against one of the bookcases. “I came after you out of curiosity, if you must know.”

  Blast. Curiosity. It was ever landing her in difficulty, and now he was confessing to succumbing to the same ailment. “Oh?”

  “I wanted to know what might interest you here.”

  “I was looking for a book I might share with Jeremy. Only I’m finding the choices rather sli
m.”

  “Indeed. And what fault do you find with my library?”

  “Anything likely to interest a boy is in some foreign language. I’m quite certain The Mysteries of Udolpho will send him to sleep in a trice.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked into half a smile. The expression transformed his face to sheer masculine beauty, enough to make her heart trip over itself and then race ahead. “It would certainly do the same for me.”

  “So the novels are not yours.”

  “They belonged to Lydia.” He said the name softly, an echo of longing from the past. But he could refer to his wife as such with Cecelia. She’d known them both, before their marriage. Before Cecelia had ever become involved with anything scandalous. “But I suspect you know that.”

  “Yes, I’d worked out that much.” What else was she to say? She could hardly deny the existence of the other woman, any more than she could erase from her mind the way Lind had chased Lydia. The way he’d competed for her attentions with his former friend.

  Oh, yes, she recalled that, too. The memory came flooding back to her now. She’d been fifteen and mooning after Lind, but Lind saw no one but Lydia Bowles in those days. And so had Battencliffe.

  “Given Jeremy’s fascination with his tin soldiers,” she went on, eager to direct the subject back to the present, “I was hoping I might interest him in learning to read by showing him a book on military history. But everything I found is in Latin.”

  “All the more reason to show him, then. If you can promise his tutor will teach him to read those later on.”