The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Did a handsome prince come kiss you awake?” he asked, matching his steps to hers. “Darius is convinced we’ve fallen into the land of the fairy, what with the rhododendrons, the bats in the attic, and the air of neglect.”

  “You’re less than three miles from that thriving enclave of modern civilization, Little Weldon. I will disabuse your friend of his wayward notions.”

  “Oh, please don’t. He’s having great fun at my expense, and the summer is likely to try his patience if he bides with me for any length of time.”

  “You can’t think to live at the manor.” Ellen frowned as she spoke. She didn’t want him so nearby, or rather, she did, and it was a stupid, foolish idea.

  “We’ll put up in the carriage house. It’s clean and serviceable. There’s a small stove upstairs for tea and warmth, and the quarters are well ventilated.”

  “And the roof is still functioning,” Ellen added. They were passing through the woods on one of the more worn bridle paths. Nobody maintained the paths, but game used them, and Ellen did.

  And nasty little boys did, as well.

  She walked more quickly, all too aware that in these woods the man beside her had kissed her, only once, but endlessly, until she was a standing puddle of desire and anticipation. With nothing more than his mouth on hers, he’d stripped her of dignity, self-restraint, and common sense, probably without a backward thought when he’d gone on his way.

  “Are we in a hurry?” her escort inquired.

  “I would not want to leave Mr.…” Ellen searched frantically for his name. Good lord, she’d just been introduced to the man.

  “The Honorable Darius Lindsey,” Mr. Windham supplied as they walked along. “His papa is the Earl of Wilton, with the primary estate over in Hampshire.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Windham must have heard the cooling in her tone at the mention of a title, because as he and Mr. Lindsey sipped cold cider on Ellen’s back porch, he quizzed her on the tenants, the neighbors, the availability of various services in the area, and the likelihood of finding competent laborers in the immediate future, keeping well away from any remotely social topic.

  “You’ll have to wait until the hay is in,” Ellen said as the shadows lengthened across her yard. “There’s help to be had for coin. Tomorrow is market day, so you can start getting the word out among the locals, and they’ll spread it quickly enough. How are you fixed for provisions?”

  “For provisions?” Mr. Lindsey echoed. “We rode out from Town with saddlebags bulging, but that’s about it.”

  “I can keep you in butter, milk, cheese, and eggs. Mable presented me with a little heifer calf not a month past. I was giving the extra to Bathsheba, since she’s nursing eight piglets, but she can make shift without cream and eggs every day. I’ve also been working on a smoke-cured ham but not making much progress.”

  “You were feeding your sow cream and eggs?”

  “Eight piglets, Mr. Lindsey, would take a lot out of any lady. It was either that or much of it would go to waste.”

  “We’ll be happy to enjoy your surplus,” Mr. Windham cut in, “but you have to let us compensate you somehow.”

  “I will not take coin for being neighborly.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend, merely to suggest when the opportunity presents itself, I would like to be neighborly, as well. I’m sure there’s some effort a pair of strong-backed fellows might turn themselves to that would be useful to you, Mrs. FitzEngle.”

  His voice was a melody of good breeding and better intentions, an aural embodiment of kindness and politesse. Just to hear him speaking left Ellen a little dazed, a little… wanting.

  “We’ll see,” she said briskly. “For now, enjoy your cider. Moonrise will be early this evening, and if you’re staying in town for now, you’ll want to get back to The Tired Rooster before the darts start flying.”

  “Tame gentlemen such as ourselves will need to be up early tomorrow,” Mr. Windham said, rising. “We’ll be on our way, but thank you for the cider and the hospitality.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.” Ellen rose, as well, pretending to ignore the hand Mr. Windham extended toward her.

  “Tomorrow?” Mr. Lindsey frowned. “Here I was hoping to malinger at the Rooster for a couple weeks waiting for building materials to come in from London, or darkest Peru.”

  “Lazy sot.” Mr. Windham smiled at his friend. “I think the lady meant she’d be in town for market day, and we might be fortunate enough to see her then.”

  “Until tomorrow.” Mr. Lindsey bowed over her hand and went to collect the horses, leaving Ellen standing in the gathering darkness with Valentine Windham.

  “I am glad to have renewed our acquaintance,” Mr. Windham said, his gaze traveling around the colorful borders of her yard. “Your flowers make an impression.”

  “I am glad to see you again, as well.” Ellen used the most cordially unremarkable tones she could muster. “One is always pleased to know one’s gardening efforts are memorable.”

  “Until tomorrow.” Mr. Windham took her hand and bowed over it, but he also kissed her knuckles—a soft, fleeting contact of his mouth on the back of her hand, accompanied by a slight squeeze of his fingers around hers. And then he was swinging up on a big chestnut, saluting with his crop, and cantering off into the darkness, Mr. Lindsey at his side.

  Ellen sat, her left hand closed over the knuckles of her right, and tried to think whether it was a good thing her flowers had left an impression on Mr. Windham.

  It was a bad thing, she decided, for Mr. Windham was a scamp, and a scamp as a neighbor was trouble enough, particularly when she liked him, and his every touch and glance had her insides in a compete muddle. And while he might recall her flowers, she recalled quite clearly their one, very thorough and far beyond neighborly kiss.

  ***

  “You are going to trifle with the widow,” Darius predicted as the horses ambled through the moonlight toward Little Weldon. The night was pleasant, the worst heat of the day fading to a soft, summery warmth made fragrant by mown hay and wild flowers.

  “She is a widow,” Val said, “but I don’t think she’s that kind of widow.”

  “What kind of widow would that be?”

  Val ignored the question, more intent on a sweet recollection. “I was out here last spring on an errand for David Worthington, supposedly looking at rural properties that might be for sale. I accompanied Vicar Banks on a courtesy call to what I thought was an elderly widow who’d missed the previous week’s services. I saw a floppy straw hat, an untidy cinnamon-colored braid, and bare feet before I saw anything else of her. I concluded she was an old dear becoming vague, as they say.”

  “Vague does not apply to Mrs. FitzEngle. Just the opposite.”

  “Not vague,” Val agreed, He’d kissed the woman before taking his leave of her on that long-ago afternoon, an impulse—a sweet, stolen moment with a woman whose every feature left a man with a sense of warmth. She had warm brown eyes, a warm sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and hair a warm shade exactly midway between auburn and blond—cinnamon came to mind rather than chestnut. “She isn’t dreamy or given to flights but there is something…”

  “Yes?”

  “Unconventional,” Val said, though that term wasn’t quite right either. Her hands on his body would be warm too, though how he knew this, he could not say. “Ellen could be considered eccentric, but I prefer to think of her as… unique.”

  Darius said nothing, finding it sufficiently unique that Valentine Windham, son of a duke, wealthy merchant, virtuoso pianist, and favorite of the ladies, would think of Mrs. FitzEngle as Ellen.

  ***

  Val peered over the soffit as several slate tiles slid down from the roof on the newly constructed slide and bumped safely against the cloth padding the bottom of the chute.

  “It w
orks,” he said, grinning over at Darius, the only other occupant of the house’s roof.

  “Of course it works.” Darius sat back on his heels, using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I designed it. I don’t recall you ordering another entire wagonload of goods from town.”

  Val followed Darius’s gaze down to the yard, where a farm wagon pulled by two exceptionally sturdy horses came to a halt before the house. A handsome black saddle horse was tethered behind, not one Val recognized. Val and Darius both availed themselves of the slide to get from roof to yard, causing the lead horses’ ears to flick and the occupants of the wagon to start whooping with glee.

  “Settle down, you two,” barked the driver. “Lord Valentine will think he’s set upon by savages.” The man hopped down, along with the two lanky adolescents who’d been so enthusiastically cheering the sight of grown men sliding to the ground.

  “Axel Belmont at your service.” The driver grinned, swiped back his blond hair with one hand, and stuck out the other. “Though you might not think so when I warn you my sons Dayton and Phillip have invaded your undefended borders with me.”

  Val extended a hand, recognizing the tall blond fellow from his friend Nick’s wedding to Darius’s sister Leah just a few weeks past.

  “Good to see you, Professor,” Val said, “and may I make known to you the Honorable Darius Lindsey, late of the roof, but whom you might have met at Leah and Nick’s wedding. How fares your dear wife?”

  Belmont’s smile softened. “She’s much better, particularly now that I’ve taken the heathen off the property. Nick wrote that you were working on a project not an hour’s drive from Candlewick, and I have come to inspect progress.”

  “We’re still very much in the planning stages,” Val said, though this further evidence of Nick Haddonfield’s friendly meddling was mentally noted. “We’re also glad for some company. Darius fears we’re going to be kidnapped by elves.”

  “Boys!” Belmont’s offspring stopped in midpelt toward the house. “Get this wagon unloaded, and mind you put the contents in the carriage bay where they’ll stay dry. The first son of mine on that roof without Lord Valentine’s permission gets his backside walloped and has to learn how to tat lace.”

  Loud groans, followed by reluctant grins, saw the boys reversing direction and heading for the wagon at a decorous pace.

  “Spare them no sympathy,” Belmont warned. “Not by word, deed, or expression. Abby is teaching them how to charm, and between that and their natural guile, they are shamelessly manipulative.”

  “They’re also at an age where they can eat entire horses, tack, and all,” Val mused. “But run all day, as well.”

  “In the opposite direction of their parents, unless it’s meal time,” Belmont said, eyeing the house again.

  “Come along, Professor. I’ll give you the tour. Dare, you want to come?”

  Darius shuddered dramatically. “I’ve had the privilege. I can work on calculations while you lie to your guest about the potential of the place. Mr. Belmont, a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Axel,” the blond corrected him. “Philip and Dayton are underfoot, and formalities are futile. A surrender of all but the barest civilities is the only reasonable course.”

  ***

  “Your gutters don’t work,” Belmont said in patient, magisterial tones, “so the water backs up, sometimes under the eaves. If the squirrels or bats have been busy, that puts water in your walls or attics or both, and water will destroy your house more quickly than wind, snow, or most anything else save fire.”

  “So I must replace all those gutters and spouts,” Val concluded, eyeing the seedlings growing in the gutters.

  “You must subdue your jungle, as well,” Belmont pointed out gently as he ambled along beside Val in the yard. “I went through this same exercise when I married my first wife. Candlewick was in disrepair, and yet it was all we had. You prioritize and try to put each season to its best use. And you work your bloody arse off.”

  “That much I am prepared to do, but other than the roof, what would you prioritize?”

  They meandered the house, the property, and the outbuildings, exchanging ideas, arguing good-naturedly, and tossing suggestions back and forth. By the time they’d finished a complete circuit of house, outbuildings, and immediate grounds, the sun was directly overhead—as near as could be determined through the trees.

  “Now comes the reason you’ll be glad we crashed your gate,” Belmont said. “Get Mr. Lindsey to set aside his figuring, or the locusts will not leave him any lunch.” Belmont retrieved a very large wicker hamper from the back of the wagon and bellowed for his offspring to wash their filthy paws if they wanted even a crust of bread. A picnic fit for a regiment was soon laid out on a blanket spread in the shade.

  “Compliments of my wife,” Belmont said, “in exchange for getting her menfolk out from underfoot for a few hours.”

  “Lunch!” Dayton and Phillip gamboled up, every bit as energetic as they’d been hours earlier.

  “One of their nine favorite meals of the day. Sit down, you lot, and wait for your elders to snatch a few crumbs before you destroy all in your path.”

  As food was passed around among the adults, Belmont continued speaking. “Day and Phil concocted a plan for Phillip to start school a year early so all five Belmont cousins could have one year at university together. Abby was enthusiastic about it, since it will give us a little time at Candlewick before the baby arrives and all hell breaks loose once again.”

  “I didn’t realize you were in anticipation of a happy event.” Val smiled genially, but ye gods… Val’s sister-in-law Anna had just been delivered of a son, while the wife of his other brother, Devlin, was expecting. David and Letty were still adjusting to the arrival of a daughter. Nick’s wife would no doubt soon be in a similar condition, and it seemed as if all in Val’s world could be measured by the birth—imminent or recent—of a child.

  “I find the prospect of parenthood…”—Belmont’s expression became pensive—“sweet, an unexpected opportunity to revisit a previous responsibility I took too much for granted.”

  “He didn’t appreciate us,” Day translated solemnly then ruined the effect by meeting his brother’s gaze and bursting into guffaws.

  “I did.” Belmont corrected them easily. “But as a very young father might. I am an old hand now and will go about the job differently.”

  Val rummaged in the hamper, finding the topic unaccountably unsettling. “I put you at, what? Less than five years my senior?”

  “We’re surrounded by duffers, Day.” Phil rolled his eyes dramatically. “The only saving grace is they’ve no teeth and can’t do justice to the meat.”

  “You two.” Belmont scowled at his sons. “No dessert if you don’t make some pretense of domestication immediately.”

  “Not that.” Day rolled to his back, letting his arms and legs twitch in the air. “Phil, he uttered the Worst Curse, and we’ve hardly done anything yet.”

  “May I finish your sandwich?” Phillip reached for his brother’s uneaten portion.

  “Touch it”—Day sat up immediately—“and it’s pistols, swords, or bare-knuckle rules.”

  Darius accepted the pie Val withdrew from the hamper. “And to think, Valentine,” Darius drawled, “your mother raised five of these, what are they? Boys?”

  “Demons,” Belmont muttered. “Spawn of Satan, imps from hell.”

  “Beloved offspring,” Dayton and Phillip chorused together.

  “Hush,” Belmont reproved. “I haven’t sprung Nick’s plan on Lord Val yet, so you’ve made a complete hash of my strategy.”

  “Oops.” Dayton glanced at Phillip. “Let’s go check on the horses, Phil. You swear you’ll let us have a piece of pie?” He drilled his father with a very adult look.

  “Honor of a Belmont. Now scat.”

 
; They went at a run that nonetheless included elbows shoved into ribs and laughter tossed into the building heat. The sense of silence and stillness left in their wake was slightly disorienting.

  “And you’ve another on the way,” Val reminded him. “I suppose you want to leave your beloved offspring with me for a bit?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “He’s canny like that,” Darius said, munching on a chicken leg. “And desperately in need of free labor.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.” Belmont examined his hands while he spoke. “They will eat every bit as much as you would spend to hire such as them, but they do work hard, and Nick thought you might not mind some company.”

  “Nick.” Val heaved a sigh. “He sent poor Lindsey here to be my duenna. He ought to be too busy with his new wife to meddle like this.”

  Val understood Axel Belmont was being polite, offering a way for Val to accept help—and dear Nicholas’s spies in his camp—without losing face. Well… there were worse things than taking on a pair of adolescent brothers.

  “I will be pleased to have the company of your sons,” Val said, opening his eyes and sitting up, “but we’d better cut that pie before they come charging back here, arguing over how to cut the thing in five exactly equal pieces.”

  “Better make that six,” Darius murmured as his gaze went to the path through the woods.

  “Six is easy,” Val replied, but then he followed Darius’s line of vision to see Ellen FitzEngle emerging from the trees. “Six is the easiest thing in world,” he concluded, helpless to prevent a smile from spreading across his face.

  ***

  Ellen was wearing one of her comfortable old dresses and a straw hat. She was also wearing shoes, which Val found mildly disappointing. Since the day he’d first met her—barefoot, a floppy hat on her abundant, chestnut hair—he’d pictured her that way in his imagination. And though she was shod, today her hair was again down, confined in a single thick braid.