* * *
Hunt told Fergus to stay and left the spaniel sitting beside Hatchard’s doorstep. Fergus’s plumed tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the pavement and, confident the dog would be there when he came out, Hunt strolled into the shop and breathed in the delight of leather bindings, ink and paper. One of the few things he missed about London when he was in the country was her bookshops, this one in particular. John Hatchard had only opened his business a few years earlier, but it had quickly become one of Hunt’s favourites.
The dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’
Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’
The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’
‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.
Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’
Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.
‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.
Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’
Hunt strolled on through the shop, pausing to look at this book and that, making his way towards the subscription room. He didn’t know any of the other customers; late October was a little soon for most of the ton to return to London. He planned to head out to his house near Isleworth in a few days himself, rather than stay in town the whole time, but there were matters to discuss with his man of business and solicitors if he were to marry again.
He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Paradise Lost was far more enticing than marrying merely because male branches on his family tree were in distressingly short supply.
He stopped on the threshold of the subscription room and quelled his unreasonable annoyance at finding it occupied. A grey-clad woman and two children had claimed a large leather chair, the small girl snuggled in the woman’s lap and the older boy—was he ten, eleven?—perched on one arm, kicking at the side of the chair. A governess and her charges, he supposed. The boy glanced up at Hunt, subjecting him to an unabashed stare from dark blue eyes.
Slightly taken aback, Hunt inclined his head gravely. ‘Good morning.’ A pang went through him. Simon had had just that direct, confident gaze.
The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. Um, good morning, sir.’
The woman looked up sharply from the book she and the little girl were examining and Hunt forgot the boy. Deep blue eyes, very like the boy’s, met his. His breath caught and he tensed, staring, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.
Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.
‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’
At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.
‘I don’t mind.’
Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.
‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’
‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.
‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’
‘I’m not a—!’
‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’
Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.
‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’
‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’
A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’
‘Harry—’
‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’
‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’
‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’
‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’
‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’
‘Right.’
At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.
‘Mama?’
‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’
That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.
‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’
It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.
‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with tawny curls and for a shattering moment he saw another small girl furious with an older brother.
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The boy was stiff with embarrassment.
Hunt regarded the flushed pair and nodded. ‘Accepted. But—’ holding the boy’s gaze and keeping his face stern, he pointed to their mother’s rigid back as she replaced the books ‘—no gentleman behaves badly to his mother.’
The boy bit his lip, but set his shoulders and went to his mother.
‘Mama? I’m sorry I was so rude. Please let Georgie have the fairy tales at least. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have teased her.’
The mother
turned and Hunt saw bone-deep weariness in her face. And something else he recognised: love, unshakeable love for the child. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘I... I can go without pudding, too.’
Her smile looked like it might turn upside down and Hunt was sharply aware of a longing to do something about that, to lift whatever burdens weighed her down. ‘I do have to fill you up with something. I’d rather you chose a book for yourself and promised to read it.’
‘Yes, Mama. I really am sorry.’
She ruffled his hair, and gave a smile that made Hunt’s heart ache. ‘I know. Go on. Choose your book.’
‘Perhaps I might help there?’ The offer was out before Hunt even knew it was there.
The mother stiffened. He saw it in the set of her slender shoulders, in the firm line of her mouth and his memory nudged harder, trying to get out.
‘That’s very kind, sir, but quite unnecessary.’
Hunt gave up racking his brains. ‘This is most embarrassing, but I cannot recall your name, ma’am. We have met, have we not? I’m Huntercombe, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m surprised you remember me, sir. It was years ago. Thank you for accepting their apology.’
He smiled. ‘I think you were more bothered by them than I. Don’t give it another thought.’ So he did know her. Although from her clothes it was clear she did not move in society, nor was she eager to recall herself to him. She had avoided giving her name. Perhaps she had once been a governess. He would not have noticed a governess, but she might have remembered him if her charges had known his own children. He should not pry, but something about those expressive dark eyes held him, despite her obvious reluctance.
The little girl, Georgie, came and slid her hand into her mother’s. ‘Were you a friend of Papa’s, sir?’
He smiled at her. ‘We are not quite sure. Your mama and I were—’
‘He was Lord Peter Lacy,’ the child said. ‘I’m Georgiana Mary and that’s Harry.’
‘Georgie, sweetheart.’ Her mother took down the fairy tales again and handed them to her. ‘Take your book and sit down with it.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Lord Peter Lacy. He was a younger son of the Duke of Keswick. Hunt wasn’t quite sure which younger son; Keswick and his Duchess had been nothing if not prolific, although a couple of their sons had recently died. But Lord Peter had married in the teeth of his father’s disapproval and dropped out of society. He remembered hearing something, but he had been mired in grief at the time and hadn’t taken much notice. Just who had he married...? His memory finally obliged.
‘Lady Emma Lacy,’ he said. ‘Of course. Dersingham’s daughter.’ It vaguely came back. Lady Emma Brandon-Smythe she had been. Dersingham had been furious, too. Granted, the match had not been a brilliant one for either party, but perfectly respectable. Keswick and the Earl of Dersingham had only objected due to their mutual loathing of each other. There had been whispers of star-crossed lovers.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s well? I’ve not seen him since the spring sitting.’ Not that he’d tried. He didn’t like the Earl above half.
‘I believe so, sir.’ The polite smile did not so much as touch the weariness in her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me, I must finish choosing our books.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Hunt stepped back with a bow. The child, Georgie, had referred to her father in the past tense and, given that Lady Emma was garbed in grey, it followed that... He took a deep breath and took a wild leap into the unknown.
‘I was very sorry to hear of Lord Peter’s death, Lady Emma.’ Lord Peter had been at least ten years younger than himself and he’d dropped out of society completely after his marriage. Hunt hadn’t even heard that he’d died, but he’d been a decent sort, with little of Keswick’s arrogance.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The unmistakeable shadow in her eyes was familiar. He’d seen it in his own mirror for long enough.
‘Mama?’
Hunt glanced down at the boy.
He brandished three volumes. ‘I’ve got this.’
Hunt nearly choked at the sight of this. ‘Hmm. Rather dull, I thought it,’ he said, dismissing all the wild extravagances of The Monk. Matt Lewis might cut him dead if it got back to him, but then again, he doubted even Lewis would consider his tale, in which a monk unwittingly raped and murdered his own sister, appropriate for a ten-year-old.
‘Dull?’ Harry’s face fell.
‘Yes. Beyond tedious.’ Gently he removed the volumes from the boy’s grasp. ‘But I can recommend Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Very exciting. You’ll like the talking horses.’
‘Talking horses? Thank you, sir.’ He looked at his mother. ‘I’ll get that then.’
‘You do that.’ Lady Emma’s voice sounded a trifle strained. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she added very quietly, laughter quivering beneath the surface, as the boy headed back to the shelves. ‘I wouldn’t have let him read it, but—’
‘Perhaps it was more palatable coming from me?’ he suggested. Lord, she was pretty when her eyes danced like that. Like the sea near his Cornish home. A man could drown in eyes like that...
Her mouth twitched. ‘Probably. Not that I would have been fool enough to tell him he wasn’t allowed to read it, but I’ve no idea how I would have wriggled out of that.’
He cleared his throat, uneasy at the sudden camaraderie between them. ‘Well,’ he said stiffly, ‘it cannot be easy for a woman to control a headstrong boy. Ought he not to be at school? Surely Keswick has something to say in that?’
The drowning blue froze to solid ice. ‘That, sir, is none—’
‘Excuse me, my lord?’ Hatchard stood in the doorway. ‘I have the Milton ready for you. Oh, good morning, Lady Emma.’
‘Good morning, Mr Hatchard.’ Along with her eyes, Lady Emma’s voice had iced over, the dancing amusement winked out as though it had never been.
A reserved, sober matron faced Hunt, nose in the air. ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
It was a dismissal worthy of a duchess. ‘Ma’am.’ He took her gloved hand. It fitted perfectly within his and, standing this close, he was teased by the warm fragrance of woman, despite the fury seething in her eyes. No scent, just soap and something that was Lady Emma.
‘Au revoir.’ Goodbye was a great deal too final. The French said it much better.
Copyright © 2017 by Elizabeth Rolls
ISBN-13: 9781488086427
The Prairie Doctor’s Bride
Copyright © 2017 by Kathryn Leigh Albright
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