Cut from the Same Cloth: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 3)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  He presented her to his aunt and uncle, who bowed and curtseyed as if she were the mistress come to look over the servants. Elizabeth felt horribly awkward and couldn’t think of what she might say to put them at ease.

  Valen frowned.

  “I’ll see to your horse, shall I?” Farmer Thomas escaped the awkward moment by taking Hercules by the halter and pulling him toward a barn.

  Meagan adjusted her apron and nudged Valen. “Bless me, but it is good to see you again. Have you had your breakfast? Why, of course you haven’t. Come in. Come in. It’s just porridge and eggs, but it fills the empty places. Why, look at that—” She pointed her spoon at Elizabeth’s naked feet. “Valen, you’ll have to carry her across the yard.”

  She waved the towel at the red-and-white feathered troop gathering behind her. “These chickens have been running loose all spring. Wouldn’t want smush ending up between her toes, now, would we? Come along. Pater has just sat down to bless the food.”

  Meagan shook her magic spoon toward the hedge. “Davy, my boy, that means you too. We won’t be waiting on you any longer. That cat can fend for itself.”

  “Yes, mum.” The brown-haired lad who had first alerted everyone to their presence ducked his head from behind the rose bushes. Meagan prodded him toward the door with the spoon.

  Valen turned to Elizabeth. “Well, Miss Shoeless, I have been ordered to carry you past the chickens.”

  “I should think you would be heartily sick of lugging me around like a sack of potatoes.”

  “Always willing to be of service, my lady.” He bowed, making a flourish of it, giving her an overdone show of obsequiousness.

  She frowned at him. “Stop.”

  “I thought you enjoyed that sort of thing.” He reached for her as if he intended to do precisely as she had said and sling her over his shoulder like a bag of vegetables.

  Elizabeth held up her hand and backed up, checking where she stepped. “If you will simply lend me your support and avert your eyes, I would prefer to put on my shoes and stockings.”

  “You may dress in peace, my lady.” He inclined his head. “Your ankles are safe from my roaming eyes.”

  His sarcastic disinterest disappointed Elizabeth. He might, at least, have the decency to try and peek. To this end, she intentionally extended her leg out further than necessary while pulling on her stocking. She peeked sideways up at him to see if he’d noticed and grimaced when she spied his arched brow. It wasn’t arched as if he were pleasantly surprised. No. Not he. He wore a condemning sneer.

  “Tsk tsk, Izzie, machinating again? Another ploy like that, my dear, and I will let go of you. In which case, you will have a choice of falling against that thorny rose bush or onto this path littered with fresh chicken excrement.”

  “I most certainly am not machinating.”

  “You were.”

  “You wouldn’t let me fall, surely.” She had no doubt he would drop her. The roses sported some savage looking thorns, and the excrement held very little appeal. Elizabeth bent to her task with more diligence. “Wretch,” she mumbled.

  “Merely being practical. I would not want to fall prey to the shapeliness of your ankle. I’ve heard men rhapsodize about the fatality of such things. The Medusa effect and all.”

  “I sincerely doubt you are capable of falling prey to anyone, my lord,” she muttered as they walked into the house. “Not even Medusa.” After all, Medusa could hardly turn him into stone. He already appeared to be made of the stuff.

  Valen led her to a low-ceilinged room with heavy beams. There were so many bundles of herbs tacked up on the beams for drying that Elizabeth had to dodge them as she entered the dining room. At the head of a long worn board table sat a willowy gentleman with snowy-white hair. He stood, stooping to avoid wearing a face full of drying blackberry leaves.

  “My grandfather, Benjamin Whitley, Steward of Ransley Keep.” Valen’s voice was proud and held a note of awe.

  Elizabeth could see why. The older man’s wizened expression made her think he could see straight into her soul. She swallowed.

  Meagan directed Elizabeth to a seat next to a gangly young man of about five and ten years who blushed when she sat down. Valen took his place beside his grandfather. He and Valen exchanged knowing looks, understanding running thick as honey between them.

  Five children and as many adults gathered around the table, and between them all they devoured a huge pot of porridge, a crockery bowl full of eggs, a pan of stewed pears, and two pitchers of fresh milk. They were assisted by one sneaky kitten, who roamed among the children inducing them to spill a small portion of their milk. This the children willingly did every time Meagan turned her back.

  After Thomas excused himself to tend to chores and took most of the boys with him, Meagan hefted an empty pitcher and turned to her youngest. “David Whitley, you’ve been feeding that cat again, haven’t you?” He nodded remorsefully, grinned, and scampered off before he could receive a proper scold. Elizabeth laughed and asked how she might help clean up.

  “Oh no, couldn’t do that,” Meagan protested. “Wouldn’t be right. You’re our guest and a lady.”

  “I daresay I’m an intruder you were gracious enough to feed. However, I will strike you a bargain. She lifted a handful of the red clover heads from her pocket. Perhaps if I help you in the kitchen, you would be willing to tell me the best way to dry these so I might make a tea for Lord Ransley.”

  “He’s worse then, is he?” Meagan sighed as she carried an armful of plates and bowls to the kitchen. Elizabeth and one of the girls followed suit.

  Meagan wiped her hand on a towel she kept tucked into her skirt. “Pater visits him once a week now that he’s been reinstated as steward. He mentioned as how Lord Ransley’s lungs were failing, but men don’t pay heed to the details. It’s bad then, is it?”

  “He does not appear well at all. Labors to speak. His skin is pale and...” Elizabeth reported softly, hoping Valen did not hear. But even as he spoke to his grandfather in the other room, he watched her. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There is some blood when he coughs. Surely, there are some herbs that might ease his condition? I found an old book of remedies in our attic at home. Unfortunately I don’t have it with me. And I’m uncertain which ones—”

  “Come.” Meagan beckoned. “My daughter will tend to these.” She nodded her thanks to the girl. “Come with me to the garden.”

  Meagan’s garden stretched along the entire length of the back of the cottage. There were flowers everywhere, hollyhocks and raspberries in bloom, new vegetable growth in neatly tended rows, and patches of medicinal herbs scattered among the blossoms.

  “You’ll want mallow, grows by the pond.” Meagan led her around a little stone path that weaved in and among all the plants. “I’ve got a firkin of dried cherry bark inside. You can brew some of that in a tea for his cough and add licorice to calm the spasms. You were right about the clover, but be cautious. If it doesn’t soothe him straight off, take it away. Try the roots of this after they’re dried. Grind them and make powder.” She handed Elizabeth an odd-looking plant with stringy leaves and gray roots. “Has Valentine told you about his mother yet?”

  The non sequitur surprised Elizabeth. They stood among the giant round blossoms of allium and garlic, facing each other. Meagan was a plain, guileless woman with steady strong bones and a countenance that would not allow her to dissemble should she attempt it for a hundred years. And she expected an answer.

  “No. Only that his father fell in love. And the previous Lord Ransley made things difficult.”

  Meagan nodded. “Aye, that he did. Made them both suffer for it. Then when Valentine was born... well, more’s the pity, I think he paid the highest price of all. It’s not my place to say more. I’m sure he’ll tell you more in good time. But, oh, I wish you could have known his mother.”

  Meagan glanced away, as if seeing faces from another era. “She was not more than twelve when I married Thomas and came to live
here. A rare one, she was. Bright and lively as a spring lamb. So in love with young Ransley. It’s no wonder they ran off to Gretna Green.” She slapped her hands against her thighs. “There now, I’ve said too much.”

  Meg bent and pulled up an allium. “Here’s garlic. Make a paste with butter and spread it on his toast. Strengthens the blood.”

  Valen stood at the window beside his grandfather.

  Pater slapped him on the shoulder. “She’s a fine-looking woman.”

  “Too haughty by half.” He watched Meagan stack a bouquet of garlic into Elizabeth’s arms. The long stalks had white flowers that brushed against Izzie’s chin. She tried to adjust the plants but only succeeded in shifting the blossoms so they brushed against her nose. She sneezed.

  “Doesn’t look haughty at the moment,” his grandfather observed.

  “No, but put her in a ballroom and she has enough arrogance to float an armada.”

  “And, of course, you have none.”

  He frowned. “I am not arrogant.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Valen could tell by the crinkled corner of Pater’s mouth that he believed he was.

  “You know perfectly well that I despise arrogance. And you know the reason why.”

  “Yes.” Pater nodded. “You hate it so much that you run the risk of being proud about not being proud.”

  “You’re speaking in circles.” Valen shrugged and turned back to the window. Elizabeth had dropped her load and was bent over picking up garlic and a host of other green things.

  “Is that what they taught you at college?” His grandfather chuckled. “Avoid the truth by arguing about the form of the argument.”

  Izzie swatted at some flying insect and danced sideways to avoid its counterattack.

  “Could be, you don’t see her correctly.” Pater chuckled at her antics. “The woman heats your blood. I can see it in your eyes.”

  He had never discussed such things with his grandfather. Everything else under the sun, but not this. Valen shifted uncomfortably. “There are far more important things than hot blood.”

  Pater sighed deeply. “Undoubtedly. But I wonder, Valen, is a man’s fire kindled before, or after, he observes the character traits of a woman?”

  Her traits. Oh yes, aside from the haughtiness, she was headstrong, devious, and had a viperous tongue. Exactly when did he first develop this irritating attraction to Lady Elizabeth? He couldn’t recall. All too soon in their acquaintance. It certainly wasn’t owing to her fine character.

  His grandfather paused, giving him time to answer, but when Valen failed to respond, he argued on without him. “It could be your body is telling you something your mind is hardened against hearing. Have you considered that?”

  “An unorthodox notion, Pater.” Valen folded his arms across his chest and broadened his stance. “Unfortunately it’s flawed. My stallion heats up over any eligible mare within a ten-mile radius, regardless of her characteristics. I daresay even if it were a broken-down donkey he would be quite content to roger her.”

  “And you, Valen? Are you like your stallion? Do you heat up over every female within a ten-mile radius?” His grandfather turned on him—spearing Valen’s defenses with that knowing stare that always pierced him to the marrow. “There are some unscrupulous men who do, but I cannot for one minute believe you are one of them.”

  Valen took a long, deep breath and turned back to the window to watch Lady Elizabeth Hampton, the daughter of an earl, walk side by side through the garden with Meg, the daughter of a Harwich fisherman.

  Chapter 17

  Unraveling a Tightly Knit Paradox

  THE SUN PASSED its zenith before they set out on Hercules, riding back to Ransley Keep. She sat silent, clutching a bag of herbs, and he held her across his saddle with a hand on her belly and an ache in regions he did not wish to acknowledge. His grandfather’s words kept marching in circles in his head. Was his randy body telling him something his mind simply refused to hear? Devil take it! He would prove it wasn’t so.

  “So, now you know.” The declaration burst out of him like a challenge.

  She tilted her head, tickling his chin with flighty strands of silky black hair. “What is it I know?”

  “My birthright. Half blood.” He spat it out in curt, businesslike snippets. “Father an aristocrat. Mother a commoner.”

  “I don’t see that it is of much consequence. Your father is a nobleman. That makes you a nobleman.” She shifted the bag of herbs, holding it a little tighter. “Does it trouble you?”

  “Only the noble half.”

  She turned to look up at him. “You would rather—”

  “I’d trade with Thomas in a trice.” He averted his eyes from her face. He would not look at that mouth of hers, wouldn’t allow his gaze to linger on the inviting curve of her cheek, refused to meet her disturbingly blue eyes.

  “Oh.” She turned away, fiddling with the drawstrings on the burlap bag. “Well, I can see why. They’re very happy.”

  “That’s not the reason.” He practically growled it. “I detest the Ransley blood. The sixth Lord of Ransley—” he struggled to bite back his rising fury. “—was an arrogant prig. And my father was too weak to stand up to him.”

  “And yet he had the courage to marry your mother, against his formidable father’s wishes.”

  “Apparently that was as far as his courage extended. He stood by, allowing my mother to be belittled so severely that she left the manor and went home to live with Pater and my uncle. They all believed the old man would soften after I was born. To the contrary, he fought even harder to have the marriage annulled and declare me a bastard—my common blood insulted the Ransley name. I wish he’d succeeded. On that one point, my father prevailed. But the old goat kept them apart. My mother died a year before my noble grandfather went on to his eternal reward.” Valen skipped a small stone down the creek.

  “And because of this one man you would deny your heritage? Your birthright?”

  “Heritage? Birthright? Spoken like a true aristocrat.” There! He’d proven Pater wrong. Aristocracy was more important to her than the misery it had wrought on his mother and father. His triumph fell oddly flat, like discovering the rose does, indeed, have razor-sharp thorns. He’d expected it. Nevertheless, it still stung.

  He decided she needed a proper lecture. “The whole notion of nobility is absurd. What makes any man more noble than another? The accident of his birth? The world would have been better off had the Sixth Lord of Ransley been born a swineherd. Even then, I suspect he would have made the pigs miserable. If he ever nurtured a noble impulse in his entire life, it is news to me. Whereas, Pater—”

  “I grasp your point.” She answered dully.

  And she did. All too well. Elizabeth understood with perfect clarity why Valen disliked her so thoroughly. She stood no chance of winning his admiration because of the accident of her birth. She clasped the herb bag firmly in her lap, absently squeezing at one of the garlic bulbs until she felt the pressure nearly burst the cloves apart.

  “Well, at least, now, I comprehend Miss Dunworthy’s appeal.” Her remark tripped out sounding horridly spiteful. But Elizabeth couldn’t stop her runaway tongue. “The dear girl is possessed of both money and a common birth. You must be in high alt.” As soon as she said it she wished she could bite back the hasty words—they stunk of sour grapes. But what did it matter? His high-and-mighty lordship preferred mushrooms to ladies of quality. He left her no fair ground on which to compete.

  “Exactly,” he said with such consummate arrogance she dearly wished to slap him. “You’ve proven my point. You think you are better than Miss Dunworthy simply because she hasn’t a pedigree that compares to yours.”

  “Kindly set me down here, my lord.” Elizabeth emphasized the ‘my lord’ and pointed emphatically at the ground below them.

  Rather than complying, he tightened his hold around her middle.

  Insolent man. “I should prefer to walk.”


  “I think not.”

  She simmered for a moment before thinking of the perfect rejoinder. “Pray, tell me this, Lord St. Evert. When your son is born, will you despise him because he is a nobleman?”

  Valen stiffened. A son? The image of an infant, his son, shot into his mind, nearly knocking him off his horse. He tried to shake it away. She ought not speak of babes when he had his hand on her abdomen and a very informative view of her breasts every time he glanced down. All too easy to imagine her swollen with his child. The ache in his witless body mounted unbearably.

  He must be one of those men Pater mentioned—as randy as his unprincipled stallion. He ought to do as she asked and set her down right here, right now, in the middle of this field, ride away and not look back. She was precisely the sort of female he wished to avoid.

  “And I suppose lisping little Miss Devious Dunworthy will make the perfect mother for your children?”

  Dear God, no. He nearly choked on the idea.

  She shuddered in his arms. Apparently the thought appalled her as much as it did him.

  He hadn’t thought about sons. His sons. How dare she make him think about such things? She was worse than Pater.

  Still she prattled on at him. “...a perfectly respectful request. The least you could do, as a gentleman, is honor it and put me down this instant. I have no wish to travel further with you in the intimate confines of this horse—”

  “Intimate confines?” he laughed. “We’re on horseback in the middle of the open countryside. There are any number of shepherds acting as chaperone. Not to mention Aunt Honore is probably in one of the upstairs windows this very minute with a spyglass trained on us. Hardly intimate.”

  She glanced nervously in the direction of the manor. “Be that as it may, you have expressed such a strong aversion to my character that rather than annoy you with my presence, I would prefer you set me down.”