“I can offer you tea, and bread and butter, but then surely we’ll be on our way. I’m Kirsten Haddonfield, Mr. Banks, and we can ride to Belle Maison together.”
Haddonfield was the family name that went with the Bellefonte title.
“You’re a relative to the earl, then?”
She wore a plain, dark blue wool dress, high necked, such as a farmer’s wife would wear this time of year. Not even a cousin to an earl would attire herself thus unless she suffered excesses of pragmatism.
“I am one of the earl’s younger sisters, and you’re half-frozen. I hope those aren’t your good boots, for you’ve ruined them.”
“They’re my only boots.”
Swooping blond brows drew together over a nose no one would call dainty, and yet Lady Kirsten Haddonfield was a pretty woman. She had good facial bones, a definite chin, a clean jaw, and blue eyes that assured Daniel she did not suffer fools—lest her tone leave any doubt on that score.
Daniel was a fool—witness the ease with which the yeoman at the inn had bamboozled him. Witness the ease with which his own wife had bamboozled him.
“At least sit for a moment before the fire,” the lady said, arranging his scarf and gloves on pegs above the hearth. “Did you lose your way because of the weather?”
Daniel had lost his way months ago. “The weather played a role. Are you here alone, my lady?”
She folded her arms across a bosom even a man of the cloth acknowledged as a fine bit of work on the Creator’s part.
“I am on my family’s property, Mr. Banks, and they well know where I am. The weather is not only foul; it’s dangerous. If you must prance out the door to die for the sake of manners, I’ll not stop you. The groom or one of my brothers should be here any minute to fetch me home. We’ll note into which ditch your remains have fallen as we pass you by.”
The fire was lovely. Her ferocity, though arguably unchristian, warmed Daniel in an entirely different way. Nowhere did the Bible say a Good Samaritan must be excessively burdened with charm.
“You aren’t much given to polite dissembling, are you, my lady?” For an earl’s daughter was a lady from the moment of her birth.
She marched over to the sideboard and commenced sawing at a loaf of bread. “I’m not given to any kind of dissembling. You should sit.”
“If I sit, I might never rise. I’ve journeyed from Oxfordshire, and the storm seems to have followed me every mile.”
“Why not tarry in London and wait out the weather?”
“I am here to fill the Haddondale pulpit,” Daniel said, moving closer to the fire. A copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman lay open facedown on the mantel. “I was given to understand filling the position was a matter of some urgency.”
Her ladyship swiped a silver knife through a pat of butter and paused before applying the butter to the bread.
“You’re the new vicar?”
The cold had made Daniel daft. “Do I have horns or cloven feet to disqualify me from a religious calling, my lady?”
She slapped the butter onto the bread, her movements confident.
“You have gorgeous brown eyes, a lovely nose—though it’s a bit red at the moment—and a smile that suggests you might get up to tricks, Mr. Banks. You could also use a trim of that brown hair. Ministers aren’t supposed to look dashing. I have two younger sisters who will suffer paroxysms of religious conviction if you’re to lead the flock.”
Feeling was returning to his feet, and hunger writhed to life along with it. Lady Kirsten passed him the bread without benefit of a plate.
“It’s not quite fresh, the bread, that is. The butter was made this morning. I’ll fix you some tea.”
Daniel took a small bite, then realized he’d forgotten to send grateful sentiments heavenward before he’d done so. I’m grateful for this bread—also for the company.
“Your tea, Mr. Banks. Drink up, for I hear sleigh bells.”
Daniel downed the hot tea in one glorious go, the sweetness and substance of it fortifying him, much as Lady Kirsten’s forthright manner had.
“Let me do the explaining,” she said, passing him warmed gloves when he’d bolted his bread and butter. “The sleigh will afford us hot bricks and lap robes, but once we get to Belle Maison, we’ll hear nothing but questions. Nicholas is protective, and my sisters are infernally curious.”
Lady Kirsten had been gracious to him, and Daniel wanted to give her something in return for her hospitality. Something real, not mere manners.
An impoverished vicar had little to give besides truth.
“I’m not lost,” he said. “I was misdirected by some fellows at the inn. I asked for the way to Belle Maison, and they sent me here. I did not confuse their directions, either, because I made them repeat their words twice.”
He’d been taken for a fool, in other words. Again.
“The joke is on them, isn’t it?” Lady Kirsten said, blowing out the last candle and plunging the cottage into deep gloom. “They might have entertained an angel unaware, and instead they’ll have a very uncomfortable moment when it’s their turn to shake the new vicar’s hand. I will enjoy watching that. My sisters will too.”
* * *
You’re not George.
Had a woman ever uttered a stupider observation? Kirsten put aside her self-disgust long enough to arrange the lap robe over her knees. Mr. Banks was on her right, Alfrydd, the head lad, on her left, at the reins.
A great deal more warmth was to be had on her right.
They reached Belle Maison in what felt like moments, before Kirsten could mentally rehearse the version of events she’d offer to her siblings. Not lies. She never bothered lying to them, though they doubtless often wished she would.
“Come along, Mr. Banks. Alfrydd will spoil your horse rotten, and very likely the countess will do the same with you.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” Mr. Banks said, untying his shaggy, black beast from behind the sleigh. Ice beaded the horse’s mane and tail, and balls of snow clung to its fetlocks. “Beelzebub has seen me through much this day. I can at least unsaddle him.”
A parson who named his horse Beelzebub?
“I’ll help,” she said, “but you need not fear your reception with the earl. Unless you hurl thunderbolts from the pulpit and insult women in the street, you’ll be an improvement over your predecessor.”
Mr. Banks led his mount into the dim, relatively cozy stable, the scents of hay and horse bringing their familiar comfort. Kirsten didn’t share her sisters’ love of all things fine and pretty, though Mr. Banks had an air of careworn male elegance.
“If you’ll take the reins, I’ll tend to his saddle,” Mr. Banks suggested.
Kirsten obliged, stroking her glove over a big, horsey, Roman nose. “Why did you name him after an imp?” An imp of Satan.
“He’s blessed with high spirits and a fine sense of humor, though little stops him when he settles to a job.”
“Your owner treasures you,” Kirsten told the horse. The gelding had dark, soft eyes, much like his owner’s, and which were equally fringed in thick lashes. On both man and horse, those eyes had a knowing quality, nothing effeminate or delicate about them.
“I treasure my horse, while Zubbie treasures his fodder,” Mr. Banks said, unfastening the girth and removing the saddle but not the pad beneath it.
Mr. Banks’s words held such affection, Kirsten envied the horse.
“Have you had him long?” she asked, for there was a bond here, such as Nicholas enjoyed with his mare and George with his gelding. Kirsten’s brothers confided in their horses, were comforted by them, and fretted over their horsey ailments as if a child had fallen ill.
Men were sentimental about the oddest things.
“Beelzebub was a gift,” Mr. Banks said, taking the reins from Kirsten and looping them over the horse’s neck. “A parishioner getting on in years foaled him out and saw that Beelzebub would be too big and too energetic for an older couple. He was given
to me when he was a yearling, and we’ve been famous friends ever since.”
Mr. Banks produced a disintegrating lump of sugar from a pocket, and held his hand out to his horse until every evidence of the sugar had been delicately licked away.
He patted the gelding, slid the saddle pad from its back, and led the animal into a loose box boasting a veritable featherbed of straw. The bridle came off, and some sentiments were imparted to the horse as Mr. Banks stroked its muscular neck.
Nicholas doted on his mare the same way, probably in part because he was not permitted to dote on his sisters.
“Alfrydd will see that he’s properly groomed,” Kirsten said, because under no circumstances would she allow Mr. Banks to announce himself. She and the vicar would storm the sibling citadel together.
Susannah would be especially vulnerable to the kindness in Mr. Banks’s eyes, a patient compassion that spoke of woe, sin, and the magnanimity of spirit to accept them both. Della would like the friendliness of those eyes, and Leah, though besotted with Nicholas, was ever one for intelligent conversation.
“He likes the chill taken off his water,” Mr. Banks said, giving the horse another pat, “and he’s a shy lad around the other fellows.”
“Nicholas prides himself on a well-run stable, Mr. Banks. Beelzebub will be fine. He’s nigh three-quarter ton of handsome, equine good health, not a sickly boy on his first night at public school.”
A shadow crossed Mr. Banks’s features, bringing out the weariness a day of winter travel inevitably engendered.
“You heard the lady,” he said, tweaking one big, equine ear. “Be a good lad, or I’ll deal with you severely.” He turned to go and the horse made a halfhearted attempt to nip at his sleeve, which Mr. Banks ignored.
“Biting is dangerous behavior,” Kirsten said as Mr. Banks left the stall and closed the door. “Why didn’t you reprimand him?”
She’d wanted to smack the horse. How dare he mistreat an owner who plainly loved him?
Mr. Banks pulled his gloves out of his pocket and tugged them on. “He wants me to tarry in his stall, and if I turn ’round and spend another minute shaking my finger in his face, he’ll have succeeded, won’t he? You must be cold, my lady. May I escort you to the house?”
He winged an arm. Bits of hay and straw stuck to his sleeve, as well as a quantity of dark horse hairs. Kirsten longed to tarry with him in the barn, to put off the moment when she had to share him with her family.
She was not a mischievous horse, however, free to pursue selfish schemes that had no hope of bearing fruit. She took Mr. Banks’s arm and walked with him out into the gathering darkness.
* * *
“Where the hell could she be?” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, muttered, though his countess knew better than to answer. “I’ve never seen it snow like this so late in the season. Why must Kirsten dash off, playing Marie Antoinette in the wilds of Kent during such rotten weather?”
Outside the library windows, snow came down in pale torrents from the darkening sky. Leah, Countess of Bellefonte, brought her husband a glass of brandy. Nick accepted the glass, then held it to his wife’s lips.
“To take the chill off,” he murmured, though Leah’s offering was doubtless intended to take the edge off his temper—and his worry. Leah obliged by sipping the drink—she was an obliging sort of woman, until she wasn’t—then held the glass for him.
“The nice thing about late storms is they’re soon forgotten, Nicholas. This time next week we’ll be looking for crocuses and checking on the Holland bulbs. When is the new vicar supposed to arrive?”
“I doubt he’ll be in evidence until the snow melts.” Nick set the drink aside. “Lovey, cuddle up. I need the fortification of your kisses.”
How had he managed before his marriage? How had he managed without the constant, generous affection of his spouse? Her patient humoring of his moods? Her wise counsel with both family matters and the problems of the earldom?
“I heard sleigh bells before I joined you here,” Leah said, tucking into her husband’s embrace. “Such a cheerful sound, and you can’t blame Kirsten if she wants a little privacy. Della makes her bow this year, and that has everybody rattled.”
“Lovey, I hate all that folderol—”
Nick’s lament was interrupted by Kirsten barreling into the room. Sisters were constitutionally incapable of knocking, and thus deserved whatever awkwardness they stormed in upon. Nick kissed his wife on the mouth soundly to make that point—again.
“Bellefonte, Countess, we have a visitor.” Kirsten had no need for dramatics in her speech or actions, for tension hummed through her very body. Nick loved her, truly he did, but she was a nocked arrow of emotion and intellect, poised to let fly in unpredictable directions.
“Kirsten, perhaps you’d be good enough to close the door, lest we lose all the heat,” Nick suggested, turning loose of his wife.
Kirsten moved aside, and the fellow behind her came more fully into view.
“Mr. Banks, greetings,” Nick said, extending a hand. “I had thought the storm might delay you.”
“My steed is intrepid,” Banks said, bowing, then accepting Nick’s hand. “I was told the manse in Haddondale was empty.”
“You might have delayed while the weather sorted itself out. It’s not like we’ve been having orgies.” Nick’s observation prompted a snicker from Kirsten. “It’s not like we’d know how to have orgies, rather. Shall you have a drink, Banks?”
Nick knew all about orgies, simply as part of an Oxford education in this enlightened age. Kirsten extended him a bit of sororal mercy and didn’t add that fact to the discussion.
“My feet will not thaw out until Beltane,” Banks said. “A drink would be much appreciated.”
Now would be a fine time for Kirsten to announce that she had to change for dinner or discuss the latest recipe for syllabub with her sisters, but of course, Kirsten took a seat on the very sofa where Nick might have cuddled with his countess.
“Was the journey down from Oxfordshire trying?” Nick asked, passing Banks a healthy tot and topping up his own.
“The weather didn’t help, but traveling always gives a man time to think. Has the former pastor been absent long?”
Not long enough. “Less than a month,” Nick said, and because the Earls of Bellefonte had held the Haddondale living for centuries, Nick blathered on.
While Kirsten sat like a cat on the sofa and lapped up every word.
“Our previous vicar was old-fashioned,” Nick said. “Full of damnation and judgment and the fires of hell, though we grew used to his style.”
“He was also old,” Kirsten volunteered. “He didn’t listen well, and his gout plagued him without mercy.”
Banks managed to look elegant, even in stained riding boots, a wrinkled cravat, and a coat that needed taking in at the seams. His cheekbones conveyed derring-do, his long-fingered hands, sensitivity. What a damned silly waste on a country vicar.
“My predecessor suffered hearing problems?” Banks asked.
“He didn’t listen well,” Kirsten clarified, while Nick felt the tension of a conversational bow being drawn back right to the archer’s chin.
When Banks ought to have complimented Nick on the library’s appointments, or the brandy, or the fine collection of books the old earl had gone into debt amassing, Banks instead turned those dark eyes on Kirsten.
“Might you give me an example, Lady Kirsten? One doesn’t want unfortunate history to repeat itself.”
A miracle occurred in the Belle Maison library, while Nick looked on and sipped his brandy. Kirsten Haddonfield, Witch without a Broomstick, engaged a guest in civil conversation. No hidden meanings, no veiled barbs, no slightly outrageous testing of the boundaries of propriety.
“Mr. Clackengeld suffers gout the same as Vicar did,” Kirsten said, “though Clackengeld works in the livery, so he’s out in all weather. When he asked Vicar how the knee was, he got a lecture about suffering giving us
an opportunity for humility.”
Banks considered his drink then turned such a smile on Kirsten as would have felled Byron and all his lovelies at once.
“You didn’t allow it to end there, did you, my lady?”
That smile was sweet and invited confidences—not a scintilla of flirtation about it.
“I commented more loudly than I should have that humility is a virtue best learned by example,” Kirsten replied.
Some fairy prince had snatched Kirsten Haddonfield away and, in her place, left a pretty, smiling, shy young woman. The shy part, Nick had long suspected. Kirsten lobbed Latin phrases into her speech, marched about with unladylike purpose, and dispatched her opinions like a gunnery sergeant aiming shot into the enemy’s cavalry charge.
In short, she repelled boarders with the few effective weapons at a lady’s disposal.
Banks had needed nothing more than a smile and a certain relaxed, conspiratorial air to win a morsel of Kirsten’s trust.
Why was it, the first fellow to cut through the thicket of Kirsten Haddonfield’s social thorns was a poor, tired, nearly haggard man of the cloth, and a married man of the cloth at that?
And was this a positive development—Nick had begun to despair of Kirsten’s prospects, to dread even sharing meals with her—or was it a harbinger of disaster?
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in the True Gentlemen series
Daniel's True Desire
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About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes’s bestsellers include The Heir, The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish, Lady Eve’s Indiscretion, The Captive, The Laird, and The Duke’s Disaster. Her Regency romances and Scotland-set Victorian romances have received extensive praise, including starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, The Soldier was a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance of 2011, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish and Once Upon a Tartan have both won RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards, Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight was a Library Journal Best Book of 2012, The Bridegroom Wore Plaid was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012, and What a Lady Needs for Christmas was a Library Journal Best Book of 2014. Two of her MacGregor heroes won KISS awards, and Darius: Lord of Pleasure was an iBooks Store Best Book of the Year and RITA finalist.
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