Almost.
He was not foolish enough to call the property a stud farm. Not yet. For one thing, he needed to find a stud horse he could afford without depleting his savings. He had half a mind to write to young Bob Hastings, lure him away from Kelby Hall, and offer him a position as head groom. Reyn might not be able to match his salary, but Bob could be his own man. The large apartment over the stable would be perfect for a fellow to raise a family if they didn’t mind the smell of horse.
Reyn’s house was sufficient for a family’s needs, too. Ginny had directed a great deal from her sickbed, and the old house had been scrubbed clean and simply furnished. The floors might list like a storm-tossed ship, but the dwelling was snug and warm. On her better days, she had replanted the garden, Rufus helping by digging random holes between the lettuces. Mrs. Clark was settled into the kitchen, never once complaining about the primitive range. All in all, Reyn’s little household was thriving beyond his humble expectations.
The days were filled with work. The nights, however, were vast oceans of wakefulness, when his hand was called to quell the waves of desire as regular as the tides. Reyn couldn’t seem to do anything about his longing for his countess. It had propelled him to buy property in Surrey. He’d told himself Merrywood Farm was a grand bargain, and that Kelby Hall was a fair distance away.
But he would be close enough to be called if needed.
As if he was needed. His job was done, wasn’t it? He snorted, causing the old man seated in front of him to turn and give him a sour look. No snorting in church, Reyn reminded himself. No talking unless giving the proper prayer book response, no shifting in one’s seat, no snoring, God forbid. Ginny’s vicar was a serious young man who seemed to be doing his damnedest to be interesting, though that was a losing cause with Reyn. He was there solely—soully—to support his little sister, who did seem to derive comfort from attending church.
Or perhaps it had been the vicar all along. He chuckled, and added no chuckling to his list as Ginny’s surprisingly sharp elbow caught him in his midsection.
He endured the rest of the service in relative peace, his mind drifting quite far from ecclesiastical things until he was shuffling down the aisle to shake the vicar’s hand.
Ginny dimpled prettily. “I do hope you might join us for Sunday lunch, Mr. Swift.”
Swift. Somehow Reyn had blocked the name from his mind. It was not as though the man didn’t earn it. The service had gone as fast as possible, he supposed.
Mr. Swift dimpled back. “I should be delighted, if I might postpone that visit until next week, Miss Durant. There is a new parishioner I wish to welcome to the neighborhood, though I confess I feel some trepidation. It is a lady, you see. A great lady. She has taken over Hazel Grange, but is not going about in our humble society at all. A recent widow. I fear I am not up to the task of conversing with a countess.”
Reyn stilled. What were the odds? What were the odds he’d ask himself that question twice in one morning?
“Ah! A countess! How exciting, despite her recent misfortune. Do you know, Mr. Swift, my brother spent some time in an earl’s household last fall? Perhaps he should go with you to smooth the way,” she teased.
“I am hardly an expert on countesses,” Reyn said, gruff. “I barely saw the Countess of Kelby.” Damn it all to hell and back. Forget his sister and her doorstep dance with the vicar. He seemed a good enough fellow, but if he thought Ginny would make a docile clergyman’s wife, he was in for a surprise.
Swift’s face lit up. “Why, Captain Durant. This is extraordinary! It is the Countess of Kelby I am bound for this afternoon. If she is not up to attending church, it is my Christian duty to bring church to her, so to speak. As I happily did for you some time ago, Miss Durant. It is a pleasure to see you well enough to be here at worship.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Ginny said.
Maris was here.
Part of Hazel Grange’s land bordered his own. He remembered hearing the name as his solicitor read the deeds to him. What were the odds? he thought for the third time.
Reyn hadn’t paid attention to anything lately, except repairing the fencing, roofing the stables, and feeding his horses, who were always hungry. Had he passed Maris on the street in Shere and not even noticed?
No. Swift said she was a recluse. He pictured Maris swathed in deepest black, her nose pressed against a window. Hazel Grange sounded like a huge comedown from the grandeur of Kelby Hall. What had caused her to move? Surely David Kelby would have allowed her to stay on at the Dower House.
Unless he importuned her again and she felt she had to flee. Reyn felt a splash of bile rise in his throat.
“Reyn, are you all right? You look quite fierce all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine, Gin. Perfectly fine.” He would be once he got home and into the brandy. Much against his usual habits, he’d discovered brandy could block out the imaginary scent and vision of Maris Kelby’s wavy molasses-colored hair as it spilled over his chest.
“Shall I give the countess your regards, Captain Durant?”
“She would not even know who I am. Good morning to you, Mr. Swift. We’ll expect you next Sunday, if not before.” Reyn forced himself to smile and wink at the vicar, which caused the fellow to pale.
Perhaps Reyn’s eyes and lips weren’t working properly. Nothing felt like it was working right as he helped Ginny into their ancient gig—it had come with the ancient house—and hoisted himself up to take the reins. Maris was there and he hadn’t known it, hadn’t felt it. If he was meant to be with her, surely he would have throbbed like a tuning fork at her nearness.
What rot. He had let himself get carried away over two days. Two days.
Reyn’s mail was forwarded from London by Gratton, who’d stayed on in his old lodgings with a new gentleman to valet for. There had been no word from her, so their mission had been a failure. Not so surprising, given the limited amount of time they’d had.
Unless Gratton had gotten into the brandy again, and forgot to send the letter on.
No, the countess had not contacted him because there was nothing to tell. For all her reassurances that she was no one special, she was the widow of an earl. A great lady, as Swift had said. Why would she want to have anything to do with an illiterate soldier, even if she was free?
Reyn knew Maris was the most proper of women. She would observe a lengthy period of mourning not only because it was proper, but out of respect for her husband. She had loved him, loved him enough to go against all her instincts and lie with a perfect—well, imperfect—stranger. By the time she was out of black, Reyn would just be a blurred memory to her, if that. No doubt she wanted to push the whole unpleasant interlude straight out of her mind.
“You’re very quiet. Are you sure you’re all right?” Ginny asked.
“I’m fine. Isn’t it a lovely spring day?”
It was Ginny’s turn to snort. “Something’s upset you if you’re talking about the weather. Is it Arthur?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Swift, Reyn. I mean to have him, you know. He’s been very kind and doesn’t mind that I may not li—”
“You will,” Reyn interrupted. “You are getting better every single day. The country is good for you. You haven’t had a coughing fit in over two months. You’re sleeping through the night. You’ve got roses in your cheeks. You look pretty. Too pretty to be a dull parson’s wife.”
“He is not dull! You really should pay more attention to his sermons. Arthur says some very useful things in a remarkably short stretch of time.”
“Arthur. How long has this been going on?”
“Since Richmond, of course. You really need to pay more attention to everything.”
Undoubtedly that was true, but she’d hit upon the central problem of his life. Bloody hell. What kind of a brother was he?
“Has he kissed you?”
“I will not tell you if you’re going to make a fuss. You should see your face,” Ginny said,
quite unruffled. “Remember, I have those eyebrows, too, and I’m not afraid of yours. Though I do pluck mine now.”
He would not be distracted by her beauty rituals. “That means he has, the cur.”
“Reyn, I am not a little girl. I just turned three and twenty. At my age, you’d been in the army for seven years. Think of the things you did miles away from home and then tell me I have no right to marry where I please.”
“Damn it, Ginny! I’m not saying you can’t get married!”
“Good. Then it’s settled. Summer weddings are lovely, I’m told.”
By God, she’d outmaneuvered him. “Are you sure?”
Ginny nodded. “I want to make good use of the time I have.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. Everyone should seize the day, even those whose health is good.”
“Carpe diem.”
“See? And you’re always saying school was a waste of time for you. You are much smarter than you think you are.”
He didn’t bother to disabuse her of her misconception. He knew exactly how smart he was. Not very, if his little sister had been carrying on with Arthur Swift right under his nose.
Oh, he’d known something was going on. But marriage? “Has he asked you to marry him?”
“Sort of, but not precisely. There has been nothing of the dropping to one knee, etcetera. We have talked around it, as it were, agreeing to most of the details. I believe he wants to ask your permission first and is working his courage up before dropping down formally. You do have quite a reputation, you know. War hero and all that.”
Lord. He hoped the vicar never found out about Reyn’s brief stint as a Reining Monarch. “Will you be happy, Gin?”
“The vicarage is quite lovely, you know. Arthur says I might bring Mrs. Beecham and Molly with me. He already has a housekeeper-cook, so Mrs. Clark is happy to stay with you.”
Mrs. Clark knew all this? Napoleon could have used his sister’s ability to strategize. Reyn’s entire household was privy to his sister’s marital plans, but Reyn had been so preoccupied getting his business up and running, he’d been oblivious.
She grinned up at him, looking all of six years old.
“I’m not talking about a house,” he scolded. “After getting us settled at Merrywood, I know you can work wonders. I mean, is he a good man? Does he treat you well? Do you care for him? Does he make you—”
Honestly, what was wrong with him? He was about to ask if Ginny burned to bed the man. He devoutly hoped she had not gone that far yet. He would shoot Swift and then himself. “Laugh?” he amended.
Her color had nothing to do with the fresh spring breeze. “I like him very well, Reyn. And yes, he is a good man, but not so good a man that he doesn’t know how to kiss.”
“Goddamn it, Gin!”
“Not on Sunday.” She giggled, then she turned to him, much more sober. “Please be glad for me. I did not think to ever be so happy.”
“Your happiness is all I’ve ever wanted.” Well, almost all. “If you have fallen in love with him, I suppose I shall have to like him.”
In her unthinking joy, Ginny squeezed his bad shoulder. “You will love him too, I know it!”
Reyn envisioned proper Sunday lunches—years of them, if his sister was blessed to live long enough. He would have to reassure himself by speaking with her doctor, though he hadn’t thought much of the man when they met earlier. If she was not strong enough for her marital duties, Reyn would forbid the match.
Gah. It was deuced unpleasant to think of his little sister in such a state, with the earnest Mr. Swift so very far from the pulpit. Reyn yearned for some strong soap to scrub his brain clean. He listened with half an ear as Ginny enumerated Swift’s many alleged virtues, and was never so happy to see Merrywood at the end of the lane.
The mares were outdoors enjoying the newly fenced pasture, their coats shining in the sunlight. Smoke rose gently from the kitchen chimney. Mrs. Clark, the cook-conspirator, was no doubt within, roasting a plump chicken for their luncheon. The sky was blue, the clouds were puffy.
And the Countess of Kelby was right next door.
Chapter 21
“I believe it’s going to rain, Lady Kelby. You’re not still going out?”
“Pooh. Betsy, you are too much of a worrywart for someone your age.” Maris adjusted the rather forbidding black bonnet and wished she didn’t look quite so crowlike. She would not be able to wear any of Madame Bernard’s creations for ages, and by then her figure might be very different. She might not even have a figure.
It shouldn’t matter. Maris had never cared about what she’d worn, but it did seem a shame those beautiful new clothes might never be used.
“Dr. Crandall said—”
“Dr. Crandall is no longer involved, is he? The new man doesn’t seem to be troubled by my riding, if I’m careful.”
“The new man is a drunk,” Betsy reminded her. “I wouldn’t trust him with a litter of kittens.”
It was true Dr. Sherman had seemed a bit under the weather when she’d sent for him. So many doctors seemed to have an unfortunate tendency to imbibe. It must be escape from all the grim things they saw in their practices. But babies weren’t grim things. Maris had met the local midwife Mrs. Lynch, a calm, grandmotherly woman who’d delivered babies in and around Shere for more than thirty years. Maris was perfectly satisfied with her current arrangements.
She expected David wouldn’t be. She fully expected him to haunt her until the child was born. He’d ridden over the day before yesterday, though he was prevented from trying to completely terrorize her by the presence of that shy young clergyman Mr. Swift. She did not have much use for most men of the cloth, but had been glad of the vicar’s unscheduled company. He must have sensed her uneasiness, for he outlasted the usual twenty-minute courtesy call and bored David to tears with his random biblical platitudes. Maris had finally pleaded a headache and left both men to their own devices.
Before Mr. Swift turned up, David had been insisting he be present for the birth, so he wouldn’t be cheated. “For who knows?” he’d said. “You might get rid of a girl and slip a gypsy brat into the cradle.”
If only Henry had thought of that first, she thought with a sour smile. She would not find herself in such straits, yearning for what she couldn’t have.
She knew she was remiss about notifying Reyn of the surprising news. She’d picked up her pen a dozen times in as many days, but somehow the words hadn’t come. She, who had no difficulty writing about ancient Etruscan society, seemed incapable of describing the simple current event to the man who’d made it happen.
Perhaps when she got back from her ride—her rainy ride if Betsy was right—she’d make herself do it. A letter might not even reach him. Reynold Durant could be anywhere in the world.
She shivered. He might even be standing naked over someone with a whip.
The sky was indeed leaden and damp hung in the air. Stephen Prall waited for her on the drive with her pretty white mare Pearl. The horse was almost too showy. She was a countess’s horse, purchased by Henry for her amusement. Maris had neglected her for the last few years, hardly leaving the house as Henry’s health had worsened and his work had become paramount. Pearl seemed glad of her new circumstances and the exercise. She tossed her mane and pranced in greeting.
“Good morning, Stephen! Good morning, Pearl!”
“Are you sure you want to ride today, my lady? It’s going to rain.” He was prepared, in an oilskin jacket and battered cap. If she had those, she’d be wearing them, too. Her black riding habit had been let out at the seams and stretched as far as Betsy’s clumsy fingers could make it go, and the hat really was a disaster.
“So Betsy tells me. I’m sure. You won’t mind getting a little wet if we don’t get back in time, will you? We won’t be out long, I promise.”
“I don’t mind, my lady. You’re the boss.”
He didn’t sound thrilled, but Maris smiled at hi
s words. She’d never really felt like anyone’s boss at Kelby Hall.
He helped her mount. To his credit, she didn’t feel like a sack of potatoes slung onto the saddle. She took a lungful of heavy air and wondered how long the rain would hold off. Not very, she’d wager. They’d ride to that pretty copse of trees that bordered one dog-leg of her property, then turn back. She hadn’t ridden out that way in a week or more.
Maris was too busy watching the darkening clouds to see the man beyond the leafy oaks at first. She raised an arm in a friendly gesture, then froze. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. The first splash of rain fell on her cheeks and into her open mouth.
Reyn had come to the edge of his property yesterday when the gnawing urge could not be ignored. Twice, actually. Once in the morning, estimating when a gentlewoman might be persuaded to ride, then again near dusk, when he was near to exhaustion. He’d sat atop Phantom like a lovesick schoolboy staring at the empty green space on the other side of a clump of ancient oaks, listening as if he expected a band of Indians to drop from the trees and attack any second.
He’d ridden out again that morning and heard the horses, suddenly paralyzed by hope and fear. Phantom was alert, too, and whickered at the sight of a palfrey that was just missing a unicorn horn.
Maris—for it was she, ink-black against the white horse—waved.
Reyn’s throat dried and his wits deserted him completely. All the things he’d planned to say to her when he bumped into her “accidentally” flew from him like scalded birds.
She was as pale as her horse, looking every bit as stunned at the sight of him as he felt at the sight of her. A sudden drop of rain in his eye obscured her for a moment, and then her companion came into view.
Reyn had seen the man before in Shere. He was hard to miss, taller than Reyn and much broader. Some sort of laborer. Good. At least she wasn’t accompanied by a swain, or riding alone like a ninny. Anything could happen to an unprotected woman.
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