Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  “For Imogenie’s parents’ sake, I hope you’re right,” Hiram said, taking out a plain linen handkerchief and mopping his forehead. “Ma says more than one man has thought himself smarter than God and learned differently.”

  On that note, Trent took himself to the Henly holding, where Mrs. Henly set out a mid-day meal fit for six kings. Young Imogenie was helpful to her mother, bringing plates and dishes to the table and refilling drinks, but the damned woman found ways to lean into Trent, to press against his arm, and brush her fingers over his.

  She cast him portentous looks, simpered at his every comment, and flaunted her bosom all without drawing the notice of either parent.

  A baggage. A thoroughgoing, scheming baggage who thought she was up to Wilton’s weight, and likely believed herself possessed of Town airs. She was pretty, in a young, vivacious way that would fade all too quickly, particularly if she displeased Wilton.

  “Perhaps Miss Henly would be willing to show me the orchard?” Trent suggested when the meal was done.

  Her mother twittered, her father beamed—though, of course, the orchard was in plain view of the house and full of nothing but tiny, hard, green apples—and Imogenie fetched a shawl. When she came back to the table, she sported a lower décolletage under her shawl than she had previously.

  “Your father is one of the hardest-working men I know,” Trent observed as they strolled along. She was small, as Paula had been small, and Trent had to slow his steps to fit hers. “You must be very proud of your family.”

  “All he does is work,” Imogenie replied, tossing her head. “Ma and the boys are no better.”

  “But look how well your property shows. Your mama grows not only vegetables, but all of those lovely flowers and herbs. Her cooking and her table impress as a result.”

  “Which means nobody ever has any rest,” Imogenie spat. “These people know nothing but work and church and more work. It won’t always be this way, though.”

  Trent gave up on subtlety because they’d walked far enough from the house to not be overheard.

  “Miss Henly, if you think association with my father will change your circumstances for the better, you are sadly mistaken.”

  She met Trent’s gaze with a depressing boldness. “That’s not what he says. He says a woman with my looks can go somewhere. He says a clever woman can always find ways to better her lot. You don’t know what Gerald’s really like. Nobody does.”

  Gerald? God help her.

  While bees droned lazily amid the branches overhead, Trent searched his manners and his honor for words that would avert looming disaster. Imogenie was young and believed herself in love, and worse, believed herself loved in return.

  An orchard was a peaceful place in summer. Trent tried to gather some of that peace by studying the dappled shadows on the ground.

  “Wilton tells you his wife didn’t understand him, and that you’re very special. He tells you he’s been waiting years for a woman like you, and he can’t believe his good fortune that you’ve noticed him. While he offers this flattery, he looks sincere and even bashful.”

  Trent suspected Wilton practiced looking sincere and bashful, for it was too great a mischaracterization to achieve casually.

  “He wishes you’d been his countess,” Trent went on, “and then he sighs and makes you feel such naughty, wonderful things, you want to give him everything a woman can give a man she cares for.”

  From her stunned expression, Trent concluded he’d repeated his father’s litany almost point by point.

  The dratted woman rallied in the blink of an eye. “You ridicule something you don’t understand. His own children don’t even love him. You’re jealous of the attention he shows me.”

  The earl’s hook was set, and yet Trent made one more try. “Miss Henly—Imogenie—Wilton is rusticating here for the first time in your memory because he stole from his children and worse. He may love you. I hope he does love you, but it’s far more likely he’s amusing himself with you and will cast you aside when the game has palled.”

  When she had a bastard in her belly and her life had been ruined before she turned twenty. Wilton thrived on ruination, the way a cancer grew until it destroyed the host that gave it life.

  “You’re an unnatural son,” she declared, tugging her shawl tightly around herself. “To lie about your own father that way. He told me your sister ran off, brought shame and disgrace to the family, and your brother abetted her. Why should he keep such as those in funds?”

  Wilton had driven Leah off, cast her onto her brothers’ charity the way another man would fling away an empty gin bottle.

  “Wilton spent money that wasn’t his. He spent my mother’s portion, reserved by contract in trust for her children—contracts Wilton signed.”

  Imogenie turned her back. “I won’t listen to this. The earl is a good man, and your mother never understood him.”

  The countess had understood Wilton too well, though too late. “Maybe she didn’t, but your mother taught you not to allow a man, any man, favors until he’s married you, or at least announced your engagement. That’s sound advice, Miss Henly, and if you can’t follow it for your own sake, then follow it for the sake of the children Wilton would get on you.”

  He stalked off—rude of him—knowing Imogenie glared daggers at his back. Without doubt, in a year’s time, he’d be writing a bank draft to the girl’s father and hoping she had relatives in the north to take her in for her confinement. According to Trent’s late mother, the task of providing settlements for Wilton’s bastards had fallen to her at least twice.

  Wilton would leave the help at the manor alone as long as Miss Henly held his attention, which qualified as a pale silver lining—very pale.

  Trent tried again with Henly when taking leave of his tenant on the farm’s front porch. “You should consider curtailing Miss Henly’s visits to the manor house, Henly.”

  Henly settled onto the porch swing, his expression disgruntled. “You’d begrudge my Genie a cup of tea with old Nancy Brookes? I didn’t take you for that sort, Amherst.”

  Surely when Lanie was of age, Trent would not be so gullible a papa as Mr. Henly?

  “I would not begrudge the ladies their tea and gossip, but my father has a wandering eye. He’s bored, and Miss Henly is both pretty and of age.” Trent backed up that blunt pronouncement with a very direct look, which had Mr. Henly chewing his pipe stem.

  “I could send Missus with her.”

  “Every time. You absolutely cannot trust Wilton’s honor, Henly. Cannot.”

  “Sorry thing to say about your own pa.” Henly set the porch swing to rocking gently. “I’ve known the man since I was a lad and he was a spoiled young buck. Played hell with the ladies then, too. I’ll watch the girl and so will Missus.”

  “Hiram Haines wouldn’t mind walking with Imogenie of an evening,” Trent suggested, though this gambit was pointless when Imogenie had her sights set on Wilton himself.

  “Hiram’s a good man. Works hard and plays a wicked game of darts. Not as wicked as his mother, though.”

  “Until next quarter then.” Trent swung up on Arthur. “You’ll have Mr. Benton send word to Crossbridge if you need anything.”

  “Will do.” Henly saluted with his pipe. “Safe journey, milord.”

  Six more farms and Trent was ready to call it a long, hot, summer day. Aaron Benton, the land steward, met him on the Wilton Acres back terrace where they shared a pitcher of cold, fruity sangaree as the last of the light faded. They talked for two hours, sorting through this problem and that plan, until Trent was convinced he could leave the estate in Benton’s hands for another quarter.

  “I’ve warned Imogenie Henly’s father the earl is importuning her,” Trent said as they rose and walked through the darkness back toward the house.

  “Fat lot of good that will do. She has her father wrapped around her finger, and she’s a very determined young lady. Was that discussion why you didn’t want me making calls with y
ou?”

  “In part.” Also because tenants might speak more freely to the landlord if the steward weren’t on hand. “You aren’t smitten with Imogenie, too?”

  Benton was blond, rangy, and had a ready smile and a store of charm. His family was well situated enough that he could have his choice of brides, and life here at Wilton had to be lonely for him.

  “I am most assuredly not smitten with the buxom and naïve Miss Henley, Amherst. I’ve sisters, and I know how quickly a woman’s dreams can lead her into folly.”

  Not only a woman’s. “Speaking of folly, you’ll tell me the moment Wilton attempts to leave the premises?”

  Having this discussion in the dark with only the crickets to overhear it was easier on Trent’s pride than the full light of day would have been, and Benton seemed to grasp this.

  “Wilton can’t get far,” Benton replied. “The lads won’t drive him, and we’ve put all the ammunition he might use where he won’t find it. Short of holding us at gunpoint or trying to sneak off on horseback with a groom trailing him, there’s little he can do.”

  An owl hooted off in the home wood, a warning to small, scurrying things to find cover.

  “Who calls on Wilton?” Trent asked, because Wilton was nothing if not adept at charming the unsuspecting into doing his bidding.

  “Tidewell Benning, occasionally. Baron Trevisham very infrequently.”

  Tidewell, as Paula’s older brother, could claim a family connection, and yet, Paula hadn’t cared for Tidewell, and Trent wasn’t entirely comfortable to think of Tidewell and Wilton socializing. Baron Trevisham, on the other hand, Paula’s father, Trent had genuinely liked.

  “What about Thomas Benning?” For Paula had been less critical of the middle sibling.

  “Tidewell comes alone, always bearing his parents’ good wishes. I didn’t see any harm in his calls.”

  Neither did Trent, exactly. “Don’t let your guard down. Wilton has a little coin, and he can get Imogenie to buy him shot.”

  Benton’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “You’re daft, and awake much past your bedtime. My regards to your family. I doubt I’ll be up early enough to see you off.”

  “My continued thanks for all your hard work,” Trent told him as they reached the house. “I’ll see you in October.”

  “Sweet dreams, Amherst.” Benton saluted with two fingers and disappeared up the stairs, because by agreement, he served not only as land steward but also as the house steward, and the earl’s informal jailer. Nicholas Haddonfield had found Benton, said he was trustworthy, and left the details to Trent and Darius.

  What a relief it had been for Trent, to stash Wilton into Benton’s keeping, and get back to his brooding and drinking.

  Trent’s ride back to Crossbridge was a more thoughtful journey than the trip to Wilton had been. The situation with Elegy Hampton had become delicate, and in some regards, Trent dreaded seeing her again.

  And in others, couldn’t wait.

  ***

  Ellie Hampton’s late husband had kissed her a time or two, though Dane had limited himself to husbandly pecks on the cheek.

  The difficulty was not that Ellie had been kissed.

  The difficulty, Ellie admitted as she watched Trent Lindsey’s big red gelding trotting up the drive, was that she had kissed Lord Amherst back, shamelessly, even passionately.

  Far more passionately than she’d ever kissed her husband. Before Ellie could organize herself mentally for her guest’s appearance, he was bowing over her hand and looking larger than he had a week or so past.

  Also painfully kissable.

  “Your travels to Hampshire were uneventful?” Ellie tossed out the question, hoping she sounded more composed than she felt.

  “The usual business. Tenant calls, meeting with the steward. The Crossbridge gardens have come along nicely, though, which suggests I should absent myself further.”

  A silence fell. Ellie stared at his lordship’s mouth, then realized he’d caught her staring at his mouth. Perishing Halifax.

  And then, they both spoke at once.

  “My lady, I do apologize…”

  And, at the same time, “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

  A pause, and then they did it again.

  “You haven’t?”

  And, “Not even by my husband.”

  Amherst went quiet, looking more than a bit wary.

  “Shall we repair to the veranda, my lord?”

  He offered his arm, and they progressed out of doors in the safety of silence. When Amherst had Ellie seated in the shade, he lowered himself beside her, which Ellie took as an encouraging sign.

  Of…what, she wasn’t exactly certain, but encouraging, nonetheless.

  “Kissing you like that was badly done of me,” Amherst said, sounding lamentably sincere in his contrition. “You’re in mourning and in a delicate condition and the last woman who should have unwanted advances pressed upon her.”

  His kiss had been many things—badly done wasn’t one of them. Neither was unwanted.

  “My condition isn’t that delicate,” Ellie murmured, face flaming.

  He glanced over at her, maybe at the truculence in her tone, and the first hint of humor came into his eyes.

  “And it was only a kiss,” Ellie added mulishly.

  “Been telling yourself that, too, have you?”

  “A nice kiss,” she insisted. The humor—and relief—was more evident in Amherst’s gaze now, and Ellie smiled, as well. “A very nice kiss.”

  “Like you’ve never had before. Then I did not offend?”

  “You… did not offend. You… utterly flummoxed.”

  “I can admit to being flummoxed myself. We’re to be business partners, one hopes, and such flummoxing is not well advised.”

  “When is it ever?” Ellie rose, bringing Amherst to his feet as well.

  He winged his arm and led her down a shady path of white crushed shells, along beds of irises past their peak, and lily of the valley still making a good show.

  “You’re lonely,” Amherst said, offering an excuse, not an accusation, the way he’d offered her a thorny pink rose not long ago. “You can’t castigate yourself for that. You should castigate me, for knowing better and not behaving better.”

  Ellie considered the generosity and sense behind his comment, and rejected both. She’d been lonely every night of her married life.

  “The way I kissed you might have been the same if Dane were alive. I was lonely then, too. Except, then I wouldn’t have kissed you at all.”

  “Now you know you were lonely,” he said, very gently. “The guilt and the knowing and the loneliness are trying. You should slap me, and that will tidy matters up all around.”

  “I’d rather kiss you again.”

  “Probably not well advised.”

  Probably? “Business partners and all that?” Ellie suggested, feeling more disappointment than relief.

  “That. Then too, I’ve done my duty to the title, my lady. I’m not looking for entanglements, and you are…vulnerable.”

  Drat the man. Why couldn’t he have been searching for a different word? A less honest word? Not that she was searching for entanglements, either.

  “You kissed like a man who might be entangled,” Ellie observed, pride be damned.

  “Lady Rammel,”—he glanced around—“Ellie, just because I might be entangled doesn’t mean you should be the one doing the entangling.”

  She had the thoroughly disagreeable thought he might be involved elsewhere—though his kiss had suggested he was overdue for some entangling.

  “So, you were merely responding to the siren call of your breeding organs?” Ellie knew she should let the topic drop into obscurity forever. “Are you like Lord Greymoor’s stallion Excalibur, then, to strut and paw before any female in season?”

  And why was she abruptly more angry than embarrassed?

  “I am not like Excalibur.”

  They crunched along the walkway
, a pair of squirrels chittering and leaping about in the branches overhead, while naughty, naughty thoughts, about swords and entanglements, ran through Ellie’s mind.

  Amherst tucked a hand over her knuckles as if he were afraid she might flee—or make good on the previous slapping offer.

  “Most honest men will tell you their thoughts closely parallel what passes for that stud’s, my lady. How a fellow acts on those impulses is what separates him from the beasts.”

  More silence, thoughtful on her part, unfathomable on his. This was also different from Dane, whose thoughts were—had been—easy to read and generally lacking in variety.

  Are these boots too worn?

  Perhaps I’ll pop ’round Tatt’s and look at that pair of chestnuts.

  Shall we give it go tonight, old girl? It’s Saturday—no hunting tomorrow.

  “What do you do with the loneliness?” Ellie asked. “With thoughts of a future reeking with sympathy, dull colors, and condolences? I am new to this business of being a widow, and I can’t say I like it so far.”

  He maintained his silence, and the summer morning seemed to grow quieter around them.

  Ellie hadn’t been quite honest—she hated being a widow, and that was troublesome, but she’d also come to nearly hate being a wife. She studied the line of Trenton’s Lindsey’s broad shoulders, and kept that thought to herself.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lord Amherst,” Ellie said, frowning in puzzlement a fraught moment later, “am I the one to offer apologies now?”

  He blew out a breath, dropped her arm, and paced off a few feet, then shot her a look over his shoulder, part humor, part exasperation.

  “Do you know you even smell kissable?” He turned his back on her again, his posture denoting irritation.

  Or a need for a moment of bodily privacy?

  “I can accuse you of the same transgression, my lord.”

  “We have a contretemps,” he said, as if laying out the first part of a syllogism. “We’re mutually attracted, lonely, and adult enough to realize it. If we don’t change the topic soon, I shall kiss you again, and that can lead only to folly.”