Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  “Were we not considering a joint business enterprise,” Ellie said slowly, “would it be permissible folly?” God in heaven, where was her dignity, that she would press him thus? And what was wrong with her, that she wouldn’t quietly accept what her marriage had very strongly suggested: Most men would rather carouse on horseback in the rain and mud than spend time with her.

  “If we were not contemplating a business venture, this folly might be slightly less impermissible,” he said. “Though it’s… May we sit?” He didn’t wait for an answer but took her by the hand and led her to a secluded bench.

  He kept her hand in his as he began speaking.

  “I can dally with you, Ellie Hampton,” he said, risking a glance at her. “I would like… I would love to dally with you, but I’m not the dallying kind, and I’d muck it up.”

  Must he look so dear as he said this?

  With her free hand, Ellie swept his dark hair back over his ear. “How does one muck it up?”

  He focused on the ground for a moment before he spoke, and Ellie had the sense a simple touch had distracted him. Out in the mare’s paddock, the stallion trumpeted lusty intentions to the summer morning.

  “People can hurt each other without meaning to,” Amherst said. “They grow attached, and then disappoint each other, and that’s why men keep mistresses.”

  A mare squealed, and the sound of hooves pounding across dry ground reverberated through the air.

  “A man keeps a mistress to disappoint her?”

  “To not become attached, to undertake folly in a manner that ensures nobody risks anything of value.”

  “Bearing Dane’s child,” Ellie said, brushing her hand through his hair again, “I am risking my life. You think the ladies of easy virtue don’t know they’re courting the same risk when they accept coin from their protectors?”

  Amherst sat back, blinking. “Nothing that comes out of my mouth this morning is coming out right. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m not capable of protecting you from me while I’m dallying with you.”

  Dearer still—also exasperating. “You make this complicated, Amherst. What if I protect me, and you protect you? Would that work?”

  “You are determined to make a man feel desired.” Amherst scrubbed a hand over his face and gave her a peevish-but-considering look.

  “You are desired,” Ellie assured him, surprised at her own boldness. “You must know that. The question here is, do you desire me? Or was that kiss a mere conflagration of unchecked instinct? I can accept it if it was, if you were caught unawares, and a little lonely yourself. I can be your business partner, Trenton, because raising horses is a good idea, and I know when Excalibur leaves that paddock, he’ll be tired, but he won’t be missing anybody in particular. I was married to Dane Hampton, for pity’s sake, better known as the Ram himself, and if anybody understands about wayward male—”

  Amherst shut her up with another kiss, this one very different from the last.

  His kiss was a greeting and a surrender. He put his mouth to Ellie’s quickly, almost as if trying to elude his own notice, then he stilled and stayed for a moment in that initial posture.

  Ellie sighed against his mouth and sank her hand into the warm, silky abundance of his hair while he brushed his lips softly over hers. His arms went around her, bringing her closer, and then his thumb caressed her jaw, and his fingers traced her ear.

  “I like that,” Ellie murmured against his mouth.

  He smiled and kept on kissing her, seaming her lips with his tongue, slowly, lazily. Gone was the pawing stallion and the prosy gentleman. In their place was the healthy, grown man bent on indulging in a kiss that should have been stolen, but was shared with increasing enthusiasm.

  Ellie let him show her how to linger and be soothed, how to enjoy and be enjoyed in a single kiss. When he eased back, the peppermint taste of him was on her tongue, his scent was in her nose, and the contour of his long, lean, male body imprinted on her imagination.

  “Here is what I can offer,” he said, his arm around her shoulders, right where Ellie needed it to be when she was feeling floaty and lightheaded—and not as a function of her condition. “I can flirt with you, kiss you, give you every assurance you’re a beautiful and highly desirable woman, Ellie. Carrying a child can leave a woman in need of reassurances. I can provide those reassurances.”

  Who would have thought that earnestness was a fine quality in a man’s kisses but not in his lectures?

  “However?”

  He kissed her cheek and spoke very near her ear. “However, you have to promise me you’ll not rush into this. I can be your distraction, your temporary toy, but you don’t need to bed me, and I’m telling you, you should not.”

  Bed him. The very words made Ellie’s body thrum. “This great caution is in aid of what? Is there a manual for this, too?”

  “There is, and I’ve read it and you haven’t, so attend me, and behave yourself.” His admonition was underscored with a tightening of his arm around her shoulders.

  And yet his voice was gentle. “I’ll not let you rush into a situation like this, not so soon after your spouse has died, and not with me. I can protect you that much, and in a few weeks, when you’re less fascinated with exerting your charms over my hapless self, you can step back, no harm done, a few pleasant memories stored up.”

  What he said made sense, but Ellie still felt a rejection in his words. A frustration, at the least.

  “You are stubborn, my lord. But you kiss…”

  “None of that. Those are my terms, and we’ll not sign any business papers for at least the rest of the summer.”

  “We’re to have a gentlemen’s agreement?”

  “We’re to leave our options open. Your options open.”

  Ellie nuzzled his hand where it lay on her shoulder. Even his hands smelled good, so good it was difficult to consider his reasoning. They were to flirt but not gallop headlong for the breeding shed, which was resoundingly prudent. They were to start on their business venture but not make any irrevocable commitments or outlays of coin.

  “We’ll approach this your way,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, Trenton Lindsey. You’re thinking in a few weeks I’ll lose my waistline, and dignity will prevent me from the worst mischief with you.”

  His eyebrows went up, and Ellie had the satisfaction of knowing she’d guessed his thoughts.

  “The birth of her child should be a mother’s focus,” he said, like a man who knows he’s on tricky ground—still.

  “I’ve agreed to your terms.” Ellie rose, and he was immediately beside her. “I haven’t much choice, and they make sense.” She had been married, and thus she knew that once a difficult topic had been aired, a man needed time to regain his balance. “Now, in your draft documents, you included a clause about exceeding loss projections, and it struck me as Draconian…”

  She led him through the shaded gardens, into the sunshine, and back to the bench where they’d kissed, and when dear Trenton was knee-deep in an explanation of liquidated damages, she went up on her toes and kissed him again. A soft, sweet, kiss intended to distract him thoroughly from contract clauses of any variety.

  So distracting, apparently, that she could take his hand and put it low on her abdomen. Trenton believed in issuing helpful warnings, and Ellie meant to put him on notice: She might be losing her waistline already, but she wasn’t about to let that inspire any excesses of…dignity.

  ***

  Arthur patiently listened to all of Trent’s reasons for why a dalliance with Ellie Hampton was a wonderful, bad idea, an idea that had been adroitly disarmed aborning, Trent hoped. The woods were cool, and as Trent rode past the pond, he reflected that a protracted dip in the colder end might aid a man in marshaling his best intentions.

  He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice voices coming from his stable until he handed Arthur’s reins to a slender, dark-haired lad who introduced himself as Peak.

  “I have company?”
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  “Very large,” Peak replied in an odd, husky brogue. “Blond, friendly, dotes on his mare. I’ve seen him at the hunt meets with Greymoor.”

  Trent resurrected a few curses a man with three children didn’t make much use of, even though foul language was bad form before the help.

  “The world’s biggest broody hen has come to check on a chick. Spoil dear Buttercup rotten. Bellefonte takes the care of all in his ambit seriously, most especially that mare.”

  Peak scratched Arthur’s withers, provoking a sigh from the gelding. “His lordship’s going a round with Cato over docking tails. They’ll be at it all day.”

  “You can escape the line of fire by walking Arthur out.” Trent did not run up his stirrups. “In the shade of the woods might suit.”

  Peak gave him a momentary, charming smile and swung onto Arthur’s back without benefit of a mounting block. His feet didn’t reach the stirrups, for he was a good foot shorter than Trent, and he had to cross the leathers over the gelding’s neck, but Arthur obligingly toddled off toward the woods nonetheless.

  “Amherst.” Nick Haddonfield emerged from the stables, grinning broadly. “One of my two absolutely favorite brothers-by-marriage.” He treated Trent to the kind of careful hug he probably gave his grandmother. “Leah sends her love, as do Ford, Michael, and probably Lanie, when she isn’t bellowing about her nappy being wet.”

  “Darius unleashed you upon me,” Trent said, ignoring a pang of guilt at the mention of his children. “He must not only spy himself, he must send reinforcements. Come along, because this spying business works both ways. How is my sister?”

  They caught up on Leah, the various children, and Emily’s summer thus far with Nick’s grandmother, Lady Warne. When the civilities had been observed and a plate of sandwiches demolished, Nick yawned indelicately.

  “Beg pardon. Woke up too early.”

  Trent rose, happy to dodge the real inquisition for another hour. “I’ll show you to a room. You’ve yet to tell me how long you can stay.” He paused at the library door to give instructions to a footman, then led Nick up to the next floor.

  “I apologize for not sending you a note.” Nick trailed along beside him, no doubt inspecting the state of the plaster (dusty), the carpets (in need of beating), and the windows (in need of a good scrubbing with vinegar). “My peregrinations are sometimes hard to predict. You’re an afterthought to a visit to my brother Ethan at Tydings.”

  “Three miles northeast or so?”

  “Roughly. Pretty place, and he’s held it for some seven years, but I’d yet to visit. If you’ve a suitable bed, I could use a room tonight.”

  Trent’s brother-in-law was the largest man he’d ever beheld, and all of it muscle or charm, depending on Nick’s mood.

  “I don’t have state chambers, but come along, we’ve at least one formal guest room from bygone days that sports accommodations worthy of you.”

  “I knew I married well. Having imposed on your hospitality, when will you reciprocate and come see us at Belle Maison?”

  Well, of course. Thumbscrews, applied to Trent’s paternal conscience with every appearance of bonhomie. Nicholas was family, after all.

  “Aren’t you observing mourning for the late earl?” Trent asked as he opened the door to a large guest room. “Sending the children to their aunt for a summer visit is one thing. It’s another to impose myself on you.”

  “Papa considerately forbade deep mourning except in public, and that for only six months.” Nick followed him into the room, his gaze traveling up to the twelve-foot ceiling. “This will do, Amherst, and nicely.”

  “So I’m to call you Bellefonte?” Trent opened the French doors to the balcony because the room was a trifle musty.

  “You’re welcome to try, though I might have to take exception and toss you down into those roses.”

  Trent peered over the railing. “Or whatever they are. My neighbor is taking the gardens in hand as a sort of charity project, but progress is slow.”

  “What of your housekeeper?” Nick asked, resting his elbows on the railing beside Trent. “Has she taken a holiday from dusting and cleaning your windows?”

  “Darius didn’t tattle? My housekeeper ran off with my steward nigh six months ago, and had my stable master not alerted Dare to the situation, I’d still be sitting on my pickled and indifferent fundament in London.”

  Or he’d be…damned near dead. He deserved thumbscrews, at least.

  Nick’s gaze stayed on the gardens, which were plot by plot coming under control.

  “Say something, Nicholas. This is a sneak attack, and you wouldn’t stoop to such tactics were you not concerned.” Which was the primary reason Trent bestirred himself to graciousness.

  “Leah was concerned.”

  Trent lowered himself onto the balcony’s chaise. “For that I am truly sorry. I suppose my children have expressed concern as well?”

  “Not overtly.” Nick turned and braced his elbows on the railing, six and a half feet of doting brother-in-law at his handsome ease. “Whatever difficulties you’re having, you’ve managed to shield the little ones from most of them.”

  “I was wallowing,” Trent said tiredly. Nicholas was too damned large and fit for Trent to toss into the gardens, and he was a good confidante.

  “In?”

  “Grief?” Not quite the right word. “Relief, anger, I don’t know what. Sadness, maybe, an aching, endless bodily fatigue and a mental fog as thick as any London has produced.”

  “I am almost certain Leah is carrying,” Nick said slowly. “I’m realizing now, as I hadn’t previously, that childbirth is a dangerous undertaking. I could lose the wife I love more than life itself. You went through three pregnancies, and then you did lose your wife. This… terrifies me.”

  The quiet admission said a great deal—about Nick’s courage, more than anything.

  “Those who’ve lost a spouse can frighten those who haven’t,” Trent said, though it was insightful of Nick to present the topic this way. “Men I thought were my friends suddenly looked at me as if I might purloin their wives or daughters. Women I thought were my friends started pairing me with strangers or trying to get into my bed.”

  Nick’s blond eyebrows rose. “Was that a silver lining of some sort?”

  Trent gave the thorny roses beneath the balcony further consideration.

  “Suppose not.” Nick straightened, frankly studying Trent. “You’ve lost some of that peaked, city-boy look you had at the wedding.”

  “I’ve yet to replace my steward, so I’m playing steward, but I need to inquire into who’s ordering my housemaids about. I thought Cook might have taken a hand, but apparently not.”

  “You want a fat housekeeper,” Nick stated briskly. “A jolly, fat housekeeper who likes pets and children. A cranky housekeeper is worse than a wrinkle in the underlinen. And I suggest you let that cheeky nursery maid of Michael’s go, too.”

  “Hull?”

  “Big…” Nick humped his hands over his chest. “Saucy mouth? She pinches the children, and not like your granny pinched you, and she tipples.”

  “Write a character and give her some severance,” Trent said, feeling another stab of guilt. “How about if I give you a minute to settle in here and then I show you some of the grounds?”

  “Give me an hour.” Nick began to undo his sleeve buttons. “I’d like to pen a few notes, rest my eyes, and get my bearings.”

  “In an hour then, and for all that you’re here on inspection, I am glad to welcome you, Nicholas.”

  Trent made his way to the kitchen, wondering what was wrong with him, that he hadn’t noticed the effects of the housekeeper’s absence until Nick was underfoot. Trent’s meals showed up on time, his sheets were changed, his laundry and ironing done, but the house itself—

  Could be set to rights.

  He spied his cook, cleaver in hand, cutting a chicken carcass into parts. “Greetings, Louise.”

  “Your lordship.” Thwack! O
ff came a wing.

  “I come bearing correspondence for you from Nancy at Wilton.”

  Thwack! The other wing, then she paused and set her cleaver aside.

  “A moment, please.” She turned her back to wash her hands then dry them on her apron. “I trust all are well at Wilton?”

  Trent passed her the letter. “As well as can be expected when the earl conducts himself like a spoiled eight-year-old.”

  “You show him no respect.” Louise frowned at the letter as she recited her litany. “He’s an earl, a peer of the realm, and above the common touch.”

  “We’ve another earl visiting our humble abode,” Trent said, unwilling to be scolded by his help. “Bellefonte has come to call, and we’ll need a meal for a hearty appetite.”

  Louise fingered the epistle from old Nancy, the former housekeeper at Wilton Acres. “Bellefonte’s that big git? Shoulders like this?” She braced her hands a yard apart.

  “Language, Louise. My dear brother-in-law is an earl, not a git, and due respect on that basis alone, in your opinion. He’s been traveling and likely has a hunger in proportion to the rest of him.”

  “Beef then, and pork, at least. Formal?” She sounded so damned hopeful.

  “Not formal. We’ll eat on the terrace, and Louise?”

  “That’s Cook to you, my lord.” She was already bustling off, apparently taken with the challenge of the evening meal.

  “Who’s been seeing to the housemaids?”

  Louise shrugged as she tore the chicken wings apart with her bare hands. “They see to themselves. If they get to squabbling, Upton will stick his nose into it, but he’s not good at it. Lets ’em get away with too much.”

  “Do you approve of any living male, Louise?”

  “Alfred the Great,” she replied, eyeing the pantry mouser sunning itself in a window sill. “Wilton.”

  “Equally useless, the pair of them.”

  Trent exerted his lordly prerogative and left before Louise could get another word in. He found Nick an hour later on the back terrace, scribbling away at a letter to some sibling or cousin.

  Nick tossed his pen down. “Did I see Greymoor’s stud disporting among your neighbor’s mares?”