The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  “Meat pies,” he mused aloud. “Cheese toast, cold cider, apple tarts, strawberry cobbler, sausage and eggs, treacle pudding, clean sheets smelling of sunshine and lavender, beeswax candles…” He felt a tentative touch of little fingers against his palm, so he closed his hand around those fingers and let his voice lead the child along. “Berry tarts, scones in the morning, ham, bacon, nice hot tea with plenty of cream and sugar, kippers, beefsteak, buttered rolls and muffins…”

  “Muffins?” the child piped up wistfully. St. Just almost smiled at the angelic expression on the urchin’s face. Great blue eyes peered out of a smudged, beguiling little puss, a mop of wheat blond curls completing a childish image of innocence.

  “Muffins.” The earl reiterated as they gained the side terrace of the manor and passed indoors. “With butter and jam, if you prefer. Or chocolate, or juice squeezed from oranges.”

  “Oranges?”

  “Had them all the time in Spain.”

  “You were in Spain?” the child asked, eyes round. “Did you fight old Boney?”

  “I was in Spain,” the earl said, his tone grave, “and Portugal, and France, and I fought old Boney. Nasty business, not at all as pleasant as the thought of tea cakes or clean linen or even some decent bread and butter.”

  “Bread and butter is good. I’m the Earl of Helmsley.”

  The Earl of Rosecroft stopped and frowned. “Better you than me. I’m Rosecroft, of all the simple things to name an earldom.”

  “This estate is Rosecroft, and it belongs to the Earl of Helmsley.”

  Would that it still did, St. Just fumed silently. Had no one told the child of Helmsley’s death?

  “We are in the midst of a truce,” the earl reminded his companion. “A gentleman does not bring up conflicted matters during a truce.”

  “I’m still the Earl of Helmsley. Can we have supper anyway?”

  “We can.” The earl nodded his agreement and began towing the child up the stairs. “But one must be decently turned out for dinner, and you, my friend, are sadly lacking in both wardrobe and proper hygiene.”

  The child looked down at scruffy britches, a tattered shirt, and very dirty brown toes. “I’m decent.”

  “But when opposing generals show one another hospitality the night before a great battle, they do not merely present themselves as decent.”

  “They don’t?” The child peered around at the private suite the earl had appropriated. The rooms were spacious and full of interesting things no doubt begging to be touched.

  “‘Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,’” the earl quoted. “Have a seat.” He half lifted, half led the child to a settee, though even on that modest piece of the furniture, those dirty little toes swung several inches above the carpet. St. Just began to divest himself of his garments, having long since learned to make do without a valet, batman, or other sycophant.

  “Well, get busy,” the earl said when he was in the process of shucking his breeches. “A gentleman doesn’t go down to dine unless he’s properly bathed, and you, I fear, will take a deal of bathing.”

  “I am not a gentleman,” the child said, the truculence back in full force. The earl glanced down at his own naked chest and recalled that grown men were not necessarily an easy thing for not-so-grown men to compare themselves to. He shrugged into a dressing gown and tossed his shirt to the child. “For your modesty. Now let’s be about it, shall we? The sooner we’re clean, the sooner we eat.”

  He eyed the child’s hair and suspected getting clean might involve a quantity of shampoo, but merely held out his hand again. “Come along, child.”

  “I am not a gentleman,” the child said again, scooting back against the sofa.

  “We can remedy that,” the earl said with what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “A little scrubbing, some decent attire, small refinements of speech.” He slipped the child’s shirt off in a single motion. “If I can master it in not quite thirty-two years, there is certainly hope for you.”

  “I am not a gentleman,” the child ground out, standing on the sofa cushions and swatting at the earl’s hands, “and I do not want to be a gentleman.”

  “Then you can be a pirate,” the earl reasoned. “But if you are eating my food, you shall do so with clean fingers.” He made a deft grab for the scruffy britches, yanking them down over narrow hips and bony knees with a swift jerk.

  The child stood up on the sofa, naked and indignant.

  “I am not a gentleman. I do not want to be a gentleman!”

  “Jesus, God, and the Apostles!” The earl swiftly wrapped the child in his shirt and stood panting in shock. “You are a benighted damned female!”

  “Do I still have to take a bath?”

  ***

  “What is a benighted damned female?”

  They were dining in the breakfast parlor because the earl refused to put his staff to the trouble of a formal evening meal for one person, and the breakfast parlor was closer to the kitchen. “You will forget I said that,” the earl instructed. “Elbows off the table, and what is your name?”

  “Brat,” the child replied, elbows slipping out of sight. “My mama used to call me Winnie, but everybody else calls me brat.” The earl raised an eyebrow, and his dinner guest dropped her gaze. They called her worse than that, but he knew she wasn’t about to share it with him—yet.

  “I will call you Miss Winnie. Where is your mama?”

  “In heaven. May I have some more peas?”

  “You are an unnatural child,” St. Just said as he spooned more buttered peas onto her plate. “Children abhor vegetables.”

  “I like what comes out of the garden.” Winnie tucked into her peas as she spoke. The earl suspected, watching her consume her food with single-minded focus, she liked what came out of the garden because she could help herself to it all summer long.

  “Then you will like apple tarts.”

  “Do you like them?” Winnie didn’t take her eyes off her peas as she asked.

  “No talking with your mouth full. I am very fond of apple tarts, particularly when made with lots of butter, cinnamon, and a brandy glaze. For pity’s sake, child, nobody is going to steal your peas.”

  “Not if I eat them first.” Winnie tipped her plate to scrape the butter sauce onto her spoon.

  “None of that.” The earl put the plate back down on the table. “You need to leave room for your apple tart.” He signaled a footman. “Miss Winnie will be having some very weak tea with her apple tart.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The man bowed and began collecting plates, stoically ignoring the look of longing with which Winnie watched his departure.

  “So tell me, Miss Winnie, did you enjoy the lavender bubbles?”

  “They smelled like lavender but they weren’t lavender colored.” Winnie eyed the basket of rolls and the butter, the only food remaining on the table.

  “You wanted purple bubbles in your bath?” St. Just almost smiled. “Fine earl you’ll make.”

  Winnie’s chin came up. “I am Helmsley. My mama said so.”

  “You can be Helmsley all you like, as long as you take your baths, say your prayers, and behave yourself. Who looks after you?”

  A sly look came across the little girl’s features, or it would have been sly were it not such an obvious prelude to dissembling.

  “A lady. She lives in a house down by the river.” The Ouse flowed past the western boundary of the property, so the earl concluded that like all good lies, this little tale was somewhat grounded in truth.

  “Is she a nice lady?” the earl asked, wondering when the damned apple tarts would be arriving.

  “She’s old, but she bakes pies and cakes and they smell ever so lovely, especially in winter. She has two cats, and they are hugely fat from eating cheese.”

  The earl stifled another smile. “And what are their names? Scylla and Charybdis?”

  “Io and Ganymede.”

  The earl’s eyebrows rose, as most children would not know the name
s of Jupiter’s moons. “Are they friendly?” he asked, getting ready to ring for his damned tart if need be.

  “Very.” Winnie nodded vigorously. “At least to me. They don’t like everybody, but I share my cheese with them, so we get along famously.”

  “And what is the name of this lovely old dear who lets you cozen her cats and steal her pies?”

  “Miss Emmaline Farnum,” the child informed him, her air serious. “I call her Miss Emmie. She is my best friend.”

  “How sweet.” The earl drummed his fingers on the table, but it occurred to him that since arriving at Rosecroft more than a week ago, he’d not seen one other child. In all likelihood, Winnie had no playmates her own age. Then, too, children could be cruel, particularly to an orphaned by-blow of a penniless and unpopular earl.

  “My lord, I beg your pardon!”

  The door to the little dining parlor banged open, the apologetic footman rushing in behind a young woman St. Just had not seen before. She was trussed up in a shapeless black bombazine dress covering her from ankles to wrist to neck, an equally hideous black bonnet on her head.

  “That is not my tart,” the earl observed to no one in particular.

  “Bronwyn!” The woman leapt across the room and wrapped her arms around Winnie, the bonnet tumbling off in her haste. “Oh, Winnie, you naughty, naughty child, I’ve been searching all over for you.”

  “Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie beamed a grin, hugging the lady back. “Rosecroft says we’re going to have apple tarts.”

  “Madam?” The earl rose and bowed. “Rosecroft, at your service.”

  “My lord.” She bobbed a nervous curtsy then swiveled back to the child. “Winnie, are you all right?”

  “I had to take a bath.” Winnie frowned at the memory. “But I ate and ate and ate. I am not a gentleman, though.”

  “You took a bath?” Miss Farnum’s eyes went round. “My lord? Did I hear her aright?”

  “With lavender bubbles,” the earl replied gravely. “And you would be?”

  “Miss Emmaline Farnum,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Just how did you get her to take a bath?”

  The earl narrowed his eyes, as well. “Perhaps that is a discussion we adults might reserve for later. And as I wouldn’t want to be guilty of breaking my word to a child, may I invite you to join us for apple tarts, Miss Farnum?”

  The footman withdrew at the earl’s lifted eyebrow while the child’s gaze bounced back and forth between the adults. Winnie sat, all innocence in an old nightshirt somebody had dragged out of a trunk. Her golden curls gleamed, and on her feet were wool socks many sizes too big.

  “Apple tarts sound delicious,” Miss Farnum said. The earl graciously seated her, taking the opportunity to notice that the lady—for all her egregious taste in attire—bore the scent of lemons and meadow mint, a tart, pleasing combination that went well with the summer evening. His gaze happened to stray to her neck as he pushed her chair in, and the smooth expanse of female skin suggested she wasn’t as mature as he’d first surmised.

  “Miss Winnie was just telling me about your cats,” the earl began, continuing his assessment of his latest guest. She was a dressmaker’s disaster, but then, what else would one expect in the wilds of Yorkshire? Fading black was seldom a good color for blondes, and she was no exception. “Your cats have interesting names.”

  “Gany and Io?” Miss Farnum replied, removing her gloves. At the earl’s discreet signal, the gloves were whisked away, but not before he noticed the tear on the right fourth finger. “They were from a litter of four, the other two were named Europa and Callisto.”

  “Somebody enjoyed either stargazing or mythology,” the earl said as the tarts were brought in. He would have to settle for one, he supposed, as the third tart would go to his uninvited guest. “Winnie, may I cut yours for you?”

  The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers.

  “Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.”

  The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.”

  Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace.

  “I take it you are a neighbor, Miss Farnum?”

  “I am,” she said, regarding her tart rather than her host.

  “Shall I cut yours, too, madam?” The earl lifted an eyebrow when she blinked at him. Rustics were an odd lot, and women left to rusticate too long were the oddest of all. She wasn’t old by any means, but her expressions and mannerisms were old. Careful, as if she expected to be unpleasantly surprised at any moment.

  “Thank you no, my lord.” Her frown was aimed directly at him now. “I am your neighbor to the immediate north, or I am if you now own Rosecroft?”

  “I do,” he said, knowing full well the gossip mills in rural settings were never idle. “As the place has been neglected in recent years, I expect I will be spending a fair amount of time here, at least in the foreseeable future.” There was no part of him, however, seeking to spend the winter in Yorkshire. Picturesque, idyllic, dress it up a thousand different ways, the dales were miserably cold and prone to heavy snows, and there was an appalling paucity of company. Even York itself offered far less than London in the way of society and entertainment.

  “Will you rebuild the greenhouses?” Miss Farnum asked, spearing a bite of tart.

  “I honestly don’t know. Winnie, you have a serviette for that purpose.” Winnie paused in the act of wiping her mouth on her sleeve, then picked up the linen on her lap as if noticing it for the first time.

  “Heavenly days,” Miss Farnum expostulated on a soft breath. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was moving in a slow caress over the bite of apple tart. “Where on earth did you find your chef? This is the best dessert I can ever recall having.”

  “Better than your gran’s plum cake?” Winnie asked between bites.

  “Better. I must winkle the recipe out of your cook, my lord.”

  “I can write it down for you,” the earl said, polishing off his own serving. “It’s not very complicated, provided you get the crust right.”

  “You expect me to believe you know the recipe for this apple tart?” She aimed her smile at him, and he had to push the last bite of tart down his throat with a concerted swallow. Despite the awful black clothing, despite her hair being scraped back into a nondescript bun, despite the complete lack of anything approaching feminine adornment, that smile charmed. It made him aware her mouth was generous and her lips were full. Her eyes, he noticed, were a soft gray blue, and her features were actually pretty.

  Not classically pretty—her nose was by no means small, but rather would be accurately described as giving her face character. Her chin was cast in the same, probably Teutonic, mold, and her jaw followed suit. But graced with that smile, the whole was pleasing, winsome, and utterly, arrestingly feminine.

  “Start with a clean, cored apple,” the earl recited, “and one quarter of a piecrust, preferably made with butter, not lard, and white flour twice sifted, a dash each of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and salt added to the flour. Shall I go on?”

  “You know a recipe,” Miss Farnum said, her smile softening into a muted glow. “I own I am impressed.”

  “I can count to ten, as well, provided I am not interrupted. Winnie,” he waited until the child raised her eyes to his, “you need not sit here and listen to me boast of my culinary and arithmetic talents. Would you like to go up to bed?”

  Winnie’s gaze locked on his. “I can sleep here?”

  “You are more than welcome to sleep here. You are Helmsley, after all.�
��

  “Where? The stables are hot, up in the haylofts, anyway. Down by the river in the trees, it’s cooler, but the cows like to go down there, and my feet would get dirty.”

  “Child, you will sleep in a bed, with clean sheets, pillows, and a nice cup of peppermint tea to aid your digestion.” Ye gods, had no one taken any interest in this girl?

  “Will I have to take another bath?” Winnie searched his gaze, and the earl knew she was alert for warning of when he would start lying to her.

  “Not until you are dirty again, though it being summer, one can find oneself in need of frequent ablutions.”

  Winnie’s expression was wary. “What are blutions?”

  “Bubbles.” The earl signaled a footman. “If you would fetch the tweeny who was so helpful at bath time, she can escort Miss Winnie up to the bed. Now attend me, Winnie. When you want to leave the table, you inquire of your host, ‘May I please be excused?’”

  “Are you my host?”

  “I have that great honor.”

  “May I please be excused?”

  “Well done. You may, but don’t forget to wish Miss Farnum good night before you go. I gather she was concerned about you.”

  “G’night, Miss Emmie.” Winnie hopped down from her chair, scampered over to the lady, and gave her a tight hug around the neck. “G’night, Rosecroft!” She inflicted the same affection on St. Just, grabbed the footman’s hand, and pattered out, leaving the earl an unobstructed field upon which to upbraid Miss Farnum.

  “Miss Farnum, shall we adjourn to the library for a cup of tea, or perhaps you’d prefer a cordial?”

  “The apple tart was quite sweet enough,” she replied, seeming to realize the child’s absence meant matters were no longer going to be so neighborly. “If you could just answer a few questions for me, then I will be going, though I’ll collect Winnie in the morning, shall we say, and my thanks for the very delicious…”

  The earl stood beside her chair, waiting for her to rise, and as her voice trailed off, he offered his arm.

  “I must insist on just a little more of your time.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his arm. “You are my first visitor here, you see, and I wasn’t aware the custom in Yorkshire was to burst in upon a neighbor at table, without explanation or invitation, and disturb his meal.”