An odd silence ensued, one indecipherable to a boy whose arboreal perch was growing uncomfortable.
“You are not idle, my lord.” Mama’s tone was as conciliatory as Valerian had ever heard it. “You are one of the most respected amateur botanists in the world.”
“I thank you for that observation, and I hope our children can make something of my legacy, but the younger boys must be prepared to make their way in that world. Hawthorne loves the land, Willow has a knack with the beasts, Ash has a head for figures, and Sycamore has an adventurous spirit. Oak, thanks be to the Deity, has talent, and I intend to see that talent developed.”
What about me? Valerian caught himself before he shouted that question down to his papa.
“I suppose a year or two of instruction couldn’t hurt,” Mama said. “Drawing is a polite accomplishment, and Oak isn’t very musical.”
I love music. Valerian also loved dancing and singing, and it wasn’t as if he was completely inept at sketching either. The stable master said he had a fine seat and good hands with his pony, and Vicar allowed that he was an apt pupil.
Whatever apt meant.
“I’m glad you see my point,” Papa said, rising and extending a hand to Mama. “Our boys will be more than idle gentlemen, useful only for making up the numbers at literary salons. I want sons I can be proud of, men of purpose who pull their own weight and make a contribution.” He drew Mama to her feet and peered at her bonnet brim. “That is an interesting rendition of the damask rose, your ladyship. I shudder to think how much silk went into its creation.”
“It’s a pretty decoration. Think instead of how pleased I am to wear it.”
They kissed then, which was ridiculous considering that they were old and married. They strolled off, arm in arm, leaving Valerian with much to consider. He set aside his book and remained in his tree when what he wanted was to yell at his parents: I’m here. I’ve been here all along, and I am going to be a man of purpose who makes a contribution too.
Instead, he’d remained silent until his parents were out of sight, and only then did he climb down from the tree.
Many summers later, sitting next to Emily Pepper in the gig on a deserted lane, Valerian felt that small boy reproaching him. He was not a man of consequence, and he made no contribution. Such a fellow had no business kissing a lady as if she were the answer to his every prayer and fantasy.
And yet, Valerian kissed her anyway.
London was apparently full of men who knew only how to fumble, flatter, and bumble in a lady’s presence. Emily sat upon the bench of Valerian Dorning’s lowly conveyance and learned more about her own body in three minutes than she’d gleaned in the previous three years of waving her fan and waltzing.
She liked the touch of Valerian’s fingers on her cheek and chin. He stroked her face slowly, as if memorizing the texture of her flesh and contours of her bones. His caresses made her insides melt like beeswax beneath a candle flame, while her heart felt as light as the flame itself. His lips were soft when they brushed against hers, and his chest was all hard muscle.
Emily pressed against him, hungering for a closeness entirely inappropriate to a country lane. That was another revelation: His kisses could make her lose sight of common sense, of everything, save the rise of desire and the frustration of having too little privacy.
When he eased away, Emily rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I think you had best take the reins, Mr. Dorning.”
“I think I had best apologize.”
“If you apologize for kissing me, then I will apologize for taking similar liberties with your person.”
He took up the reins and merely held them, while the horse stood in the middle of the lane, one hip cocked.
“You will not allow me to be the gentleman in this, will you?”
Emily had no idea what he meant. “If kissing disqualifies a fellow from the ranks of gentlemen, I can name you a dozen London swells who should be denied membership in the better clubs.”
He slanted a glance at her, the most annoyance she’d seen in him. “A dozen men have kissed you?”
“To get their hands on my fortune, they’d kiss my cast-off boots.”
Mr. Dorning shook the reins, and Clovis ambled forth. “I don’t want your fortune. Your fortune is half the problem.”
Then I’ll give it away. Instinct kept Emily from saying that. Valerian Dorning was no callow swain to be impressed by grand gestures, and besides, that money had been hard-earned. Tossing it to the wind would alarm Papa and do little good.
“If my fortune is half the problem, what’s the other half?”
“My lack of one. You cannot entertain the addresses of an idle ornament, Miss Pepper.”
“You and I have kissed. You could at least call me Emily.”
Clovis trotted on, and soon they’d be at the village.
“I will call you Emily when we are not in company if you will move a proper distance toward your side of the bench. I cannot think…” He nudged her with his shoulder. “I can think of nothing else but you when you sit so close to me.”
“Good.” For Emily could think of nothing but him. She shifted a few inches away, which did absolutely nothing to curb her unruly thoughts. “If I marry, my fortune becomes my husband’s.”
“No, it does not. Your fortune very likely remains tied up in trusts, available solely to you or to the beneficiaries you designate. Generally, your children benefit from such a trust, most especially your daughters, but you could also leave that money to charity.”
He sounded very confident, but Emily wasn’t so sure. “Then why were all those fellows slobbering over my hand in Town?”
“Because you are sensible, kind, intelligent, pretty, devoted to your papa, and in every regard a lovely woman.”
Maybe Valerian Dorning always sounded confident of his conclusions. Maybe he didn’t know the extent of the Pepper family fortune.
“Might we stop at the posting inn?” Emily asked as they drew into the village. “I forgot to mail a letter this morning.” Not quite true, of course, but Emily distrusted the discretion of the staff at Pepper Ridge.
“I can take it in for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll only need a moment.” Though the letter would take months to reach its destination. She popped down from the gig before Mr. Dorning could assist her, darted into the posting inn, and slipped the letter into the hands of the innkeeper’s wife. Emily passed along an extra coin to buy the lady’s silence and was back outside in less than a minute.
She’d managed to mail two other letters like this one since arriving at Pepper Ridge, and each time, she expected some comment from the innkeeper’s wife. Each time, that good woman merely smiled and slipped the letter into the coaching pouch without a word.
County life had its advantages.
When Emily emerged from the inn, her escort was lounging against the side of the gig, looking delectable and distant.
“Will you waltz with me this evening?” she asked. “Briggs would scold me into next week for such a question.”
“Then Briggs deserves a scolding.” Mr. Dorning handed her up onto the bench. “A companion is not a governess.”
“I must practice saying that, so when I trot it out in a discussion with Briggs, I sound confidant. Will you waltz with me?”
“Of course.” He swung up onto the bench and sat a proper distance away. “I will waltz with all the young ladies and maybe even with a few of the young men.”
He did that, partnered the less graceful youths in the role of teacher. The result last week had been much hilarity and even some improvement in the lads’ dancing skills.
“Pair me up with the worst cases,” Emily said. “Lord knows, I’ve stepped on plenty of masculine toes from time to time. I deserve to have my toes trod upon once or twice for the sake of another’s education.”
Mr. Dorning guided Clovis to the livery and helped Emily down from the gig. By the time he’d put his gelding
up in a roomy stall with a pile of hay, she heard the violinist tuning up in the assembly room.
When Emily would have taken Mr. Dorning’s arm and joined the couples strolling on the green, he instead kept hold of her hand.
“Those men—the dozen who did more than slobber over your hand—did they… Were they…?” He looked around and bent two inches closer. “My means are limited, but my family has influence. I can see any Town swell ruined, if need be. My brother Sycamore is diabolically clever in that regard, and Casriel and his countess know everybody. My sister Jacaranda is on familiar terms with the Regent himself, and—”
Emily squeezed his hand to silence him. “You don’t believe in dueling?” Tobias and Caleb had both fought duels, though Emily wasn’t supposed to know that.
“If a lady’s name is associated with a matter of honor, the lady’s reputation suffers. In my opinion, a man’s consequence makes a better target than his physical person. If, however, those advances were welcome, then I am entirely overstepping, and you must laugh at my presumption.”
Emily was not at all inclined to laugh. “Mr. Dorning, a lady suffers untoward advances in the course of a London Season. Either her behavior has given rise to confusion in the minds of her admirers, or her admirers are a lot of bumptious dunderheads who will never pay any mind to her preferences. Those men tried to kiss me. I was not at all motivated to kiss them back.”
Mr. Dorning straightened as the violinist went into a flourishy, trilling cadenza. “You kissed me. Several times.”
Emily patted his cravat and linked her arm through his. “I did, didn’t I? And if you are very lucky, I might step on your toes this evening as well.”
He escorted Emily to the green and deftly handled renewed introductions. In the course of the evening, Emily did indeed step on his toes. More than once.
Marie Cummings was pretty, sensible, and the mother of three boys whom Valerian truly enjoyed. When she’d been widowed five years ago, she and her sons had continued to farm an excellent patch of ground, and she always greeted Valerian with a warm smile.
He liked her, he admired her, and because he owned the patch of ground she farmed, he avoided her assiduously at any but the most public venues.
“I do believe,” she said, taking the seat beside Valerian and surveying the dancers, “that this is the happiest hour of their entire week. The young people enjoy these lessons even more than they do the assemblies.”
Marie was hardly elderly. Valerian put her age at mid-thirties, and a very healthy mid-thirties at that.
“I enjoy these sessions,” Valerian said, which was the truth. He also earned a bit of coin when they went well. “Do you know Miss Pepper? I would be happy to introduce you to her.”
That was apparently not the direction Mrs. Cummings had intended the conversation to travel. Beneath the stomp of the dancers’ feet and the music of the fiddle, a slight pause ensued.
“I have wondered if you prefer men,” she said quietly. “You’ve never so much as flirted with me, never offered a naughty smile. Then I see you with Miss Pepper, and I know exactly whom you prefer. She and I met in the churchyard, and I quite like her. Take this.”
Mrs. Cummings passed him a folded and sealed paper, and Valerian slipped it into his pocket.
“I am to convey that note to somebody on your behalf?” Better that than let her cherish odd notions where Valerian was concerned.
“Convey it to your banker, Mr. Dorning. That’s the rent I haven’t paid you for the past five years.”
Five years ago, Mrs. Cummings had been sorely grieved to lose her husband of twelve years. Her sons had been in the unruly stage prior to adolescence, and farming without the aid of a spouse, even farming good land, had been a challenge few widows would have welcomed.
And yet, she’d taken on that task rather than uproot her family or rely on the charity of her relations.
Hounding a widow for rent had been beyond Valerian. She and her sons had needed a place to live, and he lacked the hard-heartedness to turn them out of the only home the children had known. Because he owned only the one property, he used no steward or land agent, but instead should have collected the rent himself.
He’d let the matter slide, asking Casriel to send the Cummings family some help at planting, shearing, haying, and harvest, and making sure they were included in the list of families receiving Boxing Day baskets.
“I can tear up the bank draft,” Valerian said. “Young men eat like horses, and horses eat like horses, and no farm ever—”
She touched his sleeve. “I’m marrying Stephan Carter. When he learned that you were treating my tenancy like a life estate, he insisted that we settle up with you. He said he wants to be the only man taking care of me and mine.”
Carter was an upright soul with a hearty laugh and a prosperous freehold not far from Marie’s farm. He was not yet forty, and his sons seemed more interested in seeing the world than growing crops in Dorset.
“You, madam, have done a marvelous job of taking care of yourself and your offspring.”
“Because you were generous, Valerian Dorning. The rest of the village took its cue from you. You went on as if widows embarked on farming in the ordinary course, when we’re instead supposed to become poor relations or remarry posthaste. You made sure I had help from Dorning Hall, just as any other tenant or neighbor is aided at the busy times. The miller, the blacksmith, the shearing crews—they all treated me fairly because you set that example.”
The set was ending, and across the room Emily Pepper was clapping heartily as her partner bowed his thanks for a dance more enthusiastic than graceful.
“You worked hard,” Valerian said. “Your boys worked hard. I have been lucky to have such a conscientious tenant.”
The applause died down, and the fiddler sent Valerian a questioning glance.
“You really are a kind man,” Mrs. Cummings said, rising. “I will vacate your property once the harvest is in, and I hope you will attend my wedding. The boys are well behaved around you, and my oldest is ready for these dancing lessons you offer. I’m not sure how that happened, but Stephan says his children also grew up on him when he wasn’t looking.”
Valerian rose as well, the paper crackling in his pocket. “Phillip will be welcome if he cares to join us next week. He might want to dance at your wedding, mightn’t he?”
“He’ll want to drink as much punch as he’s able, more’s the pity.” Mrs. Cummings pressed a kiss to Valerian’s cheek and gathered up her shawl. “Thank you, Valerian, for your many kindnesses. Don’t wait too long to pay your addresses to Miss Pepper. She really is a fine young lady.”
Valerian bowed, and Mrs. Cummings headed for the steps, her business with her landlord concluded—her soon-to-be former landlord.
Chapter Five
“We must have Valerian up to Dorning Hall for a proper meal,” Beatitude, Countess of Casriel, informed her husband. “I have missed him—I miss all of your siblings—and he should not be a stranger to his niece.”
She held that niece, Lady Fredericka Gardenia Dorning, against her shoulder, the child having obligingly fallen asleep immediately after her supper. If she ran true to her breeding—she was a Dorning, after all—she’d awaken just as Grey was climbing into bed with his lady wife later that evening, and all thoughts of a pleasant marital interlude would be shoved aside—along with Grey himself—as her ladyship heeded the summons from the nursery.
“I had supper with Valerian last week,” Grey said. “He is managing quite well, as he always does. Let me have that baby.”
Beatitude passed the infant over, tucking up the blankets, then sinking into a rocking chair. “Your daughter grows heavier by the fortnight.”
She did, bless her chubby little heart. “Is it time to ween?”
“Now that she and I are home, it’s time to add some gruel to her diet. Nurse says she’ll sleep better, and that has become a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
Indeed. Grey ha
d given orders that the nursery was to notify him if the baby grew fussy and the hour had passed midnight. He then brought the child to her ladyship, burped the little stoat when her appetite had been satisfied, and returned her to her crib. The nursery maids had grumbled at first, while Beatitude had stopped looking so exhausted.
She watched as Grey made a circuit of the playroom with the child dozing in his arms.
“You are considering how to present something to me,” Grey said, “something I won’t like. If you want to go to London to do some shopping, I will escort you up, but I cannot think the summer air in Town is healthy for you or for the baby.”
“I’ve had enough travel for the nonce,” Beatitude replied. “But you mention that Valerian is managing quite well. I wonder what he’s managing on.”
As did Grey. Charm, most likely. Dorning men learned early how to trade in that commodity.
“That is Valerian’s business. My brothers are of age, and a very wise countess encouraged me to set them loose upon the world.” The baby was fast asleep, but Grey kept up the slow, rocking walk. The thought of turning his infant daughter loose upon the world someday nearly unmanned him. Tabitha, Freddie’s older sister born on the wrong side of the blanket, had already gone off to finishing school, and Grey had to limit himself to writing her only weekly.
“I said to set them loose,” Beatitude replied around a yawn. “I did not say to abandon them to the elements. That baby is always so good for you. Did you know Valerian has received no rent from the Cummings’s farm for five years?”
The baby sighed, the sweetest, most contented sound a father ever heard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Marie Cummings has not paid rent to Valerian once in five years.”
A Woman of True Honor (True Gentlemen Book 8) Page 6
