by Gayle Eden
Half listening to a conversation they were carrying on, the table being ten feet from the doorway, across from her was the hearth and seating, a table was cluttered with gentlemen’s magazines,
Looking back at the males, Haven visually took in their differences. James and Adrian being more brawny, like the Duke, and Jude (little John) likely would be taller than them all. James had dark hair, handsome green eyes, and Aiden a mix of wheat and brown hair. His eyes were aqua blue. Little John was unique, having the height, broad shoulders, but curly blond hair that he kept cut short. Of course, there was Deme—with his tall grace and aristocratic bones and lush hair. They were all of them extremely blessed with assets.
Haven noted, when after Deme took a shot, he went not for the decanter but for coffee that rested on a side table. She could only hope that meant she would get some sleep tonight. It would be a miracle if he stayed sober, and she doubted he would, but apparently, he was making an effort for the duration his brothers were home.
“Haven.” James spotted her after taking a shot and strode over, hooking his arm around her shoulder, pulling her inside. “Have you been there long enough to witness Jude trouncing us all? I fear his head is swelled. You must play next and teach him humility.”
Amid laughter at that, and James giving her a squeeze before dropping his arm, she said eyeing a smug-faced Jude, “Not at all. I shall cheer him on. After all, he was the youngest for years and you both had the advantage over him.”
“Oh, I say.” Jude chuckled and winked at her. “You really must wait for me to come of age and marry me now, Haven.”
It was a long-standing jest among them all, having romped, played, competed together; they were always bantering and carrying on some bit of teasing. As they got older, it of course centered on mock fighting over Haven being their perfect sort of wife.
Feeling Deme’s eyes on her, seeing he was out of the game and half sitting on the sturdy table by the windows, she grinned. “I very well might, seeing as how your brothers will be dashing young soldiers, I’m sure my competition will be fierce when it comes to rivals.”
“Nonsense. Unless she can ride and shoot better than you.” Aiden jested and put his pool cue on the rack. He lit a cheroot and blew a stream of smoke.
“You will write to me. The both of you.” She idly rolled one of the balls on the green bias. Her eyes took them both in, suddenly flooded with wonderful memories, and their warmth towards her.
“Certainly.” James smiled, looking handsome, somewhat more mature than she had previously noted. Knowing their destination, she realized they were all of them grown now, meeting destiny. Which made her own age and life seem even more unsettled.
It was during more banter, that Lisette, in plain skirt and blouse, house slippers, joined them. Her hair down and rippling from earlier braids, she was coaxed into a game.
Haven joined in, though it was more fun than real sport, with much teasing from the brothers, and deliberate distractions to foul a shot either of the females made. The room rang with laughter. An hour passed before Haven was put out by Jude.
She continued to root for Lisette, who was not above pinching or tickling her brothers when they aimed. At some point though, Haven looked for Deme, and found him now settled in a chair, more in shadow, his boot heel hooked on the edge of a footstool. Normally he was foxed when slumped in that position, but he was obviously still drinking coffee.
His green eyes burned out of the shadows, and though he was obviously listening, attending, he did not seem to be amused.
She walked over and leaned on the chair opposite, regarding him as she muttered under the others, “Are we boring you, my lord. With our banter. Not up to your usual sophisticated wit?”
“I’m delightfully entertained.” He drawled with a dry expression. “Particularly by you, Mulhern. You certainly have my brothers competing for your attentions.”
“Don’t turn it into something vulgar, your Lordship.” She straightened and glared at him. “It is sibling affection only.”
“It is flirting, Mulhern.” He straightened but did not get up. “In case you haven’t noticed, my brothers are grown men. If you had an ounce of feminine instinct, you’d know that.”
Annoyed she retorted, “And what if it is. I suppose that is something you disapprove of also. My being so close to them.”
“You’re a coachman’s daughter, Mulhern.”
Though, he had said it before, this time it felt like a blow. Haven hardly realized everyone heard him and had turned to look at them. She stared at Deme and uttered, “Yes. I am. Forgive me for appearing otherwise.”
“Haven!”
“Haven wait.” She heard Lisette call out.
However, going through the French doors she caught James’s, “You are an ass, brother. A complete ass.”
It was nightfall. Fog crept over the landscape, making the scents of earth rise and thicken. Seeing a light still shining in the window of the coach house, suspecting it was not the Duke now, but Fanny, one of the head maids who was sweet on her father, and often brought him sweets and pies, she retraced her steps to the stables.
The groom and lads had the horses settled for the night. They had mucked and cleaned, preparing them for riding as well as preparing the stables for the guests at week’s end. She could see a lamp shining through a slatted door where they had quarters.
The mount she usually rode lifted its head as she passed by a stall. Its eyes alone shone in the gloom, and she stroked its nose.
Normally Deme could not get to her so easily. She did not know why tonight was different. Perhaps because of her earlier conversations with Lisette, or her father—perhaps because she could not attribute it to brandy or whiskey. He was sober.
Exiting the stable, thinking she would soon have to unpack her long buckskin coat, she came up short seeing a splash of white in the dark stable yard. The Marquis shirt gleamed amid the darkness and mists of fog.
“Where is Smert?” He spoke of the head groom.
“Having his dinner, I presume. Resting after a full day of work.” She folded her arms and noticed he did wear a long coat, open. “What do you want of him?”
“I’d have him ready the buggy in two hours.”
“I’ll have it ready.”
She could see his jaw tighten. “Never mind,” He shook his head. “I’ll take one of the mounts.”
Haven watched him turn on his heel and let him get several feet before she caught up. “Can you not restrain yourself for a few days? At the least do your drinking in your chambers. My father is busy, the grooms and lads are busy, and I do not relish having to sit out in this dampness whilst you soak yourself with whiskey or tumble one of the tavern maids.”
He stopped and spun, glaring at her. “As usual, you forget yourself, Mulhern. If I bloody give an order, you or anyone else should see it done—without question. As to that, everyone else does, but you.”
“I’m not your servant, your Lordship.”
“If you were, you’d find yourself out on your pretty arse.”
She smiled coldly, titling up her chin to regard him. “I will be gone someday, Fielding. I do have a life to live beyond dragging you out of hells and beds, risking my life because you have passed out in some brothel and got yourself set upon by thugs. Since I was sixteen, I have been the only one who makes sure your raking does not result in worse than a pounding head the next morning. I do not have to do it. However, I have done it. And I have held your head whilst you puked, your cock whilst you pissed, and I have taken your bloody sarcasm and curses and insults and excused them—before.”
She let a heartbeat pass, knowing she was going too far, saying what she should not, but Haven could almost stand him foxed more than sober. “If you go out tonight, I must go. I have promised the Duke. What is it to be?”
He looked angry, chillingly so. “I’ll speak with my father in the morning. Hopefully neither of us will have to suffer the other afterwards.”
He
r stomach tight, heart pounding too hard, Haven stood in the yard moments longer, cursing herself. Bloody hell. She had done it now. She had crossed the line.
“My lord.” She ran to catch him. “Deme!”
She stopped when he did, several feet in front of her, fog wafting between them.
He turned slowly. “I’m not one of your playmates. You’ll address me as Lord Fielding, or your Lordship.”
Haven wet her lips, her emotions too sharp and her eyes too, despite the gloom. The damp air made his hair glisten though muting his features. Never had those lips been so sensual, those bones so aristocratic. Never had his blasted form seemed so—wildly attractive.
She bloody well hated it.
“Your Lordship.” She said it softly; unwittingly the wrong emotions were in it.
When he looked at her, she knew he heard them.
She was utterly appalled. Swallowing she turned and ran back towards the coach house, knowing without looking back that he still stood there.
Chapter Three
He did well, the Marquis, staying mostly sober, confining his drinking to his quarters, limiting himself, though his hands shook and his thoughts were not welcomed ones.
Not an early riser, he had little choice but to do so, with the boisterous siblings running the halls, animals barking, and calling out—and no whiskey or brandy to keep him asleep longer.
“Your bath is ready,” Mossley handed him his morning coffee.
“Thank you. I’ll see to myself.”
The man bowed. “It is raining this morn, my lord. The Duke and Duchess are breakfasting in their chambers. Lady Lisette is reading I believe and your brothers are at cards. Shall I bring you a tray?”
“Yes.”
He waited for the valet to depart and then stripped down, going to the bathing chamber and sinking into a hot steaming tub. After going under several times he noticed rain lashing the windows.
He’d had that threatened meeting with his father, but Mulhern never came up.
Once he was in the study and after talking about the gathering, his brothers leaving, he realized his father was more interested in his plans and his life. He felt rather discomforted when the Duke mentioned that he was pleased Deme had been home more, and was spending time with his brothers. Once he began talking of his age and the Duchess’s, the children growing up, settling—Deme knew what was coming.
It came in the form of his father’s saying, “Your mother and I were thinking of touring Blakely Manor this spring. That is where the dower house is, you recall, and my favorite place for hunting. I did not grow up in this house, but was there most of the time.”
“I recall you saying so.” Deme responded.
“I think Wimberly will always be a gathering place, should be, for you all. However, Ellen and I have been discussing giving Bellmere to Lisette, on her next birthday. It would be hers in any case. There is acreage for James and Adrian, Jude—when he is of age. Do you know, I have an uncle in Sussex who is an Earl? He would have James inherit.”
“I did not know that, no.”
The Duke stirred milk into his coffee. “Your mother thinks that Marston might do for Lisette.” Those eyes lifted. “What is your opinion?”
“My opinion is, that it is up to Lisette. You do not raise a daughter to think for herself and then take her choices from her. If she needed to wed, it would be different. But she does not. You know she was late having her season. She is only just reaching twenty. Marston is nine years her senior.”
“I have the same opinion. However, I think it harmless enough to invite him here. It will only take observing them to change your mother from her course.”
“The Marstons are high in the instep.”
“I am richer and more titled.’ The Duke sat back with a grin.
Deme had to smile too. “So you are, your Grace.”
Shrugging, his grace said next, “We have earned our rep, your mother and I earned it by our choices and by the way we have raised all of you. I am not so sure about Marston. He comes from a very old line, and commands respect from the highest circles. Not a talkative or demonstrative lot, but I am curious, frankly, why he approached your mother.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. At some musical or other.”
Deme was surprised too.
His father went on, “I have oft thought that given more responsibly you would find your true passion in life, Deme. I think having Wimberly under your stewardship, may well be the thing.”
“You and mother are retiring from society?”
“Not at all. We will always be a part of it, and there are your younger siblings to see to. Nevertheless, I ask you to think upon taking over Wimberly. We have friends and enjoyment at Blakely.”
He further said, “You know this place, the tenants. It will be yours someday and I would rather visit than run it along with so many others.” His father looked over toward the windows. “I will be sixty this winter. I am fifteen years your mothers senior.” He grunted with laughter and looked back at Deme. “We spent our youth on passionate impulses and burning our candles at both ends. I suspect I’m mellowing with age, as is the Duchess.”
Deme heard both regret and wisdom in that tone.
He supplied, “I will of course, do whatever you wish, your Grace.”
“I wish—” The Duke held his gaze. “That you were happy.”
“I’m content.”
“Hardly. You’re board, unchallenged.” His father shook his head. “Since that mistake at twenty and one, you haven’t let yourself experience height nor depth, and I tell you, my boy. The depths are as necessary.”
Deme had gotten to his feet. “Do not worry for me, father. I can take care of myself.” He had made his escape afterwards, longing for a drink, but took a long walk instead.
Now he bathed, dried and dressed, finding the tray ready. While eating rather absently, he wondered how to fill his day. Since he usually drank, or took off to the village, he felt chaffed and confined, restless again—and dreading hours upon hours to come.
Leaving the chambers, Deme carried his coat and hat, and after seeing that everyone was occupied, he put both on, buttoning the caped coat and pulling his gloves out of his pocket to don them. Soon he was exiting one of the side doors. Rain beat down on the beaver hat and pooled on the flagstones his boots splashed though. He headed toward the coach house.
Passing the stables, he nodded to the groom who was in oilskin, coming round the side with a pail of water. Onward to the coach house, Deme traversed the cobble packed yard, and soon entered the double doors of the high-beamed lower floor.
The coaches and carriages, all manner of vehicles were housed here. Kept polished and in top shape, the place smelled of that polish and leather, but also of the wood beams and stone.
He took off his wet hat and undid a few buttons to shed the coat of water. The rain poured at the doors behind him. His boot heels echoed as he walked to the coach. For a moment, he merely stared at the one with the Wimberly crest—plush, well appointed, newly designed. There were unmarked ones as well as crested ones in London. He took off his glove and traced the design on the door—there was a time that was everything to him.
He sighed and put his glove back on. Walking over to a wall next, where neatly laid out harnesses were kept and all manner of tools, brass rings, buckles and such, he was withdrawing a cheroot when he heard a noise from above and looked up.
He had not been in the coaching quarters in years, but he assumed he was standing under the front parlor. Voices were muffled but he sensed they were tense voices. He was used to it from his parents, but he never assumed Patrick and Haven butted heads. Patrick did not seem the sort—though he would wager Mulhern found it hard to curb her sharp little tongue.
In any event, he heard a door slam. Then there were footfalls at the other side of the large coaching house. He walked a bit toward that, seeing the thick stairs, and Haven coming down them. She did not see him, and turned at t
he bottom, heading for the other side and opening one of the windows.
She stepped back as a rain gust blew in. Tucking her hair behind her ears after smoothing it. She was clothed in trousers and boots, a jumper over her blouse. He watched her cross and then uncross her arms before she looked down and around, finally reaching under a low shelf.
When she extracted a flask, he raised his brow, watching her straighten, uncork it, and drink.
She wheezed and coughed, half-bending over, sucking air in a way that made him silently laugh. She obviously was not a drinker. The flask was likely her fathers or one of the grooms. He watched her take three more pulls before she shuddered and put it back.
Breathing harsh she muttered, “Blasted men. Blasted rain.”
Then, as if she sensed him behind her, she whirled. “What do you want?”
He cocked his brow, noting her flushed face. “I came to see your father?”
“Why?”
“Not that it is any of your affair." Deme did not like her tone. “But I thought I would have him drive me to Wolford, to issue an invite to Monty for the gathering, personally.”
She blinked and then took a breath, letting it out slowly as if shaking off some emotion. Her tawny eyes seemed to blink it away at the same time. “It will be heavy in this muck and mud. The coach. I’ll take you in the light one.” She headed around him.
“Feeling that restless, are you?”
“I’ll just get my coat and then have the team brought up.” She ignored that.
Deme put on his hat and went down to the stables himself. The groom brought a pair of matched blacks and with the aide of two lads had the thing ready in a trice.
When she appeared, he noticed her black hooded coat of oilcloth, ankle length and the driving gloves she wore. Striding out the door, she nodded to the lad holding the lead horse and then climbed on her perch.
He got inside, settled on comfortable cushions, grudgingly noticing how smoothly she turned them about and had the coach rolling out. She had driven dozens of times, hundreds, and usually with less finesse. Yet he supposed she would not put a team at risk, even to annoy him.
