Colin's Conundrum: A Steamy 19th Century Romance (The Victorians Book 3)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  “I wasn't that either,” she reminded him. “Yes, my father owns an inn, but as you've pointed out, he's a brute. My mother was a whore. Middle class? Not in attitude, to be sure.”

  He nodded. “So, in your estimation, one bed is better for us than two? What if I snore?”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes at him, even though she could see from the naughty twinkle in his eyes that he was teasing. “Are you not interested? I must say, for a man, you have the strongest resistance to sexual temptation.”

  “Not as strong as you think,” he replied. Sluicing water over his head to rinse away the bubbles, he swished his hands through his hair a couple of times. “Well, are we clean enough now, love?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you invite me to sleep beside you, we'll be dirty again in no time.”

  A tingle of excitement ran up Daisy's spine. “I think that would be just fine.”

  Chapter 11

  “I must say, my lord, you smell lovely,” Farrell teased, wrinkling his nose in Colin's direction as they stomped through the messy fields among a herd of gamboling lambs. “I had no idea you'd taken to using such marvelous, ladylike scents.”

  “Oh, it's his missus,” Bullock added. “She's tamed him and made him all pretty and nice.”

  Colin snickered. After the most comfortable night he could remember in months, soothed into a relaxing sleep by listening to the hypnotic rhythm of his wife's breathing, he pasted a fake scowl onto his face. “I warned her about this,” he said, joining in the joke.

  “Too bad no one warned you,” Farrell said.

  “Oh, I knew you snoopy old women would notice and tease.” He shrugged. “It was worth it.” He quirked one eyebrow and poked out his cheek with his tongue.

  The men guffawed loudly.

  Bullock sobered and added, “She's a good woman. My wife and children adore her. They're so excited about the industry she's inventing.”

  Industry? Colin thought. I wonder what kind of mad plan my wife has dreamed up now. Somehow, I suspect she'll find a way to make it successful. “I adore her too,” Colin admitted. “I hadn't planned to take a wife, but… I'm not upset with the results. This festival tonight was her idea.”

  “Three cheers for Lady Gelroy,” Farrell proposed. “Hip hip hooray!”

  The other men took up the shout.

  Hmmm. I had no idea how much a party would mean to them. I suppose I will need to think about how to incorporate more celebrations into our lives. Daisy was right that they deserve that.

  “She would add that you deserve it too,” a voice that sounded like his mother whispered into his mind. “After all, what are you working for? What are you living for?”

  The warm summer sunshine and the friendly breeze chased away deep thoughts, urging Colin to get out of his head and be. Though it felt unnatural after so many years of ruminating, he tried. Not for long. “That reminds me,” he added, humor dying, “we have a task to do. I caught someone peeping in the window last night. He threatened my wife with a rock and scared her half to death. I can hardly believe the rock hurler is still creeping around the estate, but we must find and evict this person. We cannot risk him harming one of the women or children—or the animals for that matter. Once the creatures are settled for the day, we must scour the woods and send this interloper on his way.”

  The teasing glances turned grim as each man imagined his own family on the receiving end of such a terrifying experience.

  “We'll send him packing,” Bullock vowed, and the other men bobbed their heads.

  * * *

  “That is amazing, Katie,” Daisy breathed, unable to believe her eyes. “You have an incredible gift.”

  The young woman blushed with pleasure.

  Spread out across multiple fabric paper pages laid on the large kitchen table in the farmhouse, the young woman had painted a continuous pattern of realistic birds. It almost looked like a schoolbook or a field guide. Every blackbird's feathers gleamed in the light that poured through the kitchen window. The doves looked ready to coo from their perches on matching leafy twigs. On the center of each sheet, a brightly colored goldfinch took center stage, beak open as though ready to release an endless stream of chattering chirps. Swans lurked in the corners, ready to chase the unwary away from their ponds. Owls peeked out from the background, which had been painted a soft sage color.

  “I'm glad you like it, ma'am,” Katie said quietly, uncomfortable with so much praise.

  Daisy dragged her eyes away from the gorgeous renderings and took the young woman's paint-stained hands. “I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, but I must tell you. You have a gift. An incredible gift. If you were a man, I would say you should go to art school. Even apply to the Royal Academy.”

  “Oh, I could never!” Katie protested. “Go off to London alone? Leave my ma and da and siblings? My brother needs me.”

  “I understand your concerns. I'm not planning to ship you off tomorrow, certainly, but you have been given a tremendous talent. We must find ways for you not only to share it but to cultivate it.”

  Katie looked bewildered.

  Don't push. This is a radical thought, especially for a young woman not yet grown, who has lived a certain way her whole life. As the lady of the estate, it will be my duty to ensure the children do not miss out on opportunities. “Anyway, this pattern of birds is glorious. I adore it.”

  Katie's blank stare turned into a shy smile.

  “Do you like to paint other things?”

  “Deer,” Katie replied immediately. “Rabbits. Foxes. Badgers. Even bees and flowers.”

  “Nature then? Do you ever paint people?”

  Katie shrugged. “I've tried, but that's harder. Does anyone want people on their wallpaper?”

  “Oh, I wouldn't think so,” Daisy agreed. “That would be strange, wouldn't it? All those eyes staring from the wall, not even a frame to set them off?” She laughed, breaking the tension.

  “My lady? Is this good too?” One of Katie's younger brothers tugged at her skirt.

  Daisy turned to look at the childish scribble of bright colors on a plain white background.

  “Now, Bobby, don't bother Lady Gelroy,” Mrs. Bullock scolded. “It was nice enough she gave each of you a sheet of her special paper to play with.”

  “Oh, isn't that nice,” Daisy said. She met Mrs. Bullock's eyes and winked, smiling. “I'm ever to thankful your mummy let you all come and play with me today when she might have had you doing lessons. I will have to find a special place to hang this in the manor.”

  “Oh, no!” Bobby protested, hobbling away, his twisted back and misshapen chest hampering his movement. “I want Mummy to hang it in the kitchen.”

  “An excellent choice,” Daisy affirmed. “I'm so glad I got to see it first.”

  The boy beamed.

  “Is mine good too, my lady?” another child asked, this one not from the Bullock family, but the Farrells' son, who Mrs. Bullock was educating, along with her own brood. Daisy had learned that while Mrs. Farrell wanted her son to read, for some reason she'd struggled to learn herself and relied on her neighbor to help her.

  Robin had painted a heavy, dark cross with bloodstains and a rigid and stiff-looking purple fabric hanging on it.

  Daisy pondered how best to respond.

  “Goodness, Robin. Your mother will adore that,” Mrs. Bullock said, patting the boy on the head.

  “Such bright colors,” Daisy added. “So, are you all looking forward to the Midsummer festival tonight?”

  “Yes!” the Bullock children chorused.

  “My ma says I can't go,” Robin complained. “Says it's the feast of St. John the Baptist and no time for Pagan nonsense.”

  Daisy raised her eyebrows at Mrs. Bullock.

  “Mrs. Farrell is very religious,” she said by way of explanation, “as are we all, but she doesn't like anything she thinks is Pagan. I'm afraid neither she nor her family will be present
tonight.” Drawing close to Daisy, she whispered, “If Farrell shows up, he may end up sleeping beside the bonfire. She's barred him from the house before when she thinks he's being sacrilegious.” Mrs. Bullock wrinkled her nose in an expression that mingled sympathy for the man with enjoyment of the juiciest gossip the estate could offer.

  “Oh,” Daisy replied. “I knew someone like that. The late wife of the village priest in the town where I grew up. She was a lot older than her husband and very bossy. Kept him under her paw. She tried to lecture everyone on the 'right' way to live, in her rigid estimation. Even her husband wasn't holy enough to suit her. She used to nag him like a disappointed mother.” And when she didn't, he said and did the oddest things. I imagine, if she'd lived a bit longer, she would have prevented Colin's and my marriage from taking place.

  Then, she realized she was drawing a harsh comparison in front of Robin about his mother and glanced at the child. He seemed deep in conversation with William Bullock, his eyes fixed on adding rays of light to the painting.

  Daisy pressed her lips together.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Bullock said brightly, “I'm looking forward to tonight. We haven't had a proper Midsummer bonfire in all the years I've lived here. It's about time we all had some fun.”

  “I agree,” Daisy added.

  * * *

  “So, um, Lady Gelroy?” Colin tossed a chunk of wood onto the huge pyre they were constructing in the meadow.

  Daisy moved behind him, tucking small sticks among the larger logs and adding scraps of the fabric paper she had trimmed away to make the size fit the bedroom where she planned to install it later. “Oh, dear. So formal,” she replied teasingly, even though his manner sparked sharp anxiety in her guts. “How can I help you, Lord Gelroy?”

  “Bullock told me something today that I didn't understand.”

  “Bullock has a rather heavy accent,” she replied, pursing her lips and trying to look prim. “I don't always understand him either.”

  Colin stopped, turned and stared at her. Then, a snort she was beginning to recognize escaped his nose.

  “Handkerchief?” she asked, pretending to dig in an imaginary pocket while fighting not to drop her armful of twigs.

  Another snort escaped. Colin shook his head and turned back to constructing their bonfire. “Bullock said that you had some kind of… industry? Business? Brewing with the women. Is that true?”

  Daisy found an empty spot and tucked a leafy branch into it. “I was considering the possibility,” she admitted. “Mrs. Bullock, her daughter Katie and I are discussing such things.”

  “What such things?” Colin pressed.

  Damn. How do I phrase this? I hadn't planned to discuss it with him until we had something more solid. “Um, remember how I can make wallpaper?”

  “Yes. I like what I'm seeing so far. The maroon one in the kitchen is quite attractive. Did you make the bird pattern that's currently tying up the entire dining table?”

  “Katie did that,” Daisy replied. “She has incredible talent.”

  “Katie Bullock? I had no idea,” he breathed, and a hint of his old despair crossed his features.

  “She is.” The side of the pyre had begun to look a bit too stuffed, so Daisy rearranged the wood to ensure airflow. “She didn't know it herself. I mean, she knew she could paint, but she didn't realize… I think she's a true artist, Colin. She deserves to hone it.”

  “I agree,” Colin replied. “Thank you for finding that out. We'll have to find a way to hire her a tutor. I would hate to see such a gift wasted. Now, about that business. What does Katie Bullock's artistic gift have to do with a business, and how do you plan to fund it? I mean, you still have plenty of your inheritance left, but… but a business requires a capital outlay I don't think you're ready to provide. Besides, if there were an emergency on the farm… a flood or a disease among the animals… Let's just say that while I have every intention of leaving your dowry for you, as you requested, emergencies can happen.”

  Daisy tossed the rest of her sticks onto the top of the pile and approached her husband, taking hold of his arm. “Colin, I would never dream of spending my dowry for something like this. I believe we can create a small industry at minimal cost.”

  Colin dropped his last log at their feet. “How?”

  “Well, as I said, I'm barely thinking this out, but I believe we can get a lot of scraps from the Bennetts. They're happy to part with them. Has Mr. Bennett mentioned how much they spend on hauling away fabric scraps?”

  “He's complained a fair amount,” Colin admitted. “And?”

  “And, if he and we split the cost to haul it here instead, it would save him money and provide us a huge supply of little bits of fabric.”

  “Which you will turn into paper?” he guessed.

  “And decorate and sell. I may not be the artist Katie is, but I have a good eye for color and can make simple patterns, especially if I have a stencil.”

  “What makes you think people would want to buy that?”

  “Oh, I know they would!” Daisy exclaimed. “It's easy to get mass-produced, factory-made goods. That makes hand-painted items desirable for anyone who can afford them, and they pay. You would have choked to see what the vicar paid for custom-painted dishes for the vicarage. His wife was so angry at the expense, I thought she was going to burst into flames right there in the street. Listening to her shouting, I heard that he had spent more than double what Father did on his mass-produced dishes. It's madness, but it's undeniable.”

  “And if it doesn't?” Colin asked, gloomy as always at the thought of potential failure.

  “Well, think of this. The Bennetts already have the cart for hauling, so there's no investment there, just some feed for the draft horse. Perhaps a few pounds. A few pennies' worth of paint and a few hours' time in the upcoming winter and then we see.”

  “What do we see, Daisy?”

  “Whether anyone wants it. If they do, we re-invest and make more. If not, we stop, and we're out very little. Please, say you don't object, Colin.”

  Colin grasped Daisy by her elbows and drew her toward him. She went easily into his embrace. “Why do you want this?”

  “I'm bored,” she admitted. “Our home is small, as is our family. There's not enough to keep me busy, and… and housework is boring in itself. I like business. I like earning and managing money, goods, products, customers. I like selling things. Won't you let me try, love?”

  Colin looked into her eyes for a long, unguarded moment, seeming to search deep into her. “All right,” he agreed. “It's your money, Daisy. If you think this small investment is worth the risk, do what you need to do.”

  She smiled. Taking hold of the loose, white shirt he wore, she tugged him closer and laid a lush kiss on his lips.

  Colin didn't fight. It seemed his will to resist had collapsed. Instead, he layered a dozen—a hundred—a thousand different kisses on her eager mouth.

  Daisy smiled in his embrace. It's much nicer to receive his passion rather than watching him fight it. And wasn't last night delicious? The pleasurable ache between her thighs reminded her of their startling reunion.

  “What's that smile, my lady?” he asked her, one medium-brown eyebrow winging toward his hairline.

  Daisy ran her fingers into his hair, pleased that his austere lifestyle provided no budget for pomade. The soft strands slipped through her fingers. “It's just that you're so… different now.”

  He dragged his lips along her cheek and murmured into her ear, “You're irresistible. Call me weak if you will, but I cannot fight any longer.”

  “You're not weak,” she breathed. “You're the strongest man I've met. The strongest I've ever imagined.”

  Colin drew back, staring into Daisy's eyes with a look she couldn't begin to read. She didn't want to try. She just wanted his mouth on hers again.

  He complied with her unspoken request. His lips crashed into hers. His arms compressed her waist.

  “Ahem!” A voice broke
into their embrace.

  Daisy jumped back with a squeak.

  Bullock had appeared behind them, his arm around his wife, their four children milling around in excitement, even Katie. The young lady bounced on the balls of her feet despite the barely maintained serious expression she had plastered onto her face.

  Daisy grinned, willing herself to stop blushing, or at least for the sun to come out from behind the cloud that had just covered it, so she could have an excuse for her red face.

  “Glad we didn't wait any longer, eh?” Bullock nudged his wife.

  She turned a sour look on him. “I'm glad the animals haven't been in the meadow in a while. There are worse pitfalls than newlyweds kissing on this farm.”

  Daisy giggled.

  The smaller Bullock children, unable to contain themselves another moment, dashed away, running to the far ends of the meadow as though pursued by some unspeaking monster—or perhaps pursuing it. Their shrieks of happy excitement echoed off the trees. It amazed Daisy how well Bobby could run, given his deformities.

  “What did you bring?” Daisy asked the newly arrived adults, regarding the baskets in their arms.

  “Berry cakes,” Mrs. Bullock replied. “My mother's recipe, and some herb and flower cordial. I've no taste for ale.”

  “Are the herbs magical?” Daisy joked.

  The Bullocks gave her a sharp look.

  “What?” she glanced from one to the other. “I would have thought, Col—uh, that is, Lord Gelroy's mother, being a midwife and general wise woman with such a great knowledge of herbs, would have encouraged the revival of traditional wisdom.”

  “She did,” Mrs. Bullock agreed hesitantly.

  “Is that a problem?”