by Lavinia Kent
“I want to play ball now, not later.”
“Ah, my poppet, you need, however, to be more polite in your phrasing – princesses always say please.”
The little girl looked mutinous, but did not reply.
“I’ll ask Nanny when you’re heading back to the nursery. I know it’s time for you to have a bite and lie down, but maybe there’s still a little time.”
Pudgy arms crossed across tiny chest and a pointed chin tilted up. The foot stomped again.
“Mama, please play ball with me. I want to play with you, not Nanny. Nanny doesn’t throw hard enough.”
Wulf saw the deep sigh escape Rose as her shoulders drew back and then dropped.
“I need to go wash up before more guests arrive.”
“Mama, please stay and play ball with me.”
Rose glanced at somebody still hidden by the corner of the house.
“I am sorry, but you will have to play with Nanny. I really must go back in.”
Faster than an oncoming storm the child dropped the pout and scrunched her face, a large tear trailing down one cheek. Something clenched tight in his chest.
“Please, Mama, I want to play ball with you. I don’t want Nanny.”
Rose’s expression softened with the child’s tears, but she did not demur.
“No, Sweetums, Mama has to go in. I’ll play ball later.”
A second tear joined the first, then a third.
Rose knelt beside the girl, not minding the dust catching on her skirt. She ran her fingers through the mussed curls and planted kiss after kiss on her daughter’s face, each gesture filled with warmth and love. Wulf could see them whispering, but could not hear the mouthed words.
The child turned away and faced directly at the library window. She turned her tear-streaked cheeks up and stared at Wulf. Emerald eye met emerald eye. A warmth he had not felt in years swept him.
“Maybe the man will play ball with me. I bet he can throw.” The child raised her finger and pointed straight at him, more imperious than any queen.
Rose lifted her face from her daughter’s and followed the direction of the imperial finger. Her gaze met his, clashed. Her face blanched, losing all trace of bloom and color. Her voice remained calm, but he could hear the strain beneath.
“No, Anna. The man can’t play ball. He has important work to do. It is time to return to Nanny and go back up.”
Anna pursed her lips, prepared to resist, but sensing the iron beneath her mother’s quiet, turned and stomped off around the corner with all the majesty her pudgy body could manage.
Rose turned back to him, met his gaze one last time, shooting him a look laden with caution and anger, before turning to sail off in pursuit of her daughter.
What did the blasted woman have to be angry about? He was the one who’d been deprived of his child, forced to hear about her birth in drawing room conversation. What right did she have to look so wronged? He was not the deceitful . . .
He turned back to Mitter and barely managed to contain his discontent. He wanted to pound his fist on another door, he wanted to run to the yard and grab the girl. He’d cry the truth loud and clear. He’d not let Rose deny him – not anything. No. He would not think in that direction. For now he had to plan. He would have what was his. This he would not be denied.
Refusing to even draw a deep breath, he seated himself beside the secretary. He would not yield to emotion. He pulled over a pile of books and began to glance through them. He paged casually and then wistfully, choosing one with a series of battle sketches. He wished that the ancient world held the powers of attraction and obsession it once had. The drawings really were quite good.
A decade ago, before he’d faced reality, these treatises and illustrations on theories of Greek warfare would have held him captive for hours, and studying the difference between the descriptions of Greek battles and the more organized Roman formations . . . why, if the Thebans had only used a strategem here like the one Scipio had employed against the Carthaginians at Baecula, then . . . .
Rose scrubbed her face. She’d worked up quite a sweat playing with Anna. The unexpected heat reminded her so much of that other long ago morning . . . stop it. She would not think about him. It was bad enough she was stuck acting his hostess, she would not think about large hands loosening a sweat-soaked bodice, would not imagine how those fingers had felt tracing down her breast, the first unimagined shock as he’d outlined a nipple through her damp chemise . . . but she was doing it again. She had to stop.
The important thing was to keep him away from Anna. Although they’d never actually discussed the details of her daughter’s birth, his insinuations had made it clear that he suspected – no, knew – the truth, and that he wanted his . . . legacy. Didn’t soldiers always want a legacy?
He could not have her. Rose would deny him until her dying breath. He had no claim that she did not grant him.
She rubbed harder at her face, causing the skin to redden. She tried to put from her mind that moment when she’d seen him watching Anna, seen the proprietary power of his survey. Anna was hers. It didn’t matter who had sired her, what had happened on that sun-drenched afternoon. Damn, she was doing it again.
Why did he have this effect on her? Why did one glance cause fires to flicker in her belly and tingles to spread between her legs, overriding her every sensible thought? He was dangerous, a complication she could not afford. She would keep him separate from her daughter, separate from herself.
She’d given in to lust and passion once. She would not do it again. Her plan was to find a pliable, easygoing husband, something Major Beowulf Huntington most decidedly was not. She dropped the cloth into the bowl of cool water with a definite splash. If she wanted to proceed with her well-ordered life, avoiding Major Huntington would have to be the first item on her list.
Chapter Four
“Well, what do you think of your suitors?” Marguerite slipped in the open door of Rose’s chamber. She hadn’t yet dressed for dinner and held a needlework hoop in her hand.
“I believe you mean my guests. And, I haven’t really had a chance to form an opinion. They have only just arrived. Mr. Williams, who has recently taken up holdings across the village, has not even arrived. I do look forward to furthering my acquaintance with him. I hear good things of his character.”
Rose looked up from the list on her desk. Beside each gentleman’s name was a list of desirable characteristics. Sober. Companionable. Pleasant of countenance. Should she merely place a checkmark next to each criterion a gentlemen satisfied, or perhaps actually score them in each category? Scoring them seemed rather indelicate, but how else was she to remember the differences among them? She flipped the paper over to avoid betraying her list to Marguerite.
“You’ve already admitted the purpose for the party. Why not be candid and admit they are suitors?” Marguerite settled herself on the settee and plucked at her embroidery.
“If you want me to be candid,” Rose quipped, “I should call them commodities. At this point, for all practical purposes, I am inspecting their wares, not searching for romance. ‘Suitor’ implies romance. That is not what I am seeking.”
Marguerite turned, flustered. “That makes you sound so cold. Every woman wants romance. Next you will be telling me that you do not even care about your husband’s appearance. Surely you would prefer a tall, handsome man like Lord Sommerton to someone unattractive.”
“I am practical.” Rose chose her words carefully. “I would prefer to choose a man of adequate countenance.”
Marguerite pursed her lips. “I am not sure that sounds very appetizing.”
Rose flashed a grin at her sister. “I am not planning to eat the man, just manage him.”
Marguerite’s gaze dropped. She fidgeted with her hoop, pulling the muslin even tighter.
“Still, you will have relations with him. Surely, you want somebody you find attractive. How could you kiss him otherwise?”
Rose swallowed a furth
er laugh. Marguerite was so young and innocent; she just didn’t understand the practicalities of marriage. What happened in the bedroom was of little consequence in making a satisfactory marriage. Yet for a moment she saw Wulf’s emerald eyes melting with desire, and felt phantom hands whisper over her body. She mentally swatted them away.
No, passion was not important. She would not let it be. Wulf’s presence could be ignored. Her marriage to John had been just as happy after they stopped . . . no, she sought only contentment. But the desire to laugh at Marguerite’s innocence vanished. Rose had once prized such dreams, too.
“I seek to replace the companionship of marriage, not the passion.” It was time for them both to be realistic.
“Rose, you know that is why I am here. Why I finally persuaded Mama that I needed to come.”
“Yes, I do know. And I do appreciate the effort you’ve made. But it’s not quite the same. Life with a husband is so much easier in so many ways. I’ve already mentioned Anna, she’s well over four now, and I am not sure she even remembers John. She never speaks of him. If I don’t remarry, she’ll never experience what it is to have a father. If I remarry soon, she’ll probably never remember a time before her new papa.
“It’s not that I want her to forget John. I’ll always make sure Anna knows what a wonderful man he was, but it would be so much easier for her to accept somebody new into her life now than it will be in a couple of years.”
“I suppose that does make sense. Practical, again.”
“Practical? Yes, that’s right. Having a husband is practical. Do you know I’ve managed the estates for well over five years now? For the first four years it was simple. Everybody just assumed that I was carrying out John’s plans. I never had a question about what I wanted to do. Now, since John’s death, that’s all changed. Even when the steward doesn’t actually question me, he shoots me a look that makes me question myself. I can give exactly the same order now that I did two years ago, but now – only now – it’s very questionable and risky. Nobody likes having a woman in charge.”
“Well, clearly not. It is well known that the female mind is not suited to such tasks. We are made for daintier things than managing estates and worrying about numbers.” Marguerite spoke without lifting her eyes from her needlework.
Rose swallowed back her reply. Even so, she found herself stuttering, “But . . . but . . . how can you say such a thing? I’ve run this house and managed this estate for years. Why should it matter whether I have a husband or not?”
“Oh, my poor Rose.” Marguerite thrust her needle into the stretched fabric and took her sister’s hands in her own. “I know you have had a difficult time since Burberry’s death. If only Mama would have let me come immediately. No wonder you want another husband, somebody to help lift the burden from your shoulders. You should not have been left to manage on your own. Burberry should have appointed a guardian to manage things for you.”
“No, that’s not what I wanted at all.” Rose separated her hands from her sister’s and stood up. She resisted the urge to pace. “I am perfectly happy managing the estates. I don’t want a husband who will come and take it over. That’s my biggest problem in choosing a man. I need one who doesn’t want to interfere, one who will appreciate my taking care of him.”
Marguerite chewed on her lower lip, her eyes troubled. “I just do not understand you sometimes. You want a husband, but one who will not bother you?”
“Yes. Well, no. I want a companion, but one who will leave me to run my own life, my own properties.”
“That does not sound like a companion to me. It sounds like a –”
“A what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Planting her feet, Rose glared down at her sister. “You’ve fairly begun. Now you must say it, Marguerite.”
Marguerite stared down at her hands. “Well, it sounds like a . . . pet.” She flushed deep as she whispered the last word.
Rose drew air deep into her lungs. She wanted to protest her sister’s choice of similes, but could not bear to see Marguerite quiver any more. Besides, she knew there was some truth to what her sister said. She probably would be happy with a faithful hound, if only he could talk to her on stormy nights, play a good game of chess, and be a father to Anna. She grinned at the thought.
She flipped over her list and considered additions.
“That went well. You are a charming hostess. So organized.” Lady Smythe-Burke sat sipping her after-dinner tea as they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Or at least she would have sipped if she ever stopped talking. “And your staff, far better than one would expect in the country. I could give you a few hints, of course. When one’s been running a house for as long as I have, naturally one learns a few secrets. For instance, I must say you may be a touch too familiar with your butler, Watson . . .”
“Matson, actually – ” Rose tried to interject.
“Doesn’t really matter, my point is that although one must retain a cordial relationship with the staff, particularly those of long duration and trusted position, it is most important – are you listening, Minerva? I’ve seen you make the same error.” Lady Smythe-Burke turned to address Lady Minerva Moreland, Countess of Clarington, the only other guest brave enough to sit near her.
Lady Clarington, looked up with heavy eyes. She fluttered a scarf over her ample bosom. “Oh, I am sorry. I fear my mind must have drifted. No reflection on you, I fear I am always distracted after a carriage ride. Leaves one most exhausted, doesn’t it? I may just retire early, even before the gentlemen join us. I know if my husband has any say they can spend hours with their cigars. He’d much rather discuss horses and hounds than partake of any civilized conversation. He doesn’t understand a woman’s desire for interesting discussion. He never takes any interest in my correspondence – and you know how hard I work at it. And, if I try to discuss important matters like bonnets and floral arrangements he coughs and says he’s due at his club.”
“Oh, Minerva, I don’t know that that’s true. He’s no worse than any of them. Now, back to butlers and housekeepers. As I was saying, if a lady wants to maintain decorum in her home, she should never encourage any familiarity in her servants.” Lady Smythe-Burke stared at Rose, brow raised, as if daring her to object. “She should never inquire after health or well-being unless it directly relates to the running of the house. Of course, any malady which would effect how things run must be dealt with promptly. A footman with a sore tooth should merely be discouraged from moaning; however, if his cheek is swollen and unsightly then he had best be kept below stairs.”
How much longer could the woman talk? She’d been the greatest help in choosing guests and making arrangements, but Rose hadn’t realized there’d be such a price to pay. The whole point of this venture was to become acquainted with the gentlemen, not to learn how better to order in her home. She was very satisfied with the way things ran. If she wanted to make a poultice for her footman’s tooth, then she would. No matter what Lady Smyth-Burke said – to do otherwise was foolish. How could you expect good service from a man in pain? Not to mention the basic tenets of Christian charity. Rose couldn’t imagine leaving anybody to suffer if the pain could be helped.
The stir of deep voices from the hallway drew her back into the moment. Lady Clarington shifted on the couch, drawing attention to her low neckline. As the door opened and the gentleman entered, a wide smile lit her face.
“Oh, there you are! I was just thinking of going up. These country evenings can be so slow. I am always looking for entertainment.” Her eyes skipped over her husband, and unmistakably devoured Wulf, pausing for a long moment on his hips before moving up to settle on his lips. Irritation curled in Rose’s chest. It was so unseemly.
Clarington strutted over to stand before his wife, puffing his chest out like a guinea hen. “Minerva, my dear, you know we gentlemen need time to discuss the important details of life. We wouldn’t want to bother your lovely heads. Wear you right out, it woul
d. Major Huntington, here, was just explaining why Napoleon would stay put this time. Not at all a subject for feminine conversation.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too certain of that, my dear. I am sure whatever Major Huntington has to share with the ladies would be just fascinating. You know I’ve always been interested in soldiers.”
“I am afraid your husband is right, my lady. The destruction left in the wake of battle is not at all the fodder for a delicate mind.” Wulf addressed Lady Clarington, but his gaze focused on Rose. She sought to ignore the warmth she felt rise within her; the room was overheated.
“I must beg to disagree,” Rose stated. “Major Huntington, how is a lady to understand the world if she is sheltered from its rougher side?”
“Why would a lady want to understand the world when she could put her time to so much better use selecting bonnets?”
Rose was about to bite out some suitable setdown, but Lady Clarington responded first.
“I daresay you are right. It is the responsibility of ladies to provide a restful haven from the harsh realities of the world. We must constantly seek to provide distraction from unpleasantness. Don’t you agree, Major Huntington?”
“Why, yes, I would say you have just aptly described the true function of a lady in our society.”
Lady Clarington sparkled up at him, unaware of the undercurrent of his words. Rose was not so oblivious. She felt his sting.
“I am afraid I must beg to disagree again,” Rose said. “While it is true that motherhood and ladylike accomplishments may somewhat soften the appearance of feminine strength, it would be a dull man indeed, who misjudged our power.”
“Oh, Rose, you go too far.” For the first time Marguerite spoke up from her seat in the corner. “I don’t think women should be described as powerful. I know I wouldn’t care to be.”
