My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  His baby’s hand.

  “Are … are you married?” he asked, a bit of panic gripping him when he realized a burly man might come barreling through the door with the purpose of challenging him to a duel. Or just a round of fisticuffs, which Gabriel knew he would quickly lose. He had never stepped foot in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon nor attempted a bare knuckle fight in his entire life.

  Sarah shook her head. “No,” she said, a bit annoyed he would ask the question when they had just spent the night in the same bed. “If I was, I assure you, I would not have …” She waved her free hand to indicate him and the bed. “And I haven’t done this, in fact, since the last time you …” She allowed the sentence to trail off when she realized tears were pricking the corners on her eyes. “You cannot say anything to the others about Gabe being my own, though,” she warned suddenly.

  Furrowing his brows, Gabriel turned his gaze on Sarah. Gabe? “Why not? How … How do you keep him a secret?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I don’t,” she said, fighting back the bit of panic she suddenly felt. “A couple of months after you were last here, I realized I was with child. My sister had sent word that she was ill, so I left for Worcester, intending to take care of her. But she …”. Sarah took a deep breath in an attempt to stave of the tears she knew would come if she allowed them.

  “She died?” Gabriel finished for her, seeing how she struggled to control her sudden grief.

  The baby she held to her breast had nodded off, oblivious to his mother’s distress but his fist still clung to one of Gabriel’s fingers.

  Gabriel reached around the back of Sarah’s shoulders and pulled her against his chest. “But you … gave birth and …”

  Sarah nodded against him. “I could have stayed in Worcester. Lizbet lived with her husband in a cottage at the edge of town. He might have taken me as his wife.” She had to pause to swallow just then. The thought of marrying her sister’s husband nearly made her ill. The man was a hard worker, and he seemed to feel genuine affection for Lizbet, but he was not pleased with the prospect of raising another man’s bastard as his own. “But I received word from Mrs. Bristow that she was ill and that Mr. Bristow needed someone to help run the inn. So, I returned with Gabe and told them he was my sister’s child. He looks nothing like me, so …”

  Gabriel closed his eyes tightly and opened them to study the babe she still held between them. Jesus, he is a miniature of me, Gabriel realized, and then remembered Sarah’s comment. He’s spoiled, just like his father.

  The panic he felt earlier returned, although it was quickly followed by something else. Something quite unsettling and unexpected and exciting all at the same time. “He’s my son,” Gabriel whispered suddenly. “Good God, Sarah. When were you going to tell me?” he wondered, feeling awe and panic and pride and annoyance all at the same time. My bastard son!

  “And tell you, what?” she countered, annoyance apparent in her voice. “I was a tavern wench,” she spat out. “Although, I did not …” She rolled her eyes, still attempting to keep tears from spilling forth. “I did not sell myself to just … anyone,” she finally got out before a tear broke free.

  Gabriel held her a bit closer, not sure what else to do. He felt her hot tears on his shoulder, felt her body quiver beneath his arms. He’d seen the anger in her eyes, anger directed at him, and he thought only to comfort her.

  But didn’t he have a right to be angry as well? She’d borne his son and hadn’t sent word of the babe’s existence! Here I’ve been seeking out my father’s bastards, and it turns out, I have one of my own.

  Taking a breath, he wondered how he would have reacted had Sarah sent word. Gabriel realized just such a note would have arrived sometime in October, at the very time he was about to propose to Lady Elizabeth, the very time he was having such difficulties with his mistresses and during his first awkward sessions of Parliament. He imagined receiving a simple white folded note without a seal in the wax. Would he have opened it? Or would he have left it for his secretary? And, if he had opened it, would he have believed the claim that the barmaid with whom he had shared a tumble on a cold, snowy evening in December had given birth to his baby?

  Although Gabriel had never received such a missive before, he rather doubted he would have believed the words. A quick glance at Gabe was enough to make him believe, though. I have a son!

  Kissing Sarah’s hair, he whispered, “Thank you.”

  Sarah turned her head to one side, sniffling before a sob shook her body. “For … for what?” she managed to get out, stunned by his words.

  Rocking her a bit, Gabriel kissed her hair again. “For … having my son. For teaching me how to kiss. For last night,” he murmured, hoping his words would settle her. His gaze fell to the tyke that lay in her arms, one fist resting against her breast while the other was halfway into his mouth.

  Something a bit painful clutched his chest just then. My son! Closing his eyes a moment, he reopened them to find the babe still resting quietly, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He dared a glance at Sarah, whose attention was also on the bundle in her arms. “Tell me, and be truthful about it,” Gabriel said suddenly. “Tell me what I must do,” he insisted in a voice that sounded a bit like a plea.

  Lifting her head from his chest, Sarah took a deep breath and shook her head. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  Gabriel sighed and glanced down at his son. My son! “There must be something I can … do for him. For you,” he replied uncertainly. “To .. to help. I’ll acknowledge him as my own, of course,” he added, thinking there was no shame in doing so. Some of the most powerful lords in Parliament acknowledged all manner of illegitimate children. One even had six that he knew of besides his five that were legitimate.

  How could Gabriel not acknowledge the babe? The boy looked so much like him, there could be no mistaking him as someone else’s child.

  Sarah nodded as she realized what he was offering. “I want him to be educated,” she answered with a nod, her eyes widening as she realized Gabriel’s offer was sincere.

  “Well, of course, he shall be,” Gabriel responded, one shoulder shrugging. “I’ll be sure he has the very best governess, and tutors, as well. And, when he’s old enough, he can attend Eton and then Oxford.” He paused a moment, suddenly inhaling. “You can argue for Cambridge, but you’ll find I’m rather partial to Oxford, so don’t even suggest …”

  Sarah’s lips were suddenly on his, her kiss such a surprise it took him a moment to respond. Oh, to be kissed like this every morning! he thought, reveling in how her tongue had joined his to taste and tease. To wake up to find a son suckling his lover’s breast, despite that bit of jealousy he’d felt at seeing his miniature enjoying the same woman he had only hours before. To spend every night with her in his arms after slow, quiet lovemaking, or he in hers after the frantic, fast coupling they had shared when they had first closed the door to this room when Sarah had hurried up from the public room below.

  Gabriel was aware of Sarah’s hand moving down to the body that still lay between them, her other hand still beneath Gabe’s head. She moved the babe to the other side of her body and turned her attention back to Gabriel. One hand moved to stroke his hardened manhood, the fingertip sliding slowly to the firm sac below. “Take me one more time,“ she pleaded, her legs wrapping around his thighs as she moved herself down the bed.

  One more time? Gabriel repeated to himself. Didn’t she realize he would taking her for the rest of her life? And that he would be the only one doing so?

  Gabriel plunged himself into her wet warmth, burying himself as deeply as he could with a single thrust that had her back arcing so one her breasts was suddenly against his mouth. She cried out over his moan of pleasure as he gave into his release, nearly cursing himself for not holding on longer. It was unfair to take his pleasure before he had seen to hers, but even as he completed the thought, he realized she still writhed beneath him, her hands on his buttocks pull
ing him deeper, harder into her as her cocoon tightened on him in a series of satisfying, undulating ripples.

  He moved a hand down her belly, his middle finger separating her dark curlies until it rubbed over her engorged womanhood. And he felt her grip on him tighten as a wave of pleasure gripped her and passed through her and crashed and passed through her again.

  To watch her in ecstasy, as his own ecstasy was just subsiding, Gabriel was quite sure he had never experienced such a sensation. It can be like this all the time for the two of us, he thought happily as he collapsed onto her soft body.

  All the time was the last thought he had before he fell asleep.

  “Dada.”

  A tiny hand pounded against this shoulder, bringing Gabriel out of his brief slumber. His son – My son! – let go of his mother’s breast to grin at him, his teeth white where they were grown in. Somehow, Sarah had managed to get Gabe over the top of Gabriel and onto her other side so that their son could finish his breakfast.

  “Is he always this demanding?” Gabriel wondered before yawning.

  Sarah giggled, the sound making him smile. “Just like his father,” she teased.

  Gabriel watched his son for a long time before letting out a long sigh. “I … I must take my leave of the two of you,” he said sadly. “God knows, I don’t want to.”

  Shrugging, Sarah cocked her head to one side. “You’re welcome to … to come see him anytime,” she offered, hoping he would do so. Now that she’d extracted a promise of him seeing to little Gabe’s education, she would hold him to it.

  Giving her a startled look, Gabriel responded with, “Oh, I intend to. And you, as well,” he added as he leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  Sarah closed her dressing gown, securing the ties. “Do you have to travel far?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Just to Bilston. Trenton Manor is there. And my … my mother. She still lives at the manor as there isn’t a dowager cottage on the grounds,” he explained carefully. “I can’t really begrudge her living in the manor, though,” he added thoughtfully, wondering where she would live once he was married. “And tomorrow, I have business in Wolverhampton.”

  Sarah nodded her understanding. “And London?”

  The earl stared at her for a few minutes, wondering what she implied with the query. “I have been invited to a ball. My mother’s cousin, Lady Mayfield, hosts one every Season, and I should be there,” he explained. With you on my arm. “But I don’t know yet if I’ll stay in town,” he admitted quietly. “Depends on what happens between now and then.”

  Nodding, Sarah sighed. “Safe travels, then,” she said as she got up from the bed and lifted the sleeping baby from the mattress.

  Gabriel was up and out of the bed, the morning light accentuating his sculpted body. “You’re under my protection now,” he whispered, not wanting to wake his namesake. “As is he,” Gabriel added as he lifted a hand to rest against the one Sarah used to hold Gabe’s head. He leaned over and kissed her, soft and slow, and ended only when his forehead leaned against hers. “Be safe.”

  Sarah swallowed hard as she made her way to the door. She gave Gabriel one last look before she took her leave of the room and hurried to her own, all the while wondering at the earl’s behavior.

  You’re under my protection now.

  How could the man provide protection when he would be miles away? How, indeed?

  Chapter 20

  Lady Mayfield Knows a Secret

  Alistair was halfway to the back door when he heard his name being called from one of the rooms he had just passed. He paused, wondering if he had heard correctly. When he turned around, he found himself staring at Lady Mayfield, her head cocked to one side while one hand rested on the back parlor door frame. From the way her skirts still moved around her legs, it was apparent she had hurried to the hallway and had to grip the door frame to stop her forward momentum.

  “Lady Mayfield,” he managed to get out before performing a perfect bow. Some manners were obviously ingrained in him, he realized.

  Then it dawned on him that she had called out to him by his given name. Alistair, she’d said.

  Lady Mayfield curtsied and regarded him for a moment. She glanced back down the hall, as if to ensure no one saw them. “Get in here,” she demanded as she waved a hand to indicate the parlor.

  Alistair’s eyes widened. “Yes, milady,” he responded, realizing almost at once that she spoke to him using the same tone of voice his mother used when she was about to scold him. Otherwise, his first response might have been, “How did you know?” That would probably be his second response now that he was hurrying over the threshold and into the fashionably decorated room – not a parlor so much as a lady’s salon. A quick glance around made him realize she wasn’t hosting any callers at the moment.

  Then the door shut behind him.

  He turned to find Lady Mayfair, her arms crossed in front of her, leaning against the door. A rather lovely woman despite her age – Alistair thought she might be close to forty – Temperance Harrington was a stately countess, her golden hair swept up into an elaborate chignon with a ring of curls around the top. Her blue eyes, rather piercing blue at the moment, given the way she was staring at him, were framed by perfectly arched eyebrows and high cheekbones that were a bit pink. Although her lips were held in a thin line at the moment, Alistair knew that, at least in public, they were usually smiling, giving her a friendly, approachable appearance. Julia will look like her in twenty years, he thought, and then wondered why he would think such a thing just then.

  “Really, Alistair,” she spoke in a hushed voice. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Alistair opened his mouth to respond and then instead took a deep breath. He thought to deny his identity, but she obviously recognized him. “How did you … how did you know it was me?” he wondered, indicating his mode of dress.

  Lady Mayfield dropped her arms to her sides and pushed herself away from the door. Moving to the nearest settee, she lowered herself into it as she indicated that Alistair should take a seat. Sighing, Alistair took the chair across from the settee, his posture erect in the event he needed to make a hasty retreat from the room. What if someone interrupted? Or overheard their conversation?

  “I’ve known you since you were a babe in your mother’s arms,” she replied, keeping her voice quiet. “I probably changed one of your nappies a time or two,” she added, not realizing how that comment would sound to the young man who was suddenly displaying a reddening face. “Besides, you’re the spitting image of your father when he was your age.”

  Alistair swallowed as he took in her explanation. He knew his mother and Lady Mayfield had been friends, at least at one time, but he wasn’t aware they still moved in the same circles. She was obviously older than forty if she had changed any of his nappies! And she had known his father, at least enough to know that they did share the same features – his mother made the claim nearly every time she saw him.

  “Did you not think someone would recognize you?” Lady Mayfield wondered, her hushed voice sounding the very same as his mother’s would have had she asked him the same question.

  Alistair shook his head. “I … No,” he finally said before allowing his shoulders to sag a bit. “People of the ton only seem to see what they expect to see,” he managed to get out. At Lady Mayfield’s look of disbelief, he added, “When I escorted Lady Julia to Hyde Park, I was dressed in livery and wasn’t given a second look by anyone we passed. And we passed several of my classmates from Eton and at least three I would have counted as friends from my days as a …” He paused just then, realizing he had almost used the word ‘rake’. When one of Lady Mayfield’s elegant eyebrows arched a bit, he sighed. “From the days I wasn’t so … discrete,” he finished lamely.

  Lady Mayfield’s pinched lips suddenly parted into a smile. She lifted her face as if to look at something on the ceiling. At that moment, with her swan-like neck and décolletage so exposed and her sudden mirth barely under
control, Alistair imagined Julia, imagined how she would look in the same position, imagined her joy as he leaned in and kissed that fair skin, used his lips to nip her shoulder and her throat and her earlobe before he would pull her head forward so he could kiss her lips, kiss them until they were the color of berries …

  An uncomfortable sensation developed behind the fall of his trousers, and he was forced to look away just as Lady Mayfield lowered her face and cocked her head. “Oh, Alistair,” she sighed. “Whatever are you doing here?” she asked then. “Hiding?”

  The earl’s son frowned. That’s not quite how I would have put it, but … “I am following my father’s orders,” he replied simply, hoping she wouldn’t pursue the matter.

  She did.

  “Your father ordered you to take a position as a stableboy?” she repeated, a worried expression changing her features so she suddenly appeared older.

  “Groom,” Alistair corrected her, realizing almost immediately that there really wasn’t much difference to those who employed servants to care for the horses and see to the equipage.

  Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Temperance Mayfield sighed. “Your mother is worried sick,” she stated suddenly, her good humor having dissipated with his comment about his father.

  Alistair straightened. After the argument he’d had with his father, he had gone to his room, stuffed a few items of clothing into a small valise and left the house. His mother had probably been in her bedchamber or off to the theatre at the time. He hadn’t thought to send word that he was …

  “She thinks you may be in some sort of trouble,” Lady Mayfield continued, interrupting his recollection of what had happened the night his father learned he had sold his commission. “Pray, tell me. What has happened? You’re a viscount, are you not?”

  Scrubbing his face with one hand, Alistair shook his head. “My older brother is Viscount Breckinridge. Only if he drinks himself into an early grave would I inherit the earldom. I am merely the second son,” he explained quietly.