The Seduction of an Earl

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Hannah, please,” her guest insisted as she straightened.

  Could a woman look any more lovely than the fairy princess who sat across from her? Sarah wondered, seeing Hannah in a new light. Her pale blonde hair had been braided and wound into an elaborate coronet on top of her head, and tendrils of hair curled into ringlets next to her ears and down the back of her neck. The pelisse she wore .. oh, good God, I should have asked her if she wanted to remove it, Sarah realized suddenly. The parlor was warm enough. But she’d had no intention of welcoming the countess into her home. She expected whoever married Henry would despise her and require Henry keep hidden his bastard son. “But, you’re a countess,” Sarah spoke, saying the words as if the title prevented them from being friends.

  Hannah cocked an eyebrow. “And you could have been,” she countered with a shrug of one shoulder. “So ... we’re even.”

  Sarah blinked once, twice. And then she settled back into her chair, stunned at Hannah’s simple rejoinder. Of course, Lady Gisborn was correct. If she had ever simply accepted Henry’s suit, she could be Lady Gisborn. She allowed a tentative smile.

  But then she’d have to be married to Henry Forster. The smile disappeared.

  If she was married to Henry Forster, she would have to tolerate his heavy-handed manner, his humorless demeanor, his controlling personality. The man was so good in so many ways, but she had no desire to live with him. And lately, she had no desire to share his bed, either. He was handsome. Too handsome. She’d had difficulty spurning his occasional desire to bed her, finally succumbing to his soft words and gentle touches. And that was the problem. Henry knew exactly where to touch her, exactly what to do to get her to agree to his wishes. But she had been quite insistent on just how he would take his pleasure, making sure he did so as quickly as possible so that he might be out of her bed and on his way back to Gisborn Hall. She never allowed him to spend the night in her bedchamber. And for those occasions when Henry insisted she and Nathan spend the night in Gisborn Hall, she spent them in his bed. She was quick to take her leave very early the following morning, not wishing to stay for a cup of chocolate, much less breakfast.

  Now that Henry was finally married, and to a beautiful woman, Sarah had hope for her own future. Now, another man could ask for her hand, a man who would offer protection and a different home several miles away. He would give her the respectability she so craved. And perhaps children. She’d always wanted more children.

  She was nearly thirty. Being Henry Forster’s woman, or mistress, as the countess had just described her, was no longer acceptable. She longed for a life as a wife and mother to legitimate children. “I have looked forward to Henry taking a wife for several years, Hannah. You cannot know how happy it makes me to know he has finally done so. Although you might accept his taking a mistress, it will no longer be me. If the earl comes expecting to bed me, I will turn him away and encourage him to honor his marriage vows,” Sarah said quite firmly, her shoulders squaring as she sat up straighter.

  Hannah stared at Sarah in surprise. This was unexpected. “But, Henry loves you,” she said again, her tone plaintive, the words so simple they sounded hollow. “Don’t you ... love him?”

  Sarah could not have predicted such a statement coming from Hannah. Nor could she have expected such a blunt question. She gave her head a little shake. “I am merely the mother of his son. He loves me for that. Nothing more,” she tried to reason, her head shaking from side to side. “Please, ... Hannah.” The name seemed hard for her to say. “Do not think of me as his mistress. Do not think of me as his paramour or his ... lover. If you must think of me at all, then do so only as the mother of Nathan,” she pleaded. “And insist he bed you exclusively for as long as possible.”

  Hannah stared at Sarah for several moments, surprised by the woman’s advice and left wondering how it was Henry could think this woman loved him.

  Perhaps he didn’t think it, though. He had never said anything about Sarah returning the affection he felt for her. Could he possibly know she didn’t share his feelings? That their relationship wasn’t as mutual as he implied?

  Hannah finally nodded. “He said he would visit me every night until I am with child,” Hannah admitted in a voice barely above a whisper, finding the words easy to say to Sarah. “So, I suppose that will be at least two or three weeks, perhaps more,” she reasoned, thinking of when her monthly courses were due in the event she did not conceive before then.

  Sarah nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her teacup. “That should be enough time,” she murmured, not elaborating on what she meant by the comment. “Would you like more tea?” she asked then, realizing her own cup was empty.

  Hannah gave her a wan smile. “No, thank you. I need to make some more calls,” she spoke softly. “I have more bread to deliver.”

  “Mrs. Canker, perhaps?” Sarah wondered, her head cocking to one side.

  Hannah nodded. “Yes. And Mrs. Billingsly, too,” she added, hoping she had the name right.

  Sarah returned the nod. “They are both quite old and a bit infirm, but they are also very sharp,” she said as she motioned to her forehead. “And Mrs. Canker will be quite pointed in her remarks, so do not take offense.”

  Smiling at Sarah’s comments, Hannah leaned forward. “Thank you for speaking with me. I never thought it would be awkward for you to meet me, and of course it was. But I want us to be friends. Please accept my apologies,” she said, taking Sarah’s hand in hers.

  The older woman glanced down at Hannah’s hand covering hers, her face brightening with a smile. “Apology accepted, of course. Come for tea whenever you wish. And I wish you happy. I really do,” she said, a faraway look crossing her face.

  As Hannah retrieved her basket of bread from next to the front steps, she bid Sarah farewell. With Harold on her heels, she made her way to the other houses Mrs. Batey had described earlier that day. Mrs. Canker was as Sarah described, causing Hannah to blush at least twice with her gentle ribbing and ribald comments. Mrs. Billingsly, a much quieter woman, made a few complaints about aching joints and voiced her surprise at receiving scones and bread from a countess. “’Bout time we had one here,” the frail woman said, waving a crooked finger in Hannah’s direction. “’Enry needs an heir.”

  Hannah felt her face redden for at least the third time that day. “And I desperately want a child,” she countered with an embarrassed grin. “A boy first, I hope.”

  “Then it will be bottoms up for you, my lady,” Mrs. Billingsly said with a nod. “On your elbows and knees if you want a boy and on your back if you want a girl.” Her chin came up a fraction, as if to drive home her point. If she thought the instruction the least bit embarrassing, she did not show it in her expression or her demeanor.

  Hannah blinked at the old woman. “Oh,” she replied, not sure how else to respond to such a comment. Was the old woman suggesting ..? Of course, she was. Elizabeth had spoken of such positions. Many of them, in fact. “Well,” Hannah said as she glanced around the sparse cottage and decided Mrs. Billingsly was doing fine on her own. “I really must be taking my leave. Do take care,” she murmured as she made her way to the door and bade Mrs. Billingsly a good day.

  While she walked, she spent the time thinking of Sarah’s words and wondering at the odd impression she had of the mistress – or not mistress.

  Hannah wondered if there was more to why Sarah didn’t live at Gisborn Hall. As the mother of the earl’s son, she and the boy should have been granted rooms, at least in the guest wing. Sarah had mentioned wanting to run her own household, but at what cost? She apparently had no servants, which meant she was spending a good deal of her days doing housework, laundry and cooking. The woman seemed level-headed, seemed to run an efficient household, what little of it there was, and seemed to love her son over all else. So why wouldn’t she consider Hannah’s invitation? Sarah hadn’t said Henry forbid it. In fact, she thought from some of the comments Henry had made that perhaps the mother of his child was
a bit stubborn when it came to her independence, as if agreeing to live in Gisborn Hall would somehow rob her of that independence. And thinking about the way Henry spoke of Sarah and their son, it wouldn’t make sense that he would begrudge them the comfort of the larger house and the staff of servants (although Hannah was beginning to think a few more might be in order if they ever hosted guests).

  Sarah Inglenook did not wish to be Henry’s lover. Or mistress. Nor did she love him – at least, not in the way Hannah would expect the mother of his child to feel toward a man who so obviously loved her.

  Hannah thought of Mrs. Batey. The housekeeper had been at Gisborn Hall since before Henry took up residence there. Everyone knew servants were the best source of gossip and the history of a household. She’d simply ask her. Mrs. Batey was sure to know why Sarah turned down her invitation.

  The sound of running feet and Harold’s gentle ‘woof’ brought her out of her reverie. She turned to see a boy running in their direction, a huge grin on his face. Hannah stopped and called Harold to her side, not wanting the boy to be frightened of the large dog.

  “Hullo!” the boy called out. He was nicely dressed considering his apparent age, with a scarlet coat, white linen shirt, cuffed breeches, clean stockings, and serviceable shoes. A hat was perched on his head, although it was too short to be considered a top hat. “Your dog is huge, miss,” he said as he came to stand before her. Then he bowed, as if he suddenly realized he was supposed to do it before he made a comment about the dog. Harold took the opportunity to wag his tail in greeting before obediently sitting next to Hannah.

  Hannah curtsied, realizing from the boy’s dark hair, deep blue eyes, and stern facial features that he had to be Henry’s son. The resemblance was uncanny, as if she was seeing a younger version of her husband. “I am Hannah Forster, Lady Gisborn,” she said as she held out her right hand, intending to the shake the lad’s hand.

  The deep blue eyes widened as the boy regarded her. He stepped forward suddenly, took her gloved hand, and quickly kissed the back of it, letting go his hold as if her hand was on fire. “Nathan Forster, milady,” he managed to get out, his eyes still wide. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Allowing a wide smile, Hannah nodded. “And yours.” She indicated Harold with a wave of her hand. “And this is Harold MacDuff. He’s an Alpenmastiff,” she said proudly. As he’d been trained to do, Harold dutifully held up a paw. Nathan glanced from the dog up to Hannah, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. “You can shake his paw if you’d like,” she said with a hint of encouragement. Goodness, did the boy wonder if he was supposed to kiss the back of Harold’s paw?

  A grin appearing on Nathan’s face, he knelt down and shook Harold’s paw. “Good boy!” he said before rising to his feet. Seeing the bit of dirt from the road on his knee, he leaned over and brushed it off with a few swipes. “He looks like Maggie, only a whole lot ... huger,” he commented. His eyebrow cocked, not unlike his father’s did when he was considering a problem, and amended his comment. “Larger. He is larger than Maggie,” he said with firm nod.

  Hannah wondered about Maggie, remembering the cook’s mention of a Maggie, but at the moment, she was more interested in the boy. “Have you just come from your tutor’s house?” she asked, turning to walk south. The dower house wasn’t much farther up the road; the walk with Nathan would allow her to get to know him a bit.

  The boy sauntered along side, giving her a suspicious look. “How did you know?” he asked.

  Shrugging, Hannah thought to say something flippant, but thought better of it. “I had tea with your mother earlier this afternoon,” she explained. “I asked to meet you, but she said you were at your tutor’s house. I hope you don’t have to walk too far for your lessons.”

  Nathan continued to glance up at her, his facial expression giving away the turmoil that was going on in his brain. “Not too far,” he replied in an off-hand manner. “Are you ... married to my father?” he finally managed to ask. His brow furrowed into a familiar shape. Henry’s looked just like it when he puzzled over some problem.

  “I am,” Hannah replied with a nod, giving the lad a sideways glance, wondering if he would be pleased or ... not. Her comment was met with silence from the boy. He continued to trudge along at her side, his gaze directed straight ahead. Hannah couldn’t help but notice his manner becoming more sullen, more sad, as if her simple acknowledgment had taken away any joy the boy had felt at having met her and Harold. “I do hope we can be friends,” she offered in her lightest tone. “I would hate for you to think of me as a mean ol’ stepmother.”

  The lad seemed to stumble at this last statement. “Stepmother?” he repeated. “You’re my ... stepmother?” His voice was barely a whisper, but Hannah could tell from the question in his voice that he wasn’t taking the news well.

  Trying for lightness, she nodded. “Your father is quite proud of you. He told me all about you the very first time he took me for a ride in Hyde Park.” She didn’t add that it was the only time he’d taken her for a ride in the park.

  “He did?” Nathan repeated, his face still looking as if he’d lost his best friend. “Isn’t Hyde Park in London?” he wondered. “Are you from London?”

  Nodding, Hannah said, “Yes, it is, and yes, I am. Your father and I met and married when he came to London to acquire Ellsworth Park.” She hoped it didn’t sound as if they’d only known each other a few days before they married.

  The boy glanced up at her, still a bit suspicious. “Did he ... acquire Ellsworth Park?” he asked, trying to be sure he used the same word as Hannah even though he didn’t seem to know quite what it meant.

  “He did. He’ll be adding it to his farmland just as soon as the irrigation ditches are ready.” She paused in mid-step, realizing they had come up to the walkway leading to the front door of the dower house. “I must be making my way back to Gisborn Hall, Master Forster. It’s been a pleasure,” she said. She leaned down and took his hand in hers, giving it a firm shake.

  A bit startled, Nathan nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I mean, my lady,” he corrected himself. “Bye, Harold.” And then he was suddenly running along the flagstones to his house, not looking back, even as he disappeared through the front door.

  Hannah watched as her husband’s son made his way to the dower house, wondering at the boy’s strange reaction to her. Was he frightened of her? Was he worried for himself? Using the term ‘stepmother’ had certainly been the wrong word to use when describing herself. Perhaps Henry could help smooth things over with the lad. “Come, Harold. We’re going to the kitchen,” Hannah said with a sigh as she walked the lane to the estate grounds.

  Hearing the word ‘kitchen’ made Harold’s ears perk up, and Hannah thought he’d picked up his laggard pace just a bit. He’s old, she remembered, frowning as she watched him take the lead and head through the gate and up the cobbled path toward the house. Instead of heading to the front doors, Hannah instead walked around Gisborn Hall to the servants’ entrance off the kitchen. Harold was waiting at the door, his tail wagging frantically.

  Knocking a few times before she opened the door to peek in, Hannah allowed Harold to precede her and said, “Stay, Harold,” before the beast had a chance to enter the main kitchen. After his initial meeting with the cook, Hannah didn’t want Harold impaled by a meat cleaver.

  “Hullo,” she called out, ducking her head around the doorway from the hall into the kitchen.

  “Lady Gisborn?” Mrs. Batey stood from the large trestle in the middle of the room, a quill in one hand as she gave a quick curtsy and regarded the countess with barely hidden surprise.

  “Hello, Mrs. Batey,” she said with a nod. She glanced about until she caught sight of the cook’s large arms lifting a stock pot onto the stove top. “Hello, Mrs. Chambers.”

  The cook actually did a curtsy before saying, “Lady Gisborn.” She went back to her stock pot, dumping a bowl of cut vegetables into what was apparently to be that evening’s soup.<
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  “I wondered if I might ask you something, Mrs. Batey,” Hannah hedged. She turned to the cook. “Would it be alright for Harold to join us?” she wondered. “Perhaps you have some food scraps you need to get rid of. He’ll eat anything,” she added hopefully.

  The cook exchanged a startled glance with the housekeeper, her reddened cheeks suddenly aflame, as if she was embarrassed by the lady of the house being in her kitchen. “I just have some potato peelings at the moment, my lady,” Mrs. Chambers offered, motioning to a prep table.

  “That will be splendid. Harold,” Hannah turned toward the door she had just come through. Harold, rather careful about entering a room he had been summarily shooed from only the day before, took two steps in and sat down, his attention on his mistress. “Mrs. Chambers says you may have the potato peelings.” Hannah moved to the prep table, and pulling her glove from one hand, shoved the mess into a tin bowl, and took it over to where Harold sat. His tail wagged twice before he went to work devouring the mess. When Hannah turned around, Mrs. Chambers stood before her with a wet flannel.

  “I didn’t mean for her ladyship to do that,” the cook stammered, holding the clean flannel in her direction.

  “Oh, I have no problem touching potato peelings, Mrs. Chambers,” Hannah said with a grin. “As the only girl in Devonville House, I spent a good deal of time in the kitchens with the servants,” she said with a wave, hoping the older woman wouldn’t find her as much of a bother as did the crotchety old cook her father had employed since before Hannah was born. She took the flannel from the cook and wiped her hands. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Batey had returned to sitting at the trestle, her quill scratching a list on a long sheet of paper. She looked up when she realized Hannah was regarding her quietly. “You wished to ask me something, my lady?” she wondered, her manner suddenly nervous.

  Hannah nodded, noticing the cook had gone back to the stove. “I do not want to interrupt your work ...”