Jamie clamped the cold pipe between his teeth. “Our Mr. Belmont is a gentleman, and they had the child with them. Won’t be any mischief with a child underfoot.”
Beck reached the end of the aisle and leaned on his rake. “How many brothers and sisters do you have, Jamie?”
“Thirteen, that I know of. Some of the publican’s boys looked an awful lot like my younger brothers, when they had hair.”
“And you were raised in a three-room cottage. Children underfoot are no guarantee of propriety, though I agree, Matthew Belmont is a gentleman. It’s the baron’s temperament that troubles me.”
Until the words left his mouth, Beckman would not have given a thought to Thomas Jennings’s opinion of Miss Theresa’s outing with Matthew Belmont. In the past two years, though, Beckman had learned to observe the people around him and to take their concerns to heart.
Miss Theresa Jennings had strayed from the straight and narrow, and Beckman knew firsthand how long and hard the journey back to respectability could be. Her titled brother might well judge her first for this foray among Polite Society and make apologies later—if at all.
Jamie hopped off his trunk, leaving two boot prints amid Beckman’s careful work.
“The baron has acquired a baroness. If that don’t turn him up sweet, nothing will. You’re worrying for nothing, and your brother likely is too.”
Beck hung the rake on the wall, where no horse could trip over it. “Why would Nick be worried? He’s heir to a title, the world soon to be at his feet. His days as stable master are over.”
Jamie cuffed Beck on the arm. “He’ll worry about you, ye dimwit. Must I explain everything to you?”
“You do, whether I ask you to or not.”
“Young people are enough to make an old man long for the company of the angels. I’ll settle for the company at the Cock and Bull, if you’ll join me.”
The stable was tidy, the horses content. “One pint,” Beckman said. “We’ll have one pint, and then, by God, you’ll get after your half of the stalls.”
Which Jamie would have neater than a pin in half the time it took Beckman to do half the job.
“One pint then, ye miser. Have I ever told you, you can’t hold your liquor?”
“Have I ever told you, you need to learn to hold your tongue?”
They squabbled good-naturedly halfway to the village, though as they passed the Belmont lane, Beckman admitted that he truly was just the smallest bit uneasy that Theresa Jennings had gone calling on one of the most eligible bachelors in the shire without a chaperone or a groom.
* * *
Did you love him?
Mr. Belmont had let the question stand, no apology, no dodging about to preserve Theresa’s dignity, and that in itself was a form of respect. They would do each other the courtesy of being honest, here along the hedgerow dying back to yellow and scarlet.
“I did not love him. I tried to talk myself into the notion that I did, and I have often wished that I did, for Priscilla’s sake, but no. I was fond of the man, I respected him, and I liked him, but I knew better than to love Priscilla’s father.”
Even before she’d reached her legal majority, Theresa had claimed that wisdom, which was beyond pathetic.
Priscilla rambled along the path, the ponies swished flies and munched grass, while Mr. Belmont stood immobile, as the gentry of England had stood solid and steady through centuries, wars, and revolutions.
“I am sad for you,” he said, gaze on the lush pasture. “You gave up much, and your sacrifice has not been rewarded with the results it merited.” Despite the placid surrounds, Mr. Belmont sounded… quietly enraged. “Does this great fool, this blunderer who could not inspire you to love him, does he take any interest in his daughter at all?”
The moment took on a strange quality, as if Theresa had stepped into one of Priscilla’s fantastical realms, where dragons danced and princesses flew over enchanted forests.
Mr. Belmont was not calling Theresa a fool or a blunderer. He wasn’t even implying it, wasn’t hinting it.
“Priscilla’s father was killed on the Peninsula before Priscilla was out of leading strings. His death was sad, but I am ashamed to say that for me, his passing was not the tragedy those closest to him must have endured.”
Theresa was not nearly as ashamed of that admission as she would have been in other company. Mr. Belmont solved crimes in his capacity as magistrate, and he sorted the guilty from the innocent. He did not, apparently, feel a need to sit in judgment, even as he adjudicated.
“You never told him. He died without knowing the child existed.”
And Mr. Belmont occasionally erred. “I wrote to him, but who knows where letters end up in times of war, or whether knowing about Priscilla would have been a blessing or a curse as he lay dying. He made me promise that I would inform him if our acquaintance bore consequences. I kept my promise, and then he died.”
Theresa had cried for the fallen soldier, though. Cried for another daughter who would never know her father too.
“I am so sorry.” Mr. Belmont took Theresa’s hand and linked his fingers through hers, a slow slide of warm, masculine strength that surprised even as it comforted. “I am even sorry for the blunderer.”
Theresa’s own brother hadn’t thought to comfort her. Hadn’t done anything but blame her for nine long years.
“Shall we join Miss Priscilla?” Mr. Belmont asked. “She will denude the estate of flowers if somebody doesn’t distract her.”
Theresa walked with him in silence, her hand in his, her prodigious talent for recrimination stirring to life. She should never have blurted out the unfortunate facts of Priscilla’s parentage, never invited such confidences from Mr. Belmont. Now they’d have nothing but awkwardness between them.
She should drop his hand, immediately, lest the awkwardness grow any worse.
Except Theresa didn’t feel awkward.
She felt lighter, as if those four little words, “I am so sorry,” had turned a key in her emotions. The squire didn’t express pity, he offered compassion.
Then he’d taken Theresa’s hand.
“You have gone quiet,” Mr. Belmont said some moments later. “Are you shocked that the prosy old squire would disclose family secrets?”
If he lived to be ninety-four, he would never be a prosy old squire.
“Surprised, more at myself than at the squire—who is the opposite of prosy. I can hardly be shocked by another woman’s indiscretion when I was indiscreet myself. I still don’t comprehend why you would marry into such a situation. Were you in love with her?”
“Thank God, I was not. After various wrong turnings and flailing about, I came to love Matilda, but neither she nor I wanted me in love with her. Her affections had been elsewhere engaged, and no man, no matter how young, randy, or well motivated, wants to compete with another for his wife’s regard.”
That was not the conclusion of the seventeen-year-old, regardless of how eager he’d been.
“You began your marriage on difficult and lonely footing.” Much as Theresa had embarked on motherhood.
“The situation grew easier,” he said, after they’d walked the bridle path hand in hand, back to the edge of the garden. “When the boys came along, we found a rhythm. We had uncomfortable years of muddling along first, uncomfortable for both of us. For about two straight years, I woke up angry every single day. I suspect Matilda cried herself to sleep for those same years.”
Theresa nearly stopped walking with the impact of the next insight. “You told me of your marriage so my situation with Priscilla would not seem so unusual. I appreciate that.” Interrogating criminal defendants, Mr. Belmont would be very clever, indeed. “Does Christopher know?”
“He does.” Mr. Belmont kicked at the ground, sending yellow and red leaves flying. “Mostly because his dear Uncle Emmanuel could not resist one sly comment after another, about six months’ babes, the passions of youth, and so forth. Explaining that I wasn’t Christopher’s
true father was an uncomfortable interview all around.”
Probably as uncomfortable as some of the discussions Theresa had had with Priscilla, and would have with her.
“What about his real father? Those feelings have to be complicated too.” And not a little of the complication would be from anger, though Matthew Belmont had married with his eyes open—if any seventeen-year-old could be said to have his eyes open.
“We don’t know who that blunderer might be,” Mr. Belmont said, as Priscilla trotted backward a few steps, waved at her mother, then returned to her explorations. “Matilda never said, and I didn’t feel it my place to press. She told me only that he wasn’t in a position to claim her or his offspring, and she had known that when she took the risks with him that she did.”
“Poor Matilda,” Theresa murmured. “Poor Matthew. Poor Christopher.” Though she had no pity for the blunderer. None.
“Poor Theresa,” Mr. Belmont added, “and poor Priscilla. But today is beautiful and the company wonderful.” He lifted Theresa’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “There is more to life than our misguided pasts, and on such a lovely day, that is worth remembering.”
On that philosophical note, Mr. Belmont escorted them into his home, taking the flowers from Priscilla and leading his guests not to a parlor, but to his library. He went off to order them a tray, while Theresa arranged the flowers in four different vases, and Priscilla alternately gawped at the wealth of books and petted a brindle hound dozing on the hearth rug.
Theresa tried not to gawp. She’d envisioned Belmont House as a cozy country manor, a home weighed down with fresh thatch and at least two centuries of history and human wear. The sort of home where everybody knew where everybody else was at all times, simply as a function of proximity.
Though Belmont House’s dimension weren’t apparent from its façade, the manor house was easily twice the size of Linden, beautifully appointed, and intimidatingly spotless.
Mr. Belmont returned, bearing a tray with two glasses, a pitcher, and a mug. The tray was silver, the glasses crystal, while Mr. Belmont’s boots were comfortably worn.
“Priscilla,” Theresa called up to the reading loft, “come sit while you drink your lemonade. Shall I pour?”
“Would you please?” Mr. Belmont waited until Theresa had settled herself on one end of the sofa, then took an armchair to her right. The hound propped her chin on the toe of his boot, as naturally as if that were the intended purpose of any handy riding boot.
Priscilla paused long enough to pet the old dog, whose state of wakefulness was manifest only by an occasional thump of its tail.
“I want a room like this, Mama, with huge windows, and a balcony, and a twisted staircase in midair.”
“We have spiral staircases at Sutcliffe, though granted, they are made of stone.” Theresa poured two glasses and one mug of lemonade. Either Mr. Belmont had his own ice house, or Thomas kept his neighbor supplied. Sprigs of mint sat on the tray in one porcelain bowl and sprigs of lavender in another.
“I’ll take a touch of lavender in mine,” Mr. Belmont said, lifting a sprig of silvery green. “My sons call me eccentric, but the occasional hint of lavender, particularly in a beverage such as lemonade or even hot tea, appeals to me. I also like it on my pudding.”
“You eat flowers?” Priscilla asked, wide-eyed.
“Not eat them exactly. Here, try it.” He extended his glass to Priscilla, who took a tentative sip, her expression of skepticism comical.
“It tastes like it smells. Try it, Mama.”
Mr. Belmont next held out his glass to Theresa, raising it to her lips rather than surrendering it to her grasp. He left her no choice but to wrap her bare fingers around his and guide his hand to her mouth.
“I like it,” she said. “It’s refreshing and unexpected, though I can’t imagine lavender in a cup of hot tea.”
“When next you ladies are at Belmont House,” their host said, finally taking a sip of his own lemonade. “We’ll try lavender in our tea.”
When next you ladies are at Belmont House …. How casual he was, as if neighborly invitations came Theresa’s way once a week instead of once a decade. He drank from the same spot Theresa had, more casual familiarity, nothing the least bit flirtatious about it.
Merely a sip of lemonade. Only a wink, simply a clasp of hands…. And Matthew Belmont was only her brother’s neighbor. That’s all he was, that’s all he would ever be.
They finished their drinks with Priscilla hinting broadly that now might be a good time to discuss riding the squire’s lonely, neglected, sorry old ponies.
“The loan of a pony would be no imposition,” Mr. Belmont said, rearranging the sprig of lavender in his half-empty glass. “The ground isn’t frozen enough to allow me my hunting yet, and the crops are in. I have the time to impart some horsemanship basics, if you can spare Priscilla for a few mornings a week, and Tut would enjoy the exercise.”
“Tut?” Theresa asked. “As in tut-tut?” Odd name for a pony.
“Tutankhamen,” Mr. Belmont said. “The boys were going through a study of ancient history, hence Tut and Cleo. He’s the perfect little gentleman to start riding lessons on, if you’re inclined to permit them.”
Priscilla, to her credit, held her peace, but the longing and anxiety in her eyes made the decision a foregone conclusion.
“If it won’t be any bother,” Theresa said, “but Priscilla, you will be at Mr. Belmont’s beck and call, and at the first sign that you can’t keep up with your studies, the riding lessons will be cut back.”
“Oh Mama!” Priscilla flung her arms around Theresa’s neck. “Thank you, thank you!” She raced over to Mr. Belmont and treated him to the same exuberant display, barely giving him time to set his glass down first. “May I go pick some more flowers now? Please?”
“Priscilla Jennings,” Mr. Belmont said, sounding very much like a man who’d raised three rambunctious boys, “you may pick one more small bouquet, but I warn you now, no flowers grow inside the pony paddock. I can tell if you’ve been in that pasture simply by studying the grass, and you are not to hop that fence unless your mother or I are with you.”
“I won’t.” Priscilla fairly bounced from foot to foot with anticipation. “I promise.”
“See that you don’t,” Theresa said, though Mr. Belmont’s warning probably could not have impressed Pricilla more if it had been rendered on a stone tablet.
Priscilla bolted, the library door nearly slamming behind her in her headlong rush to inform Tut of his impending honor.
“That sound.” Mr. Belmont leaned back against his chair, a slight smile bowing his lips. “I haven’t heard it for months.”
He missed that sound terribly and wasn’t ashamed of his sentiments.
Ye gods and little fishes. Theresa rose, for she was alone behind a closed door with a man about whom she could all too easily get disastrous ideas.
“You have a lovely library, Mr. Belmont.”
“A consolation,” he said, rising as well. A gentleman did when a lady stood. “Might I lend you a volume or two?” If he found Theresa’s abrupt change of subject unusual, he was too well-mannered to remark on it. “The collection is eclectic, and you might see something Priscilla would like as well. Here,”—he led Theresa to the far wall—“I kept a number of the lighter novels the boys enjoyed.”
Mr. Belmont stood directly behind Theresa, an attentive host whose cedar and spice scent wafted into her senses along with a damnable awareness of his body heat.
“This one.” He reached over Theresa’s head and plucked a volume off the shelf above her. “This tale is about a fellow who was shipwrecked on a tropical island. All three boys devoured it several times, and I enjoyed it too.”
For that instant, when Mr. Belmont had reached up, and his body had been only inches from Theresa’s, she’d felt covered, as a mare is covered by a stallion. He’d loomed so large, and so near, and so… present, she’d resisted the impulse to duck under his arm and r
etreat to a safe distance.
Instead, she merely stood, her back to him, ignoring the book he expected her to turn and take from his hand.
“Miss Jennings?”
She heard Mr. Belmont put the book aside. Her peripheral vision told her he hadn’t stepped back. He was immediately behind her, tall, muscular, and as still as she.
A whisper of sensation on the back of her neck kicked Theresa’s heart into a pounding trot.
“Theresa?” His voice was at her ear, and she knew he was inhaling the fragrance of her hair, breathing her in much as she’d attended the sensation of his hands on her waist in the stable yard.
Theresa faced him, and he was, indeed, standing very close. He peered down at her, his expression unreadable.
“Did you kiss me, Mr. Belmont? Did you kiss the back of my neck?”
His expression cooled, with indignation or—possibly—amusement.
“I did not. I brushed my fingertip along the collar of your habit, where you had a strand of hair snagged on your dress hook. You would have snarled your hair, when you disrobed.”
Theresa was relieved, pathetically so—also disappointed. “You did not kiss me?”
“I did not, but if you’ve no objection, now I shall.”
Chapter Six
Matthew settled his lips over Miss Jennings’s and waited for her to wrench away—or slap him—but when she merely went still, he cradled her jaw with his palm and slid his other hand around her waist in a snug embrace.
Her contours were exquisite, all womanly grace, warmth, and pleasure. Matthew wanted to savor each morsel of her—to wallow in the sheer, male joy of appreciating a woman lip to lip. For too long, he’d stayed busy, he’d ignored a gnawing restlessness, he’d denied a yearning for a woman with whom to share more than simple desire.
His entire adulthood had been spent either married to a spouse who hadn’t loved him, or dodging women who’d marry him based on greed and desperation. Thirty-five more years of avoiding the marital hounds would drive him mad.
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