Little baggage!
She never seemed to fear crossing swords over coffee. A smile tugged his mouth and he wiped it away with a deep swallow of brandy.
Well, perhaps he'd have her thrown out after breakfast.
Yes, give her one more go round, for it wouldn't do to have her thinking she had got the best of him. Yes, after breakfast would do far better than at first light.
But then she came downstairs the next morning in breeches.
He nearly dropped his coffee cup. They looked to be Theo's old clothes—breeches, riding boots, a billowing white shirt too large for her, and a riding coat as well. She only lacked a cravat and waistcoat to look a man—except there was nothing masculine about that figure of hers.
Tightened his grip on the china, he ignored the coffee that had sloshed out of his cup onto the table, and demanded, "What in blazes are you dressed indecent for?"
He had raised his voice and the dogs' nails clattered on the wood as they skittered under the table.
Molly put a hand on her hip and stared back at him. "If a gent can wear breeches and have it seems decent, that's decent enough for me. Besides, Theo wants me to jump today and if I'm to ride astride it's this or nothing and I think horse hair would itch me bare arse."
He almost burst out with a laugh and had to change it to a cough. He scowled at her. Gads, but looked even younger today than ever.
With a shake of her head, she moved to the sideboard to fill a plate. "You've not eaten again this morning, and you smell of stale brandy! No wonder you're so cross. And here's Mrs. Brown making the best buttered eggs."
"I'm not hungry!" he snapped.
"Yes, you are. It's why you're so disagreeable in the mornings."
"That's a fancy word for the likes of you."
She grinned. "Ain't it just, ducks. Now start on that, if you can. I'm going to fetch you somethin' I used to make for my uncle's head on one of his late mornings."
He started to tell her she was impertinent, but he had said that before, and she was gone already from the room. He pushed the plate away. The smell of warm eggs and bacon tempted a little, but it also set his stomach turning.
He put a hand on it. His head did ache, and his insides churned sour from too much brandy the night before. A moment later she returned and put a pewter mug in front of him.
He glared at the white froth. "What's that?"
"A panda—rum, sugar, butter, nutmeg, and lemon."
He pushed it away. "Bah! Sick room food for an invalid."
"Yes, and a sick room is just where you'll be if you don't care for yourself. Drinking too much and not eating! Your dogs get better than you give yourself! But drink it or throw it out as suits you! I've a horse to ride."
With that she strode from the room, stopping only long enough to take a bite of bacon with her.
He glanced at the mug again, his stomach turning. Picking it up, he sniffed it, and drained it. It went down sweet and tasty, and after a few moments, settled his insides like a blessing.
Blast the girl for being right.
He glared at the door a moment, and glanced at the rapidly cooling bacon and eggs. Mrs. Brown did indeed make a good set of buttered eggs—fluffy things. Pulling the plate close, he began to eat. From under the table, one of the dogs nudged his knee and he slipped the beast a sliver of ham and thought about fetching himself some more eggs.
But this wasn't due to anything she'd said, he told himself. No, he was just hungry.
That evening he watched her play backgammon with his son as Plato rested his head on his knee. He glared at them, but they paid no heed, and so he picked up the latest edition of The Sporting Magazine and opened it.
Theo was teasing the girl about having nearly coming unseated in trotting over no more than a fallen branch, and she kept laughing at his jokes and promising revenge upon him in the game. Finally, to keep from wandering over to join them, he got up and strode out, his dogs at his heels.
Only instead of going to his study, he did something he had not done in years.
He went to Julia's room.
With a candlestick in one hand, he stepped into the room. He shut the dogs out, left them to scratch on the door, though they soon stopped.
The cold of the place wrapped around him—and the faint scent of roses. He almost turned and walked out, but that would make him a coward. He wasn't that. Mouth set, he stiffened and stepped forward.
Her portrait still hung here. He'd never been able to bring himself to order it taken down—or this room made over. He ought to have. Ought to have ordered everything sold, or put up in the attic, or burned. Only he could not let go of it. Not a stick of it. Nor an ounce of her.
Oh, Julia!
He stared at the painting now, the pain twisting in his heart as it had almost twenty years ago. Tall, slim, graceful, black-haired, with eyes the color of fine sherry. Terrance looked so like her. But this Molly of Theo's seemed a different creature entirely.
Only the laughter was the same—bright as a candle.
He glared at the portrait.
Candles burned out. Or could be snuffed. He knew how to do that.
Turning on his heel, he strode out, shutting the door behind him as if that could shut away his past. His regrets.
He'd throw that girl out of the house tomorrow. By gads he would. He'd not let any son of his make the same mistakes he had with a wrong marriage.
But he didn't order her gone.
He tried—gads, he tried. Only, just as with that blasted room of Julia's, he could not bring himself to give the orders he knew he should. He despised himself for that weakness. And that made him desperate.
Desperate enough to swallow enough of his pride to take up a pen and write a letter that would put an end to this farce.
And he kept telling himself that it was all for Theo's good.
But was it?
#
"You're not supposed to like him, and you're supposed to have him dislike you! But just look at you—do you call that scandalous? You'll have to leave off your shift and go about looking more a strumpet and less like a girl trying to be proper!"
Shoulders squared back, Molly stared at her reflection. Her lecture to herself wasn't taking.
She had tried on the thin yellow muslin gown with and without a shift. She ought to wear it without—you could see straight through the muslin.
She could not do it.
"A fine harlot you make," she said, glaring at herself.
It was no use. If she went downstairs without her shift on, her blushes would betray her, and so she'd be best off to wear it. At least her shift ended mid-thigh so the muslin would show her legs. But her wearing breeches hadn't done the trick with the squire, either.
Theo had sworn it would.
But Theo knew little enough about his father, it seemed, and the squire knew even less about his son. Oh, these Winslow men! Hard heads, and no sense in them. If only she could put the two of them in a room and make them talk to each other.
However, she suspected that they'd turn their backs to each other and pretend the other one wasn't there. That seemed to be how a Winslow dealt with something he did not want to notice.
"And how am I ever going to earn a penny at this rate?" she muttered. Only it wasn't the money that she thought about as she lay in bed at night. It was how good Theo's arms felt around her, and how much she enjoyed her evenings with him.
How could she sort out this matter between Theo and his father?
In the past week, the more time she spent with the squire the more she found herself seeing a lonely old man, afraid for his son's future. A man who hated to ever say he'd made a mistake. And a father worried for his son. She longed to tell him she didn't mean Theo anything but good.
But she would also have to tell him about Theo's worries over his brother's inheritance. And she doubted the squire would have much admiration for Theo's plan.
Oh, but Theo really should not be courting his father's wrath
. Only look what bitterness such rows had left as a legacy for Lady Thorpe's family—and even in her own. She didn't want more "if only's" for Theo.
Still, she had to remember that the squire was a man who had disowned his eldest. He was flint-hearted, and Theo was best away from that. But she'd started to think that flint in him ran about as deep as paper. Mrs. Brown had certainly seemed to think that if the squire's eldest came home to be raged at the entire matter might be considered settled by the squire.
Only Terrance, it seemed, was even less likely to obey his father than was Theo.
Well, at least she no longer worried about this taking so long. She had reason enough to give Sallie her notice when she got back to London. And she hoped to do so with the money for her inn in her pocket. Yes, that was the true brightness behind the clouds of worry. Just like the sky that day.
Despite the day starting warm, by mid-morning the weather looked uncertain. Clouds piled in the west, tumbling into each other and turning dark with rain. The pending storm left the air still and heavy, and left Molly restless.
Theo had wanted her to go riding with him that morning. He insisted she was ready for a gallop, but with muscles still aching from their last lesson, she had sent him away, telling him she wanted to ready herself for that promised trip to the Norman tower. Now she rather thought she might try to lure him into billiards instead.
Or perhaps into visiting Lady Thorpe again. That would be dry enough if they took a closed carriage.
She had gone once on her own to visit Lady Thorpe. Sylvain had been there again—and was introduced as the Duchess of York. She had become Lady Thorpe's lost niece, and while it had unsettled her at first, she soon discovered she enjoyed being someone's relative. A relief that, since the Winslows were enough to make anyone wonder about the pleasures of having blood kin.
A half hour later, and after more almond cakes than she could count, she had found herself quite at home.
It seemed, too, as if Lady Thorpe's too protective butler, Grieg, had decided she intended no harm. Or perhaps he trusted Sylvain to keep an eye on her. In either case, he had been almost pleasant.
But going to Lady Thorpe's was like stepping into a dream. And a body always had to wake up. She knew that. However, she didn't think that knowledge would give her feelings any protection.
With a shake of her head, she went downstairs.
The squire, however, was not there to scandalize with the thin muslin. That left her rather put out—all that effort and only Simpson, two of the maids, and a footman whose eyes grew large as she walked past him to impress with her wicked ways.
Perhaps she ought to have taken Theo up on his suggestions to ride in the altogether.
Going off to the billiards room, she practiced her shots and she kept watching the drive for Theo's return.
She had no idea which horse he had taken from the stable. In truth, she actually had a difficult time telling one from another, unless they happened to be different colors. But she would never admit that to Theo. He seemed to regard each horse as a close friend. Much as did the squire. They were alike in that, as in so many areas.
Her shot went wide, but she did not even take note, for ideas had begun to spin.
So alike—and she certainly knew Theo's weakness. He had shown it the first day they met in how he had reacted to her calling him a boy. It might be the same with his father. Gracious, this had been there before her all along. Only she had not wanted to see it—had not wanted to recognize the truth of it.
It would work. But, afterwards, Theo might well not want anything more to do with her. Still, she had to tell him about this new idea to earn him his father's wrath. And he might feel better about everything, too, if it got him what he wanted. So all might yet be well.
Thunder grumbled and she glanced out the windows to glimpse a horseman galloping toward the house with reckless ease.
It had to be Theo.
Putting away her billiards stick, she headed toward the stable, her heart beating fast as she tried to sort out the exact way to tell him. She would start first with the news that she had exactly the plan to work. And she tried not to think about how this also meant the end of her time at Winslow Park, and with Theo.
But perhaps, later, he would come help her with her inn? After all, he would have nothing else to do.
And perhaps I might as well wish for wings.
Hurrying her steps, she ran outside, her skirts lifted.
She had forgotten about her scandalous dress until she stepped into the stable-yard and the groom stopped in the act of leading a puffing gray horse into the stables.
"Theo, I've just the—"
She broke off the words as the gentleman turned and she realized that he wasn't Theo, but a taller, broader version of him. He wore his hat at the same rakish angle. But his eyes were tawny brown, not blue.
"You're not Theo!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As soon as the words slipped out, she knew how stupid they sounded. But she had not been able to keep the disappointment within her. Not Theo—Terrance.
He grinned at her, an uncannily similar expression to Theo's. "Perceptive of you. However, you certainly must be his fancy piece—and I can see why he took you up."
Her cheeks warmed, but there was little she could do about it, or about how she must look in the thin muslin of her gown. He was staring at her, his gaze assessing. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she gave him back just as much measuring.
A brown riding coat hung open, showing a buff waistcoat stretched over a broad chest. Black riding boots and buckskin breeches shaped muscular legs, looking as expensive as only clothes made to a perfect fit could. Instead of a white cravat, he wore a blue kerchief with white dots knotted at his neck.
He had the look of a Winslow in his square jaw and straight nose. With his glittering eyes and reddened cheeks, he also looked a bit drunk, though he stood steady on his feet.
"As a prodigal son, you leave a fair bit to be desired," she said, already cross with him. He looked a care-for-nobody, and she could box his ears for all the trouble he had caused his brother and father.
Black eyebrows lifted for a moment with affronted irritation, but amusement glimmered in his eyes.
In two strides, he crossed the distance to her and his large hands wrapped tight around her waist. By instinct, she stiffened and pushed against him. She might as well have pushed against the stone wall around the stable yard.
He only smiled more. "If we're talking of what's desired, let's speak more of you, my little bird of paradise."
Fat, wet drops—too few yet to be called rain—began to splatter on them and around them. But he took no notice.
She glared up at him. "I'd rather go inside and avoid both a wetting and you!"
He gave a laugh.
He was taller and broader than Theo—coarser made. His features, while handsome, lacked the refinement of Theo's, and dissipation had left its mark as well, roughening his skin and the edges of his jaw and cheeks, like the blunting of a knife.
But a blunt knife still could cut, she knew.
He pulled her closer, and she leaned back, though her waist now pressed against him. "There's just no avoiding some things in life," he said, and gave her a wink.
She pushed again, but it did no good. He smelled of ale and brandy, and every instinct warned against him. This time she saw the jagged lightning as it flashed in the sky. Seconds later thunder rumbled.
Worried, she glanced up at the sky, then at him. "And other things are easily avoided. We're about to be soaked."
He paid no heed to her, but only said, "I couldn't believe the story in London that m'brother had been seen leaving town with a fancy piece. The question is, while it's obvious what he's doing with you, why in Hades is he doing it here in the ancestral pile?"
She almost blurted out the truth—that it was all his fault. However, it really ought to be Theo who told him. So she broadened her Sallie voice, saying, "He brought me
home to marry me, he did. And he won't be none too happy to hear you've been handlin' me!"
He grinned again and she saw he had wolfish teeth with points edging two of them. Her stomach knotted. If it had been Terrance come to Sallie's for a woman, Molly would have turned him down on first sight.
"If I'm to be your brother-in-law, seems only fair that I kiss the bride."
He started to pull her to him, but she put her hand up, knocking off his hat before she managed to cover her mouth. She said, word muffled by her fingers, "Kisses come after the marriage, ducks!"
Capturing her wrist, he dragged it behind her. "Not in my books—'ducks.'"
She twisted again, but he had hold of her other wrist and swept her arms behind her. He turned her so her back pressed against the stone of the stable yard wall. Wet drops splashed to the ground around them and onto her face like angry tears.
"Here now—what sort of gentlemen do you call yourself!"
"Not much of one at all," he said, his tone pleasant. And he leaned toward her.
Clenching her back teeth, she made up her mind to bite him, but in the next moment there was a clatter almost as loud as thunder of steel-shod hooves on the cobbled yard.
Terrance's hold on her loosened as he half turned at the interruption. In the next instant, he spun away from her as if dragged.
She looked up to see Theo already off his horse, one hand fisted into his brother's coat lapels and blue eyes blazing as his fist connected with his brother's jaw in a cracking sound that made her wince.
Terrance staggered back, his heel slipping on the wet cobbles. He went down with a grunt.
Standing over his brother, Theo shook the pain from the knuckles of his right hand. "Blazes, but you always did have a head thick as oak!"
Starting to sit up, Terrance rubbed his jaw. "That was a lucky punch."
"Get up and I'll show you lucky," Theo said, already settling into a boxing stance. His brother carried an extra four stone on him, but he had the advantage of speed. He'd have to use it to keep away from his brother's left, for the man had a wicked reach.
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