by Bliss Bennet
“Of what candidacy did your brother speak?” she asked, taking up the thread of their earlier conversation to distract him from speaking his offer aloud.
“Of one of the Lincolnshire seats in Parliament,” he replied, falling into step beside her. “Did I not mention there is to be a by-election in August?”
“Oh, yes. But with my father’s injury, and then all the fuss with the shearers, I had completely forgotten.” Election work, now that was something with which she could be of help. “Have you discussed canvassing with old Mrs. Hawley? She’s a fount of information about the district. She’s sure to know which properties have votes attached to them and which do not. If you have a canvassing book from the 1820 election, she’ll be able to tell you if there are any names that should be added or dropped.”
“Why Miss Atherton, do not tell me you are as knowledgeable about electioneering as you are about sheep?”
Harry laughed. “Oh, I’ve no real interest in politics myself. But my great aunt had. It was said that no man would even consider standing for a Sussex seat without the backing of Lucretia Atherton.”
“Many wives and daughters of politicians take an interest in elections, as I know from my own sister’s example,” he said with a rueful smile. “But I had thought your aunt a spinster.”
“Oh, no, Aunt never married. But she served as informal hostess for Mad Jack Fuller, one of the Sussex MPs, for many years, as he had no wife. I think it just about broke her heart when he decided not to stand for reelection in 1812. Although given the man’s vocal support of slavery, I cannot say I was equally sorry to see him go.”
“And you were with her through one, no, two general elections?”
“Yes, why?”
“Were either of them contested?”
She shook her head, her heart sinking at the eagerness in his voice. “Is another candidate threatening to oppose your brother-in-law?”
The smile he offered this time was decidedly grim. “I thought I was handing Sayre a sure card. But now I hear rumor that the Tories are recruiting a candidate to stand against him.”
“And thus he is in need of your sister’s dowry to wage a proper fight.”
“Indeed. The bulk of which I seem to have unfortunately misplaced. Pray Haviland discovers what’s become of it before Sibilla and her husband wend their way to Lincolnshire, or she’ll find far more than a hundred and fifty ways to kill me. More inventive than even the bard, my intrepid sister.”
He kicked out his frustration at a small rock in the path, then stumbled, cursing.
Harry rushed to his side. “Theo, are you hurt?”
“I don’t believe so,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder while he twisted his foot first one way, then the other. “No, the only real injury is to my own sense of consequence. Which was already feeling a bit bruised by your refusal to take my arm, I must admit. But now that you are back by my side, all is right with the world.”
“Theo, really!” she protested as his arm curved round her shoulders and he resumed his brisk pace down the path.
“Harry, really!” he echoed with a laugh. “I must say, it is a pleasure to walk down a country lane of a summer’s evening, accompanied by one of Lincolnshire’s loveliest ladies. Particularly one who only a few days earlier kissed me until my very toes curled. Tell me, do you recall the occasion with as much fondness as I?”
The back of Harry’s neck began to tingle. Was he truly going to speak of this? “I am not certain ‘fondness’ is the word I would use.”
“No? Pleasure, then? Satisfaction? Unalloyed delight?” When she did not answer, he slapped an open hand against his chest. “No, do not tell me I must I gird my amour propre against yet another wound. You cannot be in search of the word disgust.”
Harry could not hold back her laugh. How could a man plagued by such troubles still remain so light of heart?
She cleared her throat. “Happy. The word I think of when I remember that day is happy.”
He stopped in the path, turning her to face him. “Shall we push aside all our problems and cares, then, and be happy again, at least for a while? Will you kiss me?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Theo stared down at the woman beside him, fighting against the urge to tighten his hands on her arms, to pull her against him and just take what his unruly body demanded. Yes, he wanted those soft, lithe curves hiding behind her stays to press against him, those gentle lips searching out his own. Lord, how he wanted it.
But even more, he wanted Harry to want it. To want him, not just be swept up in gratitude and the heat of the summer sun, as she had been when he’d kissed her after the vestry meeting. He wanted her to choose, and to choose him.
His heart beat loud in his ears as she tiptoed a step closer, then another, until they were so near he could barely bring her features into focus in the waning twilight. He watched her swallow, then rise up on her toes and set her hands on his shoulders.
Was it his sigh, or hers that whispered between them before she pressed her lips to his? No matter. She’d decided, and now it was his task to ensure she did not regret her choice.
Sliding his palms down her arms and around her waist, he pulled her flush against him, supporting her weight so that she might devote all her attention to their kiss.
The shy tentativeness of those first kisses, light busses against lips he kept carefully closed, set loose something deep inside him, a wellspring of calm and comfort that tempered sheer molten desire. It granted him unexpected patience, allowing him to savor her cautious exploration without being driven to take matters into his own hands, his own lips. To be the focus of such tender, solicitous touches, kisses meant not to arouse and sate as quickly as possible, but to discover and draw out—it sent joy surging through his veins, as even the most intoxicating of spirits never had.
He almost regretted it when the hesitance of her kisses gave way to urgency, her tongue darting out to explore the seam between his lips. But when that tongue pushed inside, his cock, which had been pleasantly twitching under her ministrations, came to sharp, insistent attention. He growled, his palms sliding down to shape her sleek flanks, the subtle but sweet swell of her bottom.
He caught her gasp of surprise with his own lips, slanting his head over hers so he might explore her mouth in his turn. Her hands twisted from his shoulders to his neck, fingers digging deep into the curls on his nape, pulling at them with imperative demand. What a well of passion lay behind the calm, conscientious face she showed to the rest of the world. And how willing, nay, how eager, she was to share that passion with him. He kissed her harder, her fierceness inciting his own.
A shiver wracked his frame as a small hand wriggled between their bodies. He pulled away slightly, to allow her greater access, prepared for that hand to pause and trace the heaving muscles of his chest. But instead it slid down, down, and down still further, until it palmed the length of his shockingly sensitive cock.
He jerked, struggling to contain the urge to grind against her grasp. God help him, he would not spend at the mere touch of woman’s fingers against his falls.
“Harry, sweeting, please.” Though it about killed him to do it, he grasped her wrist and pulled her hand away. “Stop.”
Her eyes, wide, glazed, stared up at him in confusion. “Is this not what you need? To spill your seed? I don’t wish you to come to harm because of what I’ve done.”
Had passion addled his brains? He gave his head a brisk shake. “Harm? How could I come to harm?”
She frowned. “If a man’s, ah, ah—member—if it becomes inflamed by passion, but is not allowed relief—will not that be a danger to his constitution?”
“A danger to his—” He groaned and captured her face between his hands. “Oh, my dear, sweet Harry. Please do not tell me your damnable Brighton swain took advantage of your kind nature to foist such an out and out falsehood on you.”
He felt her cheeks heat under his palms. “A falsehood?” she said, her voice tremb
ling.
“Yes. A damnable, dishonorable, and utterly self-serving clanker.”
She pulled away from him to shake her head. “No. He was not a liar. Thoughtless, yes, careless of my feelings, certainly. But I cannot rightly accuse him of outright mendacity. He implied, and I assumed. Just as I assumed that his marked attentions meant he wished to mar—” She hugged her arms tight against her chest.
He groaned his exasperation. “Harry, you little fool. Would you make excuses for the very devil?”
She flinched, then straightened her spine. “He was not a devil. But you are right to think me a fool. A silly, gullible fool. Why else would I be so hurt when his regiment left Brighton, and he never even deigned to say goodbye?”
“Harry, no.” Damn it, he’d wanted to offer comfort, not to wound her all over again.
He stepped closer, his hands grasping her arms. “Listen to me. Please. No gentleman, no officer with any pretensions to gentility would ever encourage a lady to engage in the kind of behavior you describe. Not unless he intended to marry her. Nor would he imply that not engaging in such behavior would do him harm. That he did both is no poor reflection on you. Only on himself.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, is that what you intend, every time you take a woman into your arms? To marry her?”
He sputtered. “But I do not sport with ladies.”
“No? Then why do you sport with me?”
He opened his mouth, but for once no easy words came to rescue him. He could only stare down at her, the sadness in her eyes spearing him with shame.
“Nothing to say to that, I see. And if a viscount does not regard me as a lady, why should a lieutenant be tarred a scoundrel for doing the same?”
She twisted free of his hands and ran down the path before he could put together any semblance of an apology. He wouldn’t let her leave, not like this . . .
Theo scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. “Harry, please—”
His cry brought her to a halt. But her back stiffened, and only her head turned over her shoulder. “You’d best be off, my lord, before my father spies us sporting with one another and declares me compromised. You would not want to be forced to wed. Especially the daughter of a man you fear is stealing from you.”
As twilight dropped into full darkness, she rounded a turn in the path and disappeared from his sight.
“And a toast to my dear wife, Mary.” Sir John Mather raised a glass and swept his arm in a semicircle, acknowledging Theo and the other men around the Saybrook dining table. “Today would have marked the fiftieth anniversary of her birth, if she had but lived.”
Theo shot a look at Haviland, who sat opposite his father. The elder Mather was growing rather lachrymose from the copious amount of wine he’d drunk during dinner. But Haviland nodded; the steady son would make sure his father made it to his own home without incident, no matter how deeply he imbibed.
Theo gave a nod of his own to his footman, who refilled Sir John’s glass.
“To Lady Mather,” Theo said, raising his own in salute.
“To Lady Mather,” echoed Benedict, Haviland, and Mr. Atherton.
Theo sipped at his wine, resisting the temptation to call for something stronger. He’d hoped to postpone discussion about who was to pay the extra expenses for the village fete at least until after Haviland had completed his audit. But when Sir John and Mr. Atherton had crossed paths earlier this week, the baronet had mentioned that Saybrook might be paying a larger portion of the costs than usual, and the steward had in turn insisted on settling the matter as soon as possible. And likewise had insisted that Theo be involved in said settling. Hence tonight’s dinner.
But now that they were all together, neither of the men seemed eager to bring up the topic. Which had left Theo on tenterhooks the entire evening.
He pushed at the food on his plate with a restless fork. When Atherton had mentioned his encounter with Sir John, Theo should have told him about the audit. But he hadn’t the stomach to for it, not after treating his daughter so disgracefully just the night before. So neatly she’d hoisted him on the petard of his own hypocrisy, but with such a sense of resignation, too, as if being treated with disrespect was only her due. How could he have hurt her so?
He gulped down his wine. Haviland had better be finished with those damned account books by tomorrow as he’d promised.
“Some days I am glad my lady is gone.” Sir John set his glass down with a less than steady hand. “Oh, not that I do not miss her, every day that passes. But with the price of cattle falling again, and that for wool even lower, it would be difficult to support her in the manner to which she was accustomed. And then, to see her son forced to work for his living—”
“Will we not be celebrating your birthday soon, Haviland?” Theo interrupted. Anything to keep Sir John from harping on his son’s nonexistent deficiencies.
Haviland smiled. “Yes, at the end of September. How kind of you to remember.”
“We’d not be likely to forget, not after the extravagant celebration Sir John held to commemorate your coming of age.” Theo’s hands flew in animation. “Dancing, and sports, and such a lavish banquet for all the tenants. And the fireworks! I’d wager they could be seen all the way down in Lincoln.”
“One might be excused for thinking your son was to inherit a dukedom rather than a mere baronetage after witnessing such a display,” Benedict added. Ah, the pleasures of having a direct, tactless brother.
Sir John must have been too far into his cups to catch hold of the implied insult, for the reminiscing smile did not fade from his face. “And do not forget the address of the tenants! Reminding him of his future duties as a landlord, and recognizing his right to be their master. And the elegance of his speech in return! How proud I was that day.”
Benedict gave a mock shiver. “And how grateful I was, to be born a second son. What a spectacle, Haviland. However did you stand it?”
“But even if you had been first-born, you would never have had the honor,” Sir John interrupted before his son could answer. “For your father steadfastly refused to hold such a ceremony for his heir, no matter how Mr. Atherton and I urged him to do so. What reason did he give, Atherton, do you recall?”
Because any son who makes as little effort as does mine deserves no such recognition, not from my tenants, nor from me. Theo’s chest tightened at the memory of his father’s dismissive words. Would the steward remember them, too?
But Mr. Atherton made no answer, seemingly distracted by the contents of his plate. It had been nearly a week since his fall, and the man still did not seem to have all his wits about him. He should speak to Harry about it—if, after last night, she would speak to him at all.
“My mother was the one who enjoyed planning entertainments,” Theo said to distract the others from the steward’s abstraction. “I fear that after her death he had little stomach for such things.”
“Was that the reason he gave you?” Benedict asked. “I thought it was because your birthday fell too close to the day of the village feast.”
Sir John leaned forward in his chair. “Born in August, were you?”
“Yes, the same week as the fete. Poor timing on my mother’s part, I always teased her.”
Benedict raised his glass in Theo’s direction. “Or yours, as the babe in question.”
“But that is the perfect solution!” Sir John bounced in his seat. “We shall combine the two!”
Theo’s brow wrinkled. “Combine the two what?”
“Hold the village fete, but on the same day as a coming-of-age celebration for you, Saybrook. Oh, I know you are long past one-and-twenty,” Sir John said, waving a dismissive hand. “But now you’ve come into your inheritance, and are finished with your year of mourning, some public event really should be held to acknowledge the succession.”
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “And if the fete is also in recognition of Saybrook’s coming into his title, any extra costs would be paid by the Saybro
ok purse?”
Theo flinched, not only at his brother’s unkind hint of the older man’s parsimony, but at the prospect of laying out yet more money he did not have. “But Sir John, my father—”
“Yes, your father is no longer with us to make the formal introduction. But I would be more than happy to stand in his stead. Or Atherton could serve, as your tenantry holds him in such esteem. Could you not, Atherton?”
For the first time during the discussion, the steward looked up from his plate. He blinked, glancing at Sir John, then over to Theo. “Yes. Yes, my lord, I could. In fact, I would be proud to do so.”
“But is such a to-do truly necessary?” Theo asked.
“Not necessary, no.” Atherton set his knife and fork down on the table. “But it would certainly be beneficial.”
“In what regard?” Benedict interjected, his voice laced with skepticism. Thank you, brother.
“Well, Lord Saybrook has spent hardly any time in Lincolnshire since coming of age, and his tenants—well, they know little about him, or think of him as theirs.”
“Except for the gossip that has reached here from town about his life there, which is not entirely flattering,” Sir John said.
“Begging your pardon, Saybrook,” Haviland added, apologizing for his father.
Theo offered a tight nod.
“They will show you all proper deference due your title, my lord,” Atherton continued, directing his comments now to Theo. “But cultivating a sense of fellow feeling by hosting a celebration on their behalf, and giving an address that makes them aware you know the rights and responsibilities of your position as well as theirs as your tenants—well, it would make them more likely to be happy to have you as their lord, rather than indifferent or even wary.”
“Yes, just so,” Sir John added. “As I always told your father, Saybrook.”
“Sound a lot of bother,” Benedict said. “But if it will help to ease your way into the role, perhaps it might be worth it.”
Theo’s stomach dropped as Benedict, Sir John, and Mr. Atherton all gazed at him in expectation. Sibilla’s dowry, the costs of canvassing for the election, and now a coming-of-age ceremony, nine years after the fact? He shot a pained stare in Haviland’s direction.
