Anita Mills

by Scandal Bound

“Well, under normal circumstances, I believe that to be the function of the cook, but since you have been pressed into service so recently, I will take on the task.” With a parting smile that would have disarmed a bedpost, he sauntered toward the door. “But do be looking for a suitable pan while I am gone. I have a deuced nasty temper when I am hungry.”

  She hastily washed her face and hands in the water he’d heated before she bothered to search for a skillet. Finding one, she was about to look for some grease before another thought occurred to her. She put the skillet away and selected a cooking pot instead. Filling it with the remaining water, she placed it over the fire.

  He returned and laid five eggs on the table before taking a chair to watch as she wiped them off and popped them into the water. She pulled up a chair opposite and leaned forward to hold her aching head.

  “Boiled eggs? Dash it, Ellen—I could have done that!”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t like them boiled.”

  “Neither do I, but we must make some allowances for my limitations, my lord—and, besides, my head hurts.”

  “Then we had best hope that Dobbs gets here today before I have strangled you,” he sighed, “for I cannot account for my temper when my stomach is empty.”

  “Really, my lord? I had supposed you to have a bad temper whenever you are crossed, so it is not entirely unexpected if you choose to show it.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the cottage door. “Dobbs!” they breathed in unison. Trent nearly knocked over his chair on his way to answer it, but as he swung open the door, he was disappointed to find a young boy of scarcely ten or twelve standing on the threshold.

  “Mister.” The boy tipped his cap respectfully off his bright-red hair. “I am Jimmy Bratcher from down the road. Me mum says to find out ifn ye be the new landlord here.” He stepped in apologetically and added, “We saw yer smoke, and ’tis no secret that old man Chudleigh wanted to sell now that he don’t hunt no more.”

  “Yes, we are the new owners,” Trent told him baldly as he stepped back and gave Ellen a warning look before she could protest the deception.

  “And who are ye?”

  “Name’s Trent.”

  A smile broke across the freckled face as he put out his hand in the most adult manner. “Mr. Trent.” With a nod of recognition to Ellen, he added, “Mrs. Trent. Me mum’d like fer me to welcome you to Little Islip.”

  “Is Little Islip the name of the nearest village?” the marquess asked hopefully.

  “Naw, ’tis only this cottage, ours, and the Raymonds’, but they are gone to see her sick mum. Mebbe there used to be more, but I dunno ’bout that.”

  “I see.” Trent’s expression was grave, but there was a twinkle to his eye. “Well, Mrs. Trent and I are pleased to make your acquaintance, aren’t we, my dear?”

  “Delighted.” Ellen joined in the spirit and decided to explain, “But we were not intending on staying here. We were only inspecting the property when that dreadful storm came up. We suffered a carriage accident on our way, and you find us without much in the way of clothing or food.”

  “I have sent for help, Jimmy,” the marquess added, “but it has not arrived. Do you suppose your mother could be persuaded to sell us some meat, bread, and cheese?”

  “She’d give ’em to yer, more like.”

  Trent pressed a couple of coins into the redheaded boy’s hand. “Then see if she can manage something.”

  “Oh, yessir!” Clutching the coins happily, the child skipped out.

  “Really, my lord, but one would almost think you had seen salvation,” Ellen reproached him from her place at the table. “You ought to be ashamed for lying to a boy like that.”

  “Listen, Ellen—at this moment, I am perfectly willing to buy this place to get a decent meal. I’ll have my solicitor look up this Mr. Chudleigh when I return to London if that will salve your conscience,” he answered blithely as he rejoined her.

  “What a whisker! And what will you say happened to me when you come back?”

  “If I ever come here to hunt, I will tell them you died.”

  “I think I should prefer a divorce, if you do not mind.”

  “No. Too much of a scandal even for this rural setting,” he told her positively. “You will have to be carried off by some mysterious illness and leave me nearly inconsolable.”

  “Well, I doubt you could even find this place again, anyway.”

  “I doubt it, but what’s that to the purpose? I own dozens of places I’ve never seen, and at least this one looks like it has paying tenants.”

  She eyed the bubbling pot soulfully. “And I had just set my heart on eating a hearty meal of two boiled eggs.”

  “Now who’s telling a whisker?”

  Choosing to ignore the truth of that, she changed the subject. “Do you really think he’ll come back? He could just take the money and keep going, you know.”

  “I fervently hope so. I do not relish the meal you have planned, but if he does not come back soon, I shall be forced to choke it down anyway.”

  He tapped his fingers impatiently against the tabletop as he watched the water in the pan bubble up and occasionally spray a drop or two into the fire. For a time, the bobbling eggs provided the only sound in the tiny kitchen while Ellen leaned on an elbow, her expression distant with thought.

  “You know,” he cut in, “I do wonder what it was about you that caught old Brockhaven’s attention.”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured absently.

  “Well, it must’ve been something. I think it could have been the eyes or the hair.”

  “What difference does it make? Not even Brockhaven would have me after this.”

  “I thought you did not care about that, Ellen.”

  “No”—she shook her head—”I never said that. I said I should prefer ruining my reputation to living with Sir Basil. It is not quite the same thing. Like most girls, I once dreamed of a husband and children of my own someday.” She straightened up and squared her shoulders resolutely. “Never mind me, my lord. I should not be talking to you on the subject; the weather and my head have left me blue-deviled.”

  “Hey, buck up, my dear. Brockhaven cannot live forever, and once you are a wealthy widow, there will be someone come along who will not refine too much on an old story.” He watched her thinking as he spoke. “Aha— there is someone!”

  “Only Mr. Farrell, our vicar. He claims to have a tendre for me, and he would probably welcome the chance to save my soul. But he must be past thirty.”

  “Don’t say it like that, my dear,” he told her with a faintly injured air. “Thirty is not old. I will be there next year.”

  “I suppose it is not,” she admitted. “In another seven years, I’ll be there too.”

  “This Farrell—you say he has a tendre for you?”

  “Definitely. He took every opportunity to pay me calls and to instruct me as to how I should go on, what I should wear, and how I should learn to curb my levity—you know, how I should strive to be like him.”

  “Egad! What a lover!” Trent muttered in disgust. “But I would not be one to tell another man how to conduct his courtship. Tell me, this Farrell—is he handsome enough for you?”

  “Very,” she told him definitely, “but his handsomeness is offset by his manner, which is conceited. Were I to ever marry him, with my usual luck, I would most probably be blessed with a dozen dull little boys just like him.”

  “I shouldn’t think it at all likely. I’d wager they would inherit some of your spirit and daring.”

  “Ah, but you do not know Mr. Farrell. He is boring, prosy, conceited, and exceptionally strong-minded. Not even plain speaking on my part could deter him from thinking that I wanted to be Mrs. Farrell. He was as obtuse as Brockhaven on that head, the only difference being that Brockhaven’s suit was favored by my father while Mr. Farrell’s was not. No, I could not be a vicar’s wife.” She rose from the table.

  “Whe
re are you going?”

  “To take up breakfast, my lord. Even I am hungry now.” She managed a quick smile while nodding toward the cupboard. “And if I am to serve this elegant little repast, I expect you to lay the service.”

  His eyes glimmered with amusement at her recovery from low spirits, and he pushed back his chair to stand. “Well, would your ladyship require napkins? As for myself, I have need of nothing but my fingers and the saltcellar. ’Tis a little primitive, I admit, but then we should not need to wash anything but our hands.”

  “Put in such a way,” she laughed, “I will have to bow to your suggestion, Lord Trent.” She tried to pick up a hot egg she had removed from the water, and burned her fingers. Sucking on them to ease the pain, she managed to spoon the eggs into a towel, which she carried to the table. Rolling them out before him, she told him, “You get three.”

  “You aren’t going to peel them?”

  She took her seat again and rapped one of hers on the hard surface. Slipping pieces of shell off it, she looked up at him. “No, I do not think you completely helpless, my lord. But you may push the saltcellar this way before you begin, if you please.”

  They could hear the sound of voices in the lane and both lowered their eggs back to the table hopefully. “Surely that is Dobbs,” Trent told her.

  In that, they were destined for disappointment, for instead of the faithful coachman, Lord Trent opened the door to the Bratcher boy and a stout woman who bobbed her head respectfully and held up a basket laden with bread, fruit, and cheese.

  “Jimmy says ye are stranded in Little Islip.” The woman looked to his lordship for confirmation before proceeding. Trent nodded. “Well, I allus was one t’ neighbor, sir, so ’ere’s summat fer yer and yer missus.” She handed the basket over to him and fished in her apron pockets to retrieve the coins he had given the boy. “And don’t yer be thinkin’ o’ payin’ fer what I’d be doin’, anyways.”

  Ellen joined him in the doorway and smiled a greeting to the visitors. “Why, how very nice of you, Mrs. —Bratcher, is it? We should not dream of imposing on your generosity, I am sure. And as we will be needing other things until Mr. Dobbs gets back, we should expect to pay for them.”

  “And I would have young Jimmy get the money then.” Trent grinned down on the flushed, freckled face. “If I remember anything of what boys like, I’ve no doubt that he can think of something he’d like—a kite, some spillikins, or something— right?”

  “Oh, yessir!”

  “Well—” the woman hesitated. “Yer sure? Don’t think yer ’ave ter do it, ’cause yer don’t.”

  “Oh, I want him to have the money.” The marquess stepped back and held the door wider. “Do come in and sit while we breakfast, ma’am. Mrs. Trent is quite famished, so you’ll have to pardon our haste to sample this.”

  Ellen shot him an indignant look as she followed him back to the table. “Your pardon, Mrs. Bratcher, for Mr. Trent’s abominable lack of manners, but he has a bad temper when he is hungry.”

  “Oh, I know men, mum, so ye’ve no need to be excusin’ ’im to me.” The older woman nodded in understanding. “And me ’n’ Jimmy cannot be stayin’—there’s work waitin’ ter ’ome fer us.”

  Trent was already busily unloading the basket and placing its contents on the table. “Do not think me unappreciative, ma’am, but we are hungry. And I would be pleased to purchase meals from you—my wife is inexperienced as a cook. You cannot know what we have endured since we arrived.”

  “Well, would yer be wishful o’ ’avin’ ’em brought up, sir?”

  “Whatever is convenient. I am not so high in the instep that I cannot come for my dinner.”

  After considerable discussion, Mrs. Bratcher was persuaded to accept their custom, and it was agreed that she or one of her boys would send up baskets until the Trent servants arrived. Her eyes widened in amazement when she found he meant to offer her a pound a meal—a staggering sum to a woman whose family saw scarcely twenty times that in a year. It looked to her like the new owners of old Chudleigh’s box were wealthy people indeed.

  She and the boy had barely departed when Trent fairly fell on the food they had delivered. Ellen watched in fascination for a moment before pushing her boiled eggs off to one side and joining him. They ate in silence through an entire loaf of bread, half a cheese, and several thick slices of ham. It wasn’t until he reached the apples that his lordship had anything to say.

  “Your appetite seems to be failing you, my dear,” he managed as he took a bite of the fruit.

  “How can it be otherwise, my lord? You have eaten considerably more than your half.”

  “And I am considerably larger than you, but here, you can have all the rest.” He rose from the table and stretched lazily. “And now that my good humor is restored, I shall bring in some more firewood. Who knows? Mayhap we could play cards again.”

  “I never want to see another glass of burgundy in my life,” she told him with feeling.

  “Still feel like cobwebs in the brain, eh?” He nodded sympathetically. “Well, it is brisk out, but a walk would probably do us both good, since it is not raining. Maybe we can determine more precisely just where we are and we can get a message out to my London establishment.”

  While he fetched the firewood, she set about to find something that could be used as a cloak, and when he returned, she was ready. He stared for a moment and she did not know whether to laugh or lash out. “Most original, my dear,” he approved. “Of course, we can only hope that Chudleigh, or whatever his name is, does not return to discover you have cut holes in his blanket.

  “It looks silly, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all. At least, you will not be wearing my cloak while I trail after you with my teeth chattering. In fact, a look at my poor bedraggled garment tempts me to find a matching blanket.”

  “You are funning with me, my lord.”

  “I am not. I think you a very resourceful lady, Ellen Marling.”

  They explored the whole of Little Islip and walked through the bare forests nearby. The air was clean, crisp, and invigorating, and the leaves crunched beneath their feet. They found there was not much to see in Little Islip: three cottages some distance apart and nothing else except for the ruins of an old smithy’s shop. And to make matters worse, in the light of day they could see they had strayed from the road and down a path that could not even in truth be called a lane.

  “Do you think Dobbs can ever find us here, my lord?” Ellen shaded her eyes and turned full circle in search of some landmark, something that would draw attention to the fact that people lived there besides the three small buildings. “I mean, I cannot even see a real road from here.”

  “Maybe,” he answered dubiously. “But if we do not hear from him by tomorrow, I shall have to leave you with the Bratchers and try to get out.”

  “You’ll do not such thing! What if Chudleigh should decide to have a few days’ shooting before winter comes? No—if you go, I go.” Just as she spoke, she stepped into a hole concealed by the leaves and she pitched forward.

  He caught her before she could go down. “Are you all right? You did not sprain it, did you?”

  “No, my ankle is fine, I think.”

  “Good.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm and began to walk back. “You will be pleased to hold on to me, if you do not mind. I’ve no wish to look the veriest fool by carrying you back all the way to the box.”

  “Fiddle. As if you could do it, anyway.”

  “You do not think I could?” A mischievous grin spread across his face and deviltry lit the blue eyes as he looked at her. “As a confirmed gamester, I cannot let that pass.” And before she could believe he intended to do it, he lifted her easily.

  “Put me down this instant, else I’ll scream!”

  “Hmmm—should I carry you like a grain sack over my shoulder or like this?” he murmured as he adjusted her in his arms. “You know, if you do not hang on, it will definitely have to be the grain
sack.”

  “Set me down,” she tried more calmly, “or I will scream.”

  “You know, for a tall girl, you certainly do not weigh very much.” He raised and lowered her as though to test her weight.

  Startled, she clutched at him. “My lord”—she kept her tone reasonable in spite of the thudding of her heart—“if I accept that you could carry me, would you set me down before we make a spectacle of ourselves?”

  “Miss Marling, I’ll have you know that any number of females have gone to great lengths to be right where you are now.”

  “You cannot be serious, my lord.”

  “Oh, aye, you’ve no notion how plump my purse is, my dear. It has sent many a girl into a faint or a sprained ankle at my feet, I can tell you, in the hope that once I have felt her soft feminine form, I shall be obliged to court her. It doesn’t work, of course, because I usually make Dobbs carry the chits.”

  “Of all the conceited, arrogant, self-important …” She stopped in midtirade and stared at him. “You surely do not think that I—”

  “I do not,” he continued to grin as he set her down finally, “for somewhere in all those lessons they gave you on how to be a lady of quality, they seem to have forgotten to teach you how to flirt.”

  “And you are an expert, of course,” she retorted acidly.

  “I think I am.” He cocked his head to one side as though to get a better angle of her, and his expression sobered. “I have known a lot of women in the past ten years, Miss Marling, but I can truthfully say I have never met one quite like you. You could almost …” He caught himself and did not finish what he had been about to say. “Never mind,” he finished abruptly. “Come on, we’d best get back before you take a chill.”

  He was strangely silent as they walked, but she did not seem to notice. Her own thoughts were in a jumble. He had held dozens, maybe even a hundred or more women, so he could be blase about it, but she found the feel of his arms about her quite disturbing to her peace of mind. The sooner Dobbs showed up, the better, she told herself severely.

  But whatever had sobered him seemed to linger once they’d returned to the tiny hunting box. Several times as she moved about the rooms tidying them as best she could, she looked up to see the marquess watching her almost thoughtfully, and there was something in his expression that she found somehow disquieting. At first, she tried to tell herself that it was her imagination, but then she looked up to catch him staring her direction again.