Thomas

by Grace Burrowes

  “We should take Penny off to the stud in the next few days.”

  Nick’s voice startled Loris, so lost had she been in thoughts of lavender-scented sheets and a tea tray graced with a single rose.

  And a baron who’d prowled through her dreams.

  “You could talk his lordship out of breeding Penny back,” Loris replied as Nick stretched out a hand to the mare. “I know you disapprove of breeding in the foal heat. Sutcliffe would listen to you.”

  Mares, by some unkind quirk of nature, came into season within two weeks of giving birth. When Loris’s father had explained that to her, she’d cringed at the very thought.

  “Penny can take care of herself,” Nick said, dropping his hand when Penny didn’t rise to greet him. “The baron is going over to Pettigrew’s this afternoon, ostensibly to try out riding horses. I suspect he’ll discuss breeding Penny while he’s there.”

  Discuss it with Claudia Pettigrew.

  Perhaps this explained the flowery porcelain tea service and slim volume of Wordsworth sent up to Loris’s guest room not an hour earlier. She was supposed to drowse away her afternoon on a shady balcony, while Thomas…

  While Thomas did anything he pleased, because he was the owner of Linden, and entirely his own man.

  “You can ask the baron what his intentions are,” Nick said. “We’d all like the answer to that question.”

  Nick’s tone was ironic, and unlike him. Since Thomas’s arrival, the quiet, deferential, outsized stableman had become a noticing, articulate fellow who smelled faintly of privilege and secrets.

  Where was Nick when the gates were being unlatched? Who had been in the stable with Nick when Rupert’s shoe had been sprung?

  Loris’s musings were interrupted by the baron striding into the stable, Viscount Fairly at his side. They were in riding attire, a magnificent testament to London tailoring, though already, the toes of their boots were dusty.

  “Miss Tanner.” The viscount greeted her first, raising her bare hand in his gloved one. “You look quite on the mend.”

  Loris bobbed a curtsy, which felt damned silly in the stable. “My thanks, your lordship. I am feeling much restored.” Also irritated, that Thomas would undertake this horse-shopping mission without consulting her.

  “Miss Tanner, I see you’ve eschewed my hospitality already,” Thomas said. “Why am I not surprised?” He took his turn bowing over Loris’s hand—more damned silliness.

  Thomas’s gaze was concerned, amused, possessive, cool… so many things, and all of them sent spring lambs gamboling up and down Loris’s spine.

  She retrieved her hand. “I understand you’ll try out riding horses this afternoon at Pettigrew’s.”

  Thomas squeezed off a glare at an innocently smiling Nick. “My stable lacks depth, Miss Tanner, and I must discuss Penny’s situation with Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  The viscount left off scratching the mare’s ears, for she’d bestirred herself to greet him, when she’d ignored the man who brought her oats every day.

  “I find it odd,” Fairly said, “that the widow herself contracts the stud services. An awkward choice, if her son is on hand.”

  Awkward for Giles, too, whom Loris liked, despite their parents’ entanglement. She imputed her liking to a sense of tacit sympathy from Giles, which was more than others in his position would have felt for her.

  “Giles does most of the training, now that he’s down from university,” Loris said, as the foal tottered to standing. “Giles is accounted a pleasant young man by all who know him.”

  The baron produced a lump of sugar from a pocket and passed the treat to Fairly.

  “How about by you, Miss Tanner?” Thomas asked. “What does my steward think of Mr. Giles Pettigrew?”

  Was this jealousy? Curiosity? An employer’s honest question of a steward?

  “He’s simply a neighbor,” Loris replied, “but he does ride well, and he’s always been decent to me, when not serving as his mama’s whipping boy.”

  Giles had even asked if Loris would stand up with him at the spring assembly, though she’d declined of course. Claudia Pettigrew would have seen her ruined for that presumption.

  “Serving as the widow’s whipping boy sounds like an unpleasant fate,” Thomas said.

  “There are worse fates,” Loris replied, “and one of them might result from choosing a horse for me without consulting me first.” For while Seamus had been enjoying an afternoon’s leisure in a pasture, he’d got to playing with another gelding, and taken a smart rap to his chin.

  He stood, hip cocked, dozing in a stall across from Penny and Treasure. His chin was both cut and bruised, he’d be some weeks recovering before he could take the bit again.

  Nick was down the aisle, grooming Rupert. Jamie tended to the viscount’s mare in her stall. Fairly pretended to visit with Penny and the filly, who’d been named Treasure.

  Loris would have had more privacy in the common of the local posting inn. Sutcliffe stepped closer, pulled off his gloves, and lowered his voice.

  “You would look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, madam?”

  Or the gift baron, with his lovely manor house and lovelier kisses? Loris had considered that question, when she hadn’t been reading poetry and swilling two pots of fine gunpowder tea scented with jasmine flowers.

  “Seamus will come right soon enough. I would not accept such a gift horse, my lord. Not one chosen without consulting me.” Not from that woman.

  Thomas reached beneath Loris’s chin and tied the trailing ribbons of her straw hat. His fingers brushing her jaw were deft, businesslike, and… muddling.

  “Perhaps, Miss Tanner, we might discuss this while the horses are being saddled. Stroll with me?” He offered his arm, which Loris accepted, all the while telling herself she would not make a habit of such silliness.

  “Absence does not appear to have made your heart grow fonder, my dear,” Thomas observed as they sauntered out into the morning sun. “Did you think I’d scold you for leaving my house?”

  Loris had hoped he might, a little. “I cannot remain under your roof, sir. You disturb my dreams enough as it is.”

  Such a naughty smile he had. “So you express shyness by arguing with me before others and thinking ill of me.”

  “I could never think ill of you, though I would like, for fifteen minutes, to think of something other than you. Have I mentioned the hare population? Your farmers are up in arms over the damage, and I’ve yet to discuss this with you.”

  The baron seated her on the shady bench under the oak. “Bother the hares. I would have liked to have paid you a call last evening, bringing you my especial brand of comfort and consolation in the midst of your suffering.”

  His expression was concerned, his manner entirely solicitous. His eyes danced with mirth.

  Gracious days and starry nights, Thomas was flirting.

  And Loris hadn’t the first inkling how to flirt back.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I am merely a bit tired, my lord.” Loris was also besotted, which his lordship seemed to grasp well enough without her telling him. “Hares can destroy a substantial portion of the root crops that feed a family through the winter.”

  Though hares were game, and thus must be preserved for the landowner’s exclusive sporting diversion. A clever woman might have mined that legal reality for an analogy of some sort—a clever, flirtatious woman.

  Which Loris was not.

  “Miss Tanner, surely you know I will earn the contumely of every landowner for three counties if I allow my farmers to shoot hares indiscriminately. Did you have any luncheon? No guest of mine is allowed to go hungry. I have in my pocket a sandwich made with our own excellent cheddar. I saw you fleeing across the garden and saved you some sustenance.”

  A sandwich in his pocket?

  “I have half a sandwich in my pocket, sir¸ and I was not your guest. Will you please attend to the topic at hand?”

  Thomas ranged an arm around the back of t
he bench. “I attend every word that comes out of your mouth, my dear. Tell the farmers to set snares for the blasted hares and to fence off the vegetables. I don’t care for the taste of game, nor will I invite a pack of wastrels from Town to blast away at pheasant who’ve grown tame eating corn from my figurative hand.”

  His farmers would thank him for the next forty years for this generosity. They might even put a stop to whoever was unfastening random gates.

  “So we’re not to leave corn out for the flying game?”

  Thomas’s fingers brushed against the top of Loris’s arm. “I’d rather you didn’t, not unless we’re enduring a severe winter, in which case my tenants will probably need the grain for their livestock.”

  “Are the farmers allowed to bring down the flying game, sir?” This had to be done discreetly, away from the tenancies bordering Sutcliffe itself, for the law did not favor such lenience.

  “The only flying game I’m interested in at the moment, Miss Tanner, is fluttering about beside me on this bench. I left you in peace and quiet only because Fairly ordered you to rest, and my intentions toward you are not the least bit restful.”

  Jamie led out the viscount’s gray mare. Thomas’s gelding would be led out any minute, and this moment of conversation—flirtation, mutual torment, whatever—would be over.

  “Please do not buy a horse for me today, my lord.”

  “I wouldn’t buy a horse for you without your approval,” he replied. “I need to set up Penny’s breeding, and we’re short a few good horses, so I’m making my trip serve two purposes. Then too, I want to take a closer look at the woman who is responsible for costing you your father’s company.”

  This again. Loris adored Thomas’s protectiveness, but abhorred his meddling.

  “My father’s fondness for excessive drink cost me his company,” she said, scuffing her heel across the parched grass. “As much as I’d like to blame the widow entirely, she could not have accused my father of a crime had he not made one witless choice after another. Sooner than later, he was due to come to grief.”

  “He was.” Thomas’s fingers made soothing circles on Loris’s nape, and all the starch in her, all the common sense and voracious hares of self-doubt went leaping into the hedges. “May I visit you when we return?”

  Loris had drowsed the night away before an open window and sipped tea half the morning on a breezy balcony. All the while, she’d considered Thomas’s overtures and how she ought to respond to them.

  She ought not to have responded at all, of course. Propriety, the nagging fear of her father’s excesses, all manner of voices had clamored for her to renounce the pleasures Thomas offered.

  Except… The Baron Sutcliffe was not Viscount Hedgedale, lying his way beneath her skirts. Thomas wasn’t a wastrel down from Town, amusing himself by shooting at tame birds too stupid to know their safety was at risk.

  Thomas offered pleasure, but he also tendered companionship, for which Loris had been starved for far too many winters. He was an ally, of which she’d had none. He was a friend, and he was somebody who would someday value Linden as she did.

  “You may visit me later,” Loris said, rising, “but please don’t expect much. We have matters to discuss, Baron, and I will not be put off by your charm.”

  “I am duly warned.”

  Loris accompanied him back to the stable, not happy with his plans, but glad to have the afternoon to herself.

  Damned if she wasn’t already thinking of taking a nap.

  “Given him his scolding for the day, Miss Tanner?” Fairly teased. “I don’t see any handprints on Sutcliffe’s backside or his handsome face, so I assume he behaved.”

  “I must set an example for your sorry self, Fairly,” the baron replied. “Miss Tanner, good day, and thank you for bearing me company.”

  Nick was dragooned into accompanying the baron and the viscount when they trotted out of the stable yard, though he let them know he was none too happy about it.

  “They ride well,” Beckman observed, coming up behind her.

  “Most men of means do, though Nicholas does too. My sense was, given the option, he’d rather have stayed here mucking stalls with you.”

  If Nick was quiet, Beckman was nearly silent. He was a hard worker, and the horses liked him, but Loris could not recall a conversation with him prior to the baron’s arrival.

  “What of you, Miss Tanner? Are you longing for options other than those before you?”

  Nothing in his tone was flirtatious or disrespectful. The riders disappeared around the bend at the foot of the drive, and a quiet descended, along with a return of Loris’s fatigue.

  “I am content with my situation, Beckman. What of you?” Have you been leaving gates open or tampering with horseshoes lately?

  Dust danced over the lane, settling only slowly. The sky was white with heat, and Loris wanted to fan herself with her straw hat. She had the sense if she moved even that much, Beckman would simply return to the shade of the stable rather than answer her question.

  “Giles Pettigrew wagers excessively,” he said. “The man cannot walk past a cock-fight without losing significant sums, and you have more options than you think. Nicholas would agree with me.”

  He stalked away, his walk putting Loris in mind of Nicholas.

  Less and less did Nick play a convincing version of a slow, taciturn stableman, content to mend harness, muck stalls, and poultice swollen joints. He wasn’t the placid, obedient simpleton he’d so easily portrayed. Beckman also noticed more than which horse had a swollen hock, which bucket needed extra caulk.

  Since the baron’s arrival, much had changed, particularly in the stable. Loris didn’t grasp exactly what had shifted, but she knew better than to turn her back on a situation she could neither control nor understand.

  * * *

  Mrs. Pettigrew was blond, blue-eyed, attired in the first stare of equestrian fashion, and well into the transition from voluptuous to matronly. She batted her eyes, she pressed her bosom against Thomas’s arm, she smiled at everything he said.

  She stopped short of caressing his cheek with her riding crop, thank God.

  In London, such behavior would have been mere flirtation. Thomas had endured worse, though the ladies at the Pleasure House had had more refined manners, at least below stairs.

  The Pettigrew heir, Giles, seemed oblivious to his mother’s conduct, but then, what choice did a son—or a younger brother—have?

  “Baron Sutcliffe rides beautifully,” Mrs. Pettigrew purred, loudly enough for Thomas to hear her, though Fairly, her audience, stood right next to her on the arena rail.

  “Sutcliffe is one of those fellows who does everything well. What think you, Baron?” Fairly called out cheerily. “Have you found something you can ride?”

  Thomas drew rein and patted the horse he’d been trying out. “This fellow has adequate gaits, but I can consider only the first gelding for purchase.”

  The widow released Fairly’s arm, to which she’d affixed herself like a lonely barnacle.

  “Only the one, my lord?” she asked. “I would think a man with your talent would need to keep a full stable of attractive options.”

  How… tedious.

  “I do like variety,” Thomas assured her as he climbed off the horse, “but I’ve also spent enough time in the saddle that I seek a certain fire in my mounts. Your horses are almost too well trained, if you take my meaning.”

  In other words, they were ridden with less than adequate tact, made into servants who took orders rather than partners in equitation.

  “We have some greener stock, my lord,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Giles won’t offer the youngsters to most customers, because a tantrum or spook can unseat the unprepared. Would you care to inspect the younger stock?”

  Nothing would unseat Loris. She practically lived in the saddle, from what Thomas had observed.

  “By all means,” Thomas said. “Fairly, would you like to try a few?”

  Fairly beamed
a smile at the widow such as cherubs aimed at their celestial pudding.

  “I will check on my mare and stretch my legs, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  “Make yourself at home, my lord, while I entertain the baron with some of our more spirited rides.”

  And to think Thomas had passed over an afternoon wrestling rocks in the Linden stream for this outing.

  The viscount wandered off as Thomas escorted the widow around the corner of the barn, where he half-expected her to fling him behind the nearest hedge and have her wicked way with him.

  Gave a man pause, to take the air on the arm of a female predator. Uncomfortable pause. Thomas had met Claudia Pettigrew’s ilk before, though, and if he felt anything for her, it was grudging, tired pity.

  “You remind me of another capable female, Mrs. Pettigrew,” Thomas said. Nick was in conversation with a stable boy near the mounting block, and was under orders to keep Thomas in sight at all times. “The steward at Linden is a lady. I believe you might know her?”

  A hitch in Mrs. Pettigrew’s gait suggested Thomas’s conversation gambit wasn’t the flirtation she’d been hoping for.

  Life was just full of disappointments.

  “Miss Tanner? Our paths have crossed on occasion,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “She’s not the most feminine of personages, poor thing. We never see her at the assemblies, probably because she can’t dance, or lacks suitable attire. I’m told she’s frightfully competent with lambing, calving, and foaling. I take a keen interest in the management of my late husband’s property, though, so I can’t judge Miss Tanner for flouting convention, can I?”

  And yet, judge Loris, she did.

  “Has it been difficult, managing Squire Pettigrew’s stud farm? Your neighbors seem like an agreeable lot, and the land is certainly suited to raising horses.”

  “The business does well enough,” the widow said as they approached the training arena. “I miss profoundly the guiding hand of a devoted companion. And yes, our neighbors are quite agreeable. Tell me, how fares your predecessor? Greymoor owned Linden for nearly a decade, and in that time, we became quite congenial.”