by Candace Camp
“Of course. Good night, Daniel.” Thank goodness he was retiring. The last thing she wanted was for him to go into the kitchen and see Morecombe. Even Daniel would want an explanation for the man’s presence in the house, and she simply did not feel up to that at the moment.
As he climbed the stairs, she turned back to the mirror, winding her braid into a quick knot at the base of her neck and pinning it with the few hairpins she had managed to retrieve from the tumbled mess of her hair. It was still a wreck, of course, with a number of stray hairs around her face still slipping free and curling. But at least it was a more organized wreck.
The same could not be said for her dress, which was still in the ragged state the baby had left it. She tugged and tucked at the fichu, working it back into its proper place so that it modestly covered most of her chest above the neckline of the dress. Satisfied that she looked vaguely presentable and that her lips and cheeks had lost at least some of their deep color, she returned to the kitchen.
There she found Lord Morecombe, his coat off, seated at the end of the old, scarred kitchen table, a bowl of stew in front of him and a slab of bread, spread with pale, creamy butter, in his hand. A second bowl rested on the table in the place at his right, a slice of bread beside it.
“Well, I see you are staying to eat,” Thea said crisply. She was pleased that she was able to speak without her voice trembling, though she could still not quite meet his eyes.
“Yes, Mrs. Brewster took pity on me. She doubtless saw how I was eyeing that bowl she’d left out for you.”
Mrs. Brewster smiled benignly at Lord Morecombe, and Thea thought sourly that it should come as no surprise he had worked his wiles on her housekeeper. The man was obviously a menace to womankind. Just to prove that she herself was unaffected by him, Thea sat down next to him and began to butter her slice of bread.
“Mrs. Brewster, you are a superb cook. If I was not certain that Miss Bainbridge would stab me through the heart for it, I would steal you away to cook for us at the Priory,” Morecombe went on, earning an almost girlish giggle from the middle-aged housekeeper.
Thea rolled her eyes and stabbed a piece of potato with her spoon, cutting it in two. “I should warn you that Mrs. Brewster is immune to flattery.”
“Ah, but ’tisn’t flattery when it’s true, now, is it?” Gabriel countered, his eyes dancing.
Thea could not keep her lips from twitching into a half smile. “You are far too skilled at cutting a wheedle, you know. It implies regrettable things about your character.”
“Only implies?”
Thea took a bite of the stew to cover her chuckle. It seemed most unfair that the man should be not only as handsome as he was but also possessed of charm; it made it terribly hard to dislike him.
“Well, miss, I’ll just be on my way.” Mrs. Brewster set the big black pot back on the stove, ready for the next day, and reached behind her to untie her apron. “The mister’ll be wondering where I am. I made a bit of beef broth for the babe. Just mash up some of the potatoes in that.”
“I will. Say hello to Mr. Brewster,” Thea told her.
“Aye, I will.” The housekeeper put on her jacket and knitted cap, then wrapped her bright scarlet scarf around her neck.
“Good night, Mrs. Brewster. And thank you for the stew.” Gabriel stood and nodded to her politely.
Mrs. Brewster was actually blushing, Thea thought in astonishment, as the housekeeper sketched a little curtsy back at him before hurrying out into the night.
“Must you instantly win over every female you meet?” Thea asked sourly as he sat back down.
He gave her a droll look. “Obviously I have not succeeded with you.” He pulled a chunk from his slice of bread and leaned back, taking a thoughtful bite. “I wouldn’t say that I must win over anyone, really, but I find life is pleasanter that way. What is your preferred manner of getting through life—charging in and taking the bull by the horns?”
“I don’t believe in ignoring wrongs, no.” Thea lifted her chin.
“And those wrongs include bachelors living too … freely?”
“If living ‘freely’ means fathering children indiscriminately and leaving them about the countryside like old shoes, then yes.”
He smiled. “I have tried never to leave even my old shoes about the countryside, let alone babies.”
“You may laugh at me all you want, but that doesn’t mean I am not right.”
“Never.” He reached out and ran a lightly caressing hand down her arm. “Never would I laugh at you, my dear Miss Bainbridge. But I confess that I find you … interesting.”
Well, that was certainly damning with faint praise, she thought, and her cheeks warmed as she kept her gaze on her bowl. She ate mechanically, very aware that he continued to watch her, and her stomach tightened with nerves. She hated that he could make her uneasy simply by staring at her. She hated even more that she could not help but wonder what he thought when he looked at her.
Thea made herself raise her eyes. She was not one to hide from reality. Gabriel was studying her, absently twirling the crust left over from his bread. Thea shifted under his gaze and cleared her throat. She had to fight an urge to make sure her hair was all in place.
“Have I sprung a third eye, Lord Morecombe?”
“No, not that I see, Miss Bainbridge,” he responded evenly. “Is there a danger of that?”
“I meant that you are staring.”
“Am I?” A faint smile touched his lips, mysterious and warm. “Do you expect me to apologize?”
“I do not expect anything from you.” Thea kept her voice tart and refrained from shifting again in her seat. His smile did peculiar things to her insides, things that were both delightful and vaguely terrifying. He made her feel not quite herself, and Thea was not sure whether she liked that. She had the suspicion that she should not. “However, I fail to see what can be of such interest about my face, which you have been staring at since I sat down.”
“’Tis your hair, actually, that I am watching.” The smile turned into a grin, quick and flashing, lighting his eyes. “I am wondering exactly how long it will be before your braid tumbles free.”
“My braid?” Instinctively, Thea’s hand went to her head, feeling for the coil of hair secured by only a few hairpins. It was, indeed, loose, the weight of it dragging the coil down the nape of her neck, and when she touched it, the braid slipped completely free, draping down over her shoulder.
Thea grimaced and started to re-pin it, but Gabriel reached out to stay her hand, saying, “No, leave it.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Thea’s voice came out more shakily than she intended. “’Twill come undone. It’s inappropriate.”
“No more inappropriate than sitting alone in the kitchen with a man.”
“Then no doubt you had better leave.”
He shrugged. “I have little affinity for propriety.” He paused, then added quietly, “I like the way your hair looks down.”
He raised his hand and tugged the end of her braid. She had not tied it, only slipped the end into the center of the coil, and at the little pull, the braid began to unravel, the curls slipping free.
“I’ll look like a savage,” Thea muttered, but she did not move to braid it back up.
“I do have an affinity for savages.” The faint smile came again, touching his eyes more than his lips. “Your curls are beautiful.”
Thea was painfully aware of how close Gabriel was, his hand resting on the table only inches from hers. She thought of the way he had kissed her earlier. Surely he would not do so again. Would he? Her breath hitched in her throat. She knew she ought to say something, do something. She should pull back from him. Yet she could not make herself move.
A little hiccuping cry broke the silence.
“The baby!” Thea jumped up and hurried over to the makeshift bed in the basket, not sure whether relief or disappointment was uppermost in her feelings.
She bent over the basket. Matthew’s fe
et and hands were moving restlessly, and he rubbed his head against the pillow beneath him, his mouth twisting up and his face turning red. Quickly she bent and picked him up, and his face cleared a little. But then he jammed his fist in his mouth and closed his eyes, his face screwing up once more, and he began to cry. Thea bounced him a little and patted him on his back, but he opened his mouth and let out a wail.
“Good God!” Morecombe shot to his feet. “What’s the matter with him? Is he all right?”
“I think he’s hungry. Here, hold him, and I’ll get his food.”
“Me?” Gabriel’s dark brows vaulted upward. “But I don’t know what to do with him.”
“It isn’t as if I am an expert.”
“You are a woman.”
“An unmarried, childless woman,” Thea retorted. “Of course, I could hold him if you would prefer to prepare his broth.”
Morecombe looked askance at the fireplace. “The devil. Here, give him to me.”
He extended his hands and Thea thrust the baby into them. Gabriel took the child, holding him out and looking at him warily.
“He won’t bite you.” Thea didn’t bother to hide the amusement in her voice.
“Are you entirely certain?” He sighed and settled the baby into the crook of his arm, holding Matthew up against him.
To their amazement, Matthew’s cries ceased immediately and he stared up at Gabriel, his eyes wide. It was, Thea thought, entirely vexing; apparently the man’s charm worked on infants as well. She went to the fire and picked up the small iron pot that sat near the embers. She dipped a ladle of the thin broth into a small bowl. As she turned back to the table, the baby left off his fascinated study of Gabriel’s face and began to cry again, his little sobs building. Thea could not deny that she was small enough to feel some satisfaction at the event.
“Hurry.” Gabriel cut his eyes toward Thea as he began to jiggle and pat the baby. “I think he’s working up to something worse.”
Thea forked a couple of pieces of potato from her bowl into Matthew’s broth and quickly began to mash it up. She stirred it and tested a spoonful with her finger.
“I’m not sure it’s cool enough.”
“Put some blasted milk in it, then.”
She tried that, testing it again, then nodded. No sooner had she done so than Gabriel handed her a squirming, red-faced Matthew. Thea set him on her lap, as she had seen Mrs. Brewster do, but the baby kept squirming and arching his back, his cries increasing, making it difficult to keep him in place. Thea wrapped her arm more tightly around him and dipped up a spoonful of the potato mixture with the other hand. As she held it toward his mouth, the baby’s waving arms crashed into the spoon and sent its contents flying upward and outward, splatting against Gabriel’s spotless white neckcloth.
Thea gasped. “I’m so sorry!”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get something in him.”
Thea managed to grab one of the baby’s arms with the hand she had around his waist, then she quickly thrust the spoon into his mouth. Matthew smacked his lips together several times, and half the spoonful rolled back out and down his chin.
“Does he not know how to swallow?” Gabriel peered down at the baby.
“He must. He ate earlier when Mrs. Brewster was feeding him. I think some of it got in.”
How had Mrs. Brewster done this? It had all looked so much easier when she was feeding Matthew. But at least he stopped crying, even though his arms continued to wave—more in excitement now, Thea thought, than anger. The next spoonful again went flying, struck by the other arm, and this time it hit her face and dress. Thea continued to spoon the mixture into his mouth, dodging and holding his arms. She quickly learned to shovel the food that spilled out onto his chin back into his mouth. As he ate, his arm-flailing stopped, and Thea let out a sigh of relief. Adjusting him on her lap, she released his arm. But then Matthew decided to grab the spoon, and the potatoes plopped onto the front of her dress. A few bites later, the baby took a bite, then blew it back out with bubbles. He laughed, clasping his hands and looking up engagingly at Thea.
Thea let out a groan.
“I think he might be full,” Gabriel offered.
“Really?” Thea commented drily, and leaned back in her chair. She was exhausted. The baby had bits of potato mixture in his hair, and on his hands and gown. A bit was even on one of his feet. And where had his little bootees gone? She had just as much food on her, all over her fichu and gown, and she could feel one spot drying on her cheek and another on her forehead. Several small spots were on the lenses of her spectacles. She could only hope there were none in her hair.
She looked down at herself and the baby in some disgust.
“I think perhaps we should have covered him with a rag,” Gabriel said mildly.
Thea looked up, a tart response on her lips, but when she took in the sight of Lord Morecombe, his hair disheveled and his fashionable jacket and snowy-white shirt daubed with spots of potato, she could not keep from laughing. Gabriel glared at her for a moment. Then a smile quirked up his mouth, and in another instant, he began to laugh, too. The baby, seeing their laughter, grinned and let out one of his high-pitched crows. This only made the two of them laugh harder, and every time they were about to get control of their laughter, they had only to glance at each other, and it set them off again. By the time they finally stopped laughing, Thea’s sides ached and there were tears running down her cheeks.
“Oh.” She drew a long breath. “Oh, my.”
Gabriel stood and cast a look down at himself. “The devil. Barts will ring a peal over my head.”
“Who?”
“My valet.” He glanced around. “I think I need a rag.”
“You’re scared of your valet?” Thea said as she handed the baby to him and went over to pull out a couple of rags and wet them.
“Any sane man would be. Barts is a veritable tyrant.”
Thea rolled her eyes as she handed him a damp cloth. “Since you are his employer, I would think there is an easy solution to that.” She reached out and took the baby back to clean his face and hands.
“Let him go?” Gabriel gave her a horrified look. “He has been my valet since I was sixteen, and he was my grandfather’s valet before that. The butler would see to it that I paid for it the remainder of my days. Not to mention my aunts and grandmother.”
Thea chuckled and set the baby down on the hooked rug. “What a fearsome employer you are.”
“I fear I am twelve years old to all my staff. That’s why I bought the Priory. Entirely new staff. Well, except for Barts, of course.”
Thea stared at him. “What a bag of moonshine! You did not buy a house just to get away from your servants.”
He smiled. “No—or, at least, not primarily. But it is a pleasant benefit, I find.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, the new staff’s service does leave something to be desired.”
Thea shook her head, smiling a little, and removed her spectacles to wipe her face clean.
“Here, you’ve missed a spot.” Gabriel reached out and took the rag and gently dabbed at her cheek, taking her chin in his other hand.
Thea went still, her breath suddenly shallow. He was so close that she could see him clearly, even without her glasses. It was, she thought, decidedly unfair that a man should have such long, lush eyelashes. His hands dropped away from her face, and he moved back, handing her the rag. Thea was aware of a distinct sense of disappointment, and to cover it she began to busily tend to the other spots on her clothes.
On the rug, the baby had gotten up onto his hands and knees. Thea looked at him, wondering if he could crawl yet—there were a great many things she must learn!—but he only rocked back and forth, making an m-m-m noise, clamping his mouth shut in a look of intense concentration.
Gabriel, following her gaze, watched him, too. “He looks as though he’s about to launch himself forward.”
Matthew rocked back onto his heels and peered up at Gabriel
, letting loose one of his pleased-sounding crows and grinning gummily at him. Gabriel leaned down and picked him up, setting him on his knee facing him. His dark eyes searched the baby’s face. Holding Matthew steady with one hand, he reached up with his forefinger and touched the little dimple in Matthew’s chin that was so reminiscent of his own.
“Does he look like your sister?” Thea asked. It was far too intrusive a question to ask someone who was virtually a stranger, but she could not hold it back. And as Gabriel himself had said, he was scarcely a man wedded to propriety.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Jocelyn had a little indentation here. I remember when she was young, she was pleased with it, saying it proved we were brother and sister. Otherwise, we did not resemble each other much. Her hair and eyes are lighter than mine.” He smoothed his hand over the child’s soft blond curls, and his face darkened. “But I do know one person who looks very much like this.”
His eyes flashed, the softness of a moment before replaced by a hard, fierce light. Thea, watching him, realized with a start that Gabriel could be rather frightening if he chose. She wanted to ask who Matthew reminded him of, but she decided it was wisest not to.
“I think you are right,” Gabriel said. “I will take responsibility of the baby, at least until we find out who his mother is.”
Panic welled up in Thea’s chest as she realized the implications of his statement. “No! You cannot take him home with you!”
Gabriel turned to look at her, surprised. “But I thought that was your purpose in bringing him to me.”
“I didn’t think. That is, well, when I thought you were his father, I wanted you to take responsibility, but you must see that your home is not the place for a baby. It would be better to leave him here, surely, until we know for certain who he is.”
He looked at her oddly. “That seems rather a burden for you to take on, given that he is no relation to you—at least we are certain of that much, if nothing else.”
“I don’t mind. Truly. And Mrs. Brewster will help me.”
“If he is my sister’s child, my home is where he belongs.”
