Mrs. Townsend reminded him to take smaller bites, brushed off the crumbs, and handed him an embroidered napkin. Cardmore sat a distance away, quiet, but appearing to observe everything. A gray-and-white cat jumped in his lap, turned, and settled.
Emily hoped she hadn’t overstepped, but she’d come here to make a child happy today, and she believed she had succeeded.
“Would you care for more tea, Cardmore?”
“No, this is sufficient.”
A small hand, clutching tightly to the pony, set the toy down and rubbed at his eyes. Mrs. Townsend put down her teacup and came over. “Time for you to take a nap, Master George. Say thank you to Lady Emily for her gifts.”
“Thank you, Lady Em.” He gave her a quick hug, picked up the toy, and ran off to his bedchamber.
Emily nodded toward Andrew, lounging now in one of the hideous chairs. “What do you think? Was the child pleased? Perhaps you should buy him a real pony.”
His leisurely gaze drifted over her, making her body heat where his eyes lingered.
Don’t do this. Don’t make me feel anything for you but lukewarm friendship.
“I do believe you’ve made a conquest.”
“Have I?”
“I believe the boy would do anything you asked of him.”
“Really?”
“Just as I would.” He looked at her with eyes half-closed, a sultry smile on his lips. Heat arrowed through her body. She swallowed and rose. “I believe I’ve accomplished what I came here to do then.”
“Have you now.” His voice was soft as the fur of the cat he stroked. The cat purred, exactly as she would if his fingers had been stroking her.
A memory flashed of a warm afternoon, she and Andrew lying side by side on soft meadow grass, the sounds of a brook in the distance. His hands had stroked her face, her arms, her breasts, while deep, passionate kisses suffused their bodies with heat and longing.
“What are you thinking?” He deposited the cat on the floor and moved to the chair next to hers, touching her face with the tips of his fingers—so light, so gentle. She wanted to close her eyes and let her cheek fall into his open palm.
’Twould be folly.
A door closing startled her. Cardmore stood and ambled back to the windows overlooking the garden as Mrs. Townsend entered the room. “My lady, your generosity matches your kind heart. Thank you for bringing joy to this poor, motherless lad.”
She slowed her breathing and directed her smile at Mrs. Townsend. “It was my pleasure. If Lord Cardmore has no objections, I’ll call on the boy from time to time. Please, make free of the paths adjoining our properties. George might like to see the lake when the weather’s nice.”
“I shall, my lady. Exercise and clean country air are good for children, I vow.”
Emily turned toward Cardmore, her composure back in place. “I’ll see myself out. But do consider the pony. Your son is the right age.”
She rose and exited the room, heading for the stairs, her emotions in turmoil.
What would have happened if I had given in to my momentary lapse?
She must not think of it. Before her next visit, she would tamp down her errant feelings and make sure they were buried beneath the memories of her humiliation.
Andrew was dangerous, and apparently her feelings for him weren’t completely dead after all.
Chapter 13
Andrew remained by the window while the nursemaid cleared the wrappings and set the toys and books on empty shelves. His memories of this room weren’t all bad. His sisters had laughed a lot when together, and while he’d been too young to join in their games, Bronwyn—older than him by ten years—had loved to read aloud. She’d sit on the edge of his bed after he’d been tucked in and read until he slept. The sound of her voice had lulled him, even when he hadn’t understood the words.
Still elated at how well the afternoon had gone, he skipped down two flights of stairs, and nearly collided with Lester coming out of the study.
“My lord.” He seemed startled.
“Were you looking for me? I was in the nursery.”
“I wondered if you needed a dose of your medicine.”
“No, I feel quite sound. In fact, I’m ready for my meeting with the steward. Has he come?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Tell the footman to bring him here when he arrives.”
Lester shuffled off toward the landing, and Andrew frowned. What had his valet been doing in the study? He was sure he’d informed Lester he’d be attending George. He sat down behind the desk and eyed the seemingly endless pile of bills, invitations, and reports, all needing his attention. The room was blessedly warm, and the full brandy decanter gleamed in the sunlight.
Ah, Lester has been looking after my needs.
He was lucky to have him.
Good fortune smiled on the estate as well. While he’d been away, rents had been collected, crops were harvested, and necessary repairs made. Drake had seen to all of that. When his father’s man of business in London closed the house, he had made the wise decision to keep Drake. Father had not approved of the steward because the man didn’t attend church regularly, but he had acknowledged his business sense. If Andrew had died in battle, all of this would have been kept running smoothly for George. His guardian would have overseen it.
So who was George’s guardian?
He had not been consulted when Caroline died and was buried in her parish cemetery. The Woodleys probably had a showy family mausoleum. They were an ostentatious lot. The naming of the guardian would not have been Woodley’s choice. Father would have made the decision.
A moot point now, but something else he must address. Ralston would be a good choice.
The footman stood in the doorway. “The steward is here, my lord.”
“Bring him in.”
Drake strode into the room. “My lord, I am glad to finally go over matters with you.”
“Indeed.” He gestured with his hand. “Please be seated.”
During the next two hours they talked of this year’s cold summer and poor crop yields, the need for a new bridge over a creek that swelled during winter, and the advisability of hiring a new man to oversee sheep. Andrew felt a headache settling in and finally halted the discussion.
“I believe we’ve covered enough for today. I promise to look over the accounts and will await the complete list of repairs you’re assembling. I will contact my accountant in London to make sure you have adequate funds for the work. I remember the stone bridge. It was in need of repair when I was a boy. I’m surprised the old earl did not take care of it.”
Drake grimaced. “He often had other matters on his mind—matters dealing with his soul.”
Andrew stood and awkwardly shook hands with the steward, a bolt of pain shooting up his arm. After sitting for hours, his whole body was now on fire, and he desperately needed his medicine.
The footman appeared at the door with Drake’s hat and coat. “Thank you, sir,” said Drake. “Glad to have you back. I’ll send over the reports I mentioned tomorrow.”
“Very good. The footman will see you out.”
The steward paused at the door. “I’ve had a response from Mr. Spencer. He would consider it an honor to return to the Hall.”
“Excellent. Can’t be too soon.”
After Drake’s departure, Andrew stumbled out of the study and went up to his private quarters. He shuddered as he passed the master suite. No way would he ever set foot in that room with its makeshift chapel and grotesque furniture. Memories of being made to attend his father there were not pleasant ones.
His own rooms were quite suitable, and right now they contained the magic elixir needed to dull his senses.
Lester hummed in the dressing room but didn’t
come out. A sound like a boot dropping told him his valet must be gathering footwear to take belowstairs to the polishing room. Lord knew, his boots could stand extra care. Ralston was right. He needed to take more time with his appearance.
The bottle of laudanum was on the dresser, and he raised it to his lips, letting the liquid slide down his throat. Not too much. If he overdid, he’d fall asleep and wake up with a dry mouth, and he didn’t want to do that right now.
He flopped into his chair and laid his head back. Despite the current year’s problems, the estate was in good condition. Drake was a capable steward. No worries there. He sighed and closed his eyes. The pain would subside faster if he remained quiet. Maybe Ralston was right. The local sawbones fixed broken limbs and prescribed tonics. London physicians might have a better idea of why his shoulder—his whole body—ached abominably when he was without his medicine.
His friend was due back in a few days. In the meantime he had letters to write, including an important one to his sister about sending George to live with her. Susanna, his eldest sister, lived in Scotland and was a widow whose children were grown. Bronwyn was the only possibility.
Would Emily despise him if he sent George away?
Decisions about the child were his to make. If Bronwyn would take the boy, George would be much better off in the company of other children, rather than isolated here, as Andrew had been as a child.
But your father is dead, and you are not your father.
Emily’s words thrummed through his brain. Drat the woman. She’d still think him a cur if he followed through with his plan.
The pain dulled, and the humming in the dressing room stopped. Lester entered with three pairs of boots in his arms. “My lord. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Carry on with what you’re doing, Lester. I’m enjoying the fire, but I daresay the one in the library is better, and I shall repair there momentarily. Old houses have drafts, and this one sometimes feels like a wind blows through it.”
Andrew slowly stood, noting his head no longer throbbed and his arm felt better. After making his way down to the library, he stood in front of the shelves and straightened the spines within reach until they lined up in perfect symmetry.
He chose a book to read after dinner, left the library, and returned to the study. His gaze roamed the walls, settling on the pictures of martyred saints and other gory religious scenes. He strode to the door and stuck his head out.
“Hawkins!”
The footman who minded the front hall door in the absence of a butler ran up the stairs.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I want all these pictures removed posthaste. Send Mrs. Evans to me.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad ran down the stairs, and Andrew seated himself in a comfortable chair, a smile on his face. When the housekeeper came in, he gave the order, telling her to choose landscapes from other parts of the house—soothing scenes. He was sure there were some in unused bedchambers. Such as his mother’s room. She’d been a lady of excellent taste, even though he couldn’t recall what adorned the walls of her suite.
He would spend the next few days removing vile traces of his father’s existence from this monstrosity of a house. He was Cardmore now. He made the decisions. What he needed was someone with an eye for color and design to help him redecorate these hideous rooms.
Maybe Emily could recommend someone.
Or Emily herself might do it.
If he invited Mrs. Whittington to assist her, Emily might be persuaded. If he recalled correctly, Emily’s Aunt Lily was an artist. He’d seen her on many occasions out by the lake with her painting box, and her watercolors weren’t half bad. Maybe he’d commission something for this room.
Satisfied with his decisions, he poured himself a full glass of brandy. He had two reasons now for Emily to visit—the child and the decorating. If Bronwyn took the boy, he’d still have a reason to see her regarding the improvements to his home.
Emily had never liked Cardmore Hall. Too many floors. Too many rooms. Maybe if she had a hand in its transformation, she’d like it better, and maybe in time they could be friends again.
Friends—is that all you want?
He would have to make do with whatever he could get. He desperately wanted her forgiveness, even if he could never forgive himself.
He took a swig of brandy and waited for Mrs. Evans. When the housekeeper appeared, a footman and groom came with her, toting a tall ladder. He repeated his instructions, picked up his glass and one of the account books, and moved to the library. Scraping and shouts from the study made him smile. Ralston would be pleased his lethargy was gone. Ralston wouldn’t approve of Andrew’s plans for George, but he’d convince him it was best for the boy.
Mrs. Evans entered the room and paused next to his chair. “I beg your pardon, sir. What do you want me to do with the paintings?”
“Take them to the attics. I’d burn them, but some of them might have value.”
She kept her expression bland like a good servant who was not supposed to express opinions. But he thought a corner of her mouth raised for a moment, as if she approved of his actions but did not want to say anything about his father’s tastes.
“Very good, my lord. While the lads take them up, I’ll visit some of the empty rooms. Are you sure you don’t want to choose the artwork for your study?”
“No. I leave that to you, although afterward I may want to make a few additional changes.”
“Very good, sir.”
She left, and he rubbed his hands. It was a good day, and now that he was pain free, he felt almost happy again. Tomorrow would be better, and perhaps the day after. As long as there were funds for improvements, he might start on the garden in the spring. Or maybe add a few prime cattle to the stables.
Please consider the pony.
Emily’s voice invaded his head. Andrew had learned to ride on a pony. Many boys of his class learned horsemanship in that manner. Maybe he’d relent and look into it, as long as the boy was here. If his sister agreed to take him, she wouldn’t do it until after Christmas.
That settles it. A pony for the child as a gift.
Emily would approve.
He must stop thinking about Emily—her smile, the softness of her hair, the lush curves of her body. In the days prior to their betrothal, they’d taken picnics to the lake and had lain in each other’s arms, fully clothed, talking about the life they would have together. Those interludes had often ended with heated kisses which could have led to more. But he’d stopped, even though he’d burned for her, his member straining against his breeches, wanting desperately to be nestled in her warm folds.
He’d loved her and had treated her with care, knowing their betrothal would give them more time alone, more time to explore each other’s bodies.
And then he’d ruined it by not standing up to his father.
Coward then, coward in battle, coward now.
He drained his glass and strode toward the stables. A good ride before dinner might shake the cobwebs out of his head. His horse needed the exercise, and so did he to regain his equilibrium.
“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” Was that not from Shakespeare?
Whatever he became, it was surely better than what he was now.
Chapter 14
“Tell me about the child. Does he look like Andrew?”
Emily and Aunt Lily sat in the formal dining room, attended by one footman. Succulent smells of roasted lamb teased the nose as plates were set in front of them.
“Not at all. He’s the picture of his mother.” Emily stabbed a parsnip with her fork.
“Caroline’s beauty made her quite sought after, although she had a caustic tongue. He has blond hair and fair coloring then?”
“He does.”
“Did he like the gifts you brought?”
Emily put down her fork and sipped her claret, her smile no doubt reflecting the feeling of contentment. “The most amazing thing happened, Aunt. Remember the carved pony I found? As soon as he saw it, nothing else mattered. I had to force him to open the other gifts. The boy is horse mad, just as Andrew was at his age.”
Aunt Lily’s eyes sparkled with good humor. “You’ve known Cardmore a long time. I remember when your mamas would bring you both to the lake on warm days in the summer. They’d sit gossiping under a shady tree while one of Andrew’s older sisters looked after you two.” Her gaze softened. “You’d both scamper to the lake, toss in stones, and run screaming along the shore, as if pursued by some mythical lake monster. And then you’d both stop, pick up more rocks, and begin all over again.”
“Where were you, Aunt? I vaguely recall those early picnics by the lake, but I cannot remember you being there.”
She lowered her head, her smile sad. “I was not invited. But I sometimes lurked nearby to observe you children.”
Emily swallowed the last of her claret. “Did you care so much then that you never had a child of your own? Because I care. When I visited Gwen and John Montague in Yorkshire, I admit I felt a twinge of jealousy. Gwen dotes on Cecily. She’s all Gwen ever talks about. Last time I was in London, I met my cousin Miranda at Hatchards. Phoebe, Longley’s ward, was with her and little James, Miranda’s firstborn. They made such an adorable picture.” She sighed and dabbed her lips, then folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “And before you say it, the answer is no. I do not pine for Lord Longley. He’s a fine man, and I am happy he and Miranda sorted out their problems and finally wed. I was never in love with him.”
Only Andrew. Always Andrew.
A warm hand reached over and touched her shoulder. Concern lined her aunt’s face. “Be careful. Given your history with Cardmore, you must not get too attached to his son. He’ll marry again, and his wife will not be pleased to welcome you into her stepson’s life.”
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