Barbara Metzger Read online

  She could earn more money by being a governess than by teaching painting, she calculated, and perhaps the earl might keep her on permanently, or until Billy outgrew the need for a woman’s attention. After all, the boys would return from school for holidays and such, if they became ill or misbehaved and got sent down, a distinct possibility in Billy’s case, and someone should be at their home to greet them. Rockford would not want that burden.

  And he would not be there often, thank goodness. Alissa could not like working for the hard-eyed, hard-to-please man, but he seldom visited Rock Hill. He was sure to return to his London life and the ton’s diversions soon. The quiet country life could hold no appeal for the earl, or he would have been here often.

  She smoothed the skirts of her gray gown and straightened the scrap of lace she wore as a cap over her coiled braids. Yes, she looked like a proper governess. And Billy wanted to stay with her, if Rockford cared for a child’s wishes. The vicar said he would add his recommendations, too. He also said that no one would think ill of her for taking the post, for the whole village knew how hard she was working, trying to keep her family together. The vicar lived in a world of faith, hope, and charity, though. Alissa lived in the real world. There would be talk, and there was nothing she could do about it except hope her friends did not believe any gossip.

  At least she was not asking for charity. Nor, she would have to make clear, was she asking for any post other than that of governess, lest Rockford get ideas. Judging by that kiss, a libertine like Rockford always had those ideas. She believed he would never force himself on a woman, especially one in his employ, but she would carry the pistol anyway. To his credit, he had never looked at Amy with that swinish leer of Sir George; otherwise Alissa would never consider asking for the position. She would simply have started packing to leave, to go heaven knew where.

  She wanted to stay, and she wanted the job. With so much—not just her future but that of her entire family—dependent on the earl’s whim, she gave him a bright smile when he leaped down from the driver’s bench of his coach. She might have smiled anyway, he looked so fine. The journey had added a golden tan to his cheeks, and she liked his dark hair mussed by the wind this way, instead of pomaded into some fashionable arrangement. It made him seem more ordinary, more approachable. Otherwise he could have stepped from a gentleman’s fashion plate. His neckcloth was spotless and tied in some intricate knot, its stark white a gleaming contrast to his firm, slightly shadowed jaw. His midnight-blue coat stretched across the broad shoulders she would never forget, and York tan gloves covered his strong, masterful hands. Below strong, muscular thighs, his high boots gleamed, a tribute to his valet after such a long journey, and the golden tassels on them swayed with his graceful stride. He was altogether magnificent, like a champion Thoroughbred at the racetrack, perfectly groomed, perfectly conditioned, the finest specimen that money and breeding could create. And Rockford knew it.

  It was a good thing he was seldom at Rock Hill or Alissa would have lost her courage to ask him for the position. He’d most likely laugh at the pretensions of a lowly country widow.

  Before she could speak, Rockford groaned. Lud, he thought, if the widow was going to turn charming on him, he was sunk. He’d been hoping to find Mrs. Henning still in the boughs, still angry over his manhandling her. That way he could restore his brain to the rule of order, with a chance to erase his wayward thoughts. That radiant smile just etched them permanently on his brain.

  Hearing the earl’s moan, Alissa ran back inside and fetched the tin of peppermints she kept handy. “Here, my lord,” she said with another smile, “this should make you feel better.”

  Better than what, he wondered, a slug?

  Chapter Ten

  “I am fine, madam,” he said brusquely, turning his back on her and her hopes. He went to let down the steps of the carriage, though, and opened the door. For a minute Alissa could forget about the arrogant earl and her need for his approval. She wanted his elder son’s approval too.

  Hugo stepped out of the carriage and blinked against the bright sunlight. He reached up to adjust his spectacles, and to push the warm cap off his head. She did not see much of the earl in the boy’s much fairer looks and far slighter build, but his air of confidence proclaimed his paternity. Here he was, thrust among strangers, and the youngster did not appear the least bit disconcerted. He was Rockford’s son, all right. He made her a polite bow, and then gave her the smile Rockford so seldom showed, and her heart went out to the poor motherless boy on the instant.

  “Welcome, Lord Rothmore,” she said when Rockford did not make the introductions. He was talking to the driver and ignoring her and the children. “I am Mrs. Henning, a neighbor, and I am delighted to meet you. I should like to introduce my sister, Miss Aminta Bourke, and my sons, Kendall and William Bourke. Children, please welcome Hugo, Lord Rothmore.”

  The last of her charges was nearly jumping up and down in excitement, his eyes beseeching her to hurry. “And this,” she told Hugo with a smile, “is the Honorable William Rothmore. Your half brother, whom we call Billy.”

  The earl turned and frowned at that, but did not interrupt the introduction.

  Billy rushed forward, then skidded to a stop inches from Hugo and made a half bow. “May I call you Hugo or do I have to use your title? Are you really sickly or just pretending so you don’t have to go to school? Do you like strawberry tarts? Aunt Lissie—that’s what I call Mrs. Henning; she said it was all right, so maybe you can, too—said most boys do, so I saved you one. They are the best in the world.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flattened, oozing pastry with one corner missing.

  Hugo’s brows raised as he inspected the unappetizing offering, and he shook his head. “We just stopped for a bite a few miles ago when the horses were changed, so I am not hungry. But thank you, and I should like to be called Hugo, I think.”

  A fastidious diplomat too, just like his father, Alissa thought, hoping he had not hurt Billy’s feelings, after the younger boy had been so looking forward to his half brother’s arrival.

  She should not have worried. Billy crammed half the tart in his mouth, strawberry preserves dripping down his chin. Then he reached into the same pocket where he’d kept the pastry and pulled out a frog. “I saved this for you too.”

  Amy giggled, but Alissa was horrified. She started to step forward, but Hugo reached out first. He carefully transferred the amphibian from Billy’s grubby hand onto his own gloved palm.

  “Oh, capital! Bufo calamita, the Natterjack toad,” he said happily. “It is quite rare, especially in this area, you know, so you were lucky to spot him, and clever to catch such a handsome specimen.” He gently handed the creature back. “You’ll have to release him soon so he can make his winter home, of course. In the same place you found him would be best. But thank you for the opportunity to see one up close.”

  Billy looked up at Alissa, strawberry-smeared lips spread in a wide grin. “I told you he’d be the best brother in the whole world!”

  “So you did, Billy. So you did.”

  Alissa was relieved and impressed, and so was Rockford, as he came around the side of the carriage. He held up his hand to stop his younger son’s enthusiastic greeting before William could transfer any of his mess onto Rockford’s clothes. “Why don’t you and the Hennings take Rothmore around to see the pig or the ponies?” Hugo had an honorary title and it should be used out of respect for the ancient lineage he represented, Rockford thought. No one ever called him by his given name, Robert, which was as it should be. The widow most likely had her own, more casual rules, which would have to change. He sighed at the task ahead. “I would like a few moments with Mrs. Henning.”

  Now that the opportunity had come, Alissa was not certain she wished to take it. He looked so large, towering over the children, and so disapproving, his dark eyes fixed on the dust of her pathway, the unraked leaves. “Amy, you can join us for—”

  “Alone,”
was all he said.

  “—tea later, if you wish,” Alissa finished, while embarrassment tinged her sister’s cheeks red. Amy fled with the boys, and Alissa was alone with the earl and her doubts. What choice had she but to ask him, though? Her hands nervously fussed with the knot of her shawl, but she squared her shoulders and led him into the parlor.

  She did not look well, Rockford thought as he took the same hard chair he’d had before, across from Mrs. Henning’s seat on the sofa. Now that he had a closer look at the widow without her sunshine smile, she appeared drabber than he recalled, her eyes older, more tired, her complexion the color of her ugly gray gown. Lud, she wasn’t sickly, was she? That would never do at all. Even worse, she seemed agitated, high-strung. But then she took a deep breath—he watched the rise and fall of her breasts with appreciation—clasped her hands in her lap, and smiled. Good, she was steady and sure, in control of her emotions. His intuition was not entirely unreliable.

  “Mrs. Henning—” he began, just as she said, “My lord.”

  They both smiled and both started over.

  She said, “I have a proposition—”

  While he said, “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Yes?” she asked, eager enough to let him go first.

  “Yes, you will?”

  Alissa’s brow knit in confusion. “Yes, I will what? I have not heard your proposal yet.”

  “Yes, you did. I just made it.”

  She retraced the peculiar conversation in her mind. “A proposal of…?”

  “Marriage, of course. The usual thing.”

  First Sir George, now this. It was, indeed, getting to be the usual thing, Alissa thought, a nervous laugh rising like a bubble in her throat. “Marriage to…you?”

  “Well, not to Hugo, that is, Lord Rothmore. Of course to me.”

  Of course. Earls marched through her doorway every day and asked for her hand—her work-roughened hand, at that—in marriage. The world had gone insane, the walls tipped on their sides, the floor risen to the ceiling, the—

  “Deuce take it, woman, you are not going to swoon, are you?”

  She opened her eyes. “Of course not. I never faint.”

  He shoved her head down between her knees anyway. “Fiend seize it, I knew this was a bad idea!”

  She pushed him away and raised herself from that undignified position. “No, it is not a bad idea, if you mean it.”

  He was still standing, pacing, actually, in the small room. “Of course I mean it. I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean.”

  Alissa needed a moment to gather her wits, now that blood had returned to her brain. “Would you pour a cordial, please? There is a tray near the window.”

  He found the bottle of brambleberry wine, poured a glass, and drank it down in one swallow. When she coughed politely, he recalled himself, cleared his throat, and poured out another glass. He put it in her hand and said, “I am making a hash of this, aren’t I? I had planned it better in my mind.”

  “Not at all, my lord. It is just so…so startling.”

  “But sensible. I have been thinking of it all the way from Sheffield, so do not worry that this is some sudden whim. Your sons deserve a better life. My sons deserve a mother’s care. Our marriage can best accomplish both goals.”

  He meant it. Lord Rockford might have been discussing his next order of snuff, for all the warmth he showed, but he meant to offer for her, Alissa Bourke Henning, a widow of spotted past and uncertain future. “I need to think about it.”

  He raised that arrogant black eyebrow as if to ask what she had to think of, his wealth or her poverty. He pulled the chain on his fob watch and consulted the timepiece. “Five minutes ought to be enough, if you are the woman I take you to be. If not…” He shrugged. If she were so cork-brained as to turn him down, she would not be a fit mother to his sons anyway.

  She did not need three minutes.

  He was handsome, titled, and rich. On the other hand, he was too attractive to be faithful, too highly born for a commoner wife, and rich enough to buy a princess for a bride. An Austrian princess, to be exact. He was also arrogant, authoritative, and a possible rake. But he had not offered her the improper proposal she had feared, and he was not Sir George Ganyon.

  “Yes, my lord. I am honored to accept your offer.”

  “Good. I will ride to Canterbury to fetch a special license. We can be married next week.”

  “Next week?” she said with a shriek, then adjusted her tone to a mere squawk. “So soon?”

  He consulted his timepiece again. “We have not been betrothed for thirty seconds. Do not tell me you are getting cold feet already.” In a way he was relieved. It had been an impossible notion, really.

  Alissa had no feeling in her feet whatsoever. If they got up and ran away she would not have noticed—or blamed them. “No, it just seems rushed.”

  This time he took a quizzing glass out of another one of his pockets and surveyed the tiny room through its magnifying lens. He also cocked his head at a rustling sound from the thatch overhead. “Do you truly wish to live here a day longer than you have to?”

  Still unsettled, she wondered if he would pull a toad from his pocket next, like Billy, but she had to shake her head, no.

  He nodded. “Once I depart for Canterbury, you can remove to Rock Hill and plan the wedding from there without destroying your reputation. Claymore will help, and I shall leave blank drafts on my bank.”

  “That is very logical, my lord, and generous. But…but what kind of wedding do you wish?”

  Neither of his first wives had asked his opinion about the actual event, and he had never thought about it. He looked at his watch. If he were to have a decent meal and a long bath and a good night’s sleep—his first since setting out with Hugo, what with worrying over the boy’s health—before leaving for London in the morning, he had to be going soon. “A short one.”

  “A…short wedding.”

  “You know, no long speeches, no scores of attendants, no miles of receiving lines. Other than that, whatever you wish. I understand your first marriage was a hurried affair in Gretna. This one you can plan to your heart’s content, in a week.”

  Which showed he knew nothing about weddings. Alissa wondered how much he knew about marriage. “Will there be a honeymoon?”

  “What, go off and leave the cubs alone? What would be the point of getting wed at all if I wanted that?”

  Alissa could see he was impatient to be on his way, but she was having doubts. Not enough for her to renege on her recent acceptance, but doubts all the same. She felt that since she was not having palpitations, she was entitled to a few qualms. “I have to ask, my lord, what kind of marriage are you intending?”

  Not another short one, Rockford said to himself; that was for certain. He was not going to go through this again. But how many kinds of marriage were there, anyway? Good ones and bad. “I am intending us to have a good marriage, a convenient one.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that you will be a countess, the highest-ranking female for miles. You will have unlimited wealth at your fingertips, and servants to see that those fingers never do an ounce of work.”

  Alissa hid her roughened hands under her skirts.

  “It also means,” Rockford went on, “that your sons will have the same advantages as my sons, the same education, the same opportunities. Except, of course, those that come with the Rothmore name and titles, or the prestige they carry. I cannot provide what their birth did not.”

  “My boys do not need the auspices of your title, my lord. They are the grandsons of a duke.”

  “Who never recognized their births, correct?” He went on without waiting for an answer: “Old Hysmith is dead now, but his heir, Morton, is just as much of a prig. Morton’s wife was the worst of the lot, acting like an empress instead of a mere duchess, despite her father being a piddling baron. She died after giving his grace two sons, but of course you know that. Were you thinkin
g that Kendall is in line for the duchy?”

  “No, there was another brother between my husband and his eldest sibling. I believe they each have hopeful families.”

  “No matter. The fact that your sons are the wards of Rothmore will get them entry almost everywhere. Your sister too, of course.”

  That was almost everything she wished. “But what about you, my lord? It seems all the advantages of this marriage fall to my lot.”

  “Oh, no. I will no longer have to worry about being entrapped into matrimony by some conniving shrew or her matchmaking mother.” Or a particular plump princess from Ziftsweig, Austria. “That is a great advantage.”

  “Enough to wed a stranger?”

  “Added to the fact that I shall find it very convenient not to have to worry about the children, yes. That will be your function.”

  “You could have hired a housekeeper or a governess to fulfill that need. At much less expense.”

  “But finding good, loyal servants is not that easy. Besides, servants give notice, move on to other positions, retire to open boardinghouses and inns.”

  “Wives can leave too, you know.”

  He did not need the reminder. “Would you go off and leave your sons?”

  “Never!”

  “Fine, because once we are wed and they become my wards, you cannot take them. There, are you satisfied now? I need to be on my way.”

  If they were to spend a lifetime together, surely he could give her another minute or two. “What about you?”

  “What, would I run off? Or do you mean to ask if I would have affairs?” Her blush answered his question. “If that is your concern, I shall never disgrace you. Beyond that, a jealous, prying, complaining wife would be inconvenient in the extreme.”