Edith Layton (4 page)

William was well enough in looks, fairly well educated, and growing plumper in the pocket. He was decent, respectable, and Jamie could tolerate him. William looked at her possessively these days, too, and with lust, though veiled. She didn’t mind. Until tonight. One glance from the English gentleman had set her body tingling as all these months of seeing William had never done. Still, William’s attentions made her feel like a desirable woman again and had nearly made her consider taking the name and protection he kept offering. So tempting to be loved again. So inviting to allow herself to think of marriage. And so foolish. Because with the name and the protection came loss of freedom. She could live with that, she had before. But she had Jamie to think about. She owed him more.

His charming, reckless father had given him life and a heritage, and little else. Dashing, so handsome in his uniform, he’d swept what he claimed was the
prettiest girl in the district off her feet, and then off to the new world. He gave up his commission in the navy soon after they married, telling her he could only make their fortune that way.

“A fortune? I don’t need one!” she’d protested with perfect honesty. “It was the uniform I married,” she teased. “I don’t know if I’ll stay with you if you take it off.”

“Oh, really?” he’d laughed. “Shall we see?” he asked, stripping off his jacket and bearing her back on the bed for those all too brief, breathtakingly intimate moments they shared.

She told him a fortune wasn’t necessary for her. She hadn’t known it wasn’t for her. But then, she hadn’t known him very well, after all. Even now, she didn’t miss Francis so much as the memory of the laughter and excitement they’d shared. In truth, she didn’t know much more of him than that. They’d had that little time together. How could she have known how he burned to show his brother he could surpass him? The naval career, the lovely young wife, the quest for a fortune, it was all to show his family what a second son could do.

He couldn’t do more. He hadn’t time. His ambition was no match for the lung infection he contracted in the new world. If he hadn’t had the Ameses as distant relatives there for her to apply to, Lucy didn’t know what she’d have done. She knew what to do now. She was determined to get back some of what her husband have given up. For Jamie.

Lucy thought of numbers now. She added them
with the same ritual care other women used saying their nightly prayers. Two more years working here. Only two, and she’d have the fare. A few years’ work in England and she’d have the fare back, if she wanted to leave again. But she might not have to.

She couldn’t stay with her mother. Her mother was widowed herself now, and living with her brother. It wouldn’t be fair. It also wouldn’t be likely. Her mother had never forgiven her for rejecting her choice of a son-in-law, a proper, ordinary suitor who couldn’t hold a candle to the most dashing stranger Lucy had ever met. Her mother’s letters were still filled with recriminations and regrets.

But she and Jamie might be asked to live with her late husband’s family. They were wealthy and had an estate with room for a dozen impoverished widows and their sons. Lucy remembered a grand house and beautiful grounds. Jamie’s grandfather was gone, his uncle was married, but had no children yet. The baron Hunt was relatively young and would have his own sons one day. But Lucy was sure he’d be impressed with his long-lost nephew even if he had a pack of sons himself. She’d written to him about Jamie, only stopping when she got the iciest of polite replies, and no invitation. Mothers were fond, and letters could lie, but she knew if the baron got one look at Jamie, he’d see his worth.

He’d have that look, Lucy vowed. Jamie
would
go home. He’d meet his grandmother at long last. More important to his future, he’d meet his uncle. She’d see to the rest.

Not all the rest, of course. She couldn’t afford to send him to Eton, where his father had gone, not if she sold her skin along with her body. She’d show him what his father had opted to leave, and tell him it had been for the sake of his future. Then at least he’d know where he came from and value his history. If nothing more, she’d do that. Seeing the elegant Mr. Wycoff tonight showed her what she’d left behind, too, Lucy thought, slow warmth creeping through her tired body, easing her wakeful mind. A world of balls and parties, of new clothes and devoted servants. She’d never been rich, but her father had been squire of their little village, and they’d lived moderately well. Deliciously well, compared to now. But Papa was gone now, and she wouldn’t ask Mama to fund her rash daughter, who’d made her own bed—as she was reminded in every infrequent letter.

Still, she wasn’t Cinderella. She helped the Ameses run their hotel, true. But working for one’s bread wasn’t such a shame here as it would be at home….
At home
, she thought, sleepily amused. She’d lived here ten years and still thought of England as home. She was still homesick for it. And she’d only herself to blame. For believing herself in love and not knowing love meant responsibility. For thinking love was all feelings and excitement, laughter and adventure. For trusting, and giving all her trust to one man—who’d carried her away to a new world and a new life.

She turned on her side and curled into a knot
almost as tight as the one in her chest, remembering life before she’d left home with Francis all those years ago. So she thought about Wycoff and his knowing smile instead. And mused about what else he might know. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think of those dangerous feelings. But what was the harm now? Now she knew the difference between dreams, wakeful or sleeping, and reality.

Eight years since she’d been held by a man…amazing, she thought drowsily. Though Francis had been little more than a boy then, hadn’t he? She began tumbling down the dark well to sleep. But then, her poor Francis might always have remained a boy, even if he’d lived a thousand years instead of only the five and twenty he’d been given. At least, she couldn’t imagine him ever being anything like the man she fell asleep smiling about.

T
he weather cleared to a bright, brittle day, winter still resisting early spring. Mrs. Ames’s English guest didn’t come downstairs until the sun was well up. Even then, he didn’t seem anxious to go riding. He asked for pen and paper instead, wrote a note, and then went out to the stables, but only to ask Alfred, the stableman, to find a boy to deliver the note to Richmond for him. Only then did he stroll back into the house and the breakfast room, where Mrs. Ames was hovering over her chafing dishes of shirred eggs like an anxious hen herself.

“Mr. Wycoff!” she said happily. “Do sit down. We’ve eggs and bacon, sausages and beefsteak. Hot-cakes and bread. Kidneys, cold meats, and porridge.” She frowned. “No kippers, I fear.”

“Fear not,” he said, picking up a lid from one of the dishes and sniffing appreciatively. “I don’t like them. The rest looks delicious, thank you.”

But several pairs of eyes peeking from the kitchen doorway noted that he only ate eggs, a bite of bacon, and toast spread with butter and honey. “Have I come down too late?” he asked Mrs. Wycoff when he finally put his napkin down. “I see everyone else has cleared out.”

“Oh, no!” she said, flustered. “It’s only that Mr. Caswell’s customers are farmers and he had to leave early to go on his rounds. And Mr. Booth was bound for home and could hardly wait to set out. We accommodate ourselves to our guests and not the other way round. On that score, is there anything else we can do for you? Perhaps you’d like to go riding? We’ve horses for our guests.”

“Not today, thank you,” he said pleasantly. “But I did think to have a look around the area. Alfred said he has a gig he could lend me. I wondered—is there anyone who could accompany me? To tell me who lives where, and something about the history of the place?”

“Well,” she said, concentrating hard, “it’s too bad my Herbert’s not back yet. There’s Alfred, of course, and…”

“I thought perhaps,” he said, smiling slightly, “I might ask your cousin Lucy. As further apology for my disgraceful error yesterday. I’m still ashamed of myself for it. I thought a ride in the sunshine, perhaps stopping off to have some luncheon. Of course,
if she’s otherwise engaged, I wouldn’t think of disturbing her.”

Mrs. Ames hesitated. “But—Lucy…alone? With you?”

He shook his head. “I’m well served for my foolishness the other night. I regret my previous misconception should lead you to imagine I mean any harm to her. It would be an open carriage, a local jaunt in broad daylight, perfectly acceptable at home. Is that considered fast here?”

“No, of course not! And I never meant that…”

Before she could start forgiving him at full tilt, he interrupted, “Mrs. Ames, I leave it to you. Would my request be a burden to her? What do you think, my dear lady?”

Mrs. Ames beamed.

“Oh, what a treat, sir!” Jamie exclaimed as he clambered up to the back of the gig Wycoff had waiting in the drive. “When Mama said I could come with her, I don’t mind telling you I was delighted. Oh, I’m James Stone, sir, though most people call me Jamie. Pleased to meet you.”

Wycoff checked, but only for a heartbeat. “I am at your service, Master Stone,” he said affably, as he gave his hand to Lucy to help her up onto the seat beside him. Not so much as a flicker of surprise that she had a son showed on his face. “No school today?”

“On Saturday?” Jamie said, “I should think not!”

“Ah. One does forget the days of the week when
one travels,” Wycoff mused. “What would his mother have done if it had been a Friday?” he asked Lucy pleasantly.

“The books,” she answered as easily, “or helped with the wash. No, I’m joking.” She laughed at the arrested look in his eyes. “I’d have come. This should be so much fun for Jamie.”

“We’ll try to make it so for his mama, too,” Wycoff said as he started the horse down the drive.

“There isn’t much to point out,” Lucy said as they bowled down the lane. “Only three near neighbors and a oak split by lightning. We did have a yellow dog with three legs, but the poor thing died of old age last summer. We’re only a village. Town has an inn and a barber, as well as two general stores, a tavern, Geoff’s land offices, and a lawyer.”

“A split oak?” Wycoff said with interest. “Now, that’s a thing a man doesn’t see every day.”

She grinned. She really had the most sumptuous mouth, he thought. That lower lip especially. The bright sunlight only made her more attractive, pointing out things he’d hadn’t seen clear in the lamplight. Those faint cinnamon freckles were a rare sight for him. He was glad they weren’t in London. If she were in London they’d be the blight of her existence, banished by fashion, lotions, and poultices, no doubt. Now he could see they were dashed across the bridge of that delightful straight nose, a few sprinkled high on her cheeks. They looked as though they’d taste delicious.

“You’d like to see our oak?” she asked, her head
to the side, watching him. “You’re a botanist, are you, Mr. Wycoff?”

“I appreciate a beautiful flower, to be sure,” he said, turning to her with frank and hungry appraisal in his eyes.

She laughed full out. “Lud!” she said, her eyes laughing too, “A genuine double entendre, unless I miss my guess. We don’t get many of them hereabouts.”

“Indeed? But how delightful for me. They’re commonplace at home. I’m pleased to please you so well,” he said. “A London lady would merely titter, and blush, becomingly.”

“My tittering is sadly rusty,” she said with mock sadness, “and my blushing only makes my freckles stand out, so I’ve given it up. Would ducking my head shyly do?”

“Not if I couldn’t see into your eyes,” he said.

She fanned herself with one hand. “My word! I haven’t had such veiled flirtation in so long I think the blood is rushing to my head, depriving me of my wits!” She looked at him seriously. “Mr. Wycoff, no doubt you’re expert at it, but as I said, I’m sadly out of practice. Do you think we might just talk, as people do?”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her, a gleam of real appreciation in his eyes. “As people do? Few women I meet speak so frankly,” he said with approval, “and that’s not flirtation, my dear, only honesty. I’m out of practice with that myself. But I’ll try, I promise you. And I’m a man who keeps my word.”

He did. They engaged in bright, friendly conversation. He enjoyed himself enormously. The boy didn’t add much; he sat on the back seat of the gig grinning like a setter with his nose to the wind. Or so his mother laughingly told Wycoff. She delighted him. The breeze whipped ringlets from her chestnut hair, covering her face so she had to keep pulling it back. He found it stimulating, like watching her through a bright mahogany veil. She glowed, entirely.

“Well, there it is,” Wycoff finally said, stopping the horse in front of the abandoned farm he’d bought. “I’d ask you in to have a look ’round, but it’s empty as my stomach is right now. Mrs. Ames generously suggested we stop at her competitor’s for luncheon, since we’re closer to that inn now than hers. I suspect she also wants you to spy out the menu for her. So would you care to join me?”

“The inn?” Jamie cried, “On the main road? They have fifteen rooms. My friend Horace works there. Can we go, Mama?”

“I’d love to,” Lucy said. “They say they have the most excellent stew. Let’s see if it’s true! For Mrs. Ames’s sake, of course,” she added piously, ruining it with a peal of laughter.

But that was her way, Wycoff thought as he set the horse moving again. She was free with her laughter. It wasn’t what he was used to. Ladies at home smiled rather than laughed aloud, well-bred British girls simpered rather than chortled. That might be why he preferred women who weren’t so well-bred. Or once
had, he corrected himself, remembering a London lady with casual manners and fine morals who’d changed his tastes in females altogether. Lucy was British, too, and well-bred. But free-spirited. Still, Mrs. Ames had been right, there was nothing bawdy or rowdy about her. But everything sensual, although he’d swear it was all unknowing. He decided it was time someone let her know.

Wycoff reclined in his chair as their waiter cleared the table. They sat in the common room of the inn, in an alcove near a blazing hearth. They’d worked their way through soup, fish, stew, chicken, and meat pie, sauces, savories, and breads. It was no wonder Jamie excused himself to go seek out his friend in the kitchens even before dessert was served. Wycoff found the food delectable, but enjoyed seeing Lucy devour it even more so. She ate the way she laughed, with mannerly gusto. He found such an unabashed appetite deliciously erotic, the more so because it was all unwitting.

She’d paused when she’d seen him watching her eat. “This is all in the nature of an investigation, you understand,” she’d said seriously, her fork full of meat suspended midair. “I usually only have a crust of bread and glass of water for luncheon. Then I have the soup and fish and meat.” A smile peeped through her solemn expression, then she slowly erupted in laughter.

“So,” Wycoff said now as they sat waiting for dessert, “we’ve seen the entire metropolis, all seven
teen houses of it. And the split oak. You’ve told me about the neighbors. All except one. Yourself.”

“Oh. Well, what can I say?” she answered, looking down.

“Everything,” he said, watching her. “Since I know nothing about you and got into too much trouble before with my guesses, I think it’s only fair you tell me firsthand. You come from England. You have a son, but I saw no husband. You might start with that—that is, if you care to. Because if it’s a tender topic or an uncomfortable one, I’ll understand, I promise you.”

“Well, you needn’t think there’s anything smoky about it!” she said, looking up, startled. “I was born in Kent, and raised there. I married—in a very grand church ceremony, too—when I was nineteen. My husband, Francis Stone, was brother to Lord Hunt.” But now her liveliness faltered and she went on more slowly. “We came to America ten years ago. Francis had the notion of improving himself more than most younger sons can—at home, at least. He tried the Navy, became a lieutenant. But he hated it, resigned, and came here to make his fortune. He didn’t, as you can see,” she said simply, not looking at him. “When he died, eight years ago, his cousins here took us in. They did very well by us, too,” she said, raising her chin.

“No, really,” she insisted, though he didn’t say a word. “They treat us well. I don’t work very hard at the Ames Hotel. Bookkeeping, general planning and such. They’d give us room and board even if I
didn’t do anything at all. They did before they tried to run a hotel. So, there you are. No, there I am. And you?”

She said it fast, so she could say it and move on to hearing his reply. She was dying of curiosity. She assumed he was unwed, or Geoff would have mentioned something about his family. She knew he was wealthy, and well traveled. But she didn’t know much else about him, and he wasn’t forthcoming about himself. They’d chatted all morning, but now she realized she knew no more about him than when they’d met. Except that he was good with words, and better with boys, because she could see he’d won Jamie over completely. But he was best with women, because he’d a way of making a woman feel important and fascinating in his presence.
It’s the way he looks at me
, she mused,
as though he’d never seen anything so lovely in his life
. Though one look at the man showed that couldn’t be true.

He’d always traveled in good company; you could hear it in his conversation and see it at a glance. He’d taken off his fine beaver hat and good wool greatcoat to show he wore a dove gray jacket, buff pantaloons, and burgundy waistcoat. His neckcloth was tied simply but elegantly. But it wasn’t his clothing, his clean light brown hair, or even his tall, fit frame. Nor even the watchful eyes—that she’d noted were dark hazel and not brown after all. The only thing off center about his appearance was a slight bend to that high-bridged nose. It only gave him more character. As if he needed more.

The man was striking in the quiet force of his personality. It had been so long since she’d met anyone like him. It was delicious sharing easy conversation with him, bliss when she made him laugh, if only because it showed she could dent that calm reserve even a little. Or could she? She wondered if he ever did anything he hadn’t planned to do. In truth, she was actually a little afraid when he grew still and watchful with her, as he was now. Not of him. But of her reaction to him. Because she couldn’t remember having felt this way before. Or at least not since she’d been young and free. When she could have afforded to be. Not like now.

Now, there was Jamie. Now there were her fears and expectations for him, compounded by all the long years of worry and regret she’d had for her rash decision to wed. Now there was too much experience and too many years of loneliness, far too much on her plate for her to trust a strange gentleman, no matter how warm the look in his eyes, or how ready his wit.

He was after all, on a journey. She was readying herself for one. They were met in passing. She had to keep reminding herself of that. He wouldn’t want any entanglements beyond the casual rumpling of his sheets. The only casual thing she could indulge in with a man was conversation, no matter what his voice and eyes suggested.

“And so,” he said, ignoring her question about himself, “you plan to stay on at Mrs. Ames’s?”

“I plan to stay on until I can go home to visit
England.” She had the pleasure of seeing the surprise leap in his eyes. “I’ve worked a long time to that goal. My mother’s long widowed and living comfortably with her brother now. I didn’t wish to burden her. But I mean to go back and stay long enough to let Jamie see where he came from and meet the rest of his family. And let them see him. It may be his uncle will decide to provide for his future in some way—so far as I know he has no issue himself. He’s no less than a baron, you see. I confess I haven’t heard from him in many a year. Still, the Ameses would know; they’re distant relatives, and they’ve never mentioned anything of the sort to me. So I hold a hope for Jamie’s sake. If his uncle sponsored his schooling it would be enough. But he’d have to meet Jamie to know what he’s capable of. I’m going to bring him home so they can meet.”