After the Abduction (13 page)

“I beg your pardon,” came Lord Templemore’s stiff voice, “but is your sister by some chance…that is…” He trailed off into an uneasy silence.

When she glanced at him, his expression showed all the discomfort of a man caught in the act of peering into another man’s closets. “What?” she prodded.

He wouldn’t look at her. “Mare’s milk, rabbit’s blood, and sheep’s urine are occasionally touted by quacks as having properties that will…er…enhance fertility in a woman.”

Juliet continued to stare at him blankly.

His gaze swung to her, softening. “Could your sister be trying to conceive?”

A blush crept up her cheeks at the same time that a thousand little details clamored for her attention. Rosalind’s strange reaction whenever the impending birth of Helena’s baby was discussed. Her preoccupation of late
with apothecaries. The wistful look she got whenever she saw children.

“They’ve only been married two and a half years.” Yet patience was
not
one of Rosalind’s virtues. Two and a half years without conceiving would seem like a lifetime to her. Juliet winced, remembering the good-natured teasing the family had heaped on Rosalind when Helena had gotten pregnant first after marrying second. And the way Rosalind hadn’t laughed it off as she usually did when they poked fun.

Something else occurred to her. “How did you know about the mare’s milk?” she blurted out. When a faint tinge of color touched his cheeks, she groaned. She really had no business discussing such an indelicate matter with a man. Yet curiosity got the better of her. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of it. And since I tended Papa during his illness, I’m familiar with physic.”

He cleared his throat nervously. “It’s an ancient remedy. No sensible woman uses it now, but that doesn’t stop quacks and the occasional stupid midwife from touting it as an old-fashioned solution. Or women desperate to conceive from attempting it.”

“Yes, but how would
you
have heard of it?” she persisted.

He shrugged. “My mother tried it.”

That shocked her. “You know that for a fact?” And how did a young man find out such a thing about his mother?

Closing his hand around a napkin, he murmured, “My uncle told me. Evidently she tried a number of remedies in her quest to have a child.”

When his fingers squeezed the napkin convulsively, she felt a stab of pity. Why had his mother tried so hard to conceive, yet left one of her children behind? No doubt he wondered the same thing. Yet his forbidding expression made it clear that any questions in that regard wouldn’t be welcome.

He caught her staring at him with concern, and his jaw tightened. He seemed to be weighing something, then said, “What actually worked for her was consulting the local wise woman.”

“Wise woman?”

He smiled faintly. “This may be Shropshire, Lady Juliet, but the blood of Wales runs through a goodly number of the county’s inhabitants, including my mother. In desperation, she spoke with my father’s tenant, Winifred, who reputedly could cure anything with her herbs. Whatever she gave Mother worked. Mother conceived twins.”

“Perhaps she was only lucky.”

“Perhaps. But Uncle Lew said she’d been trying for five years. And she conceived within three months of her first visit to Winnie.” He toyed with the napkin. “You know, Winnie still dispenses herbs and advice. Your sister might consider a visit to her as well. I’d be happy to take her.”

The offer surprised her, since it meant his involving himself in a most delicate family matter. “That’s very kind of you. Why would you do such a thing? Especially knowing that my brother-in-law might object.”

He shot her an enigmatic glance. “Your sister made a suggestion to me this morning that I begin to think has merit. I’d merely like to repay the favor. And I can promise that the wise woman won’t suggest anything harmful.”

That reassured her only a little. “I don’t know if I should interfere.” Not in this. How on earth could she tell Rosalind that she’d discussed
this
with Lord Templemore?

“Do as you think best, but if you change your mind, I usually rise early. If I’m not at breakfast, I’m in my study or my workshop. Tell your sister that, and we can arrange for a little visit that wouldn’t alarm your brother-in-law.”

“You mean, go behind his back.”

“If she wants.”

She sighed. “I’ll consider it.” In truth, she was sorely tempted to step in. It bothered her to see the couple argue,
and of late there’d been tension between them. But she was always complaining about how they interfered in her life, so it was hardly fair of her to do the same. “In any case, thanks for the offer, Lord Templemore.”

“Please call me Sebastian,” he said softly. “At least while we’re in private.”

The intimacy in his tone banished all thoughts of her sister’s problems. He had a way of stripping her inner soul naked when he looked at her, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. It unnerved her. It thrilled her.

She should refuse to address him so…familiarly, yet she heard herself saying, “Very well, Sebastian.”

The name did suit him better than Lord Templemore or even Morgan. Templemore was the name of a lofty lord, and Morgan that of a reckless adventurer. Sebastian was a solid English name, perfect for a man who’d offer to help a stranger because someone else had done the same for his mother. That man she could understand and even like.

Now if only she could figure out which man was the real one.

With a pleased smile, he stood and held out his hand. “And now, my lady, it’s time.”

“For what?”

“Have you forgotten what you asked of me earlier?” His smile broadened. “It’s time for your first lesson in recognizing scoundrels.”

Chapter 7

Compliments cost nothing,
yet many pay dear for them.

Book of German sampler designs, worked by Juliet Laverick in penance after Helena caught her flirting with a smooth-tongued footman at fifteen

S
ebastian led Juliet toward the drawing room, certain that he’d lost his blasted mind. What had possessed him to offer help to Lady Rosalind? Her jealous husband was already trawling for any excuse to throttle him—this would
not
improve matters.

And yet…Knighton’s protective interference and Lady Rosalind’s affectionate teasing at luncheon had affected him profoundly. Sebastian hadn’t seen such a well-suited couple since before his aunt’s death had left Uncle Lew bereft. Like a perfectly balanced pistol, Lady Rosalind’s enthusiasm compensated for Knighton’s cynicism, and his common sense compensated for her impulsiveness.

Until their argument. What man could ignore the hurt in Lady Rosalind’s eyes and the bleak despair in Knighton’s? Not being able to have a child could poison even a good marriage—Sebastian knew that well enough. He’d often wondered if his mother’s trouble with conceiving had initially caused his parents’ estrangement. Perhaps by the time his mother had found herself with child, it had been too late to save their marriage.

Perhaps not, but he hated to see another couple suffer through such a problem when they were so obviously devoted to each other.

As he and Juliet entered the drawing room, he glanced down at her sun-dappled hair. Then there was the practical reason for stepping in—like the possibility that it could gain him Juliet’s goodwill. God knew he could use help in that regard. The woman didn’t feel the least kindly toward him—or Morgan either—and she was clearly finicky about her suitors.

Not that he blamed her. But it didn’t make matters any easier.

After showing her to the settee, he started to sit in the adjoining chair. Then something bit him in the behind, making him leap up with a yelp. “What the devil—” Reaching back, he extracted a needle from his rear and dropped it onto the table, where it landed with a ping. “Remind me to be more careful where I sit in the future.”

“Dear me, I’m so sorry!” She rose to whisk a wooden contraption out of the chair, then set it on a side table. “It’s my embroidery. I must have left it here when we went in to luncheon. I-I’m usually more careful. Did it hurt you?”

“No more than the average needle piercing one’s bottom,” he grumbled.

With a murmur of distress, she quickly circled behind him and lifted his coat tail.

He turned abruptly to face her. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Trying to see if you’re bleeding or—”

“I’m
fine.
” The last thing he needed was Juliet examining his ass at close range. Still, he liked having her fuss over him. No woman had fussed over him in years. He rubbed the sore spot, then held out his fingers. “You see? No blood.”

“Thank goodness,” she said with great contrition. “Truly, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not your fault. I should have looked first.” He flashed her a wry smile. “But I’m not used to having women—and all their contraptions—at Charnwood Hall.”

“I know.” She sidled around him to resume her seat on the settee.

He remained standing. No telling what else lurked in his chair upholstery. How many needles did a woman use at a time? One? Six? He had no idea. The sum total of his knowledge about needlework could be fit into the lock of a pistol.

Then he blinked. “What do you mean—you
know?
Am I that poor a host to my female guests? Or did you deduce it from my reaction to being attacked by a chair?”

A small smile graced her lips. “No. I deduced it from what your servants told Rosalind’s maid. They were overjoyed to have ladies here for the first time in years.”

“I see I’ll have to admonish my talkative servants.”

“Don’t you dare! They’re already afraid of you.”

That brought him up short. “Whyever for? I treat them well enough.”

“Yes, of course, when it comes to salaries and working conditions. And it’s only the females who complain.” When he bristled, she added hastily, “Don’t misunderstand me—they seem to respect you enormously. But they’re also terrified of you.”

“What rubbish! What have I done to terrify them?”

“It’s what you don’t do. You bark orders without stopping to chat or thank them. You treat them with stiff formality, and they see that as evidence of your disapproval.”

“It’s inappropriate to ‘chat’ with one’s servants.”

“You chat with your valet, don’t you? And the butler? And your footmen? It’s only the women you’re curt with. When I said last night that you might not even like women, it wasn’t an idle supposition. Servants do talk, you know.”

Finally comprehending the source of the trouble, he sighed. He rounded the chair, then leaned forward to prop his folded arms gingerly on the back of it. “I should clarify—it’s inappropriate for a
male
master to chat with his
female
servants.”

“I can’t imagine why—” she began.

“Because it can be mistaken for something else. Especially when the previous baron was such a—” He couldn’t believe he was discussing this. But it wouldn’t do to have her thinking him overly officious with his servants. Not when she already thought him dull and pompous. “When I took over management of this estate, I had to deal with several female servants with whom my father tended to…‘chat’ overlong, if you take my meaning. Apparently, they recognized, and rightly so, that I would compensate them financially for the ruin they’d suffered at my father’s hand.”

Her eyes went round, and she blushed furiously. “Oh.”

“Most of them are gone now. I did my best to find them husbands. The new maids know little of that, which is how I want it.” He smiled ruefully. “As a child I wondered why Father’s maids acted as if I might pounce at any moment. They were always reminding me to keep my hands to myself. They wouldn’t even let me buss their cheeks. Once I learned why, I decided that my female employees would never have cause to complain about me on that score. But I may have…er…overdone it.”

“Perhaps a little,” she said gently. “Praising their efforts once in a while probably wouldn’t be amiss. As it is, they think you don’t like them.”

He stiffened. He wasn’t used to being lectured on how to treat his servants. “Better than having them think I like them too well.”

“Isn’t there some middle ground?”

The soft sympathy in her voice soothed his stung pride. “No doubt there is. Perhaps you could help me find it.”

That seemed to disturb her, for she dropped her head and began fidgeting with her gown, smoothing out unseen wrinkles, plucking off invisible lint. “It would not be my place to do such a thing.”

It could be,
he thought, but didn’t say it. He mustn’t scare her off before he’d even begun courting her.

“Besides,” she added, “I wouldn’t know how.”

“I sincerely doubt that. For one thing, you understand women better than I do.”

“You could understand them better, too, if you’d invite some to visit once in a while. Even bachelors have house parties. I’m surprised you don’t.”

“No one wants to traipse all the way from London to Shropshire for that.”

No one he wanted, anyway. After seeing so-called proper society women leap into bed with his father at the drop of a handkerchief, he’d had no interest in ladies of quality. Or in the other sort either. His determination to avoid his father’s shameful behavior had kept him from taking a mistress locally. In London, he’d had a few discreet encounters with light skirts, but here he lived a monkish life, pouring his passions into gun design.

But perhaps he’d been too hasty in cutting himself off from society. With Juliet flitting about, tormenting him…exciting him…he felt the absence of gently bred women in his life most acutely. He could use a wife, and Charnwood Hall a mistress.

Especially if it was Juliet. Her very presence brightened the hall, softened its edges. And considering what he owed her, the least he could do was marry her.

As if she could read his mind, she tilted her head up suddenly and flashed him a mischievous look. “We’ve wandered far afield, my lord. I thought you were supposed to be giving me a lesson.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “Although I’m not sure you need it. Judging from the conversation at lunch, I’d say you were quite adept at recognizing scoundrels. It sounds as if you had perfectly good reasons for rejecting your suitors.”