Anita Mills (8 page)

“Ladies do not play faro, my lord,” she reminded him primly, and then let her face break into a watery smile. “But I am willing to learn if you have the patience to teach.”

“I warn you that I am quite good, my dear.”

“Then I might as well learn from a master.” She looked up and caught the almost-boyish smile of encouragement that lit his blue eyes. It was no wonder he had such a way with women; she had seen none to compare with him. “Mayhap if my aunt rejects me, I can become proficient enough to be a female gamester on the Continent,” she told him lightly.

“You would not like the life,” he answered as he took the chair opposite and began to shuffle the cards. “And Augusta Sandbridge would not let a niece of hers sink to such depths, I promise you.”

She proved an apt pupil and soon they were able to enjoy the game. While she shuffled, he rummaged through the closets and managed to find the absent owner’s cache of wine and appropriated a bottle of burgundy to share over the cards. He poured them both a glass and then noted her hesitation.

“Go ahead,” he urged. “It will ease your mind and body after all you have been through.”

“Are you trying to ply me with drink, my lord?” she asked suspiciously as she eyed her glass.

“Lud, no! I had already told you on several occasions that you are not in my style, my dear, and seduction is the last thing on my mind now. But if we are to be friends, after all,
I
see nothing wrong with splitting
a
bottle over a few hands of faro.”

“You know that I should drink ratafia.”

“But I didn’t find any of that, so burgundy will have to do.”

After the first few sips, she had to own that it was really quite good. And when she won a few hands, she began to feel quite comfortable and cosy in the tiny kitchen. The thought crossed her mind as she watched him shuffle his turn that if anyone had told her only two days before that she would be alone and half-dressed in the company of a dangerous rake—a handsome dangerous rake, she amended—and that they would be playing cards, she would have thought the teller patently mad.

For his part, Alexander Deveraux studied Ellen under heavy lids and found himself thinking that she was the most unusual female he had ever met—a true Original, and certainly the first of her sex to keep him even mildly amused without providing him physical intimacy. Damn Basil Brockhaven! The fat pig had no business with a girl like her. Careful, a voice in his brain seemed to warn him, if you do not mind yourself, you are in danger of becoming softhearted. He watched her win yet another hand and threw down the rest of the deck in mock disgust. “You did not warn me you were a Mister Sharp,” he reproached her.

“Mistress Sharp,” she corrected him happily. “And I did not know it myself. Are you absolutely certain that you are not letting me win?”

“Word of a Deveraux,” he pronounced solemnly while he poured them another glass.

“Are we getting foxed, my lord?”

“Not yet. Are you sleepy?”

“No, and if I go to bed, I will just feel sorry about this whole mess.”

“You can scarcely be held accountable for a bad storm. Drink up and deal, my dear.”

“If we were seen, what would people say, do you think?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Believe me, if we were seen sitting here like this, none of my acquaintances would trust their eyes and more than one would swear off drink. Your deal,” he reminded her again.

“I suppose I could be a musician,” she mused as she handed out the cards, “for I truly am quite good on the pianoforte, you know.”

“No. If Augusta Sandbridge repudiates you, Ellen, you cannot become a musician, either, for they usually end up as rich men’s mistresses—or worse.”

“You make it sound as though all women who do not marry wind up as somebody’s mistress. I cannot credit that, my lord, for not all unmarried females are immoral, do you think?”

He stared at her critically. In the soft candlelight, she seemed very innocent and vulnerable in spite of her brave words. It was an illusion, he told himself, for Ellen Marling had greater strength and more courage than all of the shallow misses of the
haut ton.
Almost without thinking, he asked abruptly, “Have you ever been in love, Miss Marling?”

Her violet eyes widened and she eyed him for some devious intent before she could bring herself to answer. “No,” she decided positively, “I am sure I have not. And after this escapade I doubt I shall ever be.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“My lord, you have gone to great pains to point out to me that I shall never have the chance with any respectable gentleman. And in spite of what you might think, I cannot see myself as anyone’s mistress.” She made her points and laid down her cards. “And you, my lord, have you ever been in love?”

“Not even in my salad days,” he admitted. “Every female, no matter what her station, always wanted to hang onto my purse rather than me.”

“Your mirror ought to tell you a different story,” she retorted.

“You know, you are the queerest female I ever met, Ellen Marling. You do not flirt, you do not faint, you do not throw tantrums, and you are devilish plainspoken. I swear I cannot see what Brockhaven saw in you except for your youth and your eyes.”

“Well, thank you very much, my lord. You have again reminded me that the Deveraux, for all their other estimable accomplishments, have no manners.”

“My apology. What I meant to say, Miss Up in the Boughs, is that I should have thought he would have preferred a more biddable female. You require a man of more strength than Brockhaven.”

“Are you sure you are not trying to set up a flirtation with me, my lord?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Word of a Deveraux. I told you, I consider you a friend.”

“And I think I have had too much of this stuff.” She eyed her glass sleepily. “I think I should retire, my lord.” She pushed her cards away and rose, weaving unsteadily for a moment. “Yes, I believe I have definitely had too much.”

“Do you need help to your room?”

“I shall make it by myself, thank you, but it will be an effort, I think,” she murmured. Her speech was soft and slurred from the effects of the wine.

He watched her muster her dignity and make her way unevenly out of the kitchen, through the open area, and into the chamber she’d taken. He turned back to pour himself another glass and noticed that they had nearly drunk it all. Poor Ellen Marling! She was going to have a devil of a headache on the morrow, but for tonight at least, she would sleep.

He sat staring for a long time into the red liquid in his glass. Damn females, anyway, he decided, and the sooner he got rid of the violet-eyed Miss Marling, the better. The chit was beginning to give him a conscience.

E
LLEN WOKE TO
the sound of the marquess pounding on her door and asking if she intended to sleep away the entire day. She stretched reluctantly and became aware of the awful ache in her head. Pulling a pillow over her head to shut out the sound of the incessant pounding, she tried to ignore the noise.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he called through the door.

“No,” came the muffled reply. “Go away.”

“Well, I am. So ’tis time for the cook to arise.”

“‘I thought dissipated lords slept all day,” she muttered back.

“Only after dissipation, my dear, and I did not have enough wine last night.”

“Well, I did. My head aches as though it could burst.”

“Poor Ellie,” he sympathized. “Now you have had but a small taste of what too many of us experience far too often.”

“Then I cannot imagine why you drink the stuff. I can assure you that I shall not again.” With a jolt, she realized his voice had come from close by. She rolled over and opened her eyes to see him standing expectantly by her bed.

“Well, do you get up or do I pull you out?”

“Oh, very well!” she snapped crossly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed before she thought. Wearing only a borrowed shirt, she exposed quite a bit of leg.

“You are longer of limb than I thought,” he murmured appreciatively, and grinned.

“And you are insufferable, my lord!” She hastily pulled the covers over her bare legs. “What do you think you are doing in my room, anyway?”

“Very well.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “I just thought you might be wanting these, unless, of course, you prefer to get up and get them for yourself. I would not particularly mind another glance at those long legs of yours.” He deposited her dress, petticoat, chemise, and pantalettes on the foot of her bed.

She reddened and averted her face. “I can assure you that I am capable of getting my own clothing.”

“All right. Let me but return them to the other room and you may come after them.”

“Listen, you big boor, you unfeeling—”

“Cad?” he supplied with another grin. “Obviously you lack the training of the rest of your sex if that is the best you can do for a tantrum. Your choice of words is too tame by half. I am used to being railed at with far more color.”

“Oooh!”

“Look, Ellen, my only intent was to spur you to making our breakfast. There is no need for us to fall into carping.” He gave her a cheerful nod and then left, closing the door after him.

She scrambled from beneath the covers and dressed with remarkable speed, given the condition of her head. Only when the last button was safely fastened did she take her eyes off the doorway. Her sense of ill usage grew as she dragged her purloined comb through the tangles of her hair. The unfeeling Trent had dragged her out like a common servant merely to cook his breakfast.

“I have warmed some water over the fire so you can wash,” he told her conversationally as she stalked in.

“You are so kind,” she muttered sarcastically.

“Well, I intended to be, my dear, but if you insist on behaving like a spoiled child, I will be tempted to abandon you to your fate and set off on our only horse without you. After all, ’tis well past noon and I
am
hungry.”

“Noon?” she retorted indignantly. “Eight, more like.”

“Noon.” He took out his watch and checked it. “See for yourself.”

“And what am I to prepare for your lordship?” she capitulated with ill grace. “I do not think I could eat a morsel myself.”

“ ’Twill help your head if you do, word of a Deveraux. And I should like a seven-course meal, of course. However, knowing your limitations, I suppose I shall have to be content with a couple of eggs.”

“Is there no sign of Mr. Dobbs?”

“None, I am afraid. So you will have to cook breakfast or we will starve.”

“And has your lordship collected the eggs?”

“Well, under normal circumstances, I believe that to be the function of the cook, but since you have been pressed into service so recently, I will take on the task.” With a parting smile that would have disarmed a bedpost, he sauntered toward the door. “But do be looking for a suitable pan while I am gone. I have a deuced nasty temper when I am hungry.”

She hastily washed her face and hands in the water he’d heated before she bothered to search for a skillet. Finding one, she was about to look for some grease before another thought occurred to her. She put the skillet away and selected a cooking pot instead. Filling it with the remaining water, she placed it over the fire.

He returned and laid five eggs on the table before taking a chair to watch as she wiped them off and popped them into the water. She pulled up a chair opposite and leaned forward to hold her aching head.

“Boiled eggs? Dash it, Ellen—I could have done that!”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I don’t like them boiled.”

“Neither do I, but we must make some allowances for my limitations, my lord—and, besides, my head hurts.”

“Then we had best hope that Dobbs gets here today before I have strangled you,” he sighed, “for I cannot account for my temper when my stomach is empty.”

“Really, my lord? I had supposed you to have a bad temper whenever you are crossed, so it is not entirely unexpected if you choose to show it.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the cottage door. “Dobbs!” they breathed in unison. Trent nearly knocked over his chair on his way to answer it, but as he swung open the door, he was disappointed to find a young boy of scarcely ten or twelve standing on the threshold.

“Mister.” The boy tipped his cap respectfully off his bright-red hair. “I am Jimmy Bratcher from down the road. Me mum says to find out ifn ye be the new landlord here.” He stepped in apologetically and added, “We saw yer smoke, and ’tis no secret that old man Chudleigh wanted to sell now that he don’t hunt no more.”

“Yes, we are the new owners,” Trent told him baldly as he stepped back and gave Ellen a warning look before she could protest the deception.

“And who are ye?”

“Name’s Trent.”

A smile broke across the freckled face as he put out his hand in the most adult manner. “Mr. Trent.” With a nod of recognition to Ellen, he added, “Mrs. Trent. Me mum’d like fer me to welcome you to Little Islip.”

“Is Little Islip the name of the nearest village?” the marquess asked hopefully.

“Naw, ’tis only this cottage, ours, and the Raymonds’, but they are gone to see her sick mum. Mebbe there used to be more, but I dunno ’bout that.”

“I see.” Trent’s expression was grave, but there was a twinkle to his eye. “Well, Mrs. Trent and I are pleased to make your acquaintance, aren’t we, my dear?”

“Delighted.” Ellen joined in the spirit and decided to explain, “But we were not intending on staying here. We were only inspecting the property when that dreadful storm came up. We suffered a carriage accident on our way, and you find us without much in the way of clothing or food.”

“I have sent for help, Jimmy,” the marquess added, “but it has not arrived. Do you suppose your mother could be persuaded to sell us some meat, bread, and cheese?”

“She’d give ’em to yer, more like.”

Trent pressed a couple of coins into the redheaded boy’s hand. “Then see if she can manage something.”

“Oh, yessir!” Clutching the coins happily, the child skipped out.

“Really, my lord, but one would almost think you had seen salvation,” Ellen reproached him from her place at the table. “You ought to be ashamed for lying to a boy like that.”

“Listen, Ellen—at this moment, I am perfectly willing to buy this place to get a decent meal. I’ll have my solicitor look up this Mr. Chudleigh when I return to London if that will salve your conscience,” he answered blithely as he rejoined her.

“What a whisker! And what will you say happened to me when you come back?”

“
If
I ever come here to hunt, I will tell them you died.”

“I think I should prefer a divorce, if you do not mind.”

“No. Too much of a scandal even for this rural setting,” he told her positively. “You will have to be carried off by some mysterious illness and leave me nearly inconsolable.”

“Well, I doubt you could even find this place again, anyway.”

“I doubt it, but what’s that to the purpose? I own dozens of places I’ve never seen, and at least this one looks like it has paying tenants.”

She eyed the bubbling pot soulfully. “And I had just set my heart on eating a hearty meal of two boiled eggs.”

“Now who’s telling a whisker?”

Choosing to ignore the truth of that, she changed the subject. “Do you really think he’ll come back? He could just take the money and keep going, you know.”

“I fervently hope so. I do not relish the meal you have planned, but if he does not come back soon, I shall be forced to choke it down anyway.”

He tapped his fingers impatiently against the tabletop as he watched the water in the pan bubble up and occasionally spray a drop or two into the fire. For a time, the bobbling eggs provided the only sound in the tiny kitchen while Ellen leaned on an elbow, her expression distant with thought.

“You know,” he cut in, “I do wonder what it was about you that caught old Brockhaven’s attention.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured absently.

“Well, it must’ve been something. I think it could have been the eyes or the hair.”

“What difference does it make? Not even Brockhaven would have me after this.”

“I thought you did not care about that, Ellen.”

“No”—she shook her head—”I never said that. I said I should prefer ruining my reputation to living with Sir Basil. It is not quite the same thing. Like most girls, I once dreamed of a husband and children of my own someday.” She straightened up and squared her shoulders resolutely. “Never mind me, my lord. I should not be talking to you on the subject; the weather and my head have left me blue-deviled.”

“Hey, buck up, my dear. Brockhaven cannot live forever, and once you are a wealthy widow, there will be someone come along who will not refine too much on an old story.” He watched her thinking as he spoke. “Aha— there is someone!”

“Only Mr. Farrell, our vicar. He claims to have a
tendre
for me, and he would probably welcome the chance to save my soul. But he must be past thirty.”

“Don’t say it like that, my dear,” he told her with a faintly injured air. “Thirty is not old. I will be there next year.”

“I suppose it is not,” she admitted. “In another seven years, I’ll be there too.”

“This Farrell—you say he has a
tendre
for you?”

“Definitely. He took every opportunity to pay me calls and to instruct me as to how I should go on, what I should wear, and how I should learn to curb my levity—you know, how I should strive to be like him.”

“Egad! What a lover!” Trent muttered in disgust. “But I would not be one to tell another man how to conduct his courtship. Tell me, this Farrell—is he handsome enough for you?”

“Very,” she told him definitely, “but his handsomeness is offset by his manner, which is conceited. Were I to ever marry him, with my usual luck, I would most probably be blessed with a dozen dull little boys just like him.”

“I shouldn’t think it at all likely. I’d wager they would inherit some of your spirit and daring.”

“Ah, but you do not know Mr. Farrell. He is boring, prosy, conceited, and exceptionally strong-minded. Not even plain speaking on my part could deter him from thinking that I wanted to be Mrs. Farrell. He was as obtuse as Brockhaven on that head, the only difference being that Brockhaven’s suit was favored by my father while Mr. Farrell’s was not. No, I could not be a vicar’s wife.” She rose from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“To take up breakfast, my lord. Even I am hungry now.” She managed a quick smile while nodding toward the cupboard. “And if I am to serve this elegant little repast, I expect you to lay the service.”

His eyes glimmered with amusement at her recovery from low spirits, and he pushed back his chair to stand. “Well, would your ladyship require napkins? As for myself, I have need of nothing but my fingers and the saltcellar. ’Tis a little primitive, I admit, but then we should not need to wash anything but our hands.”

“Put in such a way,” she laughed, “I will have to bow to your suggestion, Lord Trent.” She tried to pick up a hot egg she had removed from the water, and burned her fingers. Sucking on them to ease the pain, she managed to spoon the eggs into a towel, which she carried to the table. Rolling them out before him, she told him, “You get three.”

“You aren’t going to peel them?”

She took her seat again and rapped one of hers on the hard surface. Slipping pieces of shell off it, she looked up at him. “No, I do not think you completely helpless, my lord. But you may push the saltcellar this way before you begin, if you please.”

They could hear the sound of voices in the lane and both lowered their eggs back to the table hopefully. “Surely that is Dobbs,” Trent told her.

In that, they were destined for disappointment, for instead of the faithful coachman, Lord Trent opened the door to the Bratcher boy and a stout woman who bobbed her head respectfully and held up a basket laden with bread, fruit, and cheese.

“Jimmy says ye are stranded in Little Islip.” The woman looked to his lordship for confirmation before proceeding. Trent nodded. “Well, I allus was one t’ neighbor, sir, so ’ere’s summat fer yer and yer missus.” She handed the basket over to him and fished in her apron pockets to retrieve the coins he had given the boy. “And don’t yer be thinkin’ o’ payin’ fer what I’d be doin’, anyways.”

Ellen joined him in the doorway and smiled a greeting to the visitors. “Why, how very nice of you, Mrs. —Bratcher, is it? We should not dream of imposing on your generosity, I am sure. And as we will be needing other things until Mr. Dobbs gets back, we should expect to pay for them.”

“And I would have young Jimmy get the money then.” Trent grinned down on the flushed, freckled face. “If I remember anything of what boys like, I’ve no doubt that he can think of something he’d like—a kite, some spillikins, or something— right?”