Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“You are right, Henning,” he said, giving the lad the name and the respect due to him. “I should have stated my case for your approval. But it is not too late. I can withdraw my suit if my credentials do not meet your requirements.” And pigs would fly first, he thought, but went through the motions. “I can provide well for her, and all of you.”

“Can she buy a new dress?” Willy wanted to know. “Not a gray one?”

The idea of his bride wearing mourning for her dead husband did not please Rockford. “As many new dresses as she wishes, and for your sister, also. Definitely not gray. You may tell your mother that I insist on that.”

Kendall nodded. The idea of the earl insisting on anything did not bother him the way it would have his mother, but he was a man. Or trying to be. “And you would never hurt her?”

The earl gave him a look that would have had half the members of White’s recalling a previous engagement. “I am a gentleman, Henning, and a gentleman
never
harms a woman.” He glared into four pairs of eyes. Two pairs were Alissa green. One pair was blue behind the spectacles, and one pair was deep brown, like his own. “Is that understood?”

Four heads nodded, two sandy ones, one blond, and one dark, but not as dark as his own color.

“Fine. What else? I will provide your mother a guaranteed income, if I predecease her, and a home for her lifetime, and for all of you.”

“Do I have to share a bed with Willy?” his youngest wanted to know. “He snores.”

“Do not.”

“Do too. But if you roll him over, he stops.”

“No, you will be at Rock Hill, William. You know how many rooms we have. No one will need to share.”

“I don’t like to sleep alone,” Willy protested.

Rockford ran his fingers through his hair. Lud, you’d think he was negotiating the end of the peninsular campaign. “We can decide all that later, after you have seen the place.” He’d be gone. Mrs. Henning could handle the details. He did not want to think about where
she
would be sleeping.

Kendall was not finished. “You won’t ever make my mama cry, will you?”

Now here was a poser. If Kendall thought Rockford could answer that, he had more faith in manhood than was warranted. “Women cry for different reasons. I cannot guarantee your mother will never become a watering pot, but I do swear not to make her unhappy on purpose. Now are you satisfied? I need to be on my way.”

“One more question, my lord. Will you keep Mama safe from Sir George?”

“You mean Fred Nivens, don’t you? He is gone.”

“No, he is not. He is working on the roads. Him too, but I mean Sir George Ganyon at Fairmont, especially.”

William piped up: “Ken had to fetch the pistol. You should have seen him, Papa; he was the bravest boy ever. Aunt Lissie said so.”

The pistol?

“And Sir George made Aunt Lissie cry, too. We all heard her. You won’t let him scare her anymore, will you, Papa?”

His trip to Canterbury was suddenly delayed. He’d set the stinking baronet out for crow bait first.

“No, Sir George will never frighten her again. I will see to it, and that I can promise you.”

“Then I give my permission for you to marry my mother, sir. But what should Willy and I call you? Billy never had a mother and Hugo never knew his, but we did have a father. It would not feel right to call you that or Papa.”

Rockford was more concerned with finding out what Sir George had done than what the Henning boys should call him. “Why don’t we think about it until the wedding? We can decide later, all right?”

Kendall nodded, then solemnly shook Rockford’s hand, sealing their agreement. Then he pushed his brother forward. “Go on, Willy. You have to shake or it’s not official and Mama can’t marry him.”

Will held out a hand that had been feeding pieces of apple to the donkey. Rockford sighed and shook it. It occurred to him for the first time, far too late, that he was not gaining a mother for his two sons. He was gaining two more blasted brats to raise.

*

Rockford informed Sir George of the coming nuptials, but he did not invite him to the wedding. He invited him, instead, to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Parlor in London for a bout of fisticuffs.

Recalling the condition of Fred Nivens, Sir George declined. He also declined an invitation to join his lordship at Antoine’s fencing academy, Manton’s shooting gallery, or any local farm, field, or vacant lot suitable for a dawn engagement.

He did not get the wedding invitation, but Sir George did get the point.

Rockford left, satisfied. As soon as his orders were carried out, Mrs. Henning and her brood would be under his protection, under his roof. Now if he could get her out from under his skin…

He was not satisfied, not at all.

*

It was easier to keep busy than to think. Alissa found it better to be consulting modistes and wine merchants than to be alone with her thoughts. She planned her wedding, a short one-day event, while trying to avoid considering her marriage, a lifelong commitment.

The wildly unequal match might raise eyebrows, but the ceremony, she vowed, would not embarrass Lord Rockford. With the advice of the vicar’s wife and nearly every other lady in the village—and Claymore, Rock Hill’s aged but efficient butler, of course—she planned a reception fit for a countess.

If anyone found the engagement offensive, they held their tongues, in Alissa’s presence, at least. How could they do otherwise? Whether they approved or not, considering her the worst kind of fortune hunter, she was going to be Lady Rockford, countess of Rock Hill and all its dependents. No one wished to insult a lady of such grand possibilities.

The wedding breakfast would be lavish without being boastfully ostentatious. Most important to Alissa, the local people would be providing food, drink, and entertainment, new suits for the boys, new gowns for her and Amy. She was not sending to London, as so many did, not when the villagers needed the custom, and not when they were still her friends, she hoped. They were all invited to the party, too, with trestle tables set up in the barn for those who felt uncomfortable in the big house.

For the first time since her first marriage, Alissa was going to have a gown she did not sew herself. She did not have the time, for one thing, and she could afford to pay the MacElroy sisters to create a more intricate gown than she could, for another. Why, she could afford to order a dozen gowns! The MacElroys needed the income, she reasoned, still needing to justify the extravagance in her own mind. She ordered three, and three for her sister, to be ready for the wedding. And new bonnets and gloves and shoes and capes and nightclothes and fine, silky underwear for them both.

The boys were ecstatic about their new residence, especially the maze and the stables and, for Hugo, the large library, but Amy was in alt at her new clothes. She almost ruined one dress length, weeping in happiness. The boys almost ruined their new outfits, also. Billy discovered the tailor’s chalk, and Hugo overturned the dish of pins while his spectacles were off. Willy would not stand still for the fitting, and Kendall seemed to grow between the first fitting and the final one. Still, they were all happy to have enough shirts and stockings so that they did not have to be as careful of their apparel.

Between fittings and meetings with the cook and Claymore, Alissa had to answer questions from Rockford’s tenants. He had made promises to repair Arkenstall’s mismanagement but he was not there, and the men needed to proceed before the winter. So Alissa gave approval for new roofs, new equipment, new crops and methods to try. She was not her father’s daughter for nothing. Her husband had always discussed his work with her too, and taken her with him on his rounds. She knew about land, and the farmers were happy enough that someone listened to their concerns, even if she was only a woman. Mrs. Henning had a good head on her shoulders, the locals agreed. Too bad her father had no son.

Rock Hill itself also needed her attention. What was the point of serving the best wines and foodstuffs to the guests if the house was in disrepair? She hired extra servants to help the elderly staff, and oversaw their work herself. Lord Rockford had bargained for a chatelaine. She would see that he got his money’s worth.

Every minute of every day was full, and not half what she considered necessary was accomplished. Why, some brides took a year to plan their weddings, and she had a week, with four boys to keep out of trouble at the same time. The days were too busy for reflecting, but, ah, the nights.

Alissa fell into bed at night thinking she would fall into exhausted sleep instantly. She did not. For the first time since before Amy’s birth, she had a bedchamber to herself, having shared one with her sister before her marriage to William and then after he died. Now she was alone for the first time in years, without Amy’s chatter to keep her awake, without any rustling in the roof overhead. Sleep was still elusive. Worries were rampant. Panic was pending. How could she sleep?

She looked around her bedchamber, the countess’s apartment that had long been vacant. It was almost as large as her entire cottage, but far more elegant, the blue velvet hangings faded a bit, but the rich Aubusson rug was as vibrantly colored as any she had seen. The hearth always had a fire burning, not just when she was in the room, and one of the maids had no other job but to wait on her here. The candles never smoked, the windows did not leak, the mattress had nary a lump. She had her own sitting room next door, a dressing room just for her clothes, and a tiled bathing room with water that was heated in the attic pipes, instead of having to be carried up all the stairs.

Amy’s room was down the hall, and almost as lovely, decorated in rose and pink. She was, like the room, blooming. The boys had adjoining rooms in the nursery upstairs, with a footman to serve them, a valet-in-training to look after their clothes and help them dress, and one of Jake’s undergrooms to accompany them about as they explored the huge estate.

Alissa never had to give another drawing lesson to another untalented, uninterested student. In fact, she had found an unused attic room with just the proper light for a studio. If she found the time, she intended to paint a scene of Rock Hill for his lordship’s wedding present, so she did not have to use his money to purchase his gift. Besides, she enjoyed painting. As soon as the wedding was over, the house was in order, she found a proper tutor for the boys and an eligible match for Amy, she could paint to her heart’s content.

She never had to count her pennies again, either. A quick glance at the open ledgers showed Rock Hill to be a hugely profitable estate, despite Arkenstall’s depredations. She now had paid-up accounts at every store in the village, and access to what seemed unlimited funds in London. She did not feel the least guilty over spending Rockford’s money on a few luxuries, like her elegant lawn nightgown with violets embroidered across the low neck and scattered along the hem.

Alissa rubbed the fabric between her fingers, delighting in the softness. Not only could she never have afforded such fine material, but its lack of warmth would have been an invitation to frostbite in her cottage, and its sheerness immodest, with the boys in the next room. Willy was just outgrowing nightmares and crawling into her bed. Now a footman slept in one of the nursery rooms.

She never had to wear flannel again, or worry about her baby crying in the night.

With all these luxuries, with all the blessings that had come her way, Alissa asked herself how she could dare to complain. What had she to worry about that was stealing her rest?

Only the fact that she had sold her soul to the devil, that was all. In return for security and comfort, she had given herself to a man she did not know, one who inhabited an entirely different sphere from hers. Why, she belonged in the beau monde as much as her painting would belong in the empty place where the stolen Rembrandt had hung. Worse, Rockford did not want her, Alissa Henning. He wanted only a glorified housekeeper. Oh, he wanted her body, she had no doubt, but the same way a stag used tree bark to rub his antlers: Rockford would be scratching an itch. Almost any tree would do, but a wife was handy. In less than a week she had to welcome the toplofty earl to this very room, admit him to her body…pay her debts.

How could she live with a man who had no heart, who saw nothing but practicality, who considered children a burden and a wife the solution to a pesky problem? How could she, the daughter of a bailiff, be welcome in his elevated circles?

She wanted her flannel nightgown back, her sister in the next bed, her boys in the next room.

* * *

A few days before the week had passed, Rockford sent a note—to his butler, not his bride. Claymore adjusted his spectacles and announced that his lordship had acquired the necessary license. He would return on Wednesday night. The wedding could go forward Thursday, as planned.

As ordered, more like, Alissa fumed. She had no idea if he was bringing guests, if he had relatives she should invite, if he wanted lobster patties instead of breaded oysters. Rockford could be bringing his friend the prince regent, for all she knew. She had no idea of his wants and wishes, and her head ached from all the decisions she had been forced to make. Her patience was wearing thinner with each sleepless night.

It was his wedding too, she thought. He might show some interest—in it or in her. Now he was returning, he said, the very evening before the ceremony. They had no time to speak, and Alissa would have no chance to air her concerns. He had most likely planned things that way on purpose.