The Babe and the Baron (21 page)

How could he ever love such a freakish, ramshackle female? What a dreadful mess she had made of her life!

Chapter 16

“Ash Hill!” Gareth exploded.

“Yes, my lord.” Lloyd did not turn a hair. “Myfanwy did not attempt to dissuade her, being of the opinion that a good walk'd do her ladyship good. Were her ladyship not to return after a reasonable period, I should of course send out a groom.”

“No need, I shall go,” said Gareth, calming down. After all, what did he know of female post-childbirth megrims? Less than the little abigail, certainly. And, though steep, Ash Hill was no precipice off which Laura might throw herself.

Nonetheless, striding out to the stables he yelled for a groom to resaddle Fickle and he galloped across the park.

He tied the bay gelding to the same elder bush—now leafless, its berries stripped by the birds—as last time he had found Laura here. No doubt his anxiety was equally futile today. At least he could carry Priscilla back for her, he thought. Perhaps Uncle Julius's baby-barrow idea was not so addlepated as he had assumed.

Gazing up the hill, he could not see her. She must be sitting down. Exhausted? Or just sensibly recruiting her strength before the walk back to the house. As he started up the slope, he vowed to himself not to fret her with his concern. She needed sympathy and comfort, not remonstrance.

She sat on the bench at the rear of the pavilion, shoulders slumped, staring with blank despondency at her hands in her lap. Her empty hands...

Gareth glanced around. “Where is Priscilla? Did you not bring her? She is not ill, is she?”

To his horror, Laura burst into tears. As he approached, cursing himself, she jumped up and moved away, to stand with her back to him. “I kn-now you think I'm an ut-utter failure as a mother,” she sobbed, “but even I am not so s-selfish as to leave my baby if she was i-i-ill.”

“I think you a bad mother?” he said in astonishment. His hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him, then enveloped her in his arms so that she was crying on his chest.

“Y-you said—”

“I spoke without thinking,” Gareth said ruefully, his cheek against her soft, fragrant hair. “Which I seem to do altogether too often to you, though I trust not to others. You are the most devoted, loving mother imaginable. Little Pris is thriving under your care. Why, Barleysugar says she has never known a happier baby—I and my brothers, I collect, were a fretful lot!”

Laura raised her head and gave him a tremulous smile. He was shocked to discover he desperately wanted to kiss those quivering lips, and the tearstained eyes. She fitted quite perfectly into his arms, her supple slenderness intoxicating.

He wanted her.

Dismayed, afraid she might perceive his arousal, for she was no naïve girl, he released her and stepped back. His hand on her arm he led her back to the bench, trying hard to concentrate on what she was saying with such adorable earnestness.

“But Priscilla has been fretful recently. She seems to know when I'm feeling crossgrained and out of spirits, and it makes her the same.”

“Then the solution is obvious: we can cure her by curing you.” He sat down leaving a careful two feet between them, and fought down the temptation to hold her hand. “Even the best of mothers must wish for a change of company. Should you like a dinner party?”

“Oh yes!”

“That will not only serve as notice to our neighbours that you are ready to receive callers, it will be an excuse for a new gown. Indeed, I have been meaning for weeks to point out that you need a new wardrobe since...” He hastily turned his eyes away from her delectably full bosom and slim waist. “Since your shape has altered.”

“My old gowns from last winter still fit well enough.”

“But they are all black and it is past time you went into half-mourning. Come now, we have had this argument before. You must do me credit or you will ruin my reputation.”

“Maria is no longer here to slander you,” she pointed out with a smile, a proper one. Why had he never noticed before what an enchanting smile she had, especially when she was teasing?

“New gowns, no argument,” he said firmly. “I'm quite certain black is detrimental to babies. Since you cannot leave Priscilla for long enough to go into Ludlow, I shall send for the draper.” He glanced with disfavour at the black bonnet on the seat beside her. “And the milliner.”

“That is new,” Laura objected. “I bought it last time you coerced me into accepting new clothes.”

“I don't like it. Whoever heard of black roses?”

She laughed. “Oh very well. But I should like to go to Ludlow, taking Priscilla along. It is not so far, after all, and your carriage is very comfortable. I daresay she would come to no harm on such a short journey. I shall ask Mrs. Barley.”

Gareth managed to limit his protest to a mild, “As long as Barleysugar is quite sure it is safe, my carriage is at your disposal. You would take her with you, of course, to look after the child at the Feathers while you shop.”

His real fear, he realized, was not for Laura's or Priscilla's safety. It was that she would find travelling with the baby unexpectedly easy. What would he do if she announced she wanted to leave Llys?

He needed to be alone to think. “Shall we start back?” he suggested. “It grows dark early at this season, especially with a cloudy sky.”

“Rain before morning, Myfanwy prophesied, which I suppose means postponing Ludlow.” Laura pouted, but her eyes twinkled. At least he had succeeded in raising her spirits.

On the way back across the park, leading Fickle, he entertained her with a description of the drover's visit. His head shepherd, fiercely proud of the excellence of his lambs, spouted a paean in their praise—in Welsh. His steward was more concerned with wringing the highest possible price out of the drover, who was naturally determined to pay the lowest possible price.

Laura was amused by the tale, but she also asked several very sensible questions. Gareth had never before talked to her about the estate, not seriously, no more than a casual mention of how he had spent his day. In his experience, ladies were not interested in farm work or the latest ideas in agriculture. Laura's intelligent curiosity and her close attention to his answers took him by surprise.

Somehow he had never before seen her as a person in her own right. First she had been Freddie's impoverished widow, then a mother-to-be, with all that implied to him, and most recently simply Priscilla's mother. He had a great deal to think about.

Leaving her at the front door, he took the patient gelding around to the stables, then went up to his dressing room. Instead of ringing for his valet to bring hot water and help him change out of his riding clothes, he sat down, stretched out his legs, and unseeingly contemplated the muddy toes of his boots.

So he desired Laura. In itself that presented no difficulty. Accustomed to celibacy while at Llys, he visited London often enough to satisfy his baser instincts with the fair Paphians who there abounded.

The trouble was, he was beginning to suspect he loved Laura.

He rolled the notion around in his mind, recalling the months since he brought her to Llys. His sense of responsibility as head of her dead husband's family had soon changed to liking and admiration, not to mention gratitude for her help with Maria. He had been vastly pleased when Laura made friends with all his brothers, and even with Aunt Antonia. Had his compulsive care of her during her pregnancy been driven less by fear of the burden of guilt if she died than by the simple fear of losing her?

Love had quietly grown in his heart until, enlightened by a flare of desire, he recognized it.

Love and desire: the obvious answer was marriage. But if she was his wife, he'd never be able to keep from her bed. All too soon the terror would begin again, ten times worse because this time he knew he loved her—and her pregnancy would be his fault.

His father's anguished face rose before him. No, he would never marry.

* * * *

When Gareth left for London in spite of persistent foul weather, though he claimed he went on business, Laura knew it was her fault. The driving rain had forced postponement of the trip to Ludlow and the dinner party and sunk her once more in gloom. She was growing as spoilt as Maria, falling into the vapours at the least sign of her plans being crossed.

She knew it was absurd to be overset by such a petty matter. The truth was, she had looked forward to the outing and the party to distract her from her woes. The delay simply gave her time to brood, but she could not tell Gareth so, because he was the object of her brooding.

When he took her in his arms in the pavilion atop Ash Hill, for a glorious moment she had hoped that he loved her. But his sole concern had been to cheer her for Priscilla's sake. He had succeeded in reassuring her that she was a good mother, while confirming that to him she was no more than a good mother to the baby he adored. Why had she ever dared hope he might see her as a desirable woman, when Freddie had made it perfectly obvious she was not?

The leaden clouds swept in over the Welsh mountains in an endless procession, and it went on raining.

Aunt Antonia suffered a painful attack of rheumatism and unwillingly took to her bed. When her favoured James's Powders did not help, Laura insisted on sending a groom through mud and flood for Dr. McAllister. Through mud and flood the good doctor came. He prescribed hot fomentations applied to the joints, and a decoction of willow bark.

Though much eased, the old lady was quite relieved to delegate some of her household duties. Laura welcomed the distraction.

Two days after Dr. McAllister's visit, a watery gleam of sunshine fought its way between the clouds. After her daily consultation with Mrs. Lloyd, Laura took the baby out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air.

Priscilla was less easy to carry now, for she took an interest in everything she saw. A blackbird alighting on the stone balustrade elicited gurgles of delight and much waving of arms and legs. So Laura was definitely intrigued when Uncle Julius emerged from the Long Gallery pushing a sort of basket on wheels.

“My dear young lady, your push-cradle,” he announced proudly. “It has rolled along quite smoothly all the way from the workshop. Except for the steps, of course, but as you just saw as I came out, it is possible to traverse a step or two without great difficulty.”

“What a splendid invention,” said Laura.

The old gentleman tried to look modest. “Do you think so? I have put a cushion inside for comfort, you see, and the hood will keep the sun out of the infant's eyes. Dear me, is this the child?” He leaned closer to peer. Priscilla gave him a big smile and hit him on the nose.

Laura apologized as he jerked back with a startled blink.

“No, no, no damage done. She has grown considerably, has she not? I must have taken longer to make the push-cradle than I intended. I had to learn basket-weaving as I had never tried before. She will be walking soon, I daresay,” he added sadly.

“Not for ages yet,” Laura assured him. “And even then, she will not walk far at first. The push-cradle will be very useful. Only, I promised Cousin Gareth to try it out with some sort of weight before I put Priscilla in.”

“Cautious chap, my nevvie. I shall find something.”

He trotted off, to return a moment later with the mahogany weather-glass from the Long Gallery. Before Laura thought of a tactful way to say she doubted Gareth would be pleased if his weather-glass came to grief, Uncle Julius had stuffed it into the basket and trundled away across the terrace. Gazing after him, Priscilla cooed with joy, arms and legs windmilling.

When he returned, triumphant, and removed the weather-glass, now stuck at Stormy, Laura gingerly substituted her baby. Priscilla appeared to approve, staring up with wonder at the hood, so Laura pushed her to the other end of the terrace. Nothing tipped over, nothing collapsed. She turned back, to see Uncle Julius lost in contemplation of the weather-glass in his hands.

Knowing better than to disturb him to thank him—he probably would not even hear her—she continued to push Priscilla about. In no time the baby was asleep.

With the push-cradle close beside her, Laura stood at the balustrade, looking out towards the mountains where a patch of pale blue sky contradicted the weather-glass's threat. A movement caught her eye. Someone was coming up the steps from the English garden, a hatless figure, male, moving with a heavy weariness obvious from a distance.

He was half way across the upper garden, and she was about to take Priscilla into the house and send a footman to deal with the tramp, when she recognized Perry. His hair was plastered to his head, his face wan, smudged with dirt, his clothes sodden and filthy. He plodded along the gravel path as if on the point of exhaustion. But when he raised his head and saw Laura, he broke into a stumbling run.

She hurried to the gap in the balustrade and two steps down to the path. “Perry, what on earth—?”

“Is she ill?” he gasped urgently. “She's not dead, is she? I haven't come too late?”

“My dear boy, your aunt is in some discomfort but not in any danger of dying.”

“Not Aunt Antonia. Pris. Little Pris.”

“Priscilla is as sound as a bell.” Laura caught his arm as he tottered. “Sit down and put your head between your knees. That's it. Uncle Julius!” Her hand on Perry's slumped shoulder, she turned her head. Uncle Julius and the weather-glass had disappeared.

“But where is she?” Perry choked out through sobs. “Why isn't she with you, Cousin Laura?”

“She is. Just a moment. No, don't try to get up.” Wheeling the push-cradle over, Laura took Priscilla out and sat down beside Perry on the step. For a moment the baby protested sleepily, then she caught sight of Perry. She waved her arms and chortled, her mouth open in a toothless beam. “You see?” said Laura. “She is very well, and very happy to see you.”

Wordless, he reached out, then noticed the colour of his hands and quickly withdrew them. With one he brushed away tears, smearing the streaks down his cheeks and adding another layer of dirt.