Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (14 page)

Nick walked along beside him for a few silent moments. “Leah wouldn’t do that.”

“You hope not, but suppose she did, and this went on for three days, until her maid tells you in all that time, she hasn’t left her bed, except to use the chamber pot.” 

“I’d assume she was ill,” Nick said, his gait slowing. “I’d hope she was ill.” 

“But she’s not.” Trent walked ahead a few steps of his guest. “She’s physically, in every sense, sound, but in her bed, weeping and weeping, and she doesn’t want you to touch her, or talk to her, or even be in the same room. She shrieks like you’ve taken a knife to her if you even sit on the bed or open a window shade.” 

“I’d call for the physicians. Reluctantly.” 

“They can tell you nothing.” The brave few had suggested a repairing lease for her ladyship at one of those walled rural estates in the North, and Trent—God help him—had been tempted. “They suggest you bleed her, because she melancholic humors plague her.” 

Nick kicked at a rock and sent it sailing a good dozen yards. “It wasn’t her menses?” 

“Wilton chose her for me.” The rock came to rest against a half-rotten stump, from which toadstools sprouted. “I am confident dear Papa knew exactly what he was about.” 

“Why would he choose such a weak vessel for his own heir?” 

“I have not the first clue, but I will retrieve my children from you once I’ve set the house to rights here.” This decision had come upon Trent somewhere between the pond and the present moment, and it felt…right. 

Nick’s arm settled on Trent’s shoulders, a heavy, comforting presence. “You did the best you could, Trenton. Even the Almighty can ask no more.” 

“I nearly hated my late wife at times.” 

“For dying? You loved her, too.” Nicholas was such a good-hearted soul, and in some ways, an innocent. 

“Not for dying. I can only hope I loved her. I cared for her, and she had positive qualities.” 

“I’m sure she did,” Nick allowed, but he was unable to hide his puzzlement at Trent’s disclosures. “I spent most of the spring fretting over your sister, and then your baby brother, and it was you I should have been fretting about all along, wasn’t it?” 

“Most assuredly not. I’m fine, and Leah and Dare needed your assistance. I was just…floundering, for a time.” Trent started moving again, shifting out from under Nicholas’s arm. 

“God knows I floundered for a time. Floundering is something of a Haddonfield family tradition, I fear. Your sister got me unfloundered, though. Brave woman.” 

Trent smiled over at him. “You got yourself unfloundered.”

“You will, too.” 

Trent thought of Ellie Hampton’s unnerving determination to dally with him. A man could find more than one way to flounder, and the most dangerous options in that regard apparently did not involve the brandy decanter after all.

Chapter Eight 

Trent saw Nick off the next morning in the gray mists of dawn, knowing the early start was intended to get the earl home to Belle Maison—and to his countess—before dark. As Nick’s mare cantered down the lane, Cato sidled out of the barn and stood beside Trent for a moment in silence. 

“You want we should saddle up Arthur?” 

“Am I that obvious?” 

“Bellefonte’s an in-law. You’re happy for the company but then happy to see him go, and as besotted as he is, I’m happy to see him go, too.”

“Happy.” Nick’s mare disappeared around the bend at the foot of the drive at a near gallop. “Probably an overstatement, but yes, saddle up my steed, and we’ll take advantage of the cooler air.” 

While Cato groomed and saddled Trent’s gelding, Trent walked through the wet summer grass to a pergola standing between the stables and the scent garden. He’d ride his horse this morning, because Arthur was in want of the conditioning, but then, by God, he’d lock himself in the library with a full decanter. 

Last night had been a familiar hell of nightmares, brooding, regretting, and punching his pillow—a truly bad night. 

For a few weeks he’d managed to fool himself, managed to hope the past was finally fading. Then the discussion with Nick, and Nick’s incessant references to his domestic happiness over a long meal and longer visit over the port, had forced the ugly truth back into the light. 

Trenton’s past would never fade. Paula would haunt him for the rest of his days, and life purely stank. 

So secure was he in this conclusion that he decided to forgo his ride and head directly to the library—not to the breakfast parlor, not to his bedroom to change into proper attire for the house, not for a walk. He left the pergola to tell Cato to put the horse back in his stall when Peak lead a rangy, nervous young gelding out of the barn. 

“I’ll be taking himself out with you,” Peak informed his employer. “Nero wants for company when he’s hacking out, and Arthur’s the steady sort. He’ll give the wee lad some confidence.” 

Trent eyed the horse, though he barely recalled purchasing the animal. “The wee lad looks like he has confidence aplenty. You can’t take him for a gallop on your own, Peak?” 

Peak ran a hand down the horse’s neck, and that single caress seemed to calm the beast. “Galloping about alone on a green horse over wet grass when company’s available would be plain dicked. You wouldn’t want me to risk your horse like that, my lord.” 

True enough, so Trent dodged the reproach in Peak’s eyes and resigned himself to riding out with a groom. At least Peak was quiet, concentrating on riding the gelding and leaving Trent to his roiling, miserable thoughts. 

“Let’s open ’em up a bit,” Peak said when the horses were warmed up. “The bridle path follows the stream, and Nero won’t get overeager when old Artie’s leading the way.” 

As if Arthur were showing off for the younger beast, when Trent gave him his head, he set a fast clip down the path. They met logs and ditches to hop when they ran out of stream, and when Trent glanced back, Peak was up in his irons, grinning like a lunatic, enjoying every stride. 

So Trent swerved into a farm lane where Peak could pull even, and they let the horses race, neck and neck, for a good half-mile. When Peak’s mount dropped back, sides heaving, Trent pulled Arthur up first to the trot, then the walk.

“Old Artie’s getting his wind back,” Peak observed. 

So, apparently, was old Artie’s owner. Trent whacked the gelding on a muscular shoulder. “He’s a good lad and more athletic than he looks.” 

“It’s been too blessed hot to really let Nero loose. He was a proper gent, considering his youth and inexperience.” 

Arthur went into a half-hearted curvet. “Nero half ran off with you, Peak. If you weren’t such a decent rider, he’d have left you in the stream.” 

“He half
didn’t
run off, too. In a young fellow trying to figure himself out, that means a lot.” 

Horseman’s logic, another contradiction in terms. “You and Cato. If it has a mane and a tail, it can do no wrong.” 

“One of Mr. Spencer’s few redeeming qualities. A good one to have.” 

Peak rode like a Cossack. He wasn’t overly tall, but he was lanky, lithe, and stronger than he looked. His clothing was the typical scruffy attire of a stable boy, but his features were so refined as to be almost elegant. He had a spark of intelligence in his eyes that somehow set him apart, too. 

“Cato says you’re the one who prompted him to write to me,” Trent said. “My thanks.” 

Peak’s expression shuttered. “Mr. Spencer would have got around to it, by and by, but I could not have kept body and soul together on what the witch in the kitchen doled out for meals.” 

“I hope the fare has improved somewhat.” 

“Somewhat.” 

They walked their horses the remaining mile back to the stables in silence, with Trent resigning himself to stopping by the kitchen before he kept his date with the decanter. 

Louise was murdering some cut of pork when Trent strode into the kitchen, and though he still felt mean and unhappy, the ride had left him physically more relaxed. A good scrap with Louise held some appeal and would make a nice addition to a miserable morning. 

Trent didn’t wait until she put her cleaver down. “Greetings, Louise.” 

“Greetings, your lordship.” She set the cleaver aside after a particularly hearty whack. “That’s Cook to you.” 

“So you tell me, but rather than spout instructions to your employer, how about you listen for a change?” 

His foul mood must have communicated itself to her, because she wiped her hands on a bloody apron and faced her employer—no turning her back, no more lecturing him, and certainly no more singing the dubious praises of the Earl of Wilton. 

“I’m listening.” 

“A novel and welcome change. I’ve decided your wisdom should prevail, Louise.” 

“My wisdom?” 

“We must practice economies where we can, and to ensure that the kitchen is run as economically as the rest of my estate, we will prepare one menu for the entire household.” 

Louise’s blond eyebrows knit. “I already make a menu for you and any guests you might have.” 

“But the rest of the household, the two dozen or so maids, footmen, gardeners, stable lads, and so forth, you have to puzzle out what to feed them, too, don’t you?” 

Louise turned back to her task, casually tearing apart gristle and meat from bone. “Not much of a puzzle. They eat what I fix ’em.” 

For half an instant, Trent understood why his father had turned her off without a character. “Now I will, too.” 

“You will…” Louise’s mouth worked, and her eyebrows went down, then up, then back down. She glared, she glowered, and she fisted her hands then unclenched them. 

“I’ll not put brown bread on my lord’s table,” she said, the way a man might have told Trent to choose his seconds. 

“Then we’ll all enjoy white bread, won’t we?” 

“But you’re the lord,” Louise hissed. “You’d have the tweenie dining on truffles and sipping wine.” 

“Perish the thought. I’d have me, rather, dining on coarse bread and niggardly cheese parings in my eggs, while I wash it all down with flat ale.” 

“Ale?” Louise’s expression became thunderous. “You told me to serve the household more white flour, I did. You told me to use the fresher butter, I did. Now you’re telling me to put pigswill before the master of this house, and I won’t do it.” 

“Suppose you’d best puzzle out the alternative, Louise, because if you can’t”—Trent heard his own tone of voice and didn’t back down—“maybe another post might suit you better.” 

“Stubborn as your father, you are.” She grabbed the cleaver and started chopping again. “You want to go to the poor house feeding the mob here, then you’ll go, and you’ll be so fat you won’t fit through the door, mark me, your lordship.” 

“As long as we understand each other.” 

Trent left, the pleasure of the confrontation eluding him. 

God help him, he’d sounded like a man whose every whim and fancy ought to be imposed on all and sundry. He’d sounded like…his father.
Exactly
like him, and if that wasn’t reason to drink his breakfast
and
his lunch, nothing was. 

***

Fancy finishing schools for the daughters of the peerage taught many important skills: how to seat a dinner party of thirty in strict adherence to order of precedence, how to gracefully manage a Haydn sonata when one’s nose itched, how to accept or reject a proposal of marriage, and which response was called for under what circumstances. 

To Ellie’s unending frustration, her instructors had neglected to provide the first clue about what an increasing woman wears when she’s going gardening with seduction in mind. 

“Eve had it aright,” Ellie muttered. “A few well-placed fig leaves, a nice sunny day, some temptation…” 

She’d been up the live long night, replaying her conversation with Lord Amherst—Trenton—in her head. Had she propositioned him? Had he allowed as how he might humor her? 

Was that flattering or insulting, or just plain intriguing? 

She settled for a comfortable old walking dress, one with a raised waistline, whose blue hues had faded to the shade of violets. The color was close enough to lavender for the proprieties of informal mourning, while the fit was loose enough to be comfortable but presentable—for grubbing in the dirt.

She wore jumps instead of stays—the day would be warm—and found an old straw hat and a pair of worn half-boots. She took her time crossing through the woods, forgoing a stop at the pond to soak her feet. 

Gardening was a pleasure, a chance for a lady to be informal and still not call it idling. In her own gardens, Ellie had often gone barefoot, letting the cool grass tickle her toes and refresh her senses. 

And surely, amid the weeds and flowers and warm breezes, she could think of something seductive to say should Lord Amherst happen by while she worked. 

***

A man bent on indulging his thirst could be forgiven for doing so while still windblown and sweaty from his morning ride, but Trent’s feet took him past the library and on up to his rooms. If his drunk proved to be a long one, he might as well start it out in clean clothes. 

He stripped to the waist, washed, and found a clean shirt and waistcoat, but he’d be damned if he’d bother with a cravat. Turning back his cuffs in anticipation of the heat, he then dragged a brush through his hair and decided the room should be well aired if his footmen had to pour him into bed later in the day.