My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy) (9 page)

Gabriel frowned. “Which one?” he countered, thinking if she meant one of her brothers, there were a half-dozen from which to choose. But if she meant his father’s brother ...

“William, of course,” Charity stated. “I’d already given  birth to you and your brother before he ...” She stopped, her shoulders suddenly back in place. “I thought we were discrete. In fact, I was quite careful. I had no choice, but William ...  William was not. He took great delight in informing your father of his impropriety.”

Gabriel straightened in his chair, alarm bells going off  in his head.
I was three.
“Jesus,” he whispered. His heart raced as he remembered the death of his brother Graham. The baby was still in a crib when his mother found him dead one morning. And despite the volume of her wailing, Gabriel could still recall his father yelling at the top of his lungs that a bastard would not be tolerated in his house.

Gabriel thought for a moment he would be sick.
Father killed my brother.
Father thought his wife was guilty of cuckolding him. And the penalty was the death of Graham.

“Your brother
was
not a bastard,” Charity stated firmly. “And I was not a willing participant in your uncle’s nocturnal visits, I assure you.”

Gabriel took several deep breaths, fighting the urge to vomit. “Had I been old enough ... had I known ... I would have killed them both,” he murmured between breaths.

His mother cocked her head to one side. “And in doing so, you would have proven yourself worse than both,” she stated quietly. “William died the following year. A hunting accident, but I am quite sure your father saw to it he was mistaken for a bull in the woods. And your father ... despite my explanations, despite my assurances that I wanted nothing to do with his brother, your father never forgave me for what his brother had done.” Charity sat back in the chair, a serene look settling on her face. “But I am still a countess. And you are the earl now. Let us hope your wife doesn’t anger you, for I fear she might suffer as I ...”

“Never!” Gabriel stated loudly, causing a nearby footman to nearly drop the parasol he held to shade the countess from the afternoon sun. He struggled to regain his composure. “I would never raise my hand to a woman, even to one who might have stolen from me,” he vowed in a low voice.
How could she even think that about me?
he wondered, hurt by her assertion.

Charity Wellingham stared at her son for a very long time. “Perhaps you are not your father’s son,” she whispered in reply.

“I assure you, I am not,” Gabriel said as he shook his head. He downed the rest of the lemonade, wishing it had been spiked with vodka or rum. He thought of his brief time in London, thought of what others in the
ton
were whispering about him.
Or were they?
The
ton
was fickle. He might have been the
on-dit
for a few weeks, but someone else had probably captured their attention by now. He pitied whoever that might be, for the
ton
could be cruel and indifferent. And, at the moment, he could think of only one person he could talk to, one person who might provide perspective, one person who could take away his cares for a night and make him feel ...

Gabriel pressed his eyes together, imagining in his mind’s eye the young woman who had shared her bed with him at the inn in Stretton.
Sarah
, he thought with a small grin. Sarah, who delighted in running her fingernails through his curls – those on his head as well as those on his chest.
And those down below
, he thought with a larger grin. Sarah, who, when she should have been asleep from their coupling was instead willing to bed him again, her teasing fingers almost ... almost coaxing him to remove his breeches so that he might take joy in bedding her again. Instead, they had talked of chits and marriage and Parliament. Of how he might achieve his plans through marriage. He wondered how many nights he had fallen asleep thinking of Sarah, of her blonde hair, her beautiful breasts, her round rump ...

“A penny for your thoughts,” his mother spoke suddenly.

Gabriel started, straightening himself in the lawn chair despite the tightness of the space behind the fall of his breeches. “Forgive me,” he said, fighting the embarrassment he felt when he realized his mother had seen the silhouette of his sudden erection. “I was ... woolgathering,” he commented as he felt his face redden.

“Looks like you’ve gathered quite a lot in there. Making a coat for one of your mistresses, perhaps?” Charity teased as she arched a wicked eyebrow.

Gabriel almost agreed. But he stopped himself. Sarah wasn’t his mistress. She was a barmaid. She was a one-night tumble on his way to London. She was someone he thought about far more than he should have given her station in life.

And his.

She was ... “A friend,” he finally said quietly.
A dear friend
, he added to himself.

Chapter 8

A Name is Just a Name

“We need to come up with a suitable name for you,” Julia said as she watched Alistair’s latest attempt at the steps for the English Country Dance. Without at least one more couple to give a sense of the longways form of the dance, Julia found even she had difficulty in remembering the steps. At least they had mastered the Scotch reel.

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “‘Mr. Comber’ isn’t suitable?” he wondered as he made the turn that would reunite him with Julia in the dance. He pressed the palm of his hand against hers.

Now that she was partnered with him again, Julia resumed the dance. “You need a name that makes you sound like an aristocrat,” she explained, turning away and then back toward him, her hand perfectly placed for the next turn.

His palm finding hers exactly where it was supposed to be for the next turn, Alistair gave her a grin. “You mean, like ‘Lord ... Frogbottom?” he teased. “Or ‘Earl of Forgottenland.’”

Julia nearly lost her place in the dance as she giggled. “I am thinking it should be something a bit more ... aristocratic,” she reasoned, pleased she had recovered her place in the dance enough that the dance master, Monsieur Girard, didn’t notice her missed steps.

“Ah,” Alistair murmured as he made the next turn. “Don’t the names usually invoke a place?” he wondered, thinking they could come up with a locale that wasn’t already owned or controlled by a peer of the realm.

“True,” Julia agreed with a nod. She made the next turn. “And some are not.” As she paused in the next step, she said, “Winterhaven.”

Having completed his turn, Alistair shook his head. “I don’t wish to sound cold,” he said with a quirked lip.

“Summerhaven, then,” Julia suggested, not realizing he was teasing her.

“Or seasonal,” Alistair countered, thinking that Springhaven and Autumnhaven would be her next suggestions if he didn’t put a stop to it now.

Julia was quiet for several turns, obviously deep in thought. “What about Whitehall?”

Alistair frowned. “Sounds ..,” he started to say and then stopped. “I think that’s already been taken by a building,” he said, his brows furrowed.

“Blackhall, then,” she suggested, her expression suddenly bright.

Predicting her next few offers would be the colors of the rainbow, Alistair made his face appear as if was considering the possibility.
Redhall, Orangehall, Yellowhall, Greenhall, Bluehall, Purplehall.
No, none of those would do. “I shouldn’t wish to sound as if I was any kind of hall.”

Julia sighed. “Have you a suggestion?” she wondered, concentrating on which direction she was to step next.

The earl’s son had to fight to keep his face impassive. “What about something like ... ‘Aimsley’?” he offered, realizing she probably knew it was a real name in the peerage. But when he saw how she pondered the possibility, he held his breath. To be able to use the real earldom’s name meant he wouldn’t have to be concerned about being recognized.

“Aimsley,” she said, the word coming out in a soft breath. “Possibly,” she whispered before touching a hand to his and making the next turn.

Alistair had to resist the urge to kiss her just then. The way she’d said his name had been like a soft caress, and the position in which her lips were left after saying the word had him imagining far more than just kissing her. Why, he could easily pull her into an embrace from their current position, slide his hand down her side and allow his thumb to linger along the side of her breast before moving it to the waist he knew was slender, down and around to the back of her round bottom where he would use that hand to lift her gently, up and against his hardening ...

“Mr. Comber, do pay attention to the music,” Monsieur Girard called out just then, bringing Alistair back to the dance and to find Julia staring at him with a look of ... was that awe? Or shock?

“What happened?” Alistair asked in a whisper.

“You missed a step. Or two or three, actually,” Julia whispered back, raising one eyebrow. “Where ... where
were
you just then?” she asked
sotto voce
.

Alistair concentrated on his position and resumed the dance so he matched his partner’s placement. “I was ... woolgathering,” he admitted, daring a glance in the direction of the dance master. The man seemed rather bored, one hand holding the elbow of his other arm while his fingers kept time by tapping on his face, their rhythm matching the metronome he had brought with him. “I apologize, of course,” he added a bit too late.

Julia gave him a nod, but her visage had taken on a look that suggested she was uncomfortable. Alistair noticed, chastising himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander to carnal territory. He could only hope the lesson would end with this dance.

“Dismissed,” Monsieur Girard suddenly announced, his hands clapping once to emphasize his word.

Startled at the sudden command, Alistair gave a hasty bow to his partner and another to the dance master. “Same time tomorrow, then?” he asked of Julia.

The young lady raised her eyes to meet his. “Yes,” she answered simply before giving him a curtsy and hurrying from the room.

Alistair watched her hasty departure, wondering if she was angry with him for having missed the few steps at the end of the dance. Shaking his head, he headed for the back door, intent on getting back to the stables and the work that awaited him there.

Chapter 9

An Earl and an Innkeeper

Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton, brought his horse to a halt just before the entrance to the Spread Eagle. Glancing at the façade, he thought it looked no worse than it had  the last time he’d been here. A few coaches were parked in the yard, their horses either being fed and watered or being changed out for fresh ones. Given the early afternoon hour, he thought they might be on their way once their passengers had finished their own luncheons inside. A stableboy hurried up to take the reins from him. Gabriel tossed the boy a coin and asked, “Any rooms available for tonight?”

The stableboy stared at him, apparently surprised that the well-dressed man had asked him a question. “Don’t know, guv’nor,” the boy responded with a shake of his head. “Ask for Miss Cumberbatch. She’ll know,” he said before leading Gabriel’s Thoroughbred toward the stables.

Miss Cumberbatch?
Gabriel suppressed a smile, wondering if the woman the boy referred to was the same Sarah Cumberbatch he had spent an afternoon with fifteen months ago. She’d been a pleasant surprise, that one. Not only had she been a good tumble, but she had been bright enough to participate in conversation. And although her recommendation about whom he should marry hadn’t quite worked the way Gabriel had hoped, she at least had steered him in the right direction.

Or had she?

On that particular trip, he had been on his way to London with two goals in mind: dethrone the most powerful men in Parliament and find a chit to marry.

He had failed on both accounts.

Although
failed
was probably too strong a word, he considered. As to Parliament, he had made his displeasure with the old ways known to anyone and everyone who would listen. It was 1815, after all, and it was time to modernize England, time to put aside the old ways of doing things. And put aside the older dukes and marquesses and earls whose continued rule kept England in what he considered the Dark Ages. Industry would be England’s new source of income, manufacturing and inventions would drive the new economy. He was sure of it.

But his cries for change had been tempered by the lords who argued too much change might derail what advancements had been achieved, advancements that were the result of careful investment and research.

In the end, Gabriel had taken his seat and resigned himself to what he considered a failed attempt at change.

He almost ... almost didn’t go back to London for this Season. But as an earl, it was his responsibility to appear in the House of Lords on behalf of his earldom. So he did, keeping a low profile – except that one day in Hyde Park when he thought to engage his cousin, Lady Julia, in a bit of conversation, thinking she might show him a bit of interest. But when she didn’t, he went back to spending his free time at his men’s club and eschewing the entertainments that took place at night.

As to finding a wife, last year Gabriel had been quite sure he would ask for the hand of Lady Elizabeth Carlington, a rather pretty chit whose father was one of those powerful lords in Parliament. Despite a time when the man had lost some of that power – a rumor circulated that he had shared secrets with a mistress who later sold them to the enemy – the Marquess of Morganfield had not only rebuilt his reputation, but also recovered his power in Parliament.

Gabriel thought that if he married Lady Elizabeth, he could use the union as a means to make the marquess give up his power to his son-in-law. But Lady Elizabeth proved ... difficult. Somehow, she had discovered he had a few mistresses, and she seemed rather incensed by the arrangement.

What did it matter that he had three mistresses?

Except that if Lady Elizabeth knew of them, who else knew? And what had the mistresses been sharing with the gossips of London?

Suddenly concerned that his pillow talk might be used against him – he wondered if they were all spies – Gabriel quit two of the mistresses, bestowing them with rather expensive baubles for their trouble. The other one had quit him with the comment that his kisses were not to be accommodated and his penchant for licking was not appreciated. At least she hadn’t cost him any blunt but the rent for the townhouse he let on her behalf.

In the end, Gabriel returned to his estate in Staffordshire at Christmas. Humbled by his experiences in London, he wondered if he should bother returning when the Season started in the spring. Having spent the winter months meeting his tenants and learning about the land they farmed on his behalf, Gabriel thought London seemed like a million miles away. He had tried to talk to his estate manager, tried to get the older man’s opinion, but Mr. Stockert was more interested in fencing and the cost of seed and the condition of tenant cottages to pay any mind to his lord’s concerns.

Despite Bilston not having the same entertainments that London could claim, Gabriel found he rather liked the town. But in the end, he had gone back to London in the early spring and was doing his duty as an earl. When this Season ended, he planned to return to Staffordshire and his earldom, thinking he might skip the Little Season in favor of seeing to the harvest and the rebuilding of several older tenant cottages that were in dire need of replacement.

Remembering Sarah’s ease at conversation, he had made his way to the inn near Stretton with the sole intent of speaking with the tavern maid. Even if she didn’t offer advice, she could at least be a sounding board for his concerns. And he thought a tumble or two with the chit would help his disposition. He hadn’t bedded a woman since the time he employed mistresses, suspecting any other potential bed mates of wanting to undermine him in some fashion.

His attention once more on the building’s entrance, Gabriel walked up to the front door and made his way inside the Spread Eagle.

Sarah Cumberbatch stood at the edge of the tavern, counting the patrons who ate their luncheons with vigor and a good deal of loud conversation. Despite the early hour, a number of coaches had stopped for refreshment and fresh horses, a welcome change from the routine of the past few days. There were times she thought she might have to recommend the Spread Eagle be closed; the expenses sometimes exceeded the income of the small coaching inn.

“Nice crowd today,” she heard from over her right shoulder. Sarah turned to find the inn’s owner, John Bristow, scanning the room, much like she had been doing. “Yes, it is,” she sighed, turning around to ensure the barkeep was seeing to those who were standing or sitting at the bar. “How is Mrs. Bristow today?” she wondered, her voice quiet despite the din in the room.

The inn owner shook his head. “Not well, Miss Cumberbatch. I fear the Lord will take her before the week is out.”

Sarah stared at Mr. Bristow for several seconds, a bit shocked at the news. She figured Sally Bristow merely suffered from an ague, or pneumonia at the worst. “I am so sorry to hear it,” she murmured, suddenly realizing that her position as a barmaid could become one of a permanent hostess and manager for the inn.

There was only so much she could do in a day!

At least she’d been able to hire a tavern maid from one of the inns in Wolverhampton, her promises of two days a week off and the same pay enough to get Margery to move her things into Sarah’s old room at the inn. Sarah now occupied a slightly larger suite at the end of the west hall, its bed larger and its windows looking out toward the west and north. Sarah’s other improvement had been to convert one of the bedchambers into a parlor suitable for travelers to occupy in the middle of the day should they want a private place to enjoy their luncheon. Even now, that room was being used by no fewer than eight members of a fencing club. She had made them promise no harm would come to the furnishings and upholstery – and they had complied by leaving their foils just outside the entrance to the room.

“You will stay on, I hope,” Mr. Bristow said as Sarah moved to make her way back to the office behind the taproom. “That is, if Mrs. Bristow meets her Maker,” he added at her look of alarm.

Sarah considered the owner’s words. The promotion would mean more pay, but it also meant a good deal more responsibility. But what else did she have to do? It wasn’t as if men were lined up to ask for her hand in marriage. “Of course, I’ll stay on, Mr. Bristow,” she assured him as she gave his hand a squeeze and hurried off to the office.

Gabriel Wellingham entered the inn just as Sarah disappeared into the office, unaware he had missed her by mere moments. Glancing around the taproom and into the noisy room where travelers were still eating their luncheon and downing pints of ale, Gabriel felt a stab of disappointment when he didn’t see the tavern wench he had so enjoyed during his last visit. Perhaps she no longer worked at the Spread Eagle. Or maybe a local had married her, no doubt impressed with her performance in a bed.

As he recalled their brief time together  – he had visited the inn on his way to London in December of 1814 – Gabriel felt his loins tighten. Embarrassed by his sudden arousal, he struck thoughts of Sarah from his mind and took a deep breath. Moving to the bar, he said, “An ale, please,” and put a coin on the bar top.

The man behind the counter grabbed a glass from a nearby tray and started to fill it before giving his customer a good look. When he did, his eyes widened. “Pardon me, milord,” he said with a nod. “I didn’t realize an earl had come in,” he apologized, glancing around the room as if he was looking for someone to blame for the oversight.

Gabriel straightened, wondering how the barkeep knew. “What gave me away?” he wondered, thinking his rather sedate mode of dress was quite different from his normal bright colored waistcoats and topcoats. The blond curls that graced his head were out of his control; he had long ago given up trying to sport a shorter style in the mode of Titus or Brutus. But his blue eyes, the blue so intense he remembered one gel saying she could drown in them, were the primary reason people recognized him as the Earl of Trenton.

The barkeep shrugged, as if he didn’t want to admit that he recognized the earl because of the blond curls and blue eyes – if viewed from behind and from the waist up, he might have been a mistaken for a woman. “I remember you from the last time you were here, my lord,” the man answered, giving the earl a truthful answer.

Gabriel nodded, impressed that he had been remembered by a barkeep. “Does a girl named Sarah still work here?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound like he was trying to arrange a tryst with a prostitute.

The barkeep nodded. “Good thing, too, given Mrs. Bristow is so ill,” he said as he put the pint in front of Gabriel. “Miss Cumberbatch is seeing to the inn,” he added by way of explanation.

Gabriel, surprised by the man’s comment, glanced around again. “Is she ... here? Now?” he wondered.

The barkeep placed a hand on one hip and gave the room a quick perusal. “Must be in the office. Would you like me to let her know you’re here?” he asked. And then one of his brows cocked up, as if he just realized the earl might be asking after Sarah so he could arrange a tumble.

At one time, Thomas Fuller knew Sarah had offered herself in exchange for coin, but only to men who could afford to pay a bit more. With no one to help support her – no husband and certainly no family other than a sister who had recently died – she relied on her meager pay and tips to pay her way in life. And then, after an eight-month absence – she had left Staffordshire to help her ill sister – she returned with a babe in tow and word that her sister had died in childbirth. 

Sarah no longer welcomed the advances of randy men nor their promise of blunt for a tumble. Instead, she seemed intent on looking after her charge. The baby, now just six months old, crawled about the inn, following his aunt or spending time in a small pen she’d had one of the local carpenters build for him. At this time of the afternoon, though, the boy would be taking a nap in his crib in Sarah’s bedchamber.

“I don’t wish to inconvenience you,” Gabriel said with a shake of his head. “If you’ll just point the way.”

The barkeep seemed surprised by the earl’s answer. “Of course, my lord. Just around here,” he paused as he pointed behind the tap. “First door on the left.”

Gabriel nodded and dropped a coin on the bar top. “My gratitude,” he said as he took another sip from his ale and then left it in favor of seeking out Sarah.

Standing in front of the closed office door, he took a deep breath and let it out, wondering why his heart hammered in his chest and his breathing seemed so shallow.
She’s just a chit,
he reminded himself, finally lifting a knuckle to tap it against the solid wood door.

“Come” he heard, the feminine voice not giving away whether she welcomed the interruption or was annoyed by it.

Gabriel tested the knob and found it turned easily. He pushed open the door and peeked around the edge, blinking when his eyes took in the woman who was now the inn’s hostess. And manager, if he understood the barkeep’s meaning.

She looked ... lovely, really, and a bit older, but in a way that suited her blonde hair and fair complexion. “Pardon, my lady, but I wanted to inquire about a room for the night.”

Sarah Cumberbatch, her attention on an open ledger book, placed a forefinger on the line she was studying and lifted her head to regard the man who had interrupted her.

“I have one ...” She paused, suddenly coming to her feet. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said as she attempted a curtsy, a rather difficult maneuver given the chair she was sitting in was still behind her knees.

So, she remembers me,
Gabriel thought, a bit heartened, hoping that she at least had good memories of him. “It is I who should ask forgiveness for interrupting your work,” he countered, pointing to her desk. “I was told I could find you in here,” he added. He didn’t want her thinking he had just barged in on her. Gabriel bowed then, his eyes meeting hers as he straightened. Her gown, far different than the peasant blouse, skirts and corset she’d worn in her tavern wench days, was a dark blue round gown with minimal decoration. The blonde hair, streaked as if it was sun kissed, was swept up into a bun that at one time might have been tight and tidy but was now a bit messy. And quite fetching, Gabriel thought.

Sarah regarded the blond, blue-eyed epitome of an older Cupid who stood in front of her desk, a man she had spent more than an hour entertaining nearly a year-and-a-half before. He was dressed far more conservatively than he had been back then; had she not known he was the Earl of Trenton, she would have guessed him a gentleman of modest means. But his boyish looks, blond curls and blue eyes were still as she remembered them from their encounter. She saw them everyday, in fact, in the guise of the babe who was this very moment (hopefully) sleeping in his crib. “I have a room, of course,” she managed to get out, knowing her face was suddenly blooming with color. “Although, not one as ... as grand ...”

“A regular room is fine,” Gabriel said as he moved farther into the small office. “You look ...”
Beautiful. More mature. Delectable. Sultry.
Well, he couldn’t say any of those things out loud. “Well,” he finally got out, hoping his cock wouldn’t harden anymore than it already had. “I trust you are?” he added as a question.

Sarah took a breath, stunned that merely looking at the earl would cause her breath to quicken and her breasts to feel heavy. She had to suppress the urge to step from behind the desk and rush to him, as if she expected him to welcome her with open arms. It wasn’t as if she would appreciate his kisses – the man was a horrible kisser, and he had a penchant for licking in all the wrong places – but he had provided her with enough blunt to cover her expenses for the time she was at Lizbet’s home. And the late afternoon she’d spent with him had been ... interesting.

And life changing.

“I am very well, my lord,” Sarah answered with a nod. “And you? Are you ... well?” she asked then, thinking their conversation was awfully stilted. They had conversed with such ease only fifteen months ago in her small bedchamber on the second floor. But they had been naked then, and replete from a couple of rounds of spirited intercourse, paid for by the earl with ancient sovereigns. Those sovereigns had been more money than she had earned in her entire time working as a tavern wench, though, and had paid her way to her sister’s cottage in Worcester three months later. She had left with the excuse that Lizbet was going into confinement with a difficult pregnancy and needed her help.