She said nothing for a moment but stopped her nascent struggle to get off his lap.
“You forgot, a lot embarrassed,” she said at length. “I get like this—” She stopped abruptly, and he felt heat suffuse her face where her cheek lay against his throat.
“You get like this when your menses approach. I have five sisters, if you will recall.” He tried without much success to keep the humor from his voice.
“And do they fall weeping into the lap of the first gentleman to show them simple decency?” Emmie asked sternly.
“If he were the first gentleman in years of managing on their own, then yes, I think they would be moved to tears.” He rose in a smooth, unhurried lift and shifted them to the couch.
“My lands, you are strong.”
“An officer should be fit,” he said, letting her scramble off his lap, but only to tuck her in beside him, under his arm. “But if you think this loss of composure is daunting, you should be among recruits when a battle joins. The body, when in extreme situations, has no care for dignity.”
“What do you mean?” She stirred but eventually got settled against his side.
“To be blunt, the stomach heaves, the bowels let go, the bladder, too. And here these young fellows are, worried about dignity when the French are charging in full cry.”
“War flatters no one.”
“Not often, anyway,” the earl agreed, unable to resist the lure of her hair. He brought his hand up and pressed her head to his shoulder, then sifted his fingers through the soft, silky abundance. “Why is your hair not yet braided?”
“I do it last thing. My schedule yet called for drinks with the earl, creation of a dreadful stain on his carpet, and a fit of the weeps like nothing I can recall.”
“You are entitled to cry. Sit forward, and I’ll see to your hair.”
His hands were gently taking down her bun, then finger combing through her long blond hair before she could protest. “One braid or two?”
“One.” Which disappointed him, as two would take a few moments longer.
“Will you be able to sleep now?” he asked as he began to plait her hair.
“The storm is moving on. What of you?”
“I don’t need much sleep.” His answer was a dodge; he took his time with her hair. He hadn’t looked for this interlude with her tonight, but after that exchange with Douglas, it eased him to know he could provide comfort to another.
And it angered him such a decent woman was so in need of simple affection.
“I cannot think of you as Miss Farnum,” he said as he worked his way down her plait. “May I call you Miss Emmie as Winnie does?”
“You liken your status to that of a little girl?” Some of the starch had come back into her voice, and the earl knew she was rebuilding her defenses.
“Emmie.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against his chest, his cheek resting against hers. “There is no loss of dignity in what has gone between us here. I will keep your confidences, as you will keep mine.”
“And what confidences of yours have passed to me?”
“You knew I was unnerved by the thunder. Douglas knew it, too, and offered to read me a bedtime story. You let me hold you.”
“I should not have.” She sighed, but for just the smallest increment of time, she let her cheek rest against his, as well, and he felt her accept the reality of what he’d said: Maybe not in equal increments, maybe not to the same degree, but the comfort had been shared, and that was simply good.
“I will light you up to your room.” He sat back and let his arms slide from her waist. “But let me find your brandy glass before you leave this couch.”
She waited while he lit candles, set her glass on the sideboard, then tugged her to her feet. He didn’t drop her hand and didn’t wrap it over his forearm. He kept his fingers laced with hers until they were outside her bedroom door.
“Shall I light your candles?” he asked, not moving to open the door.
“Not necessary. Until tomorrow, my lord.”
He snorted involuntarily at that salvo.
“What?” She stood her ground.
“My name is Devlin.” He resisted the urge to invite—or order—her to use his name. He just informed her of it, then lifted his hand to cradle her cheek before leaning in and kissing her forehead. He paused, so his breath fanned across her skin for a moment before he pressed his lips to the spot between and above her eyebrows.
For the sake of his own dignity, he needed to stop there. He brought his free hand up so her face was framed in his palms and told himself to step back. The sweet, female scent of her beguiled his wits; the feel of her skin so soft and warm against his callused palms stole his common sense. He angled his head and pressed his lips to her cheek, knowing that did he touch his mouth to hers, there would be no rescuing this moment. A carnal motive he could not have aspired to only days ago was threatening to trample honor, and some emotional need he could not even properly name was going to create disaster where a simple, good night kiss was intended.
By force of will, he managed to drop his hands. “Sweet dreams, Emmie Farnum.”
She nodded and slipped into her room, closing the door silently behind her.
Her dreams were so sweet, she awoke again in tears and wondered how the earl’s well-intended kindness could feel so devastatingly painful.
***
“Vicar.” The earl joined his guest in the spacious parlor that looked out over terraced gardens and a bright, sunny morning. “You are a man of your word.”
“I am a man who needs some time away from my desk,” Hadrian Bothwell replied, smiling genially as he turned from the window. Clergy were supposed to be charming up to a point, but Bothwell surpassed that point. He was also tall, blond, blue-eyed, younger, and altogether better looking than any vicar St. Just could recall from his youth.
“Mondays, I let myself go completely to pot.” Bothwell’s smile became a grin. “I make it a point to don neither jacket nor cravat. Tuesdays, I toddle around but avoid the church work.”
“It never occurred to me the Sabbath is not a day of rest for a man of God. May I ring for some tea or perhaps some cider or lemonade?”
“Lemonade would be a guilty pleasure. Is your orangery producing, or did you import?”
“Despite inadequate care, the orangery is making an effort.” The earl signaled the footman and rejoined his guest. “Shall we be seated?”
“You’ve such lovely views here. There’s a great deal of chatter at the pub regarding the possibility you could revive the old earl’s flowers.”
“You mean trade in flowers commercially?” The earl waited for his guest to take a wing chair. “That had not crossed my mind. I’m more inclined toward the breeding and training of riding stock.”
“So my brother informed me,” Bothwell said, taking a seat. “The old earl was much loved, and his gardens were a source of local pride.”
“Your brother.” The earl frowned in concentration, trying to think of what title went with the Bothwell family name. “Viscount Landover?”
“The very one. I comfort myself that while I’m in Yorkshire, he’s doomed to Cumbria.”
“Pretty over there, though. At least in summer.”
“Which, if you’re lucky, lasts six entire weeks. I see you have made the acquaintance of the misses Farnum.” Out across the gardens, Emmie was leading Winnie along by the hand, a bucket of gardening tools in her other hand.
“As Miss Bronwyn dwells here, I could not avoid Miss Farnum’s company.”
“Bronwyn is an exceptionally bright little girl,” the vicar said. “And considering Miss Farnum’s circumstances, she has done what she could for Bronwyn.”
“Her circumstances?” The earl felt his temper stirring to life but kept his expression bland.
“Miss Farnum did not dwell at Rosecroft,” the vicar pointed out, “but Miss Bronwyn did. No young lady with any care for her own safety would frequent the late Lord Helmsley’s household, so Miss Farnum’s access to the child was limited. Then, too, Miss Farnum has her own concerns.”
The earl counted slowly to twenty while the refreshments were brought, then speared the vicar with a glower.
“Are you trying to politely remind me Miss Farnum’s origins are humble?” the earl inquired, handing his guest a cold glass of lemonade.
The vicar met his gaze, stalled by sipping his drink, then studied it.
“Emmaline Farnum’s position in this community is precarious. I do not like it, but the damage was done before I arrived. It is a sad fact that association with her will not inure to Miss Bronwyn’s benefit, though your own influence will weigh considerably despite that.”
“Miss Farnum is judged for her lack of standing?”
The vicar nodded as he set his drink down. “For her lack of standing, as you put it, and for her financial independence, for her good looks, and her smile, and her unwillingness to bow her head in shame. For her excellent baking, her education, her having traveled beyond this benighted valley. If it’s a good quality, a strength, then someone will condemn her for it.”
“You sound sympathetic to the lady.”
“I offered for her,” the vicar said, a soft note of chagrin in his voice. “She turned me down so gently, I almost didn’t know I was being rejected.”
“Let me guess.” The earl’s lips pursed. “She pointed out a vicar’s wife must be above reproach, pretensions to gentry, at least, but in truth, Miss Farnum wasn’t going to make any move that took her farther from Miss Winnie’s ambit or limited her own independence.”
Bothwell’s eyebrows shot up, and then he nodded. “I hadn’t put my finger on it, but she was certainly not listing the reasons that really motivated her. Unfortunately, my respect for the woman is undiminished.”
“You think being a vicar’s wife such an improvement over her current circumstances?”
“I think being this vicar’s wife could be,” Bothwell retorted. The earl was forced to acknowledge Bothwell was attractive, well built, and possessed of a pleasant demeanor. Like many men of the church, the man was also nobody’s fool when it came to dealing with people. “I work for the church to appease my late father’s sense a man should not simply be idle in this life, my lord, but I am at least comfortably well off and not that hard to look on.”
“Not that modest, you mean.” The earl had to smile. “If it’s any comfort to you, Miss Farnum has agreed to serve as a temporary governess to Winnie here at Rosecroft. That puts both ladies under my protection, and I will not countenance disrespect to either one of them.”
“Thought that might be your inclination.”
The earl’s smile turned sardonic. “As your brother no doubt informed you, the circumstances of my own birth left something to be desired.”
“My brother, the esteemed viscount, was a six months’ wonder.” The vicar grinned as he picked up his drink again. “And that type of miracle occurs with alarming frequency among the good flock at St. Michael’s.”
“You don’t preach temperance? Self-restraint, abstinence?”
“I preach tolerance,” the vicar shot back, “and looking to one’s own house before judging another, and loving one’s neighbor as one’s self.”
“And as long as you’re unmarried you can preach any blessed thing you want, and at least the females in the district will be raptly attentive.”
The vicar’s smile dimmed. “Now that is an unarguable fact. I did not appreciate until my wife died just how vulnerable a vicar is to the schemes of a potential mother-in-law.”
“My condolences, Bothwell.” The earl watched as Bothwell took a hefty swallow of his drink. The man looked entirely too young to have buried a wife.
“It has been a few years.” Bothwell shrugged. “The first year is the hardest, and the congregation has been considerate. I’d forgotten you lost a brother in the war.”
The earl smiled at him in understanding. “Would that I could forget.”
“Well.” Bothwell glanced away, out the window. “Now that you’ve heard my confession, I’ll move along, and maybe some great inspiration for the week’s sermon will come to me while I’m walking home.”
“You don’t ride?” A younger son of a viscount had no excuse for not riding.
“When I came to Rosecroft village four years ago,” Bothwell said, getting to his feet, “the fellow who held the living previously had died. The congregation had fitted him out with a nice sturdy driving horse, as the old boy was too stiff to sit a horse. It would insult my parishioners were I to trot around on some piece of bloodstock, but it offends my sensibilities to stare at that… plough horse’s fundament whenever I want to make a call.”
The earl rose, as well. “I am burdened with more horses than I have time to exercise, so perhaps you’d join me on the occasional hack?”
“I would love to.” The vicar closed his eyes as he spoke, as if uttering a prayer, and the earl perceived the situation was dire.
“Come along,” he said, leading Bothwell toward the door. “My breeches will be loose on you, but my boots will likely fit.”
***
“Hello, ladies.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled as Emmie and Winnie approached the stable and Stevens led the horses away. “Is that libation you bear?”
“It’s lemonade,” Winnie said, “and we brought some cheese breads, too.”