Tremaine's True Love (24 page)

It was a day for unintended questions, apparently.

Nita studied Tremaine for an interminable moment, her smile hovering shy of full bloom. Outside the byre, some old ewe bleated, suggesting George Haddonfield might be heading in their direction.

“One cannot
make
another person happy, Mr. St. Michael, any more than one can make another healthy.”

Tremaine could not fathom where Nita’s hesitance came from, though she was imbued with more natural caution and intellectual thoroughness than many ladies of her station.

“Last night you made me something,” Tremaine said. “If not happy, then very close to it. I hope the sentiments were shared, and I hope we can share them again, soon and often.”

Last night, for all his caution, he might have made them both parents. The notion pleased when it ought to alarm.

“Last night was…lovely,” Nita said. “I
felt
lovely. I should feel naughty and upset with myself, and guilty of course, but I cannot. I’ve tried, and all I can feel is…lovely.”

For a time in Tremaine’s arms, Nita had esteemed herself, to use George’s word, and some of that sense lingered in her bearing, in her pleased, private smile. Victory whispered to Tremaine from the shadowy, aromatic depths of the sheep byre.

“Nita Haddonfield, if you don’t know by now that you are lovely”—also dear, kind, smart, brave,
and
well
worth
protecting
—“I will consider it my greatest honor to spend the rest of my life convincing you of it.”

Flowery speeches did not impress her, though neither did they chase away that naughty smile. She pulled on her gloves.

“You are lovely too, Mr. St. Michael.”

He was besotted. “Tremaine, if we’re to be lovely together.”

A ewe butted him gently above the knees, another warning that George approached.

“You allowed that we could bide in Haddondale?” Lady Nita asked.

Just like that, in the dead of winter, spring arrived to Tremaine St. Michael’s heart, to his entire life.

“We can. My business interests require that I travel, but I have good stewards and factors, and you’ll want to be near family.” Particularly as the babies arrived, which Tremaine had every confidence they would.

“At the assembly then,” she said, whipping the tail of her scarf over her shoulder—no fluttering for his Lady Nita. “Nicholas can make the announcement, but let’s save discussion of the details for later, Mr. St. Michael. The weather is worsening, and I’ve yet to have my soaking bath.”

Nita swept out of the sheep byre before Tremaine could even kiss her. In her wake, two of the lambs went dancing across the straw, leaping and bouncing for no reason and inspiring the third lamb to totter to his feet.

“Your name is Lucky,” Tremaine said, picking up the tup and kissing his wee woolly head. “Your name is Lucky, and you’re for the breeding herd, my friend. Lucky St. Michael, that’s you.”

He set the lamb down to play with its fellows and marched out into the winter weather, which was, indeed, worsening by the moment.

* * *

Back in the sheep byre, Nita had stifled the urge to tackle Mr. St. Michael, smother him with kisses, and announce to the livestock that she’d become engaged to a man she could esteem very greatly indeed.

Her intended had been by turns abrupt, bashful, endearing, and confident, but he’d given her two assurances she’d needed.

First, they could dwell in Haddondale, where her family and her patients were, and second, she need not become some indolent domestic ornament to please anybody’s sense of the appearances—no contorting herself to appease “social niceties.”

What a splendid man Tremaine St. Michael was.

Also passionate. Nita particularly liked that about him, and if she had lingering misgivings about undertaking holy matrimony with a man she’d only recently met, well, that was to be expected.

They’d have a lifetime to get to know each other better.

“I do believe our younger sisters are in the stable yard,” George said as the horses trudged up the increasingly snowy lane. “Perhaps the Second Coming is imminent.”

Susannah and Della sat side by side on the ladies’ mounting block, apparently waiting for horses to be brought out.

“They’re going for a hack in this weather?” Mr. St. Michael asked.

Nita didn’t dare think of him as Tremaine, lest she slip before her siblings, but he was Tremaine.
Her
Tremaine
.

“Looks like they’re headed somewhere,” George said, “though I suspect their errand is in the direction of Stonebridge. Nothing less compelling could tear Susannah from her books, but I refuse to provide an escort. My arse is frozen.”

Brothers.
Nita trotted ahead, for she was riding Susannah’s mare. “Halloo! Shall you take your mare, Suze? She was a perfect lady for the duration, and I’ve warmed up the saddle.”

“I’ll take her if Susannah won’t,” Della said.

“My saddle won’t fit you,” Susannah rejoined. “Though it fits Nita well enough. Was the library open?”

Mr. St. Michael drew rein and swung off his horse. “It was, though I must warn your ladyships, the lanes are snowy, the temperature is dropping, and I doubt the earl would approve of a protracted outing in such weather.”

“We can have this argument in the barn,” George said, handing his horse off to a groom. “I can’t forbid you from going, ladies, but I can advise against it, as Mr. St. Michael has.”

“Susannah needs to bring old Edward up to scratch before the assembly,” Della said, hopping off the mounting block. “If he doesn’t get the proposing done soon, she’ll start back in on the Old Testament, and all will be wars, slayings, and begats until Beltane.”

A wintry silence greeted that announcement, then George laid an arm across Della’s shoulders. “Come with me now, Della. Nobody’s riding anywhere, and somebody needs to wash your face with snow before Susannah throttles you.”

He marched Della off toward the house while Susannah remained on the mounting block, looking pale and chilly.

“Della’s simply being honest,” Susannah said. “Mr. St. Michael ought to know by now the Haddonfields aren’t overly burdened with decorum.”

Before the grooms led Mr. St. Michael’s horse away, he extracted something from his saddlebags.

“If you’re not to pay a call on Stonebridge, perhaps this will enliven your afternoon. My ladies, I bid you good day.” St. Michael passed Susannah two books, kissed Nita’s cheek, and strode off after George and Della.

Nita wanted to follow him, but he’d guessed correctly. Susannah was in a state, clutching the books to her middle as if she’d hold in a great upset, or perhaps a bout of cursing.

Susannah had not been heard to curse since she’d been seventeen and vexed beyond bearing with certain other young ladies whose company she endured at tea dances.

Nita took a seat beside Susannah as the last of the horses was led into the barn.

“Della saw Mr. St. Michael last night,” Susannah said dully. “He was coming from your room at a late hour. I like him, but be careful, Nita.” Suze offered a warning rather than a reproach, which was not like her.

“I will be careful and so will he. Were you truly haring off to Stonebridge in this weather?”

Susannah hadn’t even looked at the books.

“I was honestly hoping to be stranded there for a day or two.” Susannah’s gaze was flat, her cheeks pale, and on her head was a perfectly impractical toque garnished with pheasant feathers.

Nita wrapped her scarf around Susannah’s neck. From the direction of the garden, somebody shrieked, suggesting George had administered cold, wet fraternal retribution for Della’s thoughtless words.

A snowflake landed directly in Nita’s right eye, bringing with it a frigid stab of sororal intuition.

“Has Edward Nash taken liberties with your person, Suze?”

“Don’t scold me, Nita,” Susannah retorted. “While Papa was alive, I didn’t feel so ancient, but now Nicholas is the earl, and soon even Della will have made her come-out. I long to be married and have a family. That’s all I want, and all I’ve been raised to want.”

All any of them had been raised to want.

“Here is what you need to know,” Nita said in the same brisk tone she’d summarize a treatment regimen for a cranky patient. “I love you, and Edward is not good enough for you. He has problems, Susannah, financial and otherwise, that make him a poor candidate for your affections. Elsie does not speak well of his disposition or his temperance. If he has taken liberties, then you will tell me, and I’ll provide you what aid I can, including tisanes that will bring on your menses.”

Susannah straightened. “There are such tisanes?”

I
will
kill
Edward
Nash.
“Every midwife and herbalist knows of them, and Mama certainly did too. They are by no means foolproof, but the sooner you take them, the safer and more effective they are. Have you missed your monthly yet?”

“No, not yet.”

Thank
God.
“If it’s any comfort, I know exactly how you feel.”

Susannah leaned against Nita’s shoulder, a gesture of defeated affection Suze hadn’t offered her older sister in a decade.

“You couldn’t possibly know how I feel, Neets. I have been an idiot. Three times, and Edward has yet to propose, because of those stupid perishing sheep.”

When had Nita allowed the Bard to so thoroughly kidnap her sister?

“I could too know,” Nita said. “I’ll describe the symptoms, with which I have firsthand acquaintance: bewilderment, self-castigation, and a towering fear that one’s fall from propriety will become glaringly evident. After a day or two, you admit to disappointment, in the fellow, in yourself, and in the experience. Most of all, in the experience. Then it happens again, and you can see no improvement, and that’s even more disappointing.”

Susannah wiped at her cheek with the end of Nita’s scarf. “Disappointment, by God. The first time, Edward was in a hurry, and I was quite honestly surprised. The last time, I let him ambush me in the saddle room. Do you know how itchy a horse blanket can be against one’s fundament?”

As itchy as self-doubt, as itchy as regret against a woman’s heart.

“Probably as itchy as a worn wool rug in the servants’ parlor,” Nita replied. “Did Edward force you?”

Susannah kicked her boot heels against the solid wood of the mounting block. “No, he did not. He persuaded, and I thought I was being shrewd, creating an obligation to offer for me, which is an awful thing to admit. I was an idiot. Edward did not have to force me, not the first time.”

Which meant something less than charm had resulted in the subsequent occasions. Damn Edward.

“Norton was the same way,” Nita said as somebody pulled the barn door all but closed against the worsening weather. “He insisted I’d like it, that the business improved with repetition. Norton lied, if he meant repetition with him.”

“Norton?” Susannah sat up. “Norton Nash? Nita, he was sent down from university any number of times. You poor thing, he had a
cowlick
.”

“Mama was ill, I was lonely, and he was charming.” How simple it sounded now—and how pathetic. How desperate.

“Maybe loneliness qualifies as an illness in young women, then, for I’m not sure I even like Edward. I thought I did. I like Shakespeare, mostly.” Susannah sounded so cast down, so betrayed.

“When it’s the right man, you’ll know it,” Nita said. “Your hindsight will be stunningly clear, then. Edward’s not the right man, Suze.”

“Are your tisanes foolproof?”

“Very little about medicine is foolproof.” While Nita’s determination to help her sister was unrelenting, and certain parts of her were becoming
quite
chilled. “I should have paid more attention to you and less to Addy Chalmers and Harrison Goodenough.”

Nita would never admit that to Nicholas though, any more than she’d admit sick babies terrified her.

“When a man shoots himself in the foot, his situation is hard to ignore,” Susannah observed.

“True enough.” Old Mr. Goodenough had been drunk at the time, trying to fire from the saddle at some varmint and unable to get his gun from its scabbard. “What will you do, Suze?”

Around them, the stable yard was filling up with snow, while from inside the barn, the comforting scents of livestock and hay wafted on a chilly breeze. Concern for Susannah weighed down Nita’s happiness at being engaged and leavened her joy with gratitude.

Tremaine St. Michael was so much more worthy than all the Norton Nashes in the world,
and
he
was
hers
.

“I will read”—Susannah peered at the books—“Mr. Burns’s poetry and some essay by a Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Looks interesting. I like Mr. St. Michael, Nita. He isn’t silly, and yet he can laugh.”

Odd that Susannah, a sober soul if ever there was one, should make that observation.

“Mr. St. Michael respects my medical knowledge and is a marvelous kisser.” Odder still that Nita should offer that.

Susannah stood, books in hand, and whipped off the fetching, impractical little hat. “Best of all, Mr. St. Michael hasn’t a cowlick.”

They returned to the house on that cheering observation, then commended each other to the comforts of a long, hot soaking bath.

* * *

The snow let up after dumping a foot of cold inconvenience on all in the shire, though as Tremaine’s visit to Kent stretched on, he enjoyed a sunny sense of a negotiation coming to a profitable conclusion. He’d tendered his offer to Lady Nita; she’d investigated his prospects and found them to her liking.

Several days after Tremaine had become engaged, all that remained was to agree on settlements with the Earl of Bellefonte.