A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (47 page)

An argument between the children
interrupted her thoughts.

“
It is my dolly!” cried the
female child. The little girl could be no more than
three.

“
No it’s not. Mama, I had
it first.” An older boy pulled the doll from his younger sister’s
grasp and she wailed in distress.

“
Christopher, you promised
to let Annabel play with the doll today, did you not?” The young
woman gently pried her son’s fingers free of the toy and returned
it to Annabel. The girl stopped weeping almost instantaneously and
placed a thumb in her mouth while she held the doll.

“
I do apologize, ma’am.
Travel is difficult on children.” The woman’s face pinched when the
infant began to cry. “Oh, lud. I hoped she’d sleep through this.
I’m very sorry.”

The older children seemed to take the
baby’s cries as an invitation to resume their argument. Christopher
pulled the doll away from Annabel. She screamed out loud before she
bit the boy’s arm. He retaliated by sitting on her.

The young mother seemed overwhelmed,
sitting and watching it all happen with wide, fraught eyes. She
made no move to intervene, so Grace took matters into her own
hands.

She plucked young Annabel up from
beneath her brother and sat her on the bench alongside herself.
Grace pulled the young girl close and held on to her, soothing away
the tears. “Christopher, sit next to your mother. You can keep that
one.” She dug through her valise and found her old, beat-up doll.
It was one of the few things her mother had given her that Father
had not confiscated to sell. Grace handed the doll to Annabel.
“Here you go sweetheart. You can play with this.”

Annabel’s eyes twinkled, and she took
the doll from Grace and held it in a close embrace.

Their mother stared at Grace from
across the coach, her expression that of weary
gratitude.

Grace gestured to the infant still
crying in the woman’s arms. “Do you need help with her, too? I
could hold her for a stretch.” The woman’s jaw dropped open in
dismay. She must never receive any help with her children. It must
be overwhelming at times.

The woman did not respond, but held
the baby out to Grace. She placed the infant over her shoulders and
rocked back and forth, cooing and whispering until the child slept
once again.

“
Thank you, ma’am.” A
single tear slid down the mother’s haggard face. “You are most
kind.”

Grace smiled at her. She didn’t want
to let the baby go. There was something very comforting about the
feel of a baby sleeping in her arms.

The two older children each played
with their respective dolls and refrained from further arguments,
the mother slept, and Grace fervently prayed she would someday be
able to hold her own baby like she held this stranger’s
baby.

When they neared Somerton, the woman
awoke as the baby once again cried. “I believe she has a wet nappy,
ma’am,” the young mother said. Grace passed the child back to her
mother’s waiting arms, reluctant to let go. “Annabel, give the lady
her doll back.”

Annabel’s eyes filled with tears as
she lifted the toy up. Grace pushed the doll back into her grubby
hands. “No, you may keep her, Annabel. I have no need of this doll
anymore, but I can see you do.” It hurt Grace to let go of this
piece of her mother, but not as much as seeing the little girl cry.
She would somehow find a way to provide her own child with a doll,
but this one must go with Annabel.

“
Thank you again, ma’am.
You’ve been most generous with us.” The mother worked to situate
her children and all of their belongings, and Grace stared out the
windows again.

As the coach pulled into town, the
driver stopped in front of the Brookhurst Inn. Grace glanced about
the street as the coach door opened and the driver set down the
steps.

A tall, well-clad man with
rich, auburn hair a bit longer than would be considered stylish
stepped out of the inn, heading toward the stables. His breeches
hugged his thighs so closely she could almost feel the power they
possessed. The man’s greatcoat, as snug as possible over him,
displayed a broad expanse of muscular back and arms. Oh goodness.
Now that was a man who cut quite the dashing figure. Grace flushed
at the tingling sensation forming in her bosom, a most
inappropriate and even
wanton
reaction, to the merest sight of a stranger. She
had not even seen his face!

“
Thank you again for the
luncheon, Mrs. Derringer,” he called out. “It was excellent fare,
as usual.” He nodded toward the unseen woman and continued on his
way.

The stranger’s gaze caught
Grace’s eyes as he walked past the coach. His eyes were clear—kind.
There was something, she could not be sure what, but
something
light
about him, light and good and true. Her gaze passed to his
straight, Grecian nose and angular jaw line. He smiled, a smooth,
gentle smile, with just a touch of wickedness—enough to let her
know he was no angel. Still, most of the men she had encountered
through her father’s acquaintance were quite unkind. The
compassion, even sweetness, she sensed in this stranger intrigued
her.

He was a large man, certainly capable
of overpowering her should he desire to do so. Yet without ever
speaking a word to him, Grace felt safe. She somehow knew he would
never hurt her. He would never be like the Earl of Barrow. She
imagined this stranger to be the Greek god Apollo—handsome and
light—before the absurdity of such a thought struck her.

He broke eye contact before it became
improper, but he looked at her over his shoulder before turning the
corner and moving out of her line of sight.

When he disappeared, her thoughts
returned to the immediate. It was childish of her to let her mind
wander in such ways, especially in regards to a man she had never
met. For all she knew, he could be just like her father and all the
men he had, at various points, desired to marry her off
to.

No respectable gentleman would have
her now. Not only was she damaged through Barrow’s actions, but she
would soon give birth to his bastard child. She would be lucky
indeed if she managed to find suitable employment after her
confinement. Her prospects for employment would depend on just
precisely how far the arms of the gossip mill reached. Returning to
London would be out of the question. Grace would have to travel to
find an employer. She must never forget her present circumstances
would forever determine her lot in life, fair or otherwise. But she
couldn’t fret over that now.

The coach driver was waiting to assist
her as she climbed down from the coach. She was surprised to find
another carriage and driver waiting for her, apparently sent by her
aunt and uncle.

“
Lady Grace?” The new
driver bowed. He was an older man, with streaks of grey mixed in
with his neatly trimmed chestnut brown hair and a slight stoop in
his posture.

“
Sir Laurence sent me to
fetch you to New Hill Cottage, ma’am, as soon as he received your
letter. It’s a good thing, it is, that the post travels so fast
these days or we would never have known you were coming, ma’am. No,
we most certainly would not! I’m Barnes. If you would please show
me which bags are yours, I’ll help you into the carriage before I
collect them, and then we’ll be off to the cottage in a jiffy. I
imagine you’re right weary of all your travels by now and would
like a spot of tea. We’ll have you home in no time.”

Her uncle had sent a carriage for her?
Why would her relatives take such pains to assist her? She would be
a burden upon them, so why should they care for her
comforts?

While she had only meager belongings,
making the trek on foot would have been rather difficult. She
didn’t know if any hired hacks were available for public use in
Somerton. Even if she found a hack, paying for one to cart her and
her bag was out of the question since she’d spent every last
farthing she owned on her journey, lodging, and sustenance during
the travel.

Thank goodness they were willing to
help.

She pointed out her valise to Barnes,
and he assisted her into the carriage before loading her bag on the
back. Within a few minutes, they were, remarkably, on their way to
New Hill.

~ * ~

Alex paid his tab at the Brookhurst
Inn and headed out the doorway. Mrs. Derringer, the amply-curved
cook and housekeeper who had been employed at the Inn for as long
as his memory served, smiled and waved at him on his way
out.

“
Don’t you be a stranger
around these parts while you’re visiting, Lord Alexander. You come
back to see us, if you please.”

Unable to resist a harmless flirtation
with the woman, he flashed what he hoped to be a devilish smile.
“Thank you again for the luncheon, Mrs. Derringer. It was excellent
fare, as usual.”

She tittered like a schoolgirl as he
nodded and headed out the door. When he ambled toward the stables
to fetch his horse, a coach being unloaded of its baggage and
passengers caught his eye. This was an entirely ordinary and
unremarkable occurrence, to be sure, yet for some reason, he
couldn’t look away.

Initially, he only glanced at the
passengers, but then he caught sight of the most intriguing pair of
icy blue eyes he had ever seen on a woman. They were crystal clear,
with just the smallest hint of a silvery tone to accompany the
blue.

More than their color though, the eyes
captured his interest because of what he sensed beneath the
surface. These two eyes spoke of something Alex could not quite
determine. Sadness perhaps, or fear. He wondered what would cause
such intense emotions.

She was young, likely not yet
one-and-twenty, with midnight black hair pulled into a severe knot
at the nape of her neck. Her traveling gown was a soft shade of
blue more akin to a summer sky on a clear morning rather than to
the shade of her eyes. And her skin—it was sheer perfection, all
soft and pale and blushing at the same time, or at least he
imagined it to be soft. How could the skin of a heart-shaped face
so luminous, so radiant, be anything but smooth as silk or
satin?

Dash it all, he was staring. He broke
his gaze away from her and moved on toward the stables, where
another carriage was situated alongside the Inn. The driver climbed
down and called into the coach, “Lady Grace?”

Could Lady Grace be the young lady
whose eyes had so fascinated him? Blast, he had no business even
thinking along those lines. His entire purpose in coming to
Somerton was to avoid Mama’s matchmaking. Well, that and his
summons from Lord Rotheby, of course. But really, if he were being
honest with himself, it was to avoid being caught in the parson’s
mousetrap. If anyone in the world were capable of trapping him that
way, he was sure it was his mother. The woman was bloody
determined.

His horse had been fed, groomed, and
saddled, and was ready for the last few miles of their journey.
Alex had sent his carriage, along with his valet, ahead of him to
Roundstone so he could enjoy the last portion of his trip alone.
Any more time trapped inside the damned interior of that carriage,
and he would lose his mind.

Besides, he loved a good ride in the
outdoors, and he missed Somerton—the open air, the nature all
around him, the people. He could breathe here. In truth, that was
why he had chosen to eat his luncheon at the inn instead of
traveling on to Roundstone Park. He wanted to catch up on all the
things he missed from his childhood.

Fiend seize it, those eyes were back
in his mind. He had to forget that woman. Alex held every intention
of enjoying his stay with Rotheby—a man who had become something of
a father figure to him in recent years, since the heartache of his
own father’s death. Doing that meant not wasting his time thinking
of some chit suffering from a fit of the blue devils.

Sampson set off at a good clip, and
Alex looked around at the familiar surroundings. The horse seemed
to enjoy the open roadways, and frankly Alex couldn’t blame him. He
loved to look about and see more signs of nature than of a bustling
city. The weather was a touch cool, but the sun was out and the
roads were dry. All in all, it was a beautiful day.

Alex took his time on this final leg
of the journey. There was no great hurry. Gilbert Thornton, the
Earl of Rotheby, would not expect him until at least tea time. Alex
and his horse wandered about Somerton and reveled in the freedom of
open road and open sky. The late spring crops were maturing and
flowers—crocus, daffodils, and foxgloves—were budding along the
lane. The quiet atmosphere spoke to his soul.

He made the final turn into the lane
where Roundstone Park stood. The manor house boasted an elegant but
never fussy park and giant shade trees that created an arch
overhead. The twitters of birds and familiar yaps of Rotheby’s
border collies created a pleasing welcome.

At the end of the drive, Roundstone
came fully into view ahead of him. Ivy and vines climbed up the
tall, stone sides of The Park. Large windows allowed sunlight into
every room, with their drapes pulled back to soak it all in.
Cobbled walkways ran between stone fences and a trickling creek,
and bushes and flower beds lined more walkways, twisting and
turning like a labyrinth through the garden, with the occasional
bird feeder, statue, or water fountain. A creek trickled behind the
manor house and whispered its way to join the Cary River before
making the final run to the sea.