April Kihlstrom (4 page)

Beatrix reached out to place her hand on his arm and the moment her fingertips touched his sleeve, she felt something course through her, deep and wild and primal. Rothwood started as though he felt it as well. He stared down at her, clearly disconcerted. All Beatrix could think to do was to pretend she had not felt a thing and pray that he would do the same.

But she had felt something. Maybe it was the remnants of her childhood
tendre
for the kind and gentle boy he had been, the one with hopes and dreams she had so admired. Maybe it was the way his dark eyes still seemed to gleam with intelligence. Perhaps it was the deep brown hair that swept across his brow. Perhaps it was the strong muscles she could feel beneath her hand. Or perhaps it was something more. All she knew was that she desperately wanted to keep holding onto this man and that she was suddenly acutely aware of parts of her body she had been brought up to ignore. Only they would not be ignored, not now.

* * *

Rothwood shivered. What the devil was this? How could he let any woman, let alone Miss Trowley, overset his composure just with her touch? She was supposed to be a sensible choice as a wife, not someone who would disturb his comfort!

He almost pulled away, but that would have been rude. Besides, no matter what his father would have said or thought, he could not stop staring at her lovely blue eyes, her plump, ripe lips and her soft blond hair curling about her face where the strands had pulled free of their pins.

Still, it was one thing to remember a young girl fondly, another to act the mooncalf over the woman she had become. He tried to shake off these strange feelings. “Er,” he said, clearing his throat, “perhaps we had best be on our way. I do not like the looks of the sky.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed and began to stride forward at a pace that well suited his own, but was far brisker than he was accustomed to ladies adopting.

Before he made a further fool of himself, he decided he really ought to make absolutely certain she was who he thought she was. After all, the greatest folly would be to pay court to the wrong Miss Trowley.

“You are Miss
Beatrix
Trowley, are you not?” he asked.

Startled, she looked up at him and suddenly tripped, not seeing the stone in the road. He caught her and noted the scent of lilacs that wafted toward him. Her eyes searched his face as she said, “Why, yes. I-I am surprised you remember.”

He allowed himself to smile, wanting to reassure her. “I wasn’t certain but I was rather hoping it was you.”

“Why?”

Was that wariness in her voice? Rothwood could understand. She was a beauty despite the shabbiness of her dress and perhaps there were scoundrels hereabouts who had tried to take advantage of her. Soothingly he replied, “Because you are the reason I am here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t my aunt write to your mother? I was certain she would,” he said, half to himself. “Or am I only imagining I spoke to her at the ball?”

Miss Trowley looked at him now as if she thought him wanting in wits. Rothwood straightened and made his voice firm as he said, “It doesn’t matter. I came to see you. My aunt has been singing your praises and I thought to see for myself if what she says was true.”

At that, the young woman pulled her hand free and stepped away from him. In a blighting voice she said, “Your aunt and I came near to pulling caps when she was here last. She did not seem to have a high opinion of me at all, so you needn’t pretend otherwise. I despise pointless flattery. And I’ll warn you now that if you hoped to turn me up sweet so I would ignore you gambling with my father, it won’t work! As I told your aunt, I will turn out of the house anyone who tries, I don’t care who they are or what connections they have or how much my parents object!”

Rothwood came to an abrupt halt and blinked at the young woman who moments before had seemed such a meek and dutiful creature, but now was transformed into the veriest termagant. This was not going at all the way it was supposed to go and she was not, at least in this moment, at all the sort of woman he wished to marry! He wanted someone who would defer to him in all things, not someone who would berate and tell him what he could and could not do. He started to give her a blistering setdown and then stopped.

Fairness made him hesitate. He knew his aunt. Indeed, he shuddered at the thought of what havoc she might have wreaked here. She did love to gamble and she did love to win and from the looks of things, losing was not something the Trowley family could afford. And after all, wasn’t loyalty to one’s family a quality to be prized?

He said none of this out loud. Instead Rothwood bowed slightly and told her, “I assure you, I have not come to gamble with your father. Nor with any other member of your family.”

Not unless one considered marriage to be a gamble, and of course it was, but he was not going to say that to her!

She seemed to relax at his answer and started walking again, though, Rothwood noted, she did not come within two feet of him nor take his arm. Well, that was all right, though he missed the feel of her next to him. Time enough for that once they were wed. Her reserve showed a maidenly modesty he ought to approve. His father certainly would have done so.

“Will you tell me about your family?” he asked, when he felt the silence had gone on too long.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked.

“Everything.” When she looked at him oddly he added, “A great deal can change in nine or ten years and my memory may be fallible.

Again that look, this time with a sigh. “Very well. You know that Mama is your aunt’s bosom bow. Perhaps she has told you or you recall that there are seven of us children?”

“Seven? Er, that is, I remember you had a large family, I just did not recall that it was quite that large.”

“Oh, yes. Mama and Papa are very—”

She paused as though at a loss for words.

“Quite,” he said.

She nodded gratefully and went on. “I am the eldest. Then comes Adrian, Callista, Melody, Harold, John and Richard.”

No wonder her gown was shabby. It would take a fortune to run to the needs of such a family and so far as Rothwood could recall, Mr. Trowley had not had a fortune, merely a competence. Add to that the knowledge that he was a gambler, one who apparently lost frequently, and Rothwood could see there might be serious financial difficulties. It gave him pause, there was no denying that, for he had to ask himself if he was likely to find himself responsible for the whole pack of them if he married Miss Trowley. Not that his fortune wouldn’t run to it, for it would. Rothwood was one of the wealthiest young men in England. At least he was now and would continue to be if he married by his twenty-fifth birthday. And one of his father’s maxims had always been that a wise man ought to marry a lady who would be grateful for the increase in both her financial and social position. It would, his father had always said, make her a far more amenable wife, one inclined to do as she was told rather than rebelling as some women did when they conceived themselves to be equal or perhaps even superior to their husbands in some way.

Still, Rothwood was not his father. He could not help thinking that he ought to consider what was due to his potential heirs, for he meant to leave them at least as well off as he was. And there would be no provisions in
his
will as to when they must wed or any such nonsense as that!

Miss Trowley seemed to read something of what he was feeling on his face for she said, “Yes, I know. Shocking, isn’t it? And most imprudent when one doesn’t have the funds to support so large a family. But one doesn’t have a choice, it seems, in how many children are born. And we are all so shockingly healthy that we all survived.”

Her words were forthright and someone else might have taken them as indelicate, but Rothwood, regarding her closely, could see the tension in the way she held herself, the hint of a gleam of moisture in her eyes and the brittleness of her smile. Miss Trowley had not thrown out these words to shock. She was rather a young woman who appeared to be at the end of her rope and Rothwood found himself wanting to take the rope from her, toss it away and to the devil with whoever was on the other end. He found himself wanting to protect and coddle her. He wanted to give her the chance for laughter and lovely things and dancing and all the other delights most young ladies her age would know so well.

But that was nonsense, he told himself, shaking his head! He was here to find a wife who would suit him, not to take on the rescue of some hapless chit. He must focus on what mattered and what mattered was whether or not she would be the kind of wife he wished to have. What would his father have said? He would have surely detected at least a hint of disrespect in her voice as she spoke about her father. He would have disapproved and wondered if it meant she might view a husband with disrespect as well. A dutiful wife ought to support and obey her husband in all things. It was the primary quality on his list of qualities he said Edmund must find in his bride to be.

Rothwood did not think to ask himself why, if that was what mattered most, he had not found a satisfactory bride among the meek and dutiful new debutantes who had made their come-outs in each of the past few years he had been looking. Had he done so he would have dismissed them with a wave of his hand, saying he had not really been looking, that he had never intended to wed until he absolutely must and that it was only the looming deadline that caused him to do so now. Had he been asked about this or that young lady of the current crop, he would simply have said they all liked London too well and he wanted a country girl who would be content to stay at home at his estate while he pursued his interests in London. And, he would have insisted, the fact that Miss Trowley came from an obviously fertile family was an asset because a wife who was frequently breeding would never expect to be taken to London, not while the babies were small. No, it was Miss Trowley who was clearly the superior choice, if he could just get past this little nagging concern about possible disrespect toward her father.

Aloud he said, “It must be a trial having a father who gambles.”

She froze, stopped again and glared at him. “My father is a wonderful man,” she said fiercely. “If you think I gave you reason to believe otherwise, you are mistaken!”

Rothwood smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My apologies,” he said hastily. “I meant no offense. Clearly I misunderstood.”

So she was loyal to her father? Excellent. With fully restored good humor, Rothwood again offered Miss Trowley his arm as he asked, “Is it far to the village?”

Still she did not take his arm but she did begin to walk. “No, not far. Just over this hill and we shall be there. You will be able to find men willing to go and fetch your carriage and coachman and horses. And there is an excellent inn where you may stay.”

An inn? “Oh, but I had hoped to stay with your family,” Rothwood said, looking at her sharply.

The dismay she felt was evident in her expression. She recovered quickly. “Oh, of course. I am certain Mama and Papa will be delighted.”

But she wasn’t. He soon realized the reason for this. The first person they encountered as they entered the village was the town’s butcher, who stepped out of his shop to shout to her, “Tell your parents I won’t wait much longer for my bill to be paid. Not one more roast or joint until I see my money!”

Miss Trowley went very pale. She would have stumbled had Rothwood not moved close enough to catch her. Under his breath, so softly that only she could hear, he said, “Never mind that fellow. He is a scoundrel to speak to you that way.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes clear and frank as she replied, in an equally soft voice, “Not a scoundrel, just a man desperate to be paid. It has been far too many months since he was and he has a family of his own to feed and clothe and provide for.”

Rothwood was torn. His father would say a young lady should not speak of such things. Indeed it should not be her place to know of them. But clearly Miss Trowley did and it spoke well of her character that she could wish to honor her parents’ debts. On the other hand, this was far more forthright than he imagined his delicate bride to ever speak. The girl he remembered had been shy and quiet and content to let him take the lead in all things.

Feeling more than a little unsettled, Rothwood forced himself to focus on finding someone to deal with his carriage. Miss Trowley knew just the person and it was with gratitude that he found she also knew someone with a cart who could take them to her family home.

“Are you certain you would not prefer to stay at the inn?” she asked hopefully. “It is quite comfortable and they set an excellent table.”

Did that mean her family did not? Aloud Rothwood merely said, “I wish to spend as much time as possible with your lovely family and shall make no complaint about anything.”

Was that a snort from their cart driver? What the devil kind of impertinence was that? But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps the man had merely sneezed. Certainly Miss Trowley was doing her best to smile as the cart rattled along the rutted track. All would be well. Of course it would. It had to be, Rothwood reassured himself and tried very hard to believe it.

Chapter 3

Mr. Trowley and Mrs. Trowley had just begun to worry about their daughter Beatrix when the cart rattled to a stop in front of the house. They went out on the front steps, along with all their offspring, and were just in time to see a finely dressed gentleman hand her out of the cart.

“Could that be—?” Mrs. Trowley started to ask.

“Absurd! He couldn’t have come from London in that,” her husband replied with a snort. “Look. It’s Jem driving the cart. Whoever it is, they’ve come from the village. But who is the gentleman and why is he with Beatrix?”

“Perhaps he’s staying in the village and didn’t want to bring his carriage here?”

This last question was said hopefully by Mrs. Trowley, who was not as oblivious to their financial straits as Beatrix was inclined to assume. Already she was thinking of what Cook must be preparing for supper and knowing it could in no way be up to the standards of a gentleman dressed in such elegant attire. He would despise the food and thus despise them, even if he didn’t notice the shingles falling off the roof, and then where would their poor Beatrix be? If, of course, he was the Viscount who was supposed to be coming to court her. But it couldn’t be, could it? Perhaps it was just some chance encounter with some stranger passing through the village who knew Mr. Trowley, someone who had nothing to do with the matter of Beatrix’s future. Mrs. Trowley could only hope it was so, for she had planned to go to the village herself and beg the butcher for his forbearance and some good meat while the Viscount was here. If this was he, there was no time to do so.

Mind you, Mrs. Trowley was not depending entirely upon the mercy and good nature of the butcher. She knew the man too well for that. No, she planned to use a small bit of her tightly hoarded cache of coins to pay a portion of the money owed the man. She could not tell Mr. Trowley this, for he would immediately insist upon doing so himself and what that meant, of course, was that he would take the money and gamble with it, telling himself that he meant to double it so that he could pay even more of the bill. But Mr. Trowley would surely lose every penny and while Mrs. Trowley adored her husband, she was not so blind to their situation as to allow him to gamble away her small store of coins meant for emergencies. If this was not an emergency—the chance to see her dearest Beatrix well wed—then Mrs. Trowley didn’t know what would count as one!

But she would have to do so tomorrow, for right now there was a guest to be greeted and entertained, and if he was the Viscount, then he must be so well entertained that he doesn’t notice the shabbiness of their home or the poor quality of the food to be set upon the table. He must be persuaded somehow to focus all his attention upon Beatrix. Mind you, judging from the way he helped her down from the cart and held onto her hand afterward, it would seem she had already begun to fix his interest. If this really was the longed-for Viscount, that was a very good thing.

* * *

Oh, heavens, Beatrix thought, seeing her entire family lined up to greet Lord Rothwood, the man could not be blamed if he turned tail and ran at the sight of so many excited faces. Why were they all so eager? Usually her siblings would be running around, pushing and shoving each other and making a great deal of noise, not in the least concerned with the arrival of a guest, no matter how handsome. Why were they instead regarding him with a look of intense expectancy? Surely they could not have known the man was coming. But wait, he had said something about his aunt writing to her mother so perhaps they did.

Well, no matter. She must be practical. She took the basket of fruit from the Viscount, blushing to think he had condescended to such kindness as to carry it for her. “I must take this straightaway to Cook,” she said, “or there will be no time for her to make the tarts for dessert.”

He inclined his head and let her go, and why that should make her feel bereft made no sense to Beatrix. She swept past her family, pausing only long enough to introduce the man to her parents, and left it to her parents to introduce her brothers and sisters to the Viscount.

In the kitchen, she found Cook all abustle with the news there was company and that likely the company would be sitting down to eat with the family. “What am I to do? There is barely enough to stretch as it is, and plain as can be. Nothing to suit as fine a gentleman as I’m told stands on the front steps right this minute. At least with this fruit the dessert won’t be a disgrace and I thank you kindly for that,” she told Beatrix as she took the basket of fruit.

Beatrix bit her lip. “You know I would help you if I could.”

“No, no, that will be quite all right. We’ll manage somehow,” Cook said hastily, shivering at the memory of the last time Beatrix had tried to help in the kitchen. “You,” she said to the one scullery maid, “go and fetch me some eggs. I know there must be some left in the hen house, for you didn’t spend near enough time to find them all this morning.”

The girl hastened out of the kitchen. Cook turned back to Beatrix. “You’d best go upstairs and change into your nicest dress,” she said.

“Why?”

“B-because your parents have a visitor,” Cook sputtered. “It’s your duty to make him feel welcome. Putting on your best dress is a sign of respect. And besides, you’ve got mud on the hem of this one and you don’t want to be tracking that all over the house.”

Beatrix hesitated. Cook was acting very odd, almost as if she knew something about their visitor. Well, perhaps she did. The servants always seemed to know everything going on in the house, even when the family themselves didn’t. Besides, it made sense what she’d said, so Beatrix took the back stairs up to the room she shared with her sisters. It was crowded, but not as crowded as the room her four brothers shared.

It took but a few minutes to change. Even so, Beatrix was surprised neither of her sisters popped in to ask her about the Viscount. Normally that was what they would do. But not today. Today, she discovered when she went back downstairs that her sisters were sitting in the parlor with Mama and Papa just staring at Lord Rothwood. Her brothers were also sitting still, eyes on the Viscount, and the entire family was unnaturally subdued and polite. It made Beatrix wonder if some strange illness had come over them that they were all behaving so oddly.

There was no time to wonder further, however, for at that moment the Viscount looked up and his eyes met hers. He smiled a smile that made her heart feel as if it would burst, for he looked as if seeing her lit up the room for him and filled him with utter happiness. But that was foolish. He could not possibly care so much about seeing her, even if her gown was a prettier and fit her far better than the one she had been wearing before.

Still, apparently Lord Rothwood had been making himself agreeable because Mama and Papa were also smiling. Beatrix couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her parents smile so broadly or look at a guest with such obvious approval. Well, he was the nephew of Mama’s bosom bow so perhaps that was it. And the Viscount had excellent manners so of course they were pleased. It was probably no more than that and yet it was enough to allow Beatrix to smile as she stepped into the room, because it meant he was not sneering at their ramshackle home or her family. She could relax, this once, for a little bit at least.

Lord Rothwood was standing now and he bowed as he said, “You look lovely, Miss Trowley. I have been telling your parents what a godsend you were, showing up when my carriage landed in the ditch and able to take me to the village to find help. I have been apologizing for taking up so much of your time today when your own family must have wished to have you with them.”

Well, that was a very pretty speech, even if he was saying those things to please her parents, Beatrix thought, with a sniff. She could be just as gracious in return.

“You are most welcome for the help, sir. And most kind.”

Why that should make her siblings giggle and nudge one another was beyond understanding. Beatrix resolutely ignored them. She would not allow their silliness to distract her. Not when there was a guest to entertain. She did not want this elegant gentleman to return to London and tell tales of how eccentric her family was, as apparently other guests had done in the past. Conscious of the pain that gossip had caused her parents, for Lady Kenrick had felt it her duty to tell them about it, Beatrix was determined the Viscount should have nothing to cavil at during his visit.

With that goal in mind, she moved forward and took the seat next to him, for it was the only seat available in the entire room. She smiled again and said, “I hope we have not overwhelmed you. I told you it is a large family.”

“I am quite enjoying myself,” he answered. “Your brothers have promised to show me the best hunting and fishing spots hereabouts. And your sisters are delightful. As are your parents.”

Hunting and fishing? Beatrix let out a tiny sigh of relief. Not only would that provide entertainment for the Viscount, but it would be a means to put food on the table for him. She looked at her brothers approvingly and they grinned right back. Most disconcerting was the fact that not one of them stuck his tongue out at her, as they were wont to do in such situations. Not that she objected, she thought hastily. Indeed she was grateful for their forbearance. It was just . . . odd.

“Perhaps you could show Lord Rothwood the garden,” her mother positively trilled.

Mama never trilled. Something very strange was going on. Still, she had been trained to be a dutiful daughter. “Er, of course. If, that is, you are interested,” Beatrix told the Viscount doubtfully.

“I should be delighted to see the garden,” he responded promptly, and with all the appearance of intensely wishing to do so. Indeed, he immediately rose to his feet and held out a hand to her, disconcerting Beatrix even more.

Had everyone gone mad? With a tiny shake of her head, Beatrix rose to her feet as well and led the way through the French doors to what passed for a garden at the Trowley residence. It was not a particularly pretty garden. Not wanting in wits, the Viscount was quick to notice how it differed from most gardens of the gentry.

“Is that cabbage?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes, and peas and beans and carrots and potatoes,” Beatrix said, almost daring him to laugh.

“M-most practical,” he finally managed to say after staring at the plants before him.

“Yes, well, with such a large family, one needs to be,” she muttered.

That brought his attention sharply back to her, which had not been her intention but now could not be avoided. “I am impressed,” he said.

Those words alone might have earned him her undying gratitude, but then he took her hand and kissed it, looked deep into her eyes and said, “I think it a far more beautiful garden than any other I have seen. I know that ladies like flowers, but I should far rather see something useful when I look out my window.”

Whatever there was in his words that made her want to cry, Beatrix could not have said. She only knew they did. She pulled her hand free and turned her back on him, surveying instead the garden plot before her. “I—I rather like flowers,” she sniffed, “but there is no denying we need the vegetables.”

She felt rather than saw him come up close behind and put his hands on her shoulders. Was it only her imagination that he leaned forward and kissed the top of her hair? It must be her imagination, for no gentleman, particularly a stranger, would behave in such a way!

But she did not imagine the soft throaty voice that said, “Then you should always have flowers, armfuls of them.”

And why should his kindness make her want to cry even more? She managed a watery chuckle as she said, “You are kind to say so but then you have always been kind.”

She could feel him go very still behind her. “You remember my visit?” he asked.

Beatrix turned to face him. Suddenly he was no longer the stranger, but rather the kind boy who had not minded her tagging along with him almost ten years earlier. “How could I forget someone who was so kind to me?” she asked.

It was his turn to color up and shift uncomfortably. But then he took a breath and met her eyes as he said, “You were the one who was kind. You listened to my foolish prattling of hopes and dreams and did not tell me they were all folly.”

“Have you followed those dreams? Traveled to those places you wanted to go, done those things you wanted to do?” she asked.

He shook his head. Now his voice was curt as he answered, “No, I grew up instead.”

“I am so sorry,” she said softly.

“Sorry?” he said, clearly taken aback.

“No one should have to give up their hopes and dreams. No one should have to
grow up
, as you put it, if it means abandoning what makes them who they are.”

He stared at her as if she had two heads and Beatrix could feel herself coloring up. Now she had done it. She had spoken without thinking and he thought her daft. But what could she say? It was how she felt. Her heart ached for the boy he had been, the one forced to abandon his dreams in order to
grow up
.

Time seemed to stretch on forever before he finally spoke. “You are still kind,” he said, though his voice and manner were stiff. “It is what I remember best about you. That and your own dreams. You talked back then of wanting to someday marry and have children. Do you still wish for that?”

Something in his eyes alarmed her and Beatrix took a step back. “W—why are you here?” she asked.

He took a breath and made a sound that might have been exasperation. “Do we need to talk about that now?”

“W—why should we not?”

He looked away and Beatrix thought he was going to refuse to answer, but he didn’t. With the same gesture he had used as a boy, all those years ago, he straightened, threw back his shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Very well, I had not meant to rush my fences. Time enough after a few days, after I spoke first with your father.” He paused and smiled the same sweet smile she remembered before he said, “You asked questions no one else would have asked even back then, didn’t you?”

“I was a child,” she reminded him.