Ethan: Lord of Scandals (25 page)

“You did the right thing,” Ethan said swiftly, before she could say another word. “You tried to go for help and made your sister’s sacrifice worth something.”

“He hurt her,” Alice wailed softly. “He hurt her terribly, Ethan, and all I did was run, and even then, I couldn’t control the horse. I ended up coming off, getting dragged, and taking forever to get her help. When the neighbors found her, Collins was long gone, and Avie was a wreck. He assumed no other man would have her, and he’d get her and her dowry despite her change of heart.”

In the safety of Ethan’s arms, Alice realized something else: Collins had hurt Avis, abominably, terribly, unforgivably, but he’d hurt Alice too.

“Avis couldn’t contemplate marriage to anyone, and you could no longer walk,” Ethan concluded. “Alice, you did the best you could, and you have to forgive yourself for not being older, wiser, stronger, and meaner. You have to. You were just a girl, a child, just… Good God, you were just fourteen…”

Ethan fell silent, and Alice let him hold her in that silence for a small, fraught eternity. At that moment, she didn’t care why he was holding her; she only knew she needed his arms around her for as long as he would spare her an embrace. She needed that gentle caress of his hand in her hair, needed the scent and heat and strength of him.

And then his hand stilled, and the silence shifted.

“I was fourteen,” Ethan said, surprising her enough that she pulled back to see his face. His voice was calm, almost meditative. “Collins’s modus operandi was already established. He gathered his little mob, plied them with liquor, ambushed me, and had his pleasure violating me. Because Heathgate came upon the scene, we were able to do some damage to Collins and his thugs, but nothing permanent. He went on to rape others, including your sister, and for that, I will always, always be sorry.”

Alice wrapped her arms around him. “You were only a boy, and so far from home, and it was just wrong.”

“It was wrong.” Ethan repeated her words quietly. “What happened to you and your sister was wrong too, Alice. I let Collins’s brutality limit who I was and whom I allowed to love me for a long, long time. I am unwilling to give him that control any longer.”

She blinked up at him, but burrowed back into his embrace without saying a word. As her mind calmed and she absorbed the quality of his embrace—sure, uncompromising, and snug—she realized something else: Ethan wasn’t disappointed in her. His words assured her of it, but more fundamentally, so did the quality of his touch.

“Why did you stay away, Ethan? I waited for you to fetch me home, and you didn’t.” She’d been waiting years for somebody to fetch her home, in fact.

He brought her knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss. “Why didn’t you come home? I waited for you to come to me, and you didn’t.”

Alice nodded, accepting the validity of his point.

“Heathgate asked me if I’d heard what Collins said,” she offered. “I did, but it hardly registered. You seem so… in charge of your own life, not knocking about from one obscure post to another just to hide from your past.”

“Sometimes, we need privacy to get our bearings. We each hid differently, but I was as determined to have my obscurity as you were.”

“Thank goodness for little boys and their games,” Alice said. “They consumed more chocolate in five minutes than I’ve had since leaving Sussex.”

Ethan brushed a kiss to her temple. “They play kidnapping a lot. I’ve decided, because they always vanquish their foes, not to forbid it.”

“They’ve gotten good at it,” Alice observed wryly. “I sit before you, thoroughly kidnapped.”

“And it must be a tiring experience,” Ethan countered, running a finger down her cheek. “Are you resting, Alice?”

“Not well. You?”

He shook his head, his expression grave.

Alice had already, with no dignity whatsoever, told him she missed him, and she didn’t want to leave. Her recent confessions notwithstanding, his recent confessions notwithstanding, she still didn’t know where she stood with him.

Ethan rose and went to the window. “I want to put a question to you.”

“Ask me anything.” She didn’t like that he’d moved away, but framed by the window light, she could see he’d dropped some weight too, and there hadn’t been any fat on him to lose.

“It’s uncomfortable to ask this,” Ethan said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “I’d rather put it off.”

“Ask, Ethan. You put Hart Collins where I needed him to be, and for that, I would grant you any request.”

He turned and frowned at her in earnest.

“That won’t do,” he murmured. “You see, I want to ask you to marry me, and I am not jesting, Alice. I cannot have you marrying me out of some misplaced gratitude, or you’d be better off accepting Argus’s hoof in marriage. He’s the one who sent Collins to his Maker.”

“You want me to marry your horse?” Alice sat on the couch, trying to understand what he was asking, but a buzzing had started up in her ears.

Ethan shook his head. “No, love. I want you to marry me. I want you to belong to me and to the boys and to Tydings. I want…” He sighed and offered her a crooked smile. “I want children with you, little girls who look like you and peer down their noses at all things male and silly. I want babies, and great strapping lads who tease their sisters and drive us to distraction with their noise and ruckus. I want to someday drag my family off to Belle Maison in a parade of carriages and take over every inn we stay at along the way. I want you in my bed every night for the rest of our lives. I want you…”

She still said nothing but watched his mouth as if she could see his words.

“But most of all, Alexandra, I want you to be happy.” Ethan paused and swallowed. “I stayed away because I thought that’s what would make you happy. But you’re here now, and I don’t… I can’t… Don’t go, Alice. I’ll never bother you again. Please, just… don’t go.”

He turned his back, leaving Alice bereft of the truths in his eyes. He’d no sooner braced his hands on the windowsill than a missile pounded into his back in the form of a silent, fierce Alice, intent on getting her arms around him.

“I won’t go,” she said, holding him tightly. “And you won’t send me away.”

“Never.” Ethan turned and caught her to him. “Not ever. You belong to us, Alice, and I desperately want us to belong to you.”

“You do.” Alice laughed a little through her tears. “Oh, Ethan, you do. You and Joshua and Jeremiah and their ponies and Waltzer and Argus and Tydings and all of it. You’re mine, and I will never let you go.”

His chin came to rest on her crown, and they stood there, holding each other, until a solid knock on the door disturbed them.

***

She was going to stay. This fact alone allowed Ethan to step back when some fool who did not value his wages knocked on the library door.

“I did not ring for tea.” Ethan kissed Alice’s nose before he let her go. “Come in.”

Joshua barreled in. Jeremiah followed more cautiously.

“You found our prisoner.” Joshua beamed. “Hullo, Miss Alice.”

Jeremiah frowned up at his papa. “You made her cry. She won’t like us if you do that.”

Ethan’s instinct was to sweep both children up in a hug and not let them go until Christmas.

And yet, being a father called for discipline of one’s impulses.

“I do not like little boys who ride off without supervision,” Ethan said in his most imposing-papa tone. “I do not like little boys who turn a game into more than it should be. I do not like little boys who make hogs of themselves at the neighbor’s tea table.”

He stared down at his sons, who looked abruptly shy and uncertain, but then Jeremiah’s jaw set, and he put his hands on his hips.

“I do not like papas who mope around all day,” Jeremiah announced, “and Miss Alice was moping too—Heathgate said, and he wouldn’t lie. I do not like that you were going to get us a different governess, and you didn’t even ask us. I do not like that you were packing up to go to London, and you didn’t even give us your ‘behave while I’m gone’ lecture.”

Ethan’s brows rose, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Alice was just as surprised as he.

And that—the wonderful, unthinking, reflexive gift of being able to measure this moment with a woman who cared as much for his children as he did—warmed his heart beyond words.

“Apologize to Miss Alice for kidnapping her.”

“You apologize to her for making her cry.”

Ethan took Alice’s hand and discarded the notion of going down on one knee before his children, lest there be weeks of imitation. “I am humbly and sincerely sorry for making you cry. For any time I’ve made you cry. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do, ever.”

“Apology accepted,” Alice said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Ethan quirked a brow at his sons. “Jeremiah?”

“I’m sorry we kidnapped you,” Jeremiah said, his gaze on Alice’s face in exact imitation of his father. “But you were going away, and Papa was going away, and Heathgate said we should do something, so we did. And Davey went to visit his brother, so we were supervised, and Lady Heathgate offered the chocolates, and we said please and thank you.”

“We’ll have a word with the marquis,” Ethan said. “And his lady.”

“Apology accepted.” Alice spoke over him, suppressing a smile.

“I’m sorry too,” Joshua said.

“So you’ll stay?” Jeremiah asked, bravado gone. “Even if Papa made you cry?”

“Sometimes a lady cries not because her heart is broken, but because it’s mending.” The look she sent Ethan would have illuminated the dimmest corners of the coldest heart—and his was by no means cold. “I will stay, and I will marry your papa, if I have permission from my favorite gentlemen.”

Jeremiah sent his father a very stern look. “You won’t make her cry?”

“Never on purpose.”

“You’ll read us stories?” Joshua asked Alice, his tone wistful. “Papa tries, but he just can’t get the wolf quite right.”

“I will read you stories.”

The boys exchanged brother-looks, and Jeremiah spoke for the pair of them. “That’s all right, then. You marry Papa, but Joshua and I aren’t wearing any stupid Sunday clothes and carrying around flowers and nonsense like that.”

“I believe we have an agreement.” Ethan’s eyes lit with humor as he gazed at his prospective wife. “And we also have at least one little kidnapper who’s overdue for his nap.”

“C’mon, Joshua.” Jeremiah pulled his brother by the arm. “They’re going to kiss and carry on. Aunt Leah explained it to me when we visited Belle Maison.”

Joshua let himself be pulled from the room, and Ethan and his bride did, indeed, kiss and carry on, every day and night for the rest of their lives.

Thanks go, as always, to my editor, Deb Werksman, for being willing to publish this tale of a less traditional hero and heroine, and for juggling more plates than is humanly possible to see it done as part of a suite. To Skye, Cat, Susie, and Danielle, the same thanks apply. There ought to be a shortage of plates somewhere at the rate these ladies can keep them aloft.

Thanks go as well to Emily, Abby, Max, Leah, and the other ladies at Wax Creative, Inc. They are the talent behind my beautiful (if I do say so myself) website, and their know-how and guidance have also kept my nose above water in the social media sphere. As each book has hit the shelves, the Wax Creative team has been just out of the readers’ view, yelling encouragement, good ideas, and commonsense advice to me far above and beyond the call of duty.

With people like this to work with, being an author is the best, most enjoyable job in the world.

Read on for a sneak peek at

Beckman

the next book in the Lonely Lords series by Grace Burrowes

“He insisted on seeing you off.”

Beckman Haddonfield heard his sister Nita clearly, though she’d whispered. The Earl of Bellefonte, glowering at his grown children from the foot of Belle Maison’s front steps likely heard her too.

“Your lordship.” Beck stepped away from his gelding and sketched a bow to his father. Even at this early hour, the earl was attired in morning dress that hung loosely on his stooped frame. His valet and the underbutler were flanking him, each holding a bony arm and trying to look as if they weren’t touching their employer.

“Leave us.” His lordship didn’t look at his servants as he gave that command. “You too, Nita. I won’t perish from the cold, though it might be a welcome relief all around if I did.”

Nita’s blue eyes turned mutinous, though she gathered her shawl more tightly around herself and ascended to the wide front porch.

The earl watched her go then turned to regard his son.

He stabbed his cane in the general direction of the mounting block where Beck’s horse waited. “Get me to the damned mounting block before I fall over.”

Beck took his father’s arm and assisted him to shuffle along until the earl was propped against the top step of the ladies’ mounting block.

His lordship rested both gnarled hands on the top of his cane. “No dignity left whatsoever. Soon I won’t be able to wipe my own arse.”

The truth of this brought a lump to Beck’s throat. “One shudders to consider the fuss you’ll make then. If you’re about to tell me how to find Three Springs, save your breath. I have directions.”

“I’m about to tell you I love you,” the earl groused. “Though such maudlin tripe hardly makes a difference.”

Beck went still, hearing a death knell in his father’s blessing. “One has suspected this is the case,” Beck said slowly. “One hopes the suspicions have been mutual.”

The earl’s slight grin appeared. “Couldn’t have danced around a tender sentiment better myself. You really should have been my heir.”

“Stop disrespecting my brother,” Beck retorted, but inside, oh, inside, he was feeling as decrepit and tired as the earl looked. His father loved him, something he had known without realizing it, but his father had also said the words aloud. More than the earl’s frail appearance, this indicated the man was indeed making his final arrangements.

“I’ve said my piece, now get you off to Three Springs and put the place to rights. I’ve every confidence the solicitors have let it go to wrack and ruin.” The earl made as if to rise, something Beck suspected he couldn’t accomplish on his own. Beck drew him up, but not just to his feet. With Nita trying not to cry on the porch, the underbutler blinking furiously, and the footman staring resolutely down the drive, Beck gently hugged his father.

“Papa.” He barely whispered his words past his father’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave you.”

He had never wanted to be sent away, but each time, he’d known his banishments were earned. This time, try as he might, the only fault he could find with himself was that he loved his father.

The earl said nothing for a moment then patted his son’s back. “You’ll be fine, Beckman. I’ve always been proud of you, you know.”

“Proud of me?” Beck stepped back, depositing his father gently on the mounting block. “I’m nothing more than a frivolous younger son, and that is the plain truth.”

A flattering version of the plain truth, too.

“Bah. You should have gone to London with Nicholas and selected yourself another bride, though I suppose you’ve been trailing him long enough to be ready for a change in scenery.”

He’s sending me away
, Beck thought, his self-discipline barely equal to the task of maintaining his composure.
He’s sending me away, and we’re discussing my possible marriage to some twit hungering for Nick’s title.

“When Nick is in the room, the ladies do not see me.”

The earl thumped his cane weakly. “Balderdash! Nick is a good time. You are a good man.”

“Nick is a good man,” Beck said, a note of steel creeping into his voice.

“He’ll be a better man and a happier man for finding the right countess. It is the besetting sorrow of my dotage that my sons have not provided me with grandchildren to dandle upon my knee.”

His lordship loved a good scrap. Heart breaking, Beck obliged.

“You would not know how to dandle if the regent commanded it of you.”

“That prancing idiot.” The earl snorted. “I am glad I will be dead before the full extent of his silly imitation of a monarch can damage the country further than it has.”

“It’s too cold to be discussing politics in the drive,” Beck said, ready to have this most painful parting over. “Particularly when you’ve had nothing different to say since the man had his father’s kingdom imposed on him several years ago.”

“You’re right. It’s been the same damned nonsense all along. Pavilions and parks, while the working man can’t afford his bread, and the yeoman’s pasture is fenced away from him at the whim and pleasure of the local baron. Pathetic. Absolutely damned pathetic.”

Utterly. “Good-bye, Papa.”

The earl leaned forward again, signaling Beck to get him on his feet. “You will be fine, Beckman. Keep an eye on Nick for me, as you always have, and think again of remarrying. Good wives have their endearing qualities.”

“Yes, Papa.” Beck mustered a smile, hugged his father again, and waved the underbutler and the footmen down the stairs. “God keep you, sir.” He resisted the urge to cling to his father, knowing he’d embarrass them both if he stayed one moment longer.

“I wish to hell the Lord would see fit to take me rather than keep me,” the earl muttered. “Perhaps patience is the last lesson He has reserved for me. Safe journeys, Beckman. You are a son to make a father proud.”

“My thanks.” Beck swung up, nodded to his sister where she stood clutching her handkerchief at the top of the stairs. He touched his crop to his hat brim then nudged his horse into a rocking canter.

He did not look back. It was all he could do to see the road for the chill wind making his eyes water.

***

Sara Hunt took a final swallow of weak, unsweetened, tepid tea, looked out at the miserable day, and decided before the last of the light faded, she’d poke through the contents of Mr. Haddonfield’s enormous wagon.

Lady Warne had written instructing the household to make her grandson welcome as he came to “take Three Springs in hand,” but she hadn’t said exactly when he’d arrive. If Sara was to make a proper inventory of the goods sent ahead of their guest, she’d best do it before the mincing Honorable was underfoot making a nuisance of himself.

She grabbed her heavy wool cloak, traded her house mules for a pair of wooden sabots, took up a lantern, and slipped out the back door. On the stoop she paused, listening to the peculiar sibilance of sleet changing to snow as darkness fell. If the sun came out in the morning, they’d have a fairy-tale landscape of sparkling ice and snow, the last of the season if they were lucky.

The barn bore the comforting scent of horses and hay on a raw day. The four great beasts that had pulled the loaded wagon into the yard the previous day contentedly inhaled great piles of fodder, while the wagon stood in the barn’s high, arching center aisle.

Sara had just hung up the lantern when she realized something wasn’t right. A shuffling sound came from the far side of the wagon where little light penetrated. The sound was too big to be Heifer investigating under the tarps, not big enough to be a horse shifting in its stall.

She shrank into the shadows. Damn and blast if a vagrant hadn’t spotted the laden wagon and decided to follow it to its destination in hopes of some lucrative larceny. The country roads were not heavily traveled, and such a load would be easily remarked. Silently, Sara directed her footsteps to the saddle room, sending up a prayer for Polly and Allie—may her sister and daughter remain in the house, or anywhere but this barn.

She chose a long-handled training whip from the saddle room wall, then retraced her steps and heard muttering from the far side of the wagon.

“And what in blazes is this doing here?” a man asked no one in particular. “As if one needs to fiddle while rusticating. Spices, too, so we might not want for fashionable cuisine in the hinterlands.”

A daft vagrant, then. Sara paused in her slow, silent progress around the wagon. Maybe he was harmless, and simply brandishing the whip would suffice to chase him off, but in this weather… She considered putting the whip down.

A man could catch his death in this miserable wet and cold. Times were hard and getting harder, and there were so many veterans of the Corsican’s foolishness still wandering the land, many of them ailing in both body and spirit. Shouldn’t she offer the man a little Christian charity before she attacked him for merely being curious?

An arm clamped around her neck; another snaked around her waist.

“One move,” said a voice directly behind her, “and you will be the first thing planted this spring.”

Without seeing him, Sara knew many things about whoever owned the rumbling baritone voice at her ear.

First, he was broad, strong, and quite, quite tall. The angle of the arm at her throat told her so, as did the heat radiating from the muscular chest to which she’d been snugly anchored.

Second, he was no indigent. The wool around her neck was soft, expensive, and clean, for all it had gotten a soaking. And beneath the stable smells and the aroma of damp wool, sleet, and cold, there was an unmistakable bergamot fragrance to this man. He bore the kind of scent blended from cologne, French soaps, and assiduous personal hygiene no vagrant veteran practiced.

Third, if Sara didn’t diffuse the situation immediately, she could well end up dead. For herself, she had no great objection to that outcome, being in reasonably good standing with her Maker and profoundly weary of life.

But Sara’s death would leave Allie an orphan and Polly without a sister, and to that, Sara had great objection indeed.

“Unhand me, sir. I pose no threat to you.” Her voice quavered only a little. She raised her chin so the hood of her cloak dropped back, revealing her cap and, apparently, her gender.

“My apologies.” The man dropped his arms and stepped back. “I’ll put aside my knife if you’ll drop that horsewhip. Beckman Haddonfield, at your service.”

Sara took a deep breath and held her ground, not at all looking forward to being disappointed. No man’s looks could make good on the promise of that voice. As a musician—a former musician—she was sensitive to beautiful sounds, and this man’s voice was… too much. Too rich, too deep, too smooth, too lovely in the ear. His words sneaked along Sara’s nerves and sank into her bones like a sweet, lilting adagio played on a fine violoncello. That voice had to belong to some low-browed brute, a backhanded gift from a Creator with an occasionally ironic sense of humor.

When she didn’t turn, large hands settled on her shoulders and gently brought her around.

“And you are?” the intruder asked softly as he pried the whip from her fingers.

Sara looked up, and up some more, to gaze upon a face that more than suited the voice. Oh, damn, Polly would want to paint him. The thick blond hair, sculpted lips, and well-proportioned nose would have testified to aristocratic breeding if the height and stature had not. That nose bordered on arrogant but stayed just this side of noble. The chin was firm too, coming close to stubborn but stopping at determined instead.

“Ma’am?” In the dim light, a slight smile revealed perfect white teeth—of course it did—two rows of them, that disappeared with a sardonic lift of one blond eyebrow. And heaven help her, she let her gaze stray to his eyes.

Those eyes were a surprise, not what Sara would expect of a lordling off on a lark. They spoke of the weary humor exhibited by those inured to suffering. They had passed from sad to bleak to endlessly patient.

“Sara Hunt.” She bobbed a semblance of a curtsey and wanted to draw her hood back up. “I gather you are Lady Warne’s grandson?”

“Step-grandson, to be precise,” the man replied, giving Sara the sense he was always
precise
. “I see my belongings have arrived safely, as have my father’s horses.”

“The wagon arrived yesterday.” God help them, Lady Warne’s
step-
grandson bore no resemblance whatsoever to a Town fribble. “Your rooms are ready, and I will inform our cook you’ll need some sustenance.”

A great deal of sustenance, from the size of him. Polly would be thrilled.

“I trust you are not the stable boy?”

Sara took a moment to realize he was teasing her. She had no idea how to tease him back, though his smile said he wouldn’t mind such insubordination.

“Mr. North manages the livestock, but he’s in the village today,” Sara said, her words clipped. Big, gorgeous, and possessed of a voice that could promise a lady ruin at fifty paces, he had no business teasing the help.

Mr. Haddonfield glanced around, his smile fading. “Mr. North would be the steward?”

The barn was snug, tidy, and as clean as such a space could be, and while Sara drew breath, nobody would cast aspersion on North’s efforts to keep it so. “Mr. Gabriel North is the land steward, stable master, house steward, arborist, harness maker, horse doctor, plowboy, blacksmith, whitesmith, drover, and much more. Your grandmother has not taken a direct interest in this estate for some years, sir, and you will find much evidence thereof.”

Mr. Haddonfield’s expression underwent a subtle transformation. The last hint of banter left his eyes, and by the shadowed lantern light, his features took on an air of resignation.

Not even one night on the property, and Three Springs was already taking its toll on the man.

Rather than gawp at his bleak countenance, Sara took the lantern down from its peg. “Come, sir. You have to be tired, and standing about in wet clothing is not well advised. Your rooms are ready, and a hot meal will soon await you.”

“Then I have arrived to heaven.” He hefted some soft leather version of a portmanteau, rummaged under the tarp, and emerged carrying an oilskin bag and—of all the unexpected things—a violin case.