Ethan: Lord of Scandals (4 page)

“I can’t ride by myself.” The admission hurt, even all these years later.

“Nor would I expect you to,” Mr. Grey said as he swung up. “Nick?”

And just like that, Alice found herself gently deposited before Mr. Grey in the saddle, the horse ambling off in the direction of the house.

“Put your arm around my waist,” Mr. Grey said as he guided the gelding away from the picnic spot. “You’re sitting gingerly, as if the saddle were too hot, and that will just make the horse nervous and you more prone to tipping off.”

“You frequently ride about with damsels before you?” Alice tentatively slid an arm around Mr. Grey’s lean waist, reasoning he’d done the same with her when they were on foot.

“I never ride about with damsels before me.” He passed the reins to one hand and circled her waist with the other arm. He drew her back against his chest and left his arm where it was. “Relax, and I’ll have you safely home.”

Relax. She was on a horse large enough to rival an elephant, snugged up against an equally large, grouchy man who smelled too good, and he wanted her to relax.

“Is it the horse you’re afraid of,” the man asked when Alice was still barely letting her body touch his, “or is it me?”

“What have I to fear from you?” Alice didn’t dare turn her head. It might upset her balance, the horse, anything.

“Nothing.” He leaned back as Argus negotiated a slight slope, and Alice clutched his waist. “Easy.” Mr. Grey straightened slowly. “It must have been a very bad fall.”

Alice did risk peeking at him and wished she hadn’t, because his mouth was exactly in line with her eyes. God above, it was a lovely sight. Those perfectly sculpted lips were the boon of a god both generous and perverse.

“It was a bad accident,” Alice said. “I was dragged for quite some distance and lucky I didn’t lose my leg.” Or her mind. She shoved the memory of Collins’s cronies jeering at her back into its mental vault. The memory of Avis’s eyes was a more difficult struggle.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your life. Being dragged is usually far worse than simply being pitched off. You’ll tell me about it?”

What an odd request—until Alice realized he was trying to distract her from her perch before him. “Sometime. I don’t even like to think of it.”

“I know.” His tone turned bleak. “You want to forget, but you never will, so neglecting the memory is the next best thing.”

He spoke from experience, leaving Alice to wonder what a wealthy, handsome man like Ethan Grey had to forget. He was a bastard, true, but that hardly seemed to bother him. Perhaps the pain in his eyes stemmed from grief over the recent loss of his father. It might explain his distance from his sons, and even an occasional loss of temper with them.

“Nick said you were the one who noticed the marks on Joshua,” he said, as if divining her thoughts.

“They were very angry marks,” Alice replied, though this was hardly a more sanguine topic than her fall. “It must have hurt him to sit, but he wouldn’t talk about it, so I had Nick give the boys their next bath. Joshua didn’t want to talk to him either.”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t even know about it, and in a way, that’s worse than if I had done it.”

So she could remove from the list of Ethan Grey’s numerous faults that of child beater. It was an odd relief, but she was willing to do it.

“One cannot keep one’s children safe from all harm,” Alice said gently. “Joshua thinks he deserved the punishment. You might consider talking to Jeremiah. He is very protective of Joshua and could not be happy to see his brother treated so poorly.”

“Good suggestion. Is it the case you haven’t yet secured another position, Miss Portman?”

Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Alice would have pokered right back up, except Mr. Grey’s arm around her middle prevented it.

“I have not.” She went on the offensive, despite her precarious perch and the fact that she was depending on Mr. Grey for her safety. “I am not well versed in the nuances of dealing with little boys, Mr. Grey. I do not know your sons well, and I am not cheap.”

“Neither am I,” he replied, amusement in his voice. “I will pay you exactly what I paid their previous tutors, if you’ll take them on even a temporary basis.”

She might have hopped off the horse and stomped away rather than conclude the discussion, but money was always a consideration, and with a bad hip, one didn’t hop off eighteen-hand behemoths or stomp very far.

“How much?”

He named an astonishing figure, one that would allow Alice to add considerably to her savings. But no… These were boys, and two of them, and that was bad enough, but then there was Mr. Grey…

“I can’t. They are active little fellows, Mr. Grey, and I cannot be responsible for getting them into the fresh air and sunshine each day as I should.”

“I’ll manage that part, if you’ll handle the schoolroom and the rest of it.”

“What is the rest of it?” She should hop off, bad hip or not.

“They’ll have a nursemaid, of course, for tending them at the start and end of each day. The grooms will supervise them in the stables, and I’ve enough footmen to toss cricket balls at them, and so forth.”

Here was purchase in a negotiation she intended to win. “Not footmen. You.”

“I beg your pardon?” He frowned again, but then made a little fuss over steering the horse, who no doubt could have found the barn blindfolded in a high wind.

Was
he
trying
to
scare
her?

“You did not have your sons’ trust, Mr. Grey,” Alice said. “You can’t simply command them to trust you. They have to see and experience you as trustworthy. You can’t do that if you’re shut away with your ledgers and they’re off with a groom on their ponies.”

This would nicely scotch his schemes, and without them having to argue about it. Alice congratulated herself on her brilliance as she relaxed against his chest. She was out from under his offer, and nobody need be offended. For the first time in years, she almost enjoyed being on a horse.

“Three days a week,” he said, “I will spend at least an hour in recreation with both boys.”

Drat.
Her brothers had taught her some rudimentary gambling as she’d recovered from her injuries; being a governess had taught her strategy. She raised the stakes. “And you’ll take a walk with each child once a week, weather permitting, or play cards, or somehow spend an hour with each child individually.”

“I can do that.”

“And you will join them for breakfast,” Alice plunged on, concluding Mr. Grey must not be thinking sensibly. “And one evening meal a week.”

Behind her, Alice felt Mr. Grey draw in a breath and go silent.

“Fridays would suit,” he said at length, “and you must agree to join me at that meal too.”

“Of… of course.” Alice felt her world slipping, and she inadvertently held more tightly to Mr. Grey, whose arm tucked around her closely in response.

“You’ll have pin money and a clothing allowance besides,” he went on, while Alice grappled with the import of their discussion. “And a half day every Saturday. Nobody is expected to work on Sunday at Tydings, including the kitchen. You will have two weeks paid in the summer to see friends, such as Miss Priscilla, and the use of a horse or pony trap, should you need it. We are agreed?”

Alice was quiet, stunned at how her world could change in the space of a half mile. She had not lined up another position because she preferred to deal with agencies to screen potential employers. Any place in London itself would not do, there being a surfeit of titles around the place, and Collins—may he rot slowly in a malodorous corner of hell—was liable to visit other titles from time to time.

Any household that had too many grown sons or uncles or male cousins was out of the question as well. Any place that expected her to ride with the children or march them about the estate every day of the week, any place that would not pay a decent wage or give her even a half day a week to catch her breath…

Mr. Grey was offering her more than she usually demanded, in every regard. He had no title; his children were dear and very much in need of someone who would care for them.

“This is temporary,” Alice said as the horse shuffled into the stable yard. “You said this was temporary.”

He nudged the beast to a halt. “I said I’d hire you even if you were only willing to take us on temporarily. I suggest we give the matter a three-month trial. If you are not content, we can agree to part at that point, but you must allow me at least that long again to search for a successor.”

The condition was practical and would ensure the children did not suffer a lapse in studies. It also ensured that for six months Mr. Grey would not be left with the dilemma of finding another tutor.

“So it’s a six-month position, at least.”

“At least,” he agreed, then swung off the horse, leaving Alice perched on the pommel, mind reeling. “Miss Portman?”

Alice glanced down to see Mr. Grey regarding her patiently from the ground. She put her hands on his shoulders and felt herself lifted easily from the saddle. Though Mr. Grey was careful to settle her onto her feet slowly, her left leg buckled when she tried to put weight on it.

“Steady.” He held her still, letting her lean against him once more. “Give it a minute.”

She bit her lip and blinked. “It’s shot,” she muttered miserably as the horse was led away. “The only thing that helps now is bed rest.”

“Can you lean on me?” Mr. Grey asked, wrapping an arm around her waist. But he was too tall to be properly leaned on, and Alice hadn’t the strength or the balance to hop up three flights of stairs on one foot.

She shook her head, feeling tears threaten, not exclusively as a result of the ache in her hip.

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bugger this,” and Alice felt herself being swept up against his chest.

“We’ll have you surrounded by hot-water bottles in no time.” He headed across the gardens to one of the house’s back entrances.

“The servants’ stairs are closer,” Alice said, looping her arms around his neck. She hadn’t been carried like this since she’d fallen off that horse, and though she was full grown and well fed, Mr. Grey carried her as if she weighed no more than little Priscilla. It was disconcerting, sweet, comforting, and awful, all at once.

He bent his knees a little at her door, so Alice could lift the latch, then he kicked the door shut behind them. Alice found herself gently deposited on the edge of the bed, facing a stern-faced Mr. Grey, who was glaring down at her, his hands on his hips. Without warning, he dropped to hunker before her and took one of her boots in his hands.

She stared down at him. “What are you doing?”

“Removing your shoes,” he replied, unlacing her half boot as he spoke. “Bending at the waist is likely uncomfortable for you.”

Protests dammed up behind the truth—bending at the waist hurt abysmally, though Alice nearly died of mortification and shock when she felt Mr. Grey’s hands slip under her skirts and tug down her stockings.

“Mr. Grey!” She tried to scoot back on the bed, but that hurt like blue blazes, so she had to settle for glaring at him as he rolled her stockings like a practiced lady’s maid.

“Oh, simmer down.” His tone disgruntled, he looked around and put the stockings on her vanity. “I was married for several years, you know, and it isn’t as if I’ll be ravishing you over the sight of your dainty feet.”

Alice went still on the bed, all other indignities and imprecations forgotten. “What do you mean, you
were
married?”

“My sons are legitimate.” He frowned at her, his hands back on his hips. “I would not wish bastardy on any child, much less my own.”

“But you said you
were
married,” Alice pressed. “You aren’t married now?”

“I am not,” he replied, cocking his head. “And were I not in polite company, and did it not sound insufferably callous, I would add, ‘thank God.’ My wife expired of typhoid fever a little more than three years into our union. I would not have wished her dead, but she is, and I quite honestly do not miss her.”

“Mr. Grey! Surely you haven’t voiced those sentiments before your children?”

“And if I have?”

“You would have much to apologize for,” Alice shot back. “Much to be forgiven for. She might have been the worst mother in the world, but those little boys need to believe she was in some way lovable, much as they would need to believe the same about you, lest they see themselves as unlovable.”

His gaze narrowed. “You presume to know a great deal about my sons.”

“I knew well before you did that one of them had been birched too severely,” Alice retorted. “And I know they need to regard their parents in some reasonably positive fashion.”

“Well, then, fine.” He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Alice had seen his younger brother make often. “Your expertise confirms my choice of you as the boys’ next governess.”

Alice opened her mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly.

“I will take my leave of you.” He stepped back from the bed. “A maid will be along posthaste. Will you want some laudanum?”

“No. Thank you, that is. No, thank you.”

“Good day, then. I’ll have our terms drawn up into a contract and provide a copy for your review.”

She nodded, not even watching as he took his leave. Her hip hurt, and it was going to hurt worse in the next few hours, and she’d just made a devil’s bargain with a man who smelled divine and handled her like she was a sack of feathers. Alice was tucked up in her night rail, a glass of cold lemonade by the bed, before she realized she was just as disgruntled with Mr. Grey for being widowed as she was for his handling her like she was a sack of feathers—and not even a female sack of feathers at that.

Argus churned along ahead of the dust and racket of the coach, no doubt sensing the approach of home even though Tydings was still at least an hour distant. With luck, they’d beat the inevitable thunderstorm building up to the north.

Ethan had not slept well the previous night, his mind a welter of thoughts and feelings left over from his visit to Belle Maison. When he was a boy exiled from his home, he’d missed Nick so badly he’d cried at first, and a six-foot-plus fourteen-year-old male did not cry easily. Now that the old earl was dead, and he and Nick were free to be family to each other again, Ethan hadn’t been able to get away fast enough.

And Nick had been hurt.

For all of Nick’s glee over his new wife, all of his excitement at the prospect of having a family with his Leah, Nick had still known Ethan was dodging, and had let him go without a word. He’d merely hugged his brother tightly, then patted Argus and told the horse to take good care of his precious cargo.

Well, life wasn’t a fairy tale, Ethan reasoned when more of the same kind of musings finally brought him to the foot of the long driveway leading to Tydings.

“Papa!” Joshua was standing on the box, the groom’s hands anchored around his waist. “We’re home! I can see the house, and there goes Mrs. Buxton to fetch the footmen.”

Ethan’s housekeeper, Mrs. Buxton—Mrs. Buxom, among the footmen—was indeed bustling down the long terrace at the side of the house.

“Sit down, Joshua,” Ethan called back. “Standing up there is dangerous, and Andrews will need to hold the horses. He can’t be holding you as well.”

Joshua dropped like a rock but bounced on the seat like any small boy would upon sighting his home. When the coach pulled into the circular drive in front of the house, footmen trotted up to lower the steps and begin moving the luggage. The groom scrambled down to grab the leaders’ bridles, and a stable boy come bouncing out of the carriage house to take Argus.

“Welcome home, Mr. Grey,” the senior groom called cheerily, “and welcome, young masters. Did you have a grand time with your uncle in Kent?”

Joshua was jumping around on the box again. “Miller, we had the
best
time, and Uncle Nick is
even
taller than Papa, and he has a
huge
horse named Buttercup, and a
huge
house, and his cook makes
huge
muffins. Enorm…” Joshua paused and looked to his brother.

“Enormous,” Jeremiah supplied. “And he let us ride his mare once, because we were very good, and we picked raspberries with Uncle Nick, and Aunt Leah is very nice, and there were other boys there, and they were all littler than us, but very nice, and we played Indians in the trees, and everything.”

“Gentlemen.” Alice Portman’s pleasant tones glided into the ensuing silence. “I’m sure your papa will help you down now that we’re safely home. Please don’t run until you’re away from the horses, and then I will expect you to give me a tour of your rooms once you’re settled. What do you say to John?”

“Thank you, John Coachman!” both boys chorused. Ethan had swung off Argus, intending to get to his library with some cold, spiked lemonade and a small mountain of correspondence. Footmen were capable of getting the boys down from the high seat. Hearing both boys extol Uncle Nick’s
huge, tall, enormous
virtues grated, though, so Ethan plastered a pleasant expression on his face and turned back to the coach.

“Here you go, Joshua.” He held up his arms and hoisted the first child to the ground. “Up to the house, as Miss Portman said. Time to pester the grooms later. Jeremiah, down you go.”

“Yes, Papa.” Jeremiah stepped back as soon as his feet hit the ground. “Joshua, let’s go. Miss Portman wants a tour.”

“But I want to go see Lightning and Thunder,” Joshua retorted, his chin jutting.

“Later, Joshua,” Jeremiah said through clenched teeth. “We have to go to the house
now
.”

Joshua’s lips compressed into mutinous lines, but before Ethan could assert paternal rank, Miss Portman extended a hand in Joshua’s direction.

“Come along, Joshua, or I shall get lost in a house as grand as this.” She wrapped her hand around his. “And if I get lost, well then, I might not be found in time to read a couple of perfect gentlemen, and very fine singers, their bedtime story.”

Joshua brightened. “We sang really loudly. I bet the horses’ ears flippered around.”

“I’m sure horses all over the shire were flippering their ears.” Miss Portman slipped her other hand into Jeremiah’s and led them off, chattering about horses in China and flippering ears.

“Prettier than old Harold,” the groom remarked with the familiarity of long service. “Bet she reads a mean bedtime story.”

“See to the horse,” Ethan replied, watching as Miss Portman sauntered along with the boys toward the house. She should have waited for Ethan to escort her, but the view of her retreat was most pleasant, so Ethan kept his disgruntlement to himself. Joshua stopped, dropped her hand, and crouched to study the dirt—an insect, most likely, since Joshua was apparently going through a bug-studying phase—and Miss Portman crouched down to peer at the dirt right beside him, her skirts pooling on the dusty ground.

Argus, after balking for form’s sake, let himself be led to the stables. The coach clattered away toward the carriage bays while the small parade of footmen hefted the luggage off to the house.

Still Ethan stood in the drive, wondering if he’d ever seen Mr. Harold once pause to study a bug? Seen him take either boy by the hand? Heard the man sing?

Had Ethan ever done those things with the boys himself? Even once?

The questions were vexing him several hours later as he made his way to the family parlor where Miss Portman would join him prior to the evening meal. Perhaps it was the effect of several hours at his desk, but Ethan realized he was looking forward to the next hour. Food was always a pleasure, but Miss Portman’s presence was the added spice that had him glancing at the clock and wondering what she’d wear to the table.

She wore a frown and the same dusty traveling dress she’d had on all day.

While Ethan had bathed and changed into clean clothes.

“I see you did not change for dinner,” Ethan remarked as the footman closed the door behind her.

Miss Portman eyed him up and down. “I was told you keep country hours and you do not change, when you bother with sitting at the table at all.”

Ethan gave her the same up and down perusal she’d given him, though compared to a governess’s virtuosic ability to communicate disapproval at a glance, he was a mere tyro. “I gather you would prefer to be spared this ordeal?”

She peered around the room. “Honestly, the chance to sit down and eat something appeals greatly.”

“You’ve been standing the livelong day? I should offer you a drink, at least some wine.”

She shook her head. “No wine. It does not agree with me, but thank you. And yes, I have been on my feet.”

“If you’re to forgo your gustatory glass,” Ethan said, “why don’t we go in to dinner, and you can regale me with the details of your day while we dine?”

“Because that would be unappetizing,” Miss Portman informed him, her tone so wistful, Ethan felt his lips trying to quirk up. He offered his arm, keeping his eyes on the door instead of Miss Portman’s face.

“As bad as all that?” he asked, leading her toward the folding doors to the informal dining room.

“As tiring. What have you done with yourself since abandoning your children in the driveway this afternoon?” A small silence followed, while Ethan observed the courtesy of seating a woman who delivered scolds as casually as others might offer pleasantries.

“Forgive me.” Miss Portman closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “I am fatigued, and therefore cranky.”

“And here I go, demanding you put up with me when all you want is to climb into bed. Are your rooms acceptable?” He poured her a glass of wine as he spoke, and passed it to her.

“They are lovely.” She offered a tired smile, and Ethan noticed she had smudges of shadow under each eye and a slight droop to her shoulders. “The view of the back gardens is wonderful, and the balcony is a luxury this time of year.”

“All the bedrooms at the back of the house have balconies.” He gestured to the footman, who served the soup, then waved the man away. The remaining courses were put in the center of the table so the diners might serve themselves. When the footman had retreated and closed the door behind him, Ethan found a familiar frown on Miss Portman’s face.

“You are going to be difficult because I dismissed the footman,” he surmised. “You would rather have us discussing the weather all evening than allow us the privacy of a single meal?”

She answered him with a measuring look. “I would rather you had asked me if I were comfortable dining en famille.”

Ethan sipped his wine and waited for her to take the first taste of her soup. “How did you spend your initial hours here at Tydings?”

“Chasing your offspring.”

“You were touring the premises?”

“The grounds first.” Miss Portman kept glancing around the table, as if looking for something or finding fault with the settings. “After two days of travel, the boys needed to stretch their legs, and then too, you’ve gone and gotten them ponies, whose acquaintance I had to make or civilization would crumble. When they’d burned off the worst of their mischief, we inspected the house from top to bottom, with particular attention paid to all the best hiding places for when Papa goes on a tear.”

Ethan set his wineglass down. “I beg your pardon?”

“I gather it’s a rare occurrence and mostly consists of a lot of yelling at solicitors and stewards, and cursing, and stomping about, followed by a slammed door or two and the sound of Argus’s hoofbeats tearing off at a gallop.”

“They told you this?”

“With great relish. You had best eat your soup, Mr. Grey. I do not intend to consume mine.”

“Whyever not?” Ethan picked up his spoon, manners be damned.

“It has onions in it. They do not agree with me.”

“And you are probably not partial to mutton sandwiches, either,” Ethan remarked. He hadn’t noticed the onions in the soup until she’d pointed it out. He liked onions in his soup, and if he were to eat mutton sandwiches, he’d probably like onions on them too.

“Nobody from the North is partial to mutton. But by all means, enjoy yourself.”

Ethan put his spoon down, certain she was teasing—rudely, of course—but unable to detect a hint of it in her expression.

“It’s gotten a bit too cool,” he decided. “Shall we see what else the kitchen has prepared?”

Miss Portman’s brows flew up. “Who sets the menus?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Ethan lifted the lid of a warming dish and found a tidy little quarter of a ham, with potatoes arranged around it. “The food shows up when I’m hungry, and the dishes disappear when I’m done. Ham, Miss Portman?”

“Please.” She watched as he sliced her a generous portion, chasing little boys being a tiring proposition. “A bit less, if you please?”

“Less?” He cut off a corner of her intended portion.

“Even less. About half that, in fact.”

He complied without comment and deftly moved it to her plate. “Potatoes?”

“One,” she instructed, so he chose the largest one.

“Well, then.” Ethan served himself portions that made his guest quite frankly goggle, a lapse in her manners he noted and politely ignored.

“Let’s see what else awaits us.” He uncovered a plate of roast beef. Another platter held a small roasting hen complete with bread stuffing, a basket of bread, and a tureen of dumplings swimming in more gravy.

“This will do for me,” Miss Portman said, putting a bite of ham into her mouth.

“You’re not having anything else? Nothing?” He had the oddest sense she wasn’t being rude.

“This will do.” She took a sip of her wine, grimaced, then set the glass down.

“Suit yourself.” Ethan proceeded to put decent helpings of food on his plate, then to make his portions disappear with a kind of relentless dispatch that did not allow for conversation. And even as he demolished his dinner, he did so wondering how he would endure meals with Miss Portman for the next six months. When his plate was nearly clean, he looked up to find his guest regarding him curiously.

“Is this the kind of fare your sons consume?”

“I suppose.” He sat back but did not put his utensils down. “Why?”

“Don’t you see something missing from your table, Mr. Grey?”

“Dessert. Fear not, it will be here, as I do enjoy the occasional sweet.”

“Not dessert,” she replied, her tone annoyingly patient. “Something more conducive to the good health of a growing child.”

“I’m not serving ale at my table, Miss Portman. We have it in the kitchen, and I’ll occasionally have a pint, but it hardly adds to a genteel supper.”

She eyed her wineglass balefully and forged ahead.

“Vegetables, Mr. Grey,” she said on a long-suffering sigh. “You have no summer vegetables. You have nothing from the abundance of the good earth but potatoes. I know this will strike you as a radical notion, but children need vegetables, even if they should forgo the spicier preparations.”

Ethan glanced around the table, nonplussed. At Belle Maison, there had been vegetables at every meal save breakfast. It was high summer, for pity’s sake, when the garden was at its best.

He put his utensils down. “I am willing to concede the wisdom of your point. Henceforth, you will meet with Cook and approve the menus. I will have my desserts, though, Miss Portman. It’s little enough to ask in life at the end of a man’s busy day.”

“Fear not,” she quoted him. “I will agree with you—mark the moment—a little something sweet at the end of the day is a deserved reward.”

Unbidden, the question of what Alice Portman might consider a treat at the end of her day popped into Ethan’s mind. A fairy tale read to a rapt juvenile audience, or did she harbor girlish fancies to go along with her tidy bun and studious spectacles?

He took a fortifying sip of his wine and offered her a salute with his glass.