Ethan: Lord of Scandals (7 page)

“Gentlemen!” Ethan rose to his feet when Joshua’s teeth were chattering. “Time to report to headquarters!”

The splashing stopped, and the boys slogged up the bank, with Joshua walking right up to his father’s leg and leaning on it, panting.

“Water is heavy,” Joshua observed.

“But you are not.” Ethan picked up the cool, slippery weight of his youngest, and swung him toward the pile of clothes. “We’ll use your shirts to dry you off. Come along, Jeremiah. You’re probably going to want to look in on Miss Portman.”

“We are?” Jeremiah looked confused as he scrubbed at himself with his shirt.

“Of course you are. You must report your history lessons to her, just as you did your earlier efforts regarding the fable of the heroic pismire.”

“Pismire!” Joshua exploded into peals of laughter. “You’re a pismire. Jeremiah Pis-a-miah Nicholas Grey!”

“Hush.” Ethan tossed Joshua’s shirt gently at the child’s face.

“Or you’ll thrash him silly,” Jeremiah suggested, not just smiling but grinning.

Ethan nodded gravely. “I’ll thrash him hysterical and change his name to Pismire Nicholas Grey.”

“Oooh.” Jeremiah pointed at his little brother. “Now who’s a pismire?”

“You’re both pismires.” Ethan did not smile, though it was a near thing. “And you make too much noise. Gather up your shoes, and let’s storm the fortress yonder. They’re bound to have some victuals for a couple of weary soldiers like yourselves.”

“I’m thirsty, too,” Joshua said, gathering up two shoes and his shirt. “I forget where my smalls are.”

“Here.” Jeremiah tossed them to him. “But they might have ants in them—pismires for a pismire.”

“Do they?” Joshua looked at his father worriedly, unwilling to touch the offending clothing at his feet.

“Hardly matters.” Ethan snatched up the tiny underclothes. “You aren’t in them. Now can we please move along?”

He shooed the boys into the house through the kitchen, pausing to make sure they got some lemonade and buttered bread, then had them stop off in the laundry for a quick, hot bath. Both boys occupied the same tub, to save time heating water and to encourage them to soak long enough to get some dirt off. By the time Ethan ushered them up the steps to their suite, they were both considerably more subdued than they’d been earlier.

“Shall we stop off to see Miss Portman?” Ethan suggested, knowing
he
at least was going to make a call.

“Let’s,” Jeremiah said. “She will want to know we went swimming, and saved the empire, and ate raspberries.”

“Not in that order.” Ethan did smile at the business of a boy’s summer day. “But she will want to know.”

They found her in her room, addressing a stack of correspondence. She was in her comfortable dress, her braid a little less tidy, her eyes tired but devoid of the choking worry Ethan had seen in them earlier.

“We’ve come to see how you fare,” Ethan said, “and to regale you with tales of the day.”

She smiled and sank onto her settee, patting the cushions on either side of her. “Come and tell me what has passed this day while I’ve languished for lack of the company of my dearest little gentlemen.”

The boys gamboled over like the puppies they were, leaving Ethan to lower himself to the delicate chair behind Miss Portman’s escritoire. Even on short acquaintance, his sons were comfortable with her. They tucked right up against her sides, cuddling in as if she were a favorite aunt—or uncle.

Absently, Ethan’s eyes strayed to the letters stacked on the corner of the blotter. There were a half dozen or so, addressed in a tidy, flowing hand. His gaze fell on the top one, and he wasn’t meaning to read, much less pry, but the name on the envelope was familiar to him.

So what, what in the bloody blue blazes, was Alice Portman doing writing to the private investigator kept on Nicholas Haddonfield’s personal payroll?

My dearest Benjamin,

You will be pleased to see I am no longer immured in the far, distant wilds of Sussex. I am now merely two hours’ ride from you, at the estate of Tydings near Guilford in Surrey. My responsibilities here include two very charming young fellows, ages five and six. They are lively young men but a little more hesitant to go on than they should be, owing to past upheavals in the greater household.

The estate is pleasant in the extreme, my wages are generous, and my employer considerate, if sometimes a little gruff. His children love him, but he is a busy man, and I will endeavor to keep the lads too occupied to miss their father’s attention much. The kitchen has become a bit lax, but this will soon be set to rights, I am sure.

You must be reassured, dear Brother, I fare well. I left the Belmonts on very good terms, but because I had been with Priscilla for almost five years, it was time to allow more scholarly hands to guide her development. I trust I will remain with the Grey children for some time, though I am allowed these first months as a trial period. You are not to put your nose into my situation here, Benjamin, not directly or otherwise. Mr. Grey came with the very highest personal recommendations from the Earl and Countess of Bellefonte, among others. I will be safe here, and you are not to worry.

I love you and miss you, and look forward to seeing you. We are to go into Town for Bellefonte’s investiture. Until then, try not to be too serious or too busy.

Your loving sister,

Allie

***

Alice was wearing a big, fat, cheery smile when she dragged the boys into the breakfast parlor. “Good morning, Mr. Grey! How fortunate to see you so early in the day.”

“The good fortune is entirely mine.” Ethan reserved the irony in his smile for Alice. “Joshua, Jeremiah, which of us will have the privilege of seating Miss Portman?”

Two little faces regarded Ethan blankly.

“Oh, very well.” He stepped behind their governess, treating himself to a whiff of lemons. “I’ve had my first cup of tea, so I will demonstrate, but I won’t be doing this every day. You fellows must occasionally pitch in. Miss Portman?”

She sank gracefully into her seat with a murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Grey,” for the benefit of their rapt audience.

“Where do we sit?” Joshua asked, frowning.

“In the other two chairs,” Ethan said. “Now, since I am taller than either of you, I will prepare your plates, lest you pull the entire sideboard over while you search out your preferences. Joshua?”

“Can I see it?” Joshua gestured to the buffet laid out just higher than his line of sight.

“Of course.” Ethan scooped him onto his hip. “Let’s inspect, shall we?” He explained each selection to his son, answered more questions than one typical breakfast buffet ought to engender, and reached compromises that created a breakfast of more than just jam and chocolate.

“Jeremiah, you aren’t going to let your little brother be the only one to eat well, are you?”

“I can see it,” Jeremiah groused, though he was only an inch or so taller than his younger brother.

Ethan came down on his haunches and whispered to his son, “How am I to cadge a morning hug without Miss Portman gawking at me?” Jeremiah’s dubious expression confirmed that Ethan was taking a gamble, but then the boy cracked his rare, dear smile and threw his arms around Ethan’s neck.

“Good of you,” Ethan whispered as he stood with Jeremiah on his hip then said in a louder voice, “If you want something that will last you until luncheon, you’d better tuck into some ham or bacon, or at the very least, get some butter on one of those scones.” He soon had Jeremiah sitting before a fairly impressive plate of food, then resumed his own seat.

Ethan sat back to his meal, a queer little hitch in his chest. He’d not had breakfast with his sons before, though they were nearly old enough for such an informal meal, and he’d not known they were joining him today. But here they were, being gently guided toward proper manners by their enterprising governess, and Ethan felt a spurt of pleasure in their company.

They really were good boys.

And what had been wrong with their mother, that she hadn’t seen that?

***

Breakfast had gone well. Alice assured herself of this as Ethan proposed that their discussion of the boys’ lessons be moved from the library to the shady walking path.

“That will serve. After a good meal, one wants activity.”

And almost any time, it seemed
one
enjoyed having one’s hand on Ethan Grey’s arm, hearing his precise baritone, and catching his cedary scent.

As they stepped onto the path, Alice launched into a discussion of Latin primers.

“Boys don’t find Latin useful at all,” Ethan interjected. “Men like to toss around the occasional apt phrase, and sprinkle their conversation with wise sayings. It’s the only Latin one uses after university, I assure you.”

“You attended?”

“Cambridge.”

“A rebel?”

“Nick went to Oxford.”

She slipped her arm from his and stopped in the shade of an enormous maple. “The earl didn’t even let you attend the same university? What was wrong with your father?”

“He was being protective, or so I tell myself.”

“He was being an ass,” Alice hissed, hand fisting. “If ever there’s a man who could protect himself from unwarranted advances, it’s your dear
little
brother, particularly by the time he was sixteen or seventeen years old.” She reined in her temper, since she had no business making such pronouncements. “With respect to French, I find the verbal nuances are better—”

Ethan stood quite near her, his expression amused. “You’re very fierce, Alice Portman. I wish the earl were alive so you might blister his ears with your observations.” He took her hand, and there in the lovely morning air, kissed her knuckles, as a knight might kiss the hand of a lady whose favor he wore into the lists.

This flummery provoked a blush and put all thoughts of primers to rout. “I am not fierce, Mr. Grey.”

He smiled at her, likely for resorting to more formal address. And oh, that smile sent common sense gamboling after the errant primers. He was a handsome man in any mood, but distant, reserved, and
safe
. When he smiled, all the warmth in him was briefly visible, all the dearness that made him fret for his children and for his younger brother.

Maybe even a little for a governess. “I am not fierce,” Alice said again, feeling an awkward confession looming far too closely.

“Will you elaborate on your supposed meekness,
Miss
Portman
? I confess, my own conjectures cannot encompass such a flight.”

He drew her by the hand toward a wooden bench in the dappled shade, and when he seated her, he did not drop her hand. Maybe he sensed the confession as well.

“Nick once told me your youngest sister, Della, is prone to breathing spells.”

“She is.” He seemed to have forgotten that their hands were joined. “They didn’t start until after I left.”

“If I were fierce, I would not be prone to spells when I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and every particle of my mind is filled with dread at my certain and imminent death. I don’t even like talking about such moments, I get so anxious.”

“And you suffered these spells at Belle Maison.”

“Only two,” Alice said, resisting the compulsion to take deeper breaths. She focused instead on the warmth—the improper and comforting warmth—of Ethan’s fingers closed around hers. “Mrs. Belmont was with me, and she knows I’m prone to them, but Nick has seen me through one too, and it’s unusual for me to have two in two weeks.”

“I am making a list, Alice Portman, that starts with megrims, progresses to a bad hip, and includes these breathing spells. You have nightmares too, don’t you?”

He spoke gently, but he
knew
. Somehow, this great, strapping, self-possessed man knew what it was to be reduced to an animal, cataleptic with fear and pain.

Alice managed a nod.

“I have gone for as long as three years without a spell.” And even longer without discussing this nuisance with anybody. She focused her gaze on the patterns of sunlight and shadow dancing on the grass rather than stare at her hand enveloped in his. “I used to have nightmares.”

Bringing up the topic had put a pinch in her breathing and a knot of unease in her belly. She leaned into him, just a little, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

His arm settled around her shoulders, suggesting her hope had been in vain. “Before you came here, when was the last breathing spell, Alice? And don’t think to dissemble.”

She didn’t dissemble, but she hesitated long enough to take a fortifying whiff of cedar, to concentrate on being this close to a man and wanting to be closer.

Surely that was a good thing? “In my room, after you’d offered me this post and I’d ridden the horse.”

“Because,” he said, his voice close to her ear, “any change brings with it anxiety and loss, even a change for the better. If you have more of these spells, Alice, what shall I do?”

She almost told him she wouldn’t have a spell if he were in the vicinity, but here she was, dragging in slow breaths, even as she was tucked against him.

“It helps to be warm and to put my head down, and it helps if you can talk to me slowly and quietly, exactly as you did. You can’t get anxious, and you shouldn’t
be
anxious. The worst thing that will happen is I’ll faint for a few minutes, and when I faint, I can breathe.”

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers drawing a pattern on her shoulder.

“But until you faint, you will be certain the entire world is coming to a horrible, unstoppable end. You might do stupid things—run from friends when in unfamiliar surroundings, draw a weapon for no reason, cower in corners gulping for breath and awaiting certain death.”

More awful knowledge. Thank God he didn’t mention the worst of it. She might lose control of bodily functions. She had, for the first two years.

He shifted then and wrapped his arms around her, abandoning all pretense that his proximity was a casual misstep by an otherwise unassuming gentleman. The tension in her belly quieted; the hitch in her breathing eased. Her conscience fell silent as well, because the comfort—the sheer, glorious comfort—of his embrace was too precious.

“It might help too,” he said, “if you put in your mind a picture of something good, something beloved and dear, and when you feel your breathing seize up and you sense your reason is deserting you, you bring that image to your mind and hold it hard.”

She nodded against his shoulder while his hand traced the line of her hair where it smoothed past her ear.

“I will do my best to make sure you are not plagued with frightening thoughts or frightening people, Alice. I’ve found a lot of peace here at Tydings, and despite the racket and mayhem created by my sons, I think it’s still a peaceful place.”

He made no move to shift away, to end this unlooked-for familiarity. Instead, he repeated that caress in a slow, soothing rhythm, until the pleasure of it and the warmth of his body seeped into Alice’s soul.

Her brothers were fiercely devoted, kindhearted men who would do anything for her, and yet she hadn’t allowed them this. When Ethan Grey said he would do his best to shield her from upset, it was as if he took a vow, and the sense of sanctuary Alice felt was a steady flame in an oppressive darkness.

Because he
knew
. Somehow, without being aware of any of the details of her ordeal, Ethan Grey knew what she had suffered.

***

Holding Alice Portman on a shady bench in the middle of a pleasant summer morning, Ethan felt as if he’d stepped off a cliff into some other morning in some other man’s life. Women were no more than fixtures to him. As an adolescent, they’d fascinated him; in his marriage they’d horrified him; and he counted himself lucky to be largely indifferent to sexual desire in recent years. His sisters, Lady Warne, and Leah, they were women to be admired and protected.

As was Alice Portman, maybe more than any of the others, maybe more than all of them put together.

Alice had been wronged somewhere in her past, egregiously wronged, and while Ethan’s mind knew that, his body was taking note of other things: Alice fit in his embrace wonderfully, like she wanted to be there, not like she had to tolerate this closeness. She had a pleasing shape, a pleasing scent, and soft, silky hair. He could feel the slow heave of her breathing against his chest.

The confluence of protectiveness and desire was disorienting. This was how one ought to feel about a wife perhaps, or so Ethan had once thought.

With an effort of will and the feel of Alice’s soft curves burning into his memory, Ethan decided it was a good thing for a man in his prime to feel desire. It was in accordance with the plan of God and Nature, and no reason to be alarmed. Were he honest, he’d admit that not feeling desire for the past few years had been more alarming.

He
could
desire
Alice
Portman.
This had to do not just with her steady brown eyes, well-disguised curves, and pleasant, tart scent, but also with her breathing spells and bad hip and nightmares.

He bent his head toward her, inhaled the fragrance of flowers and lemons, and idly—in a purely theoretical way—wondered if she could desire him.

***

“Are you gentlemen
trying
to spook my horse?” Ethan inquired as both boys happened to pause for breath in the same moment.

“He dragged me off!” Jeremiah shouted, a note of hysteria in his voice. “He should have let go, and he bloody wouldn’t, and he made me fall off, the sodding little bugger.”

“You didn’t hold on!” Joshua shot back, hands fisting. “You had the mane, and I didn’t, you should have caught me, and you let me slide right off all the way down. You’re a sodding little
pismire
.”

Ethan lip’s twitched, to hear the word fired off with such vehemence. He gestured to Miller, who nodded and came to stand beside Ethan, then trotted off in search of more tack when he’d gotten his instructions.