Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (10 page)

The lady’s posture lost the last of its sweet, sleepy softness. “I am not inclined to set up a stud farm here, but I am loath to miss the chance to capitalize on those mares. Andy’s future is less than assured, and ample funds for her dowry could address that situation.” 

Trent kept his tone diffident. “I suppose we could fashion some third alternative.” 

“Such as?” 

She was being cautious or coy; either one, Trent had to approve of—they were, after all, negotiating. 

“I don’t know.” He rose again and took up his spot leaning on the mantel. “Some combination of coin, services, breeding rights, shared profits….” He let the ideas hang in the air, just within her reach. 

She shot him a dubious look. “You’re suggesting a partnership.”

“A partnership?” He mustered a disgruntled expression. “I suppose that’s what it would be, if we both agreed. No offense, but I’d want the terms in writing.” 

“For both our sakes. You can’t have a gentleman’s agreement with such as I. What will your wife think of you taking on a lady partner in a business venture, because I would not want to be only a silent contributor.”

Trent was preoccupied watching her ladyship’s hands adjust the shawl and blanket. Competent, feminine, graceful… she had the sort of hands that— 

“My
wife?
What would her opinion matter?” 

“She is your
wife.
” Lady Rammel took a solid hold of the rocker’s arms. “Even Dane kept me informed of his major business activities and occasionally listened when I’d venture an opinion.” 

Trent was so taken aback by her question he nearly missed her use of the present tense: She
is
your wife.

“She can’t venture an opinion,” he managed. 

“Why not?” The viscountess rose, shedding blankets and acquiring a hint of indignation. “Your decision materially affects her comfort and security, too, you know. Do you trust her to bear your children, but allow her no notice of your business associates?” 

She lifted her hand as if to shake her finger at him, but that hand lost momentum, the color drained from her face, and Trent barely caught her before her knees buckled. For a single moment, she lay cradled against his chest, a fragrant, curvaceous and passive bundle of lithe female. 

“I stood up too quickly,” she murmured. “You can put me down, Amherst.” 

He settled her on the couch and sat next to her, one arm around her shoulders. 

To his relief, she remained resting against him—fainting women were unnerving to any man. He could tell the moment she gathered her resolve to leave the sofa. 

“Stay.” He held her more snugly. “If you go rocketing about in mortification, you’ll get lightheaded again.” 

“I simply rose too quickly,” she replied, making as if to scoot away from him. 

“Ellie,”—it seemed appropriate to use her name—“you’ll have to tell Drew.” 

“Tell Drew?” She craned her head to glare at him. “They’re not his horses.” 

“Not about the horses.” He held her gaze, feeling nothing so much as compassion—for her, for what she was dealing with.

“Oh, blooming Halifax.” She subsided against him, defeated, caught out and, to Trent’s mind, maybe even relieved. 

“How far along are you, my dear?” 

She sighed gustily. “Three months. We argued the night before Dane died and made up in one of our rare bouts of conjugal relations—I didn’t just say that.” 

Oh yes, she had, and to
him.
“Of course not. Your children, like mine, will be found under a toadstool, left there by the fairies on a summer night.” 

“Winter night.” She’d no doubt calculated her due date a thousand times already. “I haven’t said anything because it’s early days yet.” 

“And you weren’t sure,” Trent guessed, “it being your first. When and whom to tell are entirely your choice, my lady.” 

“Thank you.”

She fell silent, though Trent had not one but three children and knew what to ask. “Are you nervous?” 

“Terrified.” She gave him more of her weight, and he smoothed her hair back the better to keep an eye on her profile.

“Greymoor’s sending his countess over to visit with you. You must ask for her support. He claims she is formidable, and she’s already presented him with his heir.” 

“Lady Greymoor? I’ve met her. She’s a pretty little thing.” 

“And if she bore that great, strapping lout a child, you will fare easily.” 

“She is diminutive.” 

“While the earl is not.” Not in his stores of charm, not in his equestrian expertise, not in any sense. 

“Do you think Drew will be angry?” 

“You can’t concern yourself with that.” Trent stroked his hand over her hair again, though her profile was plainly in view. “He had a life before Dane died. He’ll have a life if you bear a son. Your first priority has to be bringing your child safely into the world.”

“I know.” She straightened a little, but only a little. “I must stop imposing on you like this. I’m becoming that pathetic widow who clings to and pets anybody she can get her hands on.” 

“You are not and you never will be. Shall I ring for tea?” 

“A nice hot cup of tea?” She shifted away from him. “That couldn’t hurt. I wonder where Andy got off to.” 

“She likely didn’t want to disturb your cat-nap.” Trent rose and went to the door to hail the footman—only to realize what he’d disclosed.

“You caught me napping?” Lady Rammel’s—Ellie’s—hand went to her hair. “I am to have no dignity, it seems. What would your lady wife think of me?” Her question was casual, even rhetorical, but it reminded Trent where their conversation had been before Ellie’s spell of lightheadedness. 

“You were haranguing me about my neglect of her. You need to understand something about my marital status.” 

Ellie’s gaze skewered him, as if she anticipated one of those my-wife-doesn’t-trouble-herself or my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me soliloquies her husband had no doubt delivered to many other women. 

“It isn’t like that,” Trent said, the accurate words for some reason hard to locate. “She’s… Paula passed away more than a year ago. She’s… dead.” 

***

“Why didn’t you tell me Amherst was widowed?” Ellie chose her moment after the servants had withdrawn, firing off the question at Drew as he enjoyed a leisurely Sunday dinner with her. 

“Why didn’t I…?” He looked confused, resembling his late cousin not only in his robust physique and facial features, but also in his cautious, spare-me-from-testy-women expression. “Why didn’t you know? I gather it’s been some time, because he’s no longer in mourning.” 

“He isn’t at Crossbridge much at all, or he hasn’t been since I married Dane,” Ellie replied. “We were cordial, but barely acquainted. He and Dane had little in common. He seems recovered from his mourning, more or less.”

He was steady and kind, and far too perceptive, in any case. 

Drew picked up his wine glass and peered into its depths. “He
seems
like he enjoys your company, Elegy dearest.” They were serving themselves, à la française, so Drew could speak freely. 

As could Ellie. “What is that supposed to mean?” She twirled her wine glass, but spirits of any kind no longer appealed to her, just as the smell of tallow had become unbearable. 

Drew took a meditative sip of his claret. “You’re grieving. Finding comfort with a neighbor would be almost expected.” 

“Drew Hampton,”—Ellie’s voice was stern—“you are half in your cups and you will apologize for your scandalous notions.” 

“Not scandalous.” Drew patted her hand. “You’re a widow now, Ellie, and your status has some benefits. Pass the decanter, would you?” 

She set it near him much as she had often passed the decanter to her late husband. “You’re not happy inheriting the title, are you?” 

“I’m not happy with life.” Drew poured himself more wine. “There you have it, the selfish, titled lord in the making. I’m a quick study.” 

“Is it the though of inheriting title making you miserable?” 

“I’m not miserable, though I soon will be. Amherst and Greymoor spent much of their time warning me about predatory mamas, Prinny’s greedy committees, and the unassailable imperative of setting up my nursery.” 

Rather than peevish, Drew sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Would you be relieved were the title to pass to someone else?” 

“I’d have to die for that to happen, but yes, I probably would be relieved.” 

Amherst had told her she should be honest with Drew. Good advice—much better advice than Dottie Holmes had handed out. 

“You might get your wish.”

“So you’ve been allowing yourself that comfort, have you?” Drew’s smile was ironic. “That’s fast work, Ellie my girl. I’ll have to commend Amherst on his timing.” 

“
What?
” 

“It’s hardly news you and Dane weren’t exactly setting the sheets on fire.” Drew sipped his wine, gulped it, more like. “Even if you can’t manage a bull calf, being the mother of what legally be Dane’s only legitimate child will earn you something in the way of coin and respect.” 

Ellie rose in indignation. “You are not a very nice man when you over-imbibe, Drew Hampton. I am carrying Dane’s child.” 

“Of course you are, love.” Drew nodded his congratulations. Then he went still and peered up at her, all his nasty humor falling away. He grabbed her wrist when she would have stomped away. 

“Of course you are.” He repeated it as a statement, as if Dane had just clobbered him mentally with the truth. “Sit down, please.” He set the decanter out of reach and rose to hold her chair. “Dane would be so pleased. How are you feeling?” 

“Angry with you. Sometimes very angry with Dane.” 

“Most of us were, most of the time,” Drew said, resuming his seat and covering her hand with his. “This changes things, Ellie.” He sounded eager, not bitter. 

“I might have a girl, Drew, and even if I have a boy, you’ll be the uncle. You’ll have to show the boy how to go on.” 

“I can do that. I think.” 

“Drew?” 

“Hmm?” 

Ellie withdrew her hand. “About Amherst. I haven’t… He hasn’t…” 

“Of course not.” He patted her wrist. “You’re to be a mother.” To Ellie’s mind, that observation was a glaring non sequitur, but Drew wasn’t finished. “We don’t need to write to the solicitors just yet. You’re feeling well?”

“Mostly.” Ellie ducked her face, a blush rising. Why had nobody warned her? Pregnancy made one’s personal business the happy topic of others’ conversations, created peculiar relationships with cousins with whom one had been only cordially distant, and conjured pointless tears by the bucket. Worse, impending motherhood inspired one to kiss a handsome, kind, unsuspecting neighbor.

As if one were some strumpet on a corner in Seven Dials. 

Drew chattered happily right through dessert, while Ellie passed on the trifle and recalled her earlier words. She
hadn’t
, with Trenton Lindsey, hadn’t…yet.

*** 

“Your lordship shouldn’t be here.”

Cook gave Trent the benefit of her opinion as she kneaded dough on a floured board. Like most of the women his father employed, she was buxom and comely in a sturdy, blond, English way. Her tenure at Wilton had been brief, because she was also outspoken and a shade more intelligent than the earl’s usual underling. She hadn’t been quite smart enough to keep her criticisms to herself, but she was clever as hell with desserts, and for that, Trent forgave her much. 

She was trapped, up to the elbows in her floury dough, and thus unable to avoid the discussion Trent sought. “You shouldn’t order me about when I’ve come to beg favors of a pretty lady.” 

She smacked at the dough with a closed fist. “You want your apple cake again so soon?” 

“I will never turn down apple cake,” Trent assured her, as the scullery maid decamped for the pantries. “If ever I fall into unconsciousness, you’ve only to wave a slice under my nose and I’ll come right in a trice. The dessert menu wasn’t on my immediate agenda, however.” 

Neither was flirting and flattering the help into doing their jobs, come to that. 

“You’re after some trifle then,” Cook concluded heavily, as if her employer were a small boy who’d make himself sick on his sweets. 

“I’m after some better fare for my staff,” Trent said, his tone losing its teasing edge. 

“Your people never go hungry,” she shot back, smacking the dough over. “Never.” 

The footman blacking the andirons apparently needed to be elsewhere, too, which left Trent alone with the queen of his kitchen. 

“The servants aren’t hungry, though they’re not satisfied, either. You’re not at Wilton, Louise, and you needn’t perpetuate my father’s stingy ways.” 

“I beg your pardon?” She stopped her kneading, her disapproval of Trent all the more palpable for being silent. He couldn’t tell if her ire was because he’d used her given name, or he’d dared speak ill of his father, whom she, for some reason, regarded as the apogee of all a titled head of household ought to be.

She ploughed her fist into the dough again. “His lordship the earl is not stingy. He practices economies, is all.”