Authors: Wedded Bliss
“I appreciate the honor, but I cannot—”
“Demme, you expect me to get on my knees? Bosh! I’d never get up again. I am too old for that fustian nonsense, and so are you. You’re not too old to give me sons—I checked with the apothecary.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows suggestively. “And I ain’t too old to get them on you, never fear.”
She’d fear choking on his unwashed odor first. How could he think that she might…? That they could…? The baronet was more imaginative than any of those poets he so disdained. Before Alissa could reply, however, before she realized his intent—Heavens! She could never have anticipated his intent in a million years—he leaned over the low table and pressed his wet, fleshy, macaroon-strewn lips against her cheek.
She pushed him away and moved to the far end of the sofa, wiping her cheek with a napkin. “Sir, you forget yourself!”
“I haven’t forgotten how to please a filly, if that’s what has you in a pother. You can ask Lucy at the Black Dog. No, don’t suppose you’d have any conversation with the likes of Lucy.” He shrugged. “She does not have a lot of conversation, anyway. Besides, it’s not such a bad thing, you acting the lady, for it’s a ladyship you’ll be. You must have thought you’d move up in the world, marrying young Henning. Too bad he was so far away from the succession, and got himself disowned to boot. Well, now you can have that title you always wanted.”
“I never wanted a title. My father was a perfect gentleman, and he never had one. My mother was content being Mrs. Alexander Bourke, and I was content being Mrs. William Henning.”
“Heh. You can’t fool me. Every woman wants that ‘Lady’ in front of her name, wants to go into dinner ahead of the vicar’s wife, and wants to sit in her own pew at church, too. That’s all well and good, having a spouse who the neighbors curtsy to, but don’t you go thinking of putting on those airs in my bedroom. It’s sons I want, not vapors and smelling salts like my first wife, or headaches like my second, or nagging like my third.”
“Third? I thought you had two wives?”
“The third one doesn’t count. Never made it legal like. The housekeeper, don’t you know. I said I’d marry her if she started breeding. Three years of listening to her complain and I still have no son. She’s gone now, like I said, so you don’t have to worry.”
Worry about what? That he would toss her out if she did not produce the requisite heir, or that he’d be unfaithful once they were—No, Alissa could not bring herself to say the words.
She could clean his house and cook his meals, but
share
his bed? He most likely had fleas, like his dogs. And that was one of the baronet’s more appealing traits.
“I am sorry, Sir George, but I cannot accept your, ah…” She dredged her mind for the proper word. Kind? Generous? He was none of those things. “Startling offer,” she concluded.
He started to get red in the face, the thick eyebrows lowering to nearly cover his bloodshot eyes, just as the boys came running into the room, with Amy behind them.
“Here, now, what kind of rag manners are these?” the baronet said, glaring fiercely at Alissa.
She could not tell whether he meant her refusal of his offer or the children’s hurried, noisy entrance to the parlor, until he went on: “This is an adult conversation, not a nursery party.”
“But it is time for tea, Mama,” Willy said in a low voice, coming to stand beside her. “And you promised.”
Her older son, Kendall, stepped close to his brother and added, “We washed up special, after putting the donkey away.”
Aminta stayed in the doorway, uncertain whether she was considered an adult by the angry old man.
Not the least bit shy of the blustering baronet, Billy noticed the nearly empty plate of pastries. “There are no macaroons left!” he complained loudly. “And they are my favorites! He ate them all?”
“Impertinent brats!” Sir George spit out, along with the last few crumbs. “Go on, get out. Your mother and I are not finished talking.”
“Yes, we are, sir,” Alissa said, getting to her feet and standing with an arm around each of her sons, after she affectionately patted Billy’s head. “This is my house still, and these are my boys. I did promise them a special treat in honor of Billy—that is, the Honorable William Rothmore’s return to us for an extended visit.”
The baronet did not rise. “Demme, we haven’t settled this yet.”
Everything was settled, as far as Alissa was concerned, but she was not willing to make a scene in front of the children. “We can converse as I walk you out while the boys have their tea. Aminta, dear, please pour. And, Billy, there are more macaroons in the pantry. Why don’t you go fetch them?” She headed toward the door, picking up her shawl as she went.
Sir George had no choice but to leave, unless he wanted to stay to fight the boys over the poppy-seed cake slices. He lumbered to his feet and followed Alissa, ogling the younger sister as he passed.
Once outside, Alissa nervously eyed the restive horse tied at the gate, but she went closer, to lead Sir George farther out of hearing distance from the house. She could see four heads peering out the window.
“Now cease this foolishness, Mrs. Henning. I have made you a proper proposal. Could have made you an improper one, by Jupiter. Widow and all, you know.”
She did not know. What, were widows fair game for every tomcat on the prowl? She was no man’s prey. Alissa raised her chin, noting that she stood almost taller than her unwanted guest. “Yes, sir, you made me an offer, and I have refused. I fear we would not suit.”
“Not suit? What kind of cr—What kind of poppycock is that? I am a man, you are a woman. That is all that matters.”
“Not to me, it is not.”
“Demme, give me one good reason why we wouldn’t suit, then. You owe me that.”
One good reason? She could give him a score without stopping to think. The first one was that she considered him a repulsive toad, but good manners kept her from saying so. “Very well. I do not believe we could have a good relationship because of your despicable arrangement with your housekeeper.”
“I told you, she’s gone.”
“And your dishonorable attitude toward our agreement concerning the lease on the cottage.”
“We never had it in writing.”
“Then there is the way you spoke to my boys.”
“Spoiled brats.”
“And I am not attracted to you.”
“So what? None of my other wives were, either. You shut your eyes and think of the next day’s menu. I wasn’t that keen on bedding the sour-faced biddies, but I managed. You can too, to keep you and the brats out of the poorhouse. You can find yourself some young stallion—after I’ve got my son, of course.”
“I would never break my vows!” she said. “But that is another thing, your, ah, other women. Like Lucy at the tavern.”
“Faugh, every man has his separate interests. Your Henning might have been a saint, but you’ll not find another. Rockford has a new mistress every month, they say. Sometimes two.”
Two months or two mistresses at a time? Alissa wondered, but then she returned her attention to the baronet, who was trying to scratch his back with his riding crop. His horse took the opportunity to nip at his shoulder.
“Bloody hell!” Sir George cursed, then slapped at the horse with the whip. “Goddamn hayburner.”
Alissa gasped. If she had been considering marrying the maggot even for an instant—which she had not—his violent temper would have convinced her otherwise, to say nothing of his foul language. She looked back toward the window, hoping the children had not heard. “Mind your tongue, sir.”
He scowled at her. “You’ll get used to it, woman.” He went back to scratching his lower back with the crop. And lower still.
Alissa turned away. “I do not care for your manners.”
“You’ll care less for starving, when I throw you out of this cottage.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am saying that you have no choice, missy. Didn’t Rockford say Fred Nivens was coming ugly with you? I fined him for disturbing the peace. Put him to work on the roads, in lieu of the cash. Clever, eh? The earl was complaining about their condition, too. Well, there’s more than one groom gone bad. You need a protector. You need a house, for this one will fall down on your head before I put tuppence into it. You need someone to take those brats in hand and fire off that sister of yours. And you need money, because no one will let you teach their daughters how to scribble, after I tell them how you played the jilt, kissing me and then turning up your nose.”
“I never—”
He ignored her protests. “In other words, you need a husband, and I am the only one offering. Your reasons why we shouldn’t get hitched aren’t worth a groat.”
“But I do not like you!”
He snorted. Or perhaps that was the horse.
“I do not like your horse!” Alissa knew she was sounding desperate, but could not help herself. “And I hate dogs!”
He dropped the whip. He dropped his lower jaw. “Demme. You hate dogs? No one hates dogs.”
Alissa crossed her arms over her chest, pulling the shawl tighter. She had not intended to be out in the chill this long or she’d have worn her cape. “I do. They are filthy, vicious animals.”
He closed his mouth and twisted it in a black-toothed smile. “That’s all right, then. You can’t have met my dogs. For a moment you had me scared, there. What good is a woman who doesn’t like dogs? But mine are all fine animals. Nary a biter in the pack, unless they have cause, of course.”
“I have met your ill-behaved hounds. They tear through my gardens, rip down my laundry line, and cause havoc with my chickens. And I have indeed seen them at Fairmont, a snarling pack of mange-ridden mongrels.”
“Mange? Mongrels? I tell you, they are the best hunting pack in the shire, and I can trace their breeding back for more generations than my own.”
“And I tell you they do not belong in a house, and they do not belong around children. As for training them to kill foxes…” She shook her head to get rid of the image she saw there.
The horse tossed its head too, slashing long yellow teeth. Sir George stepped back. “I know what it is. You had a fright once, eh? Or stumbled on a hunt, what? That’s why it’s ridiculous for females to go out with the pack. No stomach for it. Well, that’s one thing I would never ask you to do. Don’t believe in women riding hell for leather, I don’t. So. We’re agreed then?”
“We are agreed on nothing! I do not wish to marry you, sir!”
“What, do you think to force me to raise the ante? I already said I’d pay for your brats’ schooling. I suppose I could fork over a few pounds to dower the little chit. Be worth it not to have to feed her for long. Now stop playing coy with me, missy, for I am getting sick of this, and my horse is tired of standing. He gets mean without a good run, he does. Here, we’ll seal the bargain with a kiss. I know the brats are watching, so that will put the lock on it, eh? Wouldn’t want them to think their mama was a loose woman, what, kissing a man who wasn’t her intended?”
Alissa backed away, but he grabbed her wrists and started to pull her closer to his chest. She struggled, but he held fast, with arms used to controlling headstrong horses. She tried to kick out at his legs with her booted feet, but he nimbly skipped aside, cackling. “I like a filly with spunk in her. You surprise me, Mrs. Henning. Didn’t know you had that much spirit. I wager I am going to enjoy our marriage a lot more than I figured, if you like to play these games.”
This could not be happening, Alissa thought. Not again! Not in her own front yard. This time no avenging fury on a black steed was going to come to her rescue, either. She twisted as Sir George started to press his thick lips toward hers. She thought she might be sick if he actually kissed her on the mouth. He gave her wrists a hard jerk, making her lose her footing so she half fell against him, with the stench of his dirty linen in her nose.
“Now that’s more like it. Games can only go so far, you know, missy.”
Alissa regained her balance and came down hard with her boot on his toes, starting to say, “I am not playing any—”
But a voice came from the doorway of the cottage: “Let my mother go, or I will shoot.”
Her boy, her firstborn son, Kendall, the quiet one who took his position as man of the house so seriously, was standing in the dirt path from the cottage with a pistol in his hand: the pistol he was never, ever supposed to touch. Willy stood behind him, fists raised in fighter’s stance. Rockford’s son brandished the fireplace poker, and was already covered in its soot. Amy was white-faced and trembling in the doorway, but she was gamely clutching a kitchen knife.
Sir George laughed. “You’ll never shoot me, boy. Too much chance of hitting your mother.”
“Yes, but I won’t miss if I aim for your horse.” Kendall brought the barrel of his father’s gun around to the pawing stallion, one of the baronet’s favorite studs.
Sir George let Alissa go, saying, “I see the brat has more bottom than I gave him credit for, too. Well, you’ll learn better manners than that,” he told Kendall, “before I am through with you. Your ma and I are getting leg-shackled. We were only playing.”
Kendall looked uncertain, the gun wavering. The others cried out in protest.
Alissa backed away from the baronet, reassuring them. “No, I am not marrying anyone, least of all Sir George.” When she reached the smaller boys, she gave them each a hug, and sent Aminta a confident smile, bringing a bit of color back to the young girl’s cheeks.