Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (12 page)

She met Trent’s gaze with a depressing boldness. “That’s not what
he
says.
He
says a woman with my looks can go somewhere.
He
says a clever woman can always find ways to better her lot. You don’t know what Gerald’s really like. Nobody does.” 

Gerald?
God help her.

While bees droned lazily amid the branches overhead, Trent searched his manners and his honor for words that would avert looming disaster. Imogenie was young and believed herself in love, and worse, believed herself loved in return.

An orchard was a peaceful place in summer. Trent tried to gather some of that peace by studying the dappled shadows on the ground. 

“Wilton tells you his wife didn’t understand him, and that you’re very special. He tells you he’s been waiting years for a woman like you, and he can’t believe his good fortune that you’ve noticed him. While he offers this flattery, he looks sincere and even bashful.” 

Trent suspected Wilton
practiced
looking sincere and bashful, for it was too great a mischaracterization to achieve casually. 

“He wishes you’d been his countess,” Trent went on, “and then he sighs and makes you feel such naughty, wonderful things, you want to give him everything a woman can give a man she cares for.” 

From her stunned expression, Trent concluded he’d repeated his father’s litany almost point by point. 

The dratted woman rallied in the blink of an eye. “You ridicule something you don’t understand. His own children don’t even love him. You’re jealous of the attention he shows me.” 

The earl’s hook was set, and yet Trent made one more try. “Miss Henly—Imogenie—Wilton is rusticating here for the first time in your memory because he stole from his children and worse. He may love you. I hope he does love you, but it’s far more likely he’s amusing himself with you and will cast you aside when the game has palled.” 

When she had a bastard in her belly and her life had been ruined before she turned twenty. Wilton thrived on ruination, the way a cancer grew until it destroyed the host that gave it life.

“You’re an unnatural son,” she declared, tugging her shawl tightly around herself. “To lie about your own father that way. He told me your sister ran off, brought shame and disgrace to the family, and your brother abetted her. Why should he keep such as those in funds?” 

Wilton had driven Leah off, cast her onto her brothers’ charity the way another man would fling away an empty gin bottle.

“Wilton spent money that wasn’t his. He spent my mother’s portion, reserved by contract in trust for her children—contracts Wilton signed.” 

Imogenie turned her back. “I won’t listen to this. The earl is a good man, and your mother never understood him.” 

The countess had understood Wilton too well, though too late. “Maybe she didn’t, but your mother taught you not to allow a man,
any man
, favors until he’s married you, or at least announced your engagement. That’s sound advice, Miss Henly, and if you can’t follow it for your own sake, then follow it for the sake of the children Wilton would get on you.” 

He stalked off—rude of him—knowing Imogenie glared daggers at his back. Without doubt, in a year’s time, he’d be writing a bank draft to the girl’s father and hoping she had relatives in the north to take her in for her confinement. According to Trent’s late mother, the task of providing settlements for Wilton’s bastards had fallen to her at least twice. 

Wilton would leave the help at the manor alone as long as Miss Henly held his attention, which qualified as a pale silver lining—very pale.

Trent tried again with Henly when taking leave of his tenant on the farm’s front porch. “You should consider curtailing Miss Henly’s visits to the manor house, Henly.” 

Henly settled onto the porch swing, his expression disgruntled. “You’d begrudge my Genie a cup of tea with old Nancy Brookes? I didn’t take you for that sort, Amherst.” 

Surely when Lanie was of age, Trent would not be so gullible a papa as Mr. Henly? 

“I would not begrudge the ladies their tea and gossip, but my father has a wandering eye. He’s bored, and Miss Henly is both pretty and of age.” Trent backed up that blunt pronouncement with a very direct look, which had Mr. Henly chewing his pipe stem.

“I could send Missus with her.” 

“Every time. You absolutely cannot trust Wilton’s honor, Henly. Cannot.” 

“Sorry thing to say about your own pa.” Henly set the porch swing to rocking gently. “I’ve known the man since I was a lad and he was a spoiled young buck. Played hell with the ladies then, too. I’ll watch the girl and so will Missus.” 

“Hiram Haines wouldn’t mind walking with Imogenie of an evening,” Trent suggested, though this gambit was pointless when Imogenie had her sights set on Wilton himself. 

“Hiram’s a good man. Works hard and plays a wicked game of darts. Not as wicked as his mother, though.” 

“Until next quarter then.” Trent swung up on Arthur. “You’ll have Mr. Benton send word to Crossbridge if you need anything.” 

“Will do.” Henly saluted with his pipe. “Safe journey, milord.” 

Six more farms and Trent was ready to call it a long, hot, summer day. Aaron Benton, the land steward, met him on the Wilton Acres back terrace where they shared a pitcher of cold, fruity sangaree as the last of the light faded. They talked for two hours, sorting through this problem and that plan, until Trent was convinced he could leave the estate in Benton’s hands for another quarter. 

“I’ve warned Imogenie Henly’s father the earl is importuning her,” Trent said as they rose and walked through the darkness back toward the house. 

“Fat lot of good that will do. She has her father wrapped around her finger, and she’s a very determined young lady. Was that discussion why you didn’t want me making calls with you?” 

“In part.” Also because tenants might speak more freely to the landlord if the steward weren’t on hand. “You aren’t smitten with Imogenie, too?”

Benton was blond, rangy, and had a ready smile and a store of charm. His family was well situated enough that he could have his choice of brides, and life here at Wilton had to be lonely for him. 

“I am most assuredly not smitten with the buxom and naïve Miss Henley, Amherst. I’ve sisters, and I know how quickly a woman’s dreams can lead her into folly.” 

Not only a woman’s. “Speaking of folly, you’ll tell me the moment Wilton attempts to leave the premises?” 

Having this discussion in the dark with only the crickets to overhear it was easier on Trent’s pride than the full light of day would have been, and Benton seemed to grasp this.

“Wilton can’t get far,” Benton replied. “The lads won’t drive him, and we’ve put all the ammunition he might use where he won’t find it. Short of holding us at gunpoint or trying to sneak off on horseback with a groom trailing him, there’s little he can do.” 

An owl hooted off in the home wood, a warning to small, scurrying things to find cover.

“Who calls on Wilton?” Trent asked, because Wilton was nothing if not adept at charming the unsuspecting into doing his bidding. 

“Tidewell Benning, occasionally. Baron Trevisham very infrequently.” 

Tidewell, as Paula’s older brother, could claim a family connection, and yet, Paula hadn’t cared for Tidewell, and Trent wasn’t entirely comfortable to think of Tidewell and Wilton socializing. Baron Trevisham, on the other hand, Paula’s father, Trent had genuinely liked. 

“What about Thomas Benning?” For Paula had been less critical of the middle sibling. 

“Tidewell comes alone, always bearing his parents’ good wishes. I didn’t see any harm in his calls.” 

Neither did Trent, exactly. “Don’t let your guard down. Wilton has a little coin, and he can get Imogenie to buy him shot.” 

Benton’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. “You’re daft, and awake much past your bedtime. My regards to your family. I doubt I’ll be up early enough to see you off.” 

“My continued thanks for all your hard work,” Trent told him as they reached the house. “I’ll see you in October.” 

“Sweet dreams, Amherst.” Benton saluted with two fingers and disappeared up the stairs, because by agreement, he served not only as land steward but also as the house steward, and the earl’s informal jailer. Nicholas Haddonfield had found Benton, said he was trustworthy, and left the details to Trent and Darius. 

What a relief it had been for Trent, to stash Wilton into Benton’s keeping, and get back to his brooding and drinking.

Trent’s ride back to Crossbridge was a more thoughtful journey than the trip to Wilton had been. The situation with Elegy Hampton had become delicate, and in some regards, Trent dreaded seeing her again. 

And in others, couldn’t wait. 

*** 

Ellie Hampton’s late husband had kissed her a time or two, though Dane had limited himself to husbandly pecks on the cheek. 

The difficulty was not that Ellie had been kissed. 

The difficulty, Ellie admitted as she watched Trent Lindsey’s big red gelding trotting up the drive, was that she had kissed Lord Amherst
back,
shamelessly, even passionately. 

Far more passionately than she’d ever kissed her husband. Before Ellie could organize herself mentally for her guest’s appearance, he was bowing over her hand and looking larger than he had a week or so past. 

Also painfully kissable. 

“Your travels to Hampshire were uneventful?” Ellie tossed out the question, hoping she sounded more composed than she felt. 

“The usual business. Tenant calls, meeting with the steward. The Crossbridge gardens have come along nicely, though, which suggests I should absent myself further.” 

A silence fell. Ellie stared at his lordship’s mouth, then realized he’d
caught
her staring at his mouth.
Perishing Halifax
. 

And then, they both spoke at once. 

“My lady, I do apologize…” 

And, at the same time, “I’ve never been kissed like that before.” 

A pause, and then they did it again. 

“You haven’t?” 

And, “Not even by my husband.” 

Amherst went quiet, looking more than a bit wary. 

“Shall we repair to the veranda, my lord?” 

He offered his arm, and they progressed out of doors in the safety of silence. When Amherst had Ellie seated in the shade, he lowered himself beside her, which Ellie took as an encouraging sign.

Of…what, she wasn’t exactly certain, but encouraging, nonetheless.

“Kissing you like that was badly done of me,” Amherst said, sounding lamentably sincere in his contrition. “You’re in mourning and in a delicate condition and the last woman who should have unwanted advances pressed upon her.” 

His kiss had been many things—badly done wasn’t one of them. Neither was unwanted.

“My condition isn’t that delicate,” Ellie murmured, face flaming. 

He glanced over at her, maybe at the truculence in her tone, and the first hint of humor came into his eyes. 

“And it was only a kiss,” Ellie added mulishly.

“Been telling yourself that, too, have you?” 

“A nice kiss,” she insisted. The humor—and relief—was more evident in Amherst’s gaze now, and Ellie smiled, as well. “A very nice kiss.” 

“Like you’ve never had before. Then I did not offend?” 

“You… did not offend. You… utterly flummoxed.” 

“I can admit to being flummoxed myself. We’re to be business partners, one hopes, and such flummoxing is not well advised.” 

“When is it ever?” Ellie rose, bringing Amherst to his feet as well. 

He winged his arm and led her down a shady path of white crushed shells, along beds of irises past their peak, and lily of the valley still making a good show. 

“You’re lonely,” Amherst said, offering an excuse, not an accusation, the way he’d offered her a thorny pink rose not long ago. “You can’t castigate yourself for that. You should castigate
me
, for knowing better and not behaving better.” 

Ellie considered the generosity and sense behind his comment, and rejected both. She’d been lonely every night of her married life. 

“The way I kissed you might have been the same if Dane were alive. I was lonely then, too. Except, then I wouldn’t have kissed you at all.” 

“Now you know you were lonely,” he said, very gently. “The guilt and the knowing and the loneliness are trying. You should slap me, and that will tidy matters up all around.” 

“I’d rather kiss you again.” 

“Probably not well advised.” 

Probably? “Business partners and all that?” Ellie suggested, feeling more disappointment than relief. 

“That. Then too, I’ve done my duty to the title, my lady. I’m not looking for entanglements, and you are…vulnerable.”

Drat the man. Why couldn’t he have been searching for a different word? A less honest word? Not that she was searching for entanglements, either. 

“You kissed like a man who might be entangled,” Ellie observed, pride be damned. 

“Lady Rammel,”—he glanced around—“Ellie, just because I might be entangled doesn’t mean you should be the one doing the entangling.” 

She had the thoroughly disagreeable thought he might be involved elsewhere—though his kiss had suggested he was overdue for some entangling. 

“So, you were merely responding to the siren call of your breeding organs?” Ellie knew she should let the topic drop into obscurity
forever
. “Are you like Lord Greymoor’s stallion Excalibur, then, to strut and paw before any female in season?” 

And why was she abruptly more angry than embarrassed? 

“I am not like Excalibur.” 

They crunched along the walkway, a pair of squirrels chittering and leaping about in the branches overhead, while naughty, naughty thoughts, about swords and entanglements, ran through Ellie’s mind. 

Amherst tucked a hand over her knuckles as if he were afraid she might flee—or make good on the previous slapping offer. 

“Most honest men will tell you their thoughts closely parallel what passes for that stud’s, my lady. How a fellow acts on those impulses is what separates him from the beasts.” 

More silence, thoughtful on her part, unfathomable on his. This was also different from Dane, whose thoughts were—
had been
—easy to read and generally lacking in variety.

Are these boots too worn?

Perhaps I’ll pop ’round Tatt’s and look at that pair of chestnuts. 

Shall we give it go tonight, old girl? It’s Saturday—no hunting tomorrow. 

“What do you do with the loneliness?” Ellie asked. “With thoughts of a future reeking with sympathy, dull colors, and condolences? I am new to this business of being a widow, and I can’t say I like it so far.”

He maintained his silence, and the summer morning seemed to grow quieter around them. 

Ellie hadn’t been quite honest—she hated being a widow, and that was troublesome, but she’d also come to nearly hate being a wife. She studied the line of Trenton’s Lindsey’s broad shoulders, and kept that thought to herself. 

Chapter Seven 

“Lord Amherst,” Ellie said, frowning in puzzlement a fraught moment later, “am I the one to offer apologies now?” 

He blew out a breath, dropped her arm, and paced off a few feet, then shot her a look over his shoulder, part humor, part exasperation. 

“Do you know you even
smell
kissable?” He turned his back on her again, his posture denoting irritation. 

Or a need for a moment of bodily privacy? 

“I can accuse you of the same transgression, my lord.”

“We have a contretemps,” he said, as if laying out the first part of a syllogism. “We’re mutually attracted, lonely, and adult enough to realize it. If we don’t change the topic soon, I shall kiss you again, and that can lead only to folly.” 

“Were we not considering a joint business enterprise,” Ellie said slowly, “would it be permissible folly?” God in heaven, where was her dignity, that she would press him thus? And what was wrong with her, that she wouldn’t quietly accept what her marriage had very strongly suggested: Most men would rather carouse on horseback in the rain and mud than spend time with her. 

“If we were not contemplating a business venture, this folly might be slightly less impermissible,” he said. “Though it’s… May we sit?” He didn’t wait for an answer but took her by the hand and led her to a secluded bench. 

He kept her hand in his as he began speaking. 

“I can dally with you, Ellie Hampton,” he said, risking a glance at her. “I would like… I would
love
to dally with you, but I’m not the dallying kind, and I’d muck it up.” 

Must he look so dear as he said this? 

With her free hand, Ellie swept his dark hair back over his ear. “How does one muck it up?” 

He focused on the ground for a moment before he spoke, and Ellie had the sense a simple touch had distracted him. Out in the mare’s paddock, the stallion trumpeted lusty intentions to the summer morning. 

“People can hurt each other without meaning to,” Amherst said. “They grow attached, and then disappoint each other, and that’s why men keep mistresses.” 

A mare squealed, and the sound of hooves pounding across dry ground reverberated through the air. 

“A man keeps a mistress to disappoint her?” 

“To
not
become attached, to undertake folly in a manner that ensures nobody risks anything of value.” 

“Bearing Dane’s child,” Ellie said, brushing her hand through his hair again, “I am risking my life. You think the ladies of easy virtue don’t know they’re courting the same risk when they accept coin from their protectors?” 

Amherst sat back, blinking. “Nothing that comes out of my mouth this morning is coming out right. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m not capable of protecting you from me while I’m dallying with you.” 

Dearer still—also exasperating. “You make this complicated, Amherst. What if I protect me, and you protect you? Would that work?” 

“You are determined to make a man feel desired.” Amherst scrubbed a hand over his face and gave her a peevish-but-considering look. 

“You are desired,” Ellie assured him, surprised at her own boldness. “You must know that. The question here is, do you desire me? Or was that kiss a mere conflagration of unchecked instinct? I can accept it if it was, if you were caught unawares, and a little lonely yourself. I can be your business partner, Trenton, because raising horses is a good idea, and I know when Excalibur leaves that paddock, he’ll be tired, but he won’t be missing anybody in particular. I was married to Dane Hampton, for pity’s sake, better known as the Ram himself, and if anybody understands about wayward male—” 

Amherst shut her up with another kiss, this one very different from the last. 

His kiss was a greeting and a surrender. He put his mouth to Ellie’s quickly, almost as if trying to elude his own notice, then he stilled and stayed for a moment in that initial posture. 

Ellie sighed against his mouth and sank her hand into the warm, silky abundance of his hair while he brushed his lips softly over hers. His arms went around her, bringing her closer, and then his thumb caressed her jaw, and his fingers traced her ear. 

“I like that,” Ellie murmured against his mouth. 

He smiled and kept on kissing her, seaming her lips with his tongue, slowly, lazily. Gone was the pawing stallion
and
the prosy gentleman. In their place was the healthy, grown man bent on indulging in a kiss that should have been stolen, but was shared with increasing enthusiasm. 

Ellie let him show her how to linger and be soothed, how to enjoy and be enjoyed in a single kiss. When he eased back, the peppermint taste of him was on her tongue, his scent was in her nose, and the contour of his long, lean, male body imprinted on her imagination. 

“Here is what I can offer,” he said, his arm around her shoulders, right where Ellie needed it to be when she was feeling floaty and lightheaded—and not as a function of her condition. “I can flirt with you, kiss you, give you every assurance you’re a beautiful and highly desirable woman, Ellie. Carrying a child can leave a woman in need of reassurances. I can provide those reassurances.” 

Who would have thought that earnestness was a fine quality in a man’s kisses but not in his lectures? 

“However?” 

He kissed her cheek and spoke very near her ear. “However, you have to promise me you’ll not rush into this. I can be your distraction, your temporary toy, but you don’t need to bed me, and I’m telling you, you should not.” 

Bed him.
The very words made Ellie’s body thrum. “This great caution is in aid of what? Is there a manual for this, too?” 

“There is, and I’ve read it and you haven’t, so attend me, and behave yourself.” His admonition was underscored with a tightening of his arm around her shoulders. 

And yet his voice was gentle. “I’ll not let you rush into a situation like this, not so soon after your spouse has died, and not with me. I can protect you that much, and in a few weeks, when you’re less fascinated with exerting your charms over my hapless self, you can step back, no harm done, a few pleasant memories stored up.” 

What he said made sense, but Ellie still felt a rejection in his words. A frustration, at the least. 

“You are stubborn, my lord. But you kiss…” 

“None of that. Those are my terms, and we’ll not sign any business papers for at least the rest of the summer.” 

“We’re to have a gentlemen’s agreement?” 

“We’re to leave our options open. Your options open.” 

Ellie nuzzled his hand where it lay on her shoulder. Even his hands smelled good, so good it was difficult to consider his reasoning. They were to flirt but not gallop headlong for the breeding shed, which was resoundingly prudent. They were to start on their business venture but not make any irrevocable commitments or outlays of coin. 

“We’ll approach this your way,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, Trenton Lindsey. You’re thinking in a few weeks I’ll lose my waistline, and dignity will prevent me from the worst mischief with you.” 

His eyebrows went up, and Ellie had the satisfaction of knowing she’d guessed his thoughts. 

“The birth of her child should be a mother’s focus,” he said, like a man who knows he’s on tricky ground—still. 

“I’ve agreed to your terms.” Ellie rose, and he was immediately beside her. “I haven’t much choice, and they make sense.” She had been married, and thus she knew that once a difficult topic had been aired, a man needed time to regain his balance. “Now, in your draft documents, you included a clause about exceeding loss projections, and it struck me as Draconian…” 

She led him through the shaded gardens, into the sunshine, and back to the bench where they’d kissed, and when dear Trenton was knee-deep in an explanation of liquidated damages, she went up on her toes and kissed him again. A soft, sweet, kiss intended to distract him thoroughly from contract clauses of any variety. 

So distracting, apparently, that she could take his hand and put it low on her abdomen. Trenton believed in issuing helpful warnings, and Ellie meant to put him on notice: She might be losing her waistline already, but she wasn’t about to let that inspire any excesses of…dignity. 

***

Arthur patiently listened to all of Trent’s reasons for why a dalliance with Ellie Hampton was a wonderful, bad idea, an idea that had been adroitly disarmed aborning, Trent hoped. The woods were cool, and as Trent rode past the pond, he reflected that a protracted dip in the colder end might aid a man in marshaling his best intentions. 

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice voices coming from his stable until he handed Arthur’s reins to a slender, dark-haired lad who introduced himself as Peak. 

“I have company?” 

“Very large,” Peak replied in an odd, husky brogue. “Blond, friendly, dotes on his mare. I’ve seen him at the hunt meets with Greymoor.” 

Trent resurrected a few curses a man with three children didn’t make much use of, even though foul language was bad form before the help. 

“The world’s biggest broody hen has come to check on a chick. Spoil dear Buttercup rotten. Bellefonte takes the care of all in his ambit seriously, most especially that mare.”

Peak scratched Arthur’s withers, provoking a sigh from the gelding. “His lordship’s going a round with Cato over docking tails. They’ll be at it all day.” 

“You can escape the line of fire by walking Arthur out.” Trent did not run up his stirrups. “In the shade of the woods might suit.” 

Peak gave him a momentary, charming smile and swung onto Arthur’s back without benefit of a mounting block. His feet didn’t reach the stirrups, for he was a good foot shorter than Trent, and he had to cross the leathers over the gelding’s neck, but Arthur obligingly toddled off toward the woods nonetheless. 

“Amherst.” Nick Haddonfield emerged from the stables, grinning broadly. “One of my two absolutely favorite brothers-by-marriage.” He treated Trent to the kind of careful hug he probably gave his grandmother. “Leah sends her love, as do Ford, Michael, and probably Lanie, when she isn’t bellowing about her nappy being wet.” 

“Darius unleashed you upon me,” Trent said, ignoring a pang of guilt at the mention of his children. “He must not only spy himself, he must send reinforcements. Come along, because this spying business works both ways. How is my sister?” 

They caught up on Leah, the various children, and Emily’s summer thus far with Nick’s grandmother, Lady Warne. When the civilities had been observed and a plate of sandwiches demolished, Nick yawned indelicately. 

“Beg pardon. Woke up too early.” 

Trent rose, happy to dodge the real inquisition for another hour. “I’ll show you to a room. You’ve yet to tell me how long you can stay.” He paused at the library door to give instructions to a footman, then led Nick up to the next floor.