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A HERO'S HEART
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A HERO'S HEART
Chapters
1. Escape
2. A Page in the Duke’s Life
3. Kicking Against the Pricks
4. In Hot Pursuit
5. Portrait of a Gentleman
6. High Stakes
7. A Nerve-Wracking Opera
8. An Eye-Opening Night
9. The Disastrous Truth
10. The Duke’s Dilemma
11. Departure from His Grace
12. A Clash of Wills
13. The Illicit Purchase
14. The Coming-Out Ball
15. The Letter
16. Fireworks
17. The Honor of a Gentleman
18. A Published Item
19. Robin Hood’s Bay
20. The Crashing Tide
21. The Hermit
22. The Raid
23. Passions Under the Surface
24. Where There’s a Will
25. The Duke’s Sacrifice
26. Disquieting Developments
27. In Love, We Hate Companions
28. The Invalid
29. The Trials of Love
30. The Agony
31. Exercises in Exasperation
32. Secrets Concealed
33. The Horseman
34. A Time for Lace
BONUS Preview of Forbidden Arabelle
Glossary
1. Escape
2. A Page in the Duke’s Life
3. Kicking Against the Pricks
4. In Hot Pursuit
5. Portrait of a Gentleman
6. High Stakes
7. A Nerve-Wracking Opera
8. An Eye-Opening Night
9. The Disastrous Truth
10. The Duke’s Dilemma
11. Departure from His Grace
12. A Clash of Wills
13. The Illicit Purchase
14. The Coming-Out Ball
15. The Letter
16. Fireworks
17. The Honor of a Gentleman
18. A Published Item
19. Robin Hood’s Bay
20. The Crashing Tide
21. The Hermit
22. The Raid
23. Passions Under the Surface
24. Where There’s a Will
25. The Duke’s Sacrifice
26. Disquieting Developments
27. In Love, We Hate Companions
28. The Invalid
29. The Trials of Love
30. The Agony
31. Exercises in Exasperation
32. Secrets Concealed
33. The Horseman
34. A Time for Lace
BONUS Preview of Forbidden Arabelle
Glossary
Chapter 1
Escape
The Duke of Rowan drove his coach around a bend in the York road, fuming over his naïveté. He still marveled in disbelief that such a new widow had pursued him, and so blatantly. “She actually tried to trap me!” he shouted. “And it’s only been a week since her husband’s funeral!”
At his outburst, the white ears of his four horses pricked with interest, so he called, “Don’t ever be too nice and sympathetic to a female. She’s liable to spring a trap on you!”
As birds chirped their dawn chorus in the golden summer light, Rowan drove more slowly, enjoying the smell of plowed earth one minute, and freshly-scythed hay the next. Sheep lay in clusters, munching grass within dry-stone walls. Rowan relaxed the reins and left the road to his lead horse. He took a deep breath and let his eyes follow the fields undulating away like a crazy quilt.
His vehicle suddenly careened and jerked as his horses halted. He was startled to see a flash of corn silk hair as a boy made a flying leap from a stone wall right into the horses’ path. Rowan yanked the reins to a full stop just in time.
The long-legged scamp didn’t even pause at the near collision, but hurtled over a stile and landed in a field of harvested hay. He ran and dove into the pyramid base of a large hayrick in such a twinkling that Rowan would have been hard-pressed to prove that there had been a boy at all but for the bits of chaff that fluttered to the ground.
The Duke removed the black top hat which had shifted to the bridge of his nose. This was revolting. His perfectly-fitted hats never moved from his head. Staring at the oily inside band with revulsion, he spat, “Whose is this?”
It had been four in the morning when he slipped out of Lady Flitcroft’s country house. By the weak flickering of the hall sconce, he had seen this hat silhouetted on the table and assumed it was his. Was he not the only male guest there? Or had Her Ladyship lured another fool into her lair? His mind filled with disgust, most of it directed at himself. He had never felt so ridiculous as when he had had to lock his chamber door in self-defense.
He jabbed his fingers through his dark hair, sending it rippling like waves full of life. He couldn’t properly drive without a hat so he crammed the surrogate back on.
Lincoln Minster in the distance appeared in dark magnificence against the blinding sun, and in the opposite direction, tangerine light bathed Belvoir Castle’s round and square towers, giving its windows a liquid sheen.
While thus distracted by the views, he gave his team office to walk on, but almost instantly his vehicle lurched to a stop so violently that he landed with an elbow on the tufted seat. “What next!” he expelled. He shoved the hat up off his eyebrows.
A burly farmer had plunged over the stone wall, and dodged Rowan’s rearing leader. With eyes bulging to and fro, the man bellowed into cupped hands, “You won’t get away with it, you ruttin’ swine!” He waved a hairy fist in the direction of the hay field.
Watching this ludicrous performance, Rowan grabbed his coach horn and blasted the notes for Clear the Road!
The rustic jumped in alarm and stared wildly at him.
The Duke strove for patience. “Can you not see a team on the road and keep yourself out of harm’s way? My horses could have trampled you.”
The heavily-breathing farmer sat onto a stone of the stile, popped up, rubbed his backside, and gaped at the impressive gentleman whose dark brows formed such a scowl. After noting the crest on the carriage door, he tugged his forelock. Turning away, his complexion turned purple with renewed venom as he roared, “That wily cracker! Which way’d ‘ee go?”
Rowan replaced each leather ribbon between the fingers of his driving hand and dropped the man a look from under bored eyelids.
This produced a clumsy bow. “Sir! Did ye happen to see where that scoundrel made off to?”
“A scoundrel, is it?” Rowan threw a pointed look toward the hillock of oaks a good hike beyond the hay field.
Following this glance, light dawned on the farmer. He muttered a form of gratitude and clambered his bulging rear over the stile. Rowan watched his dirty cap until it disappeared into a thick plantation of trees.
A volcanic commotion erupted at the base of the nearby hayrick. The blond youth emerged through flying chaff and bounded toward the Duke’s carriage.
Seeing the terrified eyes, Rowan, for the third time in a few yards, halted his team.
The lad darted into the shade of his carriage. With a suspicion of tears and a smear of dirt, his face was earnest as he fixed large blue-gray eyes on the Duke. “Oh, thank you, Sir! You were prime! So clever to send him wrong without actually lying.” The voice flowed out in a cultured stream and created a strange combination with the ill-cut hair and tattered coat.
Rowan saw alertness in every line of the youth’s body, from the long, tightly-clasped fingers to the awestruck face. “You find it remarkable that a stranger should aid you?” he inquired.
“It’s remarkable in the extreme, Sir. Why did you do such a thing for me?”
“That is a question I am hard-put to answer.” Rowan smiled, realizing it was sympathy for the pursued which had prompted him. He had just left a similar situation. “Suppose you regale me with an explanation of your, ah, evasion.”
“I would like to explain after what you did, Sir, but it would take too long, and,” he shot a worried glance toward the woods, “I haven’t the time. I must escape while I can. I am obliged to you forever and ever, though. Oh! Could you please whip up these fabulous horses so I can run in your shade up the hill, just until I’m past that gibbet? If Ramsbottom sees me, he’ll hang me with the remains of that grave robber.”
With the ghost of a grin, Rowan gave an acquiescent nod and swiveled his reins. His wheels and their long shadows spiraled up the slope, concealing the thin form in the floppy gray pantaloons.
Rowan saw determination in the smudged face beneath the pale hair which cut a silky swath across the smooth forehead. He wondered how the sensitive-looking lad came to be called a ruttin’ swine by that ham-fisted farmer. How incongruous. With a friendly grin, the Duke said, “You seem awfully young to be pursued by such raging accusations. How old are you?”
“Er, sixteen, Sir.”
* * *
Beneath the ill-fitting tweedy coat, her heart pumped guiltily. She had just told a lie. She was not sixteen; she was eighteen. Warily, she glanced up at him.
The smile he flashed at her was rather shy, yet showed such kind camaraderie that she felt a rush of warmth toward him. Though desperate to make her dash, Patricia Ravenscar marveled. A stranger was doing a great kindness for her. What a Godsend! As she jogged up the hill beside the whirling silver spokes, she ventured another look at him. Her heart skipped. She had never seen such a magnificently handsome man in her life, or in her dreams.
At the crest of the wold, the sunrise lit with clarity the gruesome gibbet. Its latest victim dangled there, chains clanking, rags a-flutter. A nauseating stench seared into their nostrils. Tricia covered her nose with her hands and made a gagging sound. The gentleman groped inside his dark coat and pulled out a handkerchief.
Come,” he commanded, leaning down and thrusting his handkerchief at her, “up with me, Vagabond, away from that grisly sight. Shall we make our escape together?”
Above the fresh-smelling linen of the handkerchief, Tricia’s eyes widened in surprise on her benefactor. “You astodish me!” she said with her nose pinched inside the pristine linen. “I am so grateful for your offer, Sir. Even a mile’s ride will help me immensely.”
“Quickly, then!” Rowan lifted his whip and moved aside.
She vaulted up to the driving box in a boyish manner and took the seat next to him.
From the spinney came a roar. Swiveling their heads, they saw Farmer Ramsbottom advancing on them in fury, head leading, limbs pumping, fists redoubled.
“He’s seen me up here, and he’s horn-mad!” cried Tricia.
The Duke’s lips curved with a smile for the challenge. With a harmless sing of the whip, he urged his snowy team of grays up Gunnerby Hill.
“How far do you wish to remove?” he shouted.
To the end of the earth!” she returned with feeling.
“Ha! Likewise. But aren’t you that man’s relation?” The Duke observed her face, then gave a short laugh. “Surely not.”
Tricia shook her head and wished he wouldn’t look at her too closely. She tried to make her hair fall more over her eyes. She resumed a more masculine attitude, legs and elbows apart, bracing herself against the jolts.
With manes slapping, the frenzied team pounded the road to Grantham, rattling them over every stone and pit without compunction. The Duke slackened their pace eventually and said, “Now we can hear each other talk without bellowing. Tell me, does that farmer employ you? Do you have to return when his wrath has cooled?”
Words poured out of Tricia. “I was in his employ, but for a fortnight only, amen! He is harsh and mean and accusatory. Were I to forfeit a month’s wages, nothing would induce me to return.”
“Indeed?” The gentleman’s dark eyebrows lifted as he considered this.
"He’d likely track me down in Grantham, so you can let me off on Witham Common, Sir. The Black Bull Inn is there. I heard that coaches go through constantly as it’s the border of the counties so maybe I could—”
“Excuse me.” He tapped her forearm. “I thought you wanted to remove as far as possible from that embodiment of tyranny.” He motioned backward.
Startled by his touch, she gobbled out, “Oh, I do, I do.”
“Well, if you don’t find a ride in my conveyance too lowering or my company too agèd,” he grinned disarmingly, showing nice teeth, “why not ride farther with me?”
“Could I ride to Stamford, perhaps?”
“Why, yes; but why not to London? There your taskmaster would have a rare task to find you. You could acquire a more suitable post. Pages, for instance, are in great demand with the Little Season upon us.”
“Pages?” Tricia let go her grip as they swung around an S in the road. Teetering off balance, she snatched for the nearest stationary object, which was the stranger’s arm encased in a coat of midnight blue wool with black corduroy cuffs.
“Is there pardon for me?” she wailed as she righted herself. “Let me clean your sleeve at the first stop. You took me aback about pages, Sir.”
* * *
The lad’s pathetic reaction touched Rowan. “Did you aspire to a more exalted position, then? You appear a bit young to be a first or even a second footman. My opinion, of course; my steward hires them.”
“No,” said his passenger, “quite the opposite. I was but the scullery boy for Farmer Ramsbottom. He engaged me to pluck the hens and dress them, water the sheep and swine, empty the slops—oh, pardons by the thousands—I mean, throw out the—you know—and carry hot water to his daughter’s chamber.”
Just as he reached the verge of laughter, Rowan saw that the boy looked uncomfortable.
“That’s how I came into Ramsbottom’s bad graces.”
Rowan shouted with glee. “It’s beyond my capability to envision Ramsbottom with graces of any description!”
The lad dimpled and picked hay out of his waistcoat. “You see, his daughter, Matilda, is his prize pullet. I was to set the water bucket in the hall, rap on her door, and skedaddle. This morning, her door hung ajar. I thought she had sneaked out to see her flame behind the grove again, so I put the water inside. Otherwise, if Ramsbottom came by and saw the water untouched, he’d storm in, bellow at her for lying abed, and discover she wasn’t even in. He would be furious to know she meets the ostler on the sly.”
“So what happened?”
“Miss Matilda wasn’t out. She was in.”
“And?”
The words dragged from the lad’s lips. “She was making her toilette.”
“You don’t say! At what stage was she?”
“Hardly a scrap on.”
“Zounds! Were you thrilled?” His eyes danced teasingly over the youth.
In the driest manner possible, he returned, “Utterly thrilled, I assure you.”
“Did she screech in mock horror?” Rowan warmed to the subject. “Did she accuse you of vile designs upon her person?”
“Some such garble. How did you know?”
Rowan tightened his jaw. A flood of memories deluged him, ruining his light-hearted mood. “Though she often has no virtue to speak of,” he said woodenly, “the woman of our day makes a great show of modesty. It is modesty that goes no deeper than her sweetest expression.” He glanced at the listening boy. “If you had professed admiration for the ruffled Matilda, you would have found in her an astonishing reversal of character, my lad.”
“Sir! That is ridiculous. Me professing admiration for Matilda!”
“Granted, you are rather young. But the day will come.”
Rowan guided his horses carefully through a flock of sheep that streamed across the road, their varied bleats creating a chorus, from lamb sopranos to the grumpy bass protests of an old ram.
* * *
Tricia was grateful for the diversion. Goodness, but her story had been embarrassing. Glancing at the powerfully-built gentleman driving the slowing white horses so skillfully, she wanted to know more about him. She did not want to talk any more about herself, for it was difficult to continue in what she hoped was a boyish manner. She took a breath of courage and said, “You seem to know a great deal about women. Would it be experience, Sir?”
A cynical expression flickered over the handsome face. “Yes.”
Tricia’s heart sank. He looked so kind and strong and appealing. He was those things. He had to be. She could not bear to think of him having tangled with women who were not good for him.
He said confidingly, “I told you that I, too, am escaping.”
That surprised her. “From what, Sir?”
“Black gloves. She is a widow. A very showy one, whose late husband was a friend of mine. I thought his bereft spouse needed advice about her estate when she begged me to come to Yorkshire. When I got to her country place, lo and behold, she displayed the same licentious tendencies I have found lodging in the hearts of every woman I have known save my mother.”
“You mean she tried to—”
He frowned and nodded. “Seduce me, of all things. I could not believe that a lady could be so callous a se’nnight after her husband’s funeral. And he was so honorable.”
Tricia could find no words of optimism to offer.
He continued, “I don’t know any women who are truly caring or giving unless it suits them to appear so; and then it is likely done in order to snap up a man for his wealth or his title. They are then far too possessive when they think they’ve hooked you. They are free to be yours every moment you have, and every moment you haven’t.”
Tricia’s pulses pounded. Was this really what well-born women were like? She must hear more. “Can you explain that to me, who am not a gentleman and never likely to be one, Sir?”
“The women in my social sphere fling their virtue at a man so that he—” Reigning his horses to a walk, he abandoned that sentence in seeming frustration, then plunged on with a slight flush, “so that I, at least, have no pleasure in their company. It’s all I can do to avoid the whole lot.”
“Is that so difficult?” asked Tricia, understanding with all her heart why women would fling themselves at him.
Escape
The Duke of Rowan drove his coach around a bend in the York road, fuming over his naïveté. He still marveled in disbelief that such a new widow had pursued him, and so blatantly. “She actually tried to trap me!” he shouted. “And it’s only been a week since her husband’s funeral!”
At his outburst, the white ears of his four horses pricked with interest, so he called, “Don’t ever be too nice and sympathetic to a female. She’s liable to spring a trap on you!”
As birds chirped their dawn chorus in the golden summer light, Rowan drove more slowly, enjoying the smell of plowed earth one minute, and freshly-scythed hay the next. Sheep lay in clusters, munching grass within dry-stone walls. Rowan relaxed the reins and left the road to his lead horse. He took a deep breath and let his eyes follow the fields undulating away like a crazy quilt.
His vehicle suddenly careened and jerked as his horses halted. He was startled to see a flash of corn silk hair as a boy made a flying leap from a stone wall right into the horses’ path. Rowan yanked the reins to a full stop just in time.
The long-legged scamp didn’t even pause at the near collision, but hurtled over a stile and landed in a field of harvested hay. He ran and dove into the pyramid base of a large hayrick in such a twinkling that Rowan would have been hard-pressed to prove that there had been a boy at all but for the bits of chaff that fluttered to the ground.
The Duke removed the black top hat which had shifted to the bridge of his nose. This was revolting. His perfectly-fitted hats never moved from his head. Staring at the oily inside band with revulsion, he spat, “Whose is this?”
It had been four in the morning when he slipped out of Lady Flitcroft’s country house. By the weak flickering of the hall sconce, he had seen this hat silhouetted on the table and assumed it was his. Was he not the only male guest there? Or had Her Ladyship lured another fool into her lair? His mind filled with disgust, most of it directed at himself. He had never felt so ridiculous as when he had had to lock his chamber door in self-defense.
He jabbed his fingers through his dark hair, sending it rippling like waves full of life. He couldn’t properly drive without a hat so he crammed the surrogate back on.
Lincoln Minster in the distance appeared in dark magnificence against the blinding sun, and in the opposite direction, tangerine light bathed Belvoir Castle’s round and square towers, giving its windows a liquid sheen.
While thus distracted by the views, he gave his team office to walk on, but almost instantly his vehicle lurched to a stop so violently that he landed with an elbow on the tufted seat. “What next!” he expelled. He shoved the hat up off his eyebrows.
A burly farmer had plunged over the stone wall, and dodged Rowan’s rearing leader. With eyes bulging to and fro, the man bellowed into cupped hands, “You won’t get away with it, you ruttin’ swine!” He waved a hairy fist in the direction of the hay field.
Watching this ludicrous performance, Rowan grabbed his coach horn and blasted the notes for Clear the Road!
The rustic jumped in alarm and stared wildly at him.
The Duke strove for patience. “Can you not see a team on the road and keep yourself out of harm’s way? My horses could have trampled you.”
The heavily-breathing farmer sat onto a stone of the stile, popped up, rubbed his backside, and gaped at the impressive gentleman whose dark brows formed such a scowl. After noting the crest on the carriage door, he tugged his forelock. Turning away, his complexion turned purple with renewed venom as he roared, “That wily cracker! Which way’d ‘ee go?”
Rowan replaced each leather ribbon between the fingers of his driving hand and dropped the man a look from under bored eyelids.
This produced a clumsy bow. “Sir! Did ye happen to see where that scoundrel made off to?”
“A scoundrel, is it?” Rowan threw a pointed look toward the hillock of oaks a good hike beyond the hay field.
Following this glance, light dawned on the farmer. He muttered a form of gratitude and clambered his bulging rear over the stile. Rowan watched his dirty cap until it disappeared into a thick plantation of trees.
A volcanic commotion erupted at the base of the nearby hayrick. The blond youth emerged through flying chaff and bounded toward the Duke’s carriage.
Seeing the terrified eyes, Rowan, for the third time in a few yards, halted his team.
The lad darted into the shade of his carriage. With a suspicion of tears and a smear of dirt, his face was earnest as he fixed large blue-gray eyes on the Duke. “Oh, thank you, Sir! You were prime! So clever to send him wrong without actually lying.” The voice flowed out in a cultured stream and created a strange combination with the ill-cut hair and tattered coat.
Rowan saw alertness in every line of the youth’s body, from the long, tightly-clasped fingers to the awestruck face. “You find it remarkable that a stranger should aid you?” he inquired.
“It’s remarkable in the extreme, Sir. Why did you do such a thing for me?”
“That is a question I am hard-put to answer.” Rowan smiled, realizing it was sympathy for the pursued which had prompted him. He had just left a similar situation. “Suppose you regale me with an explanation of your, ah, evasion.”
“I would like to explain after what you did, Sir, but it would take too long, and,” he shot a worried glance toward the woods, “I haven’t the time. I must escape while I can. I am obliged to you forever and ever, though. Oh! Could you please whip up these fabulous horses so I can run in your shade up the hill, just until I’m past that gibbet? If Ramsbottom sees me, he’ll hang me with the remains of that grave robber.”
With the ghost of a grin, Rowan gave an acquiescent nod and swiveled his reins. His wheels and their long shadows spiraled up the slope, concealing the thin form in the floppy gray pantaloons.
Rowan saw determination in the smudged face beneath the pale hair which cut a silky swath across the smooth forehead. He wondered how the sensitive-looking lad came to be called a ruttin’ swine by that ham-fisted farmer. How incongruous. With a friendly grin, the Duke said, “You seem awfully young to be pursued by such raging accusations. How old are you?”
“Er, sixteen, Sir.”
* * *
Beneath the ill-fitting tweedy coat, her heart pumped guiltily. She had just told a lie. She was not sixteen; she was eighteen. Warily, she glanced up at him.
The smile he flashed at her was rather shy, yet showed such kind camaraderie that she felt a rush of warmth toward him. Though desperate to make her dash, Patricia Ravenscar marveled. A stranger was doing a great kindness for her. What a Godsend! As she jogged up the hill beside the whirling silver spokes, she ventured another look at him. Her heart skipped. She had never seen such a magnificently handsome man in her life, or in her dreams.
At the crest of the wold, the sunrise lit with clarity the gruesome gibbet. Its latest victim dangled there, chains clanking, rags a-flutter. A nauseating stench seared into their nostrils. Tricia covered her nose with her hands and made a gagging sound. The gentleman groped inside his dark coat and pulled out a handkerchief.
Come,” he commanded, leaning down and thrusting his handkerchief at her, “up with me, Vagabond, away from that grisly sight. Shall we make our escape together?”
Above the fresh-smelling linen of the handkerchief, Tricia’s eyes widened in surprise on her benefactor. “You astodish me!” she said with her nose pinched inside the pristine linen. “I am so grateful for your offer, Sir. Even a mile’s ride will help me immensely.”
“Quickly, then!” Rowan lifted his whip and moved aside.
She vaulted up to the driving box in a boyish manner and took the seat next to him.
From the spinney came a roar. Swiveling their heads, they saw Farmer Ramsbottom advancing on them in fury, head leading, limbs pumping, fists redoubled.
“He’s seen me up here, and he’s horn-mad!” cried Tricia.
The Duke’s lips curved with a smile for the challenge. With a harmless sing of the whip, he urged his snowy team of grays up Gunnerby Hill.
“How far do you wish to remove?” he shouted.
To the end of the earth!” she returned with feeling.
“Ha! Likewise. But aren’t you that man’s relation?” The Duke observed her face, then gave a short laugh. “Surely not.”
Tricia shook her head and wished he wouldn’t look at her too closely. She tried to make her hair fall more over her eyes. She resumed a more masculine attitude, legs and elbows apart, bracing herself against the jolts.
With manes slapping, the frenzied team pounded the road to Grantham, rattling them over every stone and pit without compunction. The Duke slackened their pace eventually and said, “Now we can hear each other talk without bellowing. Tell me, does that farmer employ you? Do you have to return when his wrath has cooled?”
Words poured out of Tricia. “I was in his employ, but for a fortnight only, amen! He is harsh and mean and accusatory. Were I to forfeit a month’s wages, nothing would induce me to return.”
“Indeed?” The gentleman’s dark eyebrows lifted as he considered this.
"He’d likely track me down in Grantham, so you can let me off on Witham Common, Sir. The Black Bull Inn is there. I heard that coaches go through constantly as it’s the border of the counties so maybe I could—”
“Excuse me.” He tapped her forearm. “I thought you wanted to remove as far as possible from that embodiment of tyranny.” He motioned backward.
Startled by his touch, she gobbled out, “Oh, I do, I do.”
“Well, if you don’t find a ride in my conveyance too lowering or my company too agèd,” he grinned disarmingly, showing nice teeth, “why not ride farther with me?”
“Could I ride to Stamford, perhaps?”
“Why, yes; but why not to London? There your taskmaster would have a rare task to find you. You could acquire a more suitable post. Pages, for instance, are in great demand with the Little Season upon us.”
“Pages?” Tricia let go her grip as they swung around an S in the road. Teetering off balance, she snatched for the nearest stationary object, which was the stranger’s arm encased in a coat of midnight blue wool with black corduroy cuffs.
“Is there pardon for me?” she wailed as she righted herself. “Let me clean your sleeve at the first stop. You took me aback about pages, Sir.”
* * *
The lad’s pathetic reaction touched Rowan. “Did you aspire to a more exalted position, then? You appear a bit young to be a first or even a second footman. My opinion, of course; my steward hires them.”
“No,” said his passenger, “quite the opposite. I was but the scullery boy for Farmer Ramsbottom. He engaged me to pluck the hens and dress them, water the sheep and swine, empty the slops—oh, pardons by the thousands—I mean, throw out the—you know—and carry hot water to his daughter’s chamber.”
Just as he reached the verge of laughter, Rowan saw that the boy looked uncomfortable.
“That’s how I came into Ramsbottom’s bad graces.”
Rowan shouted with glee. “It’s beyond my capability to envision Ramsbottom with graces of any description!”
The lad dimpled and picked hay out of his waistcoat. “You see, his daughter, Matilda, is his prize pullet. I was to set the water bucket in the hall, rap on her door, and skedaddle. This morning, her door hung ajar. I thought she had sneaked out to see her flame behind the grove again, so I put the water inside. Otherwise, if Ramsbottom came by and saw the water untouched, he’d storm in, bellow at her for lying abed, and discover she wasn’t even in. He would be furious to know she meets the ostler on the sly.”
“So what happened?”
“Miss Matilda wasn’t out. She was in.”
“And?”
The words dragged from the lad’s lips. “She was making her toilette.”
“You don’t say! At what stage was she?”
“Hardly a scrap on.”
“Zounds! Were you thrilled?” His eyes danced teasingly over the youth.
In the driest manner possible, he returned, “Utterly thrilled, I assure you.”
“Did she screech in mock horror?” Rowan warmed to the subject. “Did she accuse you of vile designs upon her person?”
“Some such garble. How did you know?”
Rowan tightened his jaw. A flood of memories deluged him, ruining his light-hearted mood. “Though she often has no virtue to speak of,” he said woodenly, “the woman of our day makes a great show of modesty. It is modesty that goes no deeper than her sweetest expression.” He glanced at the listening boy. “If you had professed admiration for the ruffled Matilda, you would have found in her an astonishing reversal of character, my lad.”
“Sir! That is ridiculous. Me professing admiration for Matilda!”
“Granted, you are rather young. But the day will come.”
Rowan guided his horses carefully through a flock of sheep that streamed across the road, their varied bleats creating a chorus, from lamb sopranos to the grumpy bass protests of an old ram.
* * *
Tricia was grateful for the diversion. Goodness, but her story had been embarrassing. Glancing at the powerfully-built gentleman driving the slowing white horses so skillfully, she wanted to know more about him. She did not want to talk any more about herself, for it was difficult to continue in what she hoped was a boyish manner. She took a breath of courage and said, “You seem to know a great deal about women. Would it be experience, Sir?”
A cynical expression flickered over the handsome face. “Yes.”
Tricia’s heart sank. He looked so kind and strong and appealing. He was those things. He had to be. She could not bear to think of him having tangled with women who were not good for him.
He said confidingly, “I told you that I, too, am escaping.”
That surprised her. “From what, Sir?”
“Black gloves. She is a widow. A very showy one, whose late husband was a friend of mine. I thought his bereft spouse needed advice about her estate when she begged me to come to Yorkshire. When I got to her country place, lo and behold, she displayed the same licentious tendencies I have found lodging in the hearts of every woman I have known save my mother.”
“You mean she tried to—”
He frowned and nodded. “Seduce me, of all things. I could not believe that a lady could be so callous a se’nnight after her husband’s funeral. And he was so honorable.”
Tricia could find no words of optimism to offer.
He continued, “I don’t know any women who are truly caring or giving unless it suits them to appear so; and then it is likely done in order to snap up a man for his wealth or his title. They are then far too possessive when they think they’ve hooked you. They are free to be yours every moment you have, and every moment you haven’t.”
Tricia’s pulses pounded. Was this really what well-born women were like? She must hear more. “Can you explain that to me, who am not a gentleman and never likely to be one, Sir?”
“The women in my social sphere fling their virtue at a man so that he—” Reigning his horses to a walk, he abandoned that sentence in seeming frustration, then plunged on with a slight flush, “so that I, at least, have no pleasure in their company. It’s all I can do to avoid the whole lot.”
“Is that so difficult?” asked Tricia, understanding with all her heart why women would fling themselves at him.
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