A Baron for Becky (30 page)

Indeed, Sophie
and Sarah were upstairs this minute writing letters to those dear
friends. And Belle had wept when parted from Lady Mary Redepenning,
a spare three months her junior. But home was best. The girls had
erupted from the house this morning to rush around the garden,
reclaiming their favourite play places. Becky sympathised. She
might not shout and run, but she found herself moving around the
house, running her hand along the back of the chairs in the
parlour, reordering the flowers in the bowl in the hall,
straightening an ornament here and a cushion there.

The parlour
needed no more attention than any other room, but she twitched a
fringe on a tablecloth, shaped the carvings at the side of the
mantelpiece with her finger, and tucked a rose more firmly into the
bowl of flowers on the sideboard.

Becky was
startled by an unexpected noise. Snuffling behind the curtain
proved to be a miserable little girl, curled up on the cushioned
seat in the deep window embrasure.

“Belle, baby,
whatever is the matter?” She swept her daughter onto her lap. At
three and a half, Lady Isabelle Overton normally strongly objected
to being called ‘baby,’ and Becky measured the child’s distress by
her willingness to overlook her mother’s slip of the tongue.

“The big girls
told me not to bother them, Mama,” Belle complained, “and I miss
Mary.”

“We shall
invite her to visit, dearest. And when you learn your letters you
will write to her.”

“But that will
be forever,” wailed the child.

“I know! I
shall find you some paper and you shall draw her a picture!”

When Hugh
joined them they were at her desk in his study, Becky leafing
through a pile of correspondence, Belle working intently on a
drawing for her friend that looked like a collection of misshapen
blotches, but was really, so Belle said, an image of the carriage
that had brought them home.

“Becky, my
love, I thought I’d ride out. Just for a look around.” Becky
smiled. Hugh, too, felt the need to circle his estate and reassure
himself that home was still home.

“Take Belle?”
she suggested. Lord Chirbury rode out most days with his son and
heir. The Earl’s tenants had known their future lord and master
since he was old enough to perch on the saddle before his father,
and at nearly seven, young Viscount Longford already expressed
opinions about the wool clip and the wheat harvest.

“The Overton
tenants should get to know their future lady, Hugh.”

Hugh chuckled,
and ran an affectionate hand over his daughter’s head, who brushed
it away, intent on her drawing. “She need not worry about the
estate, Becky. We shall find her a good husband, when the time
comes.”

What a
typically male thing to say. “Belle will be the baroness, Hugh. In
her own right. She will be responsible for passing on the title and
the estate, intact and improved, to her children. Belle. Not her
husband.”

Hugh looked
wary, as well he might. “I only meant...”

“Do you think
women are less competent than men?”

“No,
but...”

“Or less
intelligent?”

Hugh shook his
head. “Definitely not.”

“More fragile,
perhaps?” she asked, sweetly. “Or do you believe your daughter less
capable than Lord Chirbury’s son?”

Hugh spread his
hands in defeat.

“Very well. I
surrender. You are right, heart of my heart. You are the least
fragile person I know. And you and I working together run this
estate and the mill better than ever I could on my own. We shall
train our daughter. Though, what the tenants will make of it, I do
not know.” He turned to the little girl.

“Lady Isabelle
Overton, is today a good day for your first lesson in how to be a
baroness?”

Belle looked up
at the use of her full name, eyes slowly refocusing. “Papa?” she
asked, not sure what he was asking.

“Would you care
to ride with your Papa, my sweet?” he asked.

With the little
girl on one arm, Hugh stopped to give his wife a fierce hug. “We
will not go far today, Becky.”

He brought
Belle home two hours later, tired but starry eyed, chattering so
fast about what she and Papa had done and seen, and who they had
met, Becky could only understand one word in three.

“Belle seemed
to enjoy herself,” she said to Hugh, as she finished dressing for
dinner, and he lounged against the wall of her dressing room to
watch.

“We visited the
Turners and the Wilsons, and we met up with Mrs Dean and her son
bringing in the cows. They love her already, Becky. They all knew
about the Letters Patent, and they are as happy as we.”

She smiled at
his image in the mirror. “I am so glad, Hugh.”

“Do you know
why?” She turned to face him, and shook her head.

“Turner told
me. He said she is the image of you, Becky, and if she grows up to
be just like you, then Overton is safe for another generation.”

Becky’s smile
widened into a grin, and she held her hands out to her husband,
blinking away happy tears.

He bridged the
gap for a kiss that lingered and deepened, leaving her breathless.
The physical attraction between them was never far below the
surface. The lightest touch, even a look, reminded them of the joys
they found in one another. Another kiss and they would be late for
dinner. And not for the first time. The cook would not be
amused.

Hugh’s next
words sealed the cook’s fate. “I agree with Turner. I hope Belle
grows up to be just like you. I am so proud to be your husband,
Becky.”

Becky opened
her arms to her baron. There would be other dinners.

THE END

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Thank you to my beta
readers: Carol, Sue, Jocelyn, Tray-Ci, Sandy, Angie, Cathy, Jo,
Jocelyn, Jan, and Doreen. Your comments and suggestions led to many
changes that made the book stronger.

Thank you to
Catherine Curzon, who played a story game with me and created the
germ of the idea. My Becky is no Mrs A., but Catherine will
recognise one or two of the events that prevented Aldridge from
consummating his desires before he arrived in London with Becky,
and the concept of a man brokering a marriage for his mistress also
came out of our game.

Thank you to
fellow Bluestocking Belles, especially Mari and Carol, who let me
ramble on about plot ideas, talked me through holdups and hiccups,
and encouraged me when I panicked.

Mari also
worked with me through multiple rounds of editing, fitting this
into a tight timeframe without a word of complaint.

As always, a
special thank you to my husband, without whose support I would
probably forget to eat when I get stuck in the early nineteenth
century, and to my sister Sue, who is always my first reader.

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