A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance (10 page)

Harry looked across the room to where Clive Brampton was engaged in conversation with Katherine. Was he imagining a hunted look on Katherine’s face? She glanced toward Gus Wharton, apparently in silent appeal for rescue, but Gus was fully occupied, grimly counting time under his breath for Leticia, who took the polite applause at the conclusion of each song as a request to continue her concert.

“I think we might expect a happy announcement from that quarter before the year is out. Katherine and Sir Clive were engaged to be married at one time, you know. I never did understand why it was broken off. Bride’s nerves, I suspect.”

If Katherine had suffered bride’s nerves in the past, it did not appear that she had fully recovered, from what Harry could see.

“But she will insist on waiting until she is out of mourning, one assumes.”

Dorothea sighed and shook her head.

“If she had any understanding of how things are done, she would have shed her blacks months ago. Three months is quite long enough to wear black for a brother. Of course, she will have to choose her new wardrobe with care. Few colors flatter ginger
hair,
and many colors look dreadful with it. Not that she has ever shown much fashion sense. I trust Sir Clive will insist that she consult a London
modiste
. They can do wonders—even with ladies of problematic coloring.”

Harry was incapable of speech. All he could think was how irrelevant anything was that Katherine Brampton chose to wear. She would be striking in anything—or nothing. But he had the presence of mind not to frame the thought in words.

Dorothea Brampton apparently took Harry’s mute stare as rapt attention and continued her soliloquy.

“And speaking of London, Lord Dracott.”
Dorothea smiled and studied Harry’s cravat. “One understands that pressing obligations have prevented you from attending to the niceties of updating
your
wardrobe, but one looks forward to seeing the results when you put yourself in the skilled hands of a London tailor. It would be criminal to waste your manly attributes.”

She punctuated her pronouncement by a soft tap on Harry’s hand with her fan. Harry resisted an urge to snatch the fan and break it in two. He scanned the drawing room, searching for deliverance.

“Such a delightful room, Lord Dracott.
Decorated in exquisite taste, to be sure.
But, no doubt, having seen the drawing rooms of London, you will wish to make it a little more up-to-date. Of course, such projects are best undertaken by a lady, do you not think?”

Harry thought that if he heard one more sentence out of Dorothea Brampton’s mouth, he might wrap her ruby and diamond necklace tightly, very tightly, around her throat. He looked about the room once more in desperation and noticed Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton pouring out tea.

“I believe I would like a cup of tea, Mrs. Brampton. May I fetch you one?”

Harry barely managed to walk, not run, to Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton and the tea tray.

*   *  *  *  *

Harry sat in semidarkness before the fire in the library. He rarely wasted candles on the other end of the room where his father’s writing desk and bookcases were located. Harry’s farming and sporting journals were stacked around his chair and hassock. Trinket slept on the hearth. She rarely wakened fully these days. The brandy decanter on the table next to Harry’s chair was three-quarters empty.

He moved to the fire, tossed in a cigar stub and lighted another with a spill. Discovering that he could still walk without stumbling, he poured another glass of brandy. The clocks in the house began to chime the hour; the last of 1813. He pulled off his loosened cravat, crumpled it, and tossed it on the floor.
Dorothea Brampton was fortunate that she was not wearing it knotted about her thick neck,
Harry thought.

He drained his glass, placed it carefully on the small table next to him, and inhaled deeply of the cigar. Actually, he decided he owed Dorothea Brampton a debt of gratitude.
A profound debt of gratitude.
If she had not reminded him so powerfully that he absolutely could not tolerate her as a mother-in-law, he might even now be walking straight into a parson’s mousetrap—beyond salvaging.

He poured more brandy.

“To Dorothea Brampton.”
He raised his glass to the portrait of the first Lord Henry Dracott, resplendent in the fashion of the Restoration. Sir Henry Dracott had wed Lady Amelia
Rostier
at the bidding of King Charles II, and had been elevated to the peerage as a reward. Lady Amelia might or might not have been a discarded royal mistress, but the son she bore exactly nine months after the wedding, named Charles, had shown no resemblance to the Merry Monarch, so the whispers of
Drayford
Vale were silenced and the newly minted peer was pronounced to be canny, indeed.

Dracotts
had, from that time, married advantageously. Even Harry’s father, the venerated Lord Cecil, had waited until the daughter of an earl with an impressive dowry had accepted his suit.

Harry, alone, had married for love.

In one respect, he had done his father one better. Lady Angela had been the daughter of a
marquess
. But any advantage ended right there. Lady Angela’s father had been pockets-to-let. All she had had was her beauty. But that had been sufficient. She was the toast of the season. And, of all her offers, she had accepted Harry’s.

Harry lifted the decanter. Not enough left to bother with a glass. He raised it to his lips. When it was empty, he resisted an impulse to throw it against the mantel.
Wouldn’t be right to frighten Trinket.
Think of Trinket. Think of Dorothea Brampton. Think of Leticia, even. Don’t think of Angela. More importantly, don’t think of Katherine.

But he had better think of Katherine.

Think, Harry, old man.
Think
. So far, his refusal to think about her—objectively assess the entire situation vis-à-vis himself and Katherine Brampton—had come pretty close to getting him Dorothea Brampton as mother-in-law. What was almost as bad, Dorothea Brampton believed Katherine and Clive would patch things up and wed.

Harry shuddered. Imagine family gatherings: Harry leg-shackled to Leticia; Clive and Katherine husband and wife; and Dorothea Brampton reigning over them all, giving fashion and decorating advice.

Well, he had caught himself in time. Harry would make it clear that he was not courting Leticia Brampton and had no intention of doing so.

But that left Clive and Katherine.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Would she? Could she?

Harry reviewed the evening’s farewells.

Katherine’s maid had carried down a sleeping Miguel as Katherine prepared to take her leave. The boy awoke, and Katherine had taken him in her arms, kissing and soothing him, holding him close.

Clive had followed her down the front steps to the waiting carriage—
Harry’s
carriage, and had assisted her. Once more, Harry had seen a hunted look on Katherine’s face before she turned to enter the carriage. She disliked Clive Brampton. Of that, Harry was certain. But she would do anything for the boy. Harry was certain of that, too. If she would consider marrying Clive Brampton—Sir Clive Brampton—for the sake of Miguel, might she not consider marrying
him
, Harry Dracott, for the sake of Miguel? “
Lord
Henry Dracott,” Harry muttered.

He closed his eyes and saw Katherine’s face as she had greeted him just today.
To see that face every day, for the rest of his life.
Marry me, Katherine, my darling. I will love you, care for you.

Then he remembered the pain.
The pain of needing someone.
Loving someone.
Losing someone.
In spite of the brandy, he knew the pain was there. Harry absentmindedly rubbed his chest as if he could erase the pain that never left.

Do not feel, Harry, lad, think!

Harry needed a mother for Lizzie. Lizzie loved Katherine and Katherine was very fond of Lizzie. Harry needed an heir. Well, Katherine was young enough to give Harry an heir. Better not dwell on the details of getting an heir if he wanted to reason this problem out coherently.

Katherine loved Miguel and needed someone to act as a father to Miguel. Harry could do that. Harry could even speak a little Spanish.

Surely, if he put matters to her in a businesslike way, she would see the sense of things. Given her circumstances, she would require expressions of love and devotion. Clive had said she was lacking sufficient self-interest to make wise decisions. But Harry was sure he could convince Katherine to enter a rationally based marriage with him if he thought things out clearly, practiced in his mind what he would say, and did not rush his fences—after all, Dorothea Brampton believed Katherine would make no decision until she was out of mourning, and she was still wearing black.

He finished his cigar, tossed the stub in the fire, and strolled to a window overlooking the sweep of the front driveway. Snow was falling. It had already blanketed the mounds of old snow that had been shoveled to the side for the convenience of his afternoon guests. Spring was far-off. Katherine Brampton was unlikely to make a decision about marriage until she had marked a year of mourning for Richard. That was in June. Harry figured he had time. He would practice his reasonable proposal, waiting until he could present a case for marriage coolly and rationally. Perhaps by spring, he could school himself to look into Katherine’s face without feeling as if he were falling over a cliff.
Or drowning in a limpid, green pool.

Katherine leaned over her great-aunt’s bed, plumped the pillows, and urged, “Please, Aunt
Prunella
, do try to eat something. Hephzibah has made some calves’ jelly. It will give you strength.”

The old lady dutifully permitted Katherine to lift a few
spoonfuls
to her mouth. She was still coughing a dry, hacking cough, but the streaming cold had abated. Katherine counted the days. It was two weeks into the
new year
. Yesterday had been the first anniversary of her father’s death. Sir Alfred Brampton had died peacefully in his sleep. He had suffered a chill on the lungs and his heart gave out, the apothecary had said. Although she had missed her father’s presence, added responsibilities for the running of Oak End gave her little time to ponder her loss. The new baronet, her brother Richard, had been off fighting in Spain, and it was up to Katherine to keep his inheritance intact for his return. But he would not return. He had been killed in June, at a place called Vitoria. The British had won the battle. Katherine had lost her brother and the security she had never before questioned.

She looked out the window. It was snowing again. The boxwood hedge was an indistinct hump beneath layers of snow. When it stopped snowing, the temperature would drop. She had already closed off the parlor. There was not sufficient wood or coal to keep unused rooms warm.

Miguel played contentedly before the hearth in the kitchen, Princess curled up by his side. His collection of soldiers had increased to a respectable company. Lizzie had been generous with her father’s old toys.

Lizzie’s father.
Why did gloom settle over Katherine when she thought of Lord Henry Dracott?
Because he has succumbed to the wiles of Cousin Leticia, and she will make him miserable and will never show Lizzie the devotion she needs and deserves,
Katherine told herself whenever the unbidden thought of Lord Dracott crossed her mind.

But he is unlikely to pursue his interest in Leticia in this weather,
Katherine thought, her spirits lifting. He would not risk being confined at Oak End with Aunt Brampton in the event of a serious blizzard.

A blizzard did not materialize, but as Katherine had known it would, the temperature plunged after the snow laid a thick new blanket over the garden. At last, Aunt
Prunella
was able to sit in a chair. Katherine was wondering if the entire household would have to live in the kitchen to conserve wood and coal, when there was pounding on the back door. It was Clem from the Hall, and Lizzie. Through the crusty snow, Clem had manhandled a sled laden with coal, wood, and a whole ham.

Katherine resisted embracing Clem, settling for repeated heartfelt thanks. Princess released pent-up energy barking and running underfoot. Katherine busied herself unwrapping Lizzie from layers of coats and scarves. Never had the child’s steady prattle been more welcomed.

“Nanny said I could not come, but I asked Papa and he said it would do me no harm and it would do everyone in the house a lot of good for me to get out and get some exercise. Then Cook dressed me in all these things. Which was silly, because, how far is it from the Hall to here?

“Princess!”

Lizzie greeted the enthusiastic spaniel with equal enthusiasm.

“Miguel!”

To Katherine’s amazement, Lizzie dipped the little boy a credible curtsey, and he responded with a fluid bow.

Hephzibah settled them both at the kitchen table with steaming tea and honey biscuits.

“Papa says Trinket is not long for this world. He carries her outside now when she needs to answer nature’s calls.”

“I’ve offered time and again to take her out and shoot her, put her out of her misery, but master won’t hear of it,” Clem added from where he stood warming himself beside the fire.

Lizzie and Miguel alternated sharing pieces of honey biscuits with Princess.

“I know Princess would make Papa very happy, but she seems really happy here, Miss Brampton. She really likes Miguel.”

“She is welcome to stay here, Lizzie. It is not kind to move animals around
any more
than it is people. But if Lord Dracott wants to use her for hunting, he is welcome to do so.”

Katherine doubted Lord Dracott would be interested in trying to train such an unpromising specimen.

Princess ran to the door and whimpered. Katherine let her out, and the children went to the window to watch her antics, chasing sparrows that had braved the cold to scavenge seeds from branches sticking up through the snow.

Katherine glanced at the two children standing next to each other and looked more closely.  Miguel was growing taller. He was already up to Lizzie’s shoulder. Even allowing that Lizzie had inherited Lady Angela’s small bones and diminutive frame, Miguel was tall for a child not yet four years old. For Katherine, it was added confirmation that he was Richard’s son. Richard had been thin as a whip, but markedly tall.

*****

When there was a break in the cold and the snow melted, Katherine knew she would have to brave the muddy lanes and go to the village for material for new clothes for Miguel.
And shoes.
She carefully traced his feet so the cobbler could make a pair of shoes long enough. Richard’s feet had been long and narrow, too.

When the thaw came, she left Sally to look after Miguel and took Princess with her to the village. The spaniel needed a good long run as much as Katherine relished the walk and the prospect of seeing fresh faces. The cobbler promised shoes for Miguel within a week. She purchased cloth for shirts and suits for him and started back for the Dower House. Princess ran on ahead, diving into bare shrubbery, frightening birds and small animals who had ventured out to explore the warmest day in weeks, then raced back to Katherine as if reporting on her adventures.

But halfway home, Princess did not return from a foray. Instead, Katherine heard sharp, excited barking from well off the path. When her calls were ignored, Katherine went in search of the spaniel and discovered her in a clearing by Dray Stream. She was not alone. Lord Henry Dracott stood by a neatly dug rectangular hole in the ground, a small grave. And as Katherine stood watching, he gently laid a bundle into the grave. It was wrapped in fine linen sheeting tied with a green silk ribbon.
Trinket.

Katherine meant to turn and leave as quietly as possible, but Lord Dracott looked up and saw her.

“Miss Brampton.”

He picked up a shovel and gestured to where he had thrown his greatcoat across a fallen log.

“Trinket has passed to her well-earned reward, and I thought to bury her by our favorite fishing hole. But a proper burial requires a witness, so you have arrived at a most opportune moment. It will not be overly comfortable, but please, do sit down.”

Katherine tentatively sat on the log, taking care to keep her muddy shoes and skirt hem away from Lord
Dracott’s
coat.

She watched in silence as he covered the body of his beloved setter with damp, sandy soil.

“It needs forget-me-nots,” she said after a bit. “When spring comes, I will bring some from the Dower House garden.”

“Thank you, Miss Brampton. You seem to understand the importance of dogs in a person’s life.”

He crouched and scratched Princess’s ears. The black-and-white spaniel looked up at him adoringly.

“This cannot be the spaniel bitch Sir Clive was complaining of? I thought he had ordered it done away with.”

Lord Dracott stood and regarded Princess, who looked up at him, wagging her tail, and offering a few yips to announce that she was very much alive.

“He did give the orders, but Jimmy Stokes and Miss Lizzie made other plans. Princess has been residing at the Dower House, awaiting your need of her on the hunting field.”

To demonstrate her prowess, Princess charged into a nearby thicket and flushed a trembling hare that scampered back into the shrubbery with dispatch.

“It appears she is more suited as a companion—a particularly energetic companion—than as a gun dog,” Lord Dracott laughed.

Princess came to Katherine, who patted her absently.

“Lizzie spends a good deal of time at the Dower House,” Lord Dracott observed. “I trust you do not permit her to make a nuisance of herself.”

“Never a nuisance, Lord Dracott,” Katherine laughed. “Aunt
Prunella
and I were delighted that you overruled Nanny and permitted her visit to us the other day. And it was a tonic for Miguel. I cannot thank you enough for the supplies you sent. You really were too generous.”

“So you said in the note you sent with Clem.”

Obviously, Lord Dracott was uncomfortable with gratitude, but Katherine was uncomfortable with ingratitude.

“I really owe you more than a few supplies in the way of thanks for your hospitality to Lizzie. She and Miguel seem to have become great friends. He has had a civilizing effect on her, I do believe. Taught her to share for one thing—even if it is mostly my old toy soldiers that she shares,” Lord Dracott added with his crooked smile. “How is the lad coming along?”

Katherine was grateful that Lord Dracott refrained from asking if Miguel had spoken. Miguel had yet to say a word, and it was all Katherine could do to keep her own anxiety at bay, much less preserve a hopeful demeanor with others.

“He is thriving.
Growing before my eyes.
I was just returning from purchasing material for new clothes for him.”

“You might have let me know,” Lord Dracott replied. “I am certain Nanny and Mrs. Lamb could find larger sizes for him up in the nursery cupboards.
Unless you are concerned about style.”

One look at my own attire should set his mind at rest on that point,
Katherine thought.

“On the other hand, I might have run through them all. I seem to remember complaints about my carelessness with my clothing when I was a lad.”

Lord Dracott glanced down ruefully at his muddy, scuffed boots and worn buckskins.

Was it the shared laughter about her companion’s notorious neglect of his attire, the mental image of what he must have been as a young lad happily exploring his father’s vast estate, or the sudden awareness of their seclusion, Katherine could not decide; but she knew for a certainty that it was vital for her peace of mind to bid Lord Dracott farewell and return as quickly as possible to the safety of the Dower House.

She stood abruptly, meaning to shake out her skirts and take her leave, but her knees had become stiff while she sat on the log in the chill afternoon. She staggered. Lord Dracott caught her arm to steady her. A jolt of energy shot through her arm at his touch and she unthinkingly looked up into his face. He had felt the same energy. She could see it in the intensity in his eyes, the sparkle of golden flecks against brown. She found she was incapable of turning away, even though he was lowering his lips to hers.

His lips were firm, searching, not demanding. Katherine closed her eyes, relishing the warmth that reached her toes.

It was Lord Dracott, not she, who broke away. To her chagrin, she discovered that she was holding tightly to the lapels of his jacket. She let go as if they were hot coals, and looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

Lord Dracott cleared his throat.

“It seems, Miss Brampton, that I have some difficulty remembering my manners when I am alone with you. I do apologize.”

Katherine could feel her face flush as she busied herself shaking mud from her skirts and drawing the hood of her cloak back on.

“Please do not concern yourself, Lord Dracott. I believe you know you can rely on my discretion.”

Katherine could hear the bitterness in her voice. She called Princess and turned to leave.

“No, Miss Brampton. Do not go.”

It sounded very much like an order. Katherine forced herself to look at her companion. His face was a mask. She could see no trace of the boyish charmer.

“I realize that this is not a particularly auspicious time or place—certainly not what I had planned…”

He glanced up at the pale sky as if seeking guidance.

“What I am thinking, Miss Brampton,” Lord Dracott fixed her with a stern look, “is that it would be an excellent idea if we were to wed.”