Axel (9 page)

The lady was too slight, and riding habits were not ideal attire for marching about the countryside. He’d wanted her to take some fresh air though, to regain the campion-pink flush to her cheeks.

“The weather is a dreary topic this time of year,” she said. “I like the quality of your silences, for the most part.”

“What of Gregory?” Axel asked, keeping Mrs. Stoneleigh’s hand in his, for now they were on a rutted bridle path. “Was he quiet or noisy?”

“He fretted about his bitches when they were about to whelp, or his mares come May, but when he got to brooding, it was mostly about the past. He was old enough to have lost many friends along the way.”

“One doesn’t like to think of that aspect of a long life. My parents were barely forty when they died.”

Where in the perishing, frozen hell had that admission come from?

Mrs. Stoneleigh squeezed Axel’s hand. “That is young. No wonder you and your brother are close.”

“Blazing, bedamned perdition.” Axel came to an abrupt stop a dozen yards from the edge of a wide field, where eight shaggy, sway-bellied horses placidly regarded the approaching humans. “It is damned February, and that is a goddamned foal in my field.”

He’d vaulted the fence and left Mrs. Stoneleigh standing on the snowy lane before he recalled that one didn’t curse in the presence of a lady.

Well…
blast
.

“I
have correspondence to tend to, and my prison cell has a well-stocked escritoire,” Abby said. “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Belmont.”

“You are my guest,” he replied, before Abby could reach the stairs. “You have my thanks for your assistance with the foal. Few ladies would have managed as well.”

Abby started up the stairs at a brisk pace, though the walk across the Belmont fields had renewed her exhaustion. Then too, thanks from Axel Belmont would surely put her to the blush, and her dignity could not bear that insult.

A marmalade cat leapt up the steps ahead of her and waited on the landing, almost as if the beast knew what an effort mere stairs had become. The cat followed Abby up to her sitting room, a cozy space adjoining her bedroom.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said to the cat, who appropriated a spot on the sofa.

“That’s Lancelot.”

Abby jumped half out of her boots at the voice from the bedroom, though it was a female voice.

“Show yourself, please.”

“Mr. Belmont says your fire is to be kept blazing,” said a young lady emerging from the other chamber. “A tea tray is on the way with plenty of biscuits. The Belmont menfolk are ever so fond of their biscuits.”

The maid, a mature, sturdy, red-haired woman rather than girl, was clearly fond of the Belmont menfolk. The porcelain vase she carried held a single red rose, and that she placed on the desk.

“A tray won’t be necessary.” Finding a seat had become imperative, however. Abby took the chair behind the escritoire, despite proximity to the window making that a cold choice. The rose—a big, gorgeous specimen just shy of full bloom—would look pretty in any location.

“Mr. Belmont said you’d refuse a tray, and we’re to ignore you. Lancelot will help you with the cream, the shameless beggar. We’re to serve you cream rather than milk on the professor’s orders.” The maid added wood to the fire—not coal. “Would you be having a nap after your tea, ma’am?”

God, yes
. “I had thought to work on my correspondence.”

“Mr. Belmont’s mood is never improved by his correspondence, not that he’s a cheery soul to begin with. You might consider getting into your dressing gown, and if you find your eyes growing heavy, you can catch a lie-down at your pleasure.”

Abby knew well what manner of maid had been dispatched to attend her. If Axel Belmont was the general in command of the entire estate, Mrs. Turnbull was his trusted lieutenant, all smiles and polite suggestions one dared not thwart.

This maid was his gunnery sergeant, adept at handling both raw recruits and smoking cannon, all while appearing to defer to the commissioned officers.

“What is your name?”

“I’m Hennessey, though the footmen call me Carrot, because of my hair. Will you need anything else, ma’am?”

Abby could get herself out of a riding habit, and her own dressing gown was draped over the privacy screen visible in the bedroom.

“Nothing, thank you. What time is dinner?”

“Country hours. Six, more or less, depending on Mr. Belmont’s schedule. He’ll try to be punctual as long as you’re here.”

Abby yielded to temptation. “He’s not normally punctual?”

Another maid appeared in the doorway, a large tray in her hands.

“You may come in,” Abby said. “I’ll ask you to close the door on your way out, lest we lose all the heat from the fire.”

The second maid set the tray on the escritoire, popped a curtsey and withdrew.

“Mr. Belmont loses track of time when he’s in his glass houses,” Hennessey said. “And he’ll worry over the new foal, of course, and this magistrate nonsense takes a toll as well.”

In other words, Abby was not to overtax her host with a pesky, unsolved murder. “I’ll ring should I need anything further, Hennessey.”

Another curtsey, and Abby had blessed, delightful solitude in a home where no felonies had been or would dare to be committed. A riding habit was perhaps the easiest garment for a woman to get herself into and out of unassisted, so Abby changed into her nightgown and dressing gown.

The bed beckoned, but she helped herself to a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit, because she’d eaten only as much as she’d dared at luncheon. Ginger biscuits aided digestion, something a botanist would know.

Mr. Belmont had certainly known what to do with an unexpected foal.

Abby took her tea to the bed, then brought the rose to the night table as well. She climbed under the covers and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep.

Instead her memory presented her with the image of Axel Belmont, standing hands on hips over a damp foal shivering in the snow. Tracks in the snow suggested the filly had been born at least an hour past, and yet, the mare was still trying to lick her baby dry.

Much foul language had ensued while Mr. Belmont had begun casting off his clothing, tossing it at Abby as if she were his valet. He’d stripped off everything above the waist, then knelt and used his shirt to towel the filly dry.

The snow had been bloodstained, the cold air had crackled with Mr. Belmont’s profanity, and yet, his ministrations to the filly had been gentle and thorough.

He’d been oblivious to his own nudity, while Abby had been unable to look away. She’d stood a few yards off, holding his clothing—a heavy bundle of fine tailoring—and marveling at the sight of a healthy adult male without his shirt.

Gregory in the full bloom of youth would not have looked as Mr. Belmont had—lithe, powerful, impervious to the cold. Axel Belmont’s torso, shoulders, and arms were a mosaic of muscle and movement, a testament to the Creator’s eye for beauty.

Mr. Belmont had cursed as he’d rubbed every inch of the filly’s coat dry, but Abby had given thanks for the very sight of him. Had a valuable animal’s life not been at stake, that gift would never have come her way.

When the filly had risen to nurse—assisted by Mr. Belmont and his blue-tinged encouragements—Abby had scolded him back into what clothing had not been ruined. He’d complied readily, alas, apologizing all the while for the necessity of disrobing on such a damned cold day.

Lying in the cozy bed, a fire crackling in the hearth, Abby slid her nightgown up to her thighs and closed her eyes. Axel Belmont without his shirt was a sight she’d never forget and certainly intended to savor now that she had privacy to do so.

She touched herself, as she learned to over years of pouring over naughty books, and more years of solitudinous wifehood. She was widowed now, and this solitary pleasure was even more her right than it had been when Gregory was alive.

In Axel Belmont’s house she was safe from whoever had killed Gregory, and whatever evil Gregory might have invited into his life.

While Abby was helpless to defend herself against the image of Axel Belmont, kneeling bare-chested in the snow as he alternately cursed and pleaded with a new life to fight its way to the coming spring.

“The filly is thriving,” Axel said, dishing up eggs for his breakfast companion, “though livestock is probably not the topic a host should embark upon with a guest at breakfast.”

Buttered toast, the crusts cut off, came next. Two slices, because if Axel put one slice on Abigail Stoneleigh’s plate, she’d eat only a half.

She poured herself a cup of tea, stirred in sugar and cream, then sat back and closed her eyes, the cup held before her, the steam rising around her like High Church incense.

“I did worry about mother and baby,” she said. “I take the running of Stoneleigh Manor seriously, and horses are worth a pretty penny. I must compliment Mrs. Turnbull on my comfortable bedroom. After a night under your roof, I’m exceedingly well rested.”

Mrs. Stoneleigh had spent a night under Axel’s roof sleeping like the dead, as it were. He’d checked on her twice, the first time thinking to offer a game of chess after their evening meal, the second…

Papa’s instincts, maybe. A man’s curiosity, more likely. Axel had cracked the bedroom door enough to ensure the coals had been banked and hearth screen was in place, then decided that the bed curtains ought also to be drawn.

Which was either overly conscientious of him, or very… presuming.

He set the plate before her and took his seat at the head of the table. “You are a new widow. You must rest as much as you please, and my staff will not comment, lest Mrs. Turnbull scold them before I can turn them off for their own safety. Eat your eggs.”

Mrs. Stoneleigh heaved out the sigh of long-suffering women everywhere, then took a sip of her tea.

“Eat, Abigail.”
Please.
She picked up her fork, and Axel admitted to relief.

“You never considered remarrying?” she asked, taking a bite of eggs.

He’d ordered a cheese omelet with chives, garlic, and other seasonings, and Cook had done the hens proud.

“I considered the notion a time or two. My aspirations are academic, so reason prevailed.”

She bit off a corner of her toast. “Reason?”

“The problem was simple lust, or loneliness, or a troublesome combination of the two. One needn’t remarry to deal with either difficulty. You will no doubt have to guard against such temptations yourself in the coming months.”

She regarded him with—could it be?—another half-amused smile over a second forkful of eggs.

“Ladies are not supposed to be greatly troubled by the first of those ailments,” she said. “I don’t believe a gentleman is supposed to allude to it either.”

Good God, he was out of practice with polite women. Caroline was probably howling with laughter from some celestial perch.

“Ladies are quite susceptible to the loneliness,” he said. “Most men know how to exploit any confusion between lust and loneliness, I am ashamed to admit. More tea?”

“Please. Have you no friends, Mr. Belmont?” she asked, when he’d passed her the refilled tea cup.

What fool had sought some verbal sparring over breakfast? Axel fetched the basket of fruit from the sideboard and began tearing the peel from the ripest orange.

“My brother is my friend,” he said, the words oddly satisfying. “I am cordial with all my neighbors, and a few others whom I regard as friends.” All of those friends knew not to visit too frequently in late winter, when Axel preferred to lavish time on the specimens in his glass houses.

And ignore the fact that Caroline had died in early March.

“Eat, Abigail, and no more of this Mr. Belmont nonsense over breakfast. You will sour my delicate digestion.”

She stilled, a corner of the toast pointing toward her open mouth.

“That’s the way. You take a bite, chew, and swallow, then repeat.” Her company was more diverting than the morning newspaper, also more worrisome.

She set the toast down. “If you say, ‘good girl’ I will not answer for the consequences, Mr. Belmont. My own mood is less than sanguine, in case you hadn’t noticed. Which reminds me, I will need to send a note to Mrs. Jensen.”

He’d noticed her pale complexion. He’d noticed she needed to eat. He’d noticed that she slept as if cast away, but a simple walk across the fields had tired her.

“You need more frocks?” he asked, putting half the peeled orange on her plate. More frocks meant a longer stay under his roof, possibly.

Mrs. Stoneleigh was abruptly absorbed with her remaining piece of toast. “I have need of some personal effects, and Mrs. Jensen can send along a bottle of laudanum.”

The substantial meal in Axel’s belly lurched disagreeably. “No laudanum. I will divert you with cards, music, scintillating repartee, or good literature. If you insist, I will play my damned violin. I will bore you to sleep with discourses on the successful grafting of roses, on which topic I am a noted expert. I will walk with you, or read damned Scripture by the hour, but no blighted—”

“Stop lecturing. You are incapable of scintillating repartee. If you truly think I am at risk for abusing the poppy, then have her send over a single dose.”

Now, when Axel wanted to pitch crockery in all directions, Mrs. Stoneleigh was dispatching her eggs.

“You are well rested, a hint of color graces your cheeks, your eyes are clear, and you do not seem to be in any obvious pain.” Axel knew, he’d known as a boy, how need for the drug turned a reasonable person into a begging, screaming, incoherent wreck. Thank God that Caroline had understood and accepted his position on this at least. “No laudanum.”

“I am not in obvious pain, because some suffering is personal, and not evident to the almighty male eye. I am not asking for an entire bottle, and I am not obliged to remain here as your prisoner.”

She dabbed at the corner of her lip with her serviette, the movement confoundedly dainty.

“Mr. Belmont.
Axel
,” she went on, “you were married, you are the father of two children. Can you not conceive that my husband’s unexpected death might have disrupted the regular occurrence of certain bodily functions that occasionally cause a woman discomfort?”