April Kihlstrom Read online

  Which meant, Rothwood thought with a sigh, the man would probably stay on the box of the coach holding the reins even if it started to pour buckets of rain. Rothwood didn’t mind the walk ahead but it did bother him that his coachman should suffer for his folly. His father would have been appalled that he gave two thoughts to the man’s welfare but he could not help himself.

  Well, he would just have to hope the clouds did not bode as badly as they seemed. At least not until his coachman could reach the safety of a dry inn. Now the question was, how far back was the last village through which they had passed and was it so far that he should go forward instead?

  “Forward,” a voice advised.

  Startled, Rothwood looked around and discovered a rather untidily dressed woman regarding him with grave eyes. Over one arm was the handle of a basket full of ripe berries. A housemaid no doubt sent to collect fruit for the family’s table. At least that was the status he gauged by the shabbiness of her gown. No doubt it had been a gift of sorts from one of the young ladies of the house.

  Then he looked at her face and went still. He knew her. Even after all this time, he knew her. He took a step forward and she took a step back, looking a trifle alarmed. Hastily he recollected himself. Clearly she did not recognize him and perhaps he was even mistaken. He tried to collect his wits but he could not seem to make sense of what she had said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I presume you are trying to decide whether to go back to the last village or whether it is closer to the next one,” the young woman told him. “Most definitely closer to the next village. You’ve not more than a twenty-minute walk, I should say.”

  She was no housemaid. Those cultured tones belonged to a well-bred person. One more bit of evidence that she was who he thought she was. “Thank you,” he said with a bow. “Miss—?”

  “Miss Trowley. Would you like me to show you the way? It’s not difficult to find but I should warn you that when you come to a fork in the road, you will wish to go to the right.”

  Miss Trowley. So this was, or rather this might be, his Miss Trowley. Beatrix. Surely those were the same blue eyes regarding him with the same grave sympathy as his Miss Trowley had, almost ten years ago? Surely that was the same tilt of her head, the same curls, the same kind face. But the body had changed. Even in her drab clothing he could tell that much. He wondered if she would recall him.

  “I should be grateful for your guidance,” he said with his most charming smile. “It sounds easy enough to find but I don’t wish to risk making a mistake. After all, it is likely to be my coachman who will suffer the most, not I, if there is a delay in sending a rescue party to deal with the coach.”

  She hesitated, then blushed. So the years in between had not spoiled her. She had grown into a young woman with an understanding of what was proper and what was not, just as she had sworn she would. Excellent!

  Edmund made his voice even kinder as he assured her, “I will be upon my best behavior and offer you no cause for discomfort, I promise. Nor are we entirely strangers, Miss Trowley, for we met some years ago. I am,” he said, sweeping off his hat and bowing deeper than before, “Viscount Rothwood.”

  Uncertainty gave way to a blinding smile. “Oh, yes! I do remember your visit! I was a mere child and you were so dashing!”

  With that she clapped a hand over her mouth. His father would have been appalled that her words had been so forward, but Rothwood could not feel the same. Not when they cast him in such a positive light. Not when he hoped she would remember him so kindly.

  But he wasn’t supposed to choose a bride on the basis of sentimentality. This was to be a practical decision. He still must make certain she was as she ought to be, a young woman worthy to be his bride. His own emotions mattered less than what he owed to his family name. So instead of reminding her of the past, Rothwood smiled and kept his voice carefully proper, carefully reserved as he said, “Now that that is settled, will you take me to the village, Miss Trowley? Since we are, after all, old acquaintances?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Excellent.” Rothwood paused and turned to assure his coachman, “I shall send back help as quickly as I can.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  As Rothwood held out his arm to Miss Trowley, he silently congratulated himself for hitting upon precisely the right tone to take with her. Although a trifle unorthodox, walking with her to the village would give him a chance to begin to fix his interest and that was all to the good.

  * * *

  Beatrix blushed. She could not help herself. But he was waiting and she could not keep him staring at her, his arm held out like that just because she felt like a silly school girl offered the attention of a boy she dearly desired to have notice her.

  With the calmest voice she could manage, she stepped forward as she said, “Yes, of course. This way.”

  She meant to be cool. After all, no matter how handsome he was or how deep a tendre she had felt for him all those years ago, now he was a man and men were not to be trusted. Look at her father. Look at her brothers. The more charming they were, the more likely women in their lives were to be hurt. Besides, it was foolish to think he could remember her with the same fondness she remembered him. This dashing gentleman could have no interest in someone as dull and plain as she was.

  Beatrix reached out to place her hand on his arm and the moment her fingertips touched his sleeve, she felt something course through her, deep and wild and primal. Rothwood started as though he felt it as well. He stared down at her, clearly disconcerted. All Beatrix could think to do was to pretend she had not felt a thing and pray that he would do the same.

  But she had felt something. Maybe it was the remnants of her childhood tendre for the kind and gentle boy he had been, the one with hopes and dreams she had so admired. Maybe it was the way his dark eyes still seemed to gleam with intelligence. Perhaps it was the deep brown hair that swept across his brow. Perhaps it was the strong muscles she could feel beneath her hand. Or perhaps it was something more. All she knew was that she desperately wanted to keep holding onto this man and that she was suddenly acutely aware of parts of her body she had been brought up to ignore. Only they would not be ignored, not now.

  * * *

  Rothwood shivered. What the devil was this? How could he let any woman, let alone Miss Trowley, overset his composure just with her touch? She was supposed to be a sensible choice as a wife, not someone who would disturb his comfort!

  He almost pulled away, but that would have been rude. Besides, no matter what his father would have said or thought, he could not stop staring at her lovely blue eyes, her plump, ripe lips and her soft blond hair curling about her face where the strands had pulled free of their pins.

  Still, it was one thing to remember a young girl fondly, another to act the mooncalf over the woman she had become. He tried to shake off these strange feelings. “Er,” he said, clearing his throat, “perhaps we had best be on our way. I do not like the looks of the sky.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed and began to stride forward at a pace that well suited his own, but was far brisker than he was accustomed to ladies adopting.

  Before he made a further fool of himself, he decided he really ought to make absolutely certain she was who he thought she was. After all, the greatest folly would be to pay court to the wrong Miss Trowley.

  “You are Miss Beatrix Trowley, are you not?” he asked.

  Startled, she looked up at him and suddenly tripped, not seeing the stone in the road. He caught her and noted the scent of lilacs that wafted toward him. Her eyes searched his face as she said, “Why, yes. I-I am surprised you remember.”

  He allowed himself to smile, wanting to reassure her. “I wasn’t certain but I was rather hoping it was you.”

  “Why?”

  Was that wariness in her voice? Rothwood could understand. She was a beauty despite the shabbiness of her dress and perhaps there were scoundrels hereabouts who had tried to take advantag
e of her. Soothingly he replied, “Because you are the reason I am here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t my aunt write to your mother? I was certain she would,” he said, half to himself. “Or am I only imagining I spoke to her at the ball?”

  Miss Trowley looked at him now as if she thought him wanting in wits. Rothwood straightened and made his voice firm as he said, “It doesn’t matter. I came to see you. My aunt has been singing your praises and I thought to see for myself if what she says was true.”

  At that, the young woman pulled her hand free and stepped away from him. In a blighting voice she said, “Your aunt and I came near to pulling caps when she was here last. She did not seem to have a high opinion of me at all, so you needn’t pretend otherwise. I despise pointless flattery. And I’ll warn you now that if you hoped to turn me up sweet so I would ignore you gambling with my father, it won’t work! As I told your aunt, I will turn out of the house anyone who tries, I don’t care who they are or what connections they have or how much my parents object!”

  Rothwood came to an abrupt halt and blinked at the young woman who moments before had seemed such a meek and dutiful creature, but now was transformed into the veriest termagant. This was not going at all the way it was supposed to go and she was not, at least in this moment, at all the sort of woman he wished to marry! He wanted someone who would defer to him in all things, not someone who would berate and tell him what he could and could not do. He started to give her a blistering setdown and then stopped.

  Fairness made him hesitate. He knew his aunt. Indeed, he shuddered at the thought of what havoc she might have wreaked here. She did love to gamble and she did love to win and from the looks of things, losing was not something the Trowley family could afford. And after all, wasn’t loyalty to one’s family a quality to be prized?

  He said none of this out loud. Instead Rothwood bowed slightly and told her, “I assure you, I have not come to gamble with your father. Nor with any other member of your family.”

  Not unless one considered marriage to be a gamble, and of course it was, but he was not going to say that to her!

  She seemed to relax at his answer and started walking again, though, Rothwood noted, she did not come within two feet of him nor take his arm. Well, that was all right, though he missed the feel of her next to him. Time enough for that once they were wed. Her reserve showed a maidenly modesty he ought to approve. His father certainly would have done so.

  “Will you tell me about your family?” he asked, when he felt the silence had gone on too long.

  “What do you wish to know?” she asked.

  “Everything.” When she looked at him oddly he added, “A great deal can change in nine or ten years and my memory may be fallible.

  Again that look, this time with a sigh. “Very well. You know that Mama is your aunt’s bosom bow. Perhaps she has told you or you recall that there are seven of us children?”

  “Seven? Er, that is, I remember you had a large family, I just did not recall that it was quite that large.”

  “Oh, yes. Mama and Papa are very—”

  She paused as though at a loss for words.

  “Quite,” he said.

  She nodded gratefully and went on. “I am the eldest. Then comes Adrian, Callista, Melody, Harold, John and Richard.”

  No wonder her gown was shabby. It would take a fortune to run to the needs of such a family and so far as Rothwood could recall, Mr. Trowley had not had a fortune, merely a competence. Add to that the knowledge that he was a gambler, one who apparently lost frequently, and Rothwood could see there might be serious financial difficulties. It gave him pause, there was no denying that, for he had to ask himself if he was likely to find himself responsible for the whole pack of them if he married Miss Trowley. Not that his fortune wouldn’t run to it, for it would. Rothwood was one of the wealthiest young men in England. At least he was now and would continue to be if he married by his twenty-fifth birthday. And one of his father’s maxims had always been that a wise man ought to marry a lady who would be grateful for the increase in both her financial and social position. It would, his father had always said, make her a far more amenable wife, one inclined to do as she was told rather than rebelling as some women did when they conceived themselves to be equal or perhaps even superior to their husbands in some way.

  Still, Rothwood was not his father. He could not help thinking that he ought to consider what was due to his potential heirs, for he meant to leave them at least as well off as he was. And there would be no provisions in his will as to when they must wed or any such nonsense as that!

  Miss Trowley seemed to read something of what he was feeling on his face for she said, “Yes, I know. Shocking, isn’t it? And most imprudent when one doesn’t have the funds to support so large a family. But one doesn’t have a choice, it seems, in how many children are born. And we are all so shockingly healthy that we all survived.”

  Her words were forthright and someone else might have taken them as indelicate, but Rothwood, regarding her closely, could see the tension in the way she held herself, the hint of a gleam of moisture in her eyes and the brittleness of her smile. Miss Trowley had not thrown out these words to shock. She was rather a young woman who appeared to be at the end of her rope and Rothwood found himself wanting to take the rope from her, toss it away and to the devil with whoever was on the other end. He found himself wanting to protect and coddle her. He wanted to give her the chance for laughter and lovely things and dancing and all the other delights most young ladies her age would know so well.

  But that was nonsense, he told himself, shaking his head! He was here to find a wife who would suit him, not to take on the rescue of some hapless chit. He must focus on what mattered and what mattered was whether or not she would be the kind of wife he wished to have. What would his father have said? He would have surely detected at least a hint of disrespect in her voice as she spoke about her father. He would have disapproved and wondered if it meant she might view a husband with disrespect as well. A dutiful wife ought to support and obey her husband in all things. It was the primary quality on his list of qualities he said Edmund must find in his bride to be.

  Rothwood did not think to ask himself why, if that was what mattered most, he had not found a satisfactory bride among the meek and dutiful new debutantes who had made their come-outs in each of the past few years he had been looking. Had he done so he would have dismissed them with a wave of his hand, saying he had not really been looking, that he had never intended to wed until he absolutely must and that it was only the looming deadline that caused him to do so now. Had he been asked about this or that young lady of the current crop, he would simply have said they all liked London too well and he wanted a country girl who would be content to stay at home at his estate while he pursued his interests in London. And, he would have insisted, the fact that Miss Trowley came from an obviously fertile family was an asset because a wife who was frequently breeding would never expect to be taken to London, not while the babies were small. No, it was Miss Trowley who was clearly the superior choice, if he could just get past this little nagging concern about possible disrespect toward her father.

  Aloud he said, “It must be a trial having a father who gambles.”

  She froze, stopped again and glared at him. “My father is a wonderful man,” she said fiercely. “If you think I gave you reason to believe otherwise, you are mistaken!”

  Rothwood smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My apologies,” he said hastily. “I meant no offense. Clearly I misunderstood.”

  So she was loyal to her father? Excellent. With fully restored good humor, Rothwood again offered Miss Trowley his arm as he asked, “Is it far to the village?”

  Still she did not take his arm but she did begin to walk. “No, not far. Just over this hill and we shall be there. You will be able to find men willing to go and fetch your carriage and coachman and horses. And there is an excellent inn where y
ou may stay.”

  An inn? “Oh, but I had hoped to stay with your family,” Rothwood said, looking at her sharply.

  The dismay she felt was evident in her expression. She recovered quickly. “Oh, of course. I am certain Mama and Papa will be delighted.”

  But she wasn’t. He soon realized the reason for this. The first person they encountered as they entered the village was the town’s butcher, who stepped out of his shop to shout to her, “Tell your parents I won’t wait much longer for my bill to be paid. Not one more roast or joint until I see my money!”

  Miss Trowley went very pale. She would have stumbled had Rothwood not moved close enough to catch her. Under his breath, so softly that only she could hear, he said, “Never mind that fellow. He is a scoundrel to speak to you that way.”

  She looked up at him then, her eyes clear and frank as she replied, in an equally soft voice, “Not a scoundrel, just a man desperate to be paid. It has been far too many months since he was and he has a family of his own to feed and clothe and provide for.”

  Rothwood was torn. His father would say a young lady should not speak of such things. Indeed it should not be her place to know of them. But clearly Miss Trowley did and it spoke well of her character that she could wish to honor her parents’ debts. On the other hand, this was far more forthright than he imagined his delicate bride to ever speak. The girl he remembered had been shy and quiet and content to let him take the lead in all things.

  Feeling more than a little unsettled, Rothwood forced himself to focus on finding someone to deal with his carriage. Miss Trowley knew just the person and it was with gratitude that he found she also knew someone with a cart who could take them to her family home.

  “Are you certain you would not prefer to stay at the inn?” she asked hopefully. “It is quite comfortable and they set an excellent table.”

  Did that mean her family did not? Aloud Rothwood merely said, “I wish to spend as much time as possible with your lovely family and shall make no complaint about anything.”