Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] (5 page)

“You said that before,” the agent said sulkily. “And yet—”

“And you’re worried that I’ll hang around like a tinker’s dog to embarrass the new owners,” she flashed angrily. “You need not—”

“What rubbish,” Harry interrupted savagely. He turned on the agent. “Address one more disrespectful word to Lady Helen and I’ll shove your words so far down your throat you won’t speak for a year.”

Pedlington’s eyes popped, but he clamped his mouth shut.

Harry turned back to Nell, who regarded him with wide, surprised eyes. “I apologize on Pedlington’s behalf, Lady Helen. I’m the new owner and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
Forever, if you like,
he caught himself adding silently. And where the hell had that come from?

She stared at him and moistened her lips. Harry swallowed.

The agent made a strangled sound in his throat and said with cautious hope. “The new own—you mean—?”

Harry said severely, “I mean I’m prepared to make you an offer, though I doubt it will delight your masters. However, with the state this place is in . . .” He shrugged.

“Oh, but—”

“Gentlemen, I shall leave you to your business,” Lady Helen interrupted. “Mr. Morant, Mr. Pedlington, good day to you both.”

Harry caught her by her arm. “You’re not leaving.” He was filled with an urgent need not to let her disappear.

She glanced at his hand holding her tight and gave him a puzzled look. “No,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be back to make sure the afterbirth comes away cleanly and the foal is able to walk and drink from his mother first.”

Pedlington blushed.

Harry forced his fingers to unwrap from around her arm. “Don’t leave,” he instructed her.

She gave him a cool look, and he realized he’d barked an order at her in the same tone as used on men in the army. And he’d hauled Pedlington over the coals for disrespect.

He said awkwardly, “We have the matter of a hat and gloves to discuss.” It was all he could think of.

Her face softened and a faint smile lightened her eyes. “Yes, of course. Weighty matters.”

His body ached as she left. She moved gracefully, unhurriedly. Her figure was not at all fashionable, but his body was hard and aching and he wanted her with a fierce longing he’d never experienced before.

In the forest he’d imagined her as a lost Madonna—madonna of the forest.
Ma donna
—Italian for
my lady
. Nell Freymore. Lady Helen Freymore. His lost lady of the forest.

And this time he wasn’t going to let her go.

Even if she was a lady born.

Harry had been courted and flattered by some of the most beautiful ladies in the
ton
. He’d learned full well and to his cost what elegant ladies wanted from Harry Morant: a lusty tumble and that was it.

The young Harry Morant hadn’t understood . . . hadn’t realized that he was welcome between the thighs of a highborn lady, but that her hand could never be his . . .

He’d learned his lesson at the tender age of three-and-twenty, young, naive, and head over heels in love for the first and only time in his life.

Harry hadn’t been naive for years now. And he knew exactly what to expect from highborn ladies.

At the kitchen door she paused and turned to glance back.

He felt a sharp stab of longing. She was neither beautiful, nor voluptuously built, and she certainly employed no arts to attract. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And his body hardened possessively whenever she was close. A milkmaid or a farmer’s daughter, he hadn’t cared.

But an earl’s daughter. Now that was an unexpected irony.

N
ell filled a large pitcher with water and carried it carefully upstairs. She set it on a side table and pulled a key from her pocket. Even in her own house with all the exterior doors securely locked, she still needed her own door to be locked. She turned the key and entered her room for what was probably the last time.

The last time.

She plumped down on her bed at the realization. There was no reason to stay a moment longer. She had to leave Firmin Court. The only home she’d ever known.

She’d dreamed of bringing Torie back here . . .

Torie . . . She couldn’t think about her yet.

She looked around her bedchamber, the place in which she’d dreamed her girlish dreams; the room where her girlhood and her dreams had come to an abrupt end.

She’d expected to spend her life here. It was her one security, the knowledge that the deed was in her name and that even in the grip of his gambling fever, Papa could not touch it.

How wrong she’d been. He’d probably intended to transfer the deed—he always meant well, poor Papa, but somehow he never could own up.

Lies, always lies. Even though he’d loved her dearly—she had no doubt of that—he still lied even about the most important things, always feeling he had to protect her from reality, always hoping against all logic that somehow, he’d be able to turn things around, pull the rabbit out of the hat and make everything all right—no, better than all right. Papa always expected to make it wonderful.

Only he never could, and it only ever got worse, until finally here she was, penniless and without a home.

And with Torie lost somewhere . . .

She’d be in London soon, she reminded herself. The vicar had spotted the notice in the newspaper and she’d applied for the position and got it. Companion to a widowed lady who wished to make her first visit to London.

In the midst of her despair, it had seemed like a sign.

She briskly stripped off her clothes. There was nothing like cold water and a good scrub with soap and flannel to get the blood moving. She washed herself as thoroughly as she could—she didn’t have time to heat water for a bath—and turned to select something suitably companionish to wear.

Since her come out five years before, she’d always preferred plain, dark-colored clothing. She didn’t like to draw attention to herself. She chose a moss green, high-waisted woolen dress with a green and gray pelisse with pewter buttons.

How amazing that the man with the burning gray eyes was here. And that he’d bought her home. And her horse. They would both be in good hands, she felt certain.

She packed the last of her clothes and glanced at the shelf that had housed her doll collection for as long as she could remember. There were a dozen, at least, mostly beautiful dolls in perfect condition. Whenever Papa won at cards, he’d brought her a doll from London. They sat in a row, looking perfect, smiling, clean, and angelic. At the end one doll sagged lopsidedly; Ella, the oldest, the most battered, the most beloved of Nell’s dolls.

Mama had made Ella with her own hands. Ella was short for Cinderella and she was a happy-sad doll. You held Ella up one way and she was dressed in a ragged, gray dress with an apron over the top, and her face was sad. But you turned Ella upside down and her ragged dress fell over her face and there she was, happy and smiling, dressed in a beautiful, shiny red ball dress.

Nell had never played with dolls much—she’d always preferred dogs and horses—but when Mama had died, she took to taking Ella to bed with her. Ella wasn’t just made by Mama’s hands, her clothes were made from scraps of Mama’s own clothes. Nell remembered seeing Mama in that beautiful red ball gown.

Poor Ella looked very much the worse for wear now, with one button eye missing, half her hair chewed off by some dog, and the red dress quite faded. There was no room in the portmanteau, but Nell could not possibly leave Ella behind, to be tossed on the rubbish heap.

Nell hesitated, then took out a pair of slippers that pinched her and laid Ella in their place. It was ridiculous for a grown woman to want to keep a doll, but she couldn’t help herself. Tossing Ella away would be like tossing Mama away.

If ever she needed Mama’s happy-sad doll, it was now.

She closed the catch, took a last look around her room, picked up her bag, and left. She did not go immediately downstairs, but went to the estate office. She wrote a list of names on a sheet of paper and tucked it in her sleeve, then picked up her portmanteau and headed downstairs.

Angry voices were coming from the kitchen; the normally dry, precise tones of the agent now sounding peevish and almost shrill, overshadowed by a loud, blunt, vulgar voice that Nell had known and loved her whole life.

If that agent was being horrid to Aggie again . . . Nell hurried toward the kitchen.

“No, Mr. Finicky-pants, I won’t take myself off—” Aggie was saying in a belligerent voice.

“You are trespassing, madam, and—”

“Don’t you
madam
me, you little worm! Trespassing?” Aggie snorted loudly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m Aggie Deane and I’ve lived here more years than you’ve had hot dinners! And while Miss Nell’s here, I’m here. It’s not right for an earl’s daughter to be on her own.”

“She should not be here, either. Both of you are trespa—”

Aggie made a loud, very rude noise. “Oh, bite your bum. I’m here to make Miss Nell’s dinner and you can bleat rules at me till you’re blue in the face, but I’m not budging.”

Nell paused outside the kitchen door and listened, a smile on her lips. She should have known no London lawyer would get the better of Aggie.

“Madam, I can have you arres—”

“Pedlington,” a deep, masculine voice cut across the quarrel. “Not another word. Take yourself off to the White Hart at once and draw up those papers. I’ll meet you there this evening to sign them and to give you a draft on my bank.”

“But this old woman—”

“I’ll ‘old woman’ you!” Aggie snapped. “If anyone in this room is an old woman, it’s you, carrying on as if—”

“That’s enough, Mrs. Deane. I said immediately, Pedlington.” Mr. Morant’s voice was soft, but it had all the effect of a whip crack.

There was a sudden silence, then Pedlington said in a sulky voice, “Very well, sir, but I take no responsibil—”

“Go!”

Nell listened and heard the kitchen door open and close.

“Well, now, sir,” Aggie said approvingly. “I come all prepared to dislike you on account of you taking Miss Nell’s home from her, but anyone who can get rid of that worm-ridden, prating little windbag with so little fuss—well, sir, I have to say—”

“Is that the kettle boiling?” Mr. Morant cut off the speech as Nell entered the room.

“Heavens, yes, and here’s Miss Nell, and me without the tea made.” Aggie bustled to the stove.

Mr. Morant’s eyes ran over her. “That green suits you,” he said and Nell felt suddenly self-conscious. She resisted the urge to smooth down her skirts and check her hair. She’d always been almost invisible to men; her one and only season had been a disaster. Half the time she didn’t even get a dance unless one of Papa’s friends took pity on her.

And yet this man—by far the most attractive man she’d ever met in her life—seemed to give her his complete attention. And said green suited her.

She swallowed. If only she’d met him when she made her come out . . . when life was so much simpler . . .

It was too late now.

“I checked on the mare and they’re both splendid. I’ve dealt with the afterbirth,” he told her. He noticed her surprise and said with a quirk of his mouth, “Well, she is mine now, remember.”

Yes, Nell thought, but she wouldn’t have expected him to deal with a messy job when she’d said she’d do it. It was . . . gallant.

Aggie had laid a place at the kitchen table with a cloth and cutlery. Mr. Morant pulled out a chair for Nell to be seated. He must wonder at her, sitting at the kitchen table, instead of having Aggie bring it through to the dining room.

As a child Nell had loved the warmth of the kitchen. And of late years, as more rooms in the house were closed off and Nell took to minding the pennies, she had found herself gravitating there more and more often. Recently, of course, it was the only practical choice.

“Will you be having a spot of luncheon, too, sir?” Aggie asked. “It’s nothing grand—just soup and toast and a bit of something sweet to follow.”

Mr. Morant hesitated.

“There’s plenty,” Aggie assured him.

“Please do,” Nell told him. “Aggie will have brought enough for several meals and since I’m leaving in an hour . . .” She felt quite ill at the prospect and wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but Aggie would fret if Nell didn’t eat.

“An hour?” Aggie exclaimed in dismay.

Nell nodded. “You knew it would come, Aggie.”

“I know, dearie, but so soon . . .” With a sigh, Aggie brought a cloth and swiftly laid a place opposite her for Mr. Morant. “Now sit yourself down, sir, and I’ll bring the soup directly.”

Mr. Morant sat and Nell immediately wished Aggie hadn’t put him opposite her. Those intense, gray, grave eyes burned into her like a physical touch.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She straightened her cutlery and avoided his gaze. “To London. You will remember to give Toffee a good hot mash each morning, won’t you? Her condition is rather poor and—”

“The mare and colt will be well cared for. What will you be doing in London?”

It wasn’t his business. Just because he’d bought her home didn’t mean she had to tell him anything. She’d had enough people pity her. “A bran mash with boiled linseed—”

“I know how to mix a mash,” he said as Aggie placed bowls of soup in front of each of them. “I’m a horseman. I bought this place for the stables. She’ll have the best of care. So”—he fixed his gaze on her—“I presume you’re going to relatives.”

“No,” Nell said and addressed herself to her soup with great concentration. At first it was hard to swallow with him watching her, but then his gaze dropped and she spooned the thick, savory liquid up quickly. It was delicious, she was sure, but she tasted nothing.

He sat there, looking big and somber and handsome, his eyes full of questions. Two could play at that. “So, Mr. Morant, what are your plans for Firmin Court?”