B005R3LZ90 EBOK (24 page)

After dinner, when the men drank their port and smoked their cigars, Sally excused herself. "I'll run up and tuck in the children," she said. "Then I believe I'll go to bed."

As she went to leave the room, George took her hand. "Thank you for all you've done. You've made me very proud." He pressed a kiss into her palm.

That he acted and spoke so sweetly in front of all those men made his words even more appreciated. Sally favored him with a wan smile and left the room. Despite her fatigue, she felt feather light as she climbed the stairs. She could still feel the warmth of George's lips upon her hand.

After she read to the children and tucked them in—and honestly answered Georgette's question about the foul odor—Sally spoke privately with Miss Primble, instructing her to never leave the children unattended for even a moment. The young nurse was quick witted enough to connect the vicious slaughter to fears for the safety of his lordship's children.

Before Sally went to her own chambers, she brought her maid to Georgette's room and explained that Hettie was never to leave Georgette alone at night. Hettie was a good girl. Sally felt confident knowing she was with Georgette.

As tired as she was, Sally wished to draft a letter to Glee to inform her of the wretched thing that had occurred at Hornsby. Then she climbed on her bed and immediately fell into a deep slumber.

Chapter 22

The stench went away. Not overnight, but gradually, as a person's hair grays—almost imperceptibly until one day the transformation is startlingly complete. Sally woke up this morning and realized the smell was gone. It was that morning she vowed to think on the tragedy no more. She had once told George she did not want him to ever go backward, only forward. Now she needed to heed her own advice.

For some peculiar reason, her husband had been better able than she to look to the future and refuse to dwell on the past that could not be changed. He rarely spoke of the tremendous setback, only of its perpetrator, upon whom he vowed to take vengeance. Some of the credit for George's remarkable recovery came courtesy of his two wealthy brothers-in-law, each of whom had pledged a hundred head of sheep from the herds on their respective estates. But most of George's endurance could be attributed to his own toughness and determination.

When she went downstairs for breakfast, Sally did not expect to find her husband still at home. He was given to rising early and working long hours on the estate. But as she entered the chamber, he rose to greet her.

"Why are you still here?" she asked, her hand flying self-consciously to smooth her hair.

A sardonic look tilted his rugged face. "My presence offends you?"

She laughed. "Of course not. I'm glad you're here." She poured herself coffee and sat down across from him at a cloth-covered table that was placed beside a tall window looking out over Sally's kitchen garden.

"I've decided to spend the morning with you and the children," he said.

She arched a brow.

"The pony should be here shortly."

A smile wiped across her face. "Today?"

"The groom was to get it from Ilswitch this morning."

"The children will be so excited! We shall allow them to name him."

His lips puckered into a smile. "He's a filly, and I doubt that son of mine will have a hand in the naming." His brows folded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I really think the boy should be talking. How old is he now?"

He knew very well how old Sam was! She frowned. "He's eight and twenty months."

"I'm sure something's wrong with him."

She scowled even deeper. "There's nothing whatsoever wrong with him! Surely you've been able to observe that he's possessed of a very keen mind."

George shrugged. "He does seem to be quick-witted enough."

"More than enough," she said through gritted teeth. "For one thing, he knows all his colors. I have only to tell him to bring me the green cap, and he knows exactly which one it is—and the red, and the blue. Miss Primble has affirmed that there's not a color he doesn't know. Mrs. Howell's four-year-old daughter still doesn't know her colors."

He grinned. "Then your Sunday-morning conversations on the church steps are of some value."

"Don't be such an ogre. You know you wish for me to be accepted by Mrs. Howell—and everyone in the community."

"Oh, I don't have to worry about that. You've duly been approved by anyone who's within shouting distance of Hornsby."

She plopped a scone on her gilded porcelain plate and proceeded to slather it with soft butter. "You know, there may be a bit of a problem with having the pony."

"I know." He frowned. "I should have gotten two."

She nodded. "Sam is not likely to want to share."

"He'll have to learn that if he wants to ride the creature, he must be willing to share," George said in a stern voice.

* * *

After breakfast, they gathered up the children and began to walk with them to the stables. "Do you remember how the stables were in your childhood?" George asked Sally.

She was mildly piqued that he said
your
childhood—as if he wished to accentuate their age difference—and possibly the many other differences between them. She nodded solemnly and tried not to think of the sorrow she heard in his voice. The stable had once held racehorses and stallions and ponies and four matched bays for the carriage. Every stall had been filled. She hurt for George. "A pity your father changed so in the last years of his life and squandered away your birthright."

He gave a bitter laugh. "He did become rather a scoundrel after Mama died." His eyes met hers, and he reached to take her hand. "If it weren't for you, I would have done exactly as he did. I would have continued on my wayward path until there was nothing left for the children. There's not much now, but I vow to rebuild Hornsby."

She squeezed his hand. "Pray, do not credit me for turning you around! 'Twas your own decision to put your children first. When I realized you wished to . . ." Finishing her thought would be difficult, but she needed to wedge the truth between them. ". . .to sacrifice yourself, I've never been more proud of you."

He came to an abrupt stop and took both her hands in his. "Don't ever say that my marrying you was a sacrifice on my part. It was the best thing I've ever done."

Her heart expanded. Of course, he meant to say
for the children
. Still. . . he had no regrets. She met his gaze with watery eyes and reached up to stroke his chiseled cheek.

He covered her hand and brought it to his lips. "Thank you for everything," he said in a throaty voice.

The children's laughing voices and the happy yelp of their dog rang out as they ran across the sloping, verdant parkland, their parents hastening to catch up with them. It was a joy to watch Sam's little legs churning as fast as they could go. He knew as well as his father did the direction of the stables, and he was determined to be the first to see his new pony.

When they got to the stables, Ebinezer was rubbing down the gray pony.

"It shouldn't be too much for the beast to gently trot close by with a child on his back," George said for the benefit of the groom. He came and took the pony's lead line and began to lead it toward the open door.

Sam, anxious to come close to his wondrous new possession, nearly got stepped on by the pony.

George swung around to face the errant child and spoke angrily. "Don't ever come up behind a horse! You could have been hurt!" He bent to pick up the startled child.

His voice softened when he addressed his daughter. "Tell you what, love, I shall allow Sam to ride first, but I'll allow you to select a name for the pony. Remember, it's a girl."

Sally smiled at her husband's cleverness—and self- preservation. Of course Sam would have to ride first—and most likely longest—or his foul temper would make them all miserable. Georgette's lovely little face brightened as she watched Sam being hoisted upon the mount. Sally took her hand, and they followed the males from the stable and continued to walk behind them as George patiently instructed Sam on how to sit a horse.

Seeing Sam's little body seated atop the mount filled Sally with fear. He was awfully small to ride alone.

George instructed his son on how to ride as if Sam were a little man, yet he was patient and his voice was gentle. As Sally watched George and his son, she came to a most shocking realization. George was enjoying this as much as Sam. And because she knew George so thoroughly, he could not hide that pride from her. It showed plainly in his demeanor. It was the pride a man takes in his son. She would have been at a loss to explain it, but his proprietary manner with Sam was altogether different from that he used with his daughter.

Meanwhile, Georgette was so excited about naming the beast she lost all interest in watching her brother ride the animal. "Matilda is a very fine name," the little girl said.

"Yes, it is," Sally agreed as she stroked Georgette's rich, dark hair.

"Or I could call her Smokey because she's gray."

"You could."

The little girl giggled. "Or I could call her Baby because she's a baby horse."

Sally laughed. "Baby's nice, too. You've come up with some wonderful names, pet."

Georgette smiled up at her stepmother. "Which one do you like best?"

"I cannot say. They're all so good. You must decide for yourself."

"Oh dear, what a deminna."

It was all Sally could do not to burst out laughing. "You mean dilemma, pet."

With no falter in her composure, Georgette continued. "Such a dilemma to select a good name for our new pony." She wrinkled her little nose. "Perhaps Smokey isn't so good, after all. It reminds me of a boy horsy."

"You may be right," Sally agreed.

"I know! I'll ask Sam." Georgette ran ahead, her frilly white dress billowing behind her, her dark tresses waving like a flag. When she came abreast of her brother, his face was screwed up with concentration—and was not altogether free of fear. He had listened attentively to all the instructions his father had given him. Now he seemed afraid to glance at his sister.

"Sam," Georgette said, "Should you like to call the horsy Baby? Or do you want to call her Matilda?"

Sally saw that George watched Sam's face intently. No doubt, he was in hopes Sam would reply.

Sam did not answer.

His sister was not dissuaded. "Baby?" she queried.

Sam shook his head.

"You want to call the horsy Matilda?" Georgette said in a sweet little voice.

Still not looking at his sister, Sam nodded.

"No wonder the lad won't speak," George said with amusement. "He doesn't have to. The little imp communicates exceedingly well without talking."

Georgette lagged back and looked up at Sally with a beaming face. "Matilda will be our horsy's name."

"I do believe that is my favorite one," Sally said decidedly. "But you are not to call it a horsy, pet. It's a pony. I know you only call it a horsy for Sam's sake, but he needs to learn the correct words. How else will he learn to speak?"

* * *

That night after they tucked in the children, Sally and George returned to the drawing room to face each other over a game table that was placed close to the fire. George began to deal two hands of piquet.

"I've been told you've managed to have a fire in every servant's bedchamber at night," George said. "Such a move seems at great odds with your economizing measures."

"Oh, I'm still economizing in every way I can." She peered over the top of her cards. "But I'll never sacrifice the well-being of anyone at Hornsby. It's my belief that every person should be entitled to sleep in a room free from chill and drafts."

"Commendable."

"The servants are so grateful for the
luxury
I've afforded them, they're more than willing to help me cut expenses in other areas."

"I don't know how you've done it, but I'm rather impressed," he said.

She set her hand on his arm. "Oblige me by not discussing money during our evenings. You deserve to have one portion of every day that is free from estate woes."

Another thing for which he was grateful to her. After the disaster with the sheep, he had briefly sunk into despair—a despair he hid from Sally. But now he had recovered completely. He had asked himself if losing his herd was the worst thing that could happen to him.
No, it isn't.
Losing someone you loved was worse. He knew that firsthand. And now he knew that losing Georgette or Sam or Sally was the worst thing that could happen. Sheep could be replaced—not easily, but they could. His loved ones could not.

These night meetings with Sally in front of the fire in his favorite room on earth had, indeed, become very special to him. In many ways, they were like the early morning-sessions he had enjoyed with Sally back in Bath. But they were somehow also different. Despite the two of them being far less intimately attired, he felt even closer to her.

They
were
much closer now—as two people who share the same hopes and dreams would necessarily be. And they shared the same love of their children. With Sally, he shared everything. Everything except his body.

His heart began to beat faster at the unlikely prospect of making love to Sally. He pictured her as she had looked in her thin night shift back in Bath. Hers was not a body to incite lust. It was too thin. But Diana also had been thin, and his lust for her had been almost debilitating. At the memory of Sally's nipples pressing against the fine lawn of her night shift, he grew aroused.

Good lord, but it had been a long time since he had been sexually aroused over a woman. Perhaps that would explain the thoroughness of his erection. He could not speak. He could not concentrate on his cards. He could only feel. Feel the throbbing manhood nearly exploding under the game table. Feel a hunger to draw Sally into his arms. Feel a need to have her beneath him, to have himself sheathed within her. His breath grew ragged.

"George?"

He had stupidly brought the game to a halt. He tossed out the first card in his hand and gave her a shaky smile. He seemed unable to remove his gaze from her fire lit face and its shades of honey and brown all feathering together, with her smoldering dark eyes the focal point. Willingham had been right. Sally was lovely. George had been so damned obsessed with Diana he had not allowed himself to acknowledge Sally's attractiveness. Now he could only barely remember what Diana looked like. He had tried to imagine the sound of Diana's voice, but had not been able to. Did that mean that he no longer loved Diana? Had she finally released her grip on his heart?