The Coachman's Daughter (4 page)

“It is flirting, Mulhern.” He straightened
but did not get up. “In case you haven’t noticed, my brothers are
grown men. If you had an ounce of feminine instinct, you’d know
that.”

Annoyed she retorted, “And what if it is. I
suppose that is something you disapprove of also. My being so close
to them.”

“You’re a coachman’s daughter, Mulhern.”

Though, he had said it before, this time it
felt like a blow. Haven hardly realized everyone heard him and had
turned to look at them. She stared at Deme and uttered, “Yes. I am.
Forgive me for appearing otherwise.”

“Haven!”

“Haven wait.” She heard Lisette call out.

However, going through the French doors she
caught James’s, “You are an ass, brother. A complete ass.”

It was nightfall. Fog crept over the
landscape, making the scents of earth rise and thicken. Seeing a
light still shining in the window of the coach house, suspecting it
was not the Duke now, but Fanny, one of the head maids who was
sweet on her father, and often brought him sweets and pies, she
retraced her steps to the stables.

The groom and lads had the horses settled for
the night. They had mucked and cleaned, preparing them for riding
as well as preparing the stables for the guests at week’s end. She
could see a lamp shining through a slatted door where they had
quarters.

The mount she usually rode lifted its head as
she passed by a stall. Its eyes alone shone in the gloom, and she
stroked its nose.

Normally Deme could not get to her so easily.
She did not know why tonight was different. Perhaps because of her
earlier conversations with Lisette, or her father—perhaps because
she could not attribute it to brandy or whiskey. He was sober.

Exiting the stable, thinking she would soon
have to unpack her long buckskin coat, she came up short seeing a
splash of white in the dark stable yard. The Marquis shirt gleamed
amid the darkness and mists of fog.

“Where is Smert?” He spoke of the head
groom.

“Having his dinner, I presume. Resting after
a full day of work.” She folded her arms and noticed he did wear a
long coat, open. “What do you want of him?”

“I’d have him ready the buggy in two
hours.”

“I’ll have it ready.”

She could see his jaw tighten. “Never mind,”
He shook his head. “I’ll take one of the mounts.”

Haven watched him turn on his heel and let
him get several feet before she caught up. “Can you not restrain
yourself for a few days? At the least do your drinking in your
chambers. My father is busy, the grooms and lads are busy, and I do
not relish having to sit out in this dampness whilst you soak
yourself with whiskey or tumble one of the tavern maids.”

He stopped and spun, glaring at her. “As
usual, you forget yourself, Mulhern. If I bloody give an order, you
or anyone else should see it done—without question. As to that,
everyone else does, but you.”

“I’m not your servant, your Lordship.”

“If you were, you’d find yourself out on your
pretty arse.”

She smiled coldly, titling up her chin to
regard him. “I will be gone someday, Fielding. I do have a life to
live beyond dragging you out of hells and beds, risking my life
because you have passed out in some brothel and got yourself set
upon by thugs. Since I was sixteen, I have been the only one who
makes sure your raking does not result in worse than a pounding
head the next morning. I do not have to do it. However, I have done
it. And I have held your head whilst you puked, your cock whilst
you pissed, and I have taken your bloody sarcasm and curses and
insults and excused them—before.”

She let a heartbeat pass, knowing she was
going too far, saying what she should not, but Haven could almost
stand him foxed more than sober. “If you go out tonight, I must go.
I have promised the Duke. What is it to be?”

He looked angry, chillingly so. “I’ll speak
with my father in the morning. Hopefully neither of us will have to
suffer the other afterwards.”

Her stomach tight, heart pounding too hard,
Haven stood in the yard moments longer, cursing herself. Bloody
hell. She had done it now. She had crossed the line.

“My lord.” She ran to catch him. “Deme!”

She stopped when he did, several feet in
front of her, fog wafting between them.

He turned slowly. “I’m not one of your
playmates. You’ll address me as Lord Fielding, or your
Lordship.”

Haven wet her lips, her emotions too sharp
and her eyes too, despite the gloom. The damp air made his hair
glisten though muting his features. Never had those lips been so
sensual, those bones so aristocratic. Never had his blasted form
seemed so—wildly attractive.

She bloody well hated it.

“Your Lordship.” She said it softly;
unwittingly the wrong emotions were in it.

When he looked at her, she knew he heard
them.

She was utterly appalled. Swallowing she
turned and ran back towards the coach house, knowing without
looking back that he still stood there.

Chapter Three

He did well, the Marquis, staying mostly
sober, confining his drinking to his quarters, limiting himself,
though his hands shook and his thoughts were not welcomed ones.

Not an early riser, he had little choice but
to do so, with the boisterous siblings running the halls, animals
barking, and calling out—and no whiskey or brandy to keep him
asleep longer.

“Your bath is ready,” Mossley handed him his
morning coffee.

“Thank you. I’ll see to myself.”

The man bowed. “It is raining this morn, my
lord. The Duke and Duchess are breakfasting in their chambers. Lady
Lisette is reading I believe and your brothers are at cards. Shall
I bring you a tray?”

“Yes.”

He waited for the valet to depart and then
stripped down, going to the bathing chamber and sinking into a hot
steaming tub. After going under several times he noticed rain
lashing the windows.

He’d had that threatened meeting with his
father, but Mulhern never came up.

Once he was in the study and after talking
about the gathering, his brothers leaving, he realized his father
was more interested in his plans and his life. He felt rather
discomforted when the Duke mentioned that he was pleased Deme had
been home more, and was spending time with his brothers. Once he
began talking of his age and the Duchess’s, the children growing
up, settling—Deme knew what was coming.

It came in the form of his father’s saying,
“Your mother and I were thinking of touring Blakely Manor this
spring. That is where the dower house is, you recall, and my
favorite place for hunting. I did not grow up in this house, but
was there most of the time.”

“I recall you saying so.” Deme responded.

“I think Wimberly will always be a gathering
place, should be, for you all. However, Ellen and I have been
discussing giving Bellmere to Lisette, on her next birthday. It
would be hers in any case. There is acreage for James and Adrian,
Jude—when he is of age. Do you know, I have an uncle in Sussex who
is an Earl? He would have James inherit.”

“I did not know that, no.”

The Duke stirred milk into his coffee. “Your
mother thinks that Marston might do for Lisette.” Those eyes
lifted. “What is your opinion?”

“My opinion is, that it is up to Lisette. You
do not raise a daughter to think for herself and then take her
choices from her. If she needed to wed, it would be different. But
she does not. You know she was late having her season. She is only
just reaching twenty. Marston is nine years her senior.”

“I have the same opinion. However, I think it
harmless enough to invite him here. It will only take observing
them to change your mother from her course.”

“The Marstons are high in the instep.”

“I am richer and more titled.’ The Duke sat
back with a grin.

Deme had to smile too. “So you are, your
Grace.”

Shrugging, his grace said next, “We have
earned our rep, your mother and I earned it by our choices and by
the way we have raised all of you. I am not so sure about Marston.
He comes from a very old line, and commands respect from the
highest circles. Not a talkative or demonstrative lot, but I am
curious, frankly, why he approached your mother.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. At some musical or other.”

Deme was surprised too.

His father went on, “I have oft thought that
given more responsibly you would find your true passion in life,
Deme. I think having Wimberly under your stewardship, may well be
the thing.”

“You and mother are retiring from
society?”

“Not at all. We will always be a part of it,
and there are your younger siblings to see to. Nevertheless, I ask
you to think upon taking over Wimberly. We have friends and
enjoyment at Blakely.”

He further said, “You know this place, the
tenants. It will be yours someday and I would rather visit than run
it along with so many others.” His father looked over toward the
windows. “I will be sixty this winter. I am fifteen years your
mothers senior.” He grunted with laughter and looked back at Deme.
“We spent our youth on passionate impulses and burning our candles
at both ends. I suspect I’m mellowing with age, as is the
Duchess.”

Deme heard both regret and wisdom in that
tone.

He supplied, “I will of course, do whatever
you wish, your Grace.”

“I wish—” The Duke held his gaze. “That you
were happy.”

“I’m content.”

“Hardly. You’re board, unchallenged.” His
father shook his head. “Since that mistake at twenty and one, you
haven’t let yourself experience height nor depth, and I tell you,
my boy. The depths are as necessary.”

Deme had gotten to his feet. “Do not worry
for me, father. I can take care of myself.” He had made his escape
afterwards, longing for a drink, but took a long walk instead.

Now he bathed, dried and dressed, finding the
tray ready. While eating rather absently, he wondered how to fill
his day. Since he usually drank, or took off to the village, he
felt chaffed and confined, restless again—and dreading hours upon
hours to come.

Leaving the chambers, Deme carried his coat
and hat, and after seeing that everyone was occupied, he put both
on, buttoning the caped coat and pulling his gloves out of his
pocket to don them. Soon he was exiting one of the side doors. Rain
beat down on the beaver hat and pooled on the flagstones his boots
splashed though. He headed toward the coach house.

Passing the stables, he nodded to the groom
who was in oilskin, coming round the side with a pail of water.
Onward to the coach house, Deme traversed the cobble packed yard,
and soon entered the double doors of the high-beamed lower
floor.

The coaches and carriages, all manner of
vehicles were housed here. Kept polished and in top shape, the
place smelled of that polish and leather, but also of the wood
beams and stone.

He took off his wet hat and undid a few
buttons to shed the coat of water. The rain poured at the doors
behind him. His boot heels echoed as he walked to the coach. For a
moment, he merely stared at the one with the Wimberly crest—plush,
well appointed, newly designed. There were unmarked ones as well as
crested ones in London. He took off his glove and traced the design
on the door—there was a time that was everything to him.

He sighed and put his glove back on. Walking
over to a wall next, where neatly laid out harnesses were kept and
all manner of tools, brass rings, buckles and such, he was
withdrawing a cheroot when he heard a noise from above and looked
up.

He had not been in the coaching quarters in
years, but he assumed he was standing under the front parlor.
Voices were muffled but he sensed they were tense voices. He was
used to it from his parents, but he never assumed Patrick and Haven
butted heads. Patrick did not seem the sort—though he would wager
Mulhern found it hard to curb her sharp little tongue.

In any event, he heard a door slam. Then
there were footfalls at the other side of the large coaching house.
He walked a bit toward that, seeing the thick stairs, and Haven
coming down them. She did not see him, and turned at the bottom,
heading for the other side and opening one of the windows.

She stepped back as a rain gust blew in.
Tucking her hair behind her ears after smoothing it. She was
clothed in trousers and boots, a jumper over her blouse. He watched
her cross and then uncross her arms before she looked down and
around, finally reaching under a low shelf.

When she extracted a flask, he raised his
brow, watching her straighten, uncork it, and drink.

She wheezed and coughed, half-bending over,
sucking air in a way that made him silently laugh. She obviously
was not a drinker. The flask was likely her fathers or one of the
grooms. He watched her take three more pulls before she shuddered
and put it back.

Breathing harsh she muttered, “Blasted men.
Blasted rain.”

Then, as if she sensed him behind her, she
whirled. “What do you want?”

He cocked his brow, noting her flushed face.
“I came to see your father?”

“Why?”

“Not that it is any of your affair." Deme did
not like her tone. “But I thought I would have him drive me to
Wolford, to issue an invite to Monty for the gathering,
personally.”

She blinked and then took a breath, letting
it out slowly as if shaking off some emotion. Her tawny eyes seemed
to blink it away at the same time. “It will be heavy in this muck
and mud. The coach. I’ll take you in the light one.” She headed
around him.

“Feeling that restless, are you?”

“I’ll just get my coat and then have the team
brought up.” She ignored that.

Deme put on his hat and went down to the
stables himself. The groom brought a pair of matched blacks and
with the aide of two lads had the thing ready in a trice.