“No, no. This is excellent. Thank you,” she said as she took the glass. Their hands were gloved. They were both dressed as if for a ball. He looked excellent, of course. The fit of his coat set off his broad shoulders. The color was dark chocolate, a perfect match for his hair and eyes. It was kept from being dull by the white of his lawn shirt and a brilliant emerald in the center of his silk cravat.
He looked handsome and every inch the viscount he was. She bit her lip, feeling the world peel backward to her girlish fantasies. How many nights had she spent dreaming of just this moment—herself in a carriage with a handsome aristocrat? Of course, in her pretend world, they were on their way to something respectable, but it didn’t matter. This moment did. So she took a sip of her wine, closing her eyes to appreciate the taste and the delightful fulfillment of her dreams.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
It took a moment for her to realize he was asking about the wine. “It’s perfect. Where are we going?”
“To the Black Horse Inn. I have, once or twice, stayed there when I can’t stand my family anymore.”
Her eyes widened. “You have not!”
“I have. The first time, I’d just turned seventeen. I was returning from endless hours with the steward at our family seat and knew I would face another pile of correspondence when I arrived in London. So I decided to stop at the inn instead. It was the most heavenly night!”
“What did you do?”
“I read. I took a hot bath. I dreamed of gorgeous women, and I fell asleep.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. At seventeen, you would still have been in school.”
“I was.”
“So how could you be seeing the steward and managing the bills? You were much too young.”
“On the contrary, beginning at the age of twelve, every Boxing Day, my father pulled me into his library and gave me a new responsibility. At first it was overseeing the wine cellar. He said the butler was stealing him blind, and he wanted me to end the nonsense.”
“And was the butler to blame?”
“God, no. That was my father, forgetting how much he drank every night. But my mother praised me for the excellent vintages I purchased and even Dribbs said I was being very clever. I think he was just grateful that my father stopped cursing him as a thief.”
“But you were only twelve! You must have shown quite the skill with management.”
He laughed, the sound filling the carriage. “Not then, I assure you. But my father was remarkably bad at management, so it wasn’t hard to make an improvement.”
“What did you get the next year?”
Even in the darkness of the carriage, she could see him frown, trying to remember. “The sheep, I believe. Or was that the next year?”
“But so much work. And you were still in school?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mind at first. It was kind of fun. I felt important stomping around the estate giving orders. But by the time I was seventeen, the novelty had worn off.”
“Did you come to hate Boxing Day?”
“Despised it with a passion.” Then he leaned back in the carriage and smiled at her. “What did you do for Boxing Day while I was locked in my father’s study?”
“Oh, nothing exciting. Sketched mostly. I spent much of my childhood with dirty fingers. I would draw the most elaborate things.”
“Landscapes? People?”
“Oh, no. Clothing. Dresses much too impractical to ever be possible. My favorite was a court gown. Flounces weren’t even the half of it. Lace, jewels, feathers from exotic birds. You name it, I’d drawn a dress that featured it. I did one that was made of sheets of flattened gold.”
“Gold! Can you imagine how heavy that would be? Like walking around carrying plates on your body. I doubt you could even breathe.”
She smiled, but didn’t answer. Was gold particularly heavy? She’d never held enough in her hand to know. But come to think of it, she remembered a guinea she’d once played with. She recalled how solid it had felt in her hand. A whole dress of coins would indeed have weighed her down to the floor.
He must have understood her embarrassment. When she didn’t respond, he chuckled, filling the darkness with the sound of good humor. “But that’s what youthful dreams are all about, I suppose. I used to dream of running a hospital where every illness was cured within the space of an hour. Sliced open your leg? Here’s a bandage that seals it within seconds. Birthing fever? Just drink this and you’ll be right as rain in a twinkling. Even wasting diseases were no proof against my miracle cures.”
“Did you see yourself as the brilliant doctor saving all? Or as the recipient of all those grateful hugs and kisses when all was made well?”
“Ah, well, that depended on my age. I began as the brilliant doctor admired by all. By the time I was a teenager, however, I must admit to a few grateful-daughter fantasies.”
“Sounds normal enough.”
“Not what I envisioned doing. I was not only brilliant, but I had the brawn and stamina of a Greek god.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. He was being so forthright about his young fantasies that she was charmed. Thank God this wasn’t a proper excursion. They could never discuss these things in the presence of a chaperone. “The Greeks were a lusty lot, as I recall.”
“Gods and goddesses alike. I remember trying to compare Athena and Aphrodite to my mother. Couldn’t see the similarity anywhere.”
“Your mother is not warlike or passionate? That surprises me, given how lively Gwen is.”
“My mother is not much of anything at all, I’m afraid. She has trouble facing the day, sometimes doesn’t even get out of bed.”
“Get her a grandchild or two. Then you’ll see how she changes.”
He snorted. “Well, that shall be Gwen’s job. I’ve had enough tasks gifted to me over the years. I cannot stand another.” It was a lie, of course. She remembered how he had played with Thomas. There had been longing for a child in his face. She was sure of it.
“But you will have children eventually. The honor of the earldom and all that.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, all that.”
She’d gone and spoiled it, she realized. She hadn’t meant her comment as anything more than the inevitable future of a man such as him. Marriage, children, and more little aristocrats to replace the old ones. The line continued.
But with that statement, she brought to mind his future wife. A woman who, obviously, would never be her. That soured her mood immediately. But that did not explain his silence. She didn’t dare ask. It was too forward, but he saved her by speaking in his mellow voice, the tones low and yet so intimate.
“Can I tell you a secret, Helaine?”
“Of course.”
“Whenever I think of children, I recall those Boxing Day mornings. I remember looking at the stacks of responsibilities added to my little desk in the corner of my father’s library. There was so much work there that I never had room to write unless I put the papers on the floor.”
“You were too young for all that. You wouldn’t do that to your own son.”
He sighed. “But it would be his eventually. More and more, in a never-ending stack. Sometimes I fear I will die beneath those piles and no one would notice for months.”
“Don’t be silly. The servants would notice the smell within a few days.”
It took him a moment to process her tease. And then he released an abrupt bark of laughter. “Yes, I suppose you are right. It would only be a few days.”
“A week at the very most.”
“At the most.” He chuckled, the sound like a slow caress. “That is what I most like about you, Helaine. You make me laugh at the oddest times.”
He said her name, and her whole body warmed. “And perhaps your son will take to management, as you have.”
“Is that what I have done? And here I thought I was simply standing up to my responsibilities.”
