instead.
“He’s a busy man, Fee. I doubt he can bide with us the entire summer.” She doubted her nerves could stand such a thing either: Tiberius Flynn, sleeping one unlocked door down from her, night after night.
“Why is he busy? Does he have other nieces?”
“Not that I know of, but he has estates, younger sisters, and parents. I’m sure there are many demands on his time.”
Fiona frowned, but it wasn’t a frown of displeasure. Hester was coming to know the child well enough to see that this was an expression of thoughtfulness. “Why doesn’t Uncle want anybody to know he’s nice?”
Why, indeed? Spathfoy wasn’t a friendly man, and he certainly made no effort to cultivate charm. She no longer viewed this as a shortcoming, having met a few too many friendly, charming scoundrels.
“Maybe he’s shy.” Shy enough that he’d fix her a cup of tea, touch her hand, and steal a raisin from her scone, but never once smile at her.
Fiona snitched another orphaned raisin. “Uncle is shy? I don’t think so, but he’s very careful. He guddles people the way he guddles a fish.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” An image of Spathfoy’s hand stroking slowly over Hester’s stomach had her pulse fluttering.
“He is stealthy.” Fiona hunched down closer to the table and dropped her voice. “He is polite and quiet, and uses a great lot of big words, but he has very good manners. My other uncles don’t have such good manners.”
“Your other uncles know you better, Fee. Spathfoy is more guest than uncle. When you know him better, he might be less formal.”
“He made me a cup of tea, right here in this kitchen. Mrs. Deal will have kittens.”
“He made me a cup of tea too”—exactly the way she preferred it—“so she’ll have to have two litters. Would you like to help me practice my Gaelic over a game of matches?”
“You
Hester rose and carried the tray to the counter. “I shall pummel you flat, but we must practice my Gaelic while I defeat you.”
“I bet Uncle could pummel you flat.”
Hester took the child’s hand and remained silent. She feared in some of the ways that mattered, Spathfoy had already pummeled her flat. She very much looked forward to her next pummeling, when she hoped she might return the favor to him. Aunt Ariadne had been quite correct to recommend that Hester avail herself of Spathfoy’s subtle charms.
And if he stayed the entire summer, Hester would avail herself of those charms as often as the gentleman’s
Tye tried writing to his father.
He needed to convey to the old man how dim-witted—and unsporting—this plan to uproot an innocent child was. He wanted to intimate to his father how urgent Tye’s own exodus from Scotland had become—how close he found himself to committing irredeemable mischief with one Hester Daniels, who might not be best pleased to see Fiona taken south. He had to explain to his father how very decent Balfour had been to Fiona and to Tye both, and how deserving the Scottish earl was of decent treatment in return.
All of which would be so much wasted ink. Quinworth had spoken, and the universe was to promptly order itself accordingly.
Despite the impact on a little girl.
Despite the strain on Tye’s self-discipline.
Tye stared at the empty glass in his hand, and once again the sly, outlandish idea called to him. He dipped the pen and tried to start his epistle to the marquess, except the plan taking shape in Tye’s brain was too fascinating, too strangely appealing, to permit the composition of a properly filial epistle. A list developed on the piece of paper before Tye, a list of reasons why this plan made perfect sense:
As his father’s sole, direct male heir, Tye had to marry.
His father was pestilentially determined that Tye should marry sooner rather than later.
Tye’s mother would have to attend the wedding ceremony, and it would please Tye inordinately to see his parents behaving as a couple in public.
The young lady was in need of a husband—all young ladies were in need of husbands, but this one needed a husband of sufficient social stature to scotch the remaining whiff of scandal clinging to her good name.
The lady was of childbearing age, for all her attempts to retire to the shelf.
The lady was impoverished and would be at pains to make a good match without a decent dowry.
The lady was quietly pretty and sensible, also quite passionate.
Tye scratched out the last line. A gentleman wouldn’t remark on a woman’s capacity for passion—a gentleman wouldn’t allow himself the opportunity to notice such a thing.
He wrote the same line again and underlined the last word. Two minutes of staring at the list, and he added another line:
The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece Tye must kidnap.
Another lining through.
The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece whom Tye would escort to the family seat, and the lady’s presence would aid the child in adjusting to her improved circumstances.
Improved was a stretch. He scowled at his list, scratched out “improved,” and wrote “new.”
Two minutes later he balled up his list and tossed it into the fire. Hester Daniels was a nobody—a younger daughter of a mere baron, and her brother was all but disdaining to use the title. As much as Tye might find the lady suitable, Quinworth would make her life hell.
Whisky was putting odd notions in his head. He stared at where the fire was consuming the crumpled list, turning paper to ash.
Hester wasn’t his mother, though. She wouldn’t run off if Quinworth turned up difficult. Hester could give the old man what for and never even raise her voice.
And she was
He started making another list.
Ian watched his wife climb into bed, something a year of marriage ought to have made into a prosaic, end- of-day sight.
Though it hadn’t. Each and every night, he feasted his eyes on the way firelight brought out red highlights in her dark hair. Each and every night, he waited for the moment she settled on the mattress, drew her nightgown over her head, and ranged her warm, female curves along his tired body.
“Come to bed, Husband. You’ve been brooding at that fire since we came down from the nursery.” She tossed off her nightgown, drew the covers up over herself, and lay back against the pillows.
Ian crossed the room, laid his dressing gown over her nightgown at the foot of the bed, and climbed in beside her. “The rain has made your son sleepy, I’m thinking. He hears it like a lullaby.”
“Growing has made him sleepy. He’ll likely be every bit as tall as you.” She cuddled up; he looped an arm around her shoulders and felt some of the day’s tensions ease out of him.
“He’ll be taller, because his mama is a fine, strappin’ countess who brings her own height to the equation. Do you think the lad would be up to a social call later this week?”
“To see Lady Ariadne? Of course.” She traced a single finger over Ian’s breastbone. “What has you in such a taking, Husband? I know Spathfoy came to visit this afternoon, but he didn’t stay long.”
Ian trapped her fingers in his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Damned man is intent on taking Fee south, Augusta. I’m not sure I can stop him.”
She rose up on her side, peering at him by the dying firelight. “How can he just take Mary Fran’s daughter, Ian? Do you mean for a visit?”
“No, my heart, I do not mean for a visit. Quinworth has taken some notion to retrieve his long-lost granddaughter, and Spathfoy is charged with seeing it done.”
Augusta was silent for long moments after she resumed her position at Ian’s side. “This is not good, Ian.
