Page 7 of Tremaine's True Love
“I’ll take Mr. St. Michael to see the sheep,” Lady Nita said, when Tremaine had been hoping to see an earl scolded at his own breakfast table. “It’s not that cold out if the wind remains calm. Perhaps we might make a riding party of it?”
Lady Nita aimed her question at her sisters, who’d thus far been busy demolishing their breakfasts.
“Kirsten, Della, and I are off to pay a call on Mrs. Nash,” Lady Susannah replied. “We’ll take the coach in this weather.”
“That leaves me,” George Haddonfield said, “to shepherd the inspection of the sheep, so to speak. Shall we say in three-quarters of an hour?”
George was a spectacularly handsome young man, in the same blond, blue-eyed mold as most of his siblings. Though tall by comparison to most men, he was shorter than his older brother by several inches.
George made a more subtle job of exuding jovial harmlessness than the earl did, and he was quieter about it. Tremaine’s instincts suggested George would be slow to anger, formidable when roused, loyal as hell, and attractive even when roaring drunk or in the grip of an ague.
“Your outing to see the sheep can wait for an hour,” Bellefonte said. “Nita just sat down to her breakfast.”
Beside Tremaine, the lady silently bristled at her brother’s solicitude, as if she would rather have spoken for herself.
“Jam, my lady?” Tremaine held out the jar of preserves, and another of those familial awkwardnesses passed in silence.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Michael.” Her ladyship spread raspberry jam on her toast, her movements relaxed, even graceful, while Tremaine resigned himself to cold eggs. In his thirty-odd years on earth, he’d often been grateful for far worse fare and far worse company.
Though the Haddonfields were not at peace with each other, or at least not with Lady Nita. All families endured such tensions, which was part of the reason Tremaine remained largely outside the ambit of what family he had.
He took another bite of cold eggs and vowed to pin Bellefonte down regarding the herd of merino sheep before the sun had set. The sooner Tremaine transacted his business with Bellefonte and was on his way, the better.
CHAPTERTWO
“What do you hear from my brother Beckman?” George Haddonfield asked as the horses ambled down the frozen lane.
“I hear that he’s disgustingly happy with his bride.” Tremaine also endured a lot of epistolary ruminating from Beckman Haddonfield about the raptures of married life. In the spirit of furthering mutual interests, Tremaine had proposed marriage to Polonaise Hunt, Beckman’s sister-in-law, and been turned down flat—no great loss.
But a small loss. Tremaine would admit that much. He and Polonaise would have rubbed along together adequately.
“How is it you came to be interested in sheep?” George asked.
Nobody in his right mind admitted to aninterestin sheep, and Tremaine enjoyed excellent mental faculties. He was, however, interested in money.
“My mother’s people are Scottish, though my father was French. When France became unsafe, Mama took her sons home to Scotland. My grandfather’s wealth rested on the wool trade, and I learned by his example.”
A few prosaic sentences that glossed over a small boy’s heartbreak and a Scottish curmudgeon’s prescription for dealing with it.
“Do youlikesheep?” Lady Nita asked.
George Haddonfield maintained a diplomatic interest in the winter-drab countryside rather than comment on an arguably peculiar—or insightful—inquiry.
“Whether I like sheep is of no moment, my lady, though Irespectthem. They have neither fangs nor claws, nor great speed or size, and yet we rely on them for a fabric without which life would lose much of its comfort. Sheep know to stick together when trouble comes calling, and they aren’t too proud to bolt when imperiled.”
Then too, sheep had made Tremaine wealthy.
“Perhaps your Mr. Burns should have written his poem to a sheep rather than a mouse,” George quipped.
Burns had had any number of kind words for sheep—also for women and whisky.
“Soldiers owe a debt to sheep,” Tremaine replied, “as does anybody seeking to keep warm in winter. Sheep ask little and give much, they look to their own, and are, in their way, stoic. To my eye, a herd of sheep is an attractive addition to any bucolic scene.”
Tremaine had spoken too fiercely. Lady Nita was smiling while George Haddonfield looked vaguely puzzled. What would George think if he knew Tremaine, like any self-respecting shepherd, preferred the company of sheep to that of most people?
“I like sheep too.” Lady Nita petted her shaggy beast, and she was still smiling a sweet, feminine, interesting sort of smile that shifted her countenance from pretty to… alluring.
“Not much farther,” George Haddonfield said, as if they’d completed several days’ forced march. “The shepherd bides in that cottage up the hill. I’ll alert him to our presence.”
