Page 10 of The Soldier
“I can carry it.” She grabbed for the bonnet, but his blasted eyebrow was arching again.
“I do not comprehend yet all the local nuances of manners and etiquette, Miss Farnum, but I am not about to let a young lady walk home alone in the dark.” He angled his free elbow out to her and gestured toward the door held open by the footman.
Barbarian. She wanted to stomp her foot hard—on his—and march off into the darkness. She’d capitulated—albeit grudgingly and perhaps only temporarily—to his idea of sharing responsibility for Bronwyn. She’d put up with his sniping and probing and serving her tea. She’d agreed to move her business activities to his kitchens, but she would not be bullied.
“I know the way, my lord,” she said, glaring at him. “There is no need for this display.”
“You are going to be responsible for Winnie’s first efforts to acquire a sense of decorum and reserve, Miss Farnum.” He picked up her hand and deposited it back on his forearm, then led her down the steps. “You must begin as you intend to go on and set a sincere example for the child. She’ll spot fraud at fifty paces, and even my authority won’t be able to salvage your efforts then. A lady graciously accepts appropriate escort.”
“Is this how you trained recruits when you were soldiering?” She stomped along beside him, ignoring the beauty of the full moon and the fragrances of the summer night. “You box them in, reason with them, tease, argue, taunt, and twist until you get what you want?”
“You are upset. If I have given offense, I apologize.” His voice was even, not the snippy, non-apology of a man humoring a woman’s snit. She hauled him through the darkness for another twenty yards or so before she stopped and heaved a sigh.
“I am sorry,” Emmie said, dropping his arm. “I suppose I am jealous.”
He made no move to recapture her hand but put his own on the small of her back and guided her steps forward again. “You are jealous of what?”
“Of your ease with Bronwyn. Of the wealth allowing you to provide so easily for her. Of your connections, enabling you to present her a much better future than I could. Of your ability to wave a hand and order all as you wish it.”
“Are we being pursued by bandits, Miss Farnum?” the earl asked, his voice a velvety baritone in the soft, summery darkness.
“We are not.”
“Then perhaps we could proceed at less than forced march? It is a beautiful night, the air is lovely, and I’ve always found darkness soothing when I took the time to appreciate it.”
“And from what would the Earl of Rosecroft need soothing?” She nearly snorted at the very notion.
“I’ve felt how you feel,” he said simply. “As if another had all I needed and lacked, and he didn’t even appreciate what he had.”
“You?” She expostulated in disbelief but walked more slowly and made no objection to his hand lightly touching her back. “What could you possibly want for? You’re the firstborn of a duke, titled, wealthy; you’ve survived battles, and you can charm little girls. How could you long for more than that?”
“My brother will succeed Moreland, if the duke ever condescends to expire. This harum-scarum earldom is a sop thrown to my younger brother’s conscience, and his wife’s, I suppose. He and my father had considerable influence with the Regent, and Westhaven’s wife may well be carrying the Moreland heir. Anna made the suggestion to see Rosecroft passed along to me, and Westhaven would not rest until that plan had been fulfilled.”
“How can that be?” Emmie watched their moon shadows float along the ground as they walked. “A duke cannot choose which of his offspring inherits his title.”
“He cannot. According to the Moreland letters patent, it goes to the oldest legitimate son surviving at the time of the duke’s death.”
“Well, you aren’t going to die soon, are you?” She glanced over at his obviously robust frame, puzzled and concerned for some reason to think of him expiring of a pernicious illness.
“No, Miss Farnum, the impediment is not death, but rather the circumstances of my birth.” There was a slight, half-beat pause in the darkness, a hitch in her gait he would not have seen.
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. I have a sister similarly situated, though Maggie and I do not share even the same mother. The duke was a busy fellow in his youth.”
“Busy and selfish. What is it with men that they must strut and carry on, heedless of the consequences to any save themselves?”
“What is it with women,” he replied, humor lacing his tone, “that they must indulge our selfish impulses without regard to the consequences even to themselves?”
“Point taken.” For a barbarian, he reasoned quickly and well, and he was a pleasant enough escort. His scent blended with the night fragrances, and it occurred to her he’d already admitted to being comfortable with darkness.
And in his eyes, in odd moments, she’d seen hints of darkness. He referred casually to serving King and Country, and he admitted now to being a ducal bastard. Well, what would that matter? By local standards, he would be much in demand socially, and the squire’s daughters would toss themselves at him just as they did at Helmsley once long ago—poor things.
She was so lost in her thoughts she stumbled over a gnarled old tree root and would have gone down but for the earl’s arm around her waist.
“Steady on.” He eased her up to find her balance but hesitated before dropping his arm. In that instant, Emmie gained a small insight into why women behaved as foolishly as her mother and aunt and countless others had done.
“My thanks,” she said, walking more slowly yet. The heat and strength of him had felt good, reassuring in some inconvenient way. For twenty-five years, Emmaline Farnum had negotiated life without much in the way of male protection or affection, and she’d been at a loss to understand what,exactly, men offered that would make a woman suffer their company, much less their authority.
