Page 21 of The Soldier
“She has a papa, a mama, and an uncle. I have Miss Emmie, who is my friend, but that’s all. I like Lord Amery because he listens and climbs trees, but I only want to borrow him.”
“You want to borrow him for what?” the earl pressed, shifting her again but keeping an arm around her as he did.
“To be my papa,” Winnie said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “He is not Rose’s real papa, so I thought she might not mind if he wasn’t mine either.”
“I see.” The earl’s frown was becoming thoughtful, but Winnie didn’t think he was seeing much at all. The earl was not the quickest fellow to her mind, but he had horses, and he was bringing Miss Emmie to the manor. And he had not ever, ever lied—yet.
A large male hand began to make slow circles on her back, and Winnie felt her eyes wanting to close. “I will send your letter, Winnie, but you must help me write mine.” Winnie sighed, leaned against the earl’s chest, and let her lashes flutter down.
“I’ll help,” she said. “Lord Amery says Rose likes stories about her real papa. He was Lord Victor. I don’t know any.”
“My letter might go something like this,” the earl began, his voice a soothing rumble in the ear Winnie lay against his chest. “Dear Rose, Your papa has come to visit, and we are very glad to see him. By we, I include in my household Miss Bronwyn Farnum, a very pretty and intelligent little girl who is kind to animals and nimble at climbing trees. Your papa told me she reminds him of you, but I saw Winnie first, and he cannot have her. She is mine now, though while your papa is here, Winnie will be all that is polite and friendly to him. I hope Sir George is doing well and not eating too much summer grass, and I hope your brother and mother are thriving. You must look after them until I can visit this fall. Uncle Devlin.”
“Devlin?” Winnie murmured through a sleepy smile.
“My mama named me Devlin. Like Miss Farnum is Emmaline.”
“And I am Bronwyn, at least to Miss Emmie.” Winnie nodded, eyes closing again. “I don’t suck my thumb anymore.” She yawned and felt her seat rising as the earl came to his feet. “Should I get down?” she asked, blinking.
“Hush. I’m just moving to a rocking chair, and you are just going to sleep.”
***
St. Just rocked slowly, thinking of all the nights when he’d been unable to sleep or afraid to sleep. Winnie was soon snoring softly, her mouth slightly open, her features angelic in repose. As he carried her through the house, he wondered what would keep a little girl up until midnight and what she would have done if he weren’t still at his desk.
Probably fallen asleep in the hayloft, he mused as he tucked her in.
He made his way to the library, lit an extra candle, penned a slightly different note to his niece, then found his bed. For the second time in less than a week, the earl of Rosecroft slept peacefully through the night.
And for the first time in two years, he awoke with a cockstand he could hang a bridle on. Seeing the sun had yet to rise, he rolled to his back, savoring the fullness in his groin. This wasn’t just a morning salute, he concluded, as fragments of a dream drifted through his awareness. A pond and Miss Emmaline Farnum, naked and sleek as an otter, then Miss Farnum, mouth open, still naked…
He pushed the sheets aside and began to stroke himself lazily, content to enjoy the simple fact of arousal, not even intending any pleasure beyond that. But his body, too long indifferent to any source of erotic inspiration, had found its rhythm, and so he continued, letting the arousal build and build as he thought of Emmaline Farnum’s nape, of the soft swell of her breasts, the lovely pink delicacy of her nipples, wet and ruched as she lifted her hands to her hair.
His breathing deepened, and he recalled the wet nest of her pubic hair, slightly darker than the mane she tucked into such a deceptively demur bun. Pleasure bore down on him as his mind’s eye flashed on her buttocks slipping beneath the water in a perfect, sweet pair of curves.
On a soft groan, he came, a lovely, voluptuous experience of intense satisfaction that left him relaxed, pleased, and so profoundly relieved he felt his throat constricting with gratitude. Some losses were so personal they could not be discussed, but they could be contemplated at grim and miserable length while a man tried to tell himself they didn’t matter.
Whatever else had been taken from him, it seemed the simple sexual pleasure of being male was no longer on that list. Joy welled up to join with relief, and the earl prayed the day would become unbearably hot, just so he could again picture Emmaline Farnum at her bath.
He got up to wash, dress, and start his day wondering if Emmie was already pothering about in his kitchen.
How did he reconcile that cheerful, brisk woman with the wood nymph to whom he owed such a glorious sunrise? The same woman, he realized as he dragged a brush through his hair, who would be sleeping under his roof that very night?
Ah, well, he concluded as he descended the steps in charity with the world, there were worse problems than how to behave around a luscious woman.
***
By ten o’clock in the morning, St. Just was convinced every problem imaginable had chosen that day to visit itself upon him. Douglas had brought up the idea that Winnie needed an adult escort into town if she wasn’t to be tempted to wander there on her own. Caesar looked to be starting on an abscess, making the earl regret his impromptu steeplechase home from church the previous day. His work crews had appeared, but Holderman for some reason was nowhere to be found, and breakfast had been again nothing but the damnable scones and butter.
He was mad enough to spit nails when Emmaline Farnum appeared at the large house cistern, a tray of mugs and a plate of cookies in her hands.
“I do not mean to disturb you.” She smiled at him as he scowled in her direction. “The heat is building quickly today, and I thought lemonade would not go amiss.”
“Lemonade.” As if lemonade would locate his steward. He reached for a mug then gestured for his two assistants to do the same. “We can enjoy the drink while puzzling out the whereabouts of both Timmens, who was to repair the fountain, and Holderman, my steward, using the term loosely.”
“Holderman’s gone back to his uncle,” Mortimer, the older of the earl’s assistants, volunteered. “Or summat like.”
“He’s scarpered.” The other fellow grinned. “My sister’s husband’s brother works for old Holderman, and the nepphie’s dog lazy, by him.”
