Fiona kicked the rungs of her chair, the same way Joan still did when bored. “Uncle Tye said he sang Rowan a lullaby. Nobody sings me any lullabies.”
Tye passed Hester her tea. “Shall you be going to bed before supper, Niece? I’ll be happy to sing you a lullaby right now if you are.”
“No.” She smiled, generously conceding the point. “But I’ll be going to bed after supper. You could sing to me then.”
“No such luck.” Tye peeled a raisin from the scone in Miss Hester’s hand. “I’m engaged to serenade my horse after supper. It helps settle his equine nerves, to say nothing of my own.” He popped the raisin in his mouth, but not before he caught a half smile from the woman trying to ignore his presence while they sat side by side on the same bench.
She smelled good—clean, flowery, lemony, and feminine, and it made his male brain recall that fragrance of hers combined with lavender-scented sheets and the earthy aroma of spent lust.
Spent lust being a degree short of sated lust.
“Did Rowan’s nerves necessitate a hack in this rain, my lord?” Hester hid behind her teacup, reminding Tye he’d dodged the day’s first two meals. No wonder the lady was hesitant.
“Rainy days are hard on the beast when he’s confined to his stall, and a call on Balfour was in order. He sends his greetings.” Tye resisted the urge to appropriate a bite of Hester’s scone. She was eating slowly, tearing off a nibble or peeling off a single raisin and putting it into her mouth.
Innocent behavior. He could observe her doing the same thing any morning in the breakfast parlor—if he wanted to start the day losing his sanity.
“I’d best be changing into dry clothes. Fiona, if no one has explained multiplication to you, I will take on that challenge tomorrow.”
“Like be fruitful and multiply?” Fiona’s innocent question hung in the air, while Miss Hester’s lips curved, and she abruptly appeared fascinated by her remaining bite of scone.
“That is an archaic biblical reference, child. What I have in mind is done on paper with a pencil and a good deal of careful thought. Miss Hester, I will see you at supper.”
He managed a dignified exit in damp socks, which was no small feat, even for the firstborn son and heir of an English marquess. He was standing before the fire in his bedroom, peeled down to his damp breeches and bare feet with a tumbler of whisky in his hand, when the first glimmer of a fascinating—if improbable—idea stole into his tired, frustrated, and not a little resentful mind.
“I hope Uncle Tye stays with us until Mama and Papa come back.” Fiona reached for a scone, but must have seen the promise of retribution in Hester’s eyes. The child snitched a single orphaned raisin from the tray 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 promise you won’t let me win?”
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 shyness allowed her to.
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.
Despite the stain on Tye’s honor.
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: