1811 (Continued)

"Come, it's not like that." Ian sat down heavily. "She always followed the both of us, wanting to play or—"

Ernie snorted. "The difference is that now she only wants to play with one of us."

Ian eyed him angrily. "This is nothing to joke about."

"Oh, don't be such a prig."

"You're talking of your own sister," Ian growled.

"Not like I mean anything by it. She's a brassy little baggage, but she's harmless enough. And I know you'd never get up to anything with her."

"Or any girl that I've seen," Stanborough said with a roll of his eyes, pointing his glass toward Ian. "Have to wonder about you, Douglass. Can't understand a man who barely drinks."

He stewed, staring at the bottle on the sideboard. If there was ever a time for a drink, it was now, but he couldn't afford it, not with the livestock and the garden and every other thing he had to take care of with what was left of the afternoon.

He knew Richard and Ernest thought he was a prig most times, if not all the time, but it was different for them. It wasn't just that they had time enough on their hands to get up to mischief, they also had a certain immunity that he never would. He'd seen it at Eton. They could be hooked doing almost anything and it would all be chalked up to young men and high spirits. For him, it would just be proof of how base-born he was, how an education was wasted on him. Not that the Crewes treated him that way. Though he'd always earned his keep, he was never made to feel low about it, possibly because Lady Crewe considered his mother a particular friend. His masters at Eton, however, had certainly seen fit to tell him how grateful he should be and how carefully he should watch his step.

"Come, have a drink, Ian," Ernest urged. "You damned well deserve it. I don't know how you put up with her cussed calf-love. I wouldn't stand for it, myself."

Stanborough laughed loudly. "Had a lot of experience with that, have you?"

"Shove off, Stan!"

"Mostly on the other end. Why don't you tell him to try whatever Isabella Sloane told you when you—" That earned Stanborough a pillow in the face, after which he stood. "Right! You've asked for it now!"

"Stay back, you bugger!" Ernie said on a laugh.

Stanborough obviously wasn't going to. He was after the fire irons when the door swung open to reveal the Countess, who looked rather put out.

Ernest coloured up, then tried to hide both his drink and his cheroot behind his back while Ian stood quickly. It wouldn't do for the Countess of Stanborough to find him sitting down in her home.

Stanborough only tossed the poker back toward the grate and picked up his drink again, inclining his head to her. "Afternoon, Mother," he said without an ounce of shame. Then again, he was older, but she'd never so much as blinked at his habits before and they didn't seem to bother her now, though the noise must have. "Too loud again? Barnes did say so earlier, but I must have forgotten after the fifth." He lifted his glass, and rather brazenly in Ian's eyes.

"Well, I wish you and your friends would be still. I can hear all the way upstairs and it's giving me absolute agony. I barely slept last night." Her shaky hand moved to her head as she sketched a weak curtsy toward Ernest, who belatedly remembered to bow while still holding his drink upright behind his back.

"Lady Stanborough."

She only glanced briefly toward Ian, who bowed. "Mi'lady."

She didn't seem to notice Ernest's predicament, or the smoke coming from behind his jacket, turning to her son. "Did Jones not send my tonic?"

Richard shrugged. "Can't recall."

"Barnes said he was ready to pay the boy, but you insisted on doing so yourself. Surely you haven't had enough to forget, Darling. My head..." She trailed off, squeezing her eyes shut.

Stanborough's lips thinned as he moved to the sideboard, opening a drawer and pulling out a slim, brown bottle. "I suppose I did get it. But shouldn't you wait until..."

She strode to him and took it, suddenly energetic, before turning to the other young men with a slight smile. "The apothecary makes a special mixture just for my headaches. Ernest, do tell your mother it does wonders."

"I will, Madam," Ernest choked out, swaying a bit, as if that would dissipate the smoke still curling behind him. She didn't seem to notice nor care as she took her leave. Ernest let out a shuddering breath. "Fine thing she finally left," he whispered. "I thought I'd burn my tail off."

"Doubtful she'd notice," Richard grunted, moving to close the door rather loudly. He stared at it a moment before turning to Ernest. "I wouldn't tell your mother about her tonic."

Ernest gave a short laugh. "I won't be telling my mother I was here at all. She still thinks you've corrupted me."

Richard seemed to lose the dour look as he moved to the sofa. "As if you wouldn't get tap-hackled without me."

"I'm sure I would. Not much else to do here. But I'm sure it would be on cheaper swill." He shook his head. "What were we talking of before?"

"Your sister. Not the dull one, the silly one," Richard gestured to Ian, "who's setting her cap at poor Monk."

"Here now, Stanborough, no one gets to call my sisters dull and silly but me." Ernest turned to Ian. "And get that terrified look off your face, Monk. It's like I said. She's harmless."

Ian wanted to agree, but now that it had been pointed out, he could see it all: the way she'd smile, the way she'd blush, the way she always giggled even when what he said wasn't very clever, the way she beamed if he ever so much as chuckled at her observations. He'd always seen these things as sweet, innocent, but now...

When she next sought him out, it was after dinner, both the family's and the staff's. He'd barely touched his, unable to join in the chatter. The August sun was beginning to fade as he set about finishing the chicken coop. He barely saw her until she was practically upon him, with the sun at her back.

"Still securing the chickens," she sighed. "I was so very bored I thought even this might be preferable."

"I might finish before night," he said shortly, "without distractions."

"There was talk in the hen house earlier, you know. They find that grey wire very dull. Henrietta the first and Henrietta the second would both like a nice light green, but Henrietta the third disagreed and thought yellow would be more appetizing. Phyllis wants bright red, but we all know she's quite a wild thing."

He was half tempted to smile, maybe ask which one was supposed to be Phyllis and why, but pursed his lips. His mother was right. These games had gone on long enough. "Begging your pardon, Miss Crewe, I'd be done much quicker if you left me in peace."

She laughed. "But of course, Mr. Douglass," she said, deepening her voice. "I'll carry no more tales from the chickens. They're impertinent little things, anyway."

Any other day, he'd have wondered aloud that she could call anyone else an impertinent little thing. But things were different now. They had to be. "I don't mean to give offense, Miss, but it must be said. You might have the time to be bored, but I don't have the time to entertain you. Not anymore."

He kept his eyes on his work, but he heard her in-drawn breath, as if she'd been cut and maybe she had. He didn't like to be the one to do it, but what choice did he have? It was really for her own good. His mother was right. Even if she didn't fancy herself in love, people would talk soon enough.

"I never said you had to... I... was only..."

"I've the stables to do now." He picked up his tool bucket. "I'd be obliged if you told your father I've finished, Miss Crewe." He made the mistake of meeting her eyes then, and they were large and wounded. It wasn't a look he'd ever seen in them before, let alone been the cause of. He wanted to say something to soften it, but that would mean acknowledging this tendré of hers. He turned resolutely and walked away.

1811

"Sometimes I wish we weren't older," she said softly as they jostled along on the packed dirt.

So did he. Things had been simpler then. Even keeping his distance from her so carefully, after what his mother had said, it didn't stop the dreams that eventually came.  He avoided her like the plague after that, though it didn't stop them. He kept telling himself he had no control over what he might dream, but they still left him with a guilty feeling that left him unable to even relieve himself in the morning. He'd suffer through it rather than contend with the even greater guilt that would come after that.

He glanced her way, finding her staring in front of her, her eyes so damned sad. He'd never liked seeing that,  so he put his own back on the lane ahead. "We're not children anymore," he said abruptly. "At least one of us isn't," he hastened to add, as he'd rather she be angry than sad.

It worked. "So I'm a child? So what does that make Jenny and her two extra years. Yes, I'm sure you have much more to talk about with her, though I didn't see much talking."

"One has nothing to do with the other and what I do with Jenny has nothing to do with you," he bit out.

"How many have there been? Is it just Jenny or is it the butcher's daughter and the grocer's daughter and..."

"The grocer doesn't have a daughter."

"His wife, then?"

"Stop being ridiculous."

"No, he has a son. Perhaps I should kiss him now that I've seen how it's do — oof!" The carriage tilted to the side and Daffodil reared up.

"Now look what you've done," Ian grunted, jumping down to calm the horse, which Charity had named. He liked to make sure people knew that, especially when he had to get the horse's attention in public. He'd tried to get him to answer to Brutus or Thunder or just anything else, but it was no use.

"What I've done?" she protested loudly.

"You distracted me on a sharp turn." Talking of kissing the grocer's son... He stroked Daffodil's neck, whispering, "Bi socair. Tha e ceart gu leòr." He didn't know much of his mother tongue, but he remembered some, crooned into his hair when he was very young before his mother forbade all things Scottish. He'd looked up more in Lord Crewe's books, both to jog his own memory and since the horses seemed to take so well to it.

He'd barely gotten the wild look out of Daffodil's eyes when Charity jumped down, moving to the back. "It's not broken. It's only in a rut. I can push it while you—"

He rushed to her. "Don't you try it."

She snorted, tossing her bonnet in the back and pulling off her gloves. "Why does no one let me do anything? I'm perfectly capable—"

"You'll get mud all over yourself and your mother'll have my head for it."

"Oh, I'll tell her it was all my—" She pushed at the back of the cart just as he gripped the side and it slid forward, taking some of the skin of his hand with it.

He let out a loud groan, staring at the large splinter now embedded in his palm.

"Merciful heavens, Ian! What have you done to yourself?" She moved around to him.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it without help." He shook his head and turned away from her. "You stay back. You've done enough."

"Don't be silly. Let me see." She hissed softly as she finally got hold of his hand. "That's a good one."

"I'm wondering how there's any cart left," he grumbled, not completely objecting to the way she cooed and slid her finger up and down his palm. "It doesn't hurt so much. I've had worse."

"I bet I can dig it out."

"Oh, no."

"There are some pins in my—"

He gripped her by the shoulders, wincing a bit at the pressure, then things seemed to go a bit strange. He could still feel the pain from the splinter, sort of pulsing in his palm, but it seemed to almost intensify other things, like the soft feeling of her shawl under his fingertips. Then it almost felt as if the pulsing was coming from her, under her shawl, under her dress, under her skin. He really did mean to let her go, but he found himself gripping her tighter as her shawl sort of shifted, falling away from her neck -- and from certain things below it.

He quickly lifted his gaze to her face, but that wasn't much better, what with her wide, blue eyes and her flushed, parted lips. He wondered if she'd seen where his eyes had been and if she'd slap him. She was certainly entitled to, that is if he could ever make himself let go of her arms. What she did shocked him more than any slap.

She kissed him.

**************