Chapter 7
Her shirt had flopped open revealing the breast he’d been fondling. Her lips were swollen, her cheek grazed from his morning stubble, her hair a tangle of blonde curls.
He hastily buttoned her, just in time before the door flew open and four men swathed in greatcoats and heavy wraps jumbled in.
“Mother!” a creaky voice cried.
Not four men, but two men and two boys who were almost men. The blond-haired boy he recognized as James Lovelace. Jostling his way to the front of the group, the lad would have come closer, but the taller blond man behind him—Fitz, Lord Loughton—pulled him back.
“Lindhorst,” Fitz said, his mouth tight. “Mother.”
Behind Fitz stood Gordon, and, for the love of God, Neda’s son-in-law, the Duke of Swillingstone.
He was in for it.
“Good morning, Loughton. James.” Rising and reaching for the robe he’d tossed on the floor, he nodded to the two dark-haired arrivals. “Gordon. Swillingstone. If you will remain here, my lady, I’ll take these four lads downstairs and fetch your gown from the kitchen where I set it to dry.”
But she was already rising, swathing herself in the counterpane, tossing her hair back like a queen, as if her sons discovering her in a man’s bed was a matter of no consequence.
She marched up and stood with him, confronting the four intruders.
James’s gaze speared him, and the lad opened his mouth.
“You foolish boys,” Neda said, preempting her son’s scold. “I’m heartily glad to see you didn’t freeze to death, as Lindhorst and I almost did, searching for you. What possessed you to leave school like that?”
“I-I’m sorry,” James mumbled, probably not meaning a word of it. His lips were drawn as tightly as those of his eldest brother whose fierce glare was threatening pistols at dawn.
“Gordon.” Lindhorst mustered a bit of sternness, “explain yourself.”
His nephew frowned and mumbled his own apology, his gaze skittering to Neda and then jumping away again. It wasn’t often a lad his age saw a beautiful lady in total deshabille.
“Mother,” James said, “There’s a wager… Lindhorst and…”
“A wager?” She’d gone very still, her tone as frosty as the chill in the room.
Hell and damnation.
That blasted wager. Pickworth’s words came back to him: It’s in the betting book at White’s, you know.
He felt her gaze on him, her expression unreadable.
Shame washed over him. Unearned shame… Or, hadn’t he always laughed at the wagers? His damned reputation preceded him. “Neda, this has nothing to do with—”
“James, Gordon, leave us,” Fitz interrupted.
“No, Fitz.” Neda shook her head and drew herself taller. “The boys will stay. I would hear what James and Gordon have to say about this wager.”
As the boys remained silent, dread set Lindhorst’s nerves on edge. Would he lose all hope with her?
Still, the words must be said, and he would be the one to say them. “There was a wager in the betting book at White’s. I was told of it. I had nothing to do with it. It had nothing to do with… with us.”
She sent him a long look and nodded, and a tiny flame of hope flickered.
“It was a wager that Lindhorst would make you his mistress,” James said.
“And you know of this how, James?” she asked, her tone surprisingly calm.
James raised an imperious chin. He was a handful. More so than Gordon, another rebellious lad whom Lindhorst had more or less brought to heel.
No wonder Neda fretted about James. Fitz must be busy with his own growing brood and James was too old for a birching, as if that sort of discipline even worked on such a strong-willed lad.
Lindhorst took a step closer and glared. “Answer your lady mother.”
James’s mouth quirked and he finally blinked.
“One of the fellows.” Gordon jumped in, a lad who knew when it was wise to confess. “His brother writes him and…”
He closed his mouth, uncertain about revealing more.
Lindhorst knew what would come next. So would Fitz and Swillingstone. There was always some fellow at school or in the officer’s mess ready to organize his own betting book.
“One of your schoolmates is taking bets,” Neda said, surprising him again with how much she knew about boys and men and their foibles. “You, my foolish son, what side of the wager did you take?”
Color rushed up the lad’s cheeks. “Mother, I knew you would not… er, I thought you would not…”
“Succumb to Lord Lindhorst’s charms?”
There was humor in her tone, and James screwed up his mouth in a grimace that made him seem younger than his years. “That you would never be any man’s mistress.”
“Your mother is not my mistress,” he said.
She freed an arm from her wrap, and he felt her fingers tuck around his arm.
“Quite right,” she said. “You have won the wager, James. Lindhorst and I have spent a long night together after looking fruitlessly for you and Gordon. And how the four of you appeared here this morning is a story we will get from you before the day is out. Our night together was not a matter of dallying but of keeping ourselves from freezing to death.” She paused for a breath.
“And shame on you Fitzhenry Lovelace for glaring at Lindhorst so.”
She wagged a finger at her son, the baron, as if he were still a toddler in skirts, and then she turned a smile up at Lindhorst and went on.
“And though Lindhorst is lovely and has protected me and been a perfect gentleman, and though we’ve become quite good friends on this adventure, I have no interest in becoming his mistress. ”
“I should think not,” Fitz muttered.
“However, Lindhorst has asked me to become his wife, and I am saying…” She beamed a smile up at him. “Yes.”
Warmth bubbled up, draining away the chill, not just of the mouldering manor, but the chill that had settled around his heart since his sons died and his first marriage fell completely apart.
“Mother.” Shock was written upon Fitz’s and James’s faces, but Gordon’s mouth had dropped open and Swillingstone seemed to be fighting a grin.
Lindhorst gathered her into his arms. “Yes?”
She nodded.
“My dear, be assured, there will be no more wagers in the betting book with my name attached to them.”
“How can you possibly control the gambling of nodcocks like these?” She swept a hand toward the four intruders.
“I suppose I can’t, but my behavior will be impeccable. Let us say, this will be the last wager regarding Lindhorst and any lady.”
“The last wager?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The very last. I shall endeavor to bring you nothing but happiness and to never cause you regret.”
“You’d best be certain of that,” Fitz growled.
“They’re still here,” she whispered, and then said more loudly, “Boys. Out.”
“Mother…”
“Shoo,” she said flapping her hand. “Go and start the water for tea. We shall be down in a moment.”
Swillingstone took charge, ushering them out the door and casting a quick grin over his shoulder.
When the door snicked shut on the four intruders, Lindhorst let out a long breath and then a hearty laugh which faded away when he saw her watching him, a look on her face which he could only describe as… thoughtful, perhaps doubtful.
Was she comparing him to the late Lord Loughton?
“Neda? My dear?” He held his breath, waiting and praying that she was not going to change her mind.
“Orson,” she said.
No one had called him by his Christian name in years. He leaned in to kiss her, but she pushed him back.
“This is the last wager for me as well,” she said. “I must know… My age…You are certain—”
He stopped her words with a kiss but lingered only a moment on her lips before pressing his forehead to hers. “I am certain. I admired you, Neda, and then I grew to love you from afar, and now… We will suit, I am sure of it.”
Her gaze searched his face, her blue eyes glistening.
“Now,” he said. “We’ve slept, we’ve found the boys, and we must marry directly. What say you?”
“You’re forgetting Gordon’s sister—does she have a name? She must be rescued from school. And there’s also Christmas to be celebrated.”
“Her name is Lucy. We’ll fetch her on our way. Swillingstone may host our wedding. A common license, I think. Though I’d rather not wait a whole seven days… Perhaps… Does Swillingstone have a heated summerhouse?”
“I don’t know how much more scandalous behavior my sons can endure.” She lifted her chin, grinning. “Let us finish that last kiss while we still have a moment alone.”