studies, he’s got, but the money’s run out. I’d wager he’d be willing to pledge his services for, say, five years, in exchange for his tuition. What do you think?”
“Done.” The earl took the next corner on two wheels. “Hell and damnation, I’d almost rather the child be a girl. I’m sure I could buy that piece of land from the home for unwed mothers. Blast! If she lets a bunch of lightskirts come to Pennington, I’ll murder her for sure.”
“It’s not as if Her Grace has any say in the matter, my lord. You might try praying though. By the bye, that brother-in-law of mine we talked of, the one in collars, is ready to move into that vicarage you mentioned. His wife and young ’uns is that excited to be getting out of the city.” And out of Dimm’s house.
His lordship grunted and flicked his whip over the horses’ backs for more speed. Dimm held on with both hands. “What you need is a wife, milord.”
“Why, do you just happen to have one of those stashed in your attics, too?”
“Not ’zactly, and you’d do better to keep your eyes on the road than sending me black looks like that.”
“Oh, did you mean I need a woman’s refining touch? Hah! That’s just what I need on top of everything else, someone to nag about the polish on my boots or the smell of my cigar or the way I drive my cattle. I mean, a scandal and a murder charge and that aggravating female aren’t enough? You’d saddle me with a prunes-and-prisms wife besides?”
“Devil a bit, guv. But you ain’t thinking clearly, milord. Women die in childbirth all the time. Then there’s always milk fever. What happens if Her Grace sticks her spoon in the wall any time these next five or ten years? You’re stuck with a infant, your lordship, all on your own.”
For the first time in twelve years, Carlinn put the curricle in the ditch.
Chapter Nine
Kimbrough kept his promise about Foster. He was a man of his word, Marisol conceded, whatever else she might think of his stiff-rumped earlship. And she thought of him more than was good for her or the baby, since his very name made her blood boil. Every enthusiastic encomium pouring from her brother’s mouth grated against her nerves when she remembered how Kimbrough had denied her his sister’s acquaintance. As if she’d contaminate the girl, for heaven’s sake! He’d behaved like a doyenne pulling her skirts away from a mud puddle. And that sanctimonious snob was to be in charge of her son? No wonder she was in the doldrums.
The weather did not help, being raw and gray when it wasn’t raw and rainy. Walks were more torture than pleasure. The wintery chill outside was nothing to the dowager’s attitude inside, and the lack of congenial company was driving Marisol to distraction. She tried to keep busy renovating an apartment in the north tower, with Mr. Stenross’s approval. The historic ducal suite was no place for a child and too drafty for its mother. But even that work was proceeding for the most part without the duchess, since the smell of paint made her queasy and the hammering of paneling gave her the headache. She only had to approve swatches of fabric from books and choose desks and chairs brought down from the attics for her inspection, there being no way she could navigate those steep steps and narrow aisles.
After that, there were only so many books she could read, letters she could write, little caps she could sew, comments about the weather she could shout to Aunt Tess to fill her days. She was reduced to playing with Max, for pity’s sake!
For all that she was bored to flinders without his company, Marisol did not begrudge her brother his new interest. Kimbrough kept Foster busy and excited, sending him home physically exhausted, enough so that Boynton’s acerbic comments at dinner fell on ears suddenly as deaf as Aunt Tess’s, to Marisol’s relief.
She was also relieved that the earl had taken her hint and not called, the high-handed, pompous prude. He
“Done.” The earl took the next corner on two wheels. “Hell and damnation, I’d almost rather the child be a girl. I’m sure I could buy that piece of land from the home for unwed mothers. Blast! If she lets a bunch of lightskirts come to Pennington, I’ll murder her for sure.”
“It’s not as if Her Grace has any say in the matter, my lord. You might try praying though. By the bye, that brother-in-law of mine we talked of, the one in collars, is ready to move into that vicarage you mentioned. His wife and young ’uns is that excited to be getting out of the city.” And out of Dimm’s house.
His lordship grunted and flicked his whip over the horses’ backs for more speed. Dimm held on with both hands. “What you need is a wife, milord.”
“Why, do you just happen to have one of those stashed in your attics, too?”
“Not ’zactly, and you’d do better to keep your eyes on the road than sending me black looks like that.”
“Oh, did you mean I need a woman’s refining touch? Hah! That’s just what I need on top of everything else, someone to nag about the polish on my boots or the smell of my cigar or the way I drive my cattle. I mean, a scandal and a murder charge and that aggravating female aren’t enough? You’d saddle me with a prunes-and-prisms wife besides?”
“Devil a bit, guv. But you ain’t thinking clearly, milord. Women die in childbirth all the time. Then there’s always milk fever. What happens if Her Grace sticks her spoon in the wall any time these next five or ten years? You’re stuck with a infant, your lordship, all on your own.”
For the first time in twelve years, Carlinn put the curricle in the ditch.
Chapter Nine
Kimbrough kept his promise about Foster. He was a man of his word, Marisol conceded, whatever else she might think of his stiff-rumped earlship. And she thought of him more than was good for her or the baby, since his very name made her blood boil. Every enthusiastic encomium pouring from her brother’s mouth grated against her nerves when she remembered how Kimbrough had denied her his sister’s acquaintance. As if she’d contaminate the girl, for heaven’s sake! He’d behaved like a doyenne pulling her skirts away from a mud puddle. And that sanctimonious snob was to be in charge of her son? No wonder she was in the doldrums.
The weather did not help, being raw and gray when it wasn’t raw and rainy. Walks were more torture than pleasure. The wintery chill outside was nothing to the dowager’s attitude inside, and the lack of congenial company was driving Marisol to distraction. She tried to keep busy renovating an apartment in the north tower, with Mr. Stenross’s approval. The historic ducal suite was no place for a child and too drafty for its mother. But even that work was proceeding for the most part without the duchess, since the smell of paint made her queasy and the hammering of paneling gave her the headache. She only had to approve swatches of fabric from books and choose desks and chairs brought down from the attics for her inspection, there being no way she could navigate those steep steps and narrow aisles.
After that, there were only so many books she could read, letters she could write, little caps she could sew, comments about the weather she could shout to Aunt Tess to fill her days. She was reduced to playing with Max, for pity’s sake!
For all that she was bored to flinders without his company, Marisol did not begrudge her brother his new interest. Kimbrough kept Foster busy and excited, sending him home physically exhausted, enough so that Boynton’s acerbic comments at dinner fell on ears suddenly as deaf as Aunt Tess’s, to Marisol’s relief.
She was also relieved that the earl had taken her hint and not called, the high-handed, pompous prude. He
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