Squire. They were dirt poor, let me tell you. Then there was the amazing sum of four-thousand, two-hundred pounds that they gave me to buy my commission in Wellington’s army.”
* * *
The Vindicator knew the answer to the puppet’s puzzle. His high, holy, miserable self, had paid—Clive bloody Pomfret, Vicar, sinner, whatever he had been, ‘twas best the crow was dead.
Clive had been worse than Papa.
Despite her father’s ire over her friendship with the Barrington heir, Edward St. Yves had been her best friend ... until she turned sixteen. When Edward came home from Cambridge that time, things changed between them. As they listened to his father and the housekeeper panting and moaning, Edward had begun to stroke her in places that liked his touch, at first through her clothes, then before long, inside them, against her skin. Then he took her hands and placed them on him.
Heady pleasure. Wicked. Wonderful. Incredible, that first time in the dumbwaiter, better the second time, in the loft.
Before Edward left for school, again, their play went beyond touching. He took her virginity and they became lovers.
The only happiness she had ever known had been with Edward. Then his father died and he took his place as the Earl of Barrington—an Earl who could not marry a Vicar’s daughter. Promising he would always love her, Edward married within his class, and she became the most petted and spoiled mistress ever, daring to live openly with her lover in his own home. Edward’s wife had become nothing more than a slave to Edward’s ruthless determination to beget a legitimate heir.
Edward lived his life as he wished—with her. And she had been happy for a time.
The shock of their open alliance had given her father a fit from which he never recovered. After Papa died, Edward liked baiting her brother, Clive, the new Vicar, even more. Sometimes she feared that Edward did not love her as much as he loved lording it over her holy male relatives.
She should have known, when Edward caused her downfall that his reasons had less to do with her and more to do with thumbing his nose at piety.
Edward never married her.
For that, she would repay him in coin more precious than her fall from grace—by pitting his sons—his longed-for legitimate heirs—one against the other, to the death, and ending the St. Yves line forever.
* * *
Standing beside the table, an empty wooden milk bucket between them, Reed’s revelation of his education and costly military career, made Chastity fear that she might lose Sunnyledge, after all. To be fair, however, he was helping her in ways she had not known she needed, and for that she would always be grateful, no matter where she and the children ended up. “Whichever one of us gets Sunnyledge,” she said, “though I have faith it will be me and the children, thank you for enabling me to mother them and any others who come along.”
Reed gave a derisive chuckle. “Wonderful, I have enabled a woman to become a mother. Quite an accomplishment, though I took no pleasure in the service, nor did I ever know a mother worth emulating.” He quieted, regarded her hand on his arm, then he scanned her face, and lost all sign of mirth.
Chastity wondered, yet again, if he were as drawn to her as she, to him, the quandary prompting her to sidestep temptation. She pulled a handful of tin soldiers from her pocket, with the intention of turning away, but he held her gaze with such pointed heat, the toys fell from her fingers, and scattered on the floor.
Rebekah disentangled herself from Chastity’s leg with a happy trebling whine and dropped to the floor to gather the bounty.
Free of Reed’s spell and the child’s awkward but pleasant shackle, Chastity lowered herself to sit at the table before her legs buckled. “How do I make cheese?”
Reed seemed to require a gathering of his own thoughts.
“Cheese?” she prompted.
“Oh.” He rubbed his nape as if it ached. “Boil the buttermilk till
* * *
The Vindicator knew the answer to the puppet’s puzzle. His high, holy, miserable self, had paid—Clive bloody Pomfret, Vicar, sinner, whatever he had been, ‘twas best the crow was dead.
Clive had been worse than Papa.
Despite her father’s ire over her friendship with the Barrington heir, Edward St. Yves had been her best friend ... until she turned sixteen. When Edward came home from Cambridge that time, things changed between them. As they listened to his father and the housekeeper panting and moaning, Edward had begun to stroke her in places that liked his touch, at first through her clothes, then before long, inside them, against her skin. Then he took her hands and placed them on him.
Heady pleasure. Wicked. Wonderful. Incredible, that first time in the dumbwaiter, better the second time, in the loft.
Before Edward left for school, again, their play went beyond touching. He took her virginity and they became lovers.
The only happiness she had ever known had been with Edward. Then his father died and he took his place as the Earl of Barrington—an Earl who could not marry a Vicar’s daughter. Promising he would always love her, Edward married within his class, and she became the most petted and spoiled mistress ever, daring to live openly with her lover in his own home. Edward’s wife had become nothing more than a slave to Edward’s ruthless determination to beget a legitimate heir.
Edward lived his life as he wished—with her. And she had been happy for a time.
The shock of their open alliance had given her father a fit from which he never recovered. After Papa died, Edward liked baiting her brother, Clive, the new Vicar, even more. Sometimes she feared that Edward did not love her as much as he loved lording it over her holy male relatives.
She should have known, when Edward caused her downfall that his reasons had less to do with her and more to do with thumbing his nose at piety.
Edward never married her.
For that, she would repay him in coin more precious than her fall from grace—by pitting his sons—his longed-for legitimate heirs—one against the other, to the death, and ending the St. Yves line forever.
* * *
Standing beside the table, an empty wooden milk bucket between them, Reed’s revelation of his education and costly military career, made Chastity fear that she might lose Sunnyledge, after all. To be fair, however, he was helping her in ways she had not known she needed, and for that she would always be grateful, no matter where she and the children ended up. “Whichever one of us gets Sunnyledge,” she said, “though I have faith it will be me and the children, thank you for enabling me to mother them and any others who come along.”
Reed gave a derisive chuckle. “Wonderful, I have enabled a woman to become a mother. Quite an accomplishment, though I took no pleasure in the service, nor did I ever know a mother worth emulating.” He quieted, regarded her hand on his arm, then he scanned her face, and lost all sign of mirth.
Chastity wondered, yet again, if he were as drawn to her as she, to him, the quandary prompting her to sidestep temptation. She pulled a handful of tin soldiers from her pocket, with the intention of turning away, but he held her gaze with such pointed heat, the toys fell from her fingers, and scattered on the floor.
Rebekah disentangled herself from Chastity’s leg with a happy trebling whine and dropped to the floor to gather the bounty.
Free of Reed’s spell and the child’s awkward but pleasant shackle, Chastity lowered herself to sit at the table before her legs buckled. “How do I make cheese?”
Reed seemed to require a gathering of his own thoughts.
“Cheese?” she prompted.
“Oh.” He rubbed his nape as if it ached. “Boil the buttermilk till
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