sign any number of times. “Know that Emily will be denied her come out if you go. Five years ago, you stole every penny of Leah’s trust and all but cut Darius off. For five years, you will rusticate, or anyone you care about will suffer.”
“You would not dare.” Amherst had his mother’s stubbornness, but none of her vitriol. Goading him was uphill work. “You would not dare to hurt Emily merely because I’m inclined to go shooting as I have every year for the past thirty.”
Amherst studied his drink, while Wilton considered tossing his brandy at his son.
“You certainly dared to hurt Emily’s siblings.”
“Go to hell,” Wilton spat and stalked toward the door. Before he could quit the room, he heard his firstborn son and heir murmur, “You first, Papa.”
***
“It’s the sweet time,” Mrs. Haines told Trent when he and her two sons had come back to the farmhouse for a mug of ale. “Hay is off, shearing’s done, the garden is producing well, and the crop is in the ground. The stock grows fat on summer grass, and the people can pause and rest up before harvest.”
“Or grow fat on their mother’s cooking?” Trent suggested, finding a perch on a sturdy porch rail.
Mrs. Haines’ smile was the mirror of her sons’ generally genial expressions. Hiram and Nathaniel shared their mother’s blond hair, blue eyes, and sturdy proportions too.
“You’re welcome to stay for the noon meal, my lord, though I’m guessing Imogenie Henly is pacing her parlor waiting for you to call on her papa,” she offered.
“Her papa ought to be keeping his fowling piece handy,” Hiram, the older son, muttered. “That girl will get some poor lad to the altar by first frost, but it won’t be me.”
His younger brother Nate held his mug over the porch railing and let the last few drops of ale fall on the pansies below. “Won’t be me either. I’ll be too busy getting after the wood, tidying up the stone walls, clearing the brush from the bridle paths, or his lordship will know why.”
“Those are suggestions,” Trent said, downing the last of his drink. “Those tasks can all wait until after harvest, if need be.”
Mrs. Haines collected three empty mugs. “That work had best not wait. Come November, the days are short, the nights are cold, and these two get cozy with their pints.”
“As long as we’re not cozy with Imogenie,” Hiram retorted. “We’ll get the work done, Mother.”
“I know you will,” Trent interjected, bowing his leave to Mrs. Haines. Both men accompanied him to the shady paddock where Arthur was munching grass. Nate took Arthur’s bridle off a fence post and went to fetch the horse.
Hiram hung back, pushing dirt around with the toe of his big, dusty boot. “About Imogenie?”
“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” Trent replied. “You don’t need the lord of the manor’s permission to walk out with a pretty girl, Hi.”
Hiram snorted. “I’m the last fellow she’d glance at. She’s been spending time at the manor, my lord.”
“At the manor?” Hiram’s implication sank in, turning a pretty summer day sour. “Wilton’s enjoying her favors?”
“Aye, if that man enjoys anything. The damned idiot female is trolling to become his countess, though her pa’s a mere tenant, albeit a prosperous one. Wilton would no more marry her than he’d marry Henly’s prize bitch.”
“So why say something to me?” And yet, cleaning up after a father’s messes was an oldest son’s obligation. “I can’t stop either one of them from their dalliance.”
“Have a word with Henly’s missus,” Hiram suggested, “or send Imogenie to work at your London house.”
Out in the paddock, Arthur, a good, dutiful beast, shuffled toward Nate, having apparently napped and grazed enough for the present.
“If Imogenie thinks she’ll be Wilton’s next countess, she’ll hardly take to service, Hiram. The best she could hope for in Town
“You would not dare.” Amherst had his mother’s stubbornness, but none of her vitriol. Goading him was uphill work. “You would not dare to hurt Emily merely because I’m inclined to go shooting as I have every year for the past thirty.”
Amherst studied his drink, while Wilton considered tossing his brandy at his son.
“You certainly dared to hurt Emily’s siblings.”
“Go to hell,” Wilton spat and stalked toward the door. Before he could quit the room, he heard his firstborn son and heir murmur, “You first, Papa.”
***
“It’s the sweet time,” Mrs. Haines told Trent when he and her two sons had come back to the farmhouse for a mug of ale. “Hay is off, shearing’s done, the garden is producing well, and the crop is in the ground. The stock grows fat on summer grass, and the people can pause and rest up before harvest.”
“Or grow fat on their mother’s cooking?” Trent suggested, finding a perch on a sturdy porch rail.
Mrs. Haines’ smile was the mirror of her sons’ generally genial expressions. Hiram and Nathaniel shared their mother’s blond hair, blue eyes, and sturdy proportions too.
“You’re welcome to stay for the noon meal, my lord, though I’m guessing Imogenie Henly is pacing her parlor waiting for you to call on her papa,” she offered.
“Her papa ought to be keeping his fowling piece handy,” Hiram, the older son, muttered. “That girl will get some poor lad to the altar by first frost, but it won’t be me.”
His younger brother Nate held his mug over the porch railing and let the last few drops of ale fall on the pansies below. “Won’t be me either. I’ll be too busy getting after the wood, tidying up the stone walls, clearing the brush from the bridle paths, or his lordship will know why.”
“Those are suggestions,” Trent said, downing the last of his drink. “Those tasks can all wait until after harvest, if need be.”
Mrs. Haines collected three empty mugs. “That work had best not wait. Come November, the days are short, the nights are cold, and these two get cozy with their pints.”
“As long as we’re not cozy with Imogenie,” Hiram retorted. “We’ll get the work done, Mother.”
“I know you will,” Trent interjected, bowing his leave to Mrs. Haines. Both men accompanied him to the shady paddock where Arthur was munching grass. Nate took Arthur’s bridle off a fence post and went to fetch the horse.
Hiram hung back, pushing dirt around with the toe of his big, dusty boot. “About Imogenie?”
“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” Trent replied. “You don’t need the lord of the manor’s permission to walk out with a pretty girl, Hi.”
Hiram snorted. “I’m the last fellow she’d glance at. She’s been spending time at the manor, my lord.”
“At the manor?” Hiram’s implication sank in, turning a pretty summer day sour. “Wilton’s enjoying her favors?”
“Aye, if that man enjoys anything. The damned idiot female is trolling to become his countess, though her pa’s a mere tenant, albeit a prosperous one. Wilton would no more marry her than he’d marry Henly’s prize bitch.”
“So why say something to me?” And yet, cleaning up after a father’s messes was an oldest son’s obligation. “I can’t stop either one of them from their dalliance.”
“Have a word with Henly’s missus,” Hiram suggested, “or send Imogenie to work at your London house.”
Out in the paddock, Arthur, a good, dutiful beast, shuffled toward Nate, having apparently napped and grazed enough for the present.
“If Imogenie thinks she’ll be Wilton’s next countess, she’ll hardly take to service, Hiram. The best she could hope for in Town
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