Ethan: Lord of Scandals

Six

My dearest Benjamin,

You will be pleased to see I am no longer immured in the far, distant wilds of Sussex. I am now merely two hours’ ride from you, at the estate of Tydings near Guilford in Surrey. My responsibilities here include two very charming young fellows, ages five and six. They are lively young men but a little more hesitant to go on than they should be, owing to past upheavals in the greater household.

The estate is pleasant in the extreme, my wages are generous, and my employer considerate, if sometimes a little gruff. His children love him, but he is a busy man, and I will endeavor to keep the lads too occupied to miss their father’s attention much. The kitchen has become a bit lax, but this will soon be set to rights, I am sure.

You must be reassured, dear Brother, I fare well. I left the Belmonts on very good terms, but because I had been with Priscilla for almost five years, it was time to allow more scholarly hands to guide her development. I trust I will remain with the Grey children for some time, though I am allowed these first months as a trial period. You are not to put your nose into my situation here, Benjamin, not directly or otherwise. Mr. Grey came with the very highest personal recommendations from the Earl and Countess of Bellefonte, among others. I will be safe here, and you are not to worry.

I love you and miss you, and look forward to seeing you. We are to go into Town for Bellefonte’s investiture. Until then, try not to be too serious or too busy.

Your loving sister,

Allie

Alice was wearing a big, fat, cheery smile when she dragged the boys into the breakfast parlor. “Good morning, Mr. Grey! How fortunate to see you so early in the day.”

“The good fortune is entirely mine.” Ethan reserved the irony in his smile for Alice. “Joshua, Jeremiah, which of us will have the privilege of seating Miss Portman?”

Two little faces regarded Ethan blankly.

“Oh, very well.” He stepped behind their governess, treating himself to a whiff of lemons. “I’ve had my first cup of tea, so I will demonstrate, but I won’t be doing this every day. You fellows must occasionally pitch in. Miss Portman?”

She sank gracefully into her seat with a murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Grey,” for the benefit of their rapt audience.

“Where do we sit?” Joshua asked, frowning.

“In the other two chairs,” Ethan said. “Now, since I am taller than either of you, I will prepare your plates, lest you pull the entire sideboard over while you search out your preferences. Joshua?”

“Can I see it?” Joshua gestured to the buffet laid out just higher than his line of sight.

“Of course.” Ethan scooped him onto his hip. “Let’s inspect, shall we?” He explained each selection to his son, answered more questions than one typical breakfast buffet ought to engender, and reached compromises that created a breakfast of more than just jam and chocolate.

“Jeremiah, you aren’t going to let your little brother be the only one to eat well, are you?”

“I can see it,” Jeremiah groused, though he was only an inch or so taller than his younger brother.

Ethan came down on his haunches and whispered to his son, “How am I to cadge a morning hug without Miss Portman gawking at me?” Jeremiah’s dubious expression confirmed that Ethan was taking a gamble, but then the boy cracked his rare, dear smile and threw his arms around Ethan’s neck.

“Good of you,” Ethan whispered as he stood with Jeremiah on his hip then said in a louder voice, “If you want something that will last you until luncheon, you’d better tuck into some ham or bacon, or at the very least, get some butter on one of those scones.” He soon had Jeremiah sitting before a fairly impressive plate of food, then resumed his own seat.

Ethan sat back to his meal, a queer little hitch in his chest. He’d not had breakfast with his sons before, though they were nearly old enough for such an informal meal, and he’d not known they were joining him today. But here they were, being gently guided toward proper manners by their enterprising governess, and Ethan felt a spurt of pleasure in their company.

They really were good boys.

And what had been wrong with their mother, that she hadn’t seen that?

Breakfast had gone well. Alice assured herself of this as Ethan proposed that their discussion of the boys’ lessons be moved from the library to the shady walking path.

“That will serve. After a good meal, one wants activity.”

And almost any time, it seemed one enjoyed having one’s hand on Ethan Grey’s arm, hearing his precise baritone, and catching his cedary scent.

As they stepped onto the path, Alice launched into a discussion of Latin primers.

“Boys don’t find Latin useful at all,” Ethan interjected. “Men like to toss around the occasional apt phrase, and sprinkle their conversation with wise sayings. It’s the only Latin one uses after university, I assure you.”

“You attended?”

“Cambridge.”

“A rebel?”

“Nick went to Oxford.”

She slipped her arm from his and stopped in the shade of an enormous maple. “The earl didn’t even let you attend the same university? What was wrong with your father?”

“He was being protective, or so I tell myself.”

“He was being an ass,” Alice hissed, hand fisting. “If ever there’s a man who could protect himself from unwarranted advances, it’s your dear little brother, particularly by the time he was sixteen or seventeen years old.” She reined in her temper, since she had no business making such pronouncements. “With respect to French, I find the verbal nuances are better—”

Ethan stood quite near her, his expression amused. “You’re very fierce, Alice Portman. I wish the earl were alive so you might blister his ears with your observations.” He took her hand, and there in the lovely morning air, kissed her knuckles, as a knight might kiss the hand of a lady whose favor he wore into the lists.

This flummery provoked a blush and put all thoughts of primers to rout. “I am not fierce, Mr. Grey.”

He smiled at her, likely for resorting to more formal address. And oh, that smile sent common sense gamboling after the errant primers. He was a handsome man in any mood, but distant, reserved, and safe. When he smiled, all the warmth in him was briefly visible, all the dearness that made him fret for his children and for his younger brother.

Maybe even a little for a governess. “I am not fierce,” Alice said again, feeling an awkward confession looming far too closely.

“Will you elaborate on your supposed meekness, Miss Portman? I confess, my own conjectures cannot encompass such a flight.”

He drew her by the hand toward a wooden bench in the dappled shade, and when he seated her, he did not drop her hand. Maybe he sensed the confession as well.

“Nick once told me your youngest sister, Della, is prone to breathing spells.”

“She is.” He seemed to have forgotten that their hands were joined. “They didn’t start until after I left.”

“If I were fierce, I would not be prone to spells when I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and every particle of my mind is filled with dread at my certain and imminent death. I don’t even like talking about such moments, I get so anxious.”

“And you suffered these spells at Belle Maison.”

“Only two,” Alice said, resisting the compulsion to take deeper breaths. She focused instead on the warmth—the improper and comforting warmth—of Ethan’s fingers closed around hers. “Mrs. Belmont was with me, and she knows I’m prone to them, but Nick has seen me through one too, and it’s unusual for me to have two in two weeks.”

“I am making a list, Alice Portman, that starts with megrims, progresses to a bad hip, and includes these breathing spells. You have nightmares too, don’t you?”

He spoke gently, but he knew. Somehow, this great, strapping, self-possessed man knew what it was to be reduced to an animal, cataleptic with fear and pain.

Alice managed a nod.

“I have gone for as long as three years without a spell.” And even longer without discussing this nuisance with anybody. She focused her gaze on the patterns of sunlight and shadow dancing on the grass rather than stare at her hand enveloped in his. “I used to have nightmares.”

Bringing up the topic had put a pinch in her breathing and a knot of unease in her belly. She leaned into him, just a little, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

His arm settled around her shoulders, suggesting her hope had been in vain. “Before you came here, when was the last breathing spell, Alice? And don’t think to dissemble.”

She didn’t dissemble, but she hesitated long enough to take a fortifying whiff of cedar, to concentrate on being this close to a man and wanting to be closer.

Surely that was a good thing? “In my room, after you’d offered me this post and I’d ridden the horse.”

“Because,” he said, his voice close to her ear, “any change brings with it anxiety and loss, even a change for the better. If you have more of these spells, Alice, what shall I do?”

She almost told him she wouldn’t have a spell if he were in the vicinity, but here she was, dragging in slow breaths, even as she was tucked against him.

“It helps to be warm and to put my head down, and it helps if you can talk to me slowly and quietly, exactly as you did. You can’t get anxious, and you shouldn’t be anxious. The worst thing that will happen is I’ll faint for a few minutes, and when I faint, I can breathe.”

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers drawing a pattern on her shoulder.

“But until you faint, you will be certain the entire world is coming to a horrible, unstoppable end. You might do stupid things—run from friends when in unfamiliar surroundings, draw a weapon for no reason, cower in corners gulping for breath and awaiting certain death.”

More awful knowledge. Thank God he didn’t mention the worst of it. She might lose control of bodily functions. She had, for the first two years.

He shifted then and wrapped his arms around her, abandoning all pretense that his proximity was a casual misstep by an otherwise unassuming gentleman. The tension in her belly quieted; the hitch in her breathing eased. Her conscience fell silent as well, because the comfort—the sheer, glorious comfort—of his embrace was too precious.

“It might help too,” he said, “if you put in your mind a picture of something good, something beloved and dear, and when you feel your breathing seize up and you sense your reason is deserting you, you bring that image to your mind and hold it hard.”

She nodded against his shoulder while his hand traced the line of her hair where it smoothed past her ear.

“I will do my best to make sure you are not plagued with frightening thoughts or frightening people, Alice. I’ve found a lot of peace here at Tydings, and despite the racket and mayhem created by my sons, I think it’s still a peaceful place.”

He made no move to shift away, to end this unlooked-for familiarity. Instead, he repeated that caress in a slow, soothing rhythm, until the pleasure of it and the warmth of his body seeped into Alice’s soul.

Her brothers were fiercely devoted, kindhearted men who would do anything for her, and yet she hadn’t allowed them this. When Ethan Grey said he would do his best to shield her from upset, it was as if he took a vow, and the sense of sanctuary Alice felt was a steady flame in an oppressive darkness.

Because he knew. Somehow, without being aware of any of the details of her ordeal, Ethan Grey knew what she had suffered.

Holding Alice Portman on a shady bench in the middle of a pleasant summer morning, Ethan felt as if he’d stepped off a cliff into some other morning in some other man’s life. Women were no more than fixtures to him. As an adolescent, they’d fascinated him; in his marriage they’d horrified him; and he counted himself lucky to be largely indifferent to sexual desire in recent years. His sisters, Lady Warne, and Leah, they were women to be admired and protected.

As was Alice Portman, maybe more than any of the others, maybe more than all of them put together.

Alice had been wronged somewhere in her past, egregiously wronged, and while Ethan’s mind knew that, his body was taking note of other things: Alice fit in his embrace wonderfully, like she wanted to be there, not like she had to tolerate this closeness. She had a pleasing shape, a pleasing scent, and soft, silky hair. He could feel the slow heave of her breathing against his chest.

The confluence of protectiveness and desire was disorienting. This was how one ought to feel about a wife perhaps, or so Ethan had once thought.

With an effort of will and the feel of Alice’s soft curves burning into his memory, Ethan decided it was a good thing for a man in his prime to feel desire. It was in accordance with the plan of God and Nature, and no reason to be alarmed. Were he honest, he’d admit that not feeling desire for the past few years had been more alarming.

He could desire Alice Portman. This had to do not just with her steady brown eyes, well-disguised curves, and pleasant, tart scent, but also with her breathing spells and bad hip and nightmares.

He bent his head toward her, inhaled the fragrance of flowers and lemons, and idly—in a purely theoretical way—wondered if she could desire him.

“Are you gentlemen trying to spook my horse?” Ethan inquired as both boys happened to pause for breath in the same moment.

“He dragged me off!” Jeremiah shouted, a note of hysteria in his voice. “He should have let go, and he bloody wouldn’t, and he made me fall off, the sodding little bugger.”

“You didn’t hold on!” Joshua shot back, hands fisting. “You had the mane, and I didn’t, you should have caught me, and you let me slide right off all the way down. You’re a sodding little pismire.”

Ethan lip’s twitched, to hear the word fired off with such vehemence. He gestured to Miller, who nodded and came to stand beside Ethan, then trotted off in search of more tack when he’d gotten his instructions.

“Gentlemen.” Ethan kept his voice quiet. “If you would kindly shut the hell up for one moment, I will tender my apologies.”

Joshua cocked his head. “Huh?”

“Papa is going to apologize,” Jeremiah said. “I think.”

“He is,” Ethan said, “for not warning you Argus sometimes kicks out when schooling piaffe in hand, and for putting you on double. Has no one taught you how to fall off?”

The boys exchanged glances when Miller appeared with a long lead line.

“No, sir,” Jeremiah said. “I thought one didn’t want to fall.”

“Sometimes one does,” Ethan countered. “For example, if Argus bolted with me and was heading for a low branch or a cliff, I might want to part company with him. Or if by chance I should become unseated and a fall is inevitable, then one wants to fall as safely as possible. I will demonstrate.”

“You’re going to fall off Argus?” Joshua goggled. “On purpose?”

“I am, but perhaps my waistcoat need not participate.” He shrugged out of it, removed the surcingle from around the horse’s belly, passed the saddle to Miller, grabbed a hank of mane, and swung up.

“How’d he do that?” Joshua asked Jeremiah. “Argus is tall, and Papa didn’t use a mounting block or stirrups or anything.”

Miller stood in the center of the arena, the horse circling him on the long lead, while Ethan got his seat at the trot bareback.

“All right, you lot.” Ethan kept his eyes front, settling into the rhythm of the trot. “Spook him.”

Miller nodded at the boys. “You heard your papa. Spook that big golden devil, and unseat your papa.”

“How?” Jeremiah asked as Joshua bolted past him.

“Pismire pony!” Joshua bellowed, waving his arms and charging right at the horse. Argus, true to his delicate sensibilities, shied mightily, giving Ethan the pretext he needed to slide gracefully over the horse’s shoulder. Argus came to an immediate halt, allowing Ethan to swing back on.

“Again.” Ethan nodded at Miller. “And put some effort into it, gentlemen. Argus will go to sleep otherwise, and so shall I.”

It took a few more tries before Jeremiah got into the spirit of the game, but Argus got into it too, spooking horrifically, only to stand stock still as soon as Ethan had decamped. Ethan demonstrated both an emergency dismount, which ideally left the rider on his feet, and the less graceful variations thereon.

Ethan beat at the dust on his once-pristine shirt. “I think we can commend Argus on a job well done and turn our attention to your ponies.” The boys turned to see grooms holding both ponies, and neither pony sporting a saddle.

“Up you go.” Ethan hoisted Joshua onto his pony, then Jeremiah.

“I don’t want to do this,” Jeremiah said, staring sullenly at his pony’s mane. Ethan considered his older son and those few brave words.

“C’mon, Jeremiah,” Joshua said. “We’ll get dirty, and we can scream like girls.”

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” Ethan said. “My intention was to have you practice only at the halt, and if you felt up to it, at the walk.”

“It’s stupid,” Jeremiah declared, defiant eyes raised to his father’s. “Why would you fall off on purpose if falling off is how you get hurt?”

“Am I hurt?” Ethan asked, holding his son’s gaze.

“No,” Jeremiah admitted. “But if Argus stepped on your head or your guts, you could be dead.”

Death. Again.

Ethan wanted to shake the boy but kept his voice calm. “Do you think I would do anything to intentionally put you in harm’s way?”

Jeremiah mumbled something then looked away.

“I beg your pardon?” Ethan’s patience was strained, but Miller had led Joshua out of earshot and was letting the boy get used to a bareback ride.

“You hired Mr. Harold,” Jeremiah said. “He was harmful. Langstrom wasn’t much better.”

“Mr. Harold caned Joshua. I know that, but it—”

“More than once,” Jeremiah interrupted. “He caned him lots, and he made me watch, and he would make Joshua try to do things that were too hard just so he could cane him. He called us names and said we were the shame of the neighborhood.”

“Ye gods…” Ethan’s physical balance wavered, as if he’d sustained a roundhouse punch or had too much cheap liquor. “What else did he say?”

“A lot of things.” Jeremiah sighed. “Mean things. I didn’t understand all of them. He called Joshua a slutterswipe…”

“Guttersnipe,” Ethan supplied, hauling back hard on his temper—for at whom ought he to be most angry but himself?

“Here’s my difficulty,” Ethan said. “I am sorry you ever had to deal with Mr. Harold. I wish I could thrash him silly. Bloody damned silly, in fact, and don’t you tattle regarding my language, Jeremiah Grey. But Harold isn’t here, and I want you to be safe when you’re riding. Knowing how to fall is part of being safe. I didn’t keep you safe from Mr. Harold, and I hate that, but I want desperately to keep you safe from a bad fall.”

“I’ll stop riding,” Jeremiah decided, giving his pony’s neck a wistful pat.

Ethan’s heart began to beat in a slow, hard rhythm in his chest. “You love to ride, and you’re very good at it. And then Joshua would have no one to ride with except me, and I’ll wager I am not half the fun you are.”

Jeremiah eyed his brother. “He gallops everywhere. You’re better at swearing.”

Ethan waited, heart thumping almost painfully, because the mysterious juvenile cogs in his son’s brain were clearly still turning.

“I fell before,” Jeremiah said. “It hurt, but Lightning didn’t do it on purpose. There was a rabbit.”

“Pesky beasts, rabbits. Always darting out and looking so cute while they do.” Ethan’s heart beat so hard he could feel it working… like a rabbit’s.

“Tell me,” Jeremiah said, fiddling with his reins, “if I were going to practice falling, how would I practice it?”

“Carefully,” Ethan said, his heart slowing a little, “and with people around who mean you only the best. You do it slowly, Jeremiah, in stages you can understand, and if you need to take a break, you insist on a break. If you were going to, that is.”

“How would I start?”

“You relax,” Ethan said, finding he needed to swallow a few times before going on. “You let your body relax, and you don’t fight the fall. If you’re traveling at speed, give up the reins, or you’ll just jerk your horse’s mouth before you lose them anyway. Try to slip down the horse’s side, but tuck up to protect your head. Your horse will never try to step on you, so don’t even consider it a risk.” He went on, his voice gradually becoming more even and his breathing easing up.

“I’m ready,” Jeremiah said, clutching the reins desperately and sending his pony in a plodding circle at the walk.

“All right.” Ethan stepped away, making sure to keep his own body and tone of voice relaxed. “When I say ‘pismire pony,’ you relax, let go of the reins, and curl down along Lightning’s side. He’ll probably stop and give you a puzzled look.”

Jeremiah nodded, his expression suggesting he contemplated the mental equivalent of a severe birching.

“Steady on.” Ethan took another step back. “One, two, three… pismire pony.”

He’d nearly whispered the last two words, and Jeremiah tipped, slipped, and tumbled off his pony’s back. The pony halted, swished his tail, and sniffed at the little boy in the dirt. Ethan crouched down and met Jeremiah’s eyes.

“You did it. I’m proud of you.” He wanted to damn cry he was so proud.

“I did it.” Jeremiah sat up and was promptly pulled into his father’s arms. Wordlessly, Ethan hugged him—really, really hugged him. This wasn’t a sneaky hint of a hug in the midst of a picnic hubbub. It wasn’t a surreptitious, teasing hug while choosing from the breakfast buffet. This couldn’t be construed as anything but a hug, plain, heartfelt, and sincere.

“I did it.” Jeremiah said again, closing his eyes and laying his head on his father’s shoulder. “I fell off.”

“Splendidly,” Ethan assured him. The pony spoiled the moment, pony fashion, by butting Ethan’s shoulder, nearly pushing man and boy onto their arses in the dirt.

“Wretched beast,” Ethan murmured, still holding his son. “Shall we see how your brother fares?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said as Ethan set him on his feet. “He’s little.”

“I know what you mean. He seems to bounce through life.”

“Is that bad?” Jeremiah watched as, at the halt, Joshua slid off his pony.

“No,” Ethan said, thinking of another little brother who seemed to bounce through life. “But he didn’t bounce just then, did he?”

“No.” Jeremiah grinned. “You don’t bounce either.”

“And neither do you, Jeremiah.” Ethan smiled back. “But you fall beautifully.”

Ethan sent his sons up to the house, and off they went at a dead run. He turned toward the stables, intent on retrieving his waistcoat, knowing that hours of ledgers and correspondence awaited him in the library.

A cheering thought intruded: he and Alice had never quite gotten around to a discussion of the boys’ curriculum.

And then the cheering thought was interrupted by the sight of a groom who had Joshua’s pony, Thunder, trailing on a lead behind him. Thunder was rearing and propping, and for good cause. The groom was using the end of the leather lead shank to whack at the pony’s neck and shoulders.

“Step on me, will ye?” the man shouted. “I’ll show ye who ye can step on, ye hairy little shite. No damned manners, and getting fussed all day has ye spoilt rotten. The knacker would love to take a knife to yer tough little hide.”

“Hold,” Ethan said quite loudly as he approached the man, “and I do mean now.”

The man nodded. “G’day to ye, guv. Little monster thought to stomp me good.”

The little monster was still kiting around on the end of his lead line, eyes rolling at the potential new threat Ethan posed.

“Give him to me.” Ethan held out a hand for the lead shank, keeping his voice quiet. “When did he attempt this violence?”

The man gestured to the stables, fifty yards distant. “In the barn. Just up and tromped on me boot.”

Sturdy, if worn, heavy boots, Ethan noted. And the groom himself had the thick, muscular physique and dusty, worn attire of a typical plowboy.

Thunder, by contrast, was a Welsh pony, an elegant little equine standing about twelve hands. He was small enough to work the mines, about as small as a riding mount could be, even for a child.

“So you thought to discipline him here.” Ethan stroked a hand down the pony’s coarse mane. “To impress upon him the error of his ways, what, a quarter mile and ten minutes after the crime?”

“He’s stubborn, that one.” The groom eyed the pony balefully. “Takes a firm hand.”

Miller came puffing out from the stables, just as Ethan would have bellowed for him.

“Problem, Mr. Grey?” Miller asked, using deferential address before an inferior.

“Did Thunder act up in the barn? Perhaps misbehave in hand or take advantage of Mr. Thatcher here?”

“Thunder?” Miller snorted and glanced at the now-quiet pony. “That beast doesn’t know how to misbehave, unless it’s to snitch a mouthful of grass. He dodged a little when a cat jumped up the ladder beside him, but it weren’t mischief.”

“A misunderstanding then,” Ethan said. “Easily explained. Miller, you will see Thunder to his paddock, please?” Ethan gave the pony a final pat and passed the lead shank to Miller.

Thunder—a good boy of the equine persuasion—followed docilely.

“Mr. Thatcher.” Ethan eyed the man coolly. “I trust Miller’s judgment more than my own when it comes to horses. What have you to say for yourself?”

“Miller weren’t leading the damned pony.” Thatcher’s chest heaved with indignation. “Them’s dangerous, ponies are. Them’s quick and mean and belongs in the mines with both eyes put out.”

“How did you come to work in the stables?”

“Came to help with the last harvest in the fall,” Thatcher said. “Miller took sick in the winter. I stayed on.”

And Ethan had trusted Miller to sort out the bad apples that had come in with the harvest.

“Stay away from the ponies, Thatcher. Another such misunderstanding, and I will turn you off. Ponies can easily be made mean, but that pony belongs to my son and is none of yours to make mistakes with. Do we understand each other?”

Clearly, Ethan was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.

“I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.

He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.

He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.