More Than A Lover. Ann Lethbridge

like any good soldier, is ensuring his defences cannot be breached. There are rogues everywhere, Mrs Falkner. Thieves as well as malcontents. As I said, the appointment is temporary.’

      Temporary. She grasped at the word like a straw. But temporary might be a very long time given the apparent severity of the duke’s illness. If at all. If Tonbridge’s father should die, he would become duke, which would mean he and Merry might never return to Skepton for anything but a brief visit. Oh, why of all men would Tonbridge have chosen this one to stand in his stead?

      The answer was obvious. They were friends. Comrades-in-arms. And he was available. ‘Then I must congratulate you. No doubt your army experience will stand you in good stead. Things like this—’ She stopped herself. She had been about to say ‘death’, and it would have been such a foolish thing to have said to a man who had spent years of his life in the service of his king and a country at war. If only the sight of the coachman lying there would stop circling through her mind’s eye, she might be able to stop thinking about the fragility of life.

      ‘One never gets used to it,’ he said softly.

      A lump rose in her throat at the pain in his voice and the sympathy.

      ‘Tonbridge told me about the loss of your husband at Badajoz,’ he continued. ‘I am so very sorry.’

      She swallowed her guilt. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Your son is a fine little man. You are doing a good job with him. I have no doubt his father would be proud.’

      Her heart caught in her throat at the words. His father had refused to have anything to do with either of them. ‘He is a good boy most of the time. Tonbridge advised me to send him away to school where he can be with other boys his age, but I cannot bring myself to do it.’ She was terrified someone might see his likeness to his father, though she hadn’t dared say so to Tonbridge.

      ‘Boys need their mothers as much as they need a father,’ he said. The bitterness in his tone surprised her.

      Glad to turn the conversation away from Tommy, she pursued the question he had raised in her mind. ‘You lost your mother while you were young?’

      He frowned. Darkness filled his eyes. ‘Lost?’ He took a long pull at his wine. ‘Not in the way you mean. But I have not seen her for years.’ The words were spoken flatly and discouraged further enquiry.

      * * *

      How the devil had he let the conversation drift to the subject of his mother? He never spoke about the woman who had dumped him when she had found him inconvenient. The woman who had landed him on a father who hadn’t really wanted him either.

      He eyed the bottle of wine. Thoughts of his mother always fired his anger, and while wine would take the edge off, after an accident that might not be an accident, a dull mind was the last thing he needed. ‘May I serve you some of this—’ he inspected the steaming dessert ‘—treacle pudding?’

      Mrs Falkner offered him a hesitant smile that struck him deeper than it should have. It made her look pretty and desirable, more like the girl he remembered. Some remnant of his lonely boy’s heart remembered the pang of painful and hopeless longing. He shoved the feeling aside and held the knife ready.

      ‘A small slice, if you will,’ she said, smiling.

      He carefully cut into the sponge and delivered a wedge to one of the small plates provided along with a generous dollop of treacle. The smell evoked memories of childhood dinners alone with his mother. Suppers with his half-siblings in the nursery. Why the devil was he becoming so maudlin? He put down the knife and handed the plate across the table.

      Admiration lit her eyes. ‘You do that so well with...’ She coloured. ‘Forgive me. I should not pass comment.’

      He chuckled. ‘Believe me, it took hours and hours of practice. Thanks to my father’s determination, I would not shame him with my lack of manners. And thank you for noticing. Most people look away, uncomfortable at the sight of my difficulties.’

      ‘You are not the slightest bit awkward.’ She sounded almost indignant. ‘I have seen men with two hands be far less graceful.’

      Her outrage on his behalf sent a strange sensation arrowing through him. Painful, yet sweet. ‘Graceful is not something usually sought by the male of our species.’

      ‘I do not mean the foppish affectation of a dandy,’ she said, her face serious. ‘But a manly elegance that cannot help but please the female eye.’ Her colour deepened.

      Surprised and ridiculously pleased, he smiled. ‘Thank you. I mostly feel horribly clumsy. You instil me with confidence.’ Heaven help him, it was the truth. A wave of warmth rushed through him, and to hide it he served himself a far larger portion of pudding than he had intended. Almost miraculously, for the first time in a long time, the sweet treat did not taste of ashes and death.

      Clearly he was about to make an idiot of himself, hoping for something that wasn’t there, when he’d given up hoping for anything.

      Mrs Lane bustled in. She eyed the table with a satisfied nod. ‘Will there be anything else for you, sir...ma’am? Shall I bring the tea tray, Mrs Falkner?’

      ‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Falkner said, looking becomingly prim and proper. ‘It has been a long day. It is time I retired.’

      Time to take her prim and proper self away from temptation, no doubt. Because if he wasn’t mistaken, she was beginning to thaw to him. The very idea made his blood heat.

      ‘Brandy or port for you, sir?’ the landlady asked.

      Brandy was not nearly as tempting as Caro Falkner. ‘I, too, am ready for my bed.’ Or her bed, judging by the embers of desire ready to leap to life at the first sign of encouragement.

      Mrs Lane frowned. ‘It doesn’t seem right, sir, a fine gentleman like you bedding down in the stables with our Freddy when I have a perfectly good room on the third floor you can use.’

      Mrs Falkner looked startled.

      Blast the landlady. Did he have to explain the proprieties and put Mrs Falkner to the blush? She hadn’t wanted his presence on the road. She certainly wouldn’t want him beneath the same roof without a chaperone. ‘I can assure you I have slept in far worse places. Besides...’ he said as he saw Mrs Falkner about to protest, because her stiff manners hid a warm heart. ‘I wish to be on hand to keep an eye on his lordship’s horses.’ Mr Lane had walked them behind the cart he’d used to fetch Garge’s remains.

      ‘I understand your caution, sir,’ the landlady said, clearly worried by the idea that harm might come to the ducal beasts. ‘As soon as you and Mrs Falkner are finished here, then, I’ll send t’lass to clear away the dishes.’

      ‘I am finished,’ Mrs Falkner said.

      She began to rise. He pushed back his chair, helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. ‘I wish you a good night, ma’am.’ He bowed.

      He watched as she mounted the first few stairs and something inside him wished he was going up there with her. That somehow he could have the life the lack of a piece of paper had denied him. Husband. Father. Provider. But if he could not have that, he would at least play the role of protector. On Charlie’s behalf, of course, not his own. Guard duty in the rain. It would be like old times.

      How pathetic was he, thinking of such discomfort with longing? On the other hand, a few hours in the cold might well help cool his ardour.

      * * *

      Caro put down her book with a sigh, tiredness making the words waver on the page as if they were under water. She rubbed at her sore eyes and squinted at the clock on the mantel. Two in the morning. Exhaustion dragged her towards sleep, but every time she so much as thought about closing her eyes, the memory of poor Josiah Garge floated to the forefront of her vision and she started planning the words she would say to his wife, which brought her wide awake again.

      Perhaps a glass of milk