A Duke’s Overlooked Spinster (The Courting Season #1)

Chapter 9

“Look, Papa!” Henry yelled excitedly, distracting Robert from studying Miss Brooke. She was sitting with her head bent forward as she studied the book on her lap, her soft chestnut hair drawn back in a severe bun that revealed the pale skin of her neck. Her gown was by no means low-cut, but when she bent forward, he could see at least two inches of neck and the sight of the slight bumps of her spine made his breath quicken, though he could not think why.

“What, Henry?” he asked a little impatiently.

“A horse. Isn’t it good?” Henry was holding a piece of paper. Robert smiled, seeing the horse drawn on it in sensitive lines. It was a good horse; he had to agree. It looked, if he thought about it, a little like his own horse, Firesmoke. He raised a brow.

“A beautiful horse,” he said, glancing at Miss Brooke. “I take it you are the creator of that drawing?”

Miss Brooke blushed, the sight taking his breath away. She had very pale skin, and when she flushed, her cheeks went the color of blossom on a cherry-tree. She smiled and his heart twisted.

“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes darting to her book. “I am.”

“It is very good,” Robert said, clearing his throat. His voice was tight. “It looks familiar, almost. I could almost imagine you had seen my hunting-stallion.”

Miss Brooke beamed. “I am glad it looks a little like him. Henry wished me to draw him a horse, and I think that is the sort of horse he likes.”

“When I grow up, I am going to have a horse just like that,” Henry remarked. He was beaming up at Miss Brooke. Robert’s heart softened. He had not seen Henry respond to anyone like that. His nursemaid was the only adult of whom he remained both respectful and unafraid. He even sometimes seemed a little afraid of Robert himself. But he looked at Miss Brooke with undiluted delight.

“When you are grown up, I will have no say in what horse you have,” Robert said, teasing a little. “But until then, I would prefer you to have something a little smaller.”

“My horse is fifteen hands tall!” Henry informed his father proudly.

“I know,” Robert said with a small grin.

“And when I get big, then I’ll have a horse like yours!” Henry continued. “And I’ll ride whenever I want. Even at midnight if I want to.”

Robert chuckled. “You might not like that, son,” he said gently. There were plenty of reasons not to ride at night—the lack of visibility, predators, highwaymen and robbers. But the only important one to his son was that his father forbade it. His heart twisted. Sometimes, one forgot how influential one was to his children.

“I’d like that!” Henry told him, grinning. “At night there’s bats! And mice. And hedgehogs. I found a hedgehog in the kitchen gardens. He was this big!” He lifted his hands, showing a shape about eight inches across.

“He was quite big,” Robert replied with a smile.

“He was. Oh! Look. A robin!”

Before there was any chance to say anything, Henry rushed off.

Robert chuckled, watching as the little boy ran along the path beside the hedge, searching for the bird. With the noise that Henry was making, crashing down the stone-paved path, the poor creature had likely flown far.

“He’s a delightful child,” Robert mused to himself, watching as the little boy ran off the path and across the distant lawn. There was no harm that could come to him in the garden, and so he let him run.

“He is,” Miss Brooke murmured softly. Robert blinked. The sound of her voice sent shivers down his spine—lilting, neither low-pitched nor high-pitched, it kindled flames somewhere deep inside him that had not been brought to life for a long time.

“A handful, mind you. I am sorry he imposed on you,” he added, remembering his manners. “You need not always entertain his wishes.”

Miss Brooke shook her head. “I enjoyed doing it. Sketching the horse was a challenge.” She chuckled.

“It was well done,” Robert murmured. The sketchbook was resting on the bench beside her and he picked it up without thinking about it, gazing at the fluid outline of a breathtaking scenery. He turned the page, finding another landscape sketched there. It was the landscape just visible from where they stood. He looked around them in surprise. “This is excellent.”

Miss Brooke went pink. He hid a grin. It was worth complimenting her work just to see her flush so intensely. He had spoken the truth—the work was sensitively drawn and evocative.

“Landscapes are my chosen subject,” she stammered shyly. “I find that they reflect the mood so well.”

“Mm.” Robert gazed at the scene. He had to agree. Just a few days before, he would have seen none of the beauty of the scene before them. Now, he looked out and noticed the soft wisps of the clouds, the new leaves; the larks chasing each other across the skyline.

“They have the added advantage that they remain in place while you sketch them,” Miss Brooke said with a smile. “Not like living creatures.” She was watching Henry as he raced over the grounds.

Robert laughed. “Especially this particular creature,” he said, watching Henry dive in between the hedges and then reappear again, running full-tilt down the wet stone path. “He is quite irrepressible when he is let out to play. I worry sometimes that he will get hurt.” He tensed as the little boy almost ran into the fence, then stopped just before colliding.

“He seems to know what he is about,” Miss Brooke said with a small half-smile. Her eyes looked wistful. “Though, as his father, I am sure you are concerned sometimes for his safety.” She looked down at her hands, her long, pale fingers knotting and unknotting as she laced them together.

“Not all the time,” Robert admitted. “Mrs. Wellman keeps a good eye on him. Though he does evade her sometimes. I have no idea where she is. She was searching the house for him earlier.” He chuckled.

“He’s a good boy,” Miss Brooke said softly.

“Yes, he is,” Robert agreed. “Respectful, thoughtful, kind. I sometimes worry that he lives lost in his own thoughts too often,” he confided, then frowned. He was telling Miss Brooke all of his worries; something he never did, not even to Victoria, who was a close friend and his own sister. Miss Brooke must assuredly be bored by my complaints, he thought, cheeks heating with a flush of embarrassment.

“He is certainly not lost in his thoughts now.” Miss Brooke grinned.

Robert laughed. Henry had found a fountain, and he was splashing his hands in the pond around it, watching the spray of droplets. “Quite so,” he agreed.

He watched the little boy for a moment and then his gaze moved to Miss Brooke. She was watching Henry, a smile of such tenderness on her face that his heart ached. As if she had felt his gaze on her, she turned and, just for a second, her lovely pale blue eyes stared into his own. Robert’s throat tightened, his heart stopping.

“Henry! Henry!” A voice yelled, shattering the silence. Mrs. Wellman appeared; her black skirts lifted in one hand as she strode across the lawn. Her strong, lined face was tense with worry, her dark eyes wide. She saw Henry and ran towards her charge, who was still splashing in the fountain, heedless of the concern he had generated in the adults around him.

“Henry!” Mrs. Wellman shouted again, then saw Robert, who had taken a step towards them. Robert understood that Mrs. Wellman was concerned, but he would not have his son reproached for simply having fun. Mrs. Wellman saw him and her angry tone softened slightly. “What are you doing here?” she asked the little boy sternly. “I thought you were reading.”

“I wanted to play,” Henry said, looking down at his toes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wellman.”

“It’s all well,” Robert said gently, coming to rest a hand on his son’s shoulder. “No harm was done, son,” he told Henry softly. “But, next time, please come and find me first. Or tell Mrs. Wellman. I am sure she will allow you out into the grounds if you wish to play outdoors and it is not raining?” His gaze held Mrs. Wellman’s. She nodded, looking a little flustered.

“I thought, Your Grace, with the guests here, and this being Lord Averhill’s home, that we should keep ourselves away from everything...” She sounded uncomfortable. Robert shook his head.

“Henry may come out into the garden when he wishes to do so. Even if the guests are here. He knows how to comport himself among adults. Not so, Henry?” he asked his son. Henry nodded.

“Be respectful and don’t run into anyone,” he answered quickly.

Robert chuckled. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “That paraphrases it very nicely, Henry.” He grinned at the little boy who was gazing up at him as if his days rose and set with his father’s smile. His heart twisted with a stab of guilt. He really needed to spend more time with the boy. He frowned as he saw his mother walking down the path. She was in the distance, but he absolutely did not wish her to come upon Henry—she had doubtless been informed that he had run off, and her scolding was far crueler than anything Mrs. Wellman could contrive. “Now, if you will excuse me for a moment,” he added to Henry and his nursemaid. “I will be off. I will see you after luncheon, young man.” He grinned at Henry.

Henry nodded. Perhaps he had seen the approaching figure too. “Yes, Papa!”

Another figure stood behind him. Robert turned to Miss Brooke and bowed low. “If you will excuse me, miss,” he said in a low voice. “I must return to the house. I wish you a good day.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Brooke murmured, and dropped a low curtsey. Robert’s heart twisted. The formal interchange was strained and difficult compared to their earlier pleasant conversation. He wished that he could stay.

He inclined his head again and hurried across the lawn and to the path where he had seen the approaching duchess, his heart filled with a mix of warmth and ruefulness. He wished he could have stayed for longer and he turned and looked at the distant figure of Miss Brooke where she stood, longing to see her and talk to her again within the hours ahead.