Regency Historical - Love And The Single Heiress Part 7

Spencer's jaw dropped. "Someone hit you?"

"Hit is an understatement for the thorough thras.h.i.+ng I received."

"Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren't they afraid of you?"

Andrew laughed. "Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fis.h.i.+ng when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish."

"I wager they wouldn't attempt such a thing now," Spencer predicted.

"I'd certainly give them a better showing than I did back then," Andrew agreed.

"Did they ever do it again?"

"Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months." Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he'd been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his b.l.o.o.d.y nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain't gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them...

"And then what happened?"

Andrew blinked and the memory dissipated as if blown away on a gentle breeze. "I learned how to fight. How to protect myself. Then I bloodied their noses. Only had to do it once."

Spencer's lips pressed together into a thin line. "I'd wager your fattier was proud of you when you succeeded in subduing those ruffians."

There was no missing the pain in those words, and Andrew's heart squeezed for this young man whose hurts obviously ran so deep, and who, in spite of having all his mother's love, still longed for a father's love and acceptance as well. "My father was proud," Andrew agreed softly, refusing to acknowledge the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat. "And very relieved that we wouldn't be losing our fish any longer."

"Why didn't your father go with you to the lake so the boys wouldn't set upon you?"

"You know, at the time, I asked myself, and him, that very question. And I've never forgotten what he said. He told me, 'Son, a man doesn't let anyone else fight his battles for him. If someone else has to fight for your pride, then it isn't yours at all. '" He smiled. "My father was a very wise man."

"Was?"

Andrew nodded. "He died the year I turned sixteen."

Spencer's solemn expression indicated he understood losing a father. "Do you... think of him often?"

It was clear by his tone that the question was serious to Spencer, so Andrew thought carefully before answering. "After he died, I thought of him all the time. I tried not to, I pushed myself, worked harder, trying to exhaust my body and mind so I wouldn't think of him because every time I did, it... hurt. He'd been my best friend, and for my entire fife, we were all we had."

"Where was your mum?"

"Died birthing me."

"So you and your father were alone," Spencer murmured. "Like me and my mum."

"Yes, I suppose we were. As the years pa.s.sed, the pain of his death became less sharp. Rather like a knife whose blade loses it edge-it can still cut, but not as keenly. I still think of him every day-it just doesn't hurt as much now."

"How did he die?"

Another image flashed in Andrew's mind, filling him with acute pain, and he realized that he hadn't been entirely honest with Spencer about the grief dulling over time. "He drowned. A heavy fog rolled in one night while he was at the wharf, and he lost his bearings. Stepped off the dock." Emotion tightened his throat. "He was a strong, hearty man who could do a thousand things, but he couldn't swim."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I."

Spencer's gaze again drifted down to his damaged foot and for nearly a minute, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally, he looked up. "Isn't it odd that the one thing your robust father couldn't do is the only thing I can do."

"You can do more than swim, Spencer."

He shook his head. "No. I cannot fence. Or fight. Or ride." His voice took on a bitter, resigned edge that broke Andrew's heart. "I can't do any of those things. It's why my father hated me, you know."

Andrew pushed off from the mantel and sat beside Spencer. Leaning forward, Andrew rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands, searching for the right words. He wanted to refute the boy's statement, a.s.sure him his father had cared for him, but Spencer was no longer a child, and far too intelligent to accept such empty plat.i.tudes.

Turning to look at him, Andrew said, "I'm sorry that your relations.h.i.+p with your father was estranged and that he didn't know what a fine young man you are. That was truly his loss, and his decision-one that in no way reflects poorly on you."

Surprise, and grat.i.tude, flashed in Spencer's eyes before his expression went flat. "But he wouldn't have hated me if I were like other boys."

"Then learn from his mistake, Spencer. Outward appearances are a poor way to judge a person. Just because someone is beautiful or without physical imperfection does not mean he possesses integrity or a good character. Those are the things upon which a person should be judged."

Spencer looked away and plucked at his jacket sleeve. "I wish everyone felt that way, Mr. Stanton."

Andrew debated for several seconds, then gave in to his inclination and patted Spencer's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "So do I. But unfortunately we can't control other people's actions. Or words. Only our own. And you're wrong, Spencer. You could do those things. If you really wanted to."

Spencer gazed back at him with eyes too young to hold all the hurt and cynicism s.h.i.+mmering in their depths. "I can't." "Have you ever tried?"

A humorless laugh escaped the boy's lips. "No." "My father, who we've already established was a very wise man, was fond of telling me, 'Son, if you always do what you've always done, you'll always be where you've always been. '" He kept his gaze steady on Spencer's. "Is that what you want? To always say that you cannot do something that you want to do?"

"But how can I do them? Have you not noticed this?" He jabbed his finger toward his foot. "Of course I noticed. But it hasn't stopped you from walking. Or swimming. Your foot is damaged, but your mind is not. I'm not suggesting that you aspire to become the best fencer or pugilist or rider in England-only that you aspire to be the best you can be. Tell me, what is your favorite food-the thing you love above all else?" The boy looked confused at the abrupt change of subject, but he answered. "Cook's fresh-baked scones with strawberry jam." "How do you know they're your favorite?" "Because I tried them..."His voice trailed off as understanding dawned in his eyes. "Exactly. You wouldn't have discovered your very favorite food if you hadn't tried it the first time. I wouldn't have known that I could pound the p.i.s.s out of those ruffians if I hadn't tried. If I hadn't wanted to. If I hadn't been determined. The only thing stopping you from doing the things you want to do is you, Spencer. By thinking that you can't."

A heartbreaking combination of doubt, confusion, and hope ignited in his eyes. "You think I can?"

"I know you can."

"You'd teach me?"

"You've only to ask."

"But... what if I fail?"

"You can only fail if you don't try. If you don't take that first step, you'll never know how far you might

go. If you at least make an attempt, you've already succeeded."

"Are those more words of wisdom from your father?"

"No. Those are hard-won lessons I had to learn for myself. Lessons no one offered to teach me."

"The way you're offering to teach me."

"Yes."

He frowned and plucked at his sleeve again, clearly debating. Finally, he said, "Mother won't like it, you

know. She'll be afraid I'll hurt myself." A red flush stained his cheeks. "In truth, I might be a bit afraid of

that myself." "We'll go very slowly. A great deal of it involves balance, and I've a number of ideas how to help you with that. And if, at any time, you want to cease our lessons, we shall."

The boy drew a deep breath, then straightened his spine. Andrew's heart warmed at the combination of determination and tentative eagerness s.h.i.+ning in his eyes. "When can we begin?" he asked. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow it is."

"Best to do it when Mother won't be about," Spencer said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level.

"I'd suggest after breakfast. That's when she spends an hour in her rooms seeing to her correspondence."

"Agreed."

"After our lesson, I'll take you to the warm springs. It will be especially fine to soak after our exertions."

Andrew managed a weak smile. "The warm springs. Yes, that sounds delightful."

He made another quick mental note-to fabricate something that required his immediate attention after

his lesson with Spencer so as to avoid the trip to the warm springs. He had no intention of getting anywhere near the water. Like father, like son...

Chapter 7.

Today's Modern Woman should not be afraid to take the upper hand during lovemaking. Touch your lover in the manner you'd like to be touched. Although he may at first express surprise at such bold behavior, be confident that your forthrightness will ultimately lead to very satisfactory results.

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Catherine arrived home from her visit with Genevieve feeling unsettled. Between their conversation about Mr. Stanton and the shooting, she was more than a little perturbed.

Surrendering her bonnet and shawl to Milton, she asked, "Have any messages arrived from my father?"

"No, my lady."

Fustian. Swallowing her disappointment, she asked, "Where is Spencer?"

"Taking his afternoon rest."

"And Mr. Stanton?" She pressed her lips together, thoroughly annoyed that her heart seemed to skip a beat just saying his name.

"When last I saw him, he was on his way to his bedchamber, presumably to rest before dinner. Shall I arrange for tea for you, my lady?"

"No, thank you." Certainly she was relieved, not disappointed, that Mr. Stanton wasn't about. "The weather is so delightful, and as I took the carriage to visit Mrs. Ralston, I believe I'll walk to the stables and see how Fritzborne is faring." Her head groom had injured his hand while repairing the stable roof just before she'd left for London. "How is he?"

"His usual self again, although I believe the air surrounding the stable still bears an odd hue from the colorful language he spewed after he smashed the hammer down on his thumb."

Catherine smiled, well imagining Fritzborne's tirade. She exited the house and struck out across the lawns, heading toward the stables. Late-afternoon sunlight kissed the sky, gilding the fluffy white clouds in a blanket of vivid golds and oranges. She breathed deeply of the warm, flower-scented air, allowing peace to infuse her, the sense of tranquillity that the yellow haze and crowds and odors of London always stole from her.

Yet the calm she sought and had never failed to find somehow eluded her. Obviously the shooting still badly disrupted her peace. A little more time at home, surrounded by Spencer and the familiar atmosphere and things she loved would help her recapture her equilibrium.

The stable's huge weathered wood doors were flung wide open. After crossing the threshold, she stood just inside the doorway for several seconds, blinking to adjust her vision to the dim interior. The murmur of a deep voice reached her ears from the far corner, where Venus was stalled, followed by a soft nicker. A smile pulled at Catherine's lips at the familiar sound her favorite mare made when being brushed. She started forward, antic.i.p.ating her chat with Fritzborne and a friendly nuzzle from Venus. The rich scents of fresh hay, leather, and sun-warmed horseflesh filled her head, easing away her tensions.

When she stopped in front of the stall, however, she froze. And stared.

It was not Fritzborne, but Mr. Stanton who stood in the stall, brus.h.i.+ng Venus with long, sure strokes. Mr. Stanton, who'd discarded his jacket and cravat. Mr. Stanton, who'd rolled back his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, revealing muscular forearms that flexed in the most fascinating manner with each pa.s.sage of the brush over Venus's back. Mr. Stanton, dressed in fawn-colored riding breeches that hugged his long legs in a way that made her mouth go dry.

Sweat had dampened a T across the white linen s.h.i.+rt stretched across his broad shoulders and down the center of his back. His hair was disheveled, dark strands falling over his forehead with his exertions. He looked completely undone, yet for some unfathomable reason, the word that burrowed into her mind was delicious.

Any modic.u.m of serenity she'd managed to regain evaporated like steam. She stood, transfixed, her gaze roaming over his masculine form in a manner that should have appalled her-that did appall her-but not enough for her to cease.

The sight of his strong, long-fingered hands easing over Venus, while his low-pitched voice murmured soothing words, filled Catherine with a longing that frightened her in its intensity. She needed to leave- He looked up, and their eyes met. His hand stilled, and she fancied his eyes darkened. Heat rushed through her at his intense regard, and she barely refrained from dabbing at her forehead with the back of her hand. And what on earth was wrong with her stomach? It felt so very odd... clearly she'd eaten something that hadn't quite agreed with her.

"Lady Catherine. I did not know you were here."

"I... I just arrived."

He set down the brush, then walked slowly toward her. Her toes curled inside her shoes, and she had to

force herself not to back up, to flee his presence, a sensation that irked her. Well, at least now she was irked. That was certainly better, and far safer than... not being irked.

"Where is Fritzborne?" Good heavens, had that husky voice come from her?

"Out exercising Aphrodite. Very romantic names for your horses."