Chapter 1
Seth Wythebury, the second Marquis of Wythebury, had never given much credence to old adages, but now he was ready to believe the saying “If the milk wagon can be turned over, it will be.”
He looked in the mirror he’d propped up on top of the shaving bureau and dried the last traces of soap and beads of water from his face and neck. When he’d first received the invitation to spend the Christmastide Season at Hurst, he’d declined. It’d been just over a year since his sister and her husband had died of a fever within days of each other. He hadn’t felt right about leaving his two young nephews alone at this time of year. But Crispin, the Duke of Hurst, had sent another letter insisting he come and bring the lads with him.
That bit of encouragement was all Seth needed to accept, but he should have known it wasn’t a good idea.
For the past few months, Seth had been a man of few vices. After having spent the entire year at Wythebury, the lure of a few bachelor pursuits had been too tempting to resist. Visions of hunting, riding, and shooting during the day, along with one or two all-night card games at the village tavern beckoned. A soft woman to warm his bed and a good bottle of brandy seemed in order too. Besides, there was always the possibility that Crispin had invited some other members of the Heirs’ Club to spend time with him at Hurst. They would enjoy relaxing by the fire in the evenings with a glass of port, maybe a game of chess.
While Seth pulled his shirt over his head and stuffed the tail into the band of his trousers, he heard childish squeals and shouts of laughter. Even though it was late when they arrived at the guest wing of the estate last night, it appeared Heron and Fallon were already up. Apparently, after his meandering bluster about not knowing how to care for young boys, his valet had managed to get them up and dressed after all.
Seth grunted a quiet laugh while he reached for his collar and neckcloth. The thought of the fastidious Tabard doing the job that was usually left to a governess was amusing.
Their grueling carriage ride with endless chatter from his nephews had been cold and long. A three-day journey over frozen roads that were too often only deep bumpy ruts had been bad enough, but yesterday morning when they’d started to leave the inn where they’d overnighted, Mrs. Barstaple told him she’d awakened feeling poorly with a deep, ill-sounding cough. Not wanting to subject the lads to another day in a cramped coach with the sick woman, Seth had decided it was best to leave the governess at the inn to recuperate while they continued on to Hurst. She would join them when she was well enough to travel. Until then, a quite reluctant Tabard would see to it the boys were dressed and fed—it would be up to Seth to see to it their studies were accomplished.
Before his sister had died, she’d made Seth promise to be not only a guardian but also a father to her young sons. Perhaps she’d forgotten that she and Seth had lost their own father when Seth was but a mere boy. That didn’t matter. He had to grant her last wish.
Seth didn’t know much about fatherhood, and nothing about children—except that they ran wherever they went at breakneck speed and discarded their wooden toys wherever and whenever it pleased them to do so. They liked to jump too. Off beds, or steps, or anything they could climb on top of. Perhaps when the lads were older, they’d see the value of going at a more leisurely pace.
In the meantime, Seth would continue to carefully watch over them, teach them all he knew, and prosper their estates and yearly incomes. Seth’s vow to his sister would be fulfilled when Heron and Fallon came of age. Once they were educated and old enough to take responsibility for their own inheritances from their mother, their father, and two sets of grandparents, Seth’s debt to his sister would be paid.
Sounds of the boys’ merriment floated up to his room again as he tied his neckcloth. It sounded as if they were outside.In this dreary weather?Seth frowned. He was already worried Fallon and Heron would come down with whatever it was their governess had caught, and now, being out in this weather, they could catch lung fever too. Grabbing his waistcoat off the bed, he walked over to the window. Snow covered the ground, the shrubs, and the yew hedge. It even clung to the spindly leaf-stripped trees outlining the distant horizon.
“Snow,” he muttered to himself while buttoning his quilted dark brown waistcoat. “And not even past Boxing Day.”
Icy wind greeted him when he opened the window to listen. Gleeful, youthful screams of delight sounded louder. The lads were definitely outside in the cold. He would have thought Tabard knew better than to allow them out on a bitter morning like this, but perhaps the valet was truthful when he’d said his knowledge of children didn’t extend any further than Seth’s.
This was not a good beginning to his two-week stay at Hurst. He would have tried calling to them but knew his voice would fall on deaf ears. They would give him no regard for instructions until he was close enough so they could look him in the eyes.
Shoving his arms into his coat, he exited the bedchamber and headed down the stairs, fearful the boys might be susceptible to a dire illness before he could get them back inside. The enticing aroma of baked bread and cooked fruit reached him when he made it to the bottom.Figs? Plums? Something sweet and delicious, for sure.
Having spent many enjoyable stays with the Duke of Hurst in his home, Seth knew the house well. He strode straight to the back door and opened it. Peals of excited laughter greeted him. Bounding down the steps in polished boots, he marched along the side of the house on crunchy snow, intent on putting a stop to this madness.
“Tag, you’re it!” Seth heard one of the boys yell.
“Not for long,” a female voice responded as he rounded the corner and took a frosty ball of snow squarely on his nose—launched by the most beautiful young lady he’d ever seen. Her aim couldn’t have been better if she’d been a marksman.
Noise from the boys quieted instantly. Tiny ice crystals fell from his face. The young lady was perhaps more startled than he. Her full, tempting lips formed a surprised O. She was out of breath and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her exertion from fending off two boys, and no doubt a bit of blushing for hitting the wrong target too. But it was the unveiled amusement he saw lurking deep in her beautiful blue eyes that made his lower body thump and his stomach do a slow roll.
Were Seth a lesser man, the unanticipated volley might well have unsettled his manhood. Instead, he flicked off the last vestige of offending snow with his hand in a bothered gesture. Once he’d cleared his vision, the breathless beauty overtook all else. She was tall with straight shoulders and willowy thin, and with the way her tightly woven spencer hugged her body, he could see there was a soft rounded fullness to her breasts. Her bonnet was a fitted cap of dark blue velvet adorned with wide ribbons that covered her ears and tied in a bow under her chin. It looked as if more than one snowball had landed on it and the rest of her clothing too.
A snicker reached his ears.
Forcing his gaze away from the lady, Seth turned to Fallon and Heron. The five-year-old had covered his mouth with wet-gloved hands, trying his best to silence his laughter. Heron held a rather large clump of snow between his two hands, readying it for another lob toward their fetching prey.
Seth’s movement seemed to spur the young lady into action. “Excuse me, sir,” she said in a feminine rush of excitement. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”
She wouldn’t have to be sorry if she hadn’t had the brothers out in this ghastly temperature.
“I was aiming for Master Heron. I didn’t mean to hit you. I hope it didn’t hurt.”
At least she had the decency to look and sound apologetic, but who was she, and why was she having a snowball fight with the lads?
“I think I can withstand a ball or two of snow,” he said with a hint of a grin on his lips to let her know there was no harm done. “Especially if it’s in order to save my nephew, but why would you want to hit my ward in the face?”
Her lips formed another silent O and she gave him a quick curtsey before hastily saying, “My lord, you are their uncle? The Marquis of Wythebury?”
“I am. Why does that surprise you?”
