What Ales the Earl Read online

  Harry nodded. “Bess, the innkeeper, mentioned it to me when I arrived and made the mistake of giving her my real family name.” He frowned. “But you’ve been here for years, haven’t you? It seems odd the Graham streak has just now become a problem.”

  Pen shrugged. “I was lucky, I guess. Harriet’s streak didn’t appear until this spring, after she’d been sick. I was able to persuade everyone that her fever had caused it”—she scowled—“until Rosamund showed up.”

  Her voice dripped with loathing.

  Well, that explained the delay, at least. “But why did the woman think Walter was Harriet’s father?” He took his hat off to run his fingers through his hair. “Though I suppose he had so many children born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’d be the first Graham to come to mind.”

  Pen shrugged. “Or perhaps she didn’t do the arithmetic and assumed you were out of the country at the crucial, er, moment.” Then she looked at his hair and frowned. “What happened to your streak?”

  Right. “I darkened it. I used to do that during the war when I didn’t want people to remember me. It washes out.”

  Pen was still frowning. “Perhaps I should have darkened Harriet’s, but I didn’t think of it.”

  His heart stilled. If Pen had darkened Harriet’s streak, he wouldn’t have known she was a Graham. She would have been just another young girl he’d met on his travels.

  Would Pen have told him he had a daughter if she hadn’t been forced to?

  One never knew with Pen.

  And would I have had the wits to figure it out?

  Pen wasn’t hiding the fact she was a mother. He was quite good at arithmetic.

  Another unpleasant thought surfaced.

  “Harriet doesn’t think she’s Walter’s daughter, does she?”

  Pen shook her head. “No. I told her the truth . . . finally. Up until this morning, she thought her father had been a nice, solid farmer who’d gone off to fight Napoleon.” Her jaw clenched. “She’s not very h-happy with me at the moment.”

  She blinked rapidly and sniffed several times, but despite her best efforts, one tear escaped.

  “Pen—” He reached for her.

  She waved his hand and his sympathy away.

  “Pardon me.” She cleared her throat. “It’s been a hellish day.”

  One of the things he’d always admired about Pen—and, yes, found exciting, too—was her fierce independence, but she needed to be sensible now. There was a child involved. His child.

  “Will you let me talk to her?”

  Pen didn’t answer immediately.

  He could demand she let him see Harriet—would demand it, if he had to.

  I have a child. A daughter.

  He ached to see her again, this time knowing that she was his.

  I have to do something for her, but what? Send Pen money for her support....

  That didn’t feel quite right, but what else could he do?

  There’s a small house on the estate....

  Harriet could live there with Pen. They wouldn’t have to live in this . . . this Benevolent Home, whatever it might be. They’d be taken care of.

  And I could see them.

  Pen sighed. “All right. Not that I can stop you—I do know that. And Harriet will want to meet you.” She smiled—a little wistfully he thought. “She’s very like you, you know.”

  Harry wasn’t certain if Pen thought that a good thing or not.

  Chapter Six

  Pen walked up toward the Home through Farmer Smith’s fields with Harry at her side. A few cows interrupted their grazing to watch them pass. Harry wanted to see the Home so he could report on matters to the duke, and he wanted to see Harriet.

  It felt so seductively familiar to be with him like this. Their strides matched as easily as they had when she’d been seventeen and they’d explored Darrow together. They hadn’t spent every minute of every day naked and sweaty and—

  Lud! I hope I’m not blushing.

  She was certain she was. She looked away, hoping Harry hadn’t noticed and wishing for a breeze to cool her cheeks.

  Don’t be an idiot. You aren’t seventeen any longer.

  Very, very true. She must fight against this feeling of rightness with him. He wasn’t the Harry she’d known. Ha! He was now the bloody Earl of Darrow. If their stations had been far removed when he was just the earl’s second son, they were a universe apart now.

  Except.... He felt like the same Harry. He was older, yes, but he still looked very much like the boy she’d fallen in love with. His voice was the same. He even smelled the same. And his new title hadn’t made him stiff or condescending. It was as easy to talk to him now as it had been then—look at how she’d spilled the story of her father’s reaction to her pregnancy.

  But Harry knew Papa. He understands as no one else can.

  Yes, that was true. He was her past, but he was not her future. He couldn’t be.

  “I’m sorry, Pen.”

  Yes, she was sorry about that, too—

  Wait. He can’t be reading my mind.

  “Sorry about what?” Harriet? He’d best not say that.

  No, she hoped he would say it. Those words would douse this ridiculous ember of longing before it started a fire and consumed her.

  “About putting you in this situation.” He looked down at her. “About seducing you.”

  Oh. Had he never guessed, then?

  “You didn’t seduce me.”

  “Yes, I did.” He laughed. “Though I’ll grant you it didn’t take much work. Don’t you remember?” His grin turned a bit wolfish. “I do. Lord, Pen, you were so beautiful, standing naked in that shady, secluded part of the pond, your hair loose and almost brushing your smooth white arse, your breasts—” His jaw hardened and he looked away.

  She looked down to see that another part of him had hardened.

  Penelope Barnes, behave yourself.

  “You can be sure I thanked God—though I doubt He wished to be thanked for such a thing—that I decided to go swimming that afternoon. I thought myself very lucky.”

  “It wasn’t luck.” So, he truly had never guessed. That surprised her, but it probably shouldn’t have. Young men often didn’t look beyond the surface when their cocks were involved.

  His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t luck or Divine Providence. You would have found me that way had you come the next day or the next.”

  She had his full attention now.

  “I would have?”

  He looked so innocently puzzled, her heart filled with—no. I can’t feel anything for the Earl of Darrow.

  “Yes.” He really hadn’t known. “I’d lo—” No, don’t use that word. “I’d been, er, infatuated with you since I stopped thinking boys were revolting. I knew you were going to leave at the end of the summer.”

  She’d heard the other girls on the estate gossiping after church or in the village shops. They’d thought it very romantic that Harry was going off to fight Boney. All they could talk about was how dashing he would look in a military uniform. But all she could think about was that he was leaving and nothing would ever be the same. Some men died in battle or were terribly injured. And even if Harry made it through safely, he wouldn’t be coming back to Darrow. The title and estate belonged to his brother. Harry would go off to make his own life, a life that would be miles—worlds—away from her.

  The days when she could hope to catch a glimpse of him at church or in the village were ending. He would no longer come to the summer fair or the estate Boxing Day party.

  And she would have to grow up. Somehow, with Harry still at Darrow, she’d felt strong enough to withstand her father’s increasingly frequent talk of her marrying. She was seventeen. Even she would admit it was time. She certainly didn’t want to share a house with her father a moment longer than she had to. But neither did she want to share a house—and a bed—with Felix or any other man she’d met to that point. No one but Harry h
ad made her heart beat faster—or provoked the faintest twinge of interest in any of her other organs.

  “I wanted to be, ah”—she could feel her face turning red—“close to you before you left. I knew where and when you swam, so I went there a little before you arrived.”

  Yes, she was embarrassed. And she’d felt embarrassed and foolish and nervous at the time—but she didn’t regret it. She’d do it all again and exactly the same way if she were given the chance. “So, you see, I seduced you.”

  She stole a glance at his face. He looked shocked.

  “But you were a virgin.”

  “So? Virginity doesn’t make one blind or deaf or an idiot.”

  The village matrons hadn’t always watched their tongues around virgin ears, but to be honest, she could have figured things out without anyone’s help. Men weren’t complicated creatures.

  She lifted a brow. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  He laughed. “All too well—as you know. But I still shouldn’t have done it. I took your virginity.”

  There had been no taking involved. If Godfrey had prevailed back there in the clearing, that would have been a taking, not of her virginity, of course, but of something far more precious: her autonomy. Godfrey would have turned her from an independent person with her own desires into a female body, existing solely for his use.

  “You didn’t take my virginity,” she said, her voice rough with the memory of Godfrey’s attack. “You helped me dispose of it.”

  She’d thought she’d known what was going to happen that day at the pond: Harry would put his cock in the channel between her legs. It had sounded embarrassing—disgusting, really—and painful, but she’d overheard the village women sighing and giggling about it enough to hope it wouldn’t be that unpleasant. And since marrying and submitting to a husband were, she’d thought then, a woman’s only lot in life, she’d have had to endure it eventually. She’d rather her first time be with Harry. She’d felt certain if anyone could make it bearable, he could.

  Well, if she were honest, she’d admit she’d hoped he could make it rather more than bearable. He’d stolen a mistletoe kiss during Christmastide that year, just a brief brush of his lips on hers followed by a laugh, and she’d liked that very much. It had stirred something hot and hungry in her that was a little frightening, but exciting, too.

  So, she’d gone to the pond hoping he’d kiss her again—maybe several times. She’d thought that would be worth the rest of it. She’d never imagined what an intense, consuming experience their joining would be—and how much she’d want to do it again and again.

  “All right. But still—good God, Pen, we were, er—”

  Harry looked away. Pen thought his cheeks were a bit flushed.

  “—ah, frolicking every day that summer, sometimes several times a day. It’s unconscionable that I didn’t consider you might conceive.”

  “You were only eighteen and going off to war.”

  Frolicking . . . That was one way to describe what they’d done. And it had been playful, joyful, satisfying—and, as each day slipped into the past, more and more desperate, at least for her. She’d felt the end rushing toward her.

  And then it had arrived. They’d had one last night of wild, intense coupling—and in the morning, Harry was gone. Gone from Darrow and gone from her life forever.

  Until now.

  The most relevant part of her body trembled with excitement—

  Oh!

  She’d thought she was too old for such feelings. The only time she’d thought of coupling in years had been to cringe at the prospect of letting Godfrey into her bed.

  Dare I try to seduce Harry again?

  No.

  Why not? I’ve already lost my reputation, and everyone will probably assume I’m frolicking with him while he’s here anyway. What would one more time hurt?

  “Still, I shouldn’t have done it,” Harry said. “I upended your life.”

  She shrugged. She hadn’t had much of a life to upend.

  “Are you happy here, Pen?”

  She hadn’t expected that question. She turned it over in her mind. She knew what it meant, of course, but happiness wasn’t a concept she thought much about. She was too busy looking out for Harriet and tending to the hops and her other duties. The last time she’d called what she’d felt “happy” was that summer with Harry.

  Happiness was for children.

  “I’m content. I’m busy. I’ve got my work and Harriet, of course.” She glanced up at him. “Are you happy?”

  He laughed, apparently surprised by her turning the question back to him. “I’m the Earl of Darrow. I must be happy.”

  He didn’t sound happy.

  She wanted to make him happy—

  No! Harry’s happiness is none of my concern. None at all.

  “I’m certainly busy,” he said. “I have many responsibilities, some of which I’m still learning about. But I can’t say I’m content.” He shrugged. “I’d rather be just Harry Graham again.”

  They’d reached the stile over the last stone fence separating the fields from the road that led up to the Home.

  “Here, take my hand,” Harry said.

  She looked at his fingers and hesitated. She didn’t need help. She was used to managing for herself.

  But she put her hand in his anyway.

  Oh! That was a mistake. The strength of his clasp brought more memories rushing back and in far too exquisite detail: the warm, firm pressure of his broad palm, the teasing, gentle touch of his clever fingers, the wet rasp of his tongue on her—

  The relevant body part shot from trembling to throbbing. She caught her breath.

  Harry’s here, temptation whispered. This is your perfect—your only—chance to see if there’s still magic between you.

  “Are you all right, Pen?”

  She nodded, not daring to look at him or talk for fear she’d give her feelings away. She scrambled over the stile, taking her hand back as soon as she was over the top.

  There was—could be—no magic between them. Yes, Harry was here, but on business for the duke. He had no interest in dalliance, especially with a mature woman of twenty-seven.

  And yet, from her observation, men were always interested in dalliance.

  Stop. She was fooling herself. This Harry was not the boy she’d known—just as she wasn’t that girl. Nine years—almost ten—was a long time. They’d both changed. They were strangers to each other now.

  Strangers that shared a daughter.

  Her stomach cramped. Oh, Lord, Harriet. How was she going to take care of her? She’d thought Godfrey was her answer, but look how wrong she’d been about him.

  Why am I worrying about Godfrey now that the entire village knows Harriet is a bastard?

  “I am sorry you had to face everything alone, Pen,” Harry said, as soon as he’d made it over the stone fence. “I—”

  She cut him off. “We both made mistakes.” She must make one thing very clear, however. She looked him in the eye. “But Harriet is not one of them. I’ve never regretted having her, not once.”

  Harriet gave her life focus and meaning. She would do anything for her—even protect her from Harry, if necessary.

  “If you think she is a mistake, then perhaps it would be best if you avoid her or at least not tell her you’re her father. Pretend you’re some Graham cousin like you say Bess thinks you are.”

  Harry shook his head. “That won’t work. The vicar knows my name. How many Harry Grahams can there be who are friends of the Duke of Grainger? Someone will figure it out—perhaps this Rosamund woman who you say recognized the Graham streak.”

  Lord, he was right. And when Harriet found out that her father had been here and Pen had kept his identity from her....

  Harriet would never forgive her.

  “I don’t think Harriet is a mistake, Pen. And I want to meet her. She’s my only child.”

  Pen snorted. “As far as you know.”

  He scowled at
her, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “I suppose I deserve that.” He blew out a long breath and glanced away. “Well, of course I deserve it.” When he looked back at her, his eyes were unshuttered, open and direct as they’d been when she’d known him at Darrow. “But I do think it’s true. I’m not an eighteen-year-old idiot any longer, Pen. And I’ve never been as, ah, abandoned with anyone else as I was with you that summer.”

  She wanted to believe him, not that she cared so much whether he had other children—it wasn’t her place to care or not—but because she wanted to think she could still trust him.

  “And the women I’ve consorted with all know how to prevent conception.”

  Ah, yes. Whores. Lightskirts. Exactly what Godfrey had said she was—except she’d been an amateur while the others were professionals.

  “I swear I won’t hurt her, Pen.”

  She did trust him—but she would still be there when he met Harriet to see that he kept his word. Not that she could inflict much damage on him if he didn’t, but, really, what choice did she have?

  Perhaps one. She could choose where they met.

  “Very well. I’d thought to take you up to the Home directly, but I think a more private place would be better for Harriet to learn you’re her father.”

  He looked puzzled. “Is there no private sitting room we could use?”

  “Nothing is private at the Home.” She laughed, a touch grimly. “This is a houseful of females, Harry. Someone is certain to see you arrive or to overhear us, and the details will spread in a flash, likely heavily embroidered with speculation.” And that wasn’t all. “Harriet will know that, and I think it will make her nervous.”

  Meeting her father without an audience would give Harriet the time and freedom to decide for herself what she thought of the man.

  He nodded. “So, what do you suggest?”

  An excellent question. She stood in the road, considering....

  “I have it—the gothic cottage. It’s the only folly on the property and mostly ignored. I was told it was used as a guesthouse sometime in the past. I’ll take you there and then go up to the house to get Harriet.” She sighed. “If I can find her. Since Verity arrived, Harriet’s been playing least in sight.”