The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

“Yes. And you, sir?”

“Lyndon Frothingill, Baron Hughes. I’m Alicia’s father. James is my son-in-law.”

“Oh,” she managed. Her feet were sinking in the mud, and she wanted out of the pond. “Do you think you could leave, sir? I’d like to come out now.”

He stilled. “You’re an American. Just listen to the way you talk. Like an illiterate nobody. And just look at you. No young English lady would even consider swimming in a pond, much less naked. My beautiful Alicia couldn’t even swim. You look like a trollop with all that red hair. You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That’s why James married you? He had to because he’s a gentleman.”

Jessie wondered if that one time just after lunch in the dining room could have gotten her pregnant. He took that thoughtful look as a proof of her sin. He took a step closer to the edge of the pond and actually shook his fist at her, nearly yelling, “You damned little bitch, you trapped him before I could act. I wanted to give him time to forget Alicia. He loved her more than life, James did. I feared for him after she died. I’ve given him well over three years to recover. I was bringing him Alicia’s dear cousin, my own brother’s child—Laura. She should have been the one to wed him, not you, you damned Colonial trollop.”

“Sir, I’m getting cold. Could you please leave now?”

Baron Hughes stood on the grassy bank, his hands on his meager hips, staring at her, a sly look in his eyes. “Why don’t you just come out now? I’ll see what James has gotten in his second wife.”

Jessie saw a very angry, very bitter man, who looked older than his years. Surely he couldn’t be older than her own father, but he seemed to be, deep lines scoring both sides of his mouth. His eyes, though, looked vicious, his mouth thin and mean. She wondered what he’d been like before his daughter’s death.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, sir. I know James did love her very much. I didn’t trap him, sir, at least not in the way you believe. I’m not a trollop. I’m a horse racer.”

For

a moment, the vicious look left his eyes, leaving blank amazement, then returned quickly. “You’re not even a good liar, are you?”

“James says I’m not. Please, sir, I’d like to come out now. Won’t you leave?”

“No. Since you’re pregnant, perhaps you won’t be on this earth much longer, though strumpets like you tend to flourish while sweet angels like my Alicia are taken. I’ll just pray you’ll die in childbirth just like my poor Alicia.”

“If I do, will you wait another three years before you trot out your niece?”

“I won’t have to. James will have forgotten you in months. I daresay he’ll want to remarry before the grass grows over your grave.”

“This isn’t very pleasant, sir. Please leave now. I’m being nice because I realize you’re still upset by your daughter’s tragic death. But it wasn’t my fault, sir. James is now my husband. You must accustom yourself to it. If you don’t leave me alone now, I’ll be forced to do something you perhaps won’t appreciate.”

“What would that be, you damned chit?”

“Well—”

“Actually, sir, I think my wife would like the privacy.”

“James!” The baron whirled around to see his former son-in-law standing beneath the waving branches of a willow tree.

“She didn’t lie to you. She’s not a trollop. She’s a horse racer. Come along, sir. You need a brandy. Jessie,” James added, giving her a nod, “dry yourself well. I don’t want you to take a chill.”

The baron gave her a malicious look, shrugged, and followed James.

When she was tying the ribbons on her slippers, Jessie wasn’t too certain she wanted to see the dead Alicia’s papa again.

She went to the stables and spent the next hour grooming Selina, one of the Arabian mares James raced in York.

She was on her knees oiling Selina’s hooves, as filthy as any stable lad, when she saw a shadow. She looked up the length of James’s body. He was wearing black boots, tight dark brown buckskins, and a white shirt, open at the neck. He looked healthy, tanned, as savory as Mrs. Catsdoor’s nesselrode pudding. She realized she was staring at him, her mouth open, and snapped it closed.

“Is that your last hoof?”

“My last what? Oh, yes, it is.” She patted Selina’s leg. “She’s a beauty, James. How old is she?”

“Seven. She was sired by Janus. She’s foaled two stallions, both racers. Now, it’s late and you’re in dire need of a bath. You look like the old Jessie. I don’t want that anymore. It makes me feel depraved.” He paused a moment, then came down to his haunches beside her. He wrapped his finger around a loose curl. “Even your streamer is sweating.”

“The old Jessie didn’t have any streamers.”

“No.”