Page 13 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Thirteen

Tristan had spent the entire night tossing and turning - so much so that the two other footmen sharing the chamber each put their pillow over their head in an effort to block out the noise of his fidgeting. Tris suspected he’d been lucky they hadn’t used the pillows to smother him instead.

What madness had come over him the night before? And dear God, he’d almost kissed her. Tristan groaned. The picture that came with the thought of his lips plundering such feminine softness produced an instant hardness.

Thankful he was alone in the dining room, Tristan took off his white glove and adjusted himself, trying to ease the tightness of his breeches. He could only hope she didn’t decide to share details of their tryst with… Devil take it, he didn’t even know whose daughter she was. Only that her name was Roseanna. The whole thing was utter madness.

Groaning, he replaced the glove and determinedly continued laying the table, forcing his traitorous mind back to the matter at hand. Dinner tonight would be more formal with the arrival of the Comte, but it would still be a small affair compared to the fifty plus people who would be seated at the table over the weekend.

The Comte was due to arrive early afternoon and Tristan knew that today was his best chance to attract d’Ansouis’s attention given that from tomorrow the house would be filled to bursting. It was hard to call the nobleman by that name, knowing that the real Count had likely been put to bed with a spade. But he didn’t dare refer to the murdering bastard as Babin – even in his head. It could so easily slip out.

The Duke had been informed that the Comte would not be bringing his own valet, so from the time of his arrival, Tristan would act as such. That would hopefully give them enough time together to sow the necessary seeds. However, once the other guests arrived, there would be little time for small talk in the bedchamber. And, if the Revisionists’ leader was planning something…

Tristan felt his gut clench. Truly, the stakes could not be higher, and the next twenty-four hours were crucial. He could ill afford any distractions. So, whatever it was he felt for Roseanna would simply have to be pushed deep down, and in time he’d forget…

‘So, Augustus, this be yer local tavern? Dae they hae a decent whisky?’

The Reverend frowned as he led Dougal to his and Percy’s customary table. ‘I’m not sure there’s much of a call for it, but they have a very passable local ale.’ Thankfully, the inn was empty but for the two of them. Clearly, most of the villagers were out in the fields, preparing for the coming harvest.

The Scot shrugged and sat down, looking around him with interest.

‘What can I get yer, Revren.’ The landlady’s voice echoed in the empty bar.

‘Noo, that be a handsome lass,’ Dougal commented, admiring the buxom matron behind the bar. ‘Whit be her name?’

‘Her name’s Mary, but you can put your deuced tongue away,’ Augustus Shackleford growled. ‘The lady’s only recently widowed and wouldn’t be interested in an old rascal like you.’

Dougal merely grinned at the clergyman and gave a lewd wink. The Reverend’s heart sank. This was all he needed, trying to keep the old goat away from Percy’s mother as well as the man’s adopted son. He sighed before looking heavenward and murmuring, ‘Point taken.’

Not wanting to give his companion any more encouragement, the Reverend quickly made his way to the bar. ‘How are you, Mary?’ he asked, particularly mindful of his duty as God’s representative on earth since the Almighty had just all but slapped him on the head with it.

Mary eyed him in surprise. ‘I’m keepin’ busy,’ she answered. ‘Percy’s bin comin’ by every day.’

Reverend Shackleford felt a sudden rush of shame. He’d been so consumed with his own problems, he’d all but lost sight of what was important, and it had taken a less than subtle nudge in the ribs from upstairs to remind him of it.

‘That’s good,’ he answered sheepishly, vowing to call into church straight after dinner and offer his divine employer his humble apologies. ‘If there’s anything I can do, Mary, you only have to ask.’ The landlady gave him a largely toothless smile.

‘What can I get yer Revren?’ she asked again.

Two tankards of your best ale, Mary, please, and two of your mutton pies.’

‘I’m thinkin’ that scrawny cove over there makin’ eyes at me is your granddaughter’s da-in-law?’

‘He is, indeed, madam. Pay him no mind.’ The Reverend turned to give Dougal a glare. The old Scot responded with a thumbs up sign.

‘Will Percy be joinin’ yer both?’ Mary asked, sliding two tankards of foaming ale across the bar.

Reverend Shackleford nodded as he picked up the tankards. ‘I reckon he’ll be here before one.’

‘In that case, I’ll make up another pie so it’s nice an’ ‘ot when ‘e gets ‘ere.’ Mary wiped her hands on a none too clean rag and disappeared into the back.

‘That’s Percy’s mother you’re ogling,’ the Reverend hissed when he got back to their table. ‘I’ll thank you to keep your wandering eyes on your ale.’

Dougal grinned unrepentantly and picked up his tankard. ‘Ah dinnae hae any idea whit ye blatherin’ on aboot,’ he declared, before taking a deep draft and smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Aye ye be right, Augustus - the bonny lass surely ken’s hoo tae pull a decent pint o’ ale.’

Augustus Shackleford gritted his teeth. The mutton head must be deuced short sighted. Mary had been called many things over the years, but a bonny lass was not one of them.

‘Hoo’s the lad settlin’ in?’ Dougal asked, laying his tankard back on the table. ‘Whit were ‘is name?’ He thought for a second. ‘Finn, aye that be it. Ma heart gaes oot tae the poor bugger livin’ wi’ all these bloody sassenachs.’

Reverend Shackleford’s heart stuttered at the Scot’s mention of Finn, but he rallied quickly and managed, ‘Finn’s settled in very nicely. He’s a grand boy. Very bright. Loves school.’

‘He be learnin’ his letters?’ Dougal’s surprise was genuine.

The Reverend gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘Oh yes, Finn loves school. In fact, he spends hardly any time at home.’ The clergyman was determined to nip any suggestion of Dougal seeing the boy right in the bud. ‘Why Percy was only saying the other day just how much the boy enjoys his learning. Indeed, the school master described the lad as his best pupil. Finn is very conscientious. Not at all like most boys...’ Catching sight of Dougal’s disbelieving face, the Reverend trailed off, and gave another vigorous nod for good measure. He took a sip of his ale, wondering if he’d done it a bit too brown.

Dougal opened his mouth to speak but was distracted by Mary coming back into the bar. ‘The pies are in an’ won’t be long. I’ve some pickled eggs if you fancy while yer waitin’ gentlemen.’

‘Ooh, ah’ll hae one,’ a small voice piped up from the door. ‘Ma belly’s thinkin’ ma heid’s bin chopped off. Ah be starvin.’

The Reverend spluttered into his pint. ‘ Tare an’ hounds . Shouldn’t you be in school, Finn Noon?’ he thundered, hoping to scare the lad into beating a hasty retreat.

Instead, Finn grinned over at him. ‘Nae, Revren. Maister Smith sent me oot fer giein’ Willie a black eye. An’ ye ken ah hate school. Is this the auld bampot ye’ve tae keep oot o’ mischief?’ He eyed Dougal with interest before adding, ‘Well dinnae fash yersel, yer Revrenship. Ah be here tae help.’

While the Reverend and Dougal were out to lunch at the Red Lion, Roseanna asked John, their barouche driver, to set her down at the gates to Blackmore. Walking back to the house would give both her and Trixie some exercise, not to mention reduce the amount of time she was required to be sociable during the informal lunch being served in the small dining room. Naturally, she wanted to spend some time with her sister and cousins – just not too much. She knew too that her mother and father would be wishing to speak with her at some point. Her decision to help her grandfather look after Dougal Galbraith instead of mixing with potential suitors would, Rosie knew, disappoint her mama especially.

Letting Trixie off her lead, Roseanna strolled along the path that had been laid parallel to the long drive. Trees and flowering shrubs along the route made for a very pleasant perambulation, but being deep in thought, Rosie hardly took note of the picturesque surrounds.

She knew well that her mother worried about her. For women in their situation, the options were either marriage or spinsterhood, and either course meant being dependent on others for even the most basic needs. Roseanna knew she was incredibly lucky to have parents who were tolerant of her foibles. They loved her dearly. But that didn’t mean she would ultimately have the luxury of forging her own path – especially since she still had no idea what that path was.

She knew that she wanted to be married - but to a man who respected her, at the very least. Not an autocratic tyrant who believed her his, to do with as he wished. And there lay the rub. The law stated that once a woman married, she, and everything she owned, became the property of her husband. So, as Rosie saw it, making sure to choose the right man for a husband was imperative. Kindness, patience and tolerance were the qualities most important to her. But more than that, she dearly wished for her husband to actually like her.

But, at the end of the day, she might have a bit of an odd kick in her gallop, as her grandfather was fond of saying, but she wasn’t stupid. Rosie knew that one day reasonably soon she would have to wed. So far, her mother and father had respected her reluctance to play the marriage mart with a season in London. Indeed, Francesca too was balking at the idea. Jennifer and Mercedes had both declared it tedious in the extreme, and neither had found their husbands as a result of it. So too her aunts. Not one had taken part in a season and come away with a husband – certainly not in the conventional sense anyway. But then, country vicars’ daughters weren’t traditionally considered ton material.

Deep in thought, Rosie paid little heed to her surroundings until she rounded the bend, and the magnificence of Blackmore came suddenly into view. Pausing, she stared in awe at the glorious house that was the centre of the Duke of Blackmore’s seat. Truly, it was a sight to behold. Her own home of Northwood paled in comparison. She’d visited so often throughout her childhood, but had never really looked at it before. What were the odds of her future husband being the master of something like this?

Shaking her head, she started walking again. She couldn’t even begin to imagine being the chatelaine of such a place. Indeed, she had no idea how her Aunt Grace did it. Especially since the Duchess had apparently once thought nothing of tying her garter in public - if the story her grandfather had related earlier was to be believed.

But then, not all of her family were married into old aristocratic families. She’d been told her Uncle Roan had grown up on the streets of Torquay until being press-ganged into the Royal Navy. Uncle Jago was the owner of a tin mine in Cornwall, and Uncle Jamie was a local boy – born and brought up in Blackmore.

And now Jennifer, the daughter of a Duke, had married a penniless steward…

Roseanna finally allowed herself to think about Tristan Bernart. In truth, all her musings to now had determinedly avoided any thoughts of the handsome Frenchman.

Her face heated as she thought back to the evening before. He’d wanted to kiss her – and more. She might be na?ve, perhaps even a little unclear of what more might involve, but she recognised her body’s response to his nearness. The way her heart spiked, and the triangle between her legs thrummed with guilty pleasure. His breath on the back of her neck had even caused her breasts to tingle and her nipples to harden. It was all very new and exciting. But what did he really feel for her? Was it lust or something more? She wasn’t sure she quite understood the difference.

In their dealings, he certainly hadn’t come across as either kind or patient. And she’d never seen any indication that he actually liked her. Indeed, if asked, she would have said it was exactly the opposite. In all honesty, she knew nothing about him, but from what she’d seen, he was everything she didn’t want in a man.

So why did he consume her thoughts so?