Читать книгу Born to Scandal - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 10

As soon as Brent entered the house, Mrs Tippen was waiting for him. He’d already had an earful from her when he arrived just a few minutes before.

‘Do you see what I mean, sir?’ the housekeeper said. ‘She gives the children free rein over the house, the garden, everywhere! Allows them to get dirty—’

This he did not need. Tippen and her husband had come from Eunice’s father’s estate and had been Eunice’s abettors. He’d never liked either of them.

He leaned down, bringing them face to face. ‘Tend to the house, woman, and keep your nose out of what does not concern you!’

She gasped and backed away.

He pushed past her and made his way to the hall where her husband was in attendance. ‘Bring me some brandy!’ he ordered. ‘In the library.’

The library was about the only room in this house he could stomach. Eunice had possessed little desire to inhabit it, so the only ghost that lingered there was his grandfather’s.

A footman soon appeared at the door with a bottle of brandy and a glass. Brent did not recognise him, but then he’d come to the house so rarely, he did not know half the servants. Eunice had replaced all his grandfather’s old retainers.

Brent grabbed the bottle and glass from the man. ‘Bring me another,’ he ordered. ‘Make that two. While I am here I want a bottle of brandy in the cabinet at all times.’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ the man said.

Brent poured himself a glassful and downed it in one gulp. He poured another.

An hour passed and still Miss Hill had not shown herself. Was the chit defying him? She would regret it if she were.

Brent paced the room, still attempting to calm himself. The sight of his son crouched down on the tilled soil had set him off.

He closed his eyes as memories washed over him. Digging hole after hole after hole, his stomach rumbling with hunger, his bare feet cold from the damp earth. He could still smell the soil, potatoes and manure. He rubbed his arms, his muscles again aching from the work.

By God, his son had looked exactly like him.

He poured another glass of brandy.

Where the devil was Miss Hill? He needed to have this out with her.

One more hour and two more glasses of brandy later, Miss Hill knocked at the door. ‘My lord?’

He’d achieved a semblance of calm, but now his head swam from the drink.

She’d changed from the plain frock she’d worn in the garden to something soft and pink. Wisps of her auburn hair escaped from under a lace cap that framed her face and only made it appear more lovely.

By God, he did not want to be aroused by her! He was angry at her. What had he been thinking to come to this hated place?

He shook himself. His son. He’d come for his son.

‘Come in, Miss Hill.’ He straightened and hoped he would not sway.

She approached him, a wary smile on her face. ‘Forgive my delay, sir. We finished the planting and a great deal of cleaning up was required.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Because you allowed the children to wallow in dirt.’

Her chin rose. ‘Getting dirty is all a part of planting, my lord.’

He closed the distance between them, coming so close the scent of her soap filled his nostrils. ‘I know all about planting, Miss Hill.’

His first ten years of life had taught him.

She stepped back. ‘Yes, well, perhaps then you can explain to me why planting peas and radishes in the kitchen garden made you so angry.’

She was questioning him? She needed to answer to him. ‘Heed me, Miss Hill.’ He glared at her. ‘My son, my—children, are to be reared as a gentleman and lady, not as common serfs.’

She did not back down. ‘It was a botany lesson.’

He held her gaze. ‘It was demeaning.’

She looked incredulous. ‘I do not think planting a garden and watching the plants grow could even remotely be demeaning.’

He slashed his hand through the air. ‘My son does not need to know how to dig holes in order to become a gentleman.’

She countered, ‘But as marquess some day, does he not need to know what effort goes into the crops his lands produce? What labour? What science? That was the intent of the lesson, my lord.’