“Make your bow to the Viscount Brandon,” Lord Meacham said. “This is Zach, Brandon.”
“Happy to meet you again,” the viscount said with a smile. “You are the lad who almost ran my horses down yesterday.”
The boy chuckled as his uncle lifted him to his horse’s back and mounted behind him. “But they were bigger than I, sir,” he said, “so I moved out of the way.”
The lady who had been walking behind the boy the day before appeared in the doorway. His mother? Lord Brandon touched his hat and inclined his head to her, though Meacham did not offer to make introductions. She looked steadily and unsmilingly back at him and inclined her own head slightly.
“Will the puppies be awake today, Uncle Will?” the boy was asking.
“Puppies sleep a great deal of the time,” the earl said. “We will have to wait and see.”
She was slender and graceful, not very tall. She was dressed in a simple green wool dress. Her hair was honey blond and combed smoothly back from her face. He had not been mistaken in his first impression that she was beautiful. The child did not look like her.
“Bye-bye, Mama,” the boy called as the horses turned back up the driveway.
She raised one hand and smiled. And looked ten times more lovely, if that were possible. So shewasthe boy's mother. The father must be very dark.
She wandered restlessly and finally sat down to her embroidery. But there was too much silence surrounding her. She set her work aside and picked up a book. But her mind could not focus on the adventures of Joseph Andrews. She closed the book with a sigh and went to fetch her cloak. She would see if any more daffodils had pushed above the soil to brave the cold weather and proclaim the approach of spring.
The thought that Zachary was seven years old already was a little frightening. In another few years William would send him away to school and she would see him only during the holidays. Before she knew it, he would be grown up and William would find him employment somewhere. Somewhere where she could live with him and care for him, perhaps. But then he would wish to marry eventually, and she would not live with him and his wife.
They were foolish thoughts. She bent and saw that, yes, her eyes were not deceiving her. A spring-green shoot was breaking its way through the soil. Foolish, when Zachary was still only seven years old. Little more than a baby. Foolish to wonder in panic what she would do when she was entirely alone. Many people were alone. They survived. They somehow made meaning out of life.
There were sounds of a horse’s hooves on the driveway. Just one horse. William was bringing Zachary back. The Viscount Brandon was not coming with him this time. She was glad. He was a handsome man. She had not been deceived in that one impression of smiling blue eyes the day before. Handsome in a way that somehow intensified her loneliness. Not handsome in any way that set him quite apart from all other men and that made women nervous. And not handsome in any haughty manner. Just good-looking and amiable-looking and...attractive.
Barbara shook her head, straightened up, and shaded her eyes to watch the approach of her brother’s horse. Except that it was not his. She could see that at a glance, sun or no sun. And it was not William either. It was the viscount with Zachary up before him. She could hear her son’s voice prattling.
“Mama,” he called when they were still too far away to allow him to talk at normal volume, “I know the one I want. He was awake and squeaking because he could not walk on the straw without tripping and falling. He has the roundest little nose. Uncle Will says I may have him.”
Barbara walked slowly to the gate. The viscount touched the brim of his hat and smiled at her.
“Lord Meacham was caught up in the panic of a lame hunter,” he said. “One of his favorites, apparently. I offered to bring your son home to you, ma’am.”
“That was very kind of you, my lord,” she said. “I hope it has not been too much trouble.”
“We have been having a spirited conversation, have we not, Zach?” the viscount said. “Or rather”—he grinned, so that Barbara felt an uncomfortable breathlessness—“Zach has been delivering a spirited monologue about the superiority of his father’s horses over all others.”
Barbara felt herself flushing. “I talk to him about his father,” she said. “I want him to know his father and to be proud of him, even though he never saw him.”
The smile disappeared from the viscount’s face. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not know ...”
“He died at Talavera,” she said. “Four months before Zachary’s birth. He was a great hero, was he not, sweetheart?”
“I am sorry,” the viscount said.
“It was a long time ago.” She was wishing that she had stayed inside the house so that Zachary could have come in without the necessity of this meeting and conversation. “Will you come inside, my lord? I shall have some tea made.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her again. “I would like that. Caleb White, Viscount Brandon, at your service, ma am.”
He had dismounted and was lifting Zachary down to the ground.
“Famous!” Zachary said. “I am going to show you my boat, sir. It really sails. Mama says I may take it out to the lake the next time we walk that way.”
Did he know? Barbara wondered, noting that he was not very tall. Her head reached to above his chin. And his eyes were indeed blue, not that gray color that some people liked to pretend was blue. A light and very distinct blue. And brown hair, which looked, as far as she could tell beneath his hat, as if it was probably too long for fashion. Did he know?
“Barbara Hanover, my lord,” she said.
He hitched his horse to the fence and came through the gate after Zachary. “Mrs. Hanover,” he said. “Your husband was related to the duke?”
