Chapter 1

Chapter 1

House, rent, and taxes for the first quarter… Housekeeping account from the last page … Price of seed exceeded that of the last quarter by a margin of–

The words went on and on, blurring together as the scratch of the quill filled the otherwise quiet study. One ledger after another was entered and copied, expense reports sat off to the side, and correspondence was sorted accordingly. It was a never-ending, dull monotony. But one that Henry had been prepared for his entire life.

When his father had been the man behind the desk, drumming up all the figures and reports, Henry had thought it to be a grand thing. He had imagined the intelligence it must take and the power his father held.

Only now, doing it himself, did he realize just how tedious it really was.

More so, very likely, because, unlike his father, he didn't ride out to all of his tenants' houses on a schedule, checking in on them and engaging himself in the day-to-day business of it all.

His father had known the name of every tenant he had. He had known their jobs and the integral parts they played in the community. He had known their family's names when someone was sick, what to send … And Henry pushed papers.

He sighed, running his hand down the front of his face as he pulled yet another letter over to him, scanning the brief correspondence and the facts and figures included.

The cost of feeding a family of three was becoming a problem for many of his tenants with the rise in poultry and produce prices. Perhaps that was something he could look further into. An apology of sorts for his seeming indifference.

Or maybe it was too far-reaching.

Henry stared down at the ledgers, willing himself to care more and break out of that rut he had found himself stuck in for the last three years. Ever since Martha–

No.

His knuckles blanched white against the pen that he held, his heart stuttering in his chest at the mere thought of his late wife's name.

Three years.

How had they passed so quickly?

That cavern of numbness in his chest seemed to expand as his vision seemed to grow sharper, the quiet of the room overtaking all else and–

Laughter?

From outside the closed study door, the faint sounds of children laughing carried through everything else, the innocent joy distracting Henry from his melancholy thoughts.

He rearranged the work on his desk quickly, standing and moving from behind the desk to the doorway in a matter of a few strides.

He wasn't expecting company. He could think of very little reason for laughter in his home. It wasn't a regular occurrence – and children? That was an even rarer one.

As he strode from the study into the hall, all his questions were answered, though, the concern falling off of his face, replaced with a smile as he caught sight of the family that Harbuttle was greeting in the foyer.

Three children between the ages of what looked like two and seven swarmed the three adults who stood there, the elegant woman standing just a few paces back looking as amused as she did frustrated as she cradled the smallest of them all, a babe, in her arms. And bending and trying to catch two of said three children able to walk themselves was a stately looking man, his beard close-cropped and his clothing as finely cut and tailored as Henry's own.

"What have you let into my home, Harbuttle?" Henry jokingly demanded of his butler as he approached, his lips stretching into a rare grin at the delighted squeals of the children upon the sound of it. "What ruffians are these?!"

"We aren't ruffians!" The oldest, a boy with shocking blond hair most similar to his mama and bright green eyes, cried out. "It's us, Uncle Henry! Don't you recognize us?"

"Us?" Henry parroted, winking at the father as he straightened with a weary sigh. "Is that capitalized, as in the royal We? I was unaware I was to be hosting such high royalty this evening! Pray tell, of whom do I have the honour of addressing?"

"Us," the second oldest giggled, her brown hair so much more similar to her father bouncing from all the curls put into it as she hopped and skipped her way over to Henry's knees. "Peregrine, Lucy, Thomas, and Irina, Uncle Henry!"

Henry smiled fondly down at the little girl as he ruffled her hair, his eyes moving warmly over the lot of them despite the stress such an expression put on his face due to the irregularity of its use. "Peregrine, Lucy, Thomas, and Irina? Why, that cannot be! Those are my godchildren! And last I saw of those scoundrels, they were barely higher than my knee!"

"You just saw us!" Thomas argued, his voice still raspy with the lisp of toddlerhood as he put his hands on his hips and glared Henry down.

"Now, now," their father finally intervened, a twinkle in his green eyes as he looked over his brood. "You'll have to forgive His Grace; he is getting on in years, you see. He must not remember that we called on him only a fortnight ago!"

"Simon!" his wife hissed despite the giggle that followed it.

"You should pay better heed to our dear Lady Fethmire, Lord Fethmire." Henry chuckled, stepping forward to kiss her cheek as Simon made a disparaging noise from beside them. "She, at least, remembers her manners."

"Only on account of you feathering her with so much praise and compliments," Simon muttered, nudging Henry with his shoulder as Henry looked down with another smile at the babe in Lisbet's arms.

Four children.

There had been a time that he would have laughed at the very idea of Simon, Earl of Fethmire and one of London's most notorious rakes, ever even settling down. But to be so happily married as well as blessed with four children like he had been? It was as near to a miracle as anything that Henry had ever seen.

"To tell the truth is hardly flattery, old friend," Henry answered easily, bending and picking Lucy up to settle on his hips as she reached up with both hands. "Now, tell me, what prompted this visit here?"

The two old friends shared a fond look, Simon leaning in to put his arm around his wife as he shrugged. "It is simply us calling on a friend," he answered with a laugh. "We are in the country; where else would we go? You know as well as I that my country manor will unlikely be as well-stocked as yours so soon upon arrival. And I fancy a good dinner and a nice glass of port."

"Simon!" Lisbet chastised again, rolling her eyes. "What he means, dear Henry, is that he missed you so terribly that he made every excuse to leave town to come and see you here."

"And to climb trees!" Peregrine added with an excited grin.

"And go on walks!"

"And all of the other things that we cannot do in town quite so easily, yes." Lisbet laughed, smiling happily along with her children.

"I knew it must be such a reason," Henry confided in a faux whisper to Lucy on his hip. "As if your father would ever run out of port!"

They all laughed at that, Henry feeling something within him unfurl at that first breath of warmth in the manor in so long. Something about the presence of children dared not let even this old, draughty mausoleum be depressing in their company.

"Come inside, I've no doubt you've driven all the way here from London. Dinner is no doubt close to being served, and I'll see what I can do as far as some prior refreshments are concerned. Lisbet, if you'd like, Simon and I can take the children so that you can freshen up after your journey."

Henry's manners slid seamlessly into place like an old familiar, if rarely worn coat, Lisbet's answering smile all the thanks he needed.

"You're a godsend, Henry," she murmured emphatically as she all but foisted her youngest off onto her husband and hurried to do just as he had suggested.

Simon made all the appropriate grunts and groans to make it seem like he was being inconvenienced, but Henry didn't miss the loving way he stared after his wife as she left. Or the smile he continued to wear as the two of them sojourned into the parlour with the lot of rascals he had produced either.

There was something that inspired warmth and happiness just by their arrival, echoes of a long-distant past and something murkier … the promise of something that niggled in the back of Henry's head as he allowed himself to rest briefly from his grief in their company.

Maybe it was just rest itself; Lord knew Henry got little of it these days.

***

It was several hours later, dinner finished, and a handful of minutes after Lisbet wrestled the children out of the sitting room to herd them up for bedtime before Henry and Simon were given an opportunity in which to catch up beyond the odd gossip and child-friendly tale.

The fire roared in the hearth as Henry poured them a glass of port each, his face sore from all the smiling and laughter the children had coaxed out of him.

Simon sat in what he had years ago dubbed his ‘favourite' armchair, his green eyes knowing as he watched his friend slowly settle in the absence of the children. The smile on his face gradually slid off, but the frown lines that had been there when they arrived had not quite reappeared just yet.

"You haven't told me anything interesting about things here," Simon challenged as Henry handed him his glass and slid into the chair across from him.

"There's not much of interest to share," Henry answered honestly, shrugging off the inquiry.

Simon snorted. "I do keep telling you to join us for a Season in London. Lisbet knows–"

"A great many eligible ladies," Henry cut his friend off dryly, the lack of interest in his voice bordering on sharp. "So you've said. For more than a year now."

A silence fell between them. Tension reigned along with it, though not with any anger or anything stronger than a mild frustration. It was an old argument. One that Henry had expertly shot down time and time again since the first it had been broached.

"You wanted a large family at one point, Henry," Simon reminded him gently. No urgency marked his words, just a quiet concern that almost made them harder to hear.

Henry grimaced.

After growing up an only child, he had always dreamed of populating this house with a multitude of children. But even that thought was tinged with the horror of what had happened here. With the brown-eyed children he had come to expect, that would now never be.

"Simon," he warned, taking a large draught of his drink as he stared into the fire.

"Unless you mean to let your name fully die out and your title pass to some far-distant relative that has never so much as stepped foot in these halls," Simon spoke blithely, but there was a passion to his words that spoke volumes about his relationship with Henry. "We know how you feel about finding another wife, Henry. No one is expecting you to replace Martha. God, I couldn't imagine how you even could. But to remain here? On your own? It has already been three years, and every passing year you become more and more of a recluse. Where does that lead?"

Henry's fingers tightened around his glass, his stare hardening as he refused to look at Simon.

They were good points.

They were points he had no interest in hearing.

But still … That niggling in the back of his mind that had persisted ever since he had greeted Simon's children in the hall earlier whispered, stretching and growing until he could no longer fully ignore it.

"I am not saying yes," Henry bit out finally, slumping in his chair as he finished the rest of his port in one large drink. "I am only saying that I will, maybe, consider it. Perhaps an arranged marriage …"

"That's an excellent idea," Simon agreed readily, skipping right past the first half of Henry's statement and catching onto the only part he cared for. "There are a good many eligible ladies–"

"In London." Henry chuckled dryly. "Yes. You've said. But I have no interest in leaving here to go and court any of them. I have no interest in a member of the ton expecting romance and excitement."

Simon paused, his brows furrowing as he considered Henry's words.

"Then maybe one of the lords here?" Simon suggested, his tone cautious. "I know there are none so great of title to match your own–"

"That matters little." Henry shrugged as he stood, crossing the room to refill his already empty glass. "A woman of lower title will expect less. Especially if she is inheriting all this …" Henry gestured emptily to the house around him. It meant little to him. A woman who wasn't expecting love, one who didn't want it, sounded like a much easier prospect to swallow.

"I could have Lisbet ask around," Simon broached, clearly unwilling to let the topic die out or to allow Henry to find a way to talk himself out of it before it could even begin.

He'd consider it, Henry had said. But, standing there, pouring his glass, he knew that to admit that much must mean that he had every intention of doing so. The laughter from earlier that evening … the breath of life that Simon's children brought with them every time they came … He couldn't be happy, not really and truly, he knew that.

But to have some vestige of it?

"I will write to the lords of the area," Henry muttered, "enquiring after their eligible daughters."

He pretended not to notice Simon's victorious smirk almost as strongly as he pretended not to feel that tug in his chest, his grief pulling on his guilt as he added more port than necessary to his glass.

He knew what Simon thought he was accomplishing. And he didn't have the heart to tell him that no woman, no matter how well-suited she might be, stood a chance of coaxing Henry from his confirmed bachelorhood. He would marry her, certainly. She would provide him with heirs … and in return, he would provide her with more than she could have ever asked for. Comfort, wealth, station …

And that would just have to be enough.