The Soldier Read Free

narrowing. “Just how did you get her to take a bath?”
    The earl narrowed his eyes, as well. “Perhaps that is a discussion we adults might reserve for later. And as I wouldn’t want to be guilty of breaking my word to a child, may I invite you to join us for apple tarts, Miss Farnum?”
    The footman withdrew at the earl’s lifted eyebrow while the child’s gaze bounced back and forth between the adults. Winnie sat, all innocence in an old nightshirt somebody had dragged out of a trunk. Her golden curls gleamed, and on her feet were wool socks many sizes too big.
    “Apple tarts sound delicious,” Miss Farnum said. The earl graciously seated her, taking the opportunity to notice that the lady—for all her egregious taste in attire—bore the scent of lemons and meadow mint, a tart, pleasing combination that went well with the summer evening. His gaze happened to stray to her neck as he pushed her chair in, and the smooth expanse of female skin suggested she wasn’t as mature as he’d first surmised.
    “Miss Winnie was just telling me about your cats,” the earl began, continuing his assessment of his latest guest. She was a dressmaker’s disaster, but then, what else would one expect in the wilds of Yorkshire? Fading black was seldom a good color for blondes, and she was no exception. “Your cats have interesting names.”
    “Gany and Io?” Miss Farnum replied, removing her gloves. At the earl’s discreet signal, the gloves were whisked away, but not before he noticed the tear on the right fourth finger. “They were from a litter of four, the other two were named Europa and Callisto.”
    “Somebody enjoyed either stargazing or mythology,” the earl said as the tarts were brought in. He would have to settle for one, he supposed, as the third tart would go to his uninvited guest. “Winnie, may I cut yours for you?”
    The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers.
    “Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.”
    The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her.
    “Thank you.”
    “Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.”
    Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace.
    “I take it you are a neighbor, Miss Farnum?”
    “I am,” she said, regarding her tart rather than her host.
    “Shall I cut yours, too, madam?” The earl lifted an eyebrow when she blinked at him. Rustics were an odd lot, and women left to rusticate too long were the oddest of all. She wasn’t old by any means, but her expressions and mannerisms were old. Careful, as if she expected to be unpleasantly surprised at any moment.
    “Thank you no, my lord.” Her frown was aimed directly at him now. “I am your neighbor to the immediate north, or I am if you now own Rosecroft?”
    “I do,” he said, knowing full well the gossip mills in rural settings were never idle. “As the place has been neglected in recent years, I expect I will be spending a fair amount of time here, at least in the foreseeable future.” There was no part of him, however, seeking to spend the winter in Yorkshire. Picturesque, idyllic, dress it up a thousand different ways, the dales were miserably cold and prone to heavy snows, and there was an appalling paucity of company. Even York itself offered far less than London in the way of society and entertainment.
    “Will you rebuild the greenhouses?” Miss Farnum asked, spearing a bite of tart.
    “I honestly don’t know. Winnie, you have a serviette for that purpose.” Winnie paused in the act of wiping her mouth on her sleeve, then picked up the linen on her lap as if noticing it