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Whatever the devil his wife had gotten them into, this looked to be an autumn utterly different from every previous one spent in her company. In fact, he hadn’t been so surprised since the evening she’d proposed to him. Evidently, he still liked a good surprise every now and then.
CHAPTER THREE
They took the coach to the Dawkins farm; if they convinced the farmer and his wife to lend two of their children, Emmie and Mr. Pershing would require them at once. Forty-two days, which included the three or four days they would take to reach Welshire Park, was not much time to teach children who weren’t of the aristocracy the art of polite and proper behavior.
“We’re in agreement about our offer, then?” Mr. Pershing said, flipping his dark green beaver hat between his knees and catching it again. “This will be an opportunity for two of the children to better their positions in life.”
“Absolutely,” Emmie agreed, wishing she’d kept a list of names and ages of all the Dawkins children. One never knew when a bit of information might prove useful.
“I don’t see how they can refuse,” her husband went on. “If nothing else, it will be two fewer mouths for them to feed for better than a month.”
“I daresay they’ll all be eager to go, and we’ll have a bounty of youngsters from which to choose.” Another flutter of nerves greeted that thought; simply acquiring faux offspring would be only the beginning. There would be lessons and clothes, and of course the meeting with His Grace to get past. Thank goodness the duke’s birthday wasn’t during the Season, or her calendar would be in shambles as she tried to balance lessons and her social maneuverings on Mr. Pershing’s behalf.
“Do you suppose either of them will be literate?” he asked. “I would hate for your grandfather to think us behindhand in educating our own children.”
That had occurred to her, as well. As far as she knew, neither of the Dawkins parents knew their letters. “I believe several of the older ones attend the local school, but their actual meeting with the duke will be extremely brief, regardless. We only need to be certain they can write their names, on the chance there will be a birthday card to sign or a game they will be expected to play.”
Mr. Pershing nodded. “Well considered as usual, Mrs. Pershing.”
Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. The Will Pershing she’d known as a youth would have been flustered and appalled by this mess, and the one since then should at least have been angry. But there were moments last evening when he’d seemed almost… amused. It made no sense. Her task, her job, was to see that every event, every dinner, every conversation, was perfect. This marked a colossal failure.
Also baffling was the way she kept catching herself looking at him this morning. Perhaps it was the shock of all this, or the realization that they would have to figure out this large problem together, but with his black, well-fitting coat, green waistcoat, and buckskin trousers, he did look quite attractive. Once she’d found him a good valet she’d been able to stop worrying about his disheveled hair and how well his clothes fit, but at some point she’d just stopped… noticing him. But for goodness’ sake, she was noticing him now. It was very distracting. And rather annoying. “I appreciate that you’ve agreed to help,” she said, “even if you only see Winnover Hall as the most strategic place to reside.”
“We began as partners,” he said. “Partners we remain.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I hope none of the Dawkins youngsters are gingers,” he offered after a moment. “There are no gingers in my family as far back as we have portraits to recall them.” He tilted his head as he glanced at her. “Your hair has a touch of fire to it, though, so perhaps that would do, after all.”
She touched her hair. It wasn’t a compliment, though. Only an observation. “Anything between dark brown and blond would be acceptable—and believable. I wrote that both Malcolm and Flora have brownish hair with a hint of gold, though I believe children’s hair may change as they grow older.”
His hat stopped flipping. “You invented hair colors for them?”
“Well, yes. In Penelope’s letters, she’s forever talking about how lovely and curly young Lucy’s hair is, and how her oldest boy, Frederick, is towheaded. In retrospect I should have left their appearance a blank canvas, but I never thought about actually having to produce them.”
“What about eye color?”
She met his gaze. “As you have green eyes, and mine are brown, I said they had hazel eyes. I suppose we may choose children that have any of those three colors and it would still be believable.”
Her husband glanced out the coach window. “That is fortuitous,” he said, his lips twitching. “Well done once again.”
“Does this amuse you?” she demanded, telling herself to stop looking at his blasted mouth. “Have I been a silly, dim-witted female? Because I am very worried about losing Winnover.”
He looked back at her. “Mrs. Pershing, yesterday we were but a twosome. Now I find that I have two children of brownish hair and greenish eyes, and that they have names and genders. It also strikes me that I am about to be a father, temporarily or not. That appeals to me. You enjoy a challenge. Doesn’t that aspect, at least, appeal to you?”
Some women simply aren’t meant to be mothers, Lady Anne Hervey had said to her, seven years ago. I wasn’t. Messy, inconvenient thing, you were. You did allow us to keep Winnover, though, so thank you for that, I suppose.
She shook herself. Considering that she’d mastered the intricacies of both Society and politics, temporary motherhood would be just another task. “A challenge needs a plan.”
His responding grin warmed his face and lit his eyes. “A plan of attack. Yes. And considering I once saw you charm Lord Avington into contributing his own money toward constructing the Paddington canal branch, I don’t think either of us has a thing to worry about.”
That was nice to hear. She shrugged. “You needed it to succeed.”
“And it did, thanks in great part to you. In fact, I owe most of my success to you.”
“That was our agreement.” He’d given up every possibility for a marriage with a wife who could bear him children, whom he might love, in order to help her keep her home. Aiding his way into his chosen career had been the best and only way she could repay him.
The coach bumped as it left the well-traveled road. When it rocked to a halt, Mr. Pershing stood, pushing open the door and setting his hat back on his head as he stepped to the ground. “Mrs. Pershing, I believe we are only moments away from our latest success.”