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considered as a barque of frailty. There was nothing frail about the female, from her confidence with the pistol to her refusal to bow to his authority.
    “You do not like me, do you?” he asked when they reached a bedroom door.
    “Why should I? I believe a man earns respect; he does not inherit it.” She stood aside so he could enter. “There is water in the basin. I will be back in a moment with the clothes.”
    Definitely not bachelor fare, Mrs. Henning, Rockford repeated to himself. Any other woman would have tried to turn him up sweet, to tempt his interest, so see what he might offer in return for a bit of dalliance. Dally, hell. The widow left his presence as fast as her little sister had. Even her bedroom, almost the size of the parlor, reflected a steadfast character, being without frills or flowing draperies. The only hint that the woman might have a passionate nature was the size of the bed, nearly filling the room. He tried to picture her and the late Mr. Henning tangling the sheets there, and surprised himself by finding the image distasteful in the extreme. He was no voyeur, even of dead men’s memories. On the other hand, he had no trouble envisioning himself unbraiding the widow’s hair across those piles of pillows. Of course, the dead man had a better chance of enjoying the widow’s favors.
    As he removed his coat, his neckcloth, and his shirt yet again, Rockford wondered if the Hennings had been happy in their union. Had the late William felt trapped in his marriage if, as Fred had hinted, he had been forced into it? Or had he rejoiced in his pretty wife and growing family? Was it grief that had turned the widow waspish, or disappointment that her greedy ambitions had died with him? Rockford splashed water on his face and chest, then walked closer to the bed as he dried himself with the towel on the wash-stand. Perhaps she kept Henning’s picture by her bedside, which would in itself satisfy some of his curiosity.
    Instead of a miniature portrait, he found miniature soldiers, an army of metal warriors. The stack of books turned out to be a Latin primer, a volume of fairy tales for children, and a dog-eared Robin Hood he recognized from his own youth. On the night table he also found a pencil stub, a ball of string, a penny-whistle, and a rock of no great beauty or value that he could see. Mrs. Henning had given her chamber, with its large bed and lingering memories, to the boys. Never having had a brother, Rockford could not imagine what it might be like to share a bed with another boy, or two, if one counted William. Hell, he’d never shared a bedchamber with either of his wives. Not for more than an hour or so, at any rate.
    As he roughly toweled his hair, the earl’s thoughts returned to Alissa, Mrs. Henning, which they were doing altogether too often for his peace of mind and a piece of his anatomy. He was no rake, by George, trying to seduce every woman he met, and she was no wanton widow, no matter what the groom Fred had intimated. Likely Mrs. Henning had rebuffed the stable man, with good cause.
    She was a good mother, he told himself, turning his back on that all too evocative bed, although he had as much experience with maternal feelings as he had with happy marriages. William seemed fond of her, and Eleanor, for what her opinions were now worth, had entrusted Mrs. Henning with the boy’s care. Rockford would have to see about smoothing her path, later, when he returned to London. Perhaps he would offer to send her boys to the same school he found for William.
    The more he thought of the idea, the better he liked it. William would have friends of his own, so Mrs. Henning could not accuse Rockford of abandoning the boy among strangers. At the same time, the earl would be repaying a debt—and have an excuse for seeing the widow now and again. Why, in view of his generosity, she might even come to see him in a better light.
    *
    Mrs. Henning was seeing him in good enough light, right then,