The Viscount and The Virgin. Valerie Parv

it solemnly, the comparative size of their hands giving Rowe a strange sensation. This was how a son of his would look if he had one. In fact…He dismissed the thought out of hand. Kirsten’s record didn’t name her child’s father, but Rowe knew without a shadow of doubt that if they had ever gone to bed together, the occasion would be burned into his memory.

      Kirsten wasn’t the kind of woman you made love to, then forgot about. He wondered if some man had done just that, or if Kirsten had made the choice of single parenthood herself. Either way, Rowe knew if Jeffrey had been his son, he would never have walked away, no matter what.

      “Mind if I take a look at your kite?”

      Jeffrey glanced at his mother for reassurance. She nodded and Jeffrey held out the mangled paper object. “Miss Sims put the string on, because we’re not s’posed to use the stapler yet, but I did the rest,” he explained.

      Rowe restrained the smile he felt tugging at his mouth. “You can’t be too careful with staplers,” he agreed. “I got a staple in my thumb once.”

      Jeffrey looked fascinated. “Did it hurt?”

      “Like you wouldn’t believe, and there was lots of blood. I didn’t make a fuss, though.”

      No, he wouldn’t, Kirsten thought, hovering nearby. One quality she suspected Jeffrey had inherited from Rowe was the desire to keep his feelings concealed.

      Now where had that idea come from? She barely knew the man, except through her sister’s experience. She didn’t want to concern herself with his feelings or, worse, see signs of him in Jeffrey. Jeffrey was her child, hers alone. Watching them together as Rowe admired the kite, she couldn’t help wondering for how much longer.

      “I have to get Jeffrey home,” she said, unable to watch them together a moment longer. She hadn’t expected to feel guilty for keeping them apart, especially since the decision had been Rowe’s to begin with, but they looked so much alike that guilt assailed her now.

      Jeffrey seemed fascinated with the viscount. She was horrified to hear Rowe say, “This is too good a kite to live in a cupboard. How would you like to fly it in the park sometime?”

      The little boy’s face shone. “Can we, Mommy?”

      Furious with Rowe for putting her into such an awkward position, she said, “Viscount Aragon is a busy man, sweetheart. I’m sure he has more important things to do than fly kites. You and I will do it on our own.”

      Jeffrey’s face crumpled. “You don’t know how to fly a kite. ’Member the time you smashed my airplane?”

      She remembered only too well. Last Christmas Santa Claus had visited the Castle School and had given a model plane to Jeffrey. She had painstakingly glued the model together, frustrated to find she had several bits left over afterward. Jeffrey hadn’t cared. His eagerness to see the plane fly had lasted only as long as it took Kirsten to crash it into a bush a dozen feet from the launching site. One of the missing pieces had turned out to be the ballast that kept the plane on an even keel.

      “This time I’ll let you fly the kite,” she promised.

      “Why can’t Viscount Aragon fly it with me?” He turned to Rowe. “You’re not too busy, are you?”

      Rowe gave her a searching look. “If I was, I’d have said so. But Mommy is the boss in these matters. She can tell me her decision later at the office. We’re going to be working together a lot,” he said for the little boy’s benefit. “If she says yes, we’ll go kite flying next Saturday.”

      Jeffrey nodded eagerly. “I’ll be really good till Saturday, promise.”

      “Till Saturday then.”

      Kirsten kept her anguish from showing as she tucked her son’s hand in hers, ignoring the tug that told her he’d prefer to walk by himself. She needed to feel his hand in hers to reassure herself that he was fascinated only because Rowe was a man. The Castle School had some male teachers and Jeffrey had contact with the other children’s fathers, but he had no male role model at home.

      And whose fault is that? she asked herself angrily, the pain in every step reminding her of the too-tight shoes. Rowe could have been involved in Jeffrey’s life from the beginning. He had been the one to ignore Natalie’s letter, not caring, it seemed, how the child turned out. He couldn’t come along now and simply take over. She wouldn’t let him.

      Unaware of her fury, Rowe was continuing to walk with them. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she demanded, not caring how rude she sounded.

      “My home is in Solano, the capital city of Carramer,” he explained for Jeffrey’s sake, adding, “Not that I’ve spent much time there up to now.”

      “You prefer to be free, I suppose.” Just like her father. As a free spirit, Felix hadn’t wanted to be tied down, either. Her family had lived in a series of rented houses as their father moved from one short-lived job to another. When their parents died, there had been no family home they could retreat to while they dealt with their grief. No inheritance for Jeffrey, either, making Kirsten determined to give him the most secure childhood she could, with none of the anxiety that had plagued her and Natalie while they were growing up.

      Even if it meant putting up with Rowe’s presence in her life until his cycling race was over, she would do it for Jeffrey’s sake. Moving him from home to home was not going to happen if she could prevent it. One day she intended to buy them a place of their own. For now, they were happy here, and she would not allow Rowe’s arrival to interfere.

      Chapter Four

      Key members of the castle staff were housed in pretty stone retainers’ cottages arranged around a village green where the children often played while their parents socialized over coffee. Although the houses looked to be hundreds of years old, in reality, they had been built by the previous Marquis of Merrisand so that he could have his staff on call in case he needed them. Direct lines still connected each of the cottages with the castle switchboard.

      Built on an area once known as The Tennis Courts, each cottage had its own vegetable and flower gardens, and backed onto a stand of woodland. Ring-necked partridges, quails, doves and wild turkeys frequented the woodland, attracted by Angel Creek, which crossed a corner of the castle grounds. It was an idylic place for children, and at night Kirsten liked to pretend that the cottage and the lovely surroundings were hers alone.

      “Which cottage is yours?” Rowe asked, signaling his intention to accompany her all the way home.

      She gestured vaguely. “The one with the blue curtains on the other side of the green. Really, there’s no need.”

      “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re limping,” he said quietly. “I want to see that you get home in one piece.”

      She didn’t need or welcome his concern. “I’m fine, really.”

      “So I can see. How did you hurt your foot?”

      She was forced to be honest. “New shoes.”

      He frowned. “Why do women do that to themselves?”

      So we have a fighting chance of meeting men like you eye to eye, she thought savagely. But it would take more than five-inch heels to achieve that miracle. And without them, Kirsten suspected she would strain her neck trying to look him in the eye.