Free Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes

your nooning. As long as you’re at your studies, you’ll have all the peace and quiet you can wish for—enough to play with your soldiers, draw, read, or take a nap. I’ll send you over a few books with lots of battles in them.” Though the boy apparently had a few battles of his own brewing. “Does your mama even know how cold the schoolroom is?”
    Digby’s little shoulders heaved up and down with puerile long-suffering.
    “Mama knows,” he said darkly. “She argued with Uncle about it, but nobody ever wins an argument with him. He shouts and hits and says mean things. He thinks money is more important than anything.”
    Digby had his mother’s slight size in addition to her blue eyes and red hair, and the notion of anybody striking the child sat ill with George.
    “Don’t provoke your uncle,” George advised as the horse negotiated the frozen ruts. “In a few years, you’ll be off to school, having jolly good fun and growing brilliant with the other scholars. They’ll envy you for how much Roman history you know, and all because you managed a chilly schoolroom for a few winters.”
    Even Hannibal had grasped the value of a strategic retreat. Edward Nash was Digby’s guardian, and thus Nash’s authority over the boy—and likely the boy’s mother—was absolute.
    “I’ll be cold forever,” Digby retorted. “Uncle says I’m not to go to Harrow, even though my papa wished it. We haven’t the money. Mama says Papa set the money aside, but then Uncle starts shouting. I hate it when he shouts.”
    George’s parents hadn’t been exactly quiet, but they’d had the decency to air most of their differences out of the hearing of their children. Perhaps Edward Nash had set the funds aside for university instead of public school.
    “Give it time, lad. Things have a way of working themselves out, even when you think you’re beyond hope.”
    For little boys, in any case. For grown men, harsher truths usually applied.
    “Like you gave me a ride today,” Digby said, patting the horse’s shoulder. “I was sure I’d freeze to death on my way home. I can’t feel my toes, you know. Vicar gave me a baked potato for each pocket, but I need potatoes for my boots.”
    What the boy needed was a pony to trot him back and forth to Vicar’s house for these weekly Latin lessons, or brothers to tease and fight with, or a damned brazier in his schoolroom.
    Or a different uncle.
    “Let’s warm up a bit, shall we?” George asked. “Grab some mane, and we’ll canter.” The horse was only too happy to pick up its pace, and soon the Stonebridge stables came into view.
    “Mama’s waiting for me,” Digby said with the air of a boy enduring the entire weight of a widowed mother’s anxieties. “She frets, you see.”
    George brought his mount to the walk and ruffled a gloved hand over Digby’s crown, feeling a pang for the father who’d never see this boy reach adulthood.
    “Mind you don’t hop down,” George warned. “Nothing is worse for frozen toes than a quick dismount.”
    Elsie Nash did indeed look fretful, also half-frozen in her black wool cape.
    “Digby, into the kitchen with you,” she said, marching up to the horse. “Cook has made biscuits, and you will have at least two. Mr. Haddonfield, my thanks. Will you come in to warm up for a moment?”
    George swung down, though the last thing he wanted was to tarry in Elsie Nash’s company.
    “Afraid I can’t stay,” he said, lifting the child from the saddle and setting him down gently. “Enjoy the biscuits, Digby, and my thanks for helping out with that ewe.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Haddonfield!” The boy scampered off, having no notion of the awkwardness he left in his wake.
    “Very kind of you to bring him home, Mr. Haddonfield,” Elsie said as Digby skipped up the drive. “Edward says the fresh air is good for him, but the vicarage is two miles of fresh air each way, and Digby hasn’t Edward’s size.”
    “Yet,” George said. “Give the