When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  When she made no comment, he added, “I am to understand the stated Mr. F— is none other than your good friend, Mr. Fellows. Might’ve seen that coming.”

  Refusing to be lured by his attempts to rile her either into conversation with him, or to throw in her face again that sad scene more than a year ago when he’d caught her with Guy Fellows in the gardens, Nicole only offered, “Interesting.”

  “Do you need any help up there?” He asked then.

  Nicole stared straight ahead still, at the books, made motionless by this question. Please go away, she begged inside her head. “No but thank you.”

  After a few more minutes had passed, he spoke again. “Says here that a tradesman in Ireland, one Geoffrey Sedwards, has established the Skibbereen Abstinence Society, apparently an organization devoted to teetotalism. God’s blood—teetotalism?”

  “Very good.” She scrubbed now harder at the poor books.

  “I should say not” he said with a short chuckle. “Abstinence from alcohol? Not sure what the point of that might be.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Apparently, there was also some sort of riot at—"

  “Is it then your plan to make conversation all morning?” She asked when she could take no more.

  “I suppose so.”

  “But could you possibly do it in another room?” She despised the near frantic tone that had delivered these words.

  Now his chuckle was deeper, longer. “My understanding is that conversation requires two or more people.”

  “You might find a willing participant in the kitchens.”

  “I want to talk with my wife.” This came softly from directly below her now and she froze once again, her hand arrested upon the shelf.

  “You don’t actually have a wife. You have a girl that you married and discarded and nothing more.”

  “That’s a start, a girl that I married. Would you please come down from there now, or must I read the entire blessed paper to you to get you off the ladder?”

  Realizing that she was likely to get little done in the library now, whether he stayed or not, she splashed the rags into the bucket and grabbed the handle, lifting it off the shelf and starting down the ladder. It was only partially an accident—she would blame it on the nerves he stirred in her—that she was careless or jittery in her descent, sloshing water over the rim, which fell straight down as had the books earlier. She knew it landed on him by his soft curse. She found herself debating accidentally dropping the entire pail on his head. But he’d grabbed the bucket from her hand before she’d made a decision about that tantalizing prank and found herself in the next instant standing upon solid ground, and staring up at him, while the wet and matted hair on the left side of his head dripped dirtied water onto his face.

  Nicole sucked in her lips to keep from laughing and watched as he pulled a linen square out of his pocket and wiped it across his face. His eyes stayed on her and she thought him still the most beautiful man, though she wished mightily that she did not.

  And when he might have said something now, she told him, “That will need to be returned to the kitchen,” and she pointed to the bucket and walked out of the library. She could feel again his eyes upon her, but she was fairly confident that he stared more with surprised amusement at her leaving him again, as she felt no heat or censure upon her back.

  She made it all the way back to her chambers, pressing her back against the door as she closed it and laying her hand upon her belly to banish the tensions he’d wrought before she breathed again.

  And then it was more than an hour later until she dared to venture out of her room again. She hadn’t sat idle, of course, but had used the time to organize her wardrobe, deciding finally that she really hadn’t any need of those silks and thought to take them into the village. She gathered up seven of them—leaving herself only two, of which she still imagined she’d have no use—and took them down to the foyer, laying them across the large table in the middle of the hall. Then she found the kitchen again, hoping Abby had some tea or chocolate available, maybe a biscuit or two.

  She was happy to find only Abby in the kitchen, and she did indeed have chocolate warmed for her.

  She bid the housekeeper good morning and asked in a whisper, “Where is the earl?”

  Abby looked up from the two fresh but dead chickens, raising her brows nearly into the frill of her mop cap, indicating she hadn’t heard. The whisper had then been pointless, and Nicole had to repeat the question several times, and was forced to shout it finally so that Abby could hear—and still pointless, then, as the housekeeper only shrugged her small shoulders, so much thinner than her ample hips, to let Nicole know she hadn’t a clue.

  The younger footman, Charlie, then came into the kitchen, his livery—such as it was—having seen better days, and likely many other wearers. He fetched a biscuit for himself, said good morning to the ladies and plopped down at the table.

  “How long is ‘e gonna stay?” He asked. Charlie was probably a few years younger than Nicole, with lanky arms and legs and a long face to match. His hair always seemed as if it had met with a harsh wind, usually waving across his forehead and to one side.

  “I’m not quite sure,” was all Nicole could offer.

  “Why’d you wed with him? Don’t seem you like ‘im very much.”

  Nicole wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “I don’t dislike him...very much.”

  “My da’s a bounder, too,” Charlie then imparted, “and my ma says it’s better that ‘e’s gone now, but at least she got us kids from ‘im.”

  “Your mother is lucky indeed to have you,” Nicole said, thinking it unfortunate that she likely wouldn’t even have this benefit from Trevor. Mayhap another reason for an annulment, she considered, as having children was something she had always desired. So often she thought that she remained here at the Abbey only out of fear—fear of approaching Trevor about an annulment, fear of braving the gossips in London society, fear of being ill-received by either her father or her sister. While she was truly happy here, it was, she admitted, also just easier. But then the result of her choosing this effortless option for her life forced her to acknowledge that she was now exactly as her mother had been—weak and biddable and unfulfilled.

  An hour later, Nicole was driving the buggy and the old nag into the village, the silk gowns next to her on the seat. She’d changed out of her workday dress and had donned a simple muslin of light green, having discarded also the kerchief in favor the familiar twisted braid secured at the back of her head.

  The little village of Hornfield, though not more than one square mile, was actually quite a bustling place as within a ten-mile radius, there might be several dozen estates. The fact that it boasted a fairly well-kept travelers’ inn and a modiste and milliner and shoemaker, all of excellent quality, meant that it saw much traffic.

  Nicole entered Mrs. Lemmon’s dressmaker shop, the trill of the bell above the door bringing that woman out from a back room.

  She smiled when she saw Nicole. “Ah, miss, we have not seen you in so long.”

  Nicole smiled warmly at the matronly woman, whose jet black hair always seemed so unnatural against her wrinkled though still freckled skin. “Hello, Mrs. Lemmon. I haven’t had a need of anything of late, but I wondered if any of these gowns might interest you.” She placed the frothy stack upon the counter and watched the shopkeeper’s eyes light up. “But of course, my dear! These are exquisite—London made, I’m sure.”

  Nicole nodded. “And barely worn, as you can see.” The bell tinkled again, and two women entered, smiling at Nicole and Mrs. Lemmon at the counter before browsing the tables of ready-made wares.

  “I can turn around and sell these immediately and as is! What would you like for them?”

  “I was hoping for just some simple day gowns in exchange. I haven’t need of anything too fine or fancy. As many as you think these gowns might afford me, and at least one more chemise, if you please.”

  “This will g
et you many gowns, miss.”

  Nicole lowered her voice, discussing the business side, “Mrs. Lemmon, please make sure that there is plenty of profit in this exchange for you.”

  The bell tinkled again just as Mrs. Lemmon said, “You are too sweet, miss. This will be a good deal for both of us.” She then glanced up at the other shoppers and said to Nicole, “Let me see to these clients.”

  “Shall I put these in the back room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Nicole grabbed up the pile and walked them around the counter and through a curtained doorway, finding a table upon which to deposit the gowns. She returned to the front of the shop just in time to hear Trevor’s voice. She froze, just outside that curtained door and saw him in conversation with Mrs. Lemmon, who obviously recognized a quality gentleman when she saw one. The woman was wearing her ‘best customer’ smile just as Trevor looked up at Nicole and said, “Ah, here is my wife now.”

  Mrs. Lemon appeared nonplussed, glancing back and forth between Trevor and Nicole.

  “But I thought—” Mrs. Lemmon stumbled, and Nicole grimaced. She’d not ever actually dissuaded the woman from her initial assessment of Nicole simply being a young miss, and not Lady Leven.

  “I am her husband,” the earl said—quite possessively, Nicole thought.

  “I see,” her words trailed off, her cheeks pinkening while Trevor somehow managed to keep his tight but affable smile intact.

  “I would have driven you in, my dear,” he said to Nicole, who reminded herself she hadn’t done anything wrong—she certainly could not be held responsible for other people’s assumptions.

  “It was a last minute decision,” she only said, and then to Mrs. Lemmon, who now appeared quite uncomfortable, “No hurry, Mrs. Lemmon, I’ll stop back in a few weeks. Good day.”

  “And to you, my lady,” she returned, adding a curtsy for the first time.

  Trevor held the door for her, his hand just hovering near the small of her back as she passed through it. She might have kept right on walking to the gig parked out front, but Trevor had grabbed up her wrist from behind.

  “And here I’d thought my eyes deceived me,” he said, his tone laced with reprimand, “when I spied my little wife driving her own buggy into town.”

  Nicole whirled on him. “Let me guess—I am not allowed to drive myself?” She tugged at her wrist, but it was held tight. Why did his eyes have to be so magnificently blue?

  “No, Nicki, you most certainly are not,” he said with a humorless grin, “You are the Countess Leven, and she does not drive herself—how in the hell did you even learn to handle that thing?”

  Nicole favored him with a rather impatient glare, lifting her free hand to remove the hair that the growing wind had blown into her face. “It’s not like driving a team of four, my lord,” she informed him without actually answering that Ian had spent several weeks with her, teaching her first how to care for the horse, how to attach the rig and harnesses, and then how to drive the contraption.

  “No more.”

  Only because she hadn’t any intention of arguing further with him in the street in the middle of town did she acquiesce, giving him a brief nod, which brought about the release of her hand. And because it presently—albeit childishly—pleased her to confound him, she said, “As you wish, my lord,” before she turned and walked away, leaving the buggy and nag there in front of the modiste as she headed back to Lesser House.

  Trevor watched his wife walk on down Main Street in Hornfield, appreciating the way the wind now pushed the light muslin against her, caressing her hips as she strolled, but decided that he was sorely aggrieved by her rather infuriating habit of simply walking away from him when she didn’t like what he was saying. Possibly, she didn’t exactly intend it as a reflection of his having walked away from her on their wedding day. Yet, whether intentional or not, the parallel remained. He’d only just arrived yesterday and so he would allow her a bit of time to adjust to his presence and to avail herself to this juvenile behavior—but only for so long. Not that he hadn’t considered how he might react if it had been she who’d discarded him a year ago and then returned, expecting to make their marriage real.

  With that in mind, he resolved that he ought to make some statement to her, in regard to his coming now and his desire for a true and full marriage—but this would necessitate her actually standing still before him for much longer than she had as of yet.

  He saw to a few more items of business in town and then, about thirty minutes later, retrieved his own horse and tied it to the back of the buggy, leaving the line with a bit of slack, and hopped up onto the gig and drove toward the abbey.

  He did not encounter his wayward wife on the return drive, which had him thinking she must have run the distance between Hornfield and the abbey, though that seemed unlikely. He turned an eye to the darkening sky, where gray clouds swirled menacingly, acknowledging it might serve her well if she were caught in an early summer rain.

  But when he entered the house and inquired of his wife, he was informed by Franklin that she had not yet arrived.

  “Where might she have gone, from the village?” Trevor asked, his frown—seeming to become a permanent fixture—instant and admittedly, a bit worried.

  “I wouldn’t worry so much, my lord,” Franklin said, appearing today no less crooked than yesterday, “she’s good with the buggy and should get home before the rains come.”

  It was quite evident from the butler’s irascible tone that he knew damn well that Trevor had just pulled up in the gig. “Send a footman out to stable the horses,” he instructed, choosing to ignore Franklin’s barb.

  The rains did come, and hard. Within half an hour of Trevor’s return, the skies rolled with shifting and frightening clouds, which opened up to send torrents of rain upon the earth. Winds, which not so long ago had seemed only a nuisance, now sent the rains down in a near horizontal path at times.

  Trevor pulled open the front door and watched the drive and beyond for Nicole but detected no sign of her. Rain fell down in blowing and rippled waves upon the gravel and was blown into the abbey through the open door. Trevor cursed volubly and slammed the door after a few minutes. He would have to fetch her, he knew, not dreading having to go out into the storm, only enraged that she put him and herself in this position.

  He donned a coat and hat and dashed out through the storm to the stables, cursing her stubbornness with every sodden step he took.

  He was nearly back upon the main street of Hornfield when, as quick as it had sprung, the storm did now abate. It dripped only lazily now, as if it had exhausted itself with its earlier ferocity. Trevor swept the drenched hat from his head and swiped it several times across his thighs before plunking it back down upon his head. The streets of Hornfield were bare now, the storm having chased everyone inside.

  He spent the next hour visiting all the shops along the main street and even the Bear’s Den Inn, and then a building whose lettering above the door announced it as “Mr. Pitney’s Curiosities”, but to no avail. There were only three more storefronts, these separated from the bulk of the shops by an intersecting road and several residences. Trevor sighed and headed toward them though had little hope of finding her still within Hornfield at this point.

  Nicole sat in the corner of Adler’s Book Emporium, perched delicately upon an overstuffed chair of rather dubious character, the arms being so low and near to the seat as to be useless and the legs having wobbled a bit as she’d sat. She’d left Trevor hours ago but hadn’t gotten very far before the situation forming above her head insisted she instead find shelter rather than trying to outwalk the imminent rains. She’d turned back to where she’d deserted him and saw him nowhere upon the main street and so had ducked into Adler’s.

  Mr. Adler, a kindly man of rather dainty manners, who was quite familiar with Nicole from her regular purchase of one book a week, had greeted her warmly when she’d stepped inside his bookstore, happy to allow her to idle about while he c
hatted with a young couple, the man holding several volumes under his arm.

  Of course, she’d have preferred to have spent the last few hours in the window seat in the library at Lesser House, with her legs tucked up underneath her and a pot of tea at her side. Presently, she perused Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice—she’d read it three times already and only now skimmed the good parts—waiting out the storm. True, the rains had stopped, but Nicole waited yet for the ominous clouds to leave as well. She hadn’t any intention of being caught up in more rain if she headed out now.

  She had just reached the part where Mr. Darcy proposed to Elizabeth for the first time—not a good part, but for Elizabeth’s composed and eloquent refusal of the man—when she felt someone watching her. Nicole lifted her eyes from the book, the words, “you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry” fresh in her mind when she saw Trevor standing before her, looking perhaps as Mr. Darcy had at that moment, ill-tempered and astonished, though Trevor surely more bedraggled. The jacket he sported hung soaked and heavy against the lawn of his shirt, his boots squished as he walked toward her, his hair dripped and clung to his head and face, and his scowl would easily have rendered Mr. Darcy the merrier of the two.

  Nicole slowly closed the book and sat straighter, biting her bottom lip as she stared at him. She hoped it wasn’t her fault he’d been so obviously caught in that wild storm.

  “Come, wife.”

  It seemed as if some heroic effort were made to say only these two words, and still Nicole thought to argue, but then his darkening gaze advised her that it would be folly to provoke him further. “Not the hill I want to die on,” her father had been fond of saying, whenever she had questioned him about his giving in to Sabrina’s wheedling and cajoling for things her parent had initially refused. As it was, she didn’t fancy having to walk back to Lesser House upon surely muddy and slick roads and paths.