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

by Rebecca Ruger

  With a cool nod, she stood and walked to the shelf from which she’d pulled the Austen book and replaced it carefully. She was saved having to bid a good day to Mr. Adler, and likely suffer an inquiring lifting of his thin brow, as that man was not at the front desk.

  Outside, she stopped and looked around for the buggy but saw only Trevor’s magnificent steed. Trevor walked past her, grabbing up her hand as he did, then tugging her along to his horse. Her eyes widened. “I will not—” was cut off as she was lifted off the ground and placed sidesaddle upon the huge beast. She clung to the pommel, upon which her thigh nearly sat atop while Trevor put one foot into the stirrup and gained the rest of the saddle behind her. He passed the reins to his right hand, around the front of her and used his left hand to draw her back against him. With a click of his tongue and tug on the reins, the stallion turned abruptly and clopped along the road and out of town.

  While every part of him that touched her was near wet and dripping still, Nicole felt only heat at all the parts that were pressed together. Once they were completely out of sight of the little village and while she hung on for dear life—this saddle was not made for a side-sitting position—Trevor instructed, “Swing your leg around now before you fall off.”

  She did as he commanded, knowing it would be a less difficult ride for her, but it was more easily said than done. Nicole was forced to lean back very hard into Trevor to lift her right leg around the horse and pommel. She felt his hand tighten around her midsection and did manage this feat though he did not then, once she was settled more comfortably astride, loosen his hold.

  “I should have let you walk back to the abbey.”

  She raised her chin. “I would have gotten around to it, well before dark, I imagine.” But she turned her head to consider the thick mud and muck that his horse did now tread and the tall grass on either side of the lane that would surely swipe about her hips if she’d been forced to accede to the grass to avoid the road. “Or, maybe not,” she allowed.

  They rode in silence then for several minutes, until Nicole was sure his anger had abated, even if only minimally. Then she dared, “Trevor, why have you come to Lesser House? Why now?” She felt him draw in a deep breath, felt it rise up along her back.

  “I’ve come to claim my wife. But why do you and the others refer to it as Lesser House? It’s Hyndman Abbey, or simply the abbey.”

  She shrugged. “It is less valued than any other Leven property, less cared for, less administered to, lesser than nothing, fit for only tucking away the unwanted servants and wives.” She felt his response to this as well, a stiffening of his posture. And she decided she didn’t want the complete or clarified answer to her query. There had been a time when the very self-assured and resolute tone he’d used to say, I’ve come to claim my wife, might have exhilarated her. But she’d been young and foolish then and that girl lived no more. “You must know that the manor has been neglected—to the point that it did not even retain a steward after the last one died so that only Franklin was left to receive rents and send them along, so I—we—continued to do just that. I had sent along several messages to you, via your land agent, asking for instruction and on at least one occasion, permission to spend some monies on the abbey and the farms, but it was as if Lesser House were only completely forgotten about. The only response received merely directed that we continue sending all accounts to an address in London.”

  “I knew nothing of these messages. But that is all about to change.”

  “It has changed,” she said, imbuing both pride and defense into her voice. “Ian and I have a system in place now. We collect the rents each quarter, we visit the tenants and the farms, we administer to the people. It needs no interference now—the only thing we lack is to know to whom we should be reporting. We’ve not ever been asked to send the books or records, and no one has ever come to review...anything, not for many years, according to Franklin.”

  “I will have to address this with Leven’s land agent, Mr. Percival. He manages all these matters for all of Leven’s properties.”

  “Do you not oversee your own interests?”

  “I am decidedly more involved than my father ever was—there was one thing my mother did speak truth about, my father’s abysmal business sense.”

  “Is that why you were... in such dire financial straits?” It was a delicate subject, and certainly not meant for a lady’s ear, but Nicole thought she’d earned the right to ask.

  “Possibly. Truth be told, the title encompasses so many holdings, so much land, and even more investments, I haven’t learned the half of it yet. I spent six months pouring over a property in Scotland, only to find out it wasn’t entailed by the title, had actually come to the estate via my grandmother, and was worth thirty times the amount of income it saw yearly, so I sold it.”

  “That sounds like a good thing.”

  “It was—it is. Just wish it hadn’t taken me six months, half of that time traveling back and forth from London to there to discover what the agent could have or should have already known.”

  “Is he incompetent?”

  Trevor slowed the horse from a trot to a walk as they gained the drive of the abbey. “I think he is more just resistant to change—he’d been used to my father giving him free rein, not questioning anything.”

  Trevor dismounted when the horse stopped completely and pulled Nicole to the ground as she was saying, “If it were my title and my lands, I’d want to know everything. You should request a full accounting.” She remembered that her father had several times a year requested as much from his bailiff. They would meet for an entire week, her father closeted in his study with his bailiff and several of the men in his employ.

  “Do they ever open the door?” Trevor wondered as they reached the entrance of the abbey and he pushed the door open and allowed Nicole to pass.

  “No, my lord. Unless they know we are expecting visitors,” she said, glancing over at the fine rosewood clock on the table under the mirror, “which, as you may have guessed, is rare.”

  “But where is everyone?” He asked, never having recalled entering any of his homes, at any time, and not being greeted by some staff.

  “It is tea time,” was all she said to that. “Excuse me, I will freshen up.”

  Nicole left her husband standing in the foyer, possibly still waiting for someone, anyone, to come along and collect his hat and coat. He would wait quite a while, she mused, picking up her skirts to take the stairs and find her room.

  She changed out of her morning dress and chose a pretty soft cream gown that would do well for tea and then dinner. She tried not to dwell too much upon that ride home with Trevor, nor think too long upon his body being so close to hers, nor how their conversation had come so easily. It was, after all, only business that they’d discussed, as most of their discourses of a personal nature came with a more pronounced difficulty.

  Nicole slipped her feet into her silk slippers and returned to the first floor and the library.

  “Ah, there she be,” called Franklin from the chair nearest the large fireplace. He made to rise, likely to fetch Nicole’s tea, but she waved him off. Nicole liked when he sat, as he seemed so much straighter. Maybe the support of the back of the chair offered more ease or less pain, but his face now was almost straight and forward, his neck and back being so much less bent.

  “Sit, Franklin. I am surely able to pour my own tea.” And she did, from the tray set upon the round table where sat Lorelei. Nicole was quite sure this was the little maid’s favorite time of day. Her posture was always perfect here, and Nicole thought even her speech seemed to improve, and she regularly put forth so many questions to Nicole about proper etiquette and fashions and gossip, which Nicole thought quite endearing.

  “Were you caught in the rains, miss?” Lorelei asked, extending her pinkie as she sipped from her cup.

  “Thankfully, I was not. I took refuge inside Adler’s. Then the earl happened upon me and brought me home.”

>   “Happened upon you, did he?” Franklin asked with a knowing grin.

  Abby sat in the chair across from Franklin, near to the fireplace, holding her cup of tea in her lap. She probably didn’t hear half of the conversations around her, but smiled nonetheless, content with the company and the ease.

  Nicole stirred her tea, having added a bit of sugar, and took her cup and saucer to her usual spot in the window seat. She paused at the settee where sat Charlie and Henry, their faces buried in books. Playfully, she flicked her finger on each book as she passed. “What are we reading, gentlemen?” This asked with considerable pride, as she and Ian had spent the entire winter teaching the boys how to read and write. They worked still on the writing, but with much less regularity as the boys adored reading and the stories to be found within all these tomes within the library.

  “Same as yesterday,” said Charlie, without lifting his face, “Robinson Crusoe.”

  Henry lifted his serious brown eyes to Nicole. He was younger than Charlie by several years and his speech was so often plagued by a stutter—when he did speak at all. He only held up the book to show her, The Mysteries of Udolpho.

  Nicole plopped upon the cushions of the window seat, feeling her first bit of relaxation today. And just then, Ian entered the library, his hands holding several ledgers and files.

  “Oh, Miss, you’re back now,” he said, setting down the books on the table across from the settee. He strode then to the tea table, where Lorelei was pouring his tea. The maid handed it to him with a pleased smile. Ian returned and sat at the table and said to Nicole, “We need to make a decision upon the thatch.”

  “We should go with the wheat, I think. It’s more cost effective.”

  “But the mix of wheat and rye makes a better thatch, Mr. Adams said,” Ian countered.

  “Yes, but he said the wheat was ‘nearly’ as good, and if we included rye, we would have to purchase it, as we do not grow enough.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Miss, have you given any more thought about the dance?”

  She actually hadn’t in the last few days since Lorelei had first brought it up. Presently, she blamed this on Trevor’s coming to Lesser House. “I’m sorry, Lorelei, I haven’t. But let’s talk about it now. Franklin, when was the last time the Earl of Leven sponsored a dance for all the people of the estate?”

  “Oh, miss, it’s been a decade, I’m sure,” the old butler answered, then pursed his lips, as if recalling. “Yes, the present earl’s father and mother were in attendance, the earl himself must have been only a boy—perhaps longer than a decade, then.”

  “But where was the dance held?” Nicole asked.

  “Right here, miss, in the ballroom.”

  Lorelei leaned forward. “My mam says she met my da’ there. She says there were twinkling lights and sweet music, and everyone wore their very best—though there’d be no silks or such.”

  “But lovely all the same, I’d wager,” Nicole guessed.

  “Mam still says it was her most favorite night ever,” Lorelei said dreamily.

  “But why have they never had another?” asked Nicole.

  “Like as not,” answered Franklin, “the earl’s mother put a stop to that. She had no liking to be mingling with the lower classes, kept her nose up, she did. The old earl, he danced with everyone and laughed and played into the wee hours.”

  “Oh, but, miss,” Lorelei said, clasping her hands to her breast, “say that we can, won’t you?”

  “You don’t even know how to dance, proper-like,” Charlie commented, having closed his book on a dog-eared page.

  “And you do?” Lorelei shot back. “The miss will teach us, won’t you?”

  The idea started to take hold in Nicole, the idea of gathering all the people of Hyndman Abbey, welcoming them to the lord’s house, providing a venue for a festive night, with music and dancing. She looked to Ian. “Can we afford that?”

  “Dancing lessons?”

  Nicole gave Ian a funny look. “A dance for all of Lesser House folk.”

  Henry interrupted. “Miss, what is T-o-u-l-o-u-s-e?”

  “Toulouse,” said a voice at the door. All eyes within the library turned to find the earl standing there, not exactly looking too pleased to find his servants gathered so informally in his library.

  “But wh-what is it?” Henry asked, being the only one who seemed unperturbed by the lord’s coming, while others cast wary glances at him, trying to discern his reaction to their very un-servant-like present behavior.

  “It is a city in France,” Trevor said, walking fully into the library. “I was ringing the bell,” he said by way of reprimand.

  “Can’t hear that from here,” Franklin said matter-of-factly, which had Nicole biting her lip in consternation.

  She watched Trevor, aware, as others might not have been, of his jaw clenching, rather tightly. He’d changed out of his damp clothes, obviously without assistance—if he’d wanted that, he should have traveled with his valet, she thought uncharitably—but was dressed similarly as he had been, only now wore dry breeches and shirt and a different pair of Hessians.

  But he only said, with some forced calmness, “Might I have some time with my wife while you recall some chore you should be about?”

  And now they understood, and as one, they rose and exited the library, Franklin having to wake Abby as she had, as she normally did during tea time, dozed off.

  Nicole unfolded her legs, placing her feet on the floor. She’d just known he would take exception to their tea time gathering, and she said as much to him when the door closed behind Ian, the last to exit.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trevor thought she should be thankful that he’d not roared and railed at them for their unprecedented, unacceptable, and wholly improper conduct. Perhaps it was only his near complete shock that had held his tongue to the brief and unsatisfying rebuke he’d given.

  “Nicole, you will not—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do.” She’d jumped up from the window seat, her eyes blazing. “It’s tea and they are my—”

  “They are not your family! They are the servants!”

  “They are my friends.”

  This circumstance, too, was of his doing, he supposed. Good God! How was he ever to turn this around? Begin as you mean to proceed, his father had always taught him. It would now be difficult indeed to train the servants to actually behave as servants, showing the proper deference for the lady of the manor when she was happy to invite them to tea! What was next—bringing them out with her to local dinner parties?

  But how was he supposed to denounce the only friends she claimed to have, as this situation was, essentially, his own fault? This, he decided with a sigh, was a challenge for some later date. Presently, he had far greater quandaries to address. He worked at lowering his voice and his temper.

  “You asked me earlier why I had come now to the abbey.”

  She surprised him by saying, not with rancor, but just a statement of fact, it seemed, “But then I decided that I really wasn’t interested in your reasons for coming.”

  “Nicole, while there is much to appreciate in the very apparent growth you’ve made as a person over the past year, you would do well to discern the difference between speaking up for yourself in a mature fashion and simply being a brat.”

  He watched her eyes widen to such a degree as to leave no question about her reception of his suggestion and held up his hand when she looked about to spew forth her very obvious thoughts on this.

  “Apologies. That was uncalled for.”

  She seethed, breathing through her nose, her little hands fisted at her sides.

  “I’ve thought about coming to the abbey for quite some time.” He stepped forward, so that only a few feet separated them. “I know now that my actions upon our wedding day, and since, have been deplorable. I thought, perhaps I still believe, there was deceit and an attempt to entrap me into marriage. However, I believe the mar
riage can be saved yet.”

  She looked still particularly amazed, but said, with quiet calm, “You’ve just admitted that you still believe I conspired against you but you’re willing to ‘save’ the marriage you threw away? Yes, well now I’m even more confused.”

  “I am saying I am sorry for my actions.”

  “It actually sounded like you are sorry for my supposed actions but being the kind and rational man that you are, you’re willing to give me a chance to beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do.”

  Through near-gritted teeth, he said, “I’ve come to say let’s work on the marriage, and get through all these issues—”

  “And I am saying that is all well and good, but I am still not much inclined to be married or have a relationship with a person who can so cavalierly set aside his own wife—one who was quite obviously and so tremendously infatuated with him—on the mere assumption of some slight against him.” When he would have spoken she added pointedly, her ire and volume increasing, “And maybe then—if there were a true affront—maybe only a week might pass, and he would come to his senses. Perhaps it might be several weeks, if he were especially stubborn and clung to the notion that he’d been so abused. But I wonder, what kind of man allows his wife to wallow in this imposed exile for nigh on a year? And furthermore, expects her to so gladly leap into his arms, without so much affection toward her own dignity that it be banished simply by his maddening arrival and questionable intent?”

  “This is about your dignity? Your pride? While I’m the one who came back—”

  She threw up her hands, in despair or disdain, he did not know.

  “Listen to all the words, my lord,” she said with some exasperation. “I wouldn’t even want to know a person who was cruel or cold or unforgiving—let alone be married to him.”