Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  This time, the quirk turned into a full grin, but Mr. Gavenor just said kindly, “We will pretend it unsaid, then, shall we?”

  “Please. I feel such a fool. Dinner must be nearly ready, Mr. Gavenor. Shall we see?”

  Chapter Eleven

  After dinner, Bear sighed over his notes, which had become wet and then smudged in his pocket. Miss Neatham twisted her head to look at the ledger into which he was transcribing his findings.

  “You have a neat hand,” she observed.

  “It was beaten into me at school,” he told her. “Horrid place. I was never more pleased than when my mother decided to buy me into the military.”

  “You went straight into the army from school?”

  He nodded. He had been young for an ensign, but his size meant people took him for older. And he grew up soon enough, especially after a few battles. “I was twenty-four years a soldier, Miss Neatham.”

  “Twenty-four years? But you cannot be forty, yet!”

  Bear resisted preening at her assessment of his age. “Forty-two, and I joined up when I was sixteen.”

  She looked at him aghast. “Your mother sent you into the army when you were sixteen? What did your father say?”

  “He had always intended me for the army. My mother fulfilled his wishes.” He tried for a joke, “I daresay she would have handed me over after my father’s funeral if they had taken eight-year-olds.”

  Her eyes widened with horror before she looked down at her ever-present sewing. “But you were pleased, you say.” She sounded doubtful.

  “Yes. The army suited me, especially when I was young. And I suited it.” Until he got sick of the endless futility.

  She made no comment.

  Bear contemplated his notes, trying to remember whether the figure obscured by a water stain had been 54 or 64. He would have to measure that wall again. He closed the ledger, made a note of the measurements he would have to repeat, and tossed the water-damaged notes into the fire.

  Miss Neatham frowned at her sewing.

  “It was for the best,” Bear told her. “My mother could not stand the sight of me, and I was glad to get away, even to school.”

  “But she must have been proud of your army record,” Miss Neatham prompted. “Mrs. Raby said you were a war hero; one of Lion’s Zoo, she told me, which she says is a very fine thing, though I did not precisely understand it. A group of officers? And you worked for the Duke himself?”

  “A silly name,” Bear grumbled. “Our major was baptized Leonard and has a lion on his family crest. He has been called ‘Lion’ since he was a small boy, and I have been ‘Bear’ for as long. We also had a Fox and a Cat. After that, every officer who joined us had the name of a beast foisted on him. We acquired a Tiger and a Snake. Even a Wyvern and a Centaur.”

  Her face came alive with interest, and she leaned forward as if to hear better, her sewing disregarded in her lap. “A very good rider, I take it.”

  “The best. He was younger than I when he joined as a drummer boy, but we found he could ride anything even vaguely horse-like. Broken or unbroken.”

  He told her about the day he and Fox first saw Cen catch a crazed horse in the aftermath of a battle, calm it, treat its wounds, and bring it back to its owner. That story led to another, and then another, and they were both surprised when Mr. Neatham woke, demanded a chamber pot, and they realized how late it was.

  “Thank you,” Miss Neatham said before she went off to bed. “I do not know when I have more enjoyed an evening.”

  “I am afraid I spent the whole evening talking about myself,” Bear said. Her apparent interest had spurred him on. So different from the bored debutantes he had briefly considered courting last Season. They asked for his stories, but their eyes glazed over within minutes, and he soon learned that any conversation must include the latest fashions or gossip in order to engage their attention.

  “It was wonderful,” Miss Neatham replied. “I have never been out of this village, Mr. Gavenor; barely outside the grounds of Thorne Hall. Someone like you, who has travelled the world and seen so much—why, your stories are better than a book!”

  That, from the daughter of a librarian, Bear mused as he helped Mr. Neatham prepare for bed, was great praise indeed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The rain continued for days, turning tumbling streams into rivers, every path and lane into a tumbling stream, and every bank into a series of waterfalls. At last, a day dawned that was crisp and clear. A few white clouds scudded high in the sky.

  Bear walked as far as he could toward the village, to find that the bridge was gone. They would be cut off from the direct route to the Mersey and Liverpool until it was rebuilt, or until the river dropped back into a fordable stream. Presumably, the local landowners would be approached to fund the replacement bridge, and Bear didn’t mind at all. In fact, he’d do his best to persuade them of the need for a stronger, higher bridge. His industrialist buyers wouldn’t want a country home where the weather might isolate them from their enterprises.

  He spent most of the day at the hall, making extensive notes about what needed to be torn down, what must be replaced, what could be repaired, and what would do with a minimum of refurbishment. He was tired but satisfied when he returned home to Rose Cottage and found an appetizing dinner waiting for him, and Rosa and her father as company to share it with. A man could get used to this.

  The idea that had been evolving in the back of his mind crystallized. Why shouldn’t he get used to it? He needed, or, at least, wanted a wife, and Rosa needed a husband; someone to protect her from nuisances like Pelman, and give her status in the community.

  He needed to think through the idea, for there must be some substance to the accusations against her. Not as much as Pelman and his sister made out, undoubtedly, but some seed of scandal from which the rest of the ugly plant had grown.

  What would scandal matter, though, when they left this place, and she was Rosa Gavenor, not Rosabel Neatham? Whatever she had been forced to by her poverty, Rosa had the training and instincts of a lady, and if she were not a complete innocent, then neither was he. She could be the hostess he needed when he had to charm potential clients, and she was certainly young enough to breed an heir for Aunt Clara.

  Not to mention that his male parts ached to engage with her in the activity required to produce such an heir. For a moment, Pelman’s words ‘a tigress in bed’ reverberated in his loins, but he’d not credit a word the man said. However much he might hope that part, at least, of the allegations proved to be true.

  He thanked Rosa for the meal and took his brandy through to his study while she made her way up to bed, reminding himself sternly that she had given him no encouragement to follow her, and she was, in some sort, under his protection. He was not the kind of cowardly scoundrel who would proposition a woman with no power to refuse him.

  Not like Pelman. What a swine the man was.

  He sat cradling his brandy glass, sipping occasionally, and running ideas through his mind as he thought about the future.

  ***

  Jeffreys turned up the next day. Bear was at Thorne Hall again, continuing his careful documentation of his new assets and liabilities.

  “Mr. Gavenor, sir,” his manservant greeted him. “The lady at the cottage said I would find you here.”

  “Jeffreys! Good to see you, man. I didn’t expect you until they bridged the river again.”

  Jeffreys described his route up through Cheshire and along the Wirral Peninsula’s south coast, rather than crossing into Lancashire and taking the ferry across the Mersey from Liverpool, as Bear had. “Shorter, and it suited the horses, sir. Miss Neatham said I won’t find stabling fit for them here, but that the farmer just back along the road might board them for us. A five-minute walk, that’d be, sir, so no problem. Oh. And she said that she would have a meal on the table at noon, should you wish for one. Not to worry if you preferred to work on, for she could send some bread and cheese now that she had someone
to send. That would be me, once I have placed the horses.”

  Jeffreys gave Bear a half salute and turned to go, but Bear put his writing materials and measures into his satchel and said, “I’ll walk back with you now, Jeffreys.”

  They made their way through the overgrown park toward Rose Cottage.

  “So, you didn’t go through the village?” Bear asked. “Good. I have a slightly odd request, which concerns the honor of the lady. She hurt her ankle, you see, and was unable to return to the village. Although I fetched her father, the village might not think him an adequate chaperon since he is— since his mind is failing. Especially if they know that the three of us have been alone in the house.”

  “I see, sir,” Jeffreys replied with a quick sideways glance. “I take it I arrived not long after you, then, and have been here all along.”

  Bear nodded. “Good man, Jeffreys. Though the farmer will know.”

  “The horses were turned out in the garden,” Jeffreys ventured. “No good for long term, but enough for a few nights, with that old shed for cover for their feed and shelter in the worst of the storm.”

  “Good enough.” Yes, that would do. It would not still all the gossip, but it would help. His other idea might serve for the rest. He would need to think about it a bit more and talk to Miss Neatham.

  “Not that I will explain unless I am asked,” Jeffreys added.

  “I leave it in your capable hands.”

  ***

  Rosa was ejected from the kitchen after lunch, Mr. Gavenor’s man, Jeffreys, insisting that he would do the dishes. Very well, then, she would take advantage of the fine weather and her increasing mobility to hobble down the path and see how her hens fared. Mr. Gavenor had reported that the bantam’s chicks had hatched but was unable to answer her questions about their colors or even their number.

  She opened the wicker door to let them scratch in the garden, and was seated on an upturned bucket, one warm chick cupped in her hand, counting the others and laughing at their antics, when Mr. Gavenor joined her.

  “Miss Neatham. I thought to redeem myself by examining these wee bits of fluff more closely, and here you are before me.”

  “We have seven,” Rosa told him proudly, offering him the one she held. “Which, from nine eggs, is a good result, I assure you. More, and the bantam would have trouble covering them while they are still young and vulnerable. The eggs were from the larger hens, you see, so the chicks will outgrow their mother quite quickly. Now, we just need to wait to see how many are hens and how many cocks. I get a good price for my hens.” She faltered. “Or you will, now.”

  Mr. Gavenor pursed his lips in a quick grimace. “As to that, Miss Neatham, the hens are yours, and you must do with them as you will.” He scratched the little chick on its throat and breast with one gentle finger, causing it to stretch its neck ecstatically. She waited for whatever else he had to say.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Rosa froze. She had not expected that. He had always treated her with such courtesy and respect. Disappointment in him warred with relief that she had a way out of the trap Pelman was weaving around her, and a certain anticipation. What would it be like? It would involve intimate touching; she knew enough to understand that. Where even the thought of Pelman taking such liberties set her skin crawling, Mr. Gavenor had quite a different effect, warming her in places about which ladies were not meant to think.

  She would accept, of course, and hope she did not disappoint him, but he was still talking, not noticing her distraction.

  “You and your father should never have been forced to leave Rose Cottage. I would like you to continue to regard it as your home. And I would like to remain as your boarder, if you would not mind. It is very convenient to Thorne Hall, which means I can keep a close eye on the works once they start.”

  She must be staring like a stunned rabbit as she scrambled to rearrange her thoughts. Boarder. Not lover.

  “You have already taken over the housekeeping duties of a landlady, and, of course, I will owe you for the stores I have used while I have been in residence. But I am sure we can work out those financial details if you think you might be willing to accept the position. What do you say?”

  Close your mouth, Rosa. Think. Then answer the question. “I— But— But Mr. Gavenor, Rose Cottage belongs to you. I should be paying a rental, not charging you board.”

  “We can work out a rental and deduct it from the board payment. But the business about the goats was disgraceful.” His voice turned stern. “You will oblige me, Miss Neatham, by going through the house and grounds and making a comprehensive list of all of the items and animals that belong with the cottage, and those that belong to you and Mr. Neatham.”

  A reprieve for as long as the building work lasted, and after that while the money held out. Surely, time enough to find another way to support her father. One that did not require her to abandon her morals. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

  Mr. Gavenor gifted her with a boyish grin, his eyes dancing. “Say ‘yes, Mr. Gavenor.’”

  After he’d received the reply he wanted and left for the Hall, she sat for a long time, watching the chicks and thinking about Mr. Gavenor’s kindness. The gentle hands that had so carefully handled the chick would not now be touching her.

  Rosabel Neatham, you should be ashamed of yourself, she admonished, trying to dismiss vaguely formed ideas of what those hands might do. Of course, a man of his experience would not want a dried-up old spinster who has none. She should be thanking God for her deliverance, not sitting here in the garden mooning over might-have-beens.

  A list. Mr. Gavenor had asked for a list. She stood with sudden decision, causing the chicks to scurry for the protection of the bantam mother. She would keep herself busy, and these indecent thoughts would fade away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bear stepped out of the terrace door in Thorne Hall’s undamaged wing just as a buggy approached the large carriage circle in front of the hall. The driver was the village rector, Dr. Whitlow. Bear hurried down to meet him.

  “Good day, Dr. Whitlow. I take it the bridge is up again?” And the rector out already, seeing to the care of souls. Bear would lay odds this visit had been prompted by the village gossips. What would the rector demand? Miss Neatham out on her ear? Bear would see about that.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Gavenor. A temporary bridge, and the squire is collecting subscriptions for a more permanent construction. I dare say he will be calling on you, sir.”

  Bear nodded. “If you see him before I do, please let him know that I am happy to support the project.”

  The rector nodded, then looked around. “You have your work cut out for you, Mr. Gavenor, if you are to bring Thorne Hall back to its former condition.”

  “I have been pleasantly surprised,” Bear said. Perhaps he was wrong about the rector’s errand. “My seller considered it a wreck, fit only for demolition, and certainly the library wing will have to go. The stables, too, though I have just been considering whether they can be made sturdy enough to provide sleeping space for my work crew during the rebuild. The rest, we can salvage. Would you like to take a look around?”

  The rector nodded and descended from the buggy. Once the horse had been tethered in the shade, close to a trough of water, Bear led the way back toward the house, but the rector stopped after a few paces, a deep frown wrinkling his brows and eyes.

  “You may wish to rescind your hospitality when you hear what I have to say, Mr. Gavenor.”

  Now they would have at it.

  “I have come to discharge an unpleasant duty,” Dr. Whitlow said.

  “Then you had better get it over with, Rector,” Bear advised. “Unpleasant duties do not improve on keeping.”

  Dr. Whitlow swallowed, then lifted his chin, jutting it slightly. “It is about Rosabel Neatham, sir.”

  “I see.” Bear offered no more. Let the man dig his own hole.

  The chin jutted still further. “I have been
given to understand, sir, that she is living with you in Rose Cottage without benefit of matrimony.”

  That was clear enough, and something Bear could answer honestly and directly. “You have been given to understand a lie, rector, if by that you mean that Miss Neatham and I have been intimate.”

  Dr. Whitlow reared his head and raised his eyebrows. “I mean that Rosabel Neatham is known to be your mistress.”

  Bear kept his face impassive and his voice calm. No point in shooting the messenger. “Miss Neatham is not my mistress, and anyone who has told you differently is a liar.”

  “Do you deny that the woman is living in Rose Cottage, under your protection?” The rector’s reply sounded more like a question than an accusation, which helped Bear to keep his answer calm and factual.

  “Miss Neatham and her father live in Rose Cottage, yes, as they have for a number of years. Miss Neatham has been kind enough to rent me and my valet a room so I will be close to Thorne Hall, which I plan to restore.”

  The rector frowned. “But I am told that you own Rose Cottage, and that Miss Neatham was ejected to make way for you, at your instructions, but later insinuated her way into your household.”

  Bear had heard enough. “That lying cur Pelman is your informant, I take it. I did not know of Miss Neatham’s existence, nor that the cottage was occupied. Pelman did, indeed, take advantage of my request for accommodation in order to remove the lady and her elderly, crippled father from their home, to place them in a hovel in Sunrise Lane.” He narrowed his eyes. “You might take the measure of the man who makes these accusations from the fact he promised to house them more suitably if Miss Neatham would consent to be his mistress.”

  The rector paled as he rubbed his chin, then rallied. “It was both Mr. and Miss Pelman. Yes, and not them alone, I can assure you, Mr. Gavenor. Mr. Pelman is a respected member of our community, and his sister is a stalwart of the parish. The things they have told me about Miss Neatham and the late Lord Hurley—I was not rector here at that time, but the squire supports their story, and he is a cousin of Miss Neatham’s, through the mother, who was herself a scandal in the parish in her time.” He frowned again, a note of doubt entering his voice. “Or so I have been told.”