A proper young lady would probably have fainted, or at the very least tried to cover herself up. Mind you, a gentleman might have offered her his coat. Neither of them seemed to be making much effort at proper behaviour of late.
Henry swallowed. She saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, saw the way his fists clenched and knew he was fighting the same battle he’d waged in the shepherd’s hut. He’d wanted her badly then. He wanted her badly now. That time he’d won.
She took a step towards him slowly, as if she were approaching a wild animal, though she was uncertain if he meant to bolt or pounce on her. From the savage look in his eyes it could go either way.
“Don’t,” he warned her, giving the slightest shake of his head. “I’ve been drinking, Florence. I…. Don’t.”
“Why not?” she demanded, realising the question was full of pleading. She was breathing hard and desire was thrumming beneath her skin, chasing away the chill of the lake.
“Not like this,” he managed, the words seeming to cause him pain. “Christ, Florence, go. Please.”
“Why should I? Why should I run away? I don’t want to. I want this. I want you.”
There, she’d said it as explicitly as she could. Not that he could have been in any doubt.
Henry closed his eyes and let out a low moan. “God, you’re determined to send me to the devil.”
“I am not,” Florence said, hotly, indignant that he should still equate her with sins and mistakes. “I just want—”
“I know what you want, but this isn’t it,” he said, and there was anger in his voice. “And this is not the way to get it. Don’t you see? If there’s to be anything between us then… then it has to be….”
Florence stilled utterly. If there’s to be anything between us. Had he…? Yes, he had said that. He’d allowed the possibility. She held her breath, waiting for him to go on with such impatience the urge to fidget was hard to deny.
“Not like this,” he said at length. He opened his eyes, gazing at her, but not allowing his attention to stray from her face. “Florence. I’m sorry. Go back to bed. Please, love.”
Florence’s breath caught at the endearment. “Yes, Henry.”
He stripped off his coat and handed it to her. “Quickly, before anyone sees.”
Florence nodded, taking the coat and shrugging it on. She stared at him for just a moment, trying to read his expression but it was too guarded. Nonetheless, he’d said if, he’d called her love. She smiled, swift and tentative, and then hurried past him, hope fluttering in her chest as she ran back to the house.
Chapter 9
Dear Nic,
Thank you for the warning regarding Wulfric. The world is never quite safe when that man grows bored. Though what the devil you mean by asking me if I’ll stand by you, I cannot fathom. And what do you mean by “not publicly”? I ought to call you out for such an insult, you damned fool. You seriously believe I would disown you in a scandal? I hope you have warned Eliza and her father, however. I am of the strong opinion the duke does not like surprises. Besides which, as he has supported us in the past, perhaps he would be an ally if we spoke to him? I do not understand what Wolf hopes to gain by coming here but then the past catches us all up eventually, I fear. Something that nags at us to lay old ghosts. I’m afraid I understand the impulse too well.
―Excerpt of a letter from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen to his brother, Mr Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau.
16th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
The next morning Florence’s maid came to tell her they had all been invited to visit the Hall. According to Maisie, the other ladies had decided that they would go by carriage as it was promising to be a scorching day and none of them were keen to be trussed up in riding habits. Florence chose a pale lilac muslin with a belted waist and full bell skirt. The off-the-shoulder neckline had a wide lace collar which she fastened with a gold-and-amethyst brooch her father had given her.
“Such a picture you make, you do me proud. You’ll have all the gentlemen sighing over you, as usual,” Maisie said as she handed Florence her bonnet. It had an upturned brim, trimmed with sprays of purple flowers. Florence tied the bow and then waited patiently as Maisie adjusted it to her satisfaction. “Oh, and don’t forget your parasol. It’s going to be so dreadfully hot, I fancy you’ll need it.”
“Thank you, Maisie,” Florence said, giving her maid a grateful smile as she took the lacy lilac parasol that matched her gown.
Of course there was only one gentleman whom she wanted to sigh over her, and she could not wait to see him again.
When she went down to breakfast, she was disappointed to discover Henry had already gone home to prepare for his guests. Lord St Clair told them about the building as they breakfasted.
“Saxenhurst is a fascinating place. There used to be a small castle on the spot in the thirteenth century, then Henry III granted a charter to build a Chantry. The castle fell into disrepair and the manor built in its place in the next century. It’s been rebuilt and added to many times over the years. My wife’s family bought it towards the end of the fifteenth century and have been there ever since. It’s a handsome building, though, rather a gloomy old place,” the earl had added. “It has never really felt like a home. Harriet and Henry’s parents were barely there, always off on their travels, and they weren’t exactly the warmest and most welcoming of people when they were. Henry is in desperate need of some advice on how to make it a home to my mind. It needs a woman’s touch, don’t you agree, darling?”
Lady St Clair had choked on her tea at that, causing Lord St Clair to spring to his feet and run to pat her on the back.
“Drat you, Jasper,” she muttered, glaring at him though it appeared she was trying not to laugh.
All very peculiar.
Still, Florence could not deny the little bubble of happiness floating about inside her. Henry had invited them all, yes. Not just her, but he had invited them knowing she would come, and after his words last night…. Had he changed his mind? Though she had always considered herself too sensible to lose her head over a man, she could not deny the giddy excitement surging through her. Not least because she would finally get to see the Hall which she had longed to do. For surely the place where he had grown up and spent most of his life would give her some insight into the man himself?
“Is he going to ask you to marry him?”
Florence jolted out of her reverie at her sister’s question. She looked wildly around, only to discover the breakfast room empty.
“They left a few minutes ago, not that you noticed,” Evie remarked, picking up her teacup and taking a sip. “You wouldn’t notice if an elephant lumbered through the room. Well, unless Henry Stanhope was riding it.”
“Evie!” Florence exclaimed, and then let out a sigh. She ought to have realised she could not keep such a secret from her sister. “I don’t know, Evie. I don’t think he knows what he wants either. Half the time he seems cross with me because he doesn’t want to like me, so I’d be surprised. Mr Stanhope says he’s too old for me. He also says that he doesn’t want to marry at all, but I think he’s lying to himself. I think he is afraid to try because he was jilted so publicly before. Whether he wants me, though…I don’t honestly know.”
“Don’t you?” Evie said dryly. “I think he wants you very much, and I doubt I’m the only one who’s noticed.”
Florence flushed, remembering the look in his eyes last night. Oh, he wanted to bed her all right, but marriage…. Then she realised what her sister had intimated. “Oh, Evie, you don’t think Mama…?”
“Of course I think Mama. Honestly, Flo. If you would only stop gazing at the man like a lovesick puppy—”
“Have you been speaking to Ash and Viv?” Florence demanded, folding her arms.
“No.” Evie sent her a puzzled look. “Why would I, before I’d spoken to you? But, really, you are a dolt. Why on earth do you think Mama was quizzing him last night about Caroline Norton?”
Florence shrugged. “Mama always quizzes men about things like that. She likes to ruffle their feathers, to make them cross and to force them think about injustice.”
“Or perhaps she was testing a potential suitor to see if he measured up?”
Florence gave her an odd look. “Mama has been friends with Henry for years.”
Evie shrugged. “Not close friends, and he’s been gone a long time. I think she was testing the water before you plunge in headfirst. Unless… oh, Flo, you’ve not done anything rash, have you?”
“No!” Florence exclaimed, irritated, although it was a fair question after her behaviour last night, though Evie did not know about that, thank heavens. “No, I haven’t.”
Unless kissing him whilst trapped in a shepherd’s hut in a storm could be considered rash, which it obviously could… but she did not see why she must admit that to her little sister.
“Hmmm.”
Evie gave her a look which suggested she was unconvinced, but did not press her further, for which Florence was grateful.
One of the earl’s neighbours, a Miss Dudley, was to be joining them for the visit, along with her friend, Miss Hatchet. They were both spinsters of middling years, though could not be more different in character. For the life of her, Florence had never understood why they were friends.
Miss Dudley was a sweet, kind lady, who drove everyone mad by crying at the drop of a hat, for she found everything desperately romantic, sad, or tragic. She swooned at the least provocation, but had such a generous heart everyone forgave her for her eccentricities, trying as they sometimes were. Everyone was fond of her, despite her fussy ways, and she was often a guest at Holbrook.
Miss Hatchet was a tattlemonger. There was no other way of saying it. Whether she set out to cause harm by her words or not was moot, as that was the inevitable result. She could not bear to leave a juicy morsel of gossip unsaid, no matter how much better for everyone it would be if she held her tongue. Most people who knew her held her in contempt, and only bore with her for Miss Dudley’s sake. Her presence was an unwelcome blight on the outing, but one there was no polite way of avoiding.
It was a pleasant ride to the Hall, and they arrived precisely at the appointed hour, to find no sign of Henry.
“That’s odd,” Jasper said. “He was very clear about when we should be here. I know he was a little foxed last night, but I find it hard to believe he has forgotten.”
Or changed his mind. Florence felt a flicker of doubt as she wondered if he’d decided it was all a mistake after all. He had been foxed, as Jasper pointed out. Perhaps… No. She would not put words in his mouth or let him get away with changing his mind again. She would speak to him first, which meant she must find him.
Jasper hurried inside the house to speak to the staff, none of which seemed aware of their arrival.
“Perhaps he’s at the stables?” she suggested. “I’ll go and look.”
Florence turned and walked away before anyone could stop her, though she heard her mama call after her and knew she was being followed. She hurried around the back of the house as fast as she could but, before she even reached the stables, she saw a dark shape upon the ground in the shadow of a barn. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain what she was seeing, and then the figure groaned, a hand going to its head.
“Henry!” she exclaimed, running to him and kneeling by his side, unheeding of her skirts on the dusty ground. “Henry, darling, are you hurt? Speak to me.”
“Florence?” he muttered, blinking up at her dazedly. “Christ, my head. That bloody ladder. Must have knocked myself out cold when the rungs broke.”
“Oh, Henry, you’re bleeding!” Florence cast about her skirts, searching for her pocket and the clean handkerchief there. “Here, let me….”
Henry gave a hiss of pain as she gently pressed the handkerchief to the back of his head where his dark gold hair was sticky with blood.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”
“Florence, get up,” hissed a voice in her ear as her mother grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet.
“But Mama!” Florence protested. “Hen—”
She snapped her mouth shut as she saw they were not alone. Lady St Clair, Evie, and Grace, and many of the others had followed them, including Miss Dudley. Next to her, Miss Hatchet was watching the proceedings with obvious delight.
“Mr Stanhope is hurt,” Florence said, trying to calm her thundering heart.
Henry was hurt, but as he was clearly in no danger she forced herself to step back and watched the comte help him to his feet.
“What on earth happened?” Louis César demanded.
“The ladder broke,” Henry muttered, touching tentative fingers to his head and wincing. “The rungs must be rotten.”
Florence fought the desire to tend to him, to hug him and then scold him soundly for giving her such a fright. Afraid she might give herself away in front of Miss Hatchet, as if she’d not already done so, she turned to look at the ladder and frowned. There were two broken rungs near the top.
“Why were you climbing the ladder, Mr Stanhope?” she asked, for surely he’d known they were arriving at any moment.
“I….” He stared up at the large opening on the upper floor of the barn, used to stow hay for storage, his expression quizzical. “Oh, Lord! I heard someone call for help. A woman.”
Florence experienced a chill that began at the nape of her neck and ran down her spine like a trickle of iced water. “Don’t look so appalled, I very much doubt she’s there now. The rungs aren’t rotten, they’ve been cut. Someone lured you up there on purpose.”
There was a faint moan and a rustle of skirts and Louis César moved so fast Florence was quite astonished. He caught Miss Dudley before she too cracked her head on the cobbles.
“Oh, well done!” Evie said to him, gaining herself a quick smile from the comte.
Florence swung back to Henry, caring too little for Miss Dudley and her vapours when he was in danger, her fear for him making her forget to guard her tongue.
“I told you! I told you, you were in danger you stubborn man! Now will you listen to me and act before someone kills you? Please, I… I couldn’t bear it if—”
Mama gave her a swift pinch. Florence gasped, but swallowed the words she’d been about to say. Not that it mattered, there had been too much emotion in her outburst, and Miss Hatchet had no doubt seen her kneeling in the dirt beside Henry too. Even if she hadn’t seen, Florence’s dusty skirts would be enough to tell the tale.
“Indeed, Mr Stanhope, none of us could bear it if you were badly injured,” her mother said smoothly. “You have been a friend to our family for so many years. I believe my daughter is right to be concerned for your safety. Someone clearly means you harm.”
“Oh, Henry, who could it be? I don’t believe anyone holds you any ill will,” his sister exclaimed.
Henry sighed and stared up at the ladder for a long moment, then he turned back to Florence. “I feel I owe you another apology, Miss Knight. Though I have already apologised for my rudeness, idiot that I am, I confess I still did not believe your concerns had any validity. It seems I was foolish to not to listen to you, and to dismiss your opinions, and you, out of hand. I shan’t do so again, I assure you. Can you forgive me?”
Florence could not stop the hopeless smile that curved her lips, nor no doubt the lovesick puppy expression her friends accused her of wearing. But, really, it was impossible. He’d apologised before everyone for not listening to her, and with such sincerity, and he’d promised to never dismiss her opinions, or her, again. How could she not fall hopelessly in love with him?
“Thank you, Mr Stanhope. That was very prettily said, and I do indeed forgive you.”
“That’s all well and good and I’m pleased you are taking this seriously now,” Lady St Clair said, her expression pinched with worry. “But someone tried to kill you, Henry.”
Henry waved this away. “Calm down, Harry. It’s not that bad. If they
’d wanted me dead, that was a feeble way of doing it. It wasn’t much of a fall, really, just unlucky for me that I cracked my skull. Though I agree they meant me harm, I think the objective was to scare me rather than put an end to me.”
“Well, for my part I can say it’s working,” his sister said, snatching her spectacles off her nose and wiping them vigorously on the silk shawl draped over her shoulders. “Oh, where is Jasper?”
“Here, love,” the earl said, hurrying up behind his wife. “What’s amiss?”
In concise, clear words, Harriet told her husband what had occurred, and his expression grew serious as he heard.
“Well, I’m afraid you will not like this much either,” he said, reaching for his wife’s hand. “Henry, you’d best follow me.”
Thoroughly spooked, the party followed Jasper to the front of the house and inside. It became apparent why no staff had come out to greet them as they all stood around muttering unhappily, staring at a strange object in the centre of the dining table.
“I came in to lay the table for your guests, Mr Stanhope, and there it was,” said a young footman. The poor fellow looked thoroughly rattled, as well he might. “Not only that but half the silverware has disappeared. We’ve been finding it all over the house, behind curtains, in vases, and all the wine glasses were in your bed.”
“All the spoons were in the linen closet,” one of the maids piped up, wringing her hands. “And the napkins were in the potting shed.”
“It’s witchcraft, evil doings,” someone muttered at the back of the room.
Henry glowered and walked to the table.
The corn doll was much larger this time. It stood about two feet high and was intricately woven. It was dressed in a simple white gown. Its head and hands protruded from the gown and were made of the whiskery ends where the grain grew, giving the doll an unsettling, nightmarish appearance that made Florence not want to touch it. Still, she moved closer, noticing a pattern beneath the doll.
“What’s that, underneath her? Someone has scratched a design in the tabletop.”
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 10