“I am not hungry-” she began, but he cut off her protest with a quelling stare.
“I did not ask if you wanted to eat. I said you needed to. You’re nothing more than skin and bones.”
Shoulders hunching, Beatrice curled over the pillow she still held clutched against her chest. Skin and bones. Was that all he saw when he looked at her? When he touched her? Suddenly she didn’t want it to be. She wanted him to see her as she’d been - beautiful, vibrant, breathtaking - not as she was now. Not as this thin, pale, wane creature. But that did not mean she had to obey his command like some… some dog. Her chin lifted, eyes flashing with the hint of a spark she’d thought long ago extinguished. “You have no right to tell me what to do. And you certainly have no right to touch me! That was completely-”
“Inappropriate. Yes, I know. Get dressed,” he repeated, “or that won’t be the only inappropriate thing to happen to you this morning. Better yet,” he said, rubbing his jaw as his gaze did a slow, purposeful perusal of her body, “come downstairs just as you are and we shall continue what we started. Have you ever made love on a table?”
Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. “You are the most outrageous, rude, awful-”
“Something tells me you haven’t,” he said as though she’d not spoken a word. “Unfortunate, but not unfixable. See you downstairs, love.”
He turned his back to her. Growling under her breath Beatrice threw the pillow she’d been clutching at his head, but before it could strike its intended target Jack nimbly ducked through the door and closed it behind him, sending the pillow bouncing harmlessly onto the floor. “Oh,” she fumed, hands curling into fists. “The man is an absolute cad.”
The door opened a crack to reveal a pair of laughing gold eyes. “Better luck next time.”
“GET OUT!” Beatrice screamed. “GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!”
He closed the door, but she still heard his laughter echoing through the hallway as he sauntered away.
CHAPTER FIVE
In its prime, Stonewall Manor had been an estate of great extravagance. No expense had been spared in outfitting the palatial thirty-five room manor with the finest tapestries, curtains, paintings, and furniture money could buy. The surrounding gardens had been nothing short of magnificent. The stables filled with thoroughbreds whose lineage could be traced further back than most families. The outbuildings, including two guest houses, were freshly painted and always well-tended. It was a home of great beauty. A showcase of old money and generous wealth.
Or at least it had been.
The degeneration of Stonewall had actually begun several years before Beatrice and Jeffrey were wed. For five generations the estate had been in the Tumbley family, passing from eldest son to eldest son. For four of those generations it had been the pride and joy of the Tumbley’s until one day a second cousin once removed (or perhaps twice; Beatrice had never been very clear on all the nuances of inheritance law) passed away without any heirs. He’d been an earl, and his title, along with all of his properties including a country estate twice the size of Stonewall, had gone to Jeffrey’s father.
Within the month the Tumbley’s had moved their entire household to the larger, grander estate, leaving Stonewall in the care of a groundskeeper. It remained vacant for nearly half a decade before Beatrice and Jeffrey took it over. Gifted to them by Jeffrey’s parents it was their biggest - and most extravagant - wedding present, one which Beatrice loved at first sight despite the work that needed to be done to restore it to its former glory.
They used all of Beatrice’s dowry and a sizable chunk of Jeffrey’s inheritance to bring Stonewall back to life, never imagining the dark future fate had in store for them.
When Jeffrey died, his parents kindly allowed Beatrice to stay on at Stonewall. It was mutually understood that she would live at the estate until their second son, a boy of only twelve years, came of age. They’d even gone so far as to extend her a yearly allowance. Unfortunately it was a pittance of a sum, the amount of which barely covered the cost of three employees (three and a half, counting the cook), let alone other necessities such as food and clothing.
Beatrice knew she could have asked for a larger allowance and the Tumbley’s, being a good family of upstanding moral character, would have no doubt given it to her. But she was not a woman without pride, and instead of taking more from them than she already had, she began to sell the artwork and the furnishings and the tapestries and everything else she and Jeffrey had spent all of their money on when they thought themselves invincible.
How wrong they’d been, Beatrice thought bitterly as she opened her armoire and stared at the pitiful selection of dresses within. How arrogant to think themselves in control of their own destinies. How foolish to believe their happiness would last forever.
Reaching out, she blindly picked a gown of faded yellow that had seen far better days. Once she never would have dreamed of wearing such a tired and worn garment; now she stepped into it without thought, careful not to tear what remained of the delicate lace trim as she pulled it up and over her shoulders before ringing for one of the maids to help with the pearl buttons that ran down the back.
Anna, dark curls bouncing beneath her white cap, appeared within moments. She blinked in surprise upon seeing Beatrice up and halfway dressed, a feat rarely witnessed before noon.
“Goodness!” she said, lips curving in a smile. “Look at you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Without being asked she moved behind Beatrice and began to button the dress with brisk efficiency, chattering all the while. “Sadie is downstairs fixing breakfast. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mrs. Plumsworth but the snow is so deep it is no surprise she was not able to get up here. Have you seen it?”
“Seen what?” Beatrice murmured distractedly, her thoughts far removed from the cook. If Sadie was making breakfast, did that mean Jack really was waiting for her? The corners of her mouth tightened. She had enough to occupy her time without spending it on a veritable stranger. Especially one like Jack Emerson. The man was a threat to everything she-
“The snow!” Anna exclaimed. Finishing with the last button she moved to the bed, frowned slightly at the pile of covers at the foot of the mattress, then shrugged her shoulders and began to gather them up. “It is quite beautiful, actually. Do you want me to open the curtains so you can see?”
“No,” Beatrice said with a vehement shake of her head. “As I told you yesterday, I do not wish to see it. Any of it.”
Anna’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But-”
“The curtains will remain closed until spring,” Beatrice snapped. “How difficult is that to understand?” Recognizing the venom in her tone, she took a deep, deliberate breath. “I am sorry,” she said, noting the Anna’s wide eyes and pale cheeks. “I did not mean to speak so harshly. This is a… very trying time for me and the snow reminds me of things I would rather forget.”
“Of course.” Hugging the bed linens against the white apron she wore over a plain brown dress, Anna began to edge towards the door. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Her gaze flicked to Beatrice’s hair, then darted away.
Self-consciously Beatrice touched a pale tendril, fingers sliding through the lifeless strands. Once she would have sat every morning for over an hour while her hair was fashioned into an elaborate chignon or fanciful twist. It had always been too heavy and thick to hold a curl, and on the days her lady’s maid had been unable to style it she’d refused to receive any callers or even go outside, too embarrassed to be seen with her hair hanging limply around her shoulders and too inept to style it herself.
“Yes, I… Actually no,” she said, abruptly changing her mind with a sharp shake of her head. If she asked for help with her hair this morning it would only be because she wanted to impress Jack. If and when she decided to once again begin fashioning her hair in fanciful twists and chignons it would be because she wanted to do it for herself, not for a man she hardly knew and almost certainly disliked.
�
��My lady?” Anna said uncertainly.
“Go on.” She gestured towards the door. “I do not want to hold you up any further. I know you have a lot to do.”
“Yes,” Anna said with a cheerful shrug of her shoulders, “but no more than usual. If you need help with anything…” she trailed off, her gaze flicking to Beatrice’s hair yet again. “I caught a glimpse of the stranger as he went downstairs this morning. He’s quite handsome.”
“Mr. Emerson.”
“Pardon?”
“That is his name,” Beatrice explained. “Mr. Jack Emerson.”
Eyes bright with curiosity, Anna shifted the linens from one arm to the other. “Is he titled? Where did he come from? How long will he be staying here? How did he-”
“I do not know.” Beatrice held up her hand, palm facing outwards as though she could physically stop Anna from speaking. Under normal circumstances a member of the household staff would have never been so familiar with their employer as to ask questions or make personal remarks about a guest, but then the circumstances at Stonewall were hardly normal. Anna and Sadie were more than maids; they were the only women Beatrice had to talk to which meant certain boundaries that would have been in place in traditional households - namely that the servants adhered to the timeless rule of being neither seen nor heard - did not exist.
Anna’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. “Oh,” she said after a pause before one corner of her mouth lifted in a mischievous smile. “But you do know how handsome he is.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” Beatrice said primly.
“But was he not in here just a few moments-”
“Breakfast,” Beatrice interrupted. “I - I need to go down for breakfast.” Because heaven help her if Jack came back up.
Somehow she needed to convince him that he had to leave this very morning… a task she would much rather accomplish with a table between them instead of a mattress. “Carry on doing whatever it is you are, ah, doing-”
“The laundry,” Anna supplied helpfully.
“-and I will see you later.” Bolting out of the bedroom before the telltale flush she could feel blooming in her cheeks gave her away, Beatrice walked briskly down the hallway, bare feet echoing on the cold floorboards. The stillness of the manor wrapped her in a chilly embrace as she navigated the twisted labyrinth of corridors. At nearly two-hundred-years-old Stonewall had always been a dark place predisposed to shadows. With all of the windows covered by thick velvet curtains there was little left to distinguish day from night.
Her fingertips trailed along the banister as she walked down the grand staircase, nails clicking rhythmically on the wood. When she reached the bottom step she hesitated, glancing longingly over her shoulder as she considered fleeing back upstairs to the safety and the solitude of her bedroom.
“That dress is hideous.”
Beatrice’s head snapped around, eyes automatically narrowing when she caught sight of Jack lounging in the doorway between the foyer and the front parlor. “Perhaps,” she acknowledged, for the dress truly was hideous, “but at least I am fully clothed which is more than I can say for you.” Her chin lifted. “This is not a brothel, Mr. Emerson.”
“It isn’t?” His gaze widened in mock alarm as he exaggerated looking left and then right. “Well bugger me sideways. You’re right.”
Beatrice’s nose wrinkled. Jeffrey would have never spoken so crassly in the presence of a lady. Then again, Jeffrey would have also never been caught outside of his private chambers in nothing more than a pair of trousers. She may not have known who Jack Emerson was, but she now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who he was not: a gentleman.
“Go put on some clothes,” she demanded, her voice echoing in the drafty foyer. “If you think I am having breakfast with you dressed like that you are sorely mistaken.”
“What would you have me wear?” Jack asked, one eyebrow lifting as he glanced down at his naked torso. The bandage on his left shoulder remained, standing out in stark white contrast against his golden skin. “You cut up my only shirt.”
“There is an entire closet filled with shirts… in… the…” Beatrice trailed off, bringing her fingers to her lips with a gasp of dismay as she realized what she’d been about to do. Yes, there was an entire closet filled with shirts in the bedroom suite adjacent to her own. But they were Jeffrey’s shirts in Jeffrey’s closet, his wardrobe being one of the few things she’d been unable to part with since his death. On days she was feeling particularly melancholy she would go into his bedroom and open the closet, inhaling the scent of what had been. With every month the smell of him grew weaker but still she clung to the only tangible proof she had left that he’d ever existed at all.
“Yes?” Jack prompted. “There is a closet filled with shirts in the…? You forgot to finish your sentence.”
Appalled that she had been one word from giving away something so intimate and precious, Beatrice gave a brisk shake of her head. “Never mind. I - I was mistaken.”
“No,” Jack said slowly, his sharp golden gaze missing nothing as it swept across her face. “I do not think you were.” Beatrice’s spine stiffened as she braced herself for a slew of probing questions, but with a shrug of his good shoulder Jack turned and walked into the parlor. “Come on love, let’s carry on. I am starving and after what I went through last night I am not of a mind to eat a breakfast that has gone cold this morning.”
Countenance pinched in a scowl, Beatrice hurried after him, sucking in a startled breath as her toes met the foyer’s marble tile. “Wait,” she called out through gritted teeth. “There is not any furniture in… the… Where did all this come from?”
Flabbergasted she stopped short in the doorway, gaze locking in stunned silence on the table and two chairs that had been set in the middle of the room. The chairs didn’t match, but a pale blue cloth embroidered with delicate flowers had been set upon the table along with a cracked porcelain vase filled with pine boughs and holly. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, giving the parlor a warm, cozy glow despite the lack of any other furnishings and natural light.
Noting her shocked expression Jack grinned and went to the far wall where a long line of windows were hidden beneath heavy curtains. Grabbing the last curtain he began to pull the drapery aside, letting in a flood of bright sunlight. “It’s so damn gloomy in here. No wonder you are wasting away. Where the bloody hell is all of your furniture?” Finishing with the one line of windows he strolled across the parlor and began to peel back the curtains on the second, oblivious to how pale Beatrice had gone or the way she’d begun to tremble. “I found the table in a room on the third floor. The leg was broken, but easily fixed. It’s good wood. Solid oak. You shouldn’t throw things out simply because they are banged up a bit, you know.”
“S-stop it,” Beatrice choked out, hands tightening into tiny knots of anxiety as tears burned in the corners of her eyes. Her gaze darted to the sparkling wintery landscape outside the windows then bounced quickly away, settling instead on the table.
She had sat there once. Not at that exact table, but one just like it. She had sat there and she’d knitted a pair of socks for her husband as though it were any other ordinary night, never knowing that everything she knew and everything she held dear was about to change… forever.
“One of the maids - Sadie, I think, although it could have been Anna, I can’t bloody well tell them apart - found the tablecloth,” Jack continued. He raked a hand through his hair, pulling the tousled ends taut before letting them fall. Unbound, his hair touched his shoulders in an inky cloud of black silk that would have been the envy of any pirate lord. “And I sent the boy out for the pine boughs and - why do you look like that? Are you crying?”
Beatrice dashed a hand along her cheeks. “No,” she lied, turning her head to the side. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Jack moving swiftly towards her. Before she could react he had her chin cupped firmly between his fingers and was lifting her face towards his.
“You
are,” he said incredulously. “You’re crying. Why?”
“None of your business.” She tried to twist free, but his grip was unyielding.
“Is it the vase?” he asked, gold eyes taking on a mischievous light. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There is still plenty of room for both of us on the table. In fact, we don’t even have to be on the table. Well at least I don’t. If you just rest your bum on the very edge-”
“Oh!” Beatrice gasped in outrage. Beneath Jack’s fingers her skin burned hot as her entire countenance was consumed by a fiery blush. “You are the most… the most…”
“Run out of names to call me?” he queried, one brow lifting. “Don’t worry. It happens”
“They have not invented names awful enough to call you yet,” she snapped.
“Probably not. But I am sure if you get creative you could think of a few.”
“I would never presume to use such foul language. Unlike you.” Suddenly becoming aware of how very close their bodies were to touching, Beatrice hesitated to even breathe, afraid the faintest movement would bring her belly - or worse - into intimate contact with Jack’s naked torso. Standing so near to him allowed her to see their heights weren’t so different, although that wasn’t much of a surprise given she’d always been considered tall for a woman. That was where the similarities ended, however.
Jack’s chest was broad and exceptionally well-muscled, as were his arms and thighs, indicating him to be a man of the outdoors, or at the very least an adept equestrian. Jeffrey had never liked horses nor been especially fond of any activity that required physical exertion. As a result his frame had been tall and lean without any muscle of which to speak. Still, he’d been handsome in the classical sense most often associated with artists and poets; a true lord of the manor with hair flawlessly styled and clothes perfectly tailored.
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 18