Clutching the book to her middle, Mary watched Lord Sanders sleep. Her body told her to turn and flee, to return to her bedchamber and pretend she hadn’t come upon him. But her conscience urged her otherwise.
How could she leave the man to an uncomfortable night’s sleep on this sofa when he had an empty bed just upstairs? Resolved in her decision, she moved forward, pausing when the light hit upon a brown leather rectangle on his chest.
A book. Lord Sanders had fallen asleep on the sofa reading. Never had a man been so attractive to Mary than in this moment.
Shaking away the wildly inappropriate thought, Mary cleared her throat loudly and waited.
Lord Sanders didn’t stir.
Stepping forward, she leaned closer.
“Lord Sanders?”
Still nothing.
Setting her book on the small table at the end of the sofa, Mary reached for Lord Sanders’s arm and nudged him gently. “My lord? Wake up.”
His snores disappeared, his mouth closing at once as his body moved slightly. Mary stepped back, suddenly aware of their solitude. She was completely alone, in the middle of the night, wearing her nightclothes, with a man she hardly knew.
No, that was unfair. She might not have known him long, but she knew Lord Sanders’s character. He wore it on his sleeve for all the world to see.
But still, perhaps she had time to escape before the earl discovered who had woken him.
“Yes?” The deep, groggy voice asked, his arm remaining over his eyes.
She crept across the carpet, making it nearly to the door when she realized she’d forgotten the book she’d come down for. Swiveling, she took one step back toward the little table and froze. Lord Sanders was sitting up, his tired eyes resting on her.
He’d shed his coat at some point and discarded his cravat. His shirt was open at the throat, a shadow lining the groove that ran the visible length of his collar bone.
“Were you trying to sneak away?”
Mary swallowed hard. “I was hoping to sneak out before you’d gained consciousness, my lord.”
He regarded her steadily, a firm set to his mouth. Was he struggling to believe her?
She took a step closer, desperate to plead her case. “I only wanted to wake you so you might remove upstairs. It would not do to have a crick in your neck from sleeping on a sofa. I did not intend to speak to you.”
His gaze dropped to her dressing gown, and she pulled it tighter, clutching it at the neck.
“I believe you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “But what are you doing here at this hour?”
She gestured to the book on the table and he reached for it, a smile curving his lips. “You enjoy it, then? I’m glad.”
“So far, yes.”
He lifted it toward her, and she crossed the rest of the room to take the book from his hand, holding it against her middle. “What are you reading?”
“You are not allowed to mock me if I tell you,” he said, one eyebrow lifting.
“I solemnly promise not to mock you.”
“Byron.”
“Poetry?” Her eyebrows lifted, and a smile came to her lips. “I was unaware you were interested in things like poetry.”
“I am interested in a lot of things like poetry,” he said, a challenge in his words. “Is it wrong of me? Do you believe poetry to be a language for women?”
“Not in the least. Byron is a man, is he not? As is Shakespeare, and I’ve heard it argued that the Bard is the king of poetry.”
“Because of his turn of phrase, or the themes of which he wrote?”
“The structure of his writing, I should think.” Mary backed into the soft wingback chair and lowered herself on the seat, resting her wrist against her knees so the light from her candle might still reach Lord Sanders’s face. “While I admit to enjoying a few of his stories, I do not love them as much as I enjoy novels like this one.” She laid her hand over the book in her lap.
“You are a reader for sport then, I assume, and not for knowledge?”
She held his gaze, his eyes sparkling, reflecting the flickering flame of her candle. “I believe all reading has its uses. But yes, I most enjoy reading for sport. Though I’ve never heard it referred to in such a way. How original.”
His boyish grin spread wide. “So original that I might presume to call myself clever?”
Mary chuckled. “That is yet to be determined, my lord. But your affinity for reading”—she nodded to the book he’d set on the cushion beside him—“and poetry, specifically, leads me to believe you must be clever, indeed.”
“Then I will be careful not to blemish that opinion with reality.” His smile slipped, and he cleared his throat. “Your Mr. Lockhart, is he a lover of reading?”
Mary’s hand tightened on the book in her lap. “I am unsure. To be honest, I don’t know much about him. We were not very well acquainted before he left for India.”
The look on Lord Sanders’s face was difficult to decipher. She wanted badly to know what was happening in his mind, to learn what he was thinking. So, she continued, hoping he would reveal his thoughts through his expression. “Mr. Lockhart is a wealthy merchant, as I believe I already told you. He is unlike the men of my acquaintance—always busy with one important matter or another.”
“And we gentlemen of leisure are not busy with important matters?”
A blush rose on her cheeks, warming them considerably; she hoped the glow from the single candle was not bright enough to reveal her embarrassment. “No, only that you are not quite so…so actively engaged. Though I suppose you are always going somewhere, are you not? To hunt, to fish, to ride…when in Town, you are always leaving for the club, or to play cards, or to see a man about something dreadfully dull.”
“Dreadfully dull like horses and things?”
“Exactly. But there is no sense of urgency about you, not like the sort Mr. Lockhart carries with him.”
“Will that not bother you?”
Her head reared back. “Heavens, no. I should think I will enjoy being left to my own devices more often than not.”
He peered at her for so long, she was convinced he would say nothing more. But then he opened his mouth, his face still unreadable as stone. “More time for reading?”
Her lips bent in a smile. “Indeed. Much more time for reading.”
“And I, on the other hand, don’t have nearly enough time for it. I’m too busy heading to my club, playing cards, and seeing men about dreadfully dull horses.”
Mary laughed. “You deny it?”
The smile which crossed over Lord Sanders’s face was breathtakingly handsome, etching deep grooves on the sides of his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Not in the least. You’ve quite painted my life in a concise picture. It is cause for introspection, actually. Though, that terrifies me.”
“Why is that?”
The library became so quiet, Mary almost felt like she could hear Lord Sanders’s breathing from across the rug.
“Because I have put it off for years, Miss Hatcher. I am quite afraid of what I will find if I look too closely at myself.”
That saddened her, and she longed to reassure him in some way, though she did not know how to accomplish it. Did he truly think so low of himself?
“From what I have heard, your father was a good man. Surely—”
“I am nothing like him,” he said, quiet but resolute. He lifted his face to meet hers. “If I could be half the man my father was, I would stand proud. But as it is…there is no value in trying. Even half as good is an impossible goal.”
“Why do you say that? Surely he was not such a paragon. All of us have faults.”
“He was as close as he could be. Not like me. I am too foolish, and not serious enough.” He rested a hand on the volume of poetry beside him on the sofa. “I find value in reading for pleasure and spend too much time partaking in senseless wagers. Did you know I once raced my phaeton across London for a shilling? If that is not foolhardy
, I don’t know what is. Any number of things could have gone terribly wrong.”
“Did your father disapprove of wagers?”
“Oh, mightily. But that never stopped me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And he put my mother before all things. He doted on his daughters, on his people. I used to follow him around our estate like a loyal puppy. I once watched him climb upon a tenant roof himself to repair a thatch.”
“He sounds like the sort of earl any man would be good to emulate.”
“But that is my struggle,” Lord Sanders said, and the pain in his voice tore at Mary’s chest. “I could never emulate him. I am a wisp of his shadow, nothing more.”
Heavy silence sat thick between them as Mary tried to determine how she might argue his point. If only she could show Lord Sanders a looking glass that reflected the way his sisters saw him, the way she saw him, perhaps he might—
Lord Sanders rose, leaving behind the book of Byron’s poems. “It is really very late, I am guessing.”
“Past two.”
His eyebrows rose. “I am impressed, madam.”
“With my lack of ability to control myself? I ought to have put the book down hours ago. And I really ought to go outside more often. I miss the sun.”
He gave her a knowing smile. “As do I. The weather has been beastly cold, but the sun has shone the last few days.”
“Perhaps we ought to…” She paused, realizing it was in no way her place to suggest any outings to the earl. He was such a gentleman, he would no doubt agree to anything she put before him. His eagerness to obtain evergreen boughs for his sister and oranges for Mary was proof of that.
“Yes?”
“No, my lord. Forget I said anything.”
He gave her an apologetic smile, but she saw the telling glimmer of interest in his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t know how. You’ll just have to tell me.”
She stood, holding her book to her stomach as her other hand balanced the candleholder. “It is nothing. Truly.”
“My curiosity knows no bounds.” He stepped forward, her candle sending light over his open shirt and highlighting his neck as he swallowed. “I will lie awake in bed wondering what it is you were going to say.”
“You cannot lay the blame for your own curiosity at my feet.”
“You’re right. That was unfair of me.” He paused. “But I still would like to know.”
She lifted her chin. “But if I tell you, you will make it happen. You are a gentleman of the highest order.”
He looked ready to argue that fact, his eyes hardening. “I make no such guarantees if it will induce you to reveal yourself. Please tell me.”
Mary sighed. “I was merely going to suggest an outing. A walk in the park or a ride in your mother’s barouche. It is nothing, though, and I should have brought the idea to your sister instead.”
“Anne would love the suggestion, I’m certain.”
“Goodnight, my lord.”
“No, wait,” he said, reaching for her as she turned to go.
She paused. “I forgot. You don’t have a candle, do you?”
“I don’t…that is not…will you please stop calling me my lord?”
She stilled, stunned. “What else am I supposed to call you?”
“My name is Andrew.”
Mary was unsure of what to say. She was engaged to another man. To take such liberties with Lord Sanders didn’t feel appropriate.
“It is just that everyone else in this house calls me Andrew. My sisters, my mother.”
Ah, that was it. He must think of her as a sister. It was a deflating, cooling thought. And very welcome. This was precisely how he should look at her. It was far more appropriate than how she thought of him, and she would do well to follow his good example. “I could, but I wonder what your sisters would think of it.”
“Do not use my given name in front of them, then. You can merely drop the my lord, and I will be satisfied. No, not just satisfied. Immensely grateful. The reminder is so constant. I have been given these shoes to fill and I just…would you do this for me?”
“Yes, Andrew. I can do this for you.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
She held his smile, gripping her book so tightly, she was certain her knuckles were white. No man had ever called her Mary besides her father, and it sent a thrill through her.
This was the exact opposite of what she should feel right now, and she needed to get a better handle on her feelings, and soon.
Chapter 12
Anne stood at the window, staring wistfully out at the snow-covered street lit by the mid-morning sun. The drawing room was empty but for Andrew and his sister, and he was hoping she would be receptive to the idea he was about to propose. Well, it was Mary’s idea, but it had been a good one. They had all been cooped up in the house for too long now.
While it felt like Mary was a beacon of light anytime she was in the room, actual sunlight would no doubt benefit them all.
“How would you feel about an outing to Gunter’s for some chocolate?”
Anne spun on her heel, her smile radiant. “Andrew, do you mean it? Oh, when?”
“As soon as it can be arranged. I was hoping Mother would be amenable to the scheme, so we ought to go prior to her nap.”
Anne threw her arms around Andrew’s neck, stunning him. He froze for a moment, surprised, before he returned the embrace. Could Anne not see that he was trying to buy her affection? He supposed he ought to simply appreciate her gratitude and take his wins where he could get them.
Anne released him, grinning. “I will tell Mary and Caro right away.”
“And I will speak to Mother.”
He followed her from the drawing room and up the stairs to where the rest of the women of the house had remained within their bedchambers. Mary was usually awake and downstairs with Anne by now, but Andrew assumed her late morning was due to the late evening she’d had the night before. He still could not believe he’d had the gumption to ask her to call him by his Christian name, or that she’d agreed to. It was inappropriate, but he had wanted to hear it so badly, and the cover of darkness had emboldened him. But he knew he could never ask her for another thing. It was not behavior befitting a gentleman.
But who was he kidding? He was no gentleman. And despite her claims that she thought him—what was it she had said? Ah, yes—a gentleman of the highest order, he was anything but. Had he not said so when he revealed his insecurities about never living up to the man his father was?
Well, he’d established his lack of gallantry by calling her by her Christian name without her permission. She hadn’t seemed to mind, but he knew better regardless of her graciousness. He wouldn’t do it again without her consent.
Bringing up his fist, he rapped his knuckles on his mother’s dressing room door and waited for her to bid him entry. He stepped inside, surprised to find Mrs. Hatcher seated on the settee near the fire while his mother was at the dressing table, her maid pinning long, gray curls into place.
“Good morning, Mother. Mrs. Hatcher.” He bowed to each of them and received warm smiles in return.
“I was just telling Fanny of the new roofs you ordered for the tenants of Brightly Court. It was such a kindness, and I am certain they will be grateful for the added warmth.”
“They likely would have appreciated it more had I ordered the roofs to be put in before winter was upon us, of course,” he said wryly, avoiding Mrs. Hatcher’s gaze. Mother had no business making him sound thoughtful. If his father was still around, he would have ordered the roofs done at the beginning of the summer. No, he wouldn’t have ordered the roofs done at all…he would have done them himself.
“Oh, Andrew—”
“I was actually coming to see if you would like to accompany me on an outing to Gunter’s?” He turned to Mrs. Hatcher. “I’ve heard good things about their chocolate. Or they have tea, of course. Or coffee.”
“A cup of warm chocolate sounds delightful,” Mrs. Hatcher said. “But I
’m not sure my old bones would fancy a ride in the cold. I’m afraid you’ll have to go without me.”
Her old bones? Mrs. Hatcher could not be above fifty years of age, surely. He turned toward his mother. “Mama?”
“I will stay with Fanny, dear. I’m certain Mrs. Burne can make us a cup here.”
“If you insist.” Andrew hesitated, watching his mother’s maid place a lace cap over her curls and pin it into place. There was something different about his mother, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Her hair was grayer, maybe? Or perhaps those wrinkles on her face had multiplied.
He refrained from scoffing, though just barely. What a wretched son he was, that his mother was aging before his eyes and he continued to make himself as absent as possible. His father would be disgusted if he was around to witness Andrew’s neglectful behavior.
He needed to leave the room, and now.
“Andrew?”
Pausing at the door, he looked back over his shoulder.
“Thank you for spending time with your sisters. You know how they adore you, and we simply don’t see you often enough. It means the world to me.”
It was as if Mother knew how to take the dagger residing in his heart and twist it just so in order to cause pain of the acutest kind. He forced a smile. She couldn’t know, or she would have refrained from saying anything.
After a quick bow to both ladies, he closed the door behind him and moved away from his mother’s room with long, sure strides. He flew down the stairs, one set after another until he finally reached the ground floor and found his sisters waiting there, but there was no sign of Mary. He wanted to ask if Mary had denied the outing like her mother had, but he needed to catch his breath first.
Taking the stairs so rapidly had risen his heart rate, but not enough to rid his mind of the undeserving gratitude his mother bestowed on him. He wouldn’t mind a bruising ride right now or a bout of fisticuffs, but the quick jog down the stairs would have to do for the present.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked Anne as she bent to Caroline, fastening their younger sister’s pelisse.
All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2) Page 10