Georgiana exhaled a small sound of despair that, hopefully, nobody else had heard."What does Miss Hathaway have to smile about this morning?" he demanded, those searching eyes narrowed. "What wickedness has she perpetrated now?"
Hastily she sought an excuse, guilty heat flooding her face. "I was just thinking, sir, that I am feeling very rested after my journey and had an excellent night's sleep. My thoughts were extinguished as quickly as a snuffed candle as soon as my head hit the pillow. Despite the storm that raged."
He stared coldly and blankly at her, either remembering nothing about their encounter in the passage, or hiding it very skillfully. "How fortunate for you. Still, I daresay an empty head is often less troubled."
She decided not to take offence. Allowances must be made for a Naval hero and he could hardly know that her head was far from empty. Yet. So she said politely, "I wondered if the storm last night kept anybody else awake."
Lady Bramley replied sharply that storms never kept her from sleep. Her tone suggested that they wouldn't dare try. But Georgiana looked at the master of the house, waiting to see what he would say.
"I suppose I bloody-well slept. What does it matter to you?"
"Henry!" his aunt cried. "Language!"
Today he had tucked in his shirt and tied his neck cloth, but there was still no waistcoat or jacket. Perhaps the sling made it too difficult, she thought. The sling which he, interestingly enough, didn't appear to need last night.
"Why don't you escort Miss Hathaway to the dining room for breakfast, Henry?" his aunt demanded. "Light a fire in there too. It's bitterly cold."
"Can't Brown do it?"
"Brown is too busy here with me. There is much to do until my staff can get here through the floods. You know how to light a fire, surely."
"It's June," he grumbled.
"You may not have looked out of a window yet this morning, or even raised your head far out of your books, but it's cold as a Scotsman's kneecaps in this house. Summer or not, I could see my breath this morning when I came downstairs."
"Oh....blast!" His eyes swept briefly back to Georgiana, before he swiveled around and disappeared behind the door frame.
She hesitated, not knowing if she ought to follow.
Suddenly his head ducked back to look at her. "Bestir your stumps, Miss Hathaway! I have other things to do today, you know."
Georgiana hurried after him.
* * * *
He heard her feet tapping along the corridor behind his own long stride, but he didn't slow down to wait for her. When women ventured into places where they were not welcomed — like his ship, for instance— they could fend for themselves.
"Your aunt said you don't often have houseguests, sir." She caught up with him as he reached the dining room door.
He shot her his most menacing glare. "I try not to."
"Don't you like company?"
"Company has a tendency to complicate a man's simple life. At the very least, it demands that he get dressed."
Undaunted by his cross tone, the girl nodded somberly. "I daresay, since you managed on that deserted island, you are accustomed to being alone. But that doesn't mean other folk should not have the pleasure of your company. You must have many fascinating stories to tell."
"Most not fit for mixed company, Miss Hathaway."
"That makes them all the more intriguing. We ladies are not nearly as delicate as you've been led to believe."
He was still thinking about that, and assessing her mischievous smile, when she glanced at his sling and said, "Does it hurt very much?"
He clutched his elbow. "Sometimes worse than others."
"May I look at it?"
"Certainly not."
"The doctor at home used to say he'd never known a girl so unmoved by the sight of blood and broken bones. I helped him set my little brother's arm once, when he fell out of a tree. He was protesting, you see, because he did not want to leave our home in the country and move to London. The poor child thought that if he hid no one would be able to leave until he was found again. But as I told him later, he was lucky anybody noticed he was gone, because if it was me they would not have cared. My elder sister fainted at the sight of that misshapen limb when they carried him in to the parlor and my stepmother was reduced to hysterics, but I retained my full capacities to be useful."
"A fascinating story. May I ask why you felt compelled to relay it to me?"
"To show I have experience in these matters, that I am not squeamish and I can help you."
"Isn't that nice? Fortunately for me I am not reduced to the care of young girls who can barely manage themselves. The doctor here in the village tends my maladies quite sufficiently."
"All of them?"
Harry stared down at her impertinent face. "I am in good health. He is not greatly taxed with my care."
She nodded, lips pressed tight.
As he turned to reach for the door handle, she abruptly exclaimed, "Last night your wrist did not seem to hurt you at all."
The door handle turned, but there was no opening movement. It was stuck. "Last night?"
"Don't you remember?" she said.
His hand slipped from the handle. He spun around and scowled his hardest, but she stood there looking up at him, her face innocent.
"I came out of my room last night and found you in the passage, sir."
"I think you must have been dreaming, Miss Hathaway."
"No, sir. I believe you were dreaming."
See, he thought angrily, this is what happens when you let people in. You're not fit for female company.
Frustrated, he resumed pushing at the door to open it. The damp, warped wood required several hearty thumps of his shoulder before it finally opened, accompanied by a sound like a cracking whip. A small chunk of plaster fell to the floor and shattered on impact. As he stepped over the mess, he saw that Brown had set some cold toast, cake, butter, and jam out on the dining table, along with a pot of chocolate kept warm over a little candle.
"Well, there you are," he exclaimed gruffly, waving a hand loosely in that direction, "breakfast. I trust you can manage to feed yourself."
But as he spoke, his words formed quick puffs of cloud before his face. It was, as his aunt had said, rather chilly that day. In the cozy surroundings of his study he had not noticed the cold temperature, but once he ventured out of his sanctuary he found the rest of the house definitely in need of warmth. He supposed he ought to make that fire for the girl, especially since she was reduced to wearing a gown that looked paper thin.
Before he could take another step, however, his guest went directly to the hearth, professing herself capable of making a fire without his help.
"Although your aunt calls me a revolutionary," she smiled, "I am not going to burn your house down." Then she put her chin higher. "Unless you make me very angry. I do have quite a temper when roused."
"Indeed. So I witnessed once before."
As she stood at the hearth, grey, rain-streaked daylight slipped through the window and sought her out with tentative fingers. Lit by this moving, shifting pattern of shadow and light, she might have been a ghost standing there in her inappropriate ball gown— some impish spirit sent from the past to cause trouble. Behind her one of the old curtains had, at some point in its history, been torn from its hooks and left to hang dejectedly, that twisted, frayed shape moving in the draft, adding to the impression of a haunting, otherworldly vision.
What happened last night when he met her in the darkened corridor? He wished he could remember. Damn!
Harry rubbed his creased brow with two fingers, trying to ease the dull ache that lurked there— sign of a sleepless night, alas. Dimly he remembered a vision in a white nightgown, dark hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. Laces tied in a knot. A smooth thigh slipping under his palm, soft as satin.
Increasingly alarmed by the possibilities, Harry studied her slyly from beneath his fingers and with a safe distance of several feet between them. The woma
n did not appear harmed by the encounter, fortunately.
She was cheerful and had mentioned the meeting quite casually, not with any tone of accusation. Now she hummed a nonchalant tune and stood before the cold hearth, pretending— most unconvincingly— that she knew how to light a fire. In a ball gown as dainty and fragile as a butterfly's wing. Her strange attire was actually not so out of place in his surreal existence, he mused.
"Better close the door to keep the heat in," she said.
Ah, but it was not entirely proper to be in that room with her, behind a closed door, was it? Parkes would remind him, if she was there. Hesitating for a few moments, he finally decided to err on the side of caution and leave it slightly ajar. Wouldn't want it getting stuck again while they were inside together.
Or was that part of her scheme?
It might have been a number of years since Harry ventured out into society, but he remembered the ruthless and mercenary business of husband hunting, and how some young girls would stop at nothing to bag their prey.
In his experience, these things were best nipped in the bud immediately. It saved everybody a vast amount of time and trouble.
He cleared his throat loudly and then announced, "You may as well know this from the start, Miss Hathaway— I am not disposed to acquire a wife. Whatever you may have been advised, I do not need one, nor do I want one. I am quite content. So please do not form any romantic fancies about me while you're here. If you do, you are destined for crushing disappointment."
She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, lips parted.
"My memory might be unreliable at times, but I do remember well what young women are like," he added. "And it has been my aunt's oft-expressed desire to see me married for some time now. I'm afraid she may have brought you here with misguided intentions."
After a lengthy pause, the young woman finally moved her lips. "I appreciate the candid statement, sir, but I doubt your aunt brought me here for that purpose. I'm hardly the sort of woman she'd want for her only nephew. My accomplishments are not the right kind, neither are my looks, and she says I talk too much."
"Yes, well, true as all that is, she could be verging on desperate by now and ready to lower her standards. My aunt is very determined when she has a bee in her bonnet."
"As am I. And I am not looking for a husband, sir." She gave a short, dry chuckle. "I would only misplace him, or forget to feed him, or something equally dire. So... now we have got all that straight from the beginning and we can be quite at ease with each other. Perhaps, if you are staying to eat, you can stop hovering by the door. I promise not to cause you any bodily harm."
After a moment's hesitation, Harry cautiously approached the fireplace. "I thought matrimony was the aim on every young woman's mind at that school," he muttered. "Especially when she reaches a certain age. Indeed, I understand there is not much room for any other idea in such a young lady's mind. I've never found evidence of one."
"Then it will surprise you to learn that young women often have other plans for their future. Not every girl seeks the bother of a husband. Men, as I have observed, are most often in the way."
"In the way?" he repeated, bemused.
"I mean to have all manner of adventures, to travel extensively and explore, not to be told where I can and cannot go. I will take charge of my own life, be answerable only to myself, and not live in fear of disappointing or displeasing anybody." She took a quick breath. "Your aunt says you're very busy with your work."
How swiftly she diverted the subject.
"Yes," he replied, rasping fingers over his unshaven cheek. "My work."
"What sort of work?"
"Naught of interest to you."
Her left eyebrow quirked. "How do you know what would interest me? We've already ascertained that you know little to nothing about young women." She added smugly, "Particularly this one."
Since her gown was already marked with coal dust and ashes, and fire had yet to appear, Harry decided he'd better help. She was too stubborn to ask for assistance. "Apparently I know as much about young ladies as you know about lighting a fire." Lowering quickly to one knee beside her, he fumbled to open the flue with his good hand. His other wrist was throbbing.
Now, where was the bloody tinder box?
She passed it down to him before he asked for it. Then, quite suddenly, she dropped to her knees at his side. Very close. It seemed quite casual, unconsciously done.
But he almost dropped the tinderbox.
Last night Parkes had wryly asked for whom he was most afraid— Miss Hathaway or himself. He did not yet have an answer.
"This is a lovely room," she was saying, as he laid kindling wood over the grate, "or it could be, with a little tender, loving care. What a pity you have not used it often. It's been wasted for several years it seems. Abandoned to spiders and woodworm."
"There is little point in making Brown bring food all the way from the kitchen and light a fire in here, merely so that I can eat at the grand table in solitary splendor."
"No, I suppose not. Such a great shame however— all this lovely old house with only you and Mr. Brown rattling around inside. I grew up in a much smaller house and there were nine of us in it."
When Harry stole a quick glance at her face again, her attention was absorbed by the task ahead of them and she seemed quite unaware of anything unusual or discomforting about her proximity. He took the sly opportunity to study the stubborn upward tilt of her nose and that dent in her cheek, above which some faded ink markings yet remained.
"Sretrag esool ydal," he said.
She sat back on her heels. "Is that Latin?"
"You tell me." Harry pointed with a scrap of kindling wood at her right cheek where, despite her frenzied rubbing, the remnants of ink had left this curious message. Unfortunately for her he was adept at reading backwards. "Lady Loose Garters?"
She was silent, but he could almost hear the cogwheels of her mind turning as she sought for an answer. Those lengthy lashes blinked several times in quick succession. "It was a letter to a dear friend," she muttered eventually, blushing pink and snatching the strip of kindling from his hand. "Let's get on with the fire. It's awfully cold."
"You don't look cold," he observed.
Her cheeks flushed with even brighter color. She grabbed a shovel of coal and tossed it onto the wood kindling with such savagery that several lumps scattered across the hearth.
Harry was intrigued. "With what sort of friend would you discuss loose garters, Miss Hathaway? I doubt my aunt would approve. Such a subject is surely not within the bounds of her rules for young ladies."
"Why should I not discuss stocking garters, loose or otherwise, with my dear friend? Besides, what do you care about the rules?" she replied archly. "I rather got the impression that you didn't. You said that Mr. Brown knew more about them than you do."
He gave a gruff laugh. "That was manners."
"Is it not the same thing?" As she licked her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth, he imagined suddenly that he could taste it, could feel that softness yielding under his kiss.
His pulse was very rapid, his thigh too warm where she knelt near him. It was hot enough to ignite the tinder before he even struck the steel with the flint.
"Miss Hathaway, if anything... untoward... occurred last night—"
"Such as?"
He did not answer that, but said firmly, "You should not be wandering about the house in the dark. Brown should have told you. Perhaps, from now on, you will stay in your bed at night."
"Will you stay in yours?"
Again he did not reply, but turned his full attention to the fire until a flame leapt among the kindling wood and then caught upon the coals. Once satisfied, Harry quickly got up, brushed down his knee and took a seat at the table, where he began scooping jam onto his plate in a lavish heap. He hadn't meant to eat breakfast and had only brought her to the room on his aunt's orders, but now, suddenly, he had an appetite. And a sweet tooth.
; It was unsettling, of course, to have a new person in his house. She disturbed the dust— of which there was plenty— and his routine, which, until then, he had not known existed. He thought his life was unbalanced before, so how was it possible that she upset the equilibrium?
Anxious to forget the presence of this young woman, her questioning eyes, distracting eyelashes, and ink-smudged cheek, Harry tried fixing his mind elsewhere. But his thoughts were muddled, spinning in circles.
What the devil did happen last night?
In desperation, his gaze swept the dining room again, searching for a memory of the last meal he'd enjoyed there. Faded images floated through the stale air—of his restless father seeking satisfaction, but never finding it with the many women he brought to that table. A fleet of them, all much the same in looks and temperament, now that Harry thought of it. They had all been very similar to his mother. But they did not fill the space she had left in their life. If that was his father's intention with those other women, it failed miserably.
Miss Hathaway was nothing like them. She did not wait to be spoken to, or hide her thoughts behind a false smile. She did not watch fearfully from the corner of her eye and cringe when he spoke curtly.
She was now shaking dust out of that drooping curtain and sneezing violently in the subsequent fog cloud.
Where the devil was Parkes this morning? The woman had not appeared yet to make any comment about him eating breakfast, or reminding him to dress decently now that he had guests in the house.
"There's a terrible draft through this window, sir. You ought to have somebody fix it."
Ah. Miss Hathaway, it seemed, was here to nag him since Parkes was not.
"Goodness, will this rain never let up," she added with a sigh, turning her back to him and rubbing her arms while she looked out of the window. Now she had soot on her sleeves too. Didn't seem to notice. Another thing that made her different to other women who had dined in that room.
He should get back to work. A gloomy, damp day like this was perfect for reading or working in his cozy study. But, instead, he found himself reaching for another piece of toast and venturing into the realms of proper conversation. "How did you enjoy your time at the ladies academy, Miss Hathaway?"
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 12