Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Something’s wrong,” Hannah said in a voice that com­manded attention. She realized her dog’s fur was wet, which could only mean he had been in the river.

  “I agree. I do believe it’s time for your dog to take his place in the stables,” Henry said with a good deal of anger. Hannah was shaking her head, though, slowly making her way toward the dog.

  “No, Henry. Something’s wrong,” she repeated. She began moving as quickly as her skirts would allow, following Harold as he turned and headed out into the field.

  “Hannah!” Henry called out, alarmed at his wife’s behav­ior. What the hell? But he had heard the alarm in her voice, heard the tinge of panic, and now she was running over the furrows in the field, following her damned dog as it bounded over the newly plowed field. “O’Conlin!” Henry called out, turning to hurry toward the stables.

  Billy emerged from just inside the door, his hands still holding onto the reins of Thunder. “Yes, my lord?” he asked in surprise.

  “I guess I’m not done with him yet,” Henry said in a heavy sigh as he yanked the reins from the stable boy. He was mounted on Thunder and racing after his wife and Harold before he was even properly settled in the saddle. Despite the speed of Thunder, he was amazed at how much ground Han­nah had already covered as she hurried after her dog.

  “Hannah!” he called out, slowing his mount until he was abreast of her. He reached down and motioned for her to grab his arm. Her eyes wide, Hannah reached out, and in a quick and frightening motion, she was suddenly airborne and then seated quite firmly in front of her husband.

  “Where the hell is he going?” Henry shouted above the sound of Thunder’s hooves as he pounded over the furrows.

  Hannah struggled to catch her breath, her head pressing into Henry’s chest. “The river, I think. He’s wet!” she managed to get out, realizing Harold’s path followed one he had already made through the freshly turned soil. She could see up ahead where it had broken the top edge of furrows all the way to the edge of the field. Beyond that, there was a stand of trees that fronted the river. “Oh, Jesus,” she heard Henry say.

  Thunder had caught up to Harold, but Henry spurred his horse to move beyond the dog, following the tracks clearly marked ahead. Once they were past the fields, they could hear Harold barking behind them as they picked their way through the trees and to the river bank. In the growing gloom of twi­light, Hannah looked in vain for a sign of something, someone.

  Harold broke through the trees several yards west of their location, barking as he did so.

  “There!” she called out, pointing to where a body lay on the river bank. In only a moment, she was suddenly gripped around the middle and was being lowered to the muddy bank. Her slippers sank into the soft mud as she tried to make her way to the boy who lay lifeless next to the water. “Nathan!” she heard from somewhere to the side.

  Henry had knelt next to his son, moving his hand beneath the boy’s head to cradle it. His clothes and hair were soaked. “Nathan!” he shouted again.

  Panting hard, slobber dripping from his mouth, Harold nudged her arm. “Oh, Harold,” she murmured, wrapping one arm around the dog’s neck. “Good dog,” she said as she allowed the dog to lick her cheek. She considered how long it had been since Harold had found the boy. But Harold was damp. He had obviously been in the river, too. “He couldn’t have been here long. Harold would have run the whole way,” she said in desperation.

  She watched as Henry lifted Nathan from the muddy ground. “He’s alive,” he said, a whoosh of relief sounding as he took a deep breath.

  “Take him on the horse,” Hannah ordered, her other arm wrapping around Harold’s neck. Henry gave her a questioning look. “I can walk back with Harold,” she added, her breaths still coming in short gasps, as were Harold’s. “Go!” she said, a bit too harshly.

  Adjusting his hold on his son, Henry nodded to his wife.

  He lifted his son to the saddle and then mounted Thunder. He rode off, cradling the boy’s body to his front. He turned around several times as his horse raced back toward the house, looking in vain for Hannah and Harold. Before he could con­firm they were following him, he was back at the house, Billy running out to help, and Mrs. Batey calling out to Parkerhouse to send for a doctor, and Mrs. Chambers bringing hot towels to wrap around Nathan.

  Henry had no idea how much time had passed from when he had left Hannah and Harold at the riverbank to when the doctor arrived and was seeing after his son.

  Cold, wet, and disoriented, Nathan woke to find a cadre of people staring down at him. He grinned suddenly. “I walked the gangplank,” he said proudly, his blue eyes all mischief.

  His father stared down at him with a look somewhere between concern and anger. “You mean, you walked off the gangplank,” he retorted.

  The memory of what he had been doing just before the log twisted sideways was replaced with the nightmare of hanging over the icy river. “I tried holding on,” Nathan said, his voice suddenly feeble. “But I lost my grip.” He lifted his head to look around the room, between the people that made up the crowd that hovered over him. “Where’s Harold?” he squeaked. “He was my first mate,” he said, trying to make it sound like every­thing was fine. Surely, everything was fine.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Henry said suddenly, his hand coming away from his son’s head. He looked around the room, expecting to find Hannah amongst those in the parlor. When he realized she wasn’t there, he left his son’s side and hurried out into the hall. “Hannah!” he called out, making his way to the stairs. Certainly she had arrived home safely. Harold was with her.

  He’d had every intention of going back after her, every intention of taking a mantle with him to wrap around her. The evening had already turned chilly even before he had returned with his son. If she was still out there …

  “Here,” he heard her quiet voice. Henry turned to see her sitting on the floor of the vestibule, Harold’s huge panting body spread out over the tiled marble floor. Hannah had her arms wrapped around his neck, much the way she had when he had left her at the riverbank. The dog’s fur was still damp from his swim in the river.

  “Hannah!” he said as he rushed to her side, lowering him­self to his knees. “Good God, I’m so sorry. I …”

  “How is he?” she interrupted him, her face streaked with tears. Mud lined the hem of her skirts and was smeared over most of the rest of her gown from when she had lowered her­self to the river bank. Her slippers, ruined from mud and water and the walk back to Gisborn Hall, had been abandoned near the front door. “Is he … alive?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Henry replied with as shake of his head. “He’s a Forster. Too dumb to die of exposure,” he said in the most self-deprecating manner he could manage. “He was walking the gangplank and apparently fell in,” he said by way of explanation. “Says he doesn’t remember anything after hit­ting the water.”

  Harold lifted his head and whined.

  “Harold must have fished him out,” Henry said quietly.

  Nodding, Hannah lowered her face to Harold’s head. “Good dog,” she whispered as she allowed a wan smile.

  “Cook said she would make him a special dinner,” Henry said with a matching smile. “Come on,” he said as he stood up and held out his hand.

  Just then, the front door flew open. Sarah rushed in, out of breath and quite agitated. Her eyes flew to Henry. “Is he here?” she practically shouted. “Oh, Henry, I swear you had better take the switch to him …” Her voice trailed off as she took in the sight of the Countess of Gisborn sitting on the tiled floor with the top half of her muddied dog cradled on her lap. “Oh,” she managed to get out, offering an awkward curtsy.

  Hannah had to suppress a grin. I must look a sight in my ruined gown, my tear-stained face. “Hello, Sarah. Nathan is here and apparently on the mend,” she said quietly, thinking someone had been sent to fetch the boy’s mother.

  Sarah’s eyes widened again as she looked between Hannah and Henry. “What happ
ened?” she asked, her gaze finally rest­ing on Henry. “He was supposed to be home before dark,” she claimed in a voice that couldn’t seem to decide if it was pan­icked or angry. Hannah thought perhaps it was a little of both.

  From her vantage point on the floor, Hannah watched as Henry held out an arm to Sarah. Her shoulder was suddenly under it as he wrapped it around her back and led her to the parlor, all the while explaining what had happened in a calm, quiet voice, his held tilted down so his cheek almost rested on the top of her head. Stunned at how easily Sarah had cur­ried his sympathy, how quickly Henry had taken her under his wing—literally!—Hannah felt a stab of … anger?

  No.

  How could she feel anger? Sarah was Nathan’s mother. Henry loved her. Of course, he would do everything he could to calm her, to reassure her that everything was going to be fine.

  Sniffling, Hannah acknowledged the emotion she felt as jealousy. Henry had been about to offer his assistance in help­ing her to her feet, and then suddenly, he was seeing to Sarah.

  Gulping back a sob, Hannah hugged Harold so hard he let out a whine of complaint. Which only made Hannah cry harder. “Oh, Harold,” she whispered, burying her face into his neck.

  When she had finally cried her last tear, Hannah managed to get herself to her feet and make her way to her bedchamber, leaving Harold to sleep in the vestibule.

  Chapter 18

  Harold Disappears

  Mrs. Batey hummed while she dusted the round table near the entry, her white mobcap askew and her cheeks the red­dest Hannah had ever seen. Despite the calendar’s insistence that it was April, Hannah wore a winter gown and her thickest silk stockings. She had even donned another petticoat as pro­tection against the chill in the air. That morning’s sunrise had been a glorious pink and ruby and promised a clear, warm day. It had been anything but.

  “Have you been outside, Mrs. Batey?” Hannah wondered as she wandered past the housekeeper, her eyes on the front entry windows. She could swear she saw something just then fall from the sky. Too slow to be a raindrop, she wondered if it was snow.

  “Goodness, no, milady. It’s far too cold to be out if I don’t have ta be,” the older woman answered, a faint northern county accent tinging her voice.

  Hannah stood before the windows staring out at a rather gray scene. It was snowing. This was the kind of weather Harold had been born for, she considered, remembering her father’s tale of having acquired the dog from some monks in the Italian Alps. Harold had been a puppy then, old enough to leave the den but not yet trained in how to search for travel­ers in trouble. He had done a magnificent job in rescuing and warning them about Nathan, though, and she felt a great deal of pride that he had been the one to lead them to the poor boy. She recalled the look on her husband’s face when Harold had come to him, barking frantically and pulling at Gisborn until she’d had to explain that something was wrong. Harold would never behave that way unless someone was in trouble or needed help. And once Nathan was safely home with his mother and Gisborn had finally, very late, taken his leave of his mistress and their son, he had come straight to her and thanked her for insisting Harold join them at Gisborn Hall.

  Vindication, she remembered thinking on her dog’s behalf. But she still felt that pang of jealousy. She had wondered if more had happened at the dowager house than just the two of them tucking Nathan into his bed. Had he bedded Sarah? Had he told the mother of his son that he still loved her? She had almost gathered enough courage to ask him.

  But Henry kissed her. Gently, at first, and then with more force, his mouth taking possession of hers, his tongue open­ing her lips to plunder her mouth and render her entirely helpless. She had clung to him, returned the kiss as best she could, and made the quiet mewling sounds he seemed to understand as permission to take her. A simple kiss would have done the trick, she thought, for the touch of his lips to hers made her insides seem to take a tumble and liquid heat to build between her thighs. Within moments, she had been ripe and ready for him to impale her. And yet, he had taken his time in undoing the buttons down the back of her ruined gown, spent an unbearably long time removing it and her cor­set, and it seemed forever before he had her chemise off her body. He had continued to kiss her as he stretched her out on her bed, covering her body with his own, even though he still wore his linen shirt and breeches. His lips had traveled from her mouth to her neck and ears and the long column of her throat before taking purchase on each nipple. By then, her fingers had wound themselves into his thick, dark hair, their gentle guidance pulling his face down a bit farther so that her breasts were covered with his nips and licks and kisses. When her cries of delight and pleasure finally escaped, she was sure he would undress and take her then. She felt her frantic pulse deep inside, her core throbbing in anticipation for him. But he simply moved farther down the bed, farther down her body to move his lips onto the soft white flesh of her thighs and then into the dark curls. She hadn’t been conscious of spreading her legs for him, of tilting her hips so that his tongue could circle into her swollen folds and tease her womanhood. But I must have! For when the ecstasy had taken her, she remembered crying out his name, remembered how her entire body had finally succumbed to the pent up waves of pleasure that simply washed over her again and again until she had sighed.

  Her hands were still in his hair, she realized then. Strok­ing his head with the ends of her fingernails, she felt a shiver pass through him as he pulled himself away from her woman­hood. She wasn’t aware of his shirt coming off his body, of his breeches being removed or of anything else until he was cover­ing her with his body again. Knowing what to do, she had her thighs wrapped around his back even before she felt the moist tip of his engorged manhood enter her wet sheath.

  The sudden sensation of fullness caused her to inhale sharply, and he paused, holding himself very still, waiting for her to make the next move. Tilting her hips up a bit more, her motion forced him deeper into her. She was aware of his gasp then, of his groan, as he held himself still for a very long moment. And then he was pulling out, slowly, until she was sure he was leaving her body. Not quite sure of what she should do to stop his retreat, she clenched on him, wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled. There was a strangled groan, and he was back inside, deep and hard and filling her, the sensation rather pleasant. The rhythm of his quickening movements was easy to match, her hips lifting to meet his as he buried himself inside her again and again. And then the tension she had come to realize was arousal and cresting pleasure overwhelmed her. She clenched hard on him as the climax took her entire body in undulating pleasure.

  The growl that emanated from him began low in his body and erupted as his body spasmed hard against her and in her and over her. And then he was suddenly pressed against her, his head buried into the space between her neck and shoul­der, his body surrounding her, enveloping her in warmth, his heartbeats pounding against her breast much like she knew hers had to be pounding against his chest.

  They lay like that for a very long time.

  When he finally attempted to leave her body, she had clung to him, her “No!” the only sound besides his ragged breath near her ear. So he had wrapped his arms around her body and turned onto his back, taking her atop him while he reached for the bed linens and covered them both. Before sleep took her, she was aware of his lips on her forehead, of his heartbeat beneath her palm slowing with each breath, of his satisfied sigh as sleep took him.

  Hannah wondered if she had pleased him. She would have asked him had they woken up together. But when she had opened her eyes to the red hues of that morning’s sunrise, Henry was no longer in her bed. On the pillow where his head had been was a small velvet pouch. Hannah stared at it for a long time before she lifted it between two fingers and studied it. The satin rope drawstring, drawn tight at the opening, loos­ened when she pulled at the gathers. A golden chain with a ruby pendant slid out like liquid onto the bed linens. Startled, Hannah touched the warm metal with one finger and studied the round
-cut stone in its gold setting. The ruby glimmered in the odd morning light, casting its red hues this way and that. Glancing back where she had found the pouch, she saw a parchment folded into a tiny square. For my wife, For my countess, A ruby I give thee, For all that you have done, Henry. Hannah reread the masculine scrawl several times, touched that Henry Forster would bestow her with such a jewel before she had even borne him a child.

  Her hand reached to her belly, caressing it protectively. Had his seed taken root? Could she already be with child? A smile appeared on her face as she thought of a baby playing with Harold, how patient he would be with a toddler grabbing handfuls of his hair and begging to ride him like a horse. Har­old would be good with their baby, she thought.

  Where was he?

  She hadn’t seen the beast that morning. “Have you seen Harold?” she asked, turning from the glass of the vestibule window where her breath had created intricate patterns of frost on the pane. Her thumb and forefinger absently caressed the ruby pendant at the hollow of her neck.

  Mrs. Batey paused in her dusting of the potted palm in the hall, as if she had to give the question a good deal of thought before she answered. “No, milady. I haven’t seen him today. If he’s got any sense, he had been in the kitchen where it’s warm, though.”

  Hannah regarded the housekeeper for a moment. “I rather doubt Mrs. Chambers would allow him to spend too long in there,” she countered, remembering how the cook reacted upon meeting the Alpenmastiff the first day she had been in residence. At least the cook was more accepting of him now that she knew he ate scraps. It saved her from having to dis­pose of them.

  Becoming a bit alarmed, Hannah moved past the house­keeper and down the hall to the back servants’ stairs, her slip­pers tapping on the stone. She was nearly running when she reached the kitchen, its comforting warmth at odds with the rest of the house.