Mrs. Batey hurried from the room, barely getting out a “Yes, milord,” as she did so.
Taking a deep breath, Henry realized it was probably the first in a long time. The fear he had felt at thinking he had lost Hannah had been palpable. How could a woman he had only known a couple of weeks have such an effect on him? Yes, she was beautiful, but her physical beauty had nothing to do with how her simple presence in a room seemed to make it so much brighter. Or how her simple kiss on his cheek made him feel so glad to be home when he returned from a day working in the fields. He had been looking forward to that kiss tonight, he realized, the thought buoying him after the setbacks his laborers had encountered while working on the new ditch. They hadn’t even worked that day due to the chilly conditions.
Unconsciously, his grip on Hannah tightened, and he absently kissed the top of her head as he considered what life would be like without her. Sarah was becoming distant, almost as if she no longer wanted him as her lover and protector. His son would be going to Abingdon soon. Empty, he thought, his lips returning to Hannah’s head. Only she had angled her head up a bit, and his kiss fell on her forehead, the heat of her skin searing his lips. He pulled her away from his body a bit, startled to see her cheeks bright red. Fever!
“My lord?” Murphy stood near the doorway, unsure if he should enter the lady’s bedchamber. A crystal decanter hung from one hand while two glasses were in another.
“Come,” Henry called out, repositioning Hannah so he could remove his coat from around her body. “Help me get this off of her. I think she has a fever,” he spoke in a voice that sounded like one that had commanded soldiers.
Murphy was there in an instant, having deposited the brandy and glasses on a nearby table. The valet expertly removed the coat and mantle, placing them both over one arm. Then he knelt and undid the laces of her half-boots, pulling them off as he turned his gaze up to meet Henry’s. “Should I have Parkerhouse send for the doctor, my lord?” Murphy wondered, his brows furrowing. Lady Gisborn’s boots were stiff from the cold, although he noted she wore more than silk stockings beneath them.
Henry gave the question some consideration. With the snow and growing chill in the air, it would be cruel to require the physician to make the two mile trip from Bampton. Not to mention the poor footman that would have to make the trip to Bampton in the first place. “No. I’m rather hoping brandy will be medicinal enough. Would you pour some? And where is Lady Gisborn’s maid?” he wondered as he noticed the valet still held his wife’s boots and mantle.
“Miss Parker is not in residence, my lord,” the valet paused as he considered how to tell his master that it was the maid’s day off. “She is visiting her parents at the Coley house,” he finally got out. At Gisborn’s look of disbelief, he added, “Miss Parker is due back first thing in the morning.”
Boggled, Henry bit back an angry retort. Lily was barely back from her trip with Babcock and now she was off to Bampton. The sooner she and Billy were married, the better.
Murphy took a deep breath. “At the risk of sounding impertinent, my lord, has Lady Gisborn … has she mentioned anything about the lack of staff here?” he wondered, keeping his voice low. “I realize this is not the best time to be bringing up the matter,” he said by way of an apology.
Henry shook his head. Not only had Hannah not mentioned any concerns she might have had about the lack of maids and kitchen help, she hadn’t spoken one word of complaint when Lily had gone missing. She had even dressed herself and arranged own hair. What other daughter of an aristocrat would have been so accepting of such conditions? And not voice a word of complaint? His uncle’s years of miserly behavior might have left the earldom flush with funds, but the cost to correct the years of—how had Lord Bostwick put it?—deferred maintenance—would drain the coffers if Henry wasn’t careful. Well, there was certainly enough to hire more staff, more maids, at least. “I hear the Stewards have a daughter who is seeking employment in service,” Henry stated by way of a suggestion.
Murphy’s eyebrow cocked up. “Do you wish me to inform Parkerhouse?”
“Yes,” Henry spoke firmly. “We need another maid or two in this house.”
“Very well, my lord,” Murphy said, handing a glass of brandy to Henry as he did so. He left the other on the table next to his master and took his leave of the room.
Henry brought the glass next to Hannah’s lips, thinking the smoky scent would be enough to awaken her. Although she didn’t stir, Henry heard her faint whisper of “Harold”.
Oh, how he wished she would say his name like she did that damned dog’s name!
He was about to chide himself for his uncharitable thought—Harold had saved his son, after all—when he heard his name whispered.
And it did sound like a prayer. As if she had overheard his thoughts. “Hannah?” he whispered. He put down the glass and shook her gently, stroked the back of a finger down one of her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered and then opened. “Thank God,” he breathed, holding her tighter against his body.
Hannah stared up at Henry, her mind a jumble, as if she couldn’t tell where a dream stopped and reality began. “Henry?” she whispered in reply. She attempted to push herself away from his body, to look around at their surroundings. “Where? What?” she murmured.
His tense body suddenly relaxing, Henry repositioned her on his lap and kissed her temple and forehead. “Do you think you can take some brandy?” he offered, holding the glass to her lips. Hannah gave him a look that suggested he should not be offering her spirits, but she sipped a bit, not the least bothered by the strong flavor or the burn she felt as it reached the back of her throat. “You’ve had an awful shock,” he whispered.
The words seemed to bring her back to reality. He felt her body tense, saw her cornflower blue eyes widen before tears welled up in them. “Harold died,” she whispered, one gloved hand covering her mouth.
“I know, I … I found you with him. He went back to the same place where he and Nathan were yesterday.” He didn’t know what else to say so he merely held her for a few more minutes, coaxing her to drink more of the brandy. When she had drained the glass, Henry set it aside and then used two fingers to begin pulling the gloves, one finger at a time, from Hannah’s hand.
“He was old, you know,” Hannah whispered before a sob wracked her body. “It’s been at least ten years since Father brought him back from Italy,” she explained, her tears subsiding nearly as quickly as they had started. “He was still a puppy then. Father was allowed to take him from the den because he was generous with his support of the monks that lived in the Alps. They rescued his friend, you see. Mr. Aldenwood was injured in a mountain pass …”
The name startled Henry. He had just removed one glove and was about to start on the other. “Aldenwood? The adventurer?” Henry interrupted, remembering how her father had described the man who was known to have traveled the world. The man who was now claiming the effects of a volcano would make this growing season especially difficult in Northern Europe. Henry still hadn’t decided what to plant, or even if he should give credence to Aldenwood’s prediction that the summer would be too cold and rainy to support a decent crop at all. If they could get the final drainage ditch dug, they could at least channel the excess water to the river. But even wheat required sunlight to grow. One large greenhouse was under construction. There was plenty of timber to erect the frame of the second greenhouse. He had already talked to the glazier in Bampton about glass panes. If the man wasn’t able to make enough for a greenhouse or two, then oilcloth could be used in its stead.
Henry’s mind was racing when he realized Hannah was still speaking.
“Yes,” Hannah nodded. “He had a badly sprained ankle, so my father continued without him until he spotted an Alpenmastiff on the trail. The dog had supplies—he had been sent by the monks to help them, you see,” she explained in a whisper, “And one of the bitches had given birth to a litter a couple of months earlier. The monks could
n’t afford to keep all the dogs, of course, so Father was allowed to take Harold.” She took a deep breath and sighed, burrowing herself against Henry, fighting the sobs she could feel coming from the very center of her body.
Mrs. Batey hurried into the room with a tray of cups and two pots. “Tea and chocolate, my lord,” she said as she set the tray on the table nearest the fireplace. “How is she?”
Henry gave the housekeeper a cursory glance. “I think she has a fever, but she seems in one piece, at least.” His wife had fallen asleep, her occasional jerks and trembles suggesting her sleep was filled with nightmares. “Could you help me get her into bed?” he whispered, slowly rising to stand with Hannah’s limp body held in his arms.
“Of course, my lord,” Mrs. Batey replied with a nod, hurrying to turn down the bed linens. “I’ll see if I can’t find a nightgown …”
“Behind the pillow,” Henry said as he motioned with his head toward the front of the bed. He had to fight the sudden flush he felt coloring his face; how many husbands knew where their wives kept their bed clothes? Of course, it was there because that’s where he had stuffed it after removing it from her body the two nights before, hiding it from her so she couldn’t insist on pulling it back on after they had made love.
He thought of this morning, of how hard it had been to take his leave of her and the warm bed, of how hard his erection had been even as he made his way through the cold room to his own. It had been that strange tug on his heart that made him leave the ruby pendant and chain on her pillow when he had returned to her room to say his farewell for the day.
Sitting her on the bed, Henry noticed the ruby pendant as it caught the faint lamplight, red streaks flashing out from where it rested in the hollow of her throat. She’s wearing it! He placed the front of her body against his as he leaned over to undo the series of buttons down her back. He was aware of Mrs. Batey’s barely contained gasp as he lifted her to a standing position and lowered her bodice and sleeves. “Can you ..?” he hinted, keeping Hannah up as the suddenly efficient housekeeper stepped forward and stripped his wife of her gown and petticoats.
“At least she put on more petticoats,” Mrs. Batey commented as she removed the third one. “Should I leave her stockings on, my lord?” she wondered then, not sure if the earl expected her to remove his wife’s corset and chemise while he was still in the room.
“Are they dry?” he asked, reluctantly pulling his attention away from Hannah’s bare shoulders and the curve of her neck. A quick memory of Lady Charlotte’s back, with its series of black stitches marching between her shoulder blades, came unbidden. Where Charlotte would have scars from those stitches—from the wound put there by a horsewhip—for the rest of her life, Hannah would have smooth, creamy skin that molded beautifully over sensuous shoulder blades and the delicate bumps of her spine. It took every fiber of his being not to stroke that smooth skin right now, not to place the palm of his hand against that space between the triangular bones and simply revel in touching her, in allowing the warmth of his hand to seep into her.
“A bit damp, I think,” Mrs. Batey replied with a shake of her head. “And cold,” she added under her breath, her head shaking as if she couldn’t fathom the countess’ strange foray. She pulled the stockings and socks off Hannah’s feet before loosening the ties of the corset. Giving the earl a questioning look, she waited until Henry nodded.
“She is my wife. I have seen all of her, Mrs. Batey. You needn’t worry about propriety.”
The housekeeper had to close her mouth quickly or risk looking like a fool to her employer. A few tugs and a swish of the fine silk of her chemise, and Hannah was left bare. With the warmth of the fabric removed from her, Hannah’s skin turned to gooseflesh. Mrs. Batey quickly pulled the nightgown over Hannah’s head while Henry helped to smooth it down around her body. Satisfied she was ready for bed, Henry lifted her into it. “Parkerhouse brought up brandy. Could you refill her glass? And I could use a cup of tea,” he murmured, thinking this had to be the most he had asked of the housekeeper since he had moved into Gisborn Hall upon his uncle’s death. “And could you bring up dinner when it’s ready? Along with a hot brick? My lady’s feet are freezing,” he added then, pulling off his boots and stockings.
Mrs. Batey nodded nervously, not accustomed to the earl undressing in front of her. She hurried over to the tea service, pouring a cup while she tried not to watch as Henry climbed into the bed, positioning himself so he sat against the upholstered headboard before pulling Hannah into his arms and the bed linens up and over the both of them. And then, her face a bright red, Mrs. Batey gave him the tea, left the glass of brandy on the night stand, and performed a quick curtsy before leaving the room.
Henry placed a feather pillow behind his back and pulled another to prop up the arm that held Hannah. Downing the tea, he leaned over Hannah to place the cup on the night stand. She murmured something unintelligible, a tinge of sadness in her voice. He sensed quite suddenly the growing spot of wetness in the linen of his shirt under where her head rested. She’s weeping. His heart clenched, a sudden need to comfort her overwhelming him. Sighing, Henry rather wished he had completed undressing, even if it would have scandalized poor Mrs. Batey. Deciding he could at least get out of his breeches, he moved Hannah to his side and pushed them off under the covers, tossing them over the side of the bed.
Even before he could reposition Hannah in his arms, she had turned onto her side, her body clinging to his bare thigh, one arm bent so her hand rested next to his manhood and her head rested on his hip. He had to stifle a chuckle. At the moment, that area was the warmest part of his body. But if she opened her eyes, she might not appreciate the sight of his manhood only inches in front of her. Lifting her back onto his body, he held her close, whispered into her hair and sprinkled feather kisses along the top of her face, telling himself he was checking for fever. She was warm, and the weight of her curled body made Henry succumb to the drowsiness that suddenly enveloped his entire body. Within moments, he was sound asleep.
Chapter 19
Hannah Falls in Love with Her Husband
Hannah stared out the window, her elbows resting on the sill as her chin lay atop her hands. She had awakened to find the household quiet and Henry gone from the bed. She was sure he had been there, holding her, stroking her arm and kissing her temple as she wept and shivered.
Or had she dreamed that?
Had he spent the entire night in her bed? She remembered feeling … protected. The thought reminded her of why she had felt such sorrow.
Harold. Poor Harold.
The excitement of the day before yesterday, when he had rescued Nathan from the river, had obviously been too much for his aged heart and his old body. To have chosen to die so near to where Nathan had nearly lost his life, though—perhaps he had done so because he knew she would look for him there.
She wondered if she could ask Gisborn to have his body buried where he lay. Would he think her request foolish? She couldn’t stand the thought of Harold laying out on the hillock like that. A tear escaped the corner of her eye. Thinking she should wipe it away, she instead ignored it and continued to stare out over Gisborn’s lands to the south. If she squinted, she might make out the tops of the tress that lined the riverbank.
The farmland went all the way to the river and extended to the east and west beyond her line of sight. Instead of the typical one-acre strips of farmland that surrounded Bampton, Gisborn had managed to combine his tracts into several large farm fields for his tenants.
The fact that he worked with his tenants to improve their situation seemed out of the ordinary for an earl. Instead of the seven pence a day a typical farmer in Bampton might earn, Henry was determined that those who farmed his lands would earn eight pence a day or more. He was so unlike the other men of the ton! She knew of no other earl that labored in his fields—most had estate managers to oversee such details, and even those men wouldn’t dirty their hands with the actual worki
ng of the land. But Gisborn was up early every day, riding out on his horse to wherever the next project lay unfinished. He was a responsible land owner, she realized. A good man.
He is my husband.
She sighed as she continued to stare out the window.
Henry strode into the entry hall, glancing into the various rooms as he passed them, hoping to find Hannah awake and dressed and doing whatever it was countesses were expected to do every day.
But the house was strangely quiet.
Perhaps she had gone calling on the villagers, he hoped. He found Mrs. Batey dusting the statuary in the parlor. “Good morning, Mrs. Batey,” he greeted her, not wanting to startle her with his sudden presence for fear the bust of his uncle’s father would tumble from its perch on a wooden pedestal.
“Oh! My lord, I did not hear you come in!” she answered, suddenly a bit flustered. From the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze, Henry thought she was no doubt remembering the sight of him undressing his wife the night before. Or perhaps she had seen him sleeping whilst he held Hannah when she delivered the dinner tray later that night.
Before she could say more and in an effort to stave off further embarrassment, Henry asked after Hannah. “Is Lady Gisborn making calls?” He could immediately tell from the way the housekeeper’s eyes darted about that Lady Gisborn was most certainly not making calls. “What is it, Mrs. Batey? Is she here?” Good God, would she have gone running off again? If so, Henry hoped she wouldn’t have gone back to where Harold had died. He had arranged for two of the laborers to retrieve the corpse, although he wasn’t yet sure where he would have them bury it.
“She’s still in her bedchamber, my lord,” the housekeeper answered, her hands nervously wringing together in her apron. “I took chocolate up to her at ten, but when I checked on her again at eleven, she hadn’t touched it. She just stares out the window, my lord. She’s still in her night clothes, but she must be freezing …”
Love Regency Style Page 285