Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Henry was out of the parlor and taking the steps two at a time before Mrs. Batey could finish her sentence. When there was no response to his knock on Hannah’s bedchamber door, he opened it slightly and peered around the opening. “My lady?” His first glance was to the bed, but it had been made up and looked as if it hadn’t been slept in. Then his attention turned to the only source of light in the room. As he feared, Hannah was still staring out the window, her forearms rest­ing on the sill and her chin resting on one arm. She wore no dressing gown or even a blanket against the cold—she would certainly be chilled to the bone.

  Quite unaware she was no longer alone, Hannah sighed. What would she do without Harold? He had been her constant companion for nearly ten years. At some point, she would have a baby to care for, a baby to play with and to feed and put to bed and to love … but that would be at least nine months away! What would she do ..?

  “My lady?”

  Oh, so now I am hearing things, she thought with derision.

  I should get dressed. I should get something to eat. I should …

  “Hannah!”

  Startled, she sat up straight and turned to find Henry staring down at her, the worry so evident in his eyes that she thought something horrible had happened. But what could be more horrible than Harold dying? Another tear fell from the corner of her eye. How long have I been crying? she wondered. “My lord?” she finally replied, realizing the earl was indeed real and perhaps a bit impatient and standing rather close. She could feel heat radiate from his body.

  “Good God, Hannah, you’ll freeze sitting there like that!” His arms were suddenly around her, lifting her from the chair and pulling her stiff body against the front of his. Warmth seeped into her, wakening her other senses. She was shivering, although she had been unaware of it until the heat from her husband’s body was suddenly so apparent. Her mind seemed slow, unable to form a coherent thought. Where was she? And where was Lily? Shouldn’t her maid be here to dress her?

  “Hannah.”

  Her name was said in a sigh as she was vaguely aware of being lifted and taken to her bed. A mound of bed linens were suddenly covering her body, although she clung to the source of heat that still held her. “You’re frozen!”

  The words were apparently said to admonish her, but Hannah couldn’t figure out why.

  “How long have you been sitting there like that?” Henry asked in a whisper, his lips coming down onto her forehead.

  She rather liked those lips, she remembered. They were soft and firm and forceful and forgiving and …

  “Hannah, my love,” the voice said again, only this time there was no admonishment. My love. What a very nice thing to hear in that voice she found so comforting. Coming from the body that was so warm and so hard and so very male. He smelled of musk and eau de cologne with just a hint of spice. So why at this moment would she think of Harold? Harold was warm. But he was also hairy. He slobbered. He sometimes smelled … like a dog. But he was so … had been so devoted. Another tear spilt from an eye and ran down her cheek. It didn’t make it far, though. For the tip of Henry’s tongue reached out and captured it before his lips pressed against her cheek.

  “Hannah. Please. Say something,” he urged her, one hand cupping her other cheek to force her head to turn toward him.

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “Oh, Henry. Poor Harold. He died and …”

  Henry’s lips covered hers suddenly, cutting off whatever else she was about to say about the dog. Hannah tried to return the kiss as best she could, but she was shivering so badly she didn’t seem to have control over any of her limbs. Or her lips.

  When Henry pulled away, she made a sound of disappoint­ment. A small smile appeared on his lips before his kissed her again. “I’ve seen to Harold,” he finally said, hoping she wasn’t so addled she would misunderstand his words.

  Hannah was suddenly very aware of where she was and who was speaking to her. “Will we … bury him?” she won­dered, hoping that’s what he meant. She sniffled.

  “Mmm,” Henry responded with a nod, his lips coming back down onto her forehead. “Do you suppose you might be able to drink some chocolate now?” he wondered, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead.

  Hannah smiled. “Chocolate sounds wonderful. I’m so hungry,” she added, her hand moving to her belly. She glanced in the direction of the mantle clock and her eyes focused on the time. Noon? She returned her attention to Henry. “Noon?”

  “Afraid so,” he answered, kissing her forehead again.

  She rather liked it when he did that. It made her feel … loved. Her heart clenched. Henry couldn’t love her. He loved another. He loved Sarah. I need to guard my heart, she remem­bered. If her husband continued as he was doing these past few days, she would find herself quite in love with the man. But his heart was clearly owned by the woman who bore him his son. Hannah could have him in her bed, but she would never have his heart.

  Hannah wondered when he was finding any time to spend with Sarah. He always seemed to be working or here at Gis­born Hall. Perhaps with his promise to bed her for another few weeks, he had decided to forego visits to Sarah. He is supposed to be bedding me every night, so when would he have the oppor­tunity to spend a night with Sarah?

  Certainly not last night.

  Last night, she had been quite bereft, making a watering pot of herself over the loss of Harold. But Henry had been by her side the entire night, holding her close in bed and com­forting her whenever she wept. The thought of his warm body atop hers came unbidden. She needed to give him an heir. They should be making love. The sooner she bore him a child, the sooner she would have something to love.

  Something to replace Harold.

  “Harold.” The name came out in a whisper. The tears started anew.

  A frustrated sigh escaped Henry. He was suddenly up and out of the bed and out the bedchamber door. Hannah listened to his heavy footfalls as they made their way down the stairs. The front door slammed.

  Harold!

  Henry berated himself even before he was out the front door. Harold had been Hannah’s constant companion for ten years. Lady Charlotte had warned him, had told him that if he wanted Lady Hannah, he would have to accept Harold, too. Well, he had.

  He thought he had, at least.

  How was he supposed to compete with a dog for Hannah’s affection? A dead dog, no less.

  Affection?

  The thought brought him up short. What the hell was he thinking? Why should he expect Hannah to feel any affection toward him? Sarah was his love. Hannah was his wife. Han­nah would merely be the mother to his legitimate children.

  She married him knowing that. She married him knowing that men only ever loved their mistresses and only had wives to bear them their heirs.

  So, why did he suddenly yearn for Hannah’s affection?

  Perhaps because he was feeling affection for her? Am I? Because, if he was, he had to wonder about Sarah. He cer­tainly loved her. He had for … over ten years. Could I love two women? he wondered then.

  Hannah and Sarah were so … different … from one another. Sarah was practical and strong and independent. She could never be a milk water maid like so many of the debutantes in the ton. It was part of what appealed to him. Part of what he found so endearing about her. And yet, lately, she had shown very little interest in him or his life. She carried on as if they had never been a loving couple, almost as if they hadn’t been parents to a boy nearly old enough to attend school. What would happen when Nathan went off to Abingdon in the fall? Would Sarah withdraw more? Or would she return to her lov­ing self, a willing partner in his bed? A confidante and a friend?

  Suddenly feeling at a loss, Henry pondered his future with Sarah. He then thought of Hannah, of how she would look when she was carrying his child—a nymph with a rounded belly, her braided hair wrapped in a silver blonde coronet atop her head, ringlets dancing at her temples, one hand resting protectively at her midriff while the other held a flower to her nose. He
could hear her laughter, the melodic sound coming in response to Harold as he barked and bounded about at her feet. He smiled at the thought of her delicate face alight with the glow of impending motherhood. He thought of her hold­ing their babe in her arms, of how she would look holding it to her swollen breast as it feasted on her, her feet tucked under Harold as he napped in front of the rocker. He could almost feel jealousy at that thought, that his son would be held so close and Harold would always be by her side. Jealousy and … he nearly stumbled as he thought about the image he had created of her and their child and … Harold.

  Harold was in his mind’s eye, but he would not be there with Hannah and their baby. He couldn’t be.

  Henry tried again to imagine Hannah with just the babe and found he could not. Harold had been a part of her since he met her. He had been her constant companion for a very long time.

  Shaking his head, Henry was suddenly aware of where he was headed. Tom Cavenaugh’s cottage, he realized. Tom had what he needed to give Hannah. She would need something to get her through the next year, until she would give birth to their first child and have something of her own—of theirs—to love.

  He wondered if she would ever love him. God, what am I thinking? He married her because she would tolerate Sarah. And, apparently she had found Sarah so agreeable, she had asked the woman to move into Gisborn Hall!

  What was she thinking?

  Did she not realize he couldn’t host his lover under the same roof as his wife? Such an unselfish act, though, he consid­ered. What other woman of the ton would not only marry him knowing he had a woman he loved, but a bastard son, too? Most would be too scandalized to even consider his suit. And yet Hannah had done so knowing she might be ostracized by the ton should more of them discover his secret.

  They would, of course. Probably in the fall, after Nathan was enrolled at Abingdon. Word would get out that the bas­tard son of the Earl of Gisborn was attending school. And the boy’s stepmother was the Countess of Gisborn, the daughter of the Marquess of Devonville. Having a father for a marquess could only go so far to assuage the ton.

  Mistress.

  Henry winced at the label. He had never once thought of Sarah in those terms until the past two weeks. She had borne him a son. He loved her. But did she still love him? His heart clenched again as a strange feeling passed through him, one he was sure he hadn’t experienced before. Perhaps he would stop at Sarah’s cottage. Just to look in on her and Nathan. It would only take a few moments. He would be able to tell from Sarah’s reaction if his fears were unfounded or not.

  A curl of smoke was wafting out of one of the chimneys of Sarah Inglewood’s residence. At least she was home, he considered. He strode up to the front door and rapped on the painted wood. “Sarah?” he called out. A quick glance about the property made him realize Nathan must be inside or at his tutor’s house—the yard was deserted but for two chickens who pecked at the ground.

  The sound of a bolt being thrown made him turn around. Another moment, and Sarah appeared in the barely opened doorway. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “My lord?” she said with a hint of question, her legs bending into a curtsy. She opened the door wider but didn’t step aside to allow him entrance.

  Henry regarded her for a moment, stunned at how dif­ferent she looked. Her hair, normally wound into a tight bun at the back of her head and sometimes covered partially with a mob cap, was rolled into an elegant chignon. Ringlets sur­rounded her face. Her usual muslin day gown, brown or gray and topped with an apron, was replaced with a deep blue round gown, and she wore white gloves. Henry bobbed his head in a bow. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, the appreci­ation in his voice evident. “Are you … about to make calls?” he wondered, never having seen her dress quite so nicely unless she was headed to church.

  Sarah blushed. “No, my lord …”

  “Henry,” he insisted, his eyebrows furrowing at her for­mal address. She never called him by his honorific. He had expressly forbid her to do so.

  “Henry,” she hissed, stepping aside and using one hand to invite him in. “It’s not proper for you to call on me here. You’re a married man now,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Annoyance replaced the sense of satisfaction he felt upon seeing Sarah looking so smart. He wondered if the gown was new. Had she purchased it with the pin money he gave her every week? Or had she made it from fabric purchased in Bampton? “You’re the mother of my child. I’ll call on you when I wish,” he responded more harshly than he intended. He dipped his head as if apologizing. “Where is Nathan?” he asked suddenly, expecting his son would have come out of his room when he heard his father’s voice.

  Tensing at the severe way in which he spoke, Sarah low­ered her gaze. “He’s with his tutor, of course,” she replied with a heavy sigh. She was none too pleased at the earl’s appearance. If he didn’t leave soon, the man who was scheduled to take her for a ride to Bampton would show up to claim her, and then she would have to tell Henry who he was and why she was going for a ride with him. “I’m sure Mr. Thomas would not mind you paying a visit. And I’m quite certain Nathan will not object.” She said the last with a forced smirk, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

  Henry seemed … distracted. And short-tempered. Were things between him and his new wife already strained? Had Hannah decided she did not care for Henry’s highhanded manner?

  Or was it something else?

  Had he come expecting to bed her? Not now, Henry, she thought as she pinched her lips together. “How is Lady Gis­born fairing? I take it she found the dog?” she half-questioned, hoping the change of subject would remind him he was mar­ried. Honor your marriage vows, she pleaded in silence.

  “I fear Lady Hannah is quite … distressed,” Henry replied, remembering the quest he had been on before he detoured to the dower house. “The dog died yesterday. Out near where Nathan was found.”

  Both of Sarah’s gloved hands were suddenly covering her mouth, her eyes wide. Moving into the parlor, she stood very still for a moment. “What … whatever happened?” she whis­pered as her face suddenly contorted into grief.

  Surprised by her reaction, Henry wondered if perhaps the loss of Harold was more serious than he had figured. “He was … old. All the excitement from the day before …” He moved into the room and watched as a tear collected in the corner of Sarah’s eye. Oh, not her, too, he thought, suddenly wondering if all the women in the village would shed tears for the deceased beast. “He was just a dog, Sarah,” he said, his teeth suddenly clenching.

  Sarah’s eyes widened, a flash of anger unmistakable in their smoky green depths. “How can you say that?” she demanded, her fists turning to balls at her sides. One held her gloves— they would be terribly wrinkled if she held onto them like that for much longer.

  Henry leaned against the settee on his outstretched arms, his head turned slightly to one side. “What? That he is a dog?” he countered. “A good for nothing beast who …”

  Not having his attention on Sarah, Henry was at a com­plete loss to understand why his cheek suddenly stung with a sharp pain and his vision was impaired by a series of stars that danced across his eyes. For, until it impacted the side of his face, he was quite unaware of the flat of Sarah’s hand as it arced through the air.

  “You ass!” Sarah cried out.

  She didn’t bother trying to shake out her hand. The shock of the impact had to have caused her as much pain as she inflicted. Henry knew it had to have hurt. She might have even broken a bone or two. But the rage on her face made it quite apparent it would be some time before she was aware of any­thing but her anger toward him.

  Recoiling from both the pain of her slap and from her ire, Henry stared at her in disbelief. “Sarah,” was all he could man­age to say as he stared at her.

  “You’re an ass, Gisborn!” she spat out, her head shaking back and forth. “I cannot believe that sweet, beautiful woman would agree to be your wife when you are such an unfeeling, uncaring beast!” Her
hands back to clenched fists, she stalked to the fireplace and turned around, anger still evident on her face. “That dog saved our son’s life …”

  “I am quite aware …”

  “That dog is the reason your son was able to wake up this morning …”

  “And I do appreciate …”

  “That dog is the reason we still have a son!”

  “I understand the …”

  “That dog was Lady Gisborn’s only friend!”

  Henry stared at Sarah, his face contorted into a look of startled disbelief. Never had she raised her voice like this. Never had she challenged him. Although she had punched him that one time, when he had left her alone at her request (she demanded he do so, as he remembered it). And a few other times in their youth, but usually because he had started a fight.

  “That dog was like a child to Lady Gisborn. He was all she had in this world!” she whispered hoarsely, a wave of her hand indicating her definition of the ‘world’ was Gisborn’s earldom. “And now he is dead, probably because he saved your son’s life. And you have the gall to claim he is just a dog? How dare you?” At some point, tears had sprung to her eyes, and now several escaped to stain her cheeks. “How dare you?” This last came out as a whisper.

  Not sure how to respond and even more discomfited by Sarah’s tears, Henry took a deep breath. And then he did whatever he did when tears were involved. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing Sarah against his body, wanting to provide comfort and soothe her anger away—especially to soothe away anger that was directed entirely at him. Her shoulders were tense, unforgiv­ing, though. Her head didn’t bury itself into his shoulder to take comfort there. After a moment, Sarah let out a very long sigh, her shoulders finally giving in and her entire body relax­ing under his hold. She wept quietly into his shoulder.

  Her words still echoed in his mind.

  That dog was like a child to Hannah …

  Well, he supposed he should have treated Harold like a … like a stepson, then. The dog had saved his son’s life.