As he continued his walk down the long hall towards his bedchamber, he walked past Sister Genevieve's room and noticed the heavy oak door still ajar, though the room was completely dark. He tiptoed to the doorway and peered inside. There, in the middle of the bed, lay the childlike nun. She was completely clothed in her robes, her habit still securely on her head, as she lay atop the counterpane. Devon realized that she must have fallen asleep shortly after he had left her, probably completely exhausted from their trip to Surrey.
He took a moment to stare at her, her face looking almost ethereal in the silvery evening light. She looked so young and innocent—her features so delicate, her face so pale. He felt a pang of regret at having been perturbed with her earlier. Surely it wasn't entirely her fault that he had been delayed today. In fact, her appearance and willingness to help his father would prove to be an enormous blessing. He could feel it in his heart.
He quietly went into the room and retrieved a blanket from the trunk at the foot of the bed, spreading it open and laying it gently atop her so as not to disturb her slumber. She didn't so much as move a muscle, completely unaware of his presence, which is what he had wanted. He slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Chapter 6
Tuesday, April 26, 1814
Elenore stretched her arms high above her head before rubbing her eyes and focusing on the unfamiliar surroundings. For a moment she had forgotten where she was. It wasn't until she looked down on her black habit that all of the previous day's memories came flooding back to her at once. She reached up and pulled the dreaded veil from her head, freeing her thick locks from the irritating confines. Reaching up, she scratched her scalp before fanning her hair out on the down pillow beneath her. It felt good to finally be free of the dratted headpiece.
Staring up at the iridescent purple canopy above her, she lazily pulled the blanket, draped over her form, up to her chin, not in any hurry to remove herself from the comfortable warmth of the bed. That's when she noticed the blanket—she briefly wondered who had covered her, possibly a maid? The thought of a maid caused her to smile, for it suddenly dawned on her that her ruse as a nun allowed her the freedom to live her life without the constant supervision of a lady's maid or chaperone. She felt lighthearted at the idea of experiencing the freedom of solitude that being raised a proper young lady had yet to afford her.
Elenore's thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knocking on her door. She was loathe to get up but knew she would have to. Stumbling out of bed, she left her veil behind, as she made her way to the door. Pulling the door open slowly, she was faced with a timid looking maid.
“Excuse me, but the master wishes to speak with you.”
All of Elenore's fantasies of freedom crumbled with the reminder of her purpose for being at Westbrooke Hall. She might as well have turned in one state of captivity for another. Though she wouldn't be under the constant supervision of a lady's maid, she would be trapped as a servant to the insufferable earl, Lord Brat, as she had secretly begun to refer to him in her head, alluding to his infantile behavior. Before she had time to respond, the maid was scurrying away, anxious to move on to her next task. Elenore sullenly stalked back to the bed to retrieve her veil, not anxious in the least to see what dreadful chores Lord Brat would require of her today.
It didn't take her long to do her morning toilette, seeing as she was already adorned in her nun's attire and would not have to spend time dressing her hair. She rummaged through her valise to find the only other pair of shoes she had packed, a pair of slippers more suited to dancing then to everyday wear, but they would have to do. She slipped them on tenderly, noting her feet still protested in pain. She made her way slowly down the hall towards the earl's chambers, apprehensive about seeing him again. It was with reluctance that she entered the dark room. Clearing her throat nervously, she spoke, “You wished to see me, my lord?”
Lord Brattondale didn't even bother lifting his head from the pillows to glance in her direction. “I need my morning meal brought in at once.”
“Yes, my lord, will that be all?”
“For now. Now hurry,” he barked.
Elenore scurried out of the room and down to the kitchen where she retrieved a tray of food. Looking down at the plate she noticed a delicious looking cinnamon bun drizzled with sugar icing sitting on the plate next to three plump sausages. She glanced up at the cook questioningly. “Are you certain this is the plate prepared for the master?”
Tabitha hefted her broad shoulders in a shrug. “I'm positive, he requested the meal specifically.”
“Are you sure it's wise that he eat such food in his condition?” she asked, not wishing to be contradictory but baffled nonetheless.
“I'm not sure it's wise but he was adamant in his request. What the master wants, the master gets.”
Elenore nodded her understanding before scurrying off to deliver the tray. She desperately hoped he wouldn't insist she hand feed him his meal again, as she carefully set the tray down on the table next to him, conveniently within reaching distance. She was caught off guard when he reached one hand out and clasped her wrist firmly. She looked down at his hand on her arm, then slowly up to his face where she met his serious gaze. “Yes, my lord?” she managed to squeak.
“I think I can manage to feed myself this morning, so I will no longer need your assistance—” Elenore let out a sigh of relief. “However, I am feeling quite fatigued and have planned to spend the day resting and would prefer it if you would kindly refrain from interrupting me. Please do not bother checking in on me unless you are summoned. Is that clear?”
Not only was it perfectly clear, it was perfectly welcomed news, and Elenore couldn't be happier that she would be have some free time to rest her weary feet, dream of America, and to do as she wished. Her step was light, as she returned to her chambers, excitedly trying to decide what to do with herself. As she entered the room, she saw the same maid who had summoned her earlier gingerly setting a tray on the small oak table in the corner of the room. As she backed away, Elenore could see that the tray was a breakfast tray—the steaming tea and bowl of oatmeal beckoned her, and she felt her stomach begin to growl.
The maid stepped forward nervously. “I'm sorry to intrude, but the master insisted I bring you some breakfast then show you around the estate so you'll feel more at home.”
“He did?” Elenore asked, puzzled that the earl could think beyond anyone other than himself.
“Aye, he did. He may seem a little calloused and slothful, but buried underneath his gruffness he truly does have a heart of gold.”
Elenore raised one eyebrow skeptically, not sure what Lord Brat had ever done to the girl for her to form such a glowing opinion of his character. She took a moment to assess the girl, who appeared to be similar in age to her, possibly even younger than her own ten and eight years. She was petite and willowy with pale skin and golden hair. Elenore imagined if she pulled her hair up into a Grecian knot with ringlets framing her elfish face instead of the severe bun she currently wore, that she'd be quite beautiful. An unpleasant thought crossed her mind—what if she and Lord Brattondale had the kind of relationship that she had heard some gentlemen carried on with their servants? She couldn't blame him for finding her attractive, for she was certainly pleasant enough, but the age difference was enough to make her feel repulsed. Lord Brattondale could easily be the girl’s father, if not her grandfather. She truly hoped they weren't carrying on a clandestine relationship.
The girl reached up self-consciously to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear, uncomfortable with Elenore's blatant staring. “Enjoy your breakfast, Sister. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour to give you the tour.”
The minute the maid left, Elenore began eagerly ingesting the warm food, the maid and her possible relationship with the earl all but forgotten. She was starving after having missed supper the night before, due to falling asleep so early and so unexpectedly. She had just sipped the last of the
tea, when the maid returned right on time as promised.
They began ascending the stairs to the main level of the house, where the tour would begin. “Pardon miss, but what is your name?” Elenore asked the maid, curious to know a little more about her guide.
“Charlotte Winfrey,” she replied.
“Well, Charlotte, I appreciate you taking the time to show me around the manor. I must confess. I hadn't a clue as to what I would do to occupy myself while the earl rested.”
“Tis not a problem. As I said before, the master requested it.” Again, Elenore noted she spoke with kindness when speaking of the earl, a sinking suspicion telling her that her earlier assumptions could quite possibly be correct.
“How long have you been working for Lord Brattondale?” Elenore asked, curious to find out more about the relationship between the two. She knew she had no right to be so nosy, but she couldn't seem to help herself.
“I've been here all of my life. Westbrooke Hall is the only home I've ever known.”
“Indeed? Then do your parents work for the earl as well?”
Charlotte shook her head slowly, “Unfortunately not anymore. Both of my parents died, when I was but a babe, so I don't remember either of them. Lord Brattondale was gracious enough to keep me in the house despite my parents’ deaths, allowing the household staff to assist in raising me, then giving me a position as soon as I was old enough and able to work.”
“Hadn't you any other family that would've taken you in?” Elenore asked, knowing she was getting personal, but curious nonetheless.
“None. That's why the earl allowed me to stay here. Apparently, he and the late countess couldn't fathom the thought of sending a new babe to an orphanage.” Elenore was beginning to understand a little more of the tenderness Charlotte had for the earl, but she still wasn't convinced that the relationship was entirely innocent. “What about you,” Charlotte continued, “do you hail from Surrey?”
Elenore thought about her question for a moment, not exactly sure how much she should reveal about herself. Truthfully, this was the first time she had ever been to Surrey. She had been born and raised in Bristol. Her father was a baron, but the title he had inherited from his father came with little money and a meager estate. They lived very simply and rarely, if ever, ventured into society. Her older brother, Paul, had been the slight exception. Her father had insisted he attend the best schools, when he was but a lad, somehow managing to acquire the proper financing to fund such an education. While at Eton, Paul had become friends with numerous members of the ton, the Duke of Kerrington becoming one of his closest. That's why at her parents’ death, when Paul purchased his commission in the Royal Army, she was sent to be the duke's ward, having no close family to take her in either. She and Charlotte actually had that fact in common.
Footsteps sounding in the hall saved her from having to come up with an answer to Charlotte's inquiry. Both of their heads turned to stare as Lord Bridgerton stalked right up to where they were standing. He appeared as if he was in a rush to be somewhere, but he paused in front of them nonetheless, nodding a greeting at Charlotte before turning and gazing at Elenore.
“How did you sleep last night, Sister Genevieve?” His pointed inquiry caught her off guard.
“Fine, thank you.”
“And may I ask what the two of you are up to this morning?”
“Charlotte has kindly agreed to give me a tour of Westbrooke Hall. We've only just begun.”
Lord Bridgerton was silently contemplating for a moment before a twinkle lit his eyes. “Well, you're just in luck. I happen to be very well acquainted with the manor and have a free moment to give you the grand tour. Charlotte, I will see to this task so you can get back to your other duties.”
Charlotte dropped into a quick curtsy before scurrying away in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Elenore and Lord Bridgerton standing alone. Elenore would have much preferred to continue the tour with Charlotte as her guide. Though Lord Bridgerton, for all intents and purposes, seemed like a gentleman, she couldn't help but feel apprehensive about being alone with him.
Without further ado, Lord Bridgerton reached for her hand and hooked her fingers around his elbow, as he began to lead her towards a set of double doors. They entered the dining room and Lord Bridgerton gave her a moment to look around at her surroundings before speaking.
“Here we have entered the dining room, a room that most unfortunately does not get much use.”
“Truly? Doesn't your family do much entertaining?”
“Sadly, no. There's no one here but my father and myself, and since I am hardly ever here and he is not feeling up to snuff, I'm afraid not much entertaining gets done. In fact, not much entertaining has gone on since my mother passed away.”
“I see,” Elenore said before he took her arm once more and began leading her out of the room. As they walked along, she realized she liked the way her hand felt on his arm. For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be escorted on his arm to a ball. She imagined herself dressed up in her finest dress, her hair coiffed to perfection and she felt momentarily wistful. She knew she'd be lucky if somebody as handsome as Lord Bridgerton had ever agreed to escort her to an event, but then quickly decided it wasn't truly her desire. She remembered the last time a devilishly handsome man had been her escort and she cringed. Lord Martineau, the man the duke had tried to pawn her off on had definitely qualified as handsome, but her experience with him had been nothing positive. In fact, he was one of the reasons she had decided to run away, sick of the trappings of the ton and the constant reminder of her shortcomings as a lady of society. She never really belonged, and he had a way of always blatantly reminding her of that fact.
Her thoughts were interrupted when they entered the library and Lord Bridgerton led her to sit down on the leather couch in front of the fireplace. She sat down slowly, as he remained standing. “This, obviously, is the library. You are welcome to help yourself to the books anytime you would like. I have to apologize for the limited selection. My father isn't much of a reader and regretfully none of his children acquired much of a taste for it either.”
Looking around the room, she noticed that a good portion of the shelves were bare and thought it such a waste of an entire room. Before she realized it, she was voicing her opinion out loud. “Perhaps an entire room dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and the leisurely pastime of reading is an utter waste if nobody utilizes what it has to offer.”
Looking at her curiously he asked, “What do you suppose would be a better use for the space then?”
“Perhaps you could turn it into a gaming room of sorts,” she offered.
“A gaming room?” he asked incredulously. “Aren't nuns supposed to be opposed to the potent vices of men that enslave the soul and lead them into sin?”
“I suggested you set it up as a gaming room, not a gambling hell. There are plenty of innocent games whose sole purpose is to entertain---chess, for example. Not only does it help pass the time, but it causes one to think and requires strategizing as well.”
Lord Bridgerton let out an ungentlemanly laugh, completely caught off guard to hear a nun utter the term gambling hell.
“What are you laughing at, my lord?” Elenore asked defensively, looking at him with a hint of disdain. She didn't know what she had said that he found so humorous and didn't like the feeling that she was being mocked.
“I'm shocked to hear a nun speak of such evils as a gambling hell. I hope we're not both struck by lightning for your indecency.”
Inside Elenore began to fume. She had run away to avoid being told how improper she was, to get away from people who always seemed to find fault with everything she did. Yet, here she was being reprimanded for being untoward, and it upset her immensely. This was exactly the type of situation she had been trying to avoid when she fled. Rising swiftly to her feet, she clutched both of her hands into tight fists at her sides. “Well, I suggest in the future, Lord Bridgerton,
that you don't ask me for my opinion, if you can't handle what I might say.”
He quickly sobered in response to her anger. Taking a step closer, he placed both hands gently on her shoulders and bent his head so that he was looking directly into her brown eyes. “Truly my intent wasn't to mock you. Please accept my apologies. I actually find it quite refreshing when people speak their mind. In my opinion, there aren't enough people in the world willing to be themselves.”
Her shoulders relaxed, as some of the fight went out of her. Maybe she had overreacted to his response. The way he was looking at her made her heart slow before quickly resuming a wild and erratic beat. His eyes were so warm and friendly, the color reminding her of the coffee her father used to drink each morning. He had always preferred it with a small dash of cream, and Lord Bridgerton's eyes were the exact same muted brown color of the coffee. She felt mesmerized by his sincere gaze, feeling as if she was being looked at for the first time as a real person, not just the unwanted burden she had been made to feel like since her parents’ death.
An unknown amount of time passed as she stared into his eyes, unwilling to break the gaze, until the movement of his tongue, wetting his lips, caused her gaze to drop. She felt an odd tingle breakout over her skin, as she watched him moisten his lips, and she instantly tried to imagine what it would be like to feel him press them against her own. It was the first time in her life that she had entertained such wild fantasies, but instead of being shocked at the direction of her thoughts, she only grew more curious. She held her breath, as he lowered his head, bringing his face closer to her own. She couldn't seem to peel her eyes from his perfectly chiseled lips, lips that could have easily belonged to a statue of a Greek god. Just as she was about to melt from the heat she felt radiating between them, he abruptly took a step back, extinguishing the flames that almost ignited between them.
Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman Page 5