My Lady Gloriana
Page 11
• • •
Gloriana awoke to a beam of sunlight streaming in through the narrow window. She allowed herself a few moments to luxuriate in the feel of the sheets on her bare flesh, to relive the passion of the night before, to glory in the satisfaction that filled her body.
But as she slipped into her shift and mules, washed her face and cleaned her teeth with a sponge, she began to have doubts about Thorne. Would he be high-handed now that he’d won his prize? No! She wouldn’t tolerate it. She put a determined frown on her face and marched purposefully downstairs.
To her surprise, she found a small fire in the grate, with a pot of oatmeal set on a hook over the coals, filling the room with its warm scent. Thorne was nowhere about. She stepped out into the sunshine. Stripped to the waist, his dark hair tied back with a string, he stood before a small mirror, his face covered in lather, a razor in his hand.
At sight of her, he turned and gave a deep bow. “Good morrow, mistress,” he said in a humble voice. “I trust you slept well?”
Was that a smirk trembling around his lips? “You might have wakened me,” she snapped.
“You needed your rest,” he said. “And I needed time to reset the carrot seedlings before the day grew too hot.”
“Humph! Did you remember to feed Black Jack?”
“Of course.”
“And you put up the porridge, I see.” His very competence was beginning to annoy her. And the sight of his tempting bare flesh only made it harder for her to remember that he was beneath her station. “Oh, do continue shaving,” she said with a queenly wave of her hand. “I give you leave.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow but nodded politely in her direction. “Thank you, mistress.”
She watched as he scraped the razor across his chin, started on his cheeks, ran the blade carefully across the top of his lips, the lips that had burned against hers so passionately last night. “Oh, bother,” she said at last, giving in to her desires. “Come and kiss me, fool!”
He grinned, threw down his razor and swept her into his arms. His kiss tasted of soap, and a dab of lather landed on her nose. By the time the kiss was ended, they were both laughing. He wiped the bubbles off her nose and grinned again. “What happened to our arrangement? I was prepared to be servile—”
“And I was prepared to be high and mighty,” she said with a rueful smile. “For the sake of my pride.”
He held her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Needless pride. I promise I shall never do anything to humiliate you. You have my oath on that.”
She gulped and blinked back the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Oh, pooh,” she said, turning away to cover her moment of weakness. “I’m hungry. I want to see if your cooking is as skillful as your flattery.”
He laughed at that, wiped the remains of the lather from his face and shrugged into his shirt. “We shall see. And I have a wager to propose.”
“Indeed?”
He took her arm and steered her into the cottage. “If you find my cooking agreeable, you must answer a question for me.”
“And that is…?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll not tell. Not unless I win.”
That made her uneasy and hopeful at the same time. Was it mad of her to wonder if he’d ask to stay forever? His behavior last night had shown that he cared for her. And she knew that she would say yes in a moment. To live and work here together for the rest of their lives, to raise children and ease the ache of Billy’s loss…
She dished out the porridge and they sat down to breakfast, facing each other across the table. To her surprise, the porridge was quite good, though she teased him by making a face and declaring that it was a bit lumpy.
“Humph. Well, Mistress Slug-a-bed, if you hadn’t slept late you could have made it yourself. Now, do I win my wager or not?”
“It was good enough for your first try,” she conceded. “Ask your question.” She held her breath, wondering, hoping.
His gray eyes were dark with sincerity. “Did you enjoy last night?”
“Oh! That’s all? Of course I did.”
“But you wept.”
“’Twas only that… I… had a husband once. He be… is dead now. He was good to me sometimes, but never as kindly as you were last night.”
“Did you care for him?”
She snorted. “What does that matter? Where I came from, there were few choices. It seemed the wisest thing to do. And I was…” she struggled for a word, “…connected.”
He frowned. “That’s an odd word to use.”
“How can I tell it? All my life, I’ve always felt alone, except when Da was around. I remember once, as a child, we were in a wood, and I got lost. And I looked up at the stars and I felt so small. Then Da was there, and held my hand. And I was safe again. That is part of what it feels like when… when a man is… inside me.”
“Connected,” he said in a hoarse voice, clearly moved.
“Yes. Even a man as thoughtless as my Charlie was.”
“My adorable Gloriana,” he said, rising from his bench to sweep her into his arms.
She tucked her head into his shoulder, feeling a hot blush burn her cheeks. What had possessed her to be so open with him, telling him things she had never spoken of to anyone else? She pulled away from him and busily gathered up the porridge bowls. “Are we going swimming before the day gets too hot?”
“Of course.”
“And we should find a secluded spot, so we don’t alert the gossips.”
He grinned. “I shall remember to walk two paces behind you, as befits a proper servant. But as for my wager on a swimming race…”
She was grateful their conversation had turned to a lighter topic. “I’m agreeable, though I know I’ll win.” She ignored the confident shake of his head. “What are your stakes?”
“If I win… when I win… we come back here and spend the rest of the day in bed.”
“Arrogant dog! And if you lose?”
“No. You name your terms.”
She eyed his strong body, the hands that had held and caressed her, the lips that set her heart to pounding. She laughed. “If I win, we come back here and spend the rest of the day in bed.”
• • •
Dobson placed a sheath of papers before Thorne. “This is the last of the deeds, Your Grace. If you would be so good as to sign, Rogers will finalize the sale.”
Thorne picked up the quill pen, dipped it into the ink and carelessly scrawled his name. “A fair exchange. I’d rather have that rolling piece of land overlooking the river than a couple of marshy plots.” He dusted the paper with a sprinkling of sand to blot the ink and shook it clean. “Here you are. When I get back to London, I might have Rogers look into building me a private retreat on the new site.” His mouth curled in scorn. “When I’ve had my fill of my mother for a season.”
Dobson reached for the papers and frowned. “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, your hands are…” he cleared his throat delicately, “…somewhat the worse for wear. Scarcely what I’m used to seeing.”
Thorne laughed and surveyed his thick calluses, the ragged and broken fingernails, the dirt that rimmed his cuticles and nails. “Gardening and forging are messy businesses.”
“Perhaps when this is over, you should make a visit to a spa. The waters of Bath are quite fine this time of year, are they not?”
“I should prefer Epsom or Tunbridge Wells, I think. The gambling is better.”
“And, speaking of gambling, how goes your pursuit of the woman?”
“By the cross of St. George, she is a difficult creature to win over. No success as yet.” Thorne turned away, fearful that Dobson would see the look on his face and guess the truth. It was almost two weeks since he and Gloriana had first shared her bed, and every day was more wondrous than the last. She brought a breathtaking passion to each encounter, her needs as strong as his, yet with a fragile vulnerability that touched his heart.
He knew he should end th
e matter, go back to London, announce his triumph and collect his winnings. But he didn’t want to leave. And a new thought had begun to trouble his conscience—the shame he would bring to her if she should ever find out about his mad wager.
Thorne rose from his chair to cross to the window of Dobson’s room and stare out onto the street. “In point of fact,” he said at last, “I have begun to think she’s not worth my effort. Perhaps this is one wager I should concede with grace.”
Dobson whistled. “I never thought I’d see you give up so easily. And you still have well over a month to conclude the matter successfully.”
He gave a careless yawn. “I’ve begun to miss good food, fine clothes, a comfortable bed. If God had meant me to be a peasant, I would have been born to that low degree.”
“If your mind is set on leaving, I can notify your gaming opponents and arrange to pay them off.”
Thorne whirled to face Dobson. “No!” The sharpness of his reply surprised him until he thought about it for a moment. He wasn’t ready to leave Gloriana. He glanced uneasily at his valet, whose head had snapped up at his forceful answer. “That is…” he stammered, “…perhaps I… should give myself a couple of weeks more, to see if she can be persuaded. And there’s to be a fair in town next week. It should be amusing, to learn how the country folk disport themselves.”
“As you wish it, Your Grace. But, sooner or later, you must remember your duties to your tenants and return to Surrey. Whether or not you manage to bed the wench.” Dobson’s piercing blue eyes bored into Thorne, seeming to search for clues to his master’s state of mind.
Thorne turned and picked up his battered hat. It was becoming too difficult to maintain the lie. He slung his basket filled with purchases across his shoulders and headed for the door. “’Tis time I was getting back. There’s work to be done before the sun sets.” He hurried down the steps of the inn and emerged onto Church Street, feeling welcomed and accepted by the smiles and nods of the townsfolk. He had become oddly comfortable in his humble disguise, enjoying the simple wisdom of the country farmers, the practical advice of rugged tradesmen and sailors.
But he was still the Duke of Thorneleigh, lest he forget, with obligations and responsibilities he couldn’t avoid forever.
What in the name of Satan shall I do? he thought. He wasn’t ready to leave this pleasant village, his satisfying work—or Gloriana. Especially Gloriana. Which was absurd, of course. He’d never found it difficult to jilt a woman, to take what he wanted and then cast her aside. And his usual conquests had been high-born ladies, not trollops. Why should he fear to hurt Gloriana? Her own loose ways had surely taught her that men were impermanent and faithless. Hadn’t his own mother’s betrayal of his father taught him that women were fickle?
But as he moved down the street, he quickened his steps, eager to mount the Whitby stairs, pass the ruins of the old abbey and see her radiant face again. There was something about her that was so real, so genuine—so unlike the artificial people he had known for most of his life.
And she needed him. He had wanted only her body in the beginning, but the loneliness she had haltingly revealed to him had been a surprise. In all his privileged life, he had always felt a sense of uselessness, an unimportance in spite of all his riches and inherited honors and lordly burdens. But here he was needed.
He grinned as he neared the steps. Perhaps, if they finished their work early, and spent a shorter time on her reading, they could go to bed. He wanted to enjoy her body in a leisurely manner tonight, to see the glow of contentment on her beautiful face. And then they would fall asleep together, nestled warmly in each other’s arms. It was a new experience for him; always before, when he was finished with a woman, he would rise from the bed and seek the solitary comfort of a pipe or a glass of wine.
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he nearly ran into an elderly woman coming down the stairs with her companion. He stepped back. “Forgive me, madam,” he murmured, then reeled back from a vicious slap to the side of his head, knocking his hat to the ground. Fists clenched, he glared at his assailant, almost automatically prepared to strike back at a man who had so little respect for his station.
Damme! he thought. The man was Lord Arthur Pritchett, the rogue who had dared to kiss Gloriana in his presence. As tempting as was the thought, he realized that if he attacked Pritchett, there would be the possibility of an arrest and the inevitable exposure of his disguise.
He took a steadying breath and scooped his hat from the ground. “Milord. Milady,” he said, managing to give a humble bow. “I beg your forgiveness. ’Twas careless of me.” He found it difficult not to choke on the words.
Lord Arthur snorted. “Have you any idea whom you nearly capsized, sirrah?” He indicated his companion, a white-haired, finely dressed woman with a kindly face. “This is Lady Cholmley, whose son, Sir Hugh Cholmley, allows you to inhabit his town at his sufferance.” He gave a smug toss of his head. “And my most esteemed aunt,” he added.
The elderly woman smiled innocently, her rosy cheeks like round apples on her face, but there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a prig, Arthur,” she said. “The man scarcely intended to offend.”
“The man is a common peasant, Auntie, lest we forget.”
Thorne forced his hands to stay at his sides and even managed a tight smile. “Are you enjoying your new gate, milord?”
Pritchett’s eyes flashed, his hand going to the sword at his hip. “Do I know you, sirrah? Who are you, to speak to me in such a familiar manner?”
I’ll skin you alive when I get back to London, thought Thorne savagely. It would take only a few conversations with the right people to ensure that this pompous ass was never invited to Court again. He contrived to hold his smile and speak in a civil voice. “My mistress, Glory Cook, owns the blacksmith shop in the dell.”
At her name, Pritchett relaxed. “Ah, yes. Of course. And you were the jealous lout who couldn’t hide his envy at my station and my courting of your mistress. A very beautiful mistress,” he added, turning to his aunt.
Lady Cholmley nodded. “So I’ve heard. And growing quite successful in Whitby, they say. I should like to see this beauty.”
Pritchett scratched his chin. “With the fair next week, and Hugh’s assembly ball in celebration…”
“A fine idea, Arthur. It can be arranged.” She smiled at Thorne. “Give my regards to your mistress, my good man, and tell her she may expect an invitation to the assembly.”
The smile he returned to her was genuine. Gloriana would be delighted. One step further on her path to becoming the lady she longed to be. “Thank you, milady.”
He bowed again to them both, then hurried up the steps. Despite the growing heat of the afternoon, he took a rapid pace, becoming more and more eager to see the look on Gloriana’s face when he told her the news. He felt almost as excited as though it were his own first assembly ball.
He heard the clank of Gloriana’s hammer as he neared the smithy. Working hard as usual, despite the warm day. He pulled off his basket, tossed down his hat and rushed through the door. “Gloriana!” he shouted happily, bursting with the news.
“Oh!” She whirled at his cry, one long red curl coming loose from her pinned-up locks and dropping down to graze the red-hot piece of iron on the anvil. The smithy was suddenly filled with the acrid smell of burning hair.
“Dear God!” Thorne was before her in an instant, frantically clapping his hands around the thick strands to extinguish the sparks. Then, with a relieved groan, he pulled her into his arms. “Forgive my stupidity,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She pulled away and smiled up at him. “’Tis only hair. I should have pinned it more carefully.”
“But I might have lost you.”
“Dearest John. Be at peace,” she said, examining the singed curl. “The only thing lost is a few inches of my hair. And it wants cutting anyway. ’Tis too thick and
heavy in this hot weather.”
For the first time, he noticed the dampness on her face, the rivulets of sweat that ran down her neck. “And you work too hard on a hot day like this.” He pulled out his handkerchief, crossed to the water bucket and moistened the cloth. With tender hands he dabbed at her face, ran the handkerchief across the back of her neck, stroked her soot-stained arms. “Enough work for now. Into the cottage. A pint of cool ale from the larder is what we both need.”
“But—”
“Not another word. I insist.” He gently took the hammer from her, then scooped her into his arms and carried her into the cottage.
She giggled and lifted a finger to tickle his ear. “And what will follow the ale?”
He gave her a leering smile. “I leave that up to you.” He could feel his body growing warm with his need of her.
She smirked. “I think you should cut my hair.”
“What?” He set her roughly on her feet.
“Oh, don’t pout like a little boy. Bed will come later.”
“You wicked tease,” he said, and kissed her, glorying in the feel of her body pressed against his, the sweetness of her mouth. She clung to him, returning his passion with a fervor that made his head spin.
At last they separated. While Gloriana fetched scissors and comb, Thorne set a chair in the center of the room and found a towel to drape around her shoulders. She unpinned her hair and sat in the chair. He combed the long tresses, marveling at their silky texture, the vivid color that, as always, took his breath away. But as he worked, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Dobson.
Willy-nilly, he had obligations, another life besides this bucolic domesticity, people who depended on his presence, his judgment. And the happy times here with Gloriana would just be a fading dream, to be recalled in nostalgic moments. He felt like a child about to be deprived of a treasure. He worked mechanically, cutting Gloriana’s hair a few inches shorter at her direction, but his heart was heavy. And when the job was finished, and she fetched a broom to sweep up the curls on the floor, he snatched up a lock of her hair and cradled it in his palm. At least he could have something to remember her by.