Bound by Duty

by Diane Gaston

  ‘I’m not going to trade places with you, Miss Summerfield.’

  She got up and carried her blanket over to her chair. ‘I’ll sit here, then.’

  He raised his voice. ‘Get in the cot.’

  She looked at him in defiance. ‘No. It is your turn.’

  ‘Do not be a damned fool, Miss Summerfield. Get in the cot.’ There was no sense in them both sitting up all night, shivering.

  She glared at him. ‘The only way I’ll get in that cot is if you are in it, too.’

  The cold was addling her brain, he thought. But this was the answer, the consuming thought. He should not take advantage of it, but, if he did they’d both be warm.

  ‘Very well.’ He inclined his head towards the cot. ‘Get in the bed and I will join you.’

  An anxious look crossed her face and she hesitated, but she carried her blanket over to the cot and lay down, facing the fire. He covered her with another blanket and crawled underneath it.

  ‘Our bodies will warm each other,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Do not fear. This is for warmth and nothing else.’

  He hoped he could keep that promise.

  * * *

  Exhaustion helped where desire refused to waver. Even though she was warm and soft against him, the comfort of her had made him fall asleep almost immediately. He did not even wake to feed the fire the last lumps of coal. He knew nothing until the sound of muffled voices reached his ear.

  The latch of the door rattled.

  The worst had happened. They were discovered.

  ‘Miss Summerfield!’ He shook her, but had only time enough to bound from the cot when the door burst open.

  ‘Halloo there!’ a man cried.

  Miss Summerfield sat up.

  ‘I say,’ said the man, a gentleman by appearance. ‘What goes here?’

  He entered the cabin followed by two men in workmen’s dress.

  ‘Is that you, Miss Summerfield?’ the gentleman asked.

  Marc took charge. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  Miss Summerfield covered herself with the blanket.

  ‘I am Lord Attison,’ the gentleman said indignantly. ‘And, more to the purpose, who are you?’

  Miss Summerfield answered before Marc could speak, ‘He is Mr Glenville, sir. Allow us to explain.’

  Marc put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘First he must explain why he barges in without so much as a knock.’ Put him on the defensive.

  Lord Attison shot daggers at Marc. ‘I was sent to find Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to her. ‘You have caused Lord Tinmore much worry, young lady, do you realise that?’

  Marc stepped between Miss Summerfield and Lord Attison. ‘Do you have some authority here?’

  Miss Summerfield answered, ‘He is one of Lord Tinmore’s guests.’

  ‘Well,’ Marc spoke sharply, ‘you may tell Lord Tinmore that it is a fine thing to let this young lady nearly freeze to death. You should have come earlier.’

  Lord Attison stuck out his chest. ‘And you should have returned her home, sir.’ His gaze shifted to Miss Summerfield. ‘Or would that have ruined your little tryst?’

  ‘You have it wrong—’ Miss Summerfield protested.

  Marc seized Lord Attison’s arm and marched him to the door. ‘We will discuss this outside and allow this lady to dress.’

  Once all the men were outside, Marc used his size to be as intimidating as possible to the smaller Lord Attison. ‘You will make no assumptions here, do you comprehend? This lady has been through enough without your salacious comments.’

  ‘Lord Tinmore—’ the man started to say.

  Marc interrupted him. ‘I will explain to Lord Tinmore and to no one else. And, you, sir, will say nothing of this until you are instructed by your host. Is that understood?’

  Possibly, just possibly Lord Tinmore would have sufficient power and influence to allow this incident to blow over without any damage to Miss Summerfield.

  Or himself.

  The cold of the morning finally hit him and it took all Marc’s strength to keep from dissolving into a quivering mess in front of this man. He wore only his shirt and breeches.

  And his socks, now damp from the frost on the ground.

  Attison looked him up and down. ‘Being undressed in front of an innocent young lady—’ The man smirked. ‘Or is she an innocent?’

  Marc seized him again. ‘Silence that tongue!’

  Attison’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he quickly recovered and pursed his lips. ‘I will leave you to Lord Tinmore, as you wish.’

  Marc released him and turned to the other two men. ‘Do you know who owns this cabin?’

  One man nodded. ‘Lord Tinmore. It is a groundskeeper’s cabin.’

  ‘Are we on Lord Tinmore’s property?’ How close were they to the house?

  ‘We are, sir,’ the other man answered. He gestured to the south.

  Against the milky-white sky rose a huge Elizabethan house with dozens of windows and three turrets adorning its roof.

  They had been that close.

  ‘The roads and bridges were flooded yesterday,’ he said.

  One of the men nodded. ‘The water receded overnight.’

  Miss Summerfield opened the door, glancing warily at their three early morning visitors. ‘Mr Glenville, may I see you for a moment?’

  Attison made a move to speak, but Marc silenced him with a steely glare.

  He entered the cabin and closed the door.

  ‘I have no laces,’ she said to him, presenting her back.

  ‘I cut them.’ He looked around the room and found her packet of ribbons and lace. He pulled a long ribbon from the still-damp package and started lacing it through the eyelets on her corset and her dress.

  ‘What do we do now?’ she asked, her voice cracking.

  He worked the laces. ‘We tell what happened.’

  ‘You will speak to Lord Tinmore?’

  He tied the ribbon in a bow. ‘I will speak to him. It turns out we are close to Tinmore Hall.’ He turned her to face him. ‘It is important that we make no apology, Miss Summerfield. We did what we needed to do to get through the storm. We did nothing wrong.’

  Her jaw set. ‘No apologies.’

  At least she had fortitude.

  He grabbed his waistcoat and coat and quickly put them on. He shoved his feet into his boots. ‘We must leave now.’

  She nodded.

  They opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air.

  * * *

  Within an hour Marc and Miss Summerfield stood in front of a wizened old man in spectacles who nonetheless had a commanding bearing.

  From his large wing-back chair, he glared at Miss Summerfield. ‘You have caused your sister great worry, young lady.’

  ‘It was quite unintended, sir.’ At least she kept her voice strong.

  Lord Tinmore, old and wrinkled, wielded his cane like a sceptre, obviously accustomed to authority.

  Marc spoke up. ‘We may dispense with this matter quickly if you will listen to what we have to say.’ Men of strength usually respected strength.

  Lord Tinmore glared at him over his spectacles. ‘I want your name, sir.’

  Marc bowed. ‘Glenville.’

  Tinmore tapped his temple. ‘Glenville?’

  ‘My father is Viscount Northdon. He was a schoolmate of your son’s.’ Maybe that connection would help them.

  Pain edged the man’s eyes, but the look vanished quickly. ‘Northdon,’ he scoffed. ‘I know of him.’

  Of course. Everyone, except perhaps Miss Summerfield, knew of his father.

  Tinmore scowled at him.

  Marc continued. ‘Sir. Who I am, who my father is, has no bearing on this matter. I found Miss Summerfield near freezing in the storm. We took shelter in the cabin and it was impossible to leave until morning.’

  ‘That is the truth!’ Miss Summerfield added, with a bit too much emotion.

  Tinmore’s attention swung to her. ‘The truth! The
truth is you went gallivanting around the countryside without a chaperone, in bad weather, and wound up spending the night with a man!’

  ‘We had no choice,’ Miss Summerfield protested, still shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to try to stay warm.

  Tinmore wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a reckless scapegrace, girl! A discredit to your sister! And to me!’

  ‘Enough!’ Marc shouted. ‘Miss Summerfield is still cold. And hungry. She needs dry clothing and food, not an undeserved scolding.’

  ‘Do not dictate to me, young man!’ Tinmore countered.

  Marc glared at him. ‘Give her leave to change into warm, dry clothes.’

  Lord Tinmore glared back, but Marc refused to waver.

  Marc lowered his voice to a firm, dangerous tone. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Tinmore waved a hand at Miss Summerfield. ‘Leave now, girl. But I am not finished with you.’

  Miss Summerfield curtsied and started for the door. Before she reached it, she turned back. ‘My lord, Mr Glenville is also cold and hungry—’

  Tinmore snapped at her, ‘I told you to leave. Do as I say.’

  She did not move. ‘That is little thanks for what he has done, sir. You could find him dry clothing.’

  ‘Leave!’ Tinmore shouted.

  She remained where she was.

  Marc spoke to her in a soothing tone. ‘Do not fret over me, Miss Summerfield. Go now. Change into warm clothes. Eat something.’

  She nodded and went out the door.

  He turned back to Tinmore. ‘That was poorly done of you, sir. She has been through an ordeal.’

  Tinmore’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘I’m out of patience with her. She caused her sister much worry and now more scandal. I will not have scandal in my house.’

  Did this man not have any heart? ‘She might have lost her life if I had not found her.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Would have served her right.’

  By God, would he have preferred her to die? ‘She needs your help, sir. You have the power to stop any talk. If you stand by her, who would question it?’

  ‘Much you know, Glenville.’ Tinmore took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. ‘Attison is a scandalmonger of the first rate. There is no stopping him.’

  ‘You invited him. And sent him on the search. You are more responsible for any scandal that results than Miss Summerfield. She should not have to pay.’

  ‘Yes, I invited him!’ Tinmore cried. ‘So he could see firsthand that I am not in my dotage and that my wife is not a fortune hunter who duped me into marriage.’

  Was he surprised that was what people would think?

  ‘This chit has made everything worse. I suppose you know what people say about their mother?’ He grimaced. ‘If she thinks I’m still giving her a Season and providing her a dowry, she has another think coming.’

  He would cut her off? ‘You are being unfair.’

  ‘It is my money to spend as I wish.’ He fixed his gaze on Marc again. ‘You are the one who wronged her, not me.’

  Marc had not wronged her. He’d rescued her and kept her safe. But Tinmore was right about one thing. None of that would matter in the eyes of polite society, not if Tinmore refused to stand by her.

  ‘If you will not protect her, I will.’ Marc stepped closer to the man and glared down at him. ‘I will marry her. That will silence the gossip. And she will need nothing from you.’

  Tinmore’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile, but his scowl returned and he waved a hand. ‘Marry her, then. Get her out of my sight.’

  * * *

  Marc stood in the hallway, outside the closed door of the private sitting room where Lord Tinmore presumably still sat in his throne-like chair.

  He should be on his way to London, not offering marriage, but he’d had no choice, had he? It had been his duty.

  The honourable thing to do.

  Of all the reasons to marry, this must be the most foolish. Not out of passion. Not a love match. Not a well-considered decision.

  So much for his pragmatic choice of marrying Doria. So much for paying the debt he owed to Charles. No comfortable life for him. Lost was the serenity marriage to Doria would offer. Lost was the respectability of her family. He, the son of the scandalous Lord and Lady Northdon, would marry the daughter of scandalous Sir Hollis and Lady Summerfield.

  Tongues would wag.

  He would not save her from gossip, after all. Perhaps he’d not done her so large a favour.

  He must find her. Speak to her. Tell her what he’d done.

  She needed to make the choice. The discredit of marrying him or the ruin of crying off.

  But, if Tinmore made good his threat, she would also be impoverished.

  A footman approached him. ‘I am to show you to your room, sir.’

  ‘Never mind my room,’ he responded. ‘I need to speak to Miss Tess Summerfield.’

  The man’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I cannot take you to Miss Summerfield.’

  ‘Deliver a message to her for me, then.’

  The footman shook his head. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore would approve.’

  Marc gestured for him to lead the way. ‘Lord Tinmore will not mind. The lady and I are going to be married.’

  * * *

  Tess sat in Genna’s bedchamber again, like she had done only the day before, her two sisters with her.

  It seemed an age ago.

  Genna and Lorene had been waiting for her outside Lord Tinmore’s drawing room. They’d hugged and cried and Lorene scolded her for giving them such a fright. While they walked to her bedchamber she filled them in on what had happened to her.

  In her room a bath awaited. Tess bathed and washed her hair quickly, before dressing in warm, dry clothes. Hot porridge, bread, cheese and tea were set before her and the mere scent of it made her stomach ache with hunger.

  Her mind, though, was on Mr Glenville. Would he convince Lord Tinmore that nothing happened between them? Would Tinmore let him go? The whole experience had become like a dream. Would it fade from her memory?

  She did not want to forget him.

  The maids came to remove the bath and straighten the room. Tess and her sisters retired to Genna’s room and her sisters’ relief at finding her safe had worn off.

  ‘Tess, how could you have been so foolish?’ Lorene paced, as she had paced the previous morning. ‘It is one thing to seek shelter. Quite another to share a bed with a man.’

  ‘It was cold,’ Tess explained. She remembered Mr Glenville climbing on to the cot, covering them both with his blanket. She remembered the warmth of his body next to hers, both comforting and thrilling.

  ‘Do you know what the guests are saying?’ Genna offered. ‘They are saying you met by design. That you planned the tryst. Why else would you venture out on an obviously rainy day?’

  Lord Attison must have been very busy telling tales.

  ‘That is ridiculous!’ Tess cried. ‘I told you how it happened. I never even met Mr Glenville before!’

  ‘You might have met him some other time.’ Genna settled herself on the window seat. ‘You are known to take walks alone.’

  Tess glared at her. ‘Are you doubting my word, Genna? I went to the village to shop.’

  Not to the nearby village, though. To Yardney. To see Mr Welton, had he been there.

  ‘No.’ Genna spoke as if this were some interesting problem happening to someone else. ‘But you did not bring any lace or ribbon, did you?’

  The lace and ribbon. She’d forgotten her parcel. ‘I left the parcel at the cabin. We could send someone for it.’

  ‘It would not matter. What really happened does not matter.’ Lorene still paced. ‘Appearances. That is what matters.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know what Lord Tinmore will do. This is such a trial for him and it has already put a strain on the house party.’

  ‘A trial for him? A strain on the house party?’ Tess rose off the bed. �
�Goodness, Lorene. I did not choose to have this happen. I simply walked to the village and became caught in a horrible storm. Perhaps I should have tried to cross the bridge or continued down the roads even though water was rushing over both. Then I would have drowned. Or perhaps Mr Glenville should have left me on the road to freeze to death. Either way would have been so much less trouble for Lord Tinmore!’

  Lorene grabbed Tess and hugged her. ‘Do not say that. Never say that. That is what we all thought happened to you.’

  Tess hugged her back. ‘I had hoped you’d think I stayed in the village.’

  There was a knock at the door and a maid stuck her head in. ‘Pardon, my lady, but his lordship wishes to speak with Miss Summerfield immediately. In the library.’

  Lorene released her. ‘You must go.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Tell Lord Tinmore she will be there directly.’

  The maid rushed off.

  ‘I will accompany you,’ Lorene said.

  Genna rose from the window seat. ‘I will come, too.’

  ‘No.’ Tess held them back with her arm. ‘It is best you stay out of it.’ Lord Tinmore would only become upset with them because of her.

  Genna sat again and looked sulky. ‘Well, you had better come back right away and tell us all about it.’

  ‘I will walk with you, at least,’ Lorene said.

  As they walked the distance to Lord Tinmore’s private sitting room, Tess tried to quiet her nerves. Would Mr Glenville still be there? Goodness, she hoped Lord Tinmore allowed him to dress in dry clothing and get something to eat.

  Had he been able to convince Lord Tinmore to let the incident pass? She hoped so. She prayed so.

  ‘Tinmore is a reasonable man,’ Lorene said when they entered the long hallway leading to his private rooms.

  Lord Tinmore had seemed fairly unreasonable to Tess. Unlike Glenville, who had come to her defence.

  At the stairs, a footman approached and handed Tess a piece of paper. ‘A message for you, miss.’ He glanced warily at Lorene, the new lady of the house, and hurried away.

  Tess unfolded the paper and read the note. ‘It is from Mr Glenville. He wishes to speak with me right away.’ She folded the paper again and put it in a pocket. ‘I should see him first.’

  She turned around, but Lorene seized her arm. ‘You cannot see Mr Glenville!’