What that made this tragic event easier to bear was the Frenchwoman his father had married. Guy’s mother’s warmth and love for them all overcame everything. He swallowed the sorrow and loss that threatened to overtake him. Family meant everything to him. And apart from Genevieve, they were all gone. He must live his life in a way that honored them.
No doubt Eustace would be more approachable, if not more respectful, when Guy provided the proof of his birth. But as time passed, and he failed to find it, he wondered if it might have fallen into the wrong hands. The bag might have fallen off anywhere. Grateful the snow had melted, he would continue his search the next day.
Guy returned to the salon and poured himself a brandy. Eustace and the servants had gone to bed. The house was quiet except for the usual clunk of the mantel clock, the creaking of timbers, and mice scrambling behind the wainscoting. A candelabra throwing an eerie light before him, he made his way to the solar, below it was the secret passage his father told him about.
The steps took him down to a cellar, pitch black and airless. He moved along the walls but could detect no sign of a door. After a frustrated hour of searching, he gave up and returned upstairs.
He must deal with the matters at hand. Eustace certainly, but first… He paused and smiled. Simon.
*
When Monday came, Hetty picked at her breakfast. She ate even less at luncheon, drawing a concerned comment from her father. Just to please him, she forced down several mouthfuls of ham and a slice of bread.
At half past one, she excused herself from the library where she’d knitted while her father smoked his pipe and read a book on fly fishing. She hurried upstairs and donned the groom’s clothing, her fingers stumbling over the hidden button on the fall-front breeches.
Jim, the stable boy, chatted to Cook in the kitchen. Hetty slipped past without being seen. Jim had needed little urging when Hetty suggested he sample Cook’s biscuits fresh from the oven.
Outside was blustery and cold, but snow hadn’t fallen in days. The slush crunched underfoot while heavy gray clouds hung low. Hetty hesitated as the wind whipped around the corner of the house, a gelid touch on the bare skin at her nape. She’d forgotten her scarf. With an annoyed shake of her head, she hurried toward the cozy warmth of the stables. It would be flying in the face of fortune to return to the house for the scarf, and it wouldn’t be needed if she kept to the shadows.
Pleased that the stables were gloomy, she hurried inside. The General whickered a greeting. Simon had gone to the village apothecary to fetch her father’s medicine. That was the only reason she could think of, but as her father would soon be in need of it, the order caused no comment.
Hetty patted The General’s nose and fed him an apple. By the time the last of it had disappeared, the clip of a horse’s hooves sounded on the gravel drive. She peeped out of the barn door. The baron, tall in the saddle, rode toward the house.
Hetty stepped out and beckoned him. As he reined in and dismounted, she slipped back into the stables.
“Sorry, my lord,” Hetty said, adopting Simon’s gruff voice. “We have no footman here. No undergroom neither. I’ll stable your horse.”
“Simon, good fellow,” he said warmly as he led his horse inside. “I came to thank you again.”
“No need for that, my lord,” she said. “Everything’s right and tight here as it happens.” She busied herself, settling his horse in a stall, then bent and swept the brush over the gelding’s flanks.
He patted The General’s nose, then came to rest an arm on the stall door. “I am relieved. If you should lose your job, you must come to work at Rosecroft Hall.”
She straightened to brush the horse’s back, confident of the poor light. “Mighty good of you, my lord. But not at all necessary.”
“Merci encore. I must go to the house. They will wonder where I am.” He turned toward the door.
Relieved it had gone so well, Hetty stepped out from behind the horse. She looked up to see if he had gone and walked purposefully toward the stable door planning to slip inside and change her clothes.
“I do hope you enjoyed our waltz.”
Hetty froze where she stood and slowly turned to see Guy emerge from the shadows. The elation left her, and she took a deep, shaky breath. “How long have you known?”
“The red hair was a definite hint, even partly disguised beneath that hair adornment. I wondered how far you would carry this ruse.”
She backed into an empty stall. “My hair’s not red,” she said incensed.
Guy followed her into the stall and reached over to whip off her hat. Her hair slipped from its perch and tumbled around her face. “Even in this light it looks red to me. Why deny it? Your hair is the color of an excellent burgundy wine. While I remain grateful to you for my life, I’m interested to hear what you have to say about your attempt to fool me with that disguise.”
“I was a victim of circumstances, my lord.” Hetty lifted her chin, her heart pounding loud in her ears. She would have to brazen this out.
“Oh? In what way?” Annoyed blue eyes stared into hers. “I do not like to be toyed with. I worried that the knock on the head had scrambled my brain.”
“Have you had headaches?” she asked with an innocent expression.
“Zut! How you still toy with me! When you bent over in those breeches! From the first I felt a strong attraction that a man has to a woman. It confused me. And then, when I saw you dressed as one, I understood.”
She scowled. “You deliberately teased me that night.”
“A little of your own medicine, perhaps?” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You sought to trick me. Was it because you didn’t trust me?”
She shrugged off his hands. “No trickery, my lord. I was dressed this way when I found you if you recall. When we were forced to spend the night in the hut, I needed to keep up the pretense.”
“So, it was a matter of trust. You thought I would ravage you if I knew you to be a woman? I can understand that. But not to continue the ruse fearing I would expose you. That has hurt my feelings.”
“Then I apologize.” Hetty was sure an arrogant man like him would get over it.
He widened his eyes. “But why dress like that?”
She couldn’t explain her restlessness to him, how hard it was to be a woman and want the freedom of a man. She hung up the curry brush. “I prefer to ride astride.”
He cocked a brow. “You like a strong beast moving beneath you?”
“As I prefer to ride alone, it’s safer.” He made it sound as if she’d gained some sort of indecent enjoyment from the exercise. Her face heated. She had known that riding astride was unfeminine, but it had never bothered her before this. It was an excellent way to compose her poems.
“Even so, it is risky. You like risk?”
“There is not much risk in Digswell, my lord.” Hetty drew herself up. “I can handle myself well, perhaps not as well as a man, but Simon is an amateur boxer and taught me a few moves.”
“I look forward to meeting this Simon.” His gaze flicked over her. What was he thinking? She quivered under his scrutiny.
“I don’t see why you should meet,” Hetty said. “The matter is at an end.”
“Is it? We spent the night in the same bed,” he said bluntly.
The indecency of it made her want to block her ears. “I remember it quite well. You have no need to remind me,” she murmured. “Although it sounds a good deal worse than it was.”
His dark brows slammed together. “While I was half-conscious, I told you all my secrets, confound it!”
So, that was what worried him. Hetty’s agitated breath eased a little. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am not about to mention it.”
“I spoke to you as one man to another. Zut!” He raked his hands through his hair. “Now you’ve got me cursing!”
“I’ve heard far worse from your lips,” she said with a wry smile.
“You deserved to,” he said coolly. He appe
ared to rein in his temper and leaned against a post to shred a piece of straw.
“Really, your confessions were hardly scandalous,” Hetty fibbed. She began to enjoy her new sense of power. “The French are so volatile compared to the English. You place too much importance on something of little consequence.”
“You have a poor opinion of us it seems.” His voice sounded dangerously honeyed as he shoved away from the post and stepped closer.
Hetty stifled a nervous giggle. She feared she had gone too far. She had provoked him. While she didn’t fear he’d hurt her, she did fear he’d take liberties. She wasn’t entirely sure she disliked the idea as he advanced on her. Her spine came up against the wall of the stall.
“We should go to the house,” she said, unsteadily. “My father will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
He towered over her. “And how he will enjoy your mode of dress.” He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you.”
He believed he had the upper hand, curse him. Hetty gulped down her alarm and tried to appeal to his better nature. She was reasonably confident he had one. It was just she, most probably, who brought out the worst in him. “Please… Lord Fortescue, allow me to go and change my clothes.” She edged around him, but his hand on her arm stopped her.
He gestured at her breeches. “Is it right that you should do this behind your papa’s back?”
“No. And I shall tell him. You will keep my riding The General a secret?”
His eyes caressed her. “What will you give me in exchange?”
Alarmed, with a gasp she pulled her arm free. “There is nothing I can give you.”
His gaze settled on her mouth. “Oh yes, there is much you can give me. But I am not greedy.”
Hetty drew in a long anxious breath. What was he suggesting? Surely not… A nervous thrill passed through her, coupled with a sense of shame. Did he consider her immoral? “I assure you, my lord, there is nothing.”
He placed a finger under her chin and raised it, forcing her to meet his fiery blue gaze. She felt singed as warmth spiraled down to heat regions of her body she’d hardly been aware of. Her knees threatened to give way.
“You owe me a kiss, I think.” He sounded entirely reasonable despite his outrageous request.
Hetty was quite sure she couldn’t handle a kiss from this man with any degree of savoir-faire. He had the wrong idea about her entirely. “I owe you nothing of the sort.” She decided to bluff it out and pushed past him.
She found herself on her back in the straw, with his lordship leaning over her. She struggled, but he held her down by her arms.
“Roué! Rake!” She fought her own desire as she attempted to evade him when he lowered his head to hers. It was useless, for he was too strong. He claimed her mouth, his lips cool and hard, and she stilled, shocked by the lick of excitement passing through her like a hot flame. He withdrew to look at her with surprise. “Horatia!”
She sucked in a breath. “I did not give you permission to call me by my name. How dare…”
His mouth claimed hers again. Hetty never knew a kiss could be like this. It was not an embarrassing collision of lips, quickly over. His lips softened as they moved over hers as she drew in his fresh male smell. Such raw intimacy stunned her. He stroked up her arms and clasped her hands, holding them above her head, a further shock of skin on skin, while crushed against his hard body. The body she knew well, having spent the night with him. How could he respect her now? And did it really matter? He would never be hers.
The fight went out of her. Had her hands been free, she would have pulled him closer still, driven by an insatiable curiosity.
Hetty was dimly aware that he taught her a lesson. Women could not live in a man’s world. They would never get the better of a man physically. They should keep their place. Impotent fury rose along with the unwelcome passion.
Their heavy breathing filled the stable. The horses shuffled and whickered as he hovered over her, still holding her captive. She glared up at him, struggling against the desire he stirred in her. She fought to keep her anger close and nurture it to build a wall between them. “You have made your point,” she hurled at him. “You are stronger than I am.”
“You are such an innocent, Horatia,” he said, suddenly serious. “I hope you now realize you can’t go about teasing poor men in this manner. That is a dangerous world out there, even in this small corner of England. Promise me you mean what you say.”
“I keep my word, my lord.”
“My name is Guy. I believe we’ve moved beyond the formalities.” His blue gaze roamed her face. “Has anyone told you your eyes aren’t brown? They are closer to amber with touches of green and gold. Like some rare stone.”
She turned her head away. “Let me go.”
When he obeyed her, she shoved him back as hard as she could. She jumped up and left him lying in the hay, an infuriatingly smug expression on his face. “You are no gentleman, sir. It seems they teach very poor manners in France!”
“Ah, but we French know how to enjoy what life has to offer.” He climbed to his feet and dusted the straw from his legs. He straightened, laughter in his eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you. The shape of your body in those breeches caused me some anguish, for which I may not forgive you!”
She put a finger to her swollen lips as another wave of helpless rage swept over her. “How ungrateful you are. I saved your life!”
“And I remain eternally grateful for it. Now go quickly and change before I decide to kiss you again. As fetching as you look right now…” His gaze roamed over her from head to toe, which made her suck in another frustrated breath. “I wish to see you dressed as a pretty woman should be. Your secret is safe with me.”
What arrogance! Glaring at him, she searched for the right words to wound him. Fury tied her tongue into knots. He toyed with her because he was a man and could do whatever he pleased. Her restricted circumstances became so unbearable she was afraid she might explode.
She planted a smile on her face and swayed her hips as she came closer.
“Mon dieu!” He eyed her body in the formfitting breeches and shook his head with an approving grin.
She raised her arm and slapped him hard across the cheek, so hard her fingers tingled. She welcomed the smarting; it made her feel considerably better.
“Coquine!” Eyes open wide, he fell backward with a hand to his cheek.
“We Englishwomen are not to be toyed with, my lord!” She turned to make a grand exit but stumbled over a rake cast down in the hay. Extricating herself without injury, she hurried for the door. “I shall expect you for tea in ten minutes.”
“Oh, I shall be there. Never fear. I wish to see your transformation,” came the amused reply.
Chapter Seven
Mortified, Hetty hurriedly slipped on her best morning gown with a rose-pink pattern, hoping it would give her confidence. Confidence was needed to put the baron in his place. She discarded the lace cap and parted her hair to sweep it back in a smooth bun, secured with pearl-handled combs. If Guy had sought to show how weak she was when a man wished to take advantage, he’d succeeded. But in her heart, she knew he was concerned for her safety. The appearance of highwaymen had changed Digswell. It was no longer a quiet backwater. Did he fear he’d brought them here for some other purpose? To her shame, his kisses had made her feel passionately alive. She now accepted she needed passion in her life. How else could she write splendid poetry? But she wouldn’t find passion stuck in Digswell for the rest of her days.
After a quick glance in the glass, she hurried downstairs. With a deep breath, she entered the drawing room, where Guy and her father were enjoying a slice of Cook’s plum bread. Guy threw down his napkin and stood as she entered the room. “How good to see you again, Miss Cavendish.”
Her father’s brow puckered. “Where have you been, Horatia? I sent Molly to find you fifteen minutes ago.”
“I was out in the garden, Papa, and had to tidy
myself.”
“You’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.
So annoying to be fair and blush like a ruby rose in midsummer. Henrietta curtsied. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”
He angled his head so that his eyes met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”
“Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”
Hetty sat on the sofa beside Guy. “Oh, not so often, surely, Papa.”
“Byron is a favorite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that a roué and a rake can produce such sensitive verse, don’t you agree?”
Hetty scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”
Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of bread. “Roué? Rake? These are not words bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “If Byron is one of these, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”
Guy’s eyes twinkled.
She leveled a glowing look at him. “I’m surprised you’ve read Byron, my lord.”
His eyebrows peaked. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.
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