Hetty recognized the name immediately. “You are a relative of the baron?”
“Oui. I am the sixth Baron Fortescue.”
She stared at him, aghast. Should she bow? She wasn’t entirely sure she could carry it off. “Lord Fortescue left England years ago. Your father.”
“Oui, my papa. I was born in France, but now that the war with England is over, I am here to reclaim my ancestral home.”
“You are but a few miles from it, my lord. Your relative, Mr. Fennimore, is in residence.”
“You know him then?”
“I know of him.” Startled, Hetty realized she’d forgotten her ruse. It was becoming tiring. “A groom don’t hobnob with such as him,” she said in a growl.
Fortunately, he appeared too distracted to notice her appalling effort to speak like a servant. And she’d forgotten to earlier. As a Frenchman new to England, he may not wonder at it, so she decided not to try it again.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was riding up from London. Bandits shot at me but missed. I outrode them, but as I congratulated myself at having lost them, I ran into a low branch. Zut! It almost knocked my head off. I must have fallen off my horse.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I digress. What is the name of my savior?”
Hetty bit her lip. A name hadn’t occurred to her. She plucked her groom’s name from the air. “Simon Rawlings, my lord.”
He nodded. “My most heartfelt thanks, Simon.” As if the gesture hurt him, his dark lashes dropped.
It seemed he had accepted her. Hetty leaned back. She began to relax in his company. Masquerading as a man had unsuspected advantages as she could study this attractive male at close quarters. She changed her mind when he pulled off his cravat and loosened his shirt. The dark hair at the base of his strong brown throat held a certain fascination but made her nervous. The room suddenly seemed to close in.
She prodded at the fire, which was burning nicely, with a stick. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Highwaymen ain’t been round here for years.”
“If that’s what they were.”
“Who else could they be?” Hetty asked, swinging around to look at him.
“I don’t know, young Simon.”
It worried him, that was obvious. Could it have been more than a chance attack?
He frowned and pointed to two dusty bottles on the shelf. “Would that be whiskey? It’s usual to keep some for lost travelers such as we.”
When Hetty shook one of the bottles, it was half full. She pulled out the cork and smelled it. “It is whiskey. We can use it to sterilize your wound and then we should cover it somehow to prevent infection.”
“Does it smell brackish or reedy?” he asked.
She shook her head as spicy oak smells greeted her. It reminded her of her father’s favorite Scottish malt. “No, it’s still good.”
“Merci.” He reached for the bottle. “Sit beside me, Simon.”
Hetty’s throat tightened at the thought of joining him on the cot. Desperate, she tried to think of the way Simon walked and his mannerisms. She strode over to the bed with a masculine swagger and handed the bottle to the baron. He took a long swallow and gave it back.
“Drink, Simon.”
On the narrow cot, Hetty tried to keep a space between them. She spread her knees and rested a hand on her thigh as she’d seen Simon do. The position made her feel oddly exposed. Hot and flustered, she crossed her legs at the ankle. She held the bottle up to her nose. While she recognized whiskey, sherry and a glass of wine with dinner were the strongest drinks she’d had.
Hetty took a manly swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The fiery liquid burned its way down her throat into her stomach. It took her breath. She gasped and coughed. As she spluttered, his lordship moved closer and slapped her on the back. The shock of his touch made her rigid.
“I gather you’re not used to it?”
His smile had an odd effect on her heart, which gave a little leap. It was quite the most attractive smile she’d seen, his teeth white against his olive skin. He took the bottle from her and put it to his lips. After another swallow, he offered it to her again.
“No, thank you, my lord,” she rasped.
“Go on,” he urged. “’Twill warm you.”
When Hetty took the bottle from him, his fingers collided with hers. Acutely aware of his touch on her skin, she took a hasty gulp. The liquid slipped down the back of her throat and spread through her to warm her extremities, right down to her toes.
The baron took the bottle back. Hetty’s muscles seemed to have loosened. Aware she’d slumped on the cot, she leapt up. Dust rose from the rug as she settled again by the fire, now warm both inside and out, she leaned back on her hands and straightened her legs in what she considered a mannish pose. Conscious of his every movement, she watched him stretch his long legs over the cot while the room filled with the fire’s crackle and hiss.
Hetty didn’t consider herself sheltered from men’s company. She’d been kissed at a ball held at Rosecroft Hall after she and a young man strolled in the garden. She hadn’t liked him much beyond his looks. He was the spoiled son of a wealthy man, and when he returned to London the following day, she hadn’t missed him. But it was the memory of that kiss which had the power to thrill her rather than the man who delivered it. And he had not affected her equilibrium quite the way the baron managed to do with little effort. Perhaps it was the situation they were in, but he made her wish she wore her prettiest dress and he would gaze at her in quite a different way.
Chapter Three
The groom sat on the floor beside the fire. “What is it about a fire that draws one’s eye? It has a certain fascination.”
“As long as it’s contained,” Guy answered, with a swift rush of memory.
Simon’s shoulders drooped into a relaxed pose. He was quite graceful for a man, the shape of his hip and thigh rather feminine. Guy fought an absurd pull of attraction as he studied the slender column of his neck and the curve of his cheek. The lad had delicate skin like a woman. Guy pulled his gaze away. These feelings were very strange. A la Greque had never interested him. A woman’s body offered enough delights for him.
To distract himself from this absurd and peculiar sensation, he began to speak of his childhood in France. “My mother was French,” he said. “We were forced to flee France during The Terror and lived in Brussels for a time. While we were away, our properties were seized and our relatives, who remained, were murdered by guillotine. The shock and strain of it made my mother ill. After she died, my father quickly followed. Before he passed away, I vowed I would return to England and claim what was rightly ours. That I would marry and have sons. It was his dearest wish.”
He climbed to his feet, relieved the dizziness had abated and made for the door. “I shall have to brave the cold to relieve myself. Will you join me?”
Simon ducked his head. “No, I’m right. I, um, went before.”
*
A log tumbled onto the hearth, and Hetty jumped up to kick it back into the fire as the baron returned and slammed the door shut behind him. He sank onto the cot and scratched somewhere near his groin. Hetty peeped at the bulge there. She had tucked a rolled-up stocking into her breeches, but it was small by comparison.
“Did you join the army?” she asked to distract herself as well as him.
“I suspect we have bugs in this bed. I do hope not. What I would give for a hot bath, would not you, Simon?” He frowned and continued. “France was at war on many fronts when Napoleon seized power. Every able-bodied man was forced to join the army. I contracted a fever, which brought me low for some months, and by the time I recovered, the situation had changed, and they had forgotten me. I was glad. After what happened to my family, I had little sense of patriotic duty, I’m afraid. And my father had instilled in me a pride in all things English.”
“Why didn’t your father return to England when the other French émigrés began to desert France?” she asked.
“There has been some mention of a duel.”
“The thought of being tried by his peers deterred him.” He shook his head. “I suspect Father suffered great shame. He had not intended to kill the man and wasn’t proud of what he’d done as a callow youth. He hesitated too long. He did not wish to subject my French mother to the cruelty the ton would inflict on them. And by the time we had to leave, Maman was not strong enough to endure the journey to England.”
Filled with sympathy for his sad life, Hetty didn’t trust herself to speak. She stared at the fire as the room became hushed.
*
Simon half-turned toward him. “Do you have any family still living?”
A woman would be glad of such a profile. Guy was almost sorry the silence had ended. It had become strangely companionable. “Oui, I have a sister, Genevieve, she is married and lives in Paris.” He frowned. “I had a twin-brother, Vincent. He was lost after our chateau was ransacked by peasants and set on fire in the days of The Terror.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“We were twelve at the time. My father risked his life searching for Vincent. He continued to look for him when we returned to France but found no proof that he lived. It was very difficult for Papa to accept that Vincent had died in the fire. It broke his heart.”
“How sad. You will remain in England?”
“Oui. It is a nobleman’s duty to marry and secure his lineage.” He shrugged. “Whether he loves the woman he chooses or not.”
Simon jumped to his feet and snatched up a bowl from the table. “I’ll fetch some snow. We can melt it for water. I have sandwiches and an apple in the saddlebag. I planned to stop for a bite but then forgot.”
“Sandwiches?”
“Bread and cheese, meat and pickles.”
“Bon.”
Guy watched Simon wrestle with the door as wind and a flurry of snow blew into the room. The temperature dropped, and the flames in the fireplace flattened, then roared.
The groom managed to slip through and close the door behind him. Guy was left with the thought of a female derriere, though where it had come from, he knew not. Bemused, he recollected that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman for a while.
*
Hetty was pleased to find the sandwiches still edible, if a trifle squashed, in their brown paper wrapping. She fed the apple to The General.
Despite the strain of keeping her secret from his lordship, she enjoyed his company. His affection for his rakehell father, mother, and sister, shone through, and she liked him for it. She supposed he would seek a suitable bride in London. But her friend Fanny, the daughter of a baronet, would be perfect for him. She was sweet-natured and very pretty. Hetty wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t relish remaining in Digswell to witness it.
Hetty shivered as she checked the stormy, dark sky. What if they were snowed in? The thought terrified and enticed her in equal measures. Bother! She wished she understood these feelings, so new to her. She had accepted her independent nature would make it difficult to accept marriage, but now she wanted so much more, and there wasn’t the remotest likelihood of her experiencing it in this small country village. After scooping snow into the bowl, she hurried to the hut.
“Ah, you are back.” He lowered the bottle. For a moment, she suspected that he might be in his cups, a worrying circumstance she hadn’t considered, but he looked far steadier than he had an hour ago and seemed to hold his liquor well.
She unwrapped the sandwiches and placed them on the table beside him. “I’m not sure if you have pickles in France,” she said. “Would you prefer cheese?”
“I have not eaten them, but I am ready to try all English foods,” he said with an uneasy smile.
“Half of each, then.” She offered him the meat and pickle, curious to see how he fared with it. He took a bite of the meat along with a slice of pickle, and his dark brows rose as he chewed.
“A curious flavor.” He washed it down with whiskey.
Hetty almost giggled and pulled herself up sharply. “Perhaps the cheese will be more to your liking.”
“I am grateful for the food,” he said. “It has been a long time since I ate. But your pickles might take a little getting used to.”
“You were telling me about your family, my lord.”
“Was I? How about you tell me more about yourself, Simon?”
“There’s very little to tell. I work for Colonel Cavendish, a retired army man at Malforth Manor.”
“Is the manor far away?”
“About six miles as the crow flies.”
There was a pause while he studied her, making her glad the light was poor. He nodded toward the door. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh out there.”
She bit into the sandwich and took her time chewing. “The General is progeny of a stallion the colonel rode in India. Let’s me exercise the horse when he’s away, he does.”
“That is remarkably good of him. Will someone be worried when you fail to return?”
His scrutiny made her nervous. Tired of the effort required to continue with her fabrication, she struggled to come up with an answer. “I live over the stables, so I doubt that’s likely,” she said finally.
He chuckled. “You don’t wish to tell me the truth of it?”
“There’s nothing to tell, my lord. I was exercising the horse. With the colonel’s permission, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed with amusement in his voice. “As long as no one awaits your return.”
Did he suspect she’d ridden the horse without permission? Might he suspect she was on her way to meet a lover? Hetty was quite comfortable with that. It was a virile thing for a groom to do, after all. She settled on the rug by the fire again, and they finished the sandwiches in silence.
The pleasure and ease she had begun to feel in his company was broken when he stood up. He looked very big and strong as he eased out of his greatcoat. She ducked her head when he joined her on the rug. He drew up his long legs and clasped his knees with his hands. The wind howled around the creaking hut, and the flames popped and spluttered in the fireplace as they ate into the wood.
When his arm brushed Hetty’s, nervous prickles traveled up her spine. Alert to every movement, she resisted moving away. He made it worse when he patted her on the shoulder. “I cannot thank you enough, Simon.” He smiled. “I would be lying dead out there, but for you.”
“’Twas merely luck, my lord.” She was glad that dusk had fallen because his features had begun to blur in the glow of the fire. “You should treat that wound.”
“Would you do it for me?” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You can use my cravat to tie up my head, if you will be so good.”
He closed his eyes. Hetty knelt at his side, and her pulse leapt at the prospect of touching him. She firmed her lips and edged closer, to dab at the wound with the handkerchief dampened with whiskey, wiping away where the blood had run down into a black eyebrow. The cut had stopped bleeding. His soft breath tinged with whiskey touched her cheek. She swallowed. “No need of a stitch.” Her gruff voice sounded unsympathetic to her ears.
“Then it will not leave a scar and spoil my good looks.”
“I doubt it.” Indeed, it might serve to make him more attractive. As she moved, so did her unfettered breasts beneath her coat. Her sensitive nipples rubbed against the material and she leaned backward in fear he might discover them at any moment. Luckily, his eyes remained closed.
“You have a gentle touch for a man, Simon.”
“My work with sick horses and foaling taught me to be gentle.”
“Such good work you do. I would like to work with animals.”
“You would?”
“Oui. Animals are noble. I cannot say as much of some people. I have had dogs and horses I could rely on for my life.” He frowned. “I hope my poor horse has found shelter.”
; She drew away and bit down on a sigh. “You are very lucky, my lord. You could have been killed.” She wound the cravat around his head.
“Well, there is no wife or child to mourn me,” he said cheerfully. “Do you have any family?”
“Yes, my father,” Hetty said, unable to lie about such a thing.
“No siblings?”
“No, but I wish I did.” A sister or brother would be a distraction for her father.
“And your father. He works with horses, too? On the same estate?”
“No. He’s retired. Lives in the village.”
“You get on well together?”
“Most times. One doesn’t always agree with a parent, does one?”
He chuckled. “Non. But most times?”
“Yes. My father is a fair man. He’s kind and wishes the best for me.” Hetty realized this was true. She had not behaved well, and a sense of shame washed over her. If she was discovered, she could destroy his life as well as hers. If she escaped censure this time, she would not ride The General again.
“There, all done.” She tied the cravat ends and moved away.
He climbed to his feet, looking rakish and handsome in his white turban, like that sketch she’d seen of Lord Byron in Albanian dress.
“I’m much better already. It’s so dark, there’s nothing to do but sleep. If you were a woman, it would be another matter, oui?” He laughed and tossed her the pillow.
Unbalanced by his remark, she fumbled and almost dropped it. She held it against her chest, wondering what unnerving thing he would say or do next.
He sat on the edge of the cot. “Would you mind doing one more thing for me? Help me with my boots?”
“As you wish, my lord.” A tingle climbed her spine, and she marveled at her calm voice. How dangerous this had become. What would he do if he discovered her sex? She shivered.
“You are cold?”
“A little. The room is warmer though.”
He raised his leg and rested his boot on Hetty’s thigh. She grabbed the boot and pulled. It didn’t give an inch.
The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1) Page 3