“No, thank you, my lord,” she rasped.
“Go on,” he urged. “’Twill warm you.”
When Horatia 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.
She handed the bottle back, feeling more at ease as her muscles loosened. Catching herself slumping on the cot, she jumped up. Dust rose from the rug as she settled there by the fire, now warm both inside and out, the knot of anxiety thawed. She leaned back on her hands and straightened her legs in what she considered a mannish pose, listening to the crackle and hiss of the flames. Aware of his every movement, she watched as he stretched his long limbs over the cot.
Horatia didn’t consider herself sheltered from men’s company; she’d been kissed at a ball held at Rosecroft Hall when she and a young man wandered the garden. She had not liked him much beyond his looks. He’d undoubtedly been a spoiled rake, and when he returned to London the next day, she hadn’t wished to see him again. It was the memory of that kiss that had the power to thrill her, rather than the man who delivered it. He had not affected her equilibrium quite the way the baron managed to do with very little effort. The baron made her wish she wore her prettiest dress and that he would gaze at her in quite a different way.
Chapter Three
The groom settled on the floor and gazed into the fire. “What is it about a fire that makes one want to watch it?”
“As long as it’s contained,” Guy answered, with a swift rush of memory.
The groom’s shoulders drooped into a relaxed pose. He was quite graceful for a man, the shape of his hip and thigh rather feminine. He fought an absurd pull of attraction as he studied the slender column of neck and curve of his cheek. His eyes darted away, but the image of soft skin like a woman’s remained, burned into his retina. These feelings were very strange. A la Greque had never interested him. A woman’s body offered too many delights for him to ever be interested in a man’s.
To distract himself from this absurd and peculiar feeling, he began to speak of his childhood in France. “My mother was French,” he said. “As aristocrats, we were forced to flee France during The Terror. We went to 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 made a promise that I would return to England and rightly claim what was ours. And 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, thank you. I, um, went before.”
A log tumbled onto the hearth, and Horatia jumped up to kick it back into the fire, as the baron returned and slammed the door shut behind him. He sat on the bed.
He scratched somewhere near his groin. Horatia peeped at the bulge there. She had tucked a rolled-up stocking into her breeches, but it was very small by comparison.
“Did you join the army?” she asked to distract herself as well as him.
“I believe we might have bugs in this bed. I do hope not.” 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.
He gazed down at his hands. “No doubt you know the story?”
“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 would likely have been given the cut direct and did not wish to subject my French mother to the cruelty the ton would inflict on them. By that time she was not strong...”
Filled with sympathy for his sad life, Horatia didn’t trust herself to speak. She stared at the fire as the room became hushed.
Simon half-turned towards him. “Do you have any family still living?”
A woman would be glad of such a profile, Guy thought. He was almost sorry the silence had ended. It had become strangely companionable. “Oui, I have a sister, Geneviève, she is married and lives in Paris.” He frowned. “I had a twin-brother, Vincent. He went missing when our chateau was ransacked by peasants and set on fire in the early days of the Terror.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“We were ten 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.”
“Have you come home to stay?”
“Oui. It is a nobleman’s duty to marry and secure his lineage.” He shrugged. “Even if he doesn’t feel love for the woman he chooses.”
Simon jumped to his feet and snatched up a bowl from the table. “I’ll fetch some snow. We can melt it for water. And 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.”
“Bonne.”
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 feminine derrière in his mind, though where it had come from he knew not. Bemused, he recollected that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman for a while.
Horatia 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, his mother, and sister shone through, and she liked him for it. She supposed he would travel to London to seek a suitable bride, but her friend Fanny, the daughter of a baronet, would be perfect for him. She was well-bred, sweet-natured, and very pretty. Horatia wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t relish remaining in Digswell to witness it.
Horatia shivered as she checked the stormy dark sky. What if they were snowed in here for some time? The thought terrified and enticed her in equal measures. Bother! She wished she understood these feelings, so new to her. She had accepted the idea that her independent nature would result in her remaining a spinster, but now she wanted all kinds of things she couldn’t put name to, and there wasn’t the remotest likelihood of her experiencing them 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 bizarre flavor.” He washed it down with whiskey.
Hor
atia 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 eight miles as the crow flies.”
There was a pause while he studied her, making her feel uneasy. He nodded towards the door. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh out there.”
Horatia 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 it 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 to keep up the lies, she struggled to come up with an answer but failed to think of good one. “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 think she’d ridden the horse without permission? Might he suspect she went to meet a lover? Horatia 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 held her breath 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 Horatia’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 am most apprécient, Simon.” He smiled. “I would be dead 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.”
On her knees, Horatia’s pulse leapt at the prospect of touching him. Firming her lips, she edged closer and dabbed at the wound with the corner of the handkerchief dampened with whiskey, wiping away where the blood had run down into an eyebrow. The cut had ceased bleeding. His soft breath tinged with whiskey touched her cheek. She swallowed. “I don’t believe it needs stitching.” 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 backwards in fear he might discover them at any moment. Luckily his eyes were 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 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 children to mourn me,” he said cheerfully. “Do you have family?”
“Yes, my father,” Horatia said, unable to lie about such a thing.
“No siblings?”
“No, but I wish I did.” A sister or brother would be a great distraction for her father.
“And your father. He works with horses too? On the same estate?”
“Yes, the same place.”
“And you work 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.” Horatia realized this was true. She had not behaved well, and a sense of shame washed over her. She could ruin his life if she was found out. If she escaped censure this time, she would not risk it 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, rather like a fine sketch she’d seen of Lord Byron in Albanian dress.
“I’m feeling 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 how calm she sounded. How dangerous this had become. What would he do if he discovered her sex? She shivered.
“You are cold?”
“A little. The room feels warmer though.”
He raised his leg and rested his boot on Horatia’s thigh. She grabbed the boot and pulled. It didn’t give an inch.
“Perhaps if you turn around?” he said. “My valet used to do it that way.”
She turned her back and reached her shaky hands down as he threaded his riding boot between her legs. The boot rubbed against her most vulnerable spot, stirring something within her. She started as he rested his other boot against her derrière. Frantic to get it over with, she grasped the boot and tugged with growing alarm as heat radiated out from her nether regions. She let out a relieved sigh as the boot came away in her hands.
He repeated the procedure with his left boot. It was an exquisite torture.
“You’re a slim young man, Simon,” he said from behind her. “When you’re a bit older, you will fill out and put on more muscle.” Was he studying her derrière? She quickly sat.
By the time his lordship stood in his stocking feet, Horatia’s face burned so hot it must have rivaled the logs in the fireplace. She threw on several more, raising a cloud of sparks with the hope they would last the night. She sat and pulled off her boots before he suggested he might help.
When he stood to loosen his trousers, she spun around and fussed over the arrangement of the horse blankets on the bed. She turned back as if compelled to watch him as he ran a hand over his chest beneath his shirt.
He winced in pain. “I think I must have bruised a rib. Have a look, will you?”
“I don’t think I can be of much help, my lord,” she said. “I doubt there’s a bone broken. The pain would be far more intense.”
“I doubt that, too, but just look, will you?”
She nodded and ran her tongue over her bottom lip. She had never seen a grown man’s naked chest before. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and lifted his shirt. She sucked in a breath and bent to examine him. Small nipples jutted from his sculpted chest, and his stomach was ridged with muscle. A soft mat of dark hair disappeared into his breeches. Her stomach clenched as his manly smell teased at her and her fingers curled into her palms with the need to touch him. What would happen if she did? Her tentative finger traced a rib. She’d never expec
ted a man’s skin to be so smooth. She pulled her hand away as she fought the desire to sweep it over the planes of his chest. “You’re right; there is a bruise here.” How composed she sounded, when her whole body pulsed in the strangest way.
“Thought as much.” He yawned then yelped, cradling his forehead. “Devil plague it!” He patted the cot. “We can throw those blankets over us and sleep top to tail. Not ideal, but ’twill do, will it not?” He gave another dazzling smile.
He looked so trusting she felt ashamed of her dishonesty. “I can sleep anywhere. Curled up on the mat by the fire will do; ’tis all the same to me,” she said in a tight voice. That she found him so attractive surprised her, when she wasn’t sure she approved of him. But then, Byron’s transgressions only served to make him more attractive.
He patted the cot. “I won’t hear of it. There’s plenty of room here.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
“You’re a gentlemanly fellow for a groom, Simon,” he said. “I haven’t got you into trouble, have I? No doubt your colonel will think you’ve absconded with that horse.”
Horatia knelt at the foot of the cot. “I’ll set that to rights in the morning.” She suffered a pang of guilt. Simon would be so worried about her. She prayed he would wait for the storm to pass before he ventured out.
She planned to ride to Rosecroft Hall for help at dawn, even though it would risk revealing her identity to Williams, the head groom. Williams seemed a decent sort of fellow. If she pleaded for his silence and made a quick getaway, she might avoid discovery. If she avoided her godfather, for Eustace would see through her disguise. And if she managed to arrive home before her father. So many ifs. She couldn’t see a way through it with any degree of certainty, though, and gave a deep sigh. Heaven knew what the servants, who would be thinking the worst, would tell Father if he arrived before her. And Simon would be forced to take the servants into his confidence. She felt sure they knew she rode The General, and would rally to protect her, but she hated to make them witnesses to her deceitful behavior.
A Baron in Her Bed Page 3