“You look most uncomfortable.” He lay down with his hands clasped behind his head. “Aren’t you going to take off your coat and hat?”
“No. Too cold and the hat keeps my ears warm,” she mumbled, aware that her breasts showed through her shirt.
“No man wears a queue these days. You should get your hair cut short like mine. Short hair is de rigueur.” He ran his hands through his hair, and a dark lock flopped over the bandage on his forehead.
Frenchmen were far too concerned with their appearance. Fops, many of them, she thought, warming to the idea. It was uncharitable of her and possibly unfair, but it helped her keep her distance.
“I haven’t been accused of snoring. Do you?”
“I don’t think so.” She wished her voice didn’t sound so strained. The gruff voice made her throat hurt.
He raised his head to gaze at her with those blue eyes, his well-defined lips stretched into a grin. “You do not know?”
She shook her head.
“Even in this poor light I can see your cheeks are smooth as a juene fille. I take it you are not old enough to have enjoyed feminine company?”
Horatia shifted her gaze to the cobwebs on the ceiling as she tried to think of a way to extricate herself from this mess of her own making. “Old enough yes ... but no.”
His deep laugh made her catch her breath. “We men are always old enough, nous ne sommes pas? You have much to enjoy when you do throw a leg over. Ah, mademoiselles.” He gave an appreciative sigh. “What would we men do without them? I’ve known some great beauties in my time.”
How boastful! She wished she wasn’t so intrigued.
“You must become a good lover, my friend. It is a skill that requires much study to perfect.”
“In what way?” Oh why had she asked that? She’d just invited him to tell her. She bit her lip, half wanting to hear it and half fearful of what he would say.
“By listening,” he said, surprising her. “What she tells you gives many clues.”
“And if she tells you nothing?”
“You ensure the woman has her pleasure before you take yours, using all of your body, your hands, your tongue and lips, as well as your cock. When she comes, you will hear it, see it, feel it, and delight in it.”
Horatia dipped her head to hide her hot cheeks as he elaborated on what he liked a woman to do to him. He must notice her rapid breath. Women would need little encouragement she was sure. She slanted a glance at him under her lashes as he ran a careless hand across his broad chest. The overwhelming desire to feel his body pressed against hers caused her to press her fingers into her palms. Such an arbitrary thought horrified her. There was far more at risk here than her reputation.
“But don’t fall in love with the first one you bed.” His fingers rasped over the beginnings of a beard. Would it be prickly against her cheek? “I don’t allow my cock to rule my head.”
Startled, Horatia’s wayward thoughts vanished. Aware she gaped at him, she shut her mouth.
“I’m aware of my obligations,” he went on, “particularly since most of my family has been wiped out. The only male left, apart from me, is my English relative who has been caretaker of the estate these past years.”
“Mr. Fennimore is well known hereabouts, my lord. A friend of the colonel’s of long standing, he often dines at the manor.”
“I have not warmed to him in our correspondence, but the English are known to be reserved.”
This surprised Horatia. She was very fond of her godfather, who was a gregarious soul. “Were your father and Mr. Fennimore close at one time?”
He frowned. “I don’t believe so, but I owe him a great debt of gratitude for his care of the estate in our absence. I am keen to marry and make my home here.”
“I expect you shall seek your bride in London, my lord. I’ve heard Almacks is the perfect marriage mart.”
He smiled. “I might find one there prepared to live with my bad habits.”
“You take after your father, my lord?” Was he bragging about his rakish ways? Horatia yearned to put him in his place and was annoyed at her inability to do so.
His eyebrows rose at her impudence, but he laughed good-naturedly. “Papa was fond of the ladies, and it got him into trouble when he was young. But when he met my mother he knew what he wanted.”
“And was he faithful to her?” An even more impertinent question, but she felt compelled to ask it.
His gaze roamed over her, and she bent to smooth the blanket. She must hold her tongue and be more careful. Had he become suspicious?
“I believe he was.” His eyes remained on her, and she resisted tugging her hat lower. “But there are many fillies who will wish to snare you, so beware, Simon. A handsome jeune home like you ...” His voice drifted off, and his dark brows rose.
Horatia held her breath.
He propped his head in his hand. “Do I embarrass you, young Simon? This knock on my head has addled my brains.”
“Not at all, my lord.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, to find herself arranging the blanket like a maid would do. “You must be tired. I shall allow you to sleep.”
He turned on his side and closed his eyes.
With some small measure of relief, she settled ramrod stiff on the cot, determined not to touch any part of him, but it was so narrow it proved impossible. Her feet ended up settled against his back, while his stocking-clad feet were somewhere behind her head. He smelled pleasantly of the citrusy Bergamot scent, overlaid with male, leather, and horse.
He was soon asleep, his breath slow and even.
What would it be like to lie in his arms, safe and comfortable? Well, perhaps not so comfortable. Or so safe? Warming her feet at his back, she listened to the creak of the roof timbers and the snap of frail branches breaking under their burden of snow. The General shuffled in his makeshift stall. No doubt, the horse was hungry. She was, too, and a little light-headed from the whiskey. She must be gone at first light before he glimpsed her in broad daylight. Now that he had recovered his wits, it wouldn’t take him long to realize she was a woman.
Horatia doubted she could sleep in such proximity to a man who made her pulse leap when he smiled. She tucked her cold hands between her legs. Such powerful emotions this man stirred in her. Tomorrow she would leave here, but how could she ever view life in the same way?
Chapter Four
Horatia woke to find she was spooning the baron’s lower back. She eased herself away and sat up. Grey morning light struggled through the small square of dirty windowpane. The blanket had fallen away. He slept deeply, his lips parted and his strong chin darkened with a day’s growth. A fringe of thick dark lashes lay on his cheek ‒ why did men have fuller eyelashes than women? She liked the shape of his nose and the way his nostrils flared above a generous mouth.
His bandage had unraveled to reveal his wound, which had clotted nicely. She studied his big hands and the swell of his muscled arms beneath his shirt. Her gaze ran the length of him, feasting on his strong thighs and the contour of his trousers. He was unlike a woman in so many respects that she wondered how she had fooled him. His very maleness tempted her to consider what it would be like to lie upon his broad chest and press her body against his.... She jerked upright. She had slept overlong and must leave before he woke.
Her hat had fallen off, and her hair had escaped its bonds, spilling over her shoulders. Her chilled fingers tangled in the knots as she attempted to draw it back. She managed to gather the whole into what she was sure was a bird’s nest at the back of her head then eased her feet to the floor. She located her flattened hat beneath her shoulder, and jammed it on. The blanket stirred, and dust motes rose. She sneezed.
His eyes opened.
“Zut! It is cold.” He sat up and blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes, thank you.” Annoyed with herself, she bent to pull on her boots. “I hope you did also?”
“Quite soundly. Sharing body he
at was a good idea.”
She flicked a glance at him. “You feel better, my lord?”
“I do. Hungry though.” He grinned. “I could even consume a big English breakfast.”
Sometime during the night, the fire had gone out. The room was so cold that steam floated out of their mouths when they spoke. Horatia stood and wound the green scarf around her neck and the lower part of her face. She stirred a log in the fireplace with a toe. “I’ll light the fire before I leave.”
“You do not intend to abandon me here?” He leapt up from the bed. She raised her head to look at him. How tall he was. Now that he’d recovered, his masculinity filled the room, an almost overpowering presence.
She turned towards the door. “I’ll ride for help. The sooner I go, the quicker someone will come for you.”
“No need for that.” He seized a boot and sat to pull it on. “We will double up and ride to my house. Mr. Fennimore expects me. I wrote to tell him I planned to arrive two days ago. He must have sent a search party out for me.”
She watched helplessly as he buttoned his waistcoat and shrugged into his coat. He reached for his cravat. “You can have something warming to eat and feed your horse before you return home.”
Horatia’s heart sank. Not only would her godfather recognize her in broad daylight, the baron couldn’t fail to discover her sex. She didn’t trust him to keep silent about her escapade. But neither could she dispute his suggestion, for it made sense. There was very little dry wood left, and in daylight, the hut had lost any pretensions to cozy intimacy. Not only was it a miserable place to be cold in, it was dirty and smelt of mold. She chafed, wishing to be gone. She would travel much faster alone, but as a lowly groom, she must obey him. Forced to accept that she had no option but to take him with her, she pulled her hat down over her eyes. “As you wish, my lord.”
He dressed quickly, and they left the hut. The stallion snorted his impatience and shuffled, eager to be gone.
“I’m sorry, boy. It’s been a long cold night.” Horatia patted his neck.
“He will be glad of a feed and a warm stable,” the baron said in a compassionate tone.
Horatia pulled off the blankets and saddled The General, relieved that long practice made it easy.
She mounted the horse and removed her foot from the stirrup for the baron. He threw his leg over the rump of the horse and sat close behind her, his thighs rimming hers. As she returned her foot to the stirrup, his hand settled at her waist, driving the air from her lungs. “Do you know the way?” His voice sounded close to her left ear.
She threaded the reins through her hands and moved the horse on. “I do. I roamed these woods as a child.”
“Did you?” He sounded surprised, and she realized she’d become so relaxed in his company that, for a moment, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be a groom. She bit her lip. How could she remain on guard with him so close?
She forced a laugh. “I should not admit my trespass to the owner, perhaps.”
“You have my permission to roam my woods for the rest of your days, Simon.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She tried and failed to ignore his muscular thighs and the warmth of his hands at her waist as she turned the horse. When they brushed against tree branches, snow fell down on them.
She was surprised by the overgrown woodlands thick with bracken, fallen trees and dead branches. It appeared that her godfather had neglected the woods, for several seasons by the look of it. Had Eustace run short of money? There’d been no sign of it, for he dressed well and still spent even the little season in London every year. The arrangement with the baron’s father was not her business. She only knew that, for many years during October, London society had arrived for the grouse shoot. The village had come alive like a parched plant given water. Some very important personages attended Eustace’s dinner parties and balls. But two years before, his hospitality had ceased because of his health – or that was what she had been given to understand. Since then, Eustace had not entertained in even a small way.
“I’ll try the shortcut. If it isn’t too overgrown, we’ll be there in an hour or so.” And the sooner the better, she thought, as his arm reached around her to push away a pine branch and his warm breath stirred the hair at her nape.
As they negotiated a rise, The General stumbled over a rock hidden by slush. His thighs gripped hers, and his tight hold on her diaphragm sent a wave of heated anxiety through her. Distracted, the reins slipped through her grasp. She steadied herself and urged the horse on. The sooner they reached the house, the better.
“What did you do like to do when you roamed these woods as a child?”
“Oh, I collected robin’s eggs. Climbed trees and picked wild flowers.” She went rigid with horror as her mind searched for an acceptable explanation. “My aunt liked to press them into books.”
He dropped a hand from her waist and shifted away from her. Cold air rushed into the space where his warm body had been.
There was a long pause as the horse crunched its way through the snow. The icy wind stung her nose while she berated herself for her stupidity. The more familiar with him she became, the more difficult it was to pretend.
“Do you prefer the company of men, Simon?”
She almost missed his quietly spoken question. “I have several friends,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. Was he repulsed? Might he now think her like those Romans Catullus spoke of in his poems? She clamped her lips shut on a nervous giggle. In India, she had found a French translation in the library of their rented house. Her French was adequate enough to have made sense of them. Those poems had shocked her to the very core, but she couldn’t help turning the pages. There had been a collection of Persian literature too, some with pictures, and she’d smuggled them into her room and poured over them late at night by the light of the candle.
“We play cards and hunt when we get a day off,” she said.
“But you are artistique, no?”
“There is artistry in many things, my lord,” Horatia said with a shrug. “The skill in crafting a fine saddle, for instance.” The comment would not stand up under scrutiny, she knew. But fortunately, it had the effect of silencing him. But were there doubts now planted in his mind? When next he met her, as he was sure to do soon enough, would he recognize her and be angry enough to denounce her?
They continued on with just the creak of saddle leather and the cry of the birds wheeling overhead in the frigid, grey sky.
“We seem to have reached the main thoroughfare,” he said with obvious relief.
Horatia could only agree.
The General stepped out onto Rosecroft Hall’s rutted gravel drive, which was lined with knobby, aged oaks. She urged the horse into a trot. The hall sat in queenly, if shabby, grandeur on a rise in the distance, its clusters of blackened chimneys highlighted against the sky.
“You know the history of the house?” he asked, pride warming his voice.
“A little, my lord.” Of course Horatia did, but she wasn’t about to disappoint him.
“Rosecroft Hall was built in fifteen-fifty-seven by William, the first Fortescue. It consisted of little more than the great hall, solar, buttery, and a few bedchambers. Lord Robert, the third baron, extended it in the seventeenth century. He added the west wing and gatehouse. The fourth earl added the sash windows and water closets. All of the Fortescues are buried in the crypt in the parish churchyard in Digswell, with the exception of my father.”
Horatia made an encouraging sound in her throat. She had roamed the churchyard and knew the ornate crypt of which he spoke.
“Rosecroft Hall’s great chamber boasts a carved minstrel’s gallery, where many fine paintings hang. It is renowned for its Elizabethan panels and plasterwork ceiling. But more than this, mon ami, there’s a secret door below the solar with a tunnel that leads to the woods. My father used it when he was a boy. I intend to find it.”
Horatia smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. “I
wish you luck, my lord.”
“The gardens too are magnifique. The lime walk, the topiary…” His voice fell away as they rode farther on and the neglect became more obvious, with unclipped hedges and rangy gardens beneath a layer of snow.
Horatia remembered the last time she’d visited. The house had been in need of attention even then, with cracked plaster and faded draperies, and she doubted much had been done since. Men were not always aware of such things. It needed a woman’s touch, and Eustace was a widower. He had never spoken of his wife. Perhaps her passing still weighed heavily upon him as her mother’s did her father.
“The grounds need work,” he said. “I wonder why it hasn’t been done.”
“Most likely due to Mr. Fennimore’s health.” Horatia voiced her thoughts, feeling a swell of loyalty for her godfather.
They approached the massive sandstone house. The columned forecourt was covered in a flowering creeper, the walls thick with ivy. She reined The General in. The long, mullioned windows looked blankly down. A footman rushed out to greet them. Thankfully, there was no sign of Eustace.
“Please come in and partake of some breakfast,” the baron said to Horatia. “I’m sure Mr. Fennimore would like to thank you.”
He jumped down and stretched his back with a groan as Williams hurried around the corner from the direction of the stables.
“Most kind, my lord.” Horatia eyed the approaching groom. “But I must ride straight home. I’m concerned about my master.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you, Simon. I am indebted to you.”
“Nonsense, my lord. Anyone would have done the same.” She sank her chin beneath her scarf and ignored Williams’s penetrating stare. He would recognize The General. She turned the horse’s head, directing him back the way they’d come with a sigh of relief. If Williams didn’t question his lordship too closely, she might pull this off, but she had yet to face what lay in wait at home.
As The General cantered down the drive, she turned. The baron stood, legs apart and hands on hips, staring after her. He raised a hand in farewell. She wondered where Eustace was, for he still hadn’t appeared. He was sure to be relieved that his relative had arrived safely.
A Baron in Her Bed Page 4