A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “Not yet.” He drew her back into bed.

  Horatia leaned into his hard body as the familiar sensations of warmth and need flooded through her. How she loved this man. Her need for him robbed her of breath as she pressed her mouth to his.

  Hunger drove them downstairs at luncheon to find Geneviève and Eustace had tactfully gone to visit the colonel and Marina.

  Ravenous, they devoured a late breakfast. Horatia held Guy’s hand, and they walked over the grounds. Evidence of order restored was everywhere she looked. The hedges were trimmed, the parterre garden neatened, the rose garden free of weeds. To Horatia, it was more than a restoration. Rosecroft Hall had been lifted from the mortmain past, which had held it in thrall ever since Guy’s father had deserted it. “I can’t wait to show you how glorious it is in the spring.”

  “We may not be here in the spring,” Guy said.

  She looked up at him. “Why? Where shall we be?”

  “Geneviève wants us to visit her in Paris,” he said with a grin.

  “Oh, Guy. I’d love that!”

  He lifted a curl to press a kiss on her neck and warmth spiraled down her spine. “I knew you would. But Geneviève may have to wait. It may not be advisable for you to travel.”

  She leaned into him and smiled. “You believe I’ll be with child?”

  “If I have anything to do with it.” His blue eyes questioned hers. “I expect the others will return soon.” She felt need for him rise within her and read a passionate response in his eyes. He took her hand to walk back to the house.

  She tugged at him. “We’ve christened the bed. Let’s make love in the summerhouse by the lake.”

  Guy’s brows rose. For a moment she thought he might refuse, but then he shook his head and laughed. “What an excellent notion.”

  The

  Gentle

  Wind’s

  Caress

  Other Novels by Anne Brear

  The House of Women

  To Take Her Pride

  No man of a woman born,

  Coward or brave, can shun his destiny.

  - Homer, Iliad, VI (Bryant trans.)

  Chapter One

  w

  Halifax, Yorkshire

  September 1876

  Isabelle stood dry eyed at her sister’s grave. Morning rain trickled down her collar and sent icy shivers along her skin. A blanket of dirty grey clouds lay low as though pressing her misery deeper onto her shoulders. The muffled bustle of Halifax came from behind them, reminding them that life continued no matter what.

  For a fleeting moment, Isabelle panicked. Alone. She and Hughie were all alone. The world suddenly seemed too large, too frightening without Sally’s calm presence. Sally was the soothing voice to Isabelle’s flights of fancy. Her madcap schemes and grand plans for leaving Halifax always made Sally smile tenderly and nod, but her elder sister knew, in her sweet and quiet way that their lives were already mapped out for them. Isabelle Gibson couldn’t change that. Dreams for a better life kept the workhouse inmates alive, Sally had known that and wouldn’t dispel Isabelle’s imaginings, for it was all they had.

  A cold hand inched into her own and she looked at her brother Hughie with his cropped dark hair and the sad grey eyes of their mother’s.

  ‘Poor Sally,’ he said with a sniff, using his sleeve to wipe away the moisture from his nose. ‘At least she’s with mother now and grandfather. They will watch over us together.’

  Isabelle couldn’t speak. Her emotions at her sister’s death only surfaced as anger. Anger at losing yet another member of her family. Sally, like their delicate mother, had been too gentle, too good for this harsh life. After their grandfather’s death there had been no one to look after them, no one to save them from entering the private workhouse. For her mother, a proud woman, this situation humiliated her and, in the end, ultimately killed her.

  A stooped old man stepped forward. ‘Er, I need ter fill it in, lass. So, yer’d best be heading off now.’

  Wrenched out her thoughts, she looked at the gravedigger as though she had never seen one before and then nodded once and turned away. Grabbing Hughie’s hand tighter, she dragged him behind her as she twisted this way and that around the numerous grave markers.

  They crossed the lane and entered the back gate of the workhouse grounds, which was barren of all colour. No trees or plants softened the sharp lines or grey drabness of the stone buildings. The only greenery was the rows of late summer vegetables. The rest of the yard didn’t even have the luxury of cobbles but was simply dirt – dusty in the dry weather and thick mud in the rain.

  ‘What’ll we do now, Belle?’

  After stepping through the doorway into the side entrance of the main building, Isabelle stopped and shook the rain from her cape. ‘We aren’t staying here any longer, that I do know.’

  ‘Where’ll we go then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe our father will come and get us?’

  ‘Don’t talk daft.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been gone eight years and I doubt he’ll be back now. Why do you always think of him? You hardly remember him!’

  Hughie shrugged and looked down at his boots.

  She gripped her cold hands together annoyed, as always, that Hughie continued to hold the image of their father as some hero who would come and sweep them away to a wonderful life of riches and pleasures.

  Sighing, she paced the narrow, dim hallway, hardly aware of the multitude of noises that penetrated out from other rooms above her head. ‘We need to be able to look after ourselves and not be split up. Now Sally has gone the old crow might do it. Yesterday, the dragon mentioned sending you down the pit. And me,’ she snorted in disgust and a little fear, ‘well I can only imagine where she’d like to send me.’

  ‘Matron’ll put you into service.’ Hughie nodded like a wise old man.

  ‘Oh no, she won’t.’ Isabelle slowed her pace. ‘I’ll not swap one form of servitude for another unless it’s to my benefit. I promised Mother.’ She pressed her temples and squeezed her eyes tight to concentrate. The sound of movement further along made her glance up. Neville Peacock leered at her from a doorway. Revulsion made Isabelle shiver far more than the cold did.

  Peacock sauntered towards them, hands in his trouser pockets. ‘So, your dear Sally is six foot under now?’

  Isabelle clenched her fists fighting the urge to scratch his eyes out. ‘One good thing is that she’s out of your clutches! As soon will I!’

  His evil laughter echoed around the shadowed hallway. ‘And here I was thinking you enjoyed my advances.’

  Isabelle straightened and fixed him with a look of contempt. A tuft of beard grew from his chin and that, with his long sallow face reminded her of a lean, dangerous wolf, always on the prowl. ‘I would rather swim in the midden than let you touch me.’

  His face tightened. ‘You enjoy having my attention.’

  ‘I put up with it before to keep you away from my sister!’

  His nostrils flared and a flush crept up his neck. He stared at her breasts before dragging his gaze up to her face. ‘I will have you, Miss Gibson, and you will take pleasure in it.’

  ‘Leave my sister alone!’ Hughie stepped up beside her.

  Neville raised his fist, but Isabelle thrust herself between them. ‘Don’t you dare touch him.’

  He moved back and lowered his hand, chuckling. ‘I’ll not waste my time. He’s but a minnow in a very large river.’

  Isabelle tossed her head and narrowed her eyes. ‘And you are nothing but a slimy eel.’

  Mrs Toombs, a patron of the workhouse, scurried by at the end of the corridor, but halted on seeing Isabelle. ‘Why, dear, I just heard the news. Poor Sally. You must feel wretched? Mrs Peacock already misses Sally’s quiet presence, I’m sure.’ She ruffled Hughie’s damp hair. ‘Never mind, at least Sally has gone to a better place now.’

  Neville Peacock slunk away into the shadows and disappeared from sight.

  Isabelle sig
hed and pushed his nauseating image from her mind. She smiled at the plump, elderly woman. ‘Thank you, Mrs Toombs. Yes, Sally will be greatly missed.’

  ‘Indeed. So, what will you do now?’

  ‘I thought I might marry, Mrs Toombs, should I find someone willing to take both myself and Hughie.’

  ‘Excellent idea, my dear. Everyone should be married and for a young bright girl like you it would the perfect solution.’

  Isabelle nodded. ‘That was my thoughts exactly, Mrs Toombs.’

  The older woman adjusted the basket hooked over her arm. Her navy blue taffeta skirts rustled with every movement. ‘Well, I must be going. My husband will not wait much longer for me, but he is generous in allowing me to bring my small donations to Mrs Peacock’s establishment.’

  A grim smile lifted Isabelle’s lips. ‘You are very kind, Mrs Toombs.’

  As the patron hurried back along the corridor, Isabelle chewed her bottom lip in thought.

  ‘She is nice,’ Hughie spoke, breaking into her thoughts.

  ‘Yes, and you know why?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Because she is married. A respectable married woman gains the high opinion from the community. Once you are married you are free, only answerable to your husband, and if you can bend him to suit your needs, well, there is no limit in what you can do.’ She nodded. ‘Being married is the best thing a woman can do. You just have to make sure you marry the right person and not a drifter like our father!’

  Hughie shuffled on the spot, his expression bored.

  ‘I need to speak with Mrs Peacock.’ She squeezed his hand and let go. ‘Go back to your chores. We’ll meet after the noon bell behind the garden shed in the west corner.’

  ‘Can’t we go into the glasshouse? It’s warmer in there.’

  ‘No. There’s always people about.’

  Once he had left her, she straightened her shoulders, placed her hat back on at a slight angle and took a deep breath. Marriage. The word burned in her soul. If she could marry she could keep Hughie with her and they’d be free from the workhouse, away from Matron’s demanding rule and away from the slime, Neville Peacock.

  Lifting her brown skirt, she ran down the corridor, turned left and marched along a wider hallway that had numerous doors on both sides. At the end of the hall, she turned right and paused in front of a black painted door, which bore a brass plaque with the words Mrs Peacock, Matron.

  Isabelle automatically tidied her hair, knowing the Matron’s fastidious nature in all things. Smoothing her drab skirt, she prayed silently that the woman would not make her angry, which was often the case whenever their paths crossed. Isabelle stiffened her spine and raised her hand to knock. I am a vicar’s granddaughter, not some scum off the street. With this in mind she rapped sharply on the door.

  Within seconds it opened and Mr Beale, the matron’s right-hand man glared at her behind thick, steel-rimmed lenses. ‘How dare you knock on this door!’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Beale, but I wish to speak to Mrs Peacock.’

  ‘Why you insolent-’

  ‘I shall not waste her time, I promise you.’ Isabelle pushed open the door and stepped inside, making the little man stumble back and gape at her.

  Mrs Peacock, a large woman always dressed in black, flung down her pen and glared. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘I ask for your forgiveness, Matron, but I have urgent needs that I must discuss with you.’

  ‘Urgent needs?’ The matron snorted, full of loathing. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, leave me at once.’

  ‘I wish to prepare for my future.’

  Mrs Peacock laughed a shrill noise that grated on Isabelle’s ears. ‘Your future? You have no future now Sally has gone! She was the one thing you had worthy and it is your fault she died.’

  Isabelle frowned. ‘Sally died from pneumonia.’

  ‘Yes, and how did she catch it?’ Matron stood and placed her hands flat on the desk. ‘She chased after you into the rain. You and your impertinent ways led her to her death. If you hadn’t run off that day, she would still be here!’

  ‘And why did I run?’ Emotion boiled inside Isabelle’s chest at the matron’s unjust accusation. ‘I ran because your filthy son wanted to lift my skirts and you didn’t care.’ She tossed her head. ‘As if I would willingly let him touch me!’

  Matron went white around the lips. ‘That is a lie. My son wouldn’t sully his hands with you. I would never allow it.’

  Isabelle grunted. ‘Yes, I suppose you speak the truth there. You didn’t want him touching me. You wanted him to him beget a child on Sally. Isn’t that right!’

  ‘How dare you.’

  ‘Sally had the qualities of my mother. She was refined, delicate and pure.’ Her lips curled in disgust. ‘Something the Peacocks and this establishment do not have.’

  Matron thumped the table. ‘Get out!’

  Isabelle closed her eyes. I’ve done it again. Every time she was in front of the matron they ended up in conflict. It had been the one thing she and Sally fought about; her lack of patience and quick temper.

  She opened her eyes and let out a long breath. ‘I did not come here to argue, Mrs Peacock. I did wish to discuss with you my future plans.’

  ‘You have no future,’ Matron seethed between clenched teeth.

  ‘I believe differently.’

  ‘Believe what you like, Gibson, but I know the truth of it.’ Mrs Peacock walked to the window that overlooked the grass area at the front of the workhouse before the high stonewall blocked the rest of the view. ‘You are not your sister. You do not have her qualities. Do you think you can compare with her or take her place in my affections?’

  ‘No-’

  ‘No, you cannot.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Isabelle. ‘You are past eighteen years of age. It is high time you left here and began working. Most girls your age have been working for many years. Your mother spoilt you all, believing you were to be better than you are. She, like you, had ideas above her station.’

  Isabelle clenched her fist in her skirts. ‘My mother was a vicar’s daughter, educated and trained as a lady’s companion.’

  Matron dismissed her words with a wave. ‘I gave it some thought as Sally lay dying and I found a position for you as a scullery maid in Lodge House on the outskirts of Halifax.

  ‘I will not go into service.’

  Mrs Peacock’s mouth thinned to a mere slit in her face. ‘For too long you have benefited from my benevolence towards your sister, who put her talents to good use and helped Mr Beale with the account books. However, all that has changed now.’

  ‘I won’t be a scullery maid and you have no say in what I do.’

  Matron took three large strides and stood just inches from her. She reeked of onion. ‘I can put you out on the street, my girl, you and your brother, so think on that!’

  ‘I will not be a servant, spending my days on my knees scrubbing floors.’

  A stinging slap on the face stunned Isabelle. Pain bit deep. Matron’s thin lips drew back in a snarl. ‘That is all you are good for!’

  Isabelle refused to cradle her flame-hot cheek in front of them. She raised her chin. ‘I am a vicar’s granddaughter. I can read and write. I want to be married and be respectable.’

  ‘Married?’ Mrs Peacock laughed loudly. ‘You’d be lucky to wed a hermit.’

  Anger raced along Isabelle’s veins like fire through dry grass. She ached to tell the old dragon exactly what she thought of her but she knew it would not help her and Hughie. Taking a deep breath, she arranged her expression to be docile and tried to act as her mother would. ‘Mrs Peacock, I am thankful for your offer, but I consider being married as the best alternative for both me and Hughie.’

  Mr Beale stepped forward and the Matron scowled at him. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but I do think I have an answer to your problem.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘Could you please wait outside while I talk with Matron?’

  Isabelle left the room and paced the corrid
or. She buried her anger and took a deep breath. There was no point in losing her temper, it never got her anywhere except in more trouble. Marriage was all she hoped for and she mustn’t lose sight of her dreams. If she became a servant living in a big house she would lose Hughie. Servitude wouldn’t give her the freedom or the respectability of a married woman.

  She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Why wasn’t I born pretty like Sally and mother?’ Her mutterings sounded loud in the empty corridor. She went to a small window overlooking the lawns. She peered at her reflection. Boring, curly brown hair and boring light blue eyes. She was too tall for a girl and her boyish figure irritated her. Why couldn’t she have soft round curves and golden hair? Then men would be falling over themselves to offer proposals.

  The door opened behind her and she faced Matron and Mr Beale.

  A glint of something she couldn’t name shone in Matron’s small beady eyes. ‘Mr Beale knows of a bachelor, a second cousin of his, who tenants a farm near Heptonstall.’

  Isabelle frowned. ‘Heptonstall?’

  ‘West of here-’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘So you should have. Sally told me your family are distant relations of the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee.’

  ‘My father’s people claim some connection, I believe.’ She dismissed all thought of her father instantly. A knack she learnt soon after he left.

  ‘To be a farmer’s wife is nothing to scorn, you know.’

  Isabelle swallowed. ‘But, I was thinking more of a man with a small business. I could help in his shop maybe. Surely there must be someone who needs a wife and lives here in Halifax? I’ve never lived anywhere else.’

  Matron’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you want to be married or not?’

  Isabelle nodded. ‘Of course, but a farmer? I know nothing of farming.’

  ‘Work is work. You’ll soon learn.’

  ‘Very well, I shall write to him. Or maybe visit?’

  Mr Beale stepped forward. ‘Er, no, that’s not necessary. I will write to him and have him come to Halifax.’

  ‘He is a good man? And he will take on Hughie too?’