The Companion

by Deborah Simmons

  Falling for the wounded solider!

  Wounded on the field of battle, Captain Kit Armstrong, the Earl of Hawthorne, has lost the will to care about what happens to him—or anyone else, for that matter.

  But then impoverished aristocrat Miss Chloe Gibbons is tricked into becoming Kit’s companion and nurse…and soon she’s determined to bring the reclusive earl back to life!

  A charming Regency novella by Deborah Simmons, originally published in 2001 as part of The Officer’s Bride collection

  The Companion

  Deborah Simmons

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  CHAPTER ONE

  Christopher Armstrong, late of the Twentieth Cavalry, stood at the tall windows, looking out over the brilliant colors of Yorkshire in autumn, the thickets of oaks, beeches and limes ablaze upon well-tended lawns stretching out into the most picturesque of landscapes, all belonging to him. And he felt absolutely nothing.

  “Well, Hawthorne?” The sound of his grandmother’s shrill voice broke the silence, and Christopher winced at the misnomer.

  “My name is Kit,” he said, without turning from his view.

  “Nonsense!” his grandmother replied. “You’re the Earl of Hawthorne now, not some ragtag boy trailing after your brother’s lead! And you have responsibilities to this family!”

  Kit didn’t move. He had heard it all before, repeatedly, ever since he had returned home. There had been no mention of his military career, not one word about the shocking loss of his brother, nothing, in fact, except this constant harping upon his duty. In a way, it was like being back in the army, for he felt as though he were simply a body to be used in a pinch, for the greater good.

  In this case, instead of giving his all for his country, he was to sacrifice himself for the illustrious position of the family, at least his grandmother’s version of it. And though he had once charged into battle with the most honorable of intentions, Kit felt no such loyalty to the dubious trappings of political power, wealth and privilege. Nor could he muster up the slightest interest in the continuation of a so-called dynasty that had dwindled to one battle-weary man and a fierce old woman.

  “Do you hear me?” she screeched, thumping her cane loudly, just in case he didn’t.

  Kit’s lips curled in bittersweet remembrance. There was a time when just the sound of that cane had struck fear into the hearts of his brother and himself during their otherwise bucolic days of childhood. How everyone, even his own father, had bowed before the famous dowager! But now Kit saw his grandmother for what she was: an old woman railing against the fates, with no real power to change them.

  She had always sought to run the lives of those around her, while Kit long had balked at her demands. He had even bought his commission partly to thwart her, though he had ended up hurting himself far worse than he ever could his grandmother. She seemed to be made of stone. Indeed, if she were grieving now for Garrett, Kit couldn’t tell. Although she wore the required black, she seemed wholly unaffected, while he could not take a breath without counting the loss, not only of his brother, but of all those men who had served under him, all those who had died in the bloody carnage of Waterloo, all those who had gone off to war never to return.

  And here he was, not only alive, but supposedly thriving as the fifth earl of Hawthorne. The irony had not escaped him. He had charged off into battle time and time again only to escape death, while Garrett, who had stayed safely here at home, had lost his life. They said he cut himself on the agricultural equipment that had always fascinated him, dying within the week.

  It was so stupid, so senseless, so untenable. Kit couldn’t count the number of times he had been slashed by a blade or even a sword. At Waterloo, he had taken a bullet and had been crushed beneath his horse, leaving him with broken ribs, numerous contusions and a leg that had been proclaimed useless. Yet Kit had made them set it and had forced himself up and onto it until he had but a limp to show for his suffering.

  Now he could only wonder why he had expended the effort. He had been mending in Brussels when Garrett died. And although his grandmother claimed to have sent a messenger, there was so much confusion after Waterloo that no one had ever reached him. So when at last he returned home, it was to find the house in mourning, the funeral long over and his grandmother determined to remake him into his brother. Perhaps if he had never joined the army or never been to battle, he might have been able to take Garrett’s place. But now he just hadn’t the stomach for it. He couldn’t muster interest in anything, least of all the business of being Hawthorne.

  “You must assume control of the estates!” his grandmother was saying, as if reading his mind. “The bailiff tells me that he has tried to meet with you, but you refuse to grant him an audience, and Mr. Sawyer in London says you won’t respond to his letters. They need direction, and you must provide it!”

  She punctuated her point with another thump of her cane, but somehow the question of whether or not to sell his shares in some manufacturing venture hardly seemed earth-shattering to Kit, not after what he had seen. And he could never take the place of Garrett, who had been trained since birth to be the earl, who had a natural aptitude for increasing the family coffers, who should have been here, alive, while Kit should have been killed. Surely, there was some kind of mistake, or was it simply a great cosmic joke?

  “Are you listening?” his grandmother demanded.

  “No,” Kit answered without hesitation. And before she could protest further, he stalked from the room, away from her harping, away from his so-called responsibilities, away from himself if he could have managed it.

  Her mouth tightened into a thin line, the dowager countess of Hawthorne watched him go, cursing both his stubbornness and her failure. Welcoming him home with pomp, she had organized a small gathering in celebration of his return, but he had never shown his face, a disaster that she was still living down. She had mustered friends, his as well as her own, trying to coax him into some kind of society, but he disdained any company. She had tried to tempt him with travel, with a seat in the Lords, with running the vast Hawthorne estates, but to no avail.

  Desperate, she had paraded the cream of the season’s new crop of eligible females in front of him, only to watch him cut them dead. Now she wasn’t sure if even the promise of the title and its vast wealth could convince any sane young woman to consider him.

  The dowager’s shoulders sagged. She was running out of options, and she knew it. She was feeling her age, too, but she hadn’t lived this long, surviving hardship and death, simply to see the Hawthorne line wither and die. And she wasn’t going to let her grandson be the cause of its demise, either.

  The sound of a noise at the door made her sit up straight, for she refused to show the world any weakness. And if it was her grandson, she intended to give him a piece of her mind. But it was only the butler with the post. The dowager was tempted to ignore it, for she knew what the letters would contain: expressions of sympathy from old friends, while those less dear would claim concern even as they riddled their prose with snide insinuations about the fate of the earldom.

  Turning her head away, as if loathe to look at them, the dowager hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Bring me my desk,” she snapped. She had never shied away from a difficult task, and she wasn’t about to start now. Not only did she proceed to read every piece of correspondence, but she answered most of them. To those who bespoke sincerity, she responded in a light, reassuring tone, and to the others, she replied with a caustic politesse that promised retribution for each slight.

  The dowa
ger did not particularly enjoy the exercise, as she once had, but there was one missive, from her insipid cousin Theodosia, that caught her interest. Theodosia was far too good-hearted for gibes and not clever enough besides, yet the woman had written something that made the dowager sit up and take notice. It was a plea concerning Miss Chloe Gibbons, lately of Suffolk.

  I would ask, my dear cousin, if you know of a decent position for this young woman as a governess or companion, for she has been left nearly destitute by the passing of her father, Baron Tindale. You may remember him as William’s eldest. He was not blessed with any sons of his own, so the barony is passing to a young nephew who, sadly, has no use for the girl.

  It was a common enough occurrence, of course, and one that the dowager usually did not stir herself about, but now she paused. She recalled the young woman in question as a studious creature who had never moved in society’s circles. She was possessed of a quiet, nurturing nature that her father had used to his advantage, reveling in her cosseting when he should have been finding her a husband.

  Now it was too late for that, but perhaps the girl could ply her skills elsewhere. The dowager felt the beginnings of an idea form, dismissed it firmly, then returned to consider it once more. It was a wild notion, certainly, but she had exhausted all other possibilities, and for the first time that day a smile curved her lips.

  Dipping her quill in the ink, she began to compose a response to Theodosia.

  * * *

  Chloe Gibbons took one look at the elegant country house before her and nearly turned back around. Hawthorne Park was a vast estate, as she had seen from the coach, with great green lawns rolling into the distance toward tall trees, beautiful grottos and picturesque ponds. Neat gravel walks, mown turf, and an endless variety of plants and shrubs were all artfully arranged.

  That had been intimidating enough, but the house itself was a huge structure in the French style boasting rows upon rows of windows in burnished stone. How was she to ever get on here? Suddenly longing for her old, cozy cottage, Chloe swallowed hard. But the cottage was not hers, and its occupants had no place for her. Nor could she afford her own household. Long accustomed to occupying that middle ground between the lower gentry and the noblemen beyond her reach, Chloe had always felt out of place, but now she was well and truly adrift, with nowhere to go until the message from the dowager had arrived.

  To Chloe’s less regal relatives, the dowager countess of Hawthorne was spoken of in awe as a well-bred woman of no great family who had married above herself into wealth and privilege. Chloe, who had met the countess only once, held a more jaundiced view. She remembered a haughty old woman who ordered everyone about, made outrageous demands and possessed the manners of a goat.

  Naturally, she had been less than thrilled at the chance to serve as paid companion to the lady. But what choice did she have? Her other relations had proclaimed the offer a godsend, and so here she was, determined to make the best of what surely could only be a miserable position.

  Taking a deep breath, Chloe tried to put a good face on it. The place couldn’t really be as big as it looked, and even if it was, that meant that she could put some distance between herself and her employer. Hopefully. She released a sigh, still unsure exactly why the dowager would be at all interested in her company. She had servants aplenty to order about and wait upon her. What did she need with Chloe?

  Great-aunt Theodosia had claimed that Chloe’s reputation for aiding the infirm had gone before her, but she found it hard to believe that the dowager was in any way ailing, despite her cane. And although Chloe had often been proclaimed a saint for her care of her father, it had been no great task. Papa had been undemanding and grateful for her help, especially after his gout became so painful he could not move from his chair, and Chloe had not resented giving what had been second nature to her. Some said she should have had a season, but there had never been much money, and who would have taken care of Papa? Anyway, she was not one for fancy dresses and entertainment, preferring the quiet of home and hearth and garden.

  With a sigh, Chloe noted the irony of that, for nothing could be farther from the small world she had cherished than the historic seat of the Hawthorne earldom. Its very splendor bespoke a heritage of wealth and power and privilege far beyond her scope. And although the surrounding lands denoted bucolic beauty and quietude, Chloe was not so naive as to expect any peace with the dowager countess as her employer.

  Still, Chloe managed to be shown to her rooms simply enough by a chattering young maid who seemed glad to have someone new in the house. And Chloe could not deny that the elegant furnishings of the huge bedroom, sitting room and dressing room were pleasant indeed. She even reveled in the luxury of a bath after the long trip and the assistance of another maid in dressing for dinner. All in all, her arrival went quite smoothly. It was dinner, and her first contact with the dowager countess, that Chloe dreaded.

  But she lifted her chin and the black skirts of her mourning gown and walked down the steep, curving stairway to the marbled foyer below, determined to make the best of this first interview. Trying not to gawk at the plaster cherubs above her, Chloe had nearly reached the bottom when she heard the sound of steps and the unmistakable click of a cane. Tempted to return to her rooms, she nonetheless continued downward. It was always better to begin how you meant to go on, and she would do well to hold her own with the imperious noblewoman.

  So Chloe followed the stairs, her eyes fixed upon the space below, only to suddenly halt in amazement, for the cane she had heard definitely did not proclaim the arrival of the dowager countess. It belonged to a man, and not just any man, but surely the most perfect specimen ever to grace the earth.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, he possessed a lean yet undeniably strong physique that made her insides flutter. His hair was blond, though the word hardly did justice to the tousled, sun-kissed locks that caused her breath to catch. And when he lifted his head to look at her, Chloe saw that his eyes were no ordinary color, but a deep, mysterious green that seemed to pierce her very heart.

  His face was beautiful, so much so that on another it might have appeared effeminate. Yet there was some cast over his features, perhaps the hard set of the jaw or a shadow of pain, that rendered it wholly masculine. And Chloe, who had never before found herself captivated by a handsome visage, stood rooted to the spot, unable to do more than stare as the unknown man’s brows lowered and his expression darkened.

  She was rescued by a most unlikely savior, the dowager herself, who called Chloe’s attention with the sound of a second cane. Walking to a halt behind the elegantly attired gentleman, the dowager was now peering up at Chloe, as well.

  “Ah! So here you are, gel!” she said. Giving Chloe a close scrutiny, she turned to the man, who was looking rather fierce. “Hawthorne, I want you to meet Miss Chloe Gibbons,” she said.

  “Kit, my name is Kit,” he said, his green eyes narrowing.

  The dowager countess made a reproving sound before swinging back to face Chloe. “My grandson, Hawthorne, who has a distaste for ceremony. You may call him Kit then, since you are family, though distant, to be sure. Chloe is related to Cousin Theodosia and will be staying with us.”

  Kit, whom Chloe realized was the earl, appeared to be less than enthused by that news. “In what capacity?” he drawled in a rather insulting manner.

  “Never you mind. She’s here, that’s all,” the dowager snapped.

  “Ah, but I do mind. I thought we had agreed that you were going to quit trying to run my life and most especially that you were to cease parading eligible young women under my nose, though I might question your judgment in this case,” he added, giving Chloe a long, insolent perusal that made her stiffen.

  Suddenly she was all too aware of the picture she must make: a green girl dressed in an outmoded gown dyed black for mourning, gaping at what some would call her betters. Although the maid had insisted on dressing her hair, Chloe realized that she must appear woefully out of place in the earl�
��s luxurious home.

  “What would you have me do, turn the gel out?” his grandmother asked. “She’s nowhere else to go. Her father’s estate was entailed and went to some rascally nephew, so she’s practically destitute! Shall I send her to the workhouse?”

  Chloe flushed scarlet. Although well aware of her reduced circumstances, she did not care to be reminded of them and so publicly. “If there is some problem with my employment here, I can seek another position elsewhere,” she said, her head unbowed.

  The dowager snorted, while Kit shot her a sharp glance he had no doubt learned from his grandmother. Obviously, it was intended to scare away all comers, including the enemy. Although Chloe did not flinch, the thought brought to mind what she knew of the current earl: that he was a hero, as were any who had fought in the long war, and that he suffered for it, as was evidenced by his cane. Her gaze dropped to his leg and softened.

  “If you’re angling for a position as countess, let me assure you that I am not in the market for a wife,” he said, abruptly forestalling her sympathy.

  “Wife? Who said anything about a wife? She’s a companion!” the dowager exclaimed.

  For a moment Chloe forgot her own discomfort to watch the lady and her grandson in a struggle of wills presumably of long standing. She could easily envision the two of them dueling with their canes, perhaps, as the weapon of choice, and she could only shake her head. It appeared that now she was to have two sharp tongues with which to contend, and ignoring both, Chloe swept past them in what she hoped was the direction of the dining room.

  Unfortunately, she chose wrongly.

  “This way!” Two heads snapped around to issue the harsh directive, and Chloe dutifully turned to follow them, anticipating a flogging with one of their canes if she did not. However, she had taken but a few steps before the dowager’s preemptive voice rang out once more.

  “Hawthorne, you may take Chloe in to dinner,” the lady ordered. The earl, who was making surprising headway away from her despite his limp, checked and turned, a scowl on his handsome features. For a moment Chloe thought he was going to protest, and she considered demurring herself. She might be only a baron’s daughter, but she knew that etiquette decreed the earl should escort the dowager. Yet she had no wish to argue so soon with her employer and over so mundane a matter, so she simply waited as he stuck out his arm for her to take.