The Companion

by Deborah Simmons

  Yet there was no reason to delay. Chloe had told the dowager as much. Like a governess who had taught all she could, or a doctor who had cured his patient, Chloe had completed her task. Kit was resuming his life, coming into his own as earl, and that meant business trips to London, perhaps even relocating there for the season and reentering society. He had no need for a provincial spinster to serve as his companion any longer.

  As for the other aspects of their relationship... Chloe felt her cheeks heat and her breath catch. At one time Kit had accused her of being hired to “service” him. And she could not let it become true. Lifting her hands to her flushed face, Chloe looked in the mirror and swallowed hard as she tried to appear resolute. The woman who stared back at her would not sink to becoming any man’s mistress. Not even Kit’s.

  And Chloe wasn’t even sure he wanted that of her. Personally, she suspected that his lovemaking simply had been a part of the resumption of his life. As if to dispute her theory, memory flashed back, and she heard Kit’s deep whisper. Chloe, beautiful Chloe, my love, my only. Had he been aware of what he said?

  It mattered not, Chloe told herself, for now that he was well, he would want a wife and children to whom he could pass his legacy and his title. Soon he would need to court a suitable woman to provide those heirs the dowager demanded, and perhaps the two could find some common ground in the next generation of Armstrongs, Chloe thought. Yet the image of Kit’s babies born by some strange woman was so painful that Chloe’s legs gave way, and she sank down upon the edge of the bed with a sob. Better she leave now, than witness that painful reality.

  Taking in a long, shaky breath, Chloe used that knowledge to shore up her weakening resolve. No one really would miss her here, even the dowager, who had been quite insistent that she stay. Chloe had thought the noblewoman would be happy to be rid of her, for no matter what Kit might say, the matriarch could hardly condone a connection between her grandson and his companion beneath her roof. But, as usual, the dowager had argued, complaining that Chloe hadn’t fulfilled her duties, that Kit wasn’t cured...and that he needed her.

  Just as she needed him. Oh, not to provide her with a position, for that once all-important worry was the least of her concerns now. Kit and his grandmother had given her not only a task but a home, far different from the place she had shared with her father, but just as viable, just as dear. And all the time Chloe thought she was tending Kit, he had been tending her, as well, shaking her from her complacency, challenging her, introducing her to love. And wherever she might go, Chloe would never forget. What had the bard said? ’Tis better to have loved and lost...

  Rising from the bed, Chloe squared her shoulders and dragged her trunk from the dressing room once more. She had spent the night weeping and the morning in a muddle of indecision, and she was well done with both. Determined, she began to replace her meager belongings. Where would she go now, and what was she to do? Chloe had no idea, only that she could not remain.

  A knock startled her from her thoughts, and she frowned at the painted wood. Kit had come to that same door earlier, to ask if she was well, but she hadn’t the heart to open it, knowing what might pass between them in her private rooms. And so she had sent him away.

  But now he was back, for she heard his beloved voice, a bit impatiently, on the other side. “Chloe? What are you doing?”

  “I’m, uh, I’ll be down later,” she said, hoping to postpone their confrontation and the ensuing farewell until the last possible moment.

  “Chloe, open the door or I will break it down,” Kit said quite evenly. “Although I don’t care about the wood itself, I might hurt my leg and that would call for another session at the hot springs, wouldn’t it?” He paused. “On second thought, don’t open the door. I’ll be happy to destroy it.”

  Chloe was swinging the panel wide in an instant, and he stepped in, so tall and handsome that her heart raced even as her throat constricted. Like the captain he had once been and the earl he was now, he surveyed the room, his gaze lighting on the trunk.

  “What do you think you are doing?” he asked.

  “I’ve finished my assignment here,” Chloe answered, as calmly as she could. “You’ve made a full recovery, I’m satisfied of that, and I must prepare for a new position.”

  “Well, I’m not satisfied,” Kit said in a low drawl. He stepped closer. “Indeed, I doubt that I shall ever be,” he murmured. Casually, as if he had the right, he picked up a stray lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers in a manner that threatened, as usual, to melt her into a puddle before him.

  “And as for your new position, you have one right here,” Kit said.

  Chloe shook her head, determined to not be tempted by this golden man or her love for him.

  “As my wife.”

  For a moment Chloe succumbed to the dizzying euphoria that swept over her at his words, but then reason prevailed and she shook her head once more. “I’m no countess, Kit,” she managed to say in a voice that threatened to break at any moment. “I’m just a simple girl with simple tastes for home and hearth and family.”

  “And I must be a simple man, for I want all the same things you do, peace and quiet and rustication,” Kit countered. “And children,” he added in a whisper that sent her pulse skittering. “I crave them all, but they are nothing without you. You’ve become more necessary to me than breathing, Chloe, so you cannot refuse me.”

  Still, Chloe hesitated, uncertain if his offer sprang from simple affection for his companion or something deeper.

  Kit put a hand to her chin, lifting it so that she was forced to look into his handsome face, somber now, and the green eyes that glowed from within. “You care for me, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Well, of course,” Chloe sputtered, “I love you, but—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said with a devastating smile, both tender and triumphant.

  “I love you, Chloe, and if you can love me after all I’ve put you through, then I have no fears for our future. I can’t promise that I’ll ever be the cheerful, carefree fellow I was before, but I can vow to do my best by you, to give you this home among the Yorkshire dales we both adore, and to fill it with love and children, a legacy far more enduring than any title.”

  Chloe felt the tears that had threatened to choke her well up to fill her eyes until Kit’s beautiful face was naught but a hazy image. He leaned forward, as if to kiss the drops away, when a loud thump echoed behind them.

  “If you don’t accept him, you’re a bigger fool than I thought, gel!” The unmistakable bang of the dowager’s cane resounded again, and Chloe looked up to see the noblewoman standing in the doorway. She wore a grimace that might be interpreted as a smile by one of her forbidding nature.

  “I expect some grandchildren, you know, and soon!” she said with a fierce expression, and for once, Kit did not argue with her.

  “I’ll get right on that. If you’ll excuse us?” he asked, and without waiting for his grandmother’s reply, Kit gently closed the door. Then, he took one look at the trunk on the bed and threw it out the window with a flourish.

  “You won’t be needing that again,” he said, stalking Chloe as she stood by the bed, torn between indignation and amusement. But she was beginning to realize that the too often serious Kit had a hidden penchant for outrageous displays, and she secretly wondered just what he would do next.

  Anticipation stole Chloe’s breath as he approached, and then all else was forgotten as she melted into a puddle at Kit’s feet—and he joined her.

  * * * * *

  Step into our world of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another time…

  If you enjoyed THE COMPANION, then be sure to check out the most recent Historical titles for May 2017:

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  Read on for a sneak peek of Surrender to the Marquess by Louise Allen...

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 1818—Sandbay, Dorset

  It was an elegant shop front with its sea-green paintwork, touches of gilding and sparkling clean windows. Aphrodite’s Seashell. A risqué choice of name, Lucian thought, considering that Aphrodite was the Greek goddess of love, born from the sea foam when Cronus cut off Uranus’s male parts and threw them into the ocean. Otherwise it looked feminine and mildly frivolous as befitted its function and location. Not a place he would normally set foot in unless absolutely desperate.

  But Mr L. J. Dunton Esquire, otherwise known in polite society as Lucian John Dunton Avery, Marquess of Cannock, was desperate. Otherwise he would not be found dead within a hundred miles of an obscure seaside resort in the not very fashionable time of mid-September. That desperation had driven him to ask for advice and the landlord at the rigidly respectable Royal Promenade Hotel had recommended this place, so he pushed open the door to a tinkle of bells and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Sara gave one last twitch to the draperies and stepped back to admire the display of artists’ equipment she had just set up beside the counter—easel, palette, a box of watercolour paints, the beginnings of a rough sketch of the bay on the canvas—all tastefully made into a still life with the addition of a parasol set amidst a drift of large seashells and colourful beach pebbles.

  There, she thought, giving it an approving nod. That should inspire customers to buy an armful of equipment and rush to the nearest scenic viewpoint to create a masterpiece.

  She replaced the jars of shells she had used on their shelf next to the other glass vessels full of coloured sands and assorted mysterious boxes and tins designed to stir the curiosity of the browser. A glance to her left across the shop reassured her that the bookshelves, the rack of picture frames and the table scattered with leaflets and journals looked invitingly informal rather than simply muddled.

  Behind her the doorbells tinkled their warning. Sara turned, then modified her welcoming smile of greeting into something more restrained. This was not one of her usual clients. Not a lady at all, in fact. This visitor was not only unfamiliar, but male. Very male and a highly superior specimen of the sex at that. She kept the smile cool. She was female and most certainly young enough to be appreciative, but she had too much pride to show it.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I think you may have gone astray—the circulating library and reading room is just two buildings further up the street on this side.’

  He was studying the shop interior, but looked round when she spoke and removed his hat. That was a very superior specimen as well. ‘I was looking for Aphrodite’s Seashell, not the library.’

  ‘Then you have found it. Welcome. May I assist you, sir?’

  Aphrodite, I presume? The question was obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he caught it with the faintest twitch of his lips and said only, ‘I hope you may.’ He glanced down at her hand, saw her wedding ring. ‘Mrs—?’ His voice was cultured, cool and very assured.

  She recognised the type, or perhaps breed was the better word. Her father was one of them, her brother another, although those two conformed only in their own unique way. Corinthians, bloods of the first stare, non-pareils, aristocrats with the total, unthinking, self-confidence that came from generations of privilege. But they were also hard men who worked to keep at the peak of fitness so they could excel at the pastimes of their class—riding, driving, sport, fighting, war.

  Whether such gentlemen had money or not was almost impossible to tell at first glance because they would starve rather than appear less than immaculately turned out. Their manners were perfect and their attitude to women—their women—was indulgent and protective. Nothing mattered more than honour and the honour of these men was invested in their women, in whose name they would duel to the death in order to avenge the slightest slur.

  It was not an attitude she enjoyed or approved of. She feared it. Nor did she approve of their attitude to the rest of the females they came into contact with. Respectable women, of whatever class, were to be treated with courtesy and respect. The one exception, in terms of respect, although the courtesy would always be there, was attractive widows. And Sara knew herself to be an attractive widow.

  She conjured up the mental image of a very large, very possessive, husband. ‘Mrs Harcourt.’

  The warmth in his eyes, the faint, undeniably attractive, compression of the lines at their outer corners that hinted at a smile, was the only clue to what she suspected his thoughts were.

  He was a very handsome specimen, she supposed, managing, with an effort that was deeply annoying, not to let her thoughts show on her face. He was tall, well proportioned, with thick medium-brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin decided, his mouth…wicked. Sara was not quite certain why that was, only that staring at it was definitely unwise.

  ‘Sir?’ she prompted.

  ‘I have a sister. She is eighteen and in rather delicate health; her spirits are low and she is not at all happy to be here in Sandbay.’

  ‘She is bored, perhaps?’

  ‘Very,’ he admitted. Then, when she made no response, he condescended to explain. ‘She is not well enough for sea bathing and, in any case, she is unused to the ocean. That unfamiliarity makes her rather nervous of walking on the beach. She has no friends here and there are few very young ladies resident here, as far as I can see. At home, were she well enough, she would be attending parties and picnics, going to the theatre and dances, or shopping. At least her friends would be on hand. Here, she is not up to evening entertainments.’

  ‘You hope to find an occupation for her, something that will help her to pass the time during the day. I can understand that it might help. Can she draw or paint?’

  ‘Her governess taught her, but I do not think she ever applied herself to perfect her art. Marguerite was always too restless for that.’

  If the girl was naturally active then convalescence and its restrictions must be even more galling. ‘Can she walk at all?’

  ‘A few hundred yards along the promenade seems achievable. Then she flags and asks to return. I cannot tell whether her reluctance is weakness or depressed spirits.’

  ‘Would she come here and visit the shop to see what we can offer?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Not if I suggest it.’ He shut his mouth, tight lips betraying his anger with himself for allowing that flash of irritation to escape.

  So, the young lady was at outs with her brother. Probably she wanted to be in London with her friends, however unhealthy that grimy city was for her. ‘Then shall I come to her? I could bring some ideas for crafts she might like to try, some drawing equipment, perhaps.’ As she spoke Sara made a slight gesture with her hand at the bounty of objects in the shop. ‘Something might tempt her.’

  ‘Temptation?’ The word, spoken in that warm voice, was like a touch. He really could stand very still for a man of his size. It was faintly unnerving for some reason, even though her closest male relatives had the same quality of stillness. It came from power and fitness and the knowledge that they did not have to move to make their presence felt. But this was not her father or her brother. ‘That would be most obliging of you, Mrs Harcourt. But who would mind your shop for you? Your husband, perhaps?’

  That had been clumsy of him, the first maladroit thing he had done, and the rueful twist of those beautiful lips showed that he knew it.

  ‘I am a widow, Mr—?’ She did not expect fo
r a moment anything other than a title, or at the very least a family name she would have heard of. She did not recognise him, but then she had been out only one Season before she married and moved to Cambridge with Michael, so it was perfectly possible to have missed him.

  ‘Dunton.’ He produced his card case and placed a rectangle of crisp pasteboard on the counter. ‘We are at the Royal Promenade Hotel.’

  ‘Where else?’ Sara murmured. With that tailoring and manner even the best private lodgings in Sandbay would not do. She took the card, felt the depth of expensive engraving under her thumb, glanced at it and found herself surprised. A plain Mister without so much as an Honourable to his name? She was not altogether certain she believed that, but she could hardly challenge the man on no evidence. Besides, as long as he was not engaged in some criminal endeavour he could call himself what he liked.

  Faint sounds of pans clattering emerged from behind the curtain screening the door to the back room. ‘Excuse me, sir. Mrs Farwell, could you spare me a moment?’

  To do him justice, Mr Dunton did not flinch when Dot emerged through the curtains, rolling pin in hand. She was a big woman, but then most of the dippers who commanded the bathing machines were. She glowered at him, which was her normal reaction when any man was close to Sara, and he returned the look with one of indifference. Dot gave a little grunt as though he had passed some test.

  ‘I am accompanying this gentleman to visit his sister at the hotel. Do you mind managing by yourself for an hour? I am not expecting more than usual to this afternoon’s tea and everything is ready to set out.’ Sara handed her henchwoman the card. Dot was not much of a reader, but it did no harm to let him see that someone else knew where she was going with Mr Dunton. She might be independent to a fault, according to her brother Ashe, but she was not reckless enough to go away with a strange gentleman without taking basic precautions. Particularly with this one who, she was certain, was not who he said he was.