He gave a derisive snort. “Clearly.”
Before Kate knew what he was about or could marshal a protest, he moved to the seat beside her and drew her close with one arm whilst drawing his own blanket over both of them. When Kate tried to pull away, his grip only grew tighter. “We c-can’t ... You c-can’t ...”
“Of course we can, Miss Woodville.” Lord Stanton’s breath was a welcome gust of warmth against her temple as he gathered her even closer; so close, her cheek rested against his greatcoat. “I give you my word as a peer of the realm that I will behave with the utmost decorum. As a gentleman, I simply cannot sit by and watch you freeze to death in my carriage.”
“I s-s-suppose that w-would be m-most inconvenient f-f-for you.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Kate detected an amused undercurrent in his rich, deep voice. With her head resting against Lord Stanton’s very wide chest, she could feel the rumble of it along with the steady thud of his heart. His furnace like heat. An odd warmth unfurled inside her and she had to resist the urge to snuggle more deeply into his embrace. He smelled heavenly—the scents of his spicy cologne, wool, and a trace of wood-smoke intermingled with another musky, masculine scent she couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, she decided she quite liked it. A part of her brain warned her that what she was doing was wrong, but as Lord Stanton’s warmth enveloped her and her trembling began to ease, she couldn’t summon the will to pull away.
Who’d have thought a man could make such a wonderful pillow ... Or that Lord Stanton should even care about her comfort when most of the time he was an arrogant ass ... Too tired and now too content to sort through the tangled skein of her thoughts, which were largely comprised of trying to understand the conundrum that was Lord Stanton, Kate at last drifted off to sleep ...
Chapter 9
Fenwick House, Cumbria
Christmas Eve, 1812
Kate wasn’t sure how Lord Stanton’s driver and his pair of footmen managed it, but they made excellent time, despite the fact the snowfall grew steadily heavier the further north they traveled. Once they reached the outskirts of Kendal around three o’clock in the afternoon, Kate was called upon by Lord Stanton to give directions to Fenwick House, which she did as best as she was able considering it had been eight years since she’d last visited. Dusk was just beginning to fall when the carriage at last turned into the snow-covered gravel drive and drew toward her uncle’s sprawling Jacobean manor house.
Kate was pleased to note Lord Stanton’s expression of surprise as he took in the brooding grandeur of Fenwick: the impressive gray stone façade covered in ivy, the myriad arched, mullion-paned windows, the crenellated turret towers at the end of each wide wing; it was a truly magnificent sight, even set against an austere backdrop of moorland blanketed in snow and a dull, pewter gray sky.
Ha! Take that, Lord High-and-Mighty, she thought. You believed Freddie had nothing to offer Violet except a tainted family history and a life of drudgery. But oh, how wrong you are.
Lord Stanton was silent as he handed her down from the carriage. If Kate hadn’t been so stiff from the journey, she would have enjoyed sweeping past him, but the most she could manage to do was lift her chin into the air as she picked her way across the gritted path toward the carved, black oak doors.
Even though it had been such a long time since she’d last visited Fenwick, she trusted Uncle Harold would welcome her. Despite the bitter estrangement between him and her father, he had always tacitly supported her mother, Freddie, and her over the years. Indeed, Freddie had reported Uncle Harold had been thrilled to have him stay from September until November. He’d been eager to share his knowledge of estate management and the ins and outs of running all of the other business ventures Freddie would eventually become involved with. Uncle Harold had even topped up Freddie’s trust fund.
Still, Kate’s hand shook a little as she banged the brass knocker against the door; the circumstances surrounding her sudden visit were highly irregular. How was she to explain she’d traveled all this way in the company of Lord Stanton? Alone.
And what if Freddie and Violet were here?
Whether or not they were married hardly mattered to her any more. What did matter was the horrifying notion she wouldn’t be able to stop Lord Stanton if he sought vengeance against her brother.
She sensed him at her shoulder and slid him a glance as she waited for someone to answer the door. He was on edge; lines of tension bracketed his mouth and a muscle pulsed in his cheek. He was probably imagining what he would do to Freddie if he were inside. Or how he would be received by her uncle given that he’d dragged her clean across the country without a chaperone.
She squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t try to make things easier for him. He deserved a decent tongue lashing from someone of his own class.
A key scraped in the lock and the hinges grated as her uncle’s elderly butler, Hawley, opened the door.
“Miss Katherine,” he crowed and a wide grin lit up his weathered face. “What an unexpected pleasure. And on Christmas Eve.” His gaze shifted to Lord Stanton and his delight dimmed a little as his brow creased in confusion. “I see you have brought a guest.”
“Yes ...” Kate smiled back. “This is Viscount Stanton. I trust my uncle is well and able to receive us?”
“Yes, of course, miss.” Hawley bowed to Lord Stanton. “Your lordship. Please, both of you, do come in and make yourselves comfortable in the Great Hall whilst I inform Lord Rookhope of your arrival. The Yule log has only just been set alight. It’s quite wonderful. The best we’ve had in years.”
After taking their coats, hats and gloves, Hawley ushered them through to the main hall, and Kate had to agree that the Yule log was indeed a wondrous sight to behold. It burned brightly in the grate of the enormous black marble fireplace at one end of the Hall. The mantelpiece had been decorated with boughs of ivy, holly and winter roses, and clusters of fat, crimson candles. So too had the sweeping mahogany staircase leading to the upper floors—the balustrade was festooned with evergreen boughs, and mistletoe had been hung in the doorways leading off to the dining and drawing rooms. It was surprising, yet heart-warming, to see that her uncle had decided to decorate Fenwick so festively.
She took a seat on a tapestry covered settee on the thick Turkish hearthrug whilst Lord Stanton hovered by the grate. The Yule log brought memories flooding back of the last Christmastide time she’d been here with Freddie, when she was seventeen, just after their mother had passed away. Uncle Harold had offered them a home, but she and Freddie had both wanted to follow their own paths in life; she had returned to Mrs. Brooke’s Academy to finish her studies, and Freddie had taken up his military commission.
Hawley hadn’t mentioned Freddie was at Fenwick and she quietly breathed a sigh of relief. There wouldn’t be any blood on the carpet or flagstones tonight, thank the Lord. She turned her attention to Lord Stanton. “It appears my brother and Violet are not here. Is there anything in particular you wish to tell my uncle? I’m sure he’ll expect us to give a reason for our visit.”
Lord Stanton’s expression was grim. “I will tell Lord Rookhope the truth about his nephew, of course.”
Kate arched an eyebrow. “And what will you say about me? And our ... situation?”
She hadn’t expected to see the color rising in Lord Stanton’s cheeks. But it did as he all but stammered, “That ... That you have been assisting me. And that you are a remarkable young woman.”
Now she was blushing. She lowered her gaze to her crumpled green traveling attire. Heavens. Never in a thousand years had she expected Lord Stanton to describe someone like her in such glowing terms. Her thoughts touched on the memory of how she’d slept in Lord Stanton’s arms for much of the night and her cheeks burned all the more. When she had eventually woken in the morning, it was to find he was fast asleep with his head resting against hers. Neither of them had spoken of their unconventional night together—which was probably for the best.
&nb
sp; She was just attempting to formulate an off-hand response to Lord Stanton’s unexpected compliment when to her relief, her uncle entered the room. He might be seventy years of age and sparsely-framed, but he still carried himself well and there was a decided twinkle in his gray-green eyes as he approached.
“Katherine, my dear. How wonderful to see you after all this time. It has been far too long,” he said with warm smile and Kate immediately wondered why she had deliberately stayed away. “But then it seems to be the time of year for unexpected visits, hey what?” His gaze shifted to the viscount and his eyes narrowed, his expression wary. “Lord Stanton, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Lord Rookhope,” he said with an incline of his head, “you are quite correct.”
Kate rose and kissed her uncle’s lined cheek hoping to dispel the awkward tension crackling between the men. “Uncle Harold, thank you for receiving me. And Lord Stanton.” She hesitated, not wanting to voice her next question, fearing it would stir up a hornet’s nest again. But she had to. “I know this might seem an odd thing to ask, but has Freddie called in unexpectedly? Recently?”
Uncle Harold’s grizzled brows drew together. “Not since his visit over autumn ...” His gaze darted between her and Lord Stanton. “What’s this all about then? Is something wrong? And why have you traveled all the way to Fenwick in the company of Lord Stanton, without a chaperone? I know you are a woman of independent means, Katherine, but this is all highly irregular.”
Freddie was safe ... for the moment. Kate permitted herself a small sigh of relief before she responded. “Freddie ... Freddie—”
“Your nephew has run off with my sister, Violet Lockhart,” interrupted Lord Stanton, his voice as harsh and cold as the weather outside. He drew a deep breath as if attempting to control his anger before adding, “Because of the urgency and gravity of the situation, Miss Woodville has kindly been assisting me to intercept them—at my request. We have good reason to believe they are heading north to Gretna Green so it seemed reasonable to suspect they’d stopped here whilst en-route.”
“Intercept them? You mean stop them, don’t you?” Uncle Harold puffed out his narrow chest, his jowls quivering above his starched cravat. His voice cracked with anger as he continued, “It appears to me, Lord Stanton, that you do not think my nephew is good enough for your sister. And to make matters worse, you have clearly coerced my niece into accompanying you. I do not believe for a minute that Katherine would have traveled with you willingly, without a chaperone. If I were a younger man, I’d call you out for threatening her, or compromising her, or both.”
Her uncle was cannier than she’d ever given him credit for. Still, Kate felt compelled to try and smooth things over because only heaven knew what sort of trouble she’d be in if her uncle really thought she had been compromised. “Lord Stanton’s servants were in attendance the whole time, Uncle. So we weren’t alone. And besides that, I am a grown woman, a spinster if you will, of five-and-twenty. And desperate circumstances call for desperate measures. Violet is a young woman, a debutante, and her brother has high hopes for her future. Whereas I ...” Kate lifted her chin as she told her uncle a bold-faced lie. “My reputation hardly matters. I’m a mere school teacher. A nobody in Lord Stanton’s eyes and the rest of society’s. Not only that, as no one knows about this mad dash except us, no harm will be done.” Unless Lady Stanton has already damaged my good name, just to spite me ...
Uncle Harold snorted. “According to Hawley, you haven’t a lady’s maid or a companion in attendance. And I would hardly deem a pair of footmen and a driver in Lord Stanton’s employ suitable chaperonage.” He leveled a fulminating glare on the viscount. “You do my niece a great dishonor, sir. I’ve a good mind to make you marry Katherine.”
“No!” Kate’s protest was little more than a gasp as her breath caught in her chest. She never wanted to wed, not after witnessing the disaster that was her parents’ marriage. And certainly not to an arrogant man like Lord Stanton who barely tolerated her company most of the time. She didn’t really believe that he thought her ‘remarkable’. His praise was probably just a ploy to inveigle his way into her good graces whilst he stayed beneath her uncle’s roof. “No, that’s entirely unnecessary. Nothing untoward has occurred. Lord Stanton has been a perfect gentleman.”
Lord Stanton, who had remained as still and silent as a granite standing stone during most of this exchange, suddenly turned to Uncle Harold and grazed him with a hard-as-flint stare. “If you were younger, I would call you out, Lord Rookhope for slighting my character. I assure you, your niece has not been compromised. It is my sister who has been taken advantage of and ruined. If your nephew crosses paths with me, he should be afraid. Very afraid.”
“My lords, I beg of you,” Kate stepped between them. “It is Christmas Eve. Please, can both of you lay down your swords, even for a little while?”
Uncle Harold inclined his head. “Of course, Katherine. You are right. I shall take you at your word that Lord Stanton has acted as a gentleman should. For now.”
“And I shall take Lord Rookhope at his word that your brother and my sister did not stop by here on their way north. For now.” Lord Stanton’s mouth was set in a grim line but at least his glare had softened a little.
Kate heaved a sigh. “Good. Now that is settled, perhaps Hawley or your housekeeper could direct us to our rooms, Uncle Harold. If that is all right with you, of course. I wouldn’t like to presume ...”
“Nonsense, child. You will always be welcome here.”
Kate grimaced at her uncle’s intended slight toward Lord Stanton; to his credit, the viscount didn’t even flinch. Perhaps they could all get through this evening like civilized souls should.
After Uncle Harold had moved to the other side of the chamber to ring for Hawley, Kate took a step closer to Lord Stanton and remarked quietly, “I take it you do not wish to continue on to Gretna Green this evening, my lord.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “You are correct, Miss Woodville.”
“Have you given up?” She searched his face and was rewarded with a small smile.
“Perhaps.” He blew out a sigh as his gaze wandered about the Hall. “It seems the assumptions I made about your family were grossly inaccurate. And I’m sorry.”
Kate gave a huff of laughter. “What, that my brother won’t be a pauper?”
He gave her another grudging smile. “Something like that. But make no mistake,” his expression hardened again, “I haven’t forgiven him for eloping with Violet and I don’t believe I ever will.”
“I think I can accept that for the moment, as long as you don’t plan to kill him.”
Lord Stanton’s frown grew deeper. “I still haven’t made up my mind about that either.”
“He is a good man, you know. If you would just give him a chance—”
“Mrs. Bowman, my housekeeper, has informed me dinner will be served at eight,” announced Uncle Harold as he approached them again, “but there’ll be wassail punch in the drawing room before then. If both of you would like to join me?” He glanced between them expectantly. “As Katherine reminded us, it is Christmas Eve after all.”
“Of course, Uncle,” agreed Kate and Lord Stanton tilted his head in acceptance as well.
“Very good. I shall see you then.” Uncle Harold bowed then quit the room just as Hawley and the housekeeper entered.
As Kate followed Mrs. Bowman up the sweeping stairs in the direction of the north wing, and thence to her bedchamber, she realized how exhausted she was from all of the traveling—her eyes felt gritty and her bones ached. If it were any other day, she would have cried off and requested a tray in her room. But it seemed that was not to be.
The only consolation she could see was that Lord Stanton’s respect for her family would continue to grow as he learned more about her uncle; that he would soon come to realize Freddie would make an excellent husband for his sister and that one day she would be Violet Woodville, Lady Rookhope, mistress of
Fenwick House.
Whereas as she—she would always be Miss Kate Woodville, teacher and bluestocking. Champion of the poor.
Thank heavens she wouldn’t be the next Lady Stanton. If her uncle hadn’t seen reason ... Kate shivered even though a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth in her finely-appointed bedchamber. She could think of no worse a fate than marrying a man like Anthony Lockhart. A man who didn’t respect her. A man who didn’t even like her, let alone feel any affection for her.
She might be attracted to his handsome face and Corinthian-like physique, but she certainly didn’t feel any affection for him.
So Kate told herself as she steadfastly tried to push aside the all too vivid memory of sleeping in his arms, and got on with the task of readying herself for dinner.
Two hours later, after having bathed and changed into her least wrinkled attire—an ivory wool gown and scarlet spencer—Kate made her way to the drawing room on the floor below. Lord Stanton and her uncle, to her pleasant surprise, were chatting quite animatedly about hunting as they stood around an enormous, intricately wrought, silver wassail bowl. But both men ceased talking and turned to greet her as she approached.
“Katherine, you look lovely, my dear,” said Uncle Harold and kissed her cheek before serving her a glass of punch.
“Yes. Lovely.” Lord Stanton’s gaze wandered over her in such an appreciative way, Kate was put to the blush. Perhaps he’d already partaken too much punch and that’s why he was acting like a rake rather than a gentleman.
Uncle Harold refilled his own glass and raised it. “A toast, to peaceful times and to family and friends,” he said, catching her gaze, then Lord Stanton’s. “It warms my heart to be sharing Christmas Eve with others.”
Well said, Uncle. Smooth things over ... “Yes, I am pleased to be here too.” She really was. Her uncle would have spent Christmas alone otherwise. She only just realized now that he must have spent many Yuletide seasons alone ...
Dashing Through the Snow: A Regency Christmas Novella Page 7