by Rose Gordon
“She is a good girl,” his grandmother pronounced firmly, giving her brother a knowing look. “Not at all the sort of girl who feels comfortable in a London ballroom. In fact, I gave her some books on farming. She seems much more at home when talking about the country than about anything else.”
Brief interest flared within Anthony. “Truly, Grandmother?” He had never given Rosamond Hughes much notice before. She was just always there, quietly keeping his raucous sisters company.
“Yes, Anthony.” She nodded. “Now run along, and take that poor girl home. The snow is starting to fall, and I don’t want her to freeze on the way back.”
Anthony glanced out the window of the study. It was true. Snowflakes were drifting in earnest, swirling about the windowpane. With the certainty of many years spent outdoors, he gauged the heavy grey color of the sky. If they left right away, he could get them both home before the snow started falling too thickly. “You are right, Grandmother. Are you staying at Danby?”
“Yes. I presume my brother can find a room for me for at least one night.” She gave the duke an arch look.
“Of course, of course. But, Charlotte, we haven’t settled the question of the boy’s future,” the old man protested. “Any girl in Yorkshire would do. Shall I make inquiries? Shall I invite the entire county to the Christmas Eve ball?”
“Oh, Jonathon.” Grandmother gave him a regal smile. “We have all evening to plan my grandson’s future. Let him go home before he has to spend the night in a snow bank.”
His grandmother was giving him the keys to his release. The best way to thank her was to clear out as quickly as he could, while still being somewhat polite.
He managed to retrieve Miss Hughes from the library and bundle them both in the sleigh before the snow started falling too thickly. However, just a few moments after they passed the gates, the storm kicked up in earnest.
He pressed forward, but it was becoming difficult to see. If only he were alone. He would simply stop the horses for a moment to try to get his bearings, but with Miss Hughes along for the ride, he was honor-bound to keep going.
“It’s coming down rather fast.” She huddled over towards him, raising her voice against the wind. “Do you think we can make it?”
“We don’t have far,” he replied. Graveleon was only about a fifteen minute drive from Danby in good weather. “I’m sorry. We should have stayed at the castle.”
“Don’t apologize.” She tugged her muffler up to her chin. “I’m just grateful you are such a good driver.”
He was touched by her faith in his abilities, but also alarmed at the speed with which the storm continued. Could they possibly make it home in time if the storm continued? Again, if it were just him, he’d take greater risks. He couldn’t risk Miss Hughes’ safety, though.
He glanced behind them. The stone walls of Danby Castle were already swallowed by the swirling snow. They could turn back, but it was difficult to tell how far they had come.
He urged the horses to go faster, but they simply could not keep pace against the storm. The sleigh was slowing with each step they took.
“Is that Graveleon?” Miss Hughes pointed at a roof just up ahead, peeking out over a snowbank. “It looks awfully small.”
“No, it’s not Graveleon. It must be a gamekeeper’s cottage,” he replied. He brought the horses closer for a better look. Yes, this must be where the gamekeeper for Graveleon stayed when the great house was occupied by the family. A smaller stone structure stood beside the cottage, the perfect little stable for their needs. “Miss Hughes, we’ll have to stop here for a while. I can’t make the horses go on in this weather.”
“Of course.” Her voice was difficult to make out above the storm and the muffler she had wound around herself so tightly.
He drove them into the stone barn. Miss Hughes leapt out and helped him with the horses, efficiently removing their harnesses, and rubbing down their damp flanks with an old blanket she found in the corner. He broke the ice in the trough and found a barrel of oats that looked presentable enough. He was glad of her help and also thankful that she did not appear the least bit nonplussed by the situation.
“I think they will be all right,” he said, after the horses had been seen to. “Shall we see if we are so fortunate in our lodgings?”
She nodded. Her cheeks were bright red, but that could have been due to the brutal weather and her hard work.
He took her hand in his and led her out of the barn. Together, they bolted the doors shut behind the horses, keeping them safe and sheltered from the wind and snow. Then he led her over to the cottage door.
“As my brother Richard would say, any port in a storm,” he announced, trying to appear surer of himself than he was. In truth, he was nervous. He was out of his depth. He had lost against wind and weather, and now he was bringing a pretty young lady into an abandoned house. The only thing that could have possibly made him feel worse was if the horses had actually bolted.
Had she flinched when he said that about Richard? Perhaps she thought that kind of sailor-talk was coarse, although she seemed a sensible enough creature. Not once on this doomed journey had she acted missish.
“Any port in a storm,” she echoed.
Together, they crossed the threshold into the vacant cottage.
Rosamond removed her cloak, which was wet through with snow, and unwound the muffler from around her neck. Bexley was already over at the hearth, coaxing a small fire to life.
“Lucky thing there was dry wood in here,” he remarked. He leaned forward and blew heavily on the kindling, and it caught quickly. “It’s a little warmer in here than outside, but not much. Here, bring your wet things over. We’ll spread everything out on the hearth to dry.”
Rosamond complied, draping her cloak and muffler over the stone hearth. “To be perfectly honest, I’m glad we stopped,” she admitted. She had been more frightened than she let on, because going into hysterics would accomplish absolutely nothing in a moment of crisis. However, now that they were safe in shelter, she could confess her fears. “That snowstorm came up so suddenly, I wasn’t sure how we would make it home.”
“Nor I.” He dragged a couple of battered old chairs over to the fire. “You’re a great girl in an emergency, though. I must say, I was impressed with how well you acquitted yourself. In fact, I appreciated your help.”
Rosamond glowed at his praise. “Thank you,” she said, simply. Bexley was a man of few words. Earning his approval really meant something, unlike other young men who would flatter and cajole a girl in the hopes of gaining her favor.
She spotted an old teakettle near the hearth. “Would you like some tea? Assuming, of course, I can find provisions.”
Bexley rubbed his hands together and then held them out to the blaze. “Tea would be most welcome.”
She found a tiny kitchen area with a miniscule cupboard. There was a tin box of very dry biscuits, and some tea leaves that were only slightly stale. Two thick porcelain mugs, which were relatively clean, had been placed inside the cupboard as well. Whoever used this cottage had recently been here, or planned to return soon. She managed to locate a few strainers that fit over the lip of the cups, so they wouldn’t have to drink the dregs.
She brought her bounty back into the main room. “Look, everything we could possibly need for our afternoon’s refreshment. How very civilized.”
Bexley flashed her a grin. Her heart leapt at his smile, which he bestowed even more rarely than kind words. He looked more handsome when he smiled, more rakish than when he was his sober, unsmiling self. If only she could make him smile more often. He was a good-looking fellow, no doubt about it.
He retrieved the teakettle and took it outside. When he returned, it was filled with snow, and he hooked it to the hearth so it could start heating up.
“Perfect,” she replied with a laugh. “What an ideal way to use our abundance.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
They sat in comfortable s
ilence as the water heated up. The room grew pleasantly warm, and the sound of the snow as the wind pushed it against the window panes was actually quite cheerful now that they were safe.
“Do you suppose they will miss us?” It was all well and good to feel cozy, but what if Helen and Frances began to worry about her? Being alone with a man in an abandoned cottage was not exactly proper, even if the man in question was a family friend who had absolutely no designs on her. Now that she thought about it, she had never been alone for any length of time with a man. She was always chaperoned, even during her dancing lessons. It was a wonder she wasn’t terrified. But she wasn’t. In fact, this was an enjoyable, quiet little bubble they existed in, and it was disappointing to even think about the outside world.
“I doubt it.” The teakettle began to whistle. Anthony rose and took it down from the hook over the fire, and then poured hot water over the tea leaves Rosamond had arranged in their cups. “They will probably think that we stayed at Danby when the storm came up, and Grandmother will likely think we beat the storm back to Graveleon House.” He placed the teakettle back on the hook and flicked her a reassuring glance. “Your reputation is safe.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she replied frankly, and it was true. She felt safe with Bexley, as though he could slay any dragon that came their way. It was a lovely feeling. “I just don’t want Frances and Helen to worry.”
He removed the strainer from his cup and took a careful sip of tea. “Thank goodness. The last thing I need is for my companion to have a fit of the vapors.”
“Come now,” she demanded, removing her strainer as well. “I’m a jolly good sport. Not once have I complained about my wet dress, or my mussed hair.” She sipped at her tea, which was strong and hearty and even a trifle bitter. The brew restored her spirit.
“True. I was very impressed with how well you handled the horses.” He glanced at her over the rim of his teacup. “Your hair isn’t mussed, though. It looks quite nice.”
She put her teacup aside and touched the tumbled locks of her hair. Every curl had come loose from their hairpins, and the hairpins themselves were long gone, torn away by the winter wind. There was nothing for it but to allow it to dry, and hope she didn’t look too much like Father’s toy poodle. “Nice of you to say it, but I’m quite certain I look a fright.”
“No.” With a sudden, swift movement, he reached out and grasped a lock of her hair, slowly twirling it around his finger.
She gasped. She didn’t mean to, but he was so close that he startled her. Her heart hammered in her chest, and a hot flush swept over her cheeks.
He was so close.
If he heard her swift intake of breath, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared down at her lock of hair, twisted in a spiral around his finger. “If I were clever I’d recite some line of poetry,” he murmured. “I can think of nothing to say. It is quite lovely, though.” He carefully unwound his finger and her curl bounced back into place.
She sat, unable to put her thoughts together. All she could think of was the closeness of his person, the touch of his hand in her hair. She should not consider Bexley in this way. Lord Richard was the boy she had always dreamed of. Lord Richard was the one she had set her cap for. If only her cheeks would stop glowing. Bother her weakness for blushing. Any man for miles would be able to read her embarrassment. She was supposed to practice flirting on him, but somehow he had turned the tables on her.
“Thank you.” She murmured the words and grabbed her cup of tea. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to hide the flush in her cheeks. She must keep talking. Silence, especially after a moment like that, could be dangerous. “When do you think we should try to journey back to the house?”
He looked momentarily confused, as though he hadn’t even thought of that. “I suppose as soon as the snowfall lessens,” he replied. “We have everything we need for the time being. I don’t want to put you in danger, and I don’t want to run the risk of hurting the horses. So, if you are content enough here, we shall just stay for a while.”
“Oh, no. There’s no need to rush. I appreciate all you have done to keep me safe,” she replied, taking another sip of tea. She simply must find some way to occupy herself until they were able to leave. Bexley had such strength in his hands. He was so much more real and vital and stronger than any other man she had met. All the boys she had danced with seemed just like that—boys. Even Lord Richard, her dashing and roguish Richard, seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the rough-hewn Bexley. “I have books.” She squeaked the words. “Books from Danby. We could read until it’s time to go.”
“Oh. Yes. I remember, the whole reason you came was for the duke’s library.” He reached for a biscuit. “Grandmother said she had recommended some books to you about farming. Are you interested in the land?”
“Yes.” She brought over the stack of books, which had remained surprisingly dry despite the weather. Tucking them in between herself and her cloak seemed to have protected them well enough. “Papa finds it all most unseemly, but I do like learning about the bloodlines of our stock. Your grandmother says these are excellent resources. Would you like one?” She held out a leather-bound volume.
“Yes. Thank you.” He accepted the book and put aside his teacup.
The volume she selected was large, too large to hold comfortably in her lap in a chair. She would have to read as she did at home, propped up on the floor. She laid the volume open on the floor and then arranged her slightly damp cloak over the wooden boards. Then, carefully arranging her skirts so she would not show a trace of ankle, she sank to her knees, and then lay onto her stomach. With her chin in her hands, she began to read. Or, at least, she tried.
The heat from the fire, coupled with the warm, slightly acrid scent of drying wool, made her sleepy. The snow made a shushing sound against the panes, and the fire crackled and popped merrily. Beside her, still in his chair, Bexley was silent. He was enveloped in his book. If she closed her eyes for just a moment, she could rest. She should not do so, of course. For one thing, it was rude to fall asleep when she was supposed to be keeping Bexley company. For another, she was supposed to be taking this valuable time to practice her feminine whiles on him. She should not be reading. She should not be sleeping.
But if she did press forward with flirting with Bexley, her feelings might come dangerously close to truth, and not to mere performance.
Lord Richard was supposed to be her beau.
Not Bexley.
Anthony re-read the same sentence in his book for the fifteenth time. He would not look down at Rosamond. He was not a love-struck swain, and she was not his beloved. He might have imagined her soft gasp when he touched her hair. She probably thought him far too old and too dour, and thanks to Genevieve, too much of a forlorn figure for romance. He could not resist the urge to look down at her, but did so on the pretense of picking up his now-empty teacup.
She had fallen asleep just moments ago, and was curled in her wool cloak, her chin resting on her folded hands. She was so small and so lovely. Never before had he noticed it. She had become a permanent fixture of their home, and he had always thought of her as Frances and Helen’s annoying little friend.
Why was he gazing at her? Why had he made the mistake of touching her? He was being a fool.
Grandmother and Danby wanted him to find a wife. Any young girl of good family would do. He had not relished the idea of picking a young woman as one did a horse. In fact, due in large part to Genevieve, the entire idea of matrimony had become repugnant to him. The careless way in which the whole proposition was made to him made him balk. If he was going to marry, he wanted a companion. He wanted someone who loved the things he loved. That woman seemed unlikely to exist. What young girl would prefer farming to a ball? And yet, here she was. Instead of flirting with him, or teasing him, or wanting to play games, Rosamond had started reading about the very subjects he held dear.
Would Rosamond be happy being a farmer’s wife? For that
was all he desired to be.
No, no, of course not. He was being ridiculous. He rose and took the two teacups into the tiny kitchen. He glanced out of the kitchen window, where the snow had drifted against the windowpane. The storm had died down to an occasional flurry, and the moon was rising. They could easily make it home now. The moonlight, especially on the snow, would be as bright as day.
He should take her home now. There was no reason to linger.
He came back into the great room, where she still slept. He could let her continue sleeping, for she seemed so peaceful and comfortable. But the longer they waited, the more likely that he would have a great deal of explaining to do to his family.
There was nothing for it. He would have to awaken her.
He got to his knees beside her, and touched her arm gently. “Rosamond.”
“Hmmm.” She rolled over on her back, her eyes still closed.
He was close enough to be fully surrounded by her special scent of sandalwood. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
Enough of this. He was truly acting the fool. He would not touch her again.
“Rosamond. Miss Hughes.” He said it more sharply this time.
She sat up so abruptly that her curls rippled down her back. She gazed at him, wide-eyed, as if she were unaware of where they were, or why they were together.
“The storm has passed.” He spoke more gently this time. “We can go back to Graveleon Head now.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me. I should not have fallen asleep.”
He held out his hand, and she clung to him as she scrambled to her feet. He was going to be all right. He could even help her up without behaving like an idiot.
Once he was sure she was awake and sensible enough to stand on her own, he banked the fire in the hearth so it would die away slowly and without danger. Tomorrow he would return and put everything back in order, cleaning out the ashes once they had cooled.