by Jenna Jaxon
Snow. Millions of large snowflakes swirling so thick that she could hardy make out the trees. Thomas would have gone to check on the horses.
They hadn’t intended to be here this long. He’d instructed the stable lad who’d met them to give them water but they’d still been tethered to the curricle.
The high flyer which they could not use to travel in this weather.
She shivered and then glanced around the cottage. A stove took up most of the corner. Near it, a table with but two mismatched chairs, and of course the bed. Along one wall, a small bookshelf held dozens of books. Atop the shelf sat a candle and flints.
A large gust of wind rattled the windows once again, sending another shiver through her.
Her maid would be worried when she did not return this evening. Millie would send word up to the manor informing Dev and Sophia.
What would they think? Had they even known she’d gone along today? What would they imagine? Surely Mr. Findlay… Thomas… had told them of the journey to inspect the estate. They’d realize she was safe with him, would they not?
The chill in the air drew her out of her contemplations, and she located her dress and chemise. Upon unravelling the material, she struggled for a few minutes before finally managing to get herself decently covered.
The laces needed tying, however, and the skirt had wrinkled terribly.
She’d not dressed herself in decades. When she touched her hair, she could not help but groan. The sleek chignon Millie had made up earlier that morning must now resemble a bird’s nest!
A search of the bed revealed most of the pins had fallen out during… She bit her lip.
What had she done? Running her fingers through her hair, she located the remaining pins. She pulled her comb from her reticule, but wished for a glass. Perhaps she could affect something presentable.
***
Thomas gave the horse one more vigorous rub with the towel and then stepped back. He’d not expected the snow.
He’d not expected the duchess…
His hand shook slightly as he hung the damp cloth on a hook.
After watching her sleep for a while, he’d grown restless. What had this meant to her? She was a blooming duchess for Christ’s sake!
He’d climbed out of the bed and then dressed quickly when he saw the snow falling outside. Stupid of him to have brought the curricle. He should not have gambled that the weather would hold.
He needed to return to the cottage… return to her. Would she be cold and distant once again? Would she have reminded herself of her station in life? Would she have reminded herself of his?
Or would she be the warm vulnerable woman he’d made love to?
A man of action, he pulled his jacket around himself and dashed out the stable door into the storm. He could barely see his way to the path, the flurries having turned to something of a snowy tempest.
His son-in-law would inform the others at Eden’s Court that the duchess was quite safe with him. Thomas needn’t worry in that direction.
Head down, he picked his way through the cluster of trees that hid the cottage. Perhaps she still slept.
He could join her in the small bed once again…
More than likely, though, she’d awakened and was already fretting about their circumstances. Thomas raised his hand to clutch at his hat as a frigid gust of wind threatened to carry it away.
Trouble was, he liked the duchess.
Quite a bit. But were any of her feelings engaged?
From what he could surmise, her marriage had taught her nothing of love, or pleasure for that matter. Or passion. Had she hungered for it all these years? So much so that she might be willing to embark upon an affair with the first man who came along?
The cottage appeared in the distance, through the white wall of driven snow, at least he surmised it was the cottage.
Of all the women for him to engage his affections, why did she have to be a blooming duchess? A nabob.
He shook off his resentment, stomped his feet, and ducked through the door as quickly as possible.
She’d awakened.
His throat thickened as he took in her disheveled appearance and hesitant expression. Rich brown hair falling nearly to her waist, her gown unfastened with the seams showing. Meeting his gaze, she bit her lip and smiled hesitantly.
“Sophia will be so happy to have snow for the holidays.”
His heart skipped a beat at her thoroughly proper observation. She was not full of recriminations.
Yet.
“Christmas isn’t for over a week yet,” he pointed out. “It very well may melt before then.”
He stomped his feet to remove some of the snow and debris from his boots, but did not remove his jacket. Even inside the cottage, the chill had taken hold. Locating her wrap, he picked it up and carried it over to drop upon her shoulders.
“I’ll get a fire going, but you might want to warm up under the blanket on the bed.” Someone had stacked wood not far from the stove. Thomas busied himself doing something practical.
Heat. They would need heat. They had plenty of wine and food left over in the basket they’d brought along, the cooks at Eden’s Court having outdone themselves, so he needn’t worry about rations. He’d spotted a well nearby. Perhaps he could make up some tea…
He wasn’t certain yet if he’d like to curse the storm or welcome it.
“The horses are well?”
Thomas struck the flint and waited for the flame to take hold before answering her. He imagined this to be uncharted territory for the both of them.
“Fine, fine. Got a good look at the stable while I was at it.” He rose and finally turned to meet her gaze. “And how are you, Duchess?” He would squash any awkwardness immediately. He brushed the wood dust from his hands and strode across the room.
She did not resist him as he pulled her into his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin.
“I am…” Her arms slid up his chest to encircle his neck. “I am confused.”
He’d not had such a sweet smelling woman in his arm in ages. Soft, fragile.
“Ah, I expected you might be.” But he surprisingly found himself aroused again. “Tonight doesn’t have to be complicated though.” He’d take whatever she was willing to give.
She snuggled closer. “It does not, does it?”
Upon which words he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the bed.
***
“As pretty as you look in any color, I must say I was happy to see you wearing something other than black this morning.” Thomas dropped a kiss on the back of her neck scratching her skin with the beginnings of a beard.
They had not fallen asleep afterwards this time, instead lying together, listening to the crackling fire in the stove. Loretta did not know if it was the shadows or the isolation that invited intimate conversation.
Or perhaps the intimacy of what they’d engaged in. But somehow, she found herself trusting this man more than any other person of her acquaintance, even Millie.
“My soul has felt black. It has been difficult to shed.” Could she tell him?
He fell silent at her words but the rhythm of his breathing comforted her.
“You lost a great deal in a short period of time.” He finally spoke again. “Any person would be deeply affected.”
“But all is not what it seems,” she responded, unable to stifle the tremor that ran through her.
The one matter, the one fact that haunted her life, needed an outlet. She needed desperately to discuss the matter with another human being.
She shouldn’t tell another living soul. It would put her son in danger, and yet, she couldn’t keep it locked inside a moment more. “I did not lose what people thought. I lost Lucas, and Prescott. And I did lose Harold, but not in the way it is believed.”
She twisted around to stare into his eyes. She needed to see some understanding, some acknowledgement. “Harold did not die. Harold ran away, to save his life.” She closed her eyes
tightly. Would Thomas hate what she would say? Would he be scathing? Judgmental? “He has the same inclinations his father did.”
So many repercussions to what she said.
She ought not to have told him! Oh, but she had betrayed both Devlin and Sophia by revealing the secret!
“But you love him. He is your son.”
Her eyes flew open at his words. She nodded. “I do. No matter what, no matter who he loves!”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“But no one can ever know! It would ruin everything. Sophia would be ruined! The scandal would never die!”
The man holding her pressed his lips against her forehead. “That’s a mighty big secret for one woman.”
But she shook her head. “Not just me. For Dev and Sophia as well. And whenever I see them, it’s as though it won’t go away. And yet—”
“The boy is your son.” He squeezed her to him.
This.
This reassurance. This sharing of burdens. It was what she’d needed for so very long. “He is very much a man. It took courage for him to do what he did. And when he did it, he released Sophia to be with Dev. He is with the man he loves… at least I believe he is. He wrote once, to explain. He is happy. He is content. He is… safe.”
Thomas simply held her for several moments more. And then finally. “He will remain so.”
And with his reassuring words, Loretta slept peacefully, for the first time in what felt like forever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Although the earth was covered with several inches of snow the next morning, the storm had indeed passed and the sun was shining and sparkling off the tiny crystals of ice.
Loretta had entered an alternative world from anything she’d ever experienced. She and Thomas had made love, shared what remained of their basket of food, drank wine, and then made love again.
He’d slipped her chemise back over her head after the last time, citing the cold as the reason, and then managed to keep the fire burning throughout the night.
Even now, the occasional popping sound emitted from the stove. He must have risen recently to stoke it and add more wood.
One needed never worry about life’s necessities with Thomas Findlay at hand.
Ah… but today. What might today bring?
Likely one of the servants, or a handful of them, from Eden’s Court. This brief interlude must come to an end.
A warm hand rested on her belly. Her backside and legs pressed against solid warmth.
Nothing could come of the two of them.
Could it? She was old, a widow, past her prime.
Men were not considered old until well into their seventies. And this man.
This man had risen himself to become a wealthy industrialist. She believed he’d been born a butcher’s son.
She’d been raised to live among the aristocracy. She’d married a duke.
Nothing could come of the two of them.
And she’d told him about Harold.
“That’s a heavy sigh for so early in the morning.” His voice rumbled behind her.
She wondered what to say to him. She wished she knew what she wanted. She wasn’t even certain she had a choice.
“I imagine you’ve done this sort of thing before.” She settled upon her statement that wasn’t really a statement but more of a question.
“Slept?” he teased. But she wished to know.
“Had…interludes…”
“Ah.” This time it was he who released a deep sigh. “Not as much as you’d think. You forget that I raised a daughter on my own. I’ve met a few women on my travels,” he admitted. “But once I’d made my fortune, I learned I couldn’t trust the affections of most.”
Loretta twisted around to meet his stare. “Did you ever fall in love?” Such a silly question for her to ask him. But she wondered. How had she given this man her body when she knew so little about him? And she’d shared more than just her body.
His eyes crinkled as he pondered his answer.
“I loved Cecily’s mother. I believe we were in love. But those early days were rough. I don’t know if her devotion to me would have survived so many cold and hungry nights.”
“But you did. And Cecily did.”
“We did. What about you, Duchess? Have you ever been in love?”
Ah, such foolishness. She turned away from him again but covered his hand with one of hers. “I’d thought I was in love with Prescott. I was in awe of him. I respected him immensely. And I thought we loved. But no, I don’t believe we were ever in love.” She’d never admitted this aloud before. Not even to Millie, who of course knew everything.
Almost everything.
Thomas nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. Was he wondering if she believed herself to have fallen in love with him? Because they’d shared intimacies? Did he think that was why she’d revealed her darkest secrets to him?
“I don’t know that I believe in love, not for myself anyhow.” She’d disabuse him of the notion before he began to worry.
Before he could respond, however, the sounds of horses and men broke through the peaceful silence of the snow outside.
“Findlay!”
Someone was shouting for them. Good Lord! The voice sounded like Dev’s! Her nephew!
“Findlay! Aunt!” The voice grew louder.
Thomas was out of the bed and pulling on his breeches. “It’s Prescott, damnit.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. He paused, taking only enough time to steal one last kiss, and then shoved his feet into his boots and then his arms into his shirt.
With shirttails hanging out, he opened the door and stepped outside to greet Dev, who might have barreled inside without knocking given the chance.
Her heart had lurched at the words; It’s Prescott.
For some reason she imagined her husband. Her dead husband had come and discovered what she’d been doing. Not that he would have cared, but… she would have.
But it was Dev. Of course. It was only Dev.
Loretta froze in place. Surely, Thomas wouldn’t allow Devlin entry? But what would he tell him? That they’d simply taken refuge here over night? Why wouldn’t they have stayed in the main house, where they would have been allowed separate chambers? Good lord! Separate beds!
Would Devlin guess? Would he tell Sophia, her daughter-in-law?
Listening to the murmured voices outside, Loretta’s face burned. She couldn’t make out the conversation but knew this affair had come to a rather sudden end.
Scrambling about, she donned her own clothing as best as she could for the second time in as many days.
Everything was wrinkled! And her hair! Even the comb in her reticule could not bring it under control and the small amount of cosmetics she wore had long since been rubbed away.
How could she face Dev?
Before she could work herself into a full-fledged panic, a burst of frigid air blew in as Thomas reentered the small cottage.
“Dev rode, but he had a driver follow with a sleigh.”
Blinking, at the odd turn of phrase, Loretta nearly stuttered in her embarrassment. “But— Does he suspect? Did he say anything? What did you tell him? About…?” She extended her hand to the bed.
“Worry not, Duchess. As uncouth as you imagine me to be, I did not, in fact, tell your nephew that I spent the evening swiving his widowed aunt.”
But she’d angered him. His jaw had gone taunt and his eyes distant.
“Just tell me one thing, Duchess.” The title did not sound like much of an endearment this time. “Are you embarrassed that you’ve been swived, or are you embarrassed that you’ve been swived by me?”
How could she answer this? Right now?
All she knew was mortification that her nephew might possibly guess that she’d given in to the physical desires of her body… that she even experienced such physical desires…
And utter shame at telling him about Harold.
And fear.
“I’ll return in quarter of an
hour to assist you to the conveyance.” He didn’t wait around for her response but instead stomped back out of the cottage.
And then he left.
Silence.
Thomas Findlay could not be any more different than Prescott had been. When she’d managed to irritate her late husband, he’d merely smile thinly. Because it hadn’t mattered to either of them. They’d lived separate lives. They’d avoided each other’s company except for specific social and family obligations. It had all been quite unintentional, because there had been little love between them. Only obligation and self-discipline.
Once Loretta had realized the nature of her marriage, she’d mourned for several weeks but then accepted her fate. She’d accepted that it came along with her position and status in society.
But now that she no longer held the same position, in practice so much as in fact, something had changed inside of her.
And that something had caused her to act impetuously, indeed.
Dev would likely know of it. A man of the world, he’d guess at the activities she and Mr. Findlay had embarked upon.
Wouldn’t he?
The condition of the cottage stirred her to life. Blushing hotly, she went about setting the bed to rights. After smoothing and tucking, however, all of her efforts failed to affect the sleek appearance it had had when they’d entered.
Would anyone permit that Mr. Findlay had slept upon the floor? A choked gurgle worked its way up her throat when she glanced through the seams of the wood to see the earth beneath it.
She was a widowed duchess for heaven’s sake! Of course, they would assume he’d slept on the floor. Why would anyone believe anything differently of her?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Good Lord! It wasn’t only her nephew who’d come, but Sophia, Cecily, and Mr. Nottingham as well.
Having dressed and donned her coat and bonnet, Loretta had dashed through the tamped down snow along the path and into the back door of the manor. The feminine voices carrying throughout the foyer, alerted her immediately that the younger ladies had indeed, ridden along with their husbands.