It was true that Ned had sunk into a depression in the months after Sarah died, but not for the reasons Mrs Tucknott believed.
No one knew what a fool Ned had been, that Sarah had seduced him and tricked him into marrying her, telling him she was pregnant after one careless, drunken fumble together. There was no child and never had been in the ten years they’d been married. It hadn’t been a tender relationship. Ned couldn’t trust her after that initial betrayal, and Sarah had never seemed to care much. She even said so. She had what she wanted—the farm, security, and comfort—and, apparently, that was enough.
Not that she hadn’t worked. She’d been fit and strong and had helped run the farm, pulling her weight and more besides, but there had been no love, no affection. Even when Ned had tried to make a friend of her, realising they were tied till death did them part, Sarah had no interest in him, even less so in the physical side of their relationship. She did her wifely duty, but took no pleasure in it, so Ned could find none either.
When she died, he’d felt numb. Anger was there, that she’d gone and they’d nothing to show for it, but it was more regret for what might have been, if either of them had been different people. Where was he to meet another woman now, what with the farm to run? Even if his marriage hadn’t made him wary of trying again, Sarah had sapped his confidence in himself and others. Though he knew he must, the will to try again was hard to muster. Empty years yawned before him and made his chest ache with loneliness.
“Mrs Tucknott, I will still be here when ye get back, and I’ve Rufus for company. Rachel has invited me for Christmas Day, and I’ll likely stay on a day or two after.”
The woman sighed, something like relief in her eyes, though she still looked troubled.
“You’ll write and tell your sister you’ll be going, then?” she said, with a note of suspicion.
Ned applied himself to his dinner and nodded. He didn’t like to say a barefaced lie out loud.
“I suppose yon farmhands will take care of the place in the meantime?” she added, still sounding a little unconvinced.
“Reckon so.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Ned replied, helping himself to potatoes.
Mrs Tucknott nodded and shrugged into her coat before putting on her hat and wrapping a thick shawl about her shoulders. “I wish that girl of mine hadn’t married a bloody Scott,” she grumbled. “The journey is a terrible trial to my old bones. Well, then, I’ll be off. I made the plum pudding and set it in the pantry. You’ll be wanting to feed it a drop of something every day, and it’ll be good and rich.”
“Aye,” Ned agreed, not looking up from his dinner.
“I’ll see you in the new year then, Mr Hardy.”
“That ye will.” He looked up and nodded, letting out a breath of relief when she closed the door behind her.
Ned glanced over to where Rufus was stretched out in front of the fire.
“Just us now, lad,” he said, and returned his attention to his dinner.
Ned woke with a start as Rufus howled and barked, the sound loud enough to wake the dead in the pitch dark of the freezing night.
“What the devil…?” Ned muttered, flinging back the bed covers with regret and fumbling about with the tinderbox.
He lit the candle as quickly as he could and hurried down the stairs. Rufus didn’t make a fuss for no reason, and it was a cruel winter. The last thing he needed was some poor bastard trespassing hoping to steal a hen, or worse.
“What is it, boy?” he said, stopping in his tracks as he heard a faint knock. Rufus barked again, scratching at the door and whining.
Who in the name of Heaven would be out at such an unholy hour on a night like this?
Ned snapped his fingers and pointed, and Rufus stopped at once, moving back to sit beside his master as directed. Too late, Ned realised he was only in his nightshirt, but there was no help for that now. He set the candle down on the windowsill so both his hands were free and opened the door, wondering what on earth to expect.
The sight that greeted him was so unexpected that he was almost too slow to react. He had a brief glimpse of a face so beautiful it might have been that of an angel, and then the woman crumpled. He reacted in the instant before she hit the ground and caught her, the awkward stance taking him to his knees as he laid her down, though she weighed nothing at all. There was the rustle of silk, and the scent of roses drifted from her skin. Ned stared down, wondering if he was dreaming.
Rufus whined and sniffed the woman, giving her cheek a swift lick.
“Aye, she’s cold,” Ned said.
The blue tinge to her lips was visible even in the faint light of the candle. He stood, lifting her with him and kicking the door shut as he carried her back into the kitchen, where it was still warm.
For a moment he stood in the dark room, wondering what the hell to do next, before setting her down carefully on the chair by the fire. His heart was thudding and, though he was desperate to take another look at her, he set his attention to the fire, stirring up the embers and coaxing the flames back to life. Once it was burning well, he hurried back to fetch the candle and lit the lamps so that they suffused the room with a warm glow.
When he returned to her, holding the lamp high, Ned’s breath snagged in his throat. Skin as fine and white as porcelain greeted his gaze, while the lamplight danced upon the gold of her hair. The sudden shock of her beauty in the endless grey of his day-to-day life was like being struck in the head. He felt dazed. She was young, too; barely twenty at a guess.
“Holy God,” he murmured as he looked her over.
Her clothes were fine, finer than anything he’d ever seen. A lady, then. What was a beautiful young lady doing out alone on a night like this?
He took in the snow-caked, sodden boots, and the soaked hem of her dress and petticoats. The clothes might cost more than he’d see in a year, but they weren’t suitable for tramping about in such weather. She must be frozen to the bone.
Hell and damnation. What was he to do? He needed to get the wet clothes off her before she froze to death, but if she woke and he was in the middle of disrobing her… a lady? What if she thought he was attacking her? She’d be terrified. His blood ran cold at the idea, more so as he imagined accusations from those male relations who ought to be looking after her. Where was her father, her brother… her husband?
Just being here, alone with him, could ruin her.
He stiffened as she stirred, her eyelashes fluttering, and Ned saw blue. It was like a glimpse of a kingfisher whisking across a lake in summer.
She sighed and opened her eyes. Ned took a step back as she gasped and sat up, staring around her.
“It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands in front of him. “I won’t do ye no harm.”
She clutched the arms of the chair, her breathing coming hard and fast, panic a living thing in the blue of her eyes. “Did… did they follow me? Are they looking for me?”
Ned frowned, disturbed by her terror. He took a step forward, all his protective instincts bristling. “Who, lass? Who followed ye?”
The young woman clutched the chair so hard her knuckles turned white as her anxious gaze took in the room.
“There’s no one here but me and Rufus,” Ned said, keeping his voice gentle.
“R-Rufus?” she asked, forcing the word past the chattering of her teeth.
The bloodhound shambled forward at the sound of his name, head down and wagging his tail as he pushed his nose against her skirts.
“That’s Rufus,” Ned said, relieved to see the panic dim a little in the vivid sapphire of her gaze. “There was no one else with ye. We’re off the beaten track here; miles from anyone, really. You’re lucky ye found us. There’s nowt else in this direction once ye leave the road.”
She nodded and clutched her arms about herself, shivering in earnest.
“Ye need to get warm,” he said, wondering how to say what was obvious without sounding as if h
e had nefarious intentions. “Your clothes are wet, and your boots too, but I’ve got no wife here and my housekeeper is gone until the new year. I’ve got no woman here to help ye.” Ned hesitated. “I’m widowed, but… I still have some of my wife’s clothes. If I fetched them for ye, could ye… by yourself?”
He made a vague gesture towards her and wasn’t certain whether or not he was relieved by the blush that stained her cheeks, but she nodded.
“Good,” Ned said, letting out a breath of relief. “Good, I’ll… I’ll fetch them.”
Thankful to have something to do, Ned hurried back up the stairs and opened the trunk where Sarah’s clothes were. He grabbed an assortment of items and went back downstairs with them, to find her struggling with the laces of her boots. She’d already cast aside her sodden pelisse and bonnet, and her wet gloves were steaming before the fire.
“I can’t get them undone,” she said, looking up from her boots, a tremor to her voice that made Ned’s heart clench.
“I….” He stared down at the dainty little feet just visible beneath the hem of her gown. “I can… if….”
She nodded and turned her face to the fire, the flush creeping up her neck suggesting she was too embarrassed to look at him.
Ned set down the bundle of clothes and tucked the quilt from his bed around her shoulders. Then he knelt and took hold of her foot, almost setting it down again when he heard her sharp intake of breath. He froze, staring up at her. She glanced back at him and gave a taut nod.
Moving slowly, as though he was tending something wild that might bolt at any moment, Ned turned his attention to her boots, if that was what you could call such silly bits of nothing. Made of the finest kid, they were saturated and offered no protection from the elements. The laces were soaked too, and the knots too tight to work free. Ned’s fingers were too big and clumsy to undo them and so he slid his fingers beneath the knot on either side and wrenched it until the lace snapped.
“Sorry,” he said, as she jolted. He held up his hands, showing her the large, work roughened digits. “My hands weren’t made for such delicate work,” he said with a rueful smile, hoping to reassure her.
Her blue eyes widened, and she turned away at once, staring back at the flames.
Ned frowned and returned his attention to her frivolous boots. He took off the first with great care and experienced a wash of heat at the sight of the little foot within, clad in the finest of silk stockings. His body stirred, the sudden flare of need shocking after so many years of forcing such feelings to leave him be, for fear of his unanswered desires driving him mad.
Her skin was like ice, the stockings wet and clinging to her. The touch of her slender foot on his thigh sent shivers running over him that had nothing to do with her cold toes. At this point, Ned realised with a jolt of appalled embarrassment that he was only wearing his nightshirt. Beneath the thankfully loose and commodious shirt, his cock was in danger of making itself known, eager to be compensated for all the years of neglect. Telling his suddenly ungovernable breeding organs that they were disgusting and contemptible when the poor woman was obviously in desperate straits, he returned to the job at hand and tried his damnedest to act like a gentleman.
Once she was warm, he’d go and make himself respectable. The icy temperature of the foot resting on his thigh seared through his nightshirt, but he ignored it. The woman gave a little cry of pain as he drew off her other boot.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, looking up at her in concern.
She shook her head, though her eyes glittered with tears. “N-No,” she said, and he had to lean in to hear her answer it was so faint. “J-Just s-so cold.”
Ned’s heart ached for her. “If I turn away, can ye undo the garters?” he asked, feeling heat sweep up his throat and his nether regions twitch with interest. “The stockings are wet through. You’ll catch your death, and….”
She nodded, blushing just as fiercely as he was. Ned turned his back and tried not to listen to the rustle of silk as she lifted her skirts and removed the stockings.
“The petticoats….” he ventured, wishing his voice didn’t sound so rough.
“Yes,” she said, and Ned closed his eyes at the sound of material slithering to the ground. Don’t think about it, he scolded himself. Don’t even dare, ye miserable cur.
He took a breath, keeping his back to her. “What’s your name, miss?”
“M-Miss Honeyfield,” she said through chattering teeth. “G-Grace Honeyfield.”
Ned smiled at that. The name was so perfect he couldn’t help the way his lips curved at the sound of it. Forcing himself to concentrate, he spoke again.
“You’re safe here, Miss Honeyfield,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “I don’t know what you’re running from, but I won’t let no one hurt ye, and you’ve nowt to fear from me. I promise. I’ve never laid a hand on a woman what didn’t want me to, and I don’t mean to start now. You’ll get warm, have something to eat, and get some rest. Ye may take my bed… I’ll sleep down here. In the morning we can see what’s to be done.”
There was a long silence. Ned could hear nothing above the sound of his heart thudding and the crackle of the flames as the fire grew stronger.
“You’re very kind, Mr…?”
“Hardy,” he said, his name spoken on a breath of relief. “Edward Hardy, but most folks call me Ned.”
“You can turn around now, Mr Hardy.”
He did so, the breath chased from his lungs once more at seeing such a beautiful woman sitting in his chair, by his hearth. She was shivering, though, clutching the quilt about her and Ned cursed himself, suddenly terrified of what might happen if she took ill. She looked too fine, too well-bred to resist any kind of ailment.
“We need to get ye warm.”
He moved instinctively, as if she was a newborn lamb, fighting for life and helpless in his hands. Sinking to his knees before her, he reached for one of his wife’s petticoats. The fabric was worn, nothing like the lacy bits of finery that had puddled on the floor in front of the fire. Ned forced himself not to look at them, not to allow the excess of femininity to distract him from the task of warming her. She needed help, like any of the creatures in his keeping, and he’d give it—for her own good—and damn him to perdition if he enjoyed it too much.
He took hold of one foot, ignoring her gasp of shock as he wrapped it in the soft cloth of the petticoat and began to gently rub her toes.
“Mr Hardy!” she exclaimed.
“Hush, lass,” he said, concentrating on bringing warmth back to her feet. “Once your feet are warm, the rest of ye will follow.”
At first, she was still and unyielding beneath his hands, and he dared not look up for fear of what he’d see in her eyes. Little by little, though, she relaxed, the tension easing out of her as he rubbed and massaged first one foot, then the next. It was painfully intimate, and Ned stamped on the surge of longing that rose inside him, the desire to keep such a beautiful creature near him. It was so long since he’d touched a woman.
He’d been faithful to his wife and not looked elsewhere, despite her lack of interest in him. Ned had made her a vow, and he took such things seriously. Since then… well, perhaps he was a coward, but he’d been wary of trying again. He knew he could take another wife. There were women who would be eager enough to take on a successful farmer, yet did they really want him? Though he knew it was foolish if he married again, he wanted it to be different, he wanted to be loved.
Yet Miss Honeyfield’s beauty was the kind that could give a fellow dangerous ideas and could make a man act the fool, but she was a lady, and in trouble. She certainly wasn’t interested in such a low-born fellow as he was. He wasn’t fit to touch her, though he wasn’t beyond wishing he were.
“Is that better?” he asked, his voice too loud after such a long silence, even though he’d pitched it low so as not to startle her.
“Much, thank you.”
He glanced up then to find her watching him and he remem
bered again that he was in his nightshirt.
“Perhaps you can manage to change the rest of your things?” he suggested. “I… I’d better….” Ned looked away from her and gestured to his nightshirt with a grimace. “I’ll leave ye be for a moment. I won’t come in again without knocking first.”
“Thank you,” she said again, and he felt the words sink into his skin.
She was so softly spoken, her accent so cultured, that her voice seemed sweet and musical to his ear.
Ned nodded and hurried out of the room.
Chapter 2
“Wherein an unhappy life and a perilous future are revealed.”
Grace fumbled with the fastenings of the dress. Without the petticoats, the damp silk clung to her legs and made her shiver, despite the blaze of the fire at her back. Her feet had at least regained some feeling, though how that had been achieved was so shocking she couldn’t think on it.
When she’d woken from her swoon to see the towering figure looming over her, she’d almost screamed. For a moment he’d looked like the devil himself, with that thick black hair and the heavy dark eyebrows winging over his eyes. His eyes were dark too, brown or black she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t afraid of him now, though he was the biggest man she’d ever seen. There was kindness in his manner, in the way he treated her, and she felt instinctively that he was no wicked seducer of innocents. Far from it.
She knew what the devil looked like—how he sounded, too—and it wasn’t Edward Hardy.
The dress slithered to the floor, and she fought the urge to consign it to the flames. Harold had chosen it, decking her out in finery to go to her new owner, for that was what Mr Carrington would be, for all that he would pay her brother to marry her.
Harold would have his debts paid off and a nice lump sum to fritter away, like everything else that passed through his hands. He didn’t care that Mr Carrington would beat his wife, just as he beat his dogs and his horses; neither did he care that Carrington was cruel and perverse, and had already tried to take what he felt to be his right. She stifled a sob as she remembered his wet mouth pressing down upon hers, and forced the memory away.
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