The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 23

Waking was not so terrible. The moment Christopher swam back to the surface of consciousness, he expected it to be dreadful. He recalled the events of the previous day in a whirl: the funeral, the ghost hunt that had yielded no actual ghosts, and all the rest. He knew he was not in his own bed; he could still smell the sharp scent of bootblack, could feel the warm, rough cotton of Har-ding’s dressing gown beneath his cheek.

So the man had not carried Christopher to his own bed after his undignified descent into slumber. Good. Christopher wasn’t sure he could bear being carried, even if he only found out after the fact.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Har-ding’s profile greeted him. The regal nose, the thin lips, the point of his chin. He was sleeping still, if his deep and even breathing was not an act. Christopher felt a selfish thrill at being able to observe him from so close an angle. His eyelashes, it seemed, were absurdly stubby. But besides that and the single lock of black hair that had fallen across his brow, he was still a paragon of perfection. Christopher couldn’t help himself; he reached up and tucked the stray lock behind the shell of his ear.

Har-ding startled awake, and Christopher immediately retracted his guilty hand, certain this would be the moment when awkwardness would descend.

But Har-ding merely blinked rapidly at the ceiling, then turned to find Christopher braced beside him. That small, secret smile spread across his lips.

“Good morning,” he said. His arm tightened around Christopher, and they came even closer together. The fire had died into ashes in the night, yet Christopher felt fresh sweat spring up on his skin. It was so hot under the blanket, yet he didn’t wish to leave.

He wanted, absurdly, to wake up like this most mornings. He would even be content with once a year, a treat on Christmas Day.

“Good—-” He yawned hugely, ducking his head against Har-ding’s neck to stifle it. “Morning,” he finally finished.

There were no windows in Har-ding’s little room, so it was still rather dark, just one slice of sunlight peeking beneath the door from the better--ventilated dressing room. If Christopher closed his eyes, he could pretend it was still night, and maybe he wouldn’t have to get up just yet.

But the world would not stop turning, unfair as it was. They rose together, Har-ding coaxing him gently into his day’s ensemble.

It should have been terribly embarrassing, the entire situation. Two grown men—-even two of such unique make—-spending the whole night wrapped up in each other like a pair of pups! Trading secrets and the like, falling asleep curled together. By rights, it should have been impossible to meet Har-ding’s eye, let alone allow him to dress Christopher in a fresh shirt. Yet meet his eye he did, and each time Christopher couldn’t help but smile, and Har-ding, for his part, smiled in return.

They descended the grand staircase together, still enveloped in the air of intimacy that they had cultivated between them. They weren’t touching at all now, but the memory of Har-ding’s hands was fresh in Christopher’s mind, buoying him considerably. It might even be enough, Christopher thought, to sustain him through his first morning meal after burying Plinkton.

That feeling ebbed somewhat as they reached the bottom of the stairs and came face--to--face with the two Winterthrope portraits that hung there. Christopher stopped to take them in. He studied the contours of the girl’s dress and face, wondering if Har-ding could detect any resemblance, now that he knew.

He hadn’t the courage to ask.

“My lord,” Har-ding said all of a sudden, then, changing tack, “Christopher. Do you not think this portrait has hung in the main hall here at Eden Abbey for far too long?”

Christopher turned to regard him. “What?”

Those black eyes did not leave the painting. “I should think it’s time to move it into a storeroom, or perhaps the music room.”

“Do you -really think my shame can be hidden so easily?” Christopher asked. “Putting it in a storeroom does not erase the facts.”

Har-ding gave him a hard look. “I think that walking past this picture every day is doing no one any favors, least of all you. Why shouldn’t it be put away?” He gave a half shrug. “Some ghosts should be laid to rest.”

Christopher turned his eyes once again to the portrait of the girl he was not. How strange it was to look upon that face and see his own nose, his own chin, his own eyes and brow and mouth, and yet see nothing of himself in her. There had been a time when he’d thought of her—-and himself, after a fashion—-as dead. Death had seemed the only real commonality in the events of his life as Lord Eden. And yet, now that he thought of it anew from Har-ding’s perspective, it occurred to him that it was exactly the opposite.

Christopher had lived.

He lived still.

The very fact that he breathed was a miracle. He had not survived merely to suffer; he was certain of that now. For the first time in his life, he was certain. So why not put the painting away?

“I think you might be right,” he said. “Shall we?”

Together, they went to work taking the massive thing off its nail.

After the portrait was dealt with, they took breakfast with Cook. Then, various tasks needed to be seen to. Plinkton’s death left much of the day--to--day operations of the estate in Har-ding’s hands, a fact that made Christopher tut about the delayed rest that his man was owed after so many days of nonstop work. Har-ding pointed out it was a necessary evil, and reminded Christopher that he had neglected his correspondence terribly since his return from London. They parted to tackle their separate duties, and Christopher locked himself away in his study for several hours to read and respond to his letters. Most of them, at least—-the rest being put aside for when his brain was less porridge--like.

Har-ding met him in the hall.

“I’ve sent letters of inquiry to some builders who might repair the roof,” Har-ding said as he took him by the arm and steered him -toward the French doors that led out into the garden, “and a dozen of the best rat--catchers from the village, canine and human, will arrive this afternoon to take care of the vermin problem.”

“Excellent,” Christopher said faintly. He looked around and realized they were leaving the garden behind. “And what are you doing now?”

“ We are going for a ride,” Har-ding said. “I wager it will clear your head. You were in the study the entire morning; you need fresh air and exercise, especially after yesterday’s . . . excitement.”

Christopher raised a brow. “Oh, are you my physician now as well as my confessor?”

“If needs must.” Har-ding let go of his arm and instead folded his hands behind his back as they walked in the direction of the stables, radiating smugness.

It was damnably attractive on him.

Orion was thrilled to see Christopher, testing the limits of his stall as he hung his head out to give a welcoming nip at his hair. Christopher laughed and shoved him away. “Beast! Let’s see, has that boy from the village been feeding you?” He went up on tiptoe to examine the state of the stall. “Oh, you’re roll ing in grain; your floor is spotless. What are you complaining about? What you need is a run. Har-ding, will you be taking Peaches?”

“Certainly,” said Har-ding, and together they made quick work of readying their mounts. It occurred to Christopher that Har-ding must have lied about working with horses as a lad to explain his knowledge of them. Of course he must have ridden for leisure, and from a young age.

Christopher shot him a grin over Orion’s back as he tugged the last buckle of his tack into place. “Isn’t it nice not to ride sidesaddle any longer?”

“Exceedingly,” Har-ding agreed.

They set out on an easy ride across the estate. Though the weather again threatened rain at some point, the storm clouds stayed distant for the moment, and the wind was pleasant in its bracing chilliness. Soon the summer would give way to autumn. Christopher tried not to dwell too much on the swift passage of time; his birthday was fast approaching, after all.

He slowed Orion from his breakneck run to a spirited canter. Har-ding had been correct once again; it felt good to be outside with his favorite horse, breathing the air and taking in the sky. The human company wasn’t bad, either. He turned in his saddle to watch Har-ding bring Peaches to a trot. Despite his simple black and grey clothes, he looked like he belonged here. On Christopher’s horse. On his land. He wished—-no, he didn’t dare wish, but he wondered how perfect it would be if every day were like this.

Minus Plinkton’s death, his father’s will, and the deteriorating state of the manor, of course.

Perhaps if he galloped fast enough, such thoughts would be unable to catch him.

“Race you to the footbridge?” he called to Har-ding on the wind. “The one that crosses the fishpond?”

Har-ding nodded. “I know it. Count of three?”

They were off like a shot.

Orion won easily, though Peaches gave a shockingly good effort. By the time Christopher reined in his mount at the foot of the little stone bridge, his hair was certainly a mess, blown every which way. He was glad they’d left their hats behind in the stables; Har-ding had taken some convincing, but at the speed they were riding, the things would have been lost in a ditch before long. Besides, they were completely alone out here, not another soul to be seen, so no one would mind their hatlessness.

Christopher dismounted and gave Orion a little pat on his heaving flank as Har-ding arrived on Peaches. They tethered the horses on an iron ring set into the end of the bridge for just that purpose and let them nibble on damp grasses. Christopher walked up the swell of the footbridge and stationed himself against the stone side so he could look out over the pond. A storm, perhaps the vestiges of last’s night’s gale, was brewing in the distance. He could see the far--off flash of lightning, though he heard no thunder, not even after a long moment’s wait.

Har-ding came up beside him and leaned his forearms atop the rocky balustrade as well. They watched the clouds in companionable silence for a moment.

“Thank you for suggesting this outing,” Christopher said at last. “It’s strange; all my troubles seem not to matter so much when I’m out here.” He refrained from adding the implied with you. Surely it went without saying.

Har-ding gave a little sigh, no more than a breath released. “I’m loath to remind you of any troubles,” he said, “but there is still the matter of your marriage to consider.”

Christopher let his head thunk upon his arms atop the stones and let loose a groan. “Can we not worry about that? Just for a moment?”

“I’m sorry, but the fact remains that you require a wife,” Har-ding said. “If you do not marry within six weeks’ time, you forfeit your title, the Abbey, your wealth, everything.”

“Yes, yes.” Christopher turned his head and regarded him sullenly. “But unless you have an unattached girl of good standing and with a sympathetic heart secreted away in your pocket, I don’t see how this conversation will be much use.”

“My pockets are empty, but—-” Har-ding wet his lips. “I would like to suggest a possible solution.”

“A solution?” Christopher echoed. Well, Har-ding had been the provider of some excellent notions of late, such as the business with the old portrait. “Right. Let’s hear it.”

Har-ding braced his hands against the bridge stones. “At this late date, any wife would do, correct?”

Christopher frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. She would need to be an understanding sort. Trustworthy. Able to enter the agreement with her eyes wide open. I personally don’t care about rank, but if the whole point of this exercise is to not raise eyebrows, then I suppose I should make some effort to find a girl from a known family, at least.”

Har-ding went a bit pale. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he steeled his jaw. “Well, then, sir—-”

“Oh! Also!” Christopher snapped his fingers. “She must be somewhat pleasant. If she desires to live apart from me, that’s her business, but the two of us would need to attend certain dinners and parties together, at least. So it would be a great help if we actually got on.”

“Do we?” Har-ding asked.

Christopher blinked. “What’s that?”

“Do we get on?” he clarified. “Are we on—-? My lord—-Christopher—-I don’t wish to presume, but do you consider us to be on friendly terms?”

“Exactly the word I’d use.” Christopher’s smile was a practiced thing. Friends were better than nothing, he felt. Better than master and man, at least. “Why do you ask?”

Har-ding opened his mouth, then shut it, then stared down into the brown pond water. “It’s a silly idea; I’m not sure it’s even worth mentioning.”

“My dear man, as you said, the situation is getting quite dire. Little more than a month, and I’m Mr. Winterthrope, not Lord Eden. I’m willing to listen to any idea at this point.”

Those dark eyes lifted to meet Christopher’s gaze, and he thought he saw a passing glint of something he couldn’t name. But then it was gone, nothing more than a dream, and Har-ding was once again the smooth, upright piece of marble.

“You could marry me,” he said. “I could be your wife.”

Christopher was no slouch when it came to the En-glish language. It was his first tongue, after all. He’d made decent headway in the subject at Cambridge. And yet as he stared at Har-ding now, he could not comprehend a single syllable of what he’d just said.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said, thinking he’d merely misheard. “What?”

Har-ding spoke in a rush. Now that he’d started, there was no stopping him, apparently. “It would cause a sensation, to be sure, but I could resurface with some tale of survival—-resume my old identity. Then you would have a wife who fulfills all your requirements. I’m already aware of your situation, I understand your terms, and I am from a known family.”

Christopher’s head throbbed. “I don’t understand. You would—-Har-ding, you would abandon the life you’ve made for yourself?”

“Yes,” he said, “if it meant saving—-” He snapped his mouth closed.

Christopher stared at him. “Yes?” he prompted.

Har-ding looked away to some more interesting corner of the pond. “The Abbey,” he said. “For the sake of the estate, I would be willing to do it.”

Christopher’s foolhardy heart sank. Of course a man as noble as Har-ding would care only for the estate; he could never care for Christopher in the same manner.

“How would this even be possible?” Christopher demanded. “You’re not . . . that person any longer.”

“It wouldn’t be too difficult. I could say I’d been taken captive and brought to some far--flung country. Let’s say I fought my way free and have been wandering the globe these last few years, trying to get home to En-gland.” He reached up and touched the back of his head, where his dark hair was cropped close. “A bit of truth sprinkled in would be ideal. I could say I had to chop off my hair to sell it, or to disguise myself to evade my pursuers.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath Christopher’s boots. “It’s a tale too fantastical to believe!”

“What could my family do but believe it?” Har-ding insisted. “If I appear on their doorstep, that is all the proof they’ll need.”

“And then what?” Christopher cried. “Then I force a whirlwind courtship on this poor, p--poor—-?” He stuttered, refusing to name Har-ding a poor woman. “On you? After you’ve just been found alive after years of supposed torment? It makes no sense! Not to mention the duke must loathe the very sight of me.”

“It will take some delicate handling,” Har-ding said, “but it’s not impossible. Perhaps we’d arrange it so that you’re the one who ‘finds’ me and brings me back to London. Even my father could not protest such a pairing. A frightened girl and her protector—-people will believe the story if we tell it well. Miss Montrose might help us spread the word as she did for my sister.”

The entire thing made Christopher’s stomach turn. He tried to picture it: Har-ding dressed as he would have been in that other life. A lace handkerchief in his hand in place of a riding whip, a jeweled necklace around his throat instead of a cravat.

He shook his head. It would not serve.

“It’s madness,” Christopher said. He gazed pleadingly at Har-ding. “Do you know what it would mean for you? You’d have to—-” His eyes roamed Har-ding’s whipcord form. “Gowns. Stays. Petticoats, again. How could you stand for such a thing?”

“It wouldn’t be such a prison,” Har-ding said. “I could dress as I please much of the time. Especially if I live a fairly isolated life in the country.” Spots of color appeared on his cheeks. “And if my husband is understanding.”

“Absurd.” Christopher looked away, his face aflame. How strange it felt to be called his husband. “Wouldn’t you abhor being a woman again?”

“Am I not myself whatever I am wearing?” Har-ding said with raw steel in his voice. “Is my manhood such a fragile thing that it cannot survive a brush with a petticoat?” His eyes softened, if not his tone. “Would you -really think so little of me if I did this?”

“It’s not a question of that, it’s—-” Christopher cast about for the right words. Some parts of the proposal were tempting, to be sure. Har-ding would remain at his side, here in Eden, forever. They would no longer be constrained by their roles of master and manservant. Though there would be no love, no real affection—-at least, never on Har-ding’s part—-Christopher would have him on his morning rides, and at his dinner table, and in his home.

But at what price? If it meant trapping Har-ding in that old life—-with that old name—-then Christopher refused to pay it. He could imagine the horror of it for himself all too easily. Eden would crumble to dust before Christopher would consent to causing Har-ding that sort of pain. And no plot of land was worth putting himself through the torture of such a farce. A loveless marriage with a woman was one thing; such an arrangement with Har-ding would surely turn him hollow.

He pushed away from the stone wall and paced, trying to put more distance between himself and this poisonous plan. “Well, I won’t allow it.”

“Could you at least consider—-?”

“I will never consider it!” Christopher cried, whirling on him. “The very idea disgusts me.”

Har-ding froze. His lips parted slightly, but no words were forthcoming. His eyes iced over like the pond in winter. Until there was nothing alive in them at all. “I see,” he said.

“No,” Christopher whispered. “That is not what I meant, I—-” How could he even begin to explain? He took a step forward, but Har-ding took three back. “It’s only, I can’t imagine what it cost you to leave your family behind. Your desire to live freely must have outweighed that.”

“Not all of us were lucky enough to have a dead twin,” Har-ding said coldly.

The words cut through Christopher like a knife through tender meat, like a scythe through a thick harvest.

He would have gasped had the breath not been knocked from his lungs. He stood there, thinking how stupid he must look with his mouth hanging open. For a moment, Har-ding’s face seemed to soften at the sight, but it might have been a trick of the light, for his eyes became hard as stone once more.

“That’s very unfair of you.” Christopher heard his own voice as if from the bottom of a well. It echoed distantly and felt quite detached from his own self. “Very unfair.”

Har-ding tipped his chin upward, stubborn, imperious. It was clear there was no apology forthcoming. If that was the case, then Christopher felt no need to offer one of his own. His resolve made him steely.

Har-ding executed a low bow. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and without waiting for permission, stalked off to the horses. Christopher watched him swing himself back into his mare’s saddle and ride off at a clip, leaving him behind.

Lightning flashed once more over the hills. The storm was getting closer.