Chapter Fifteen
Try as he might, Henry had never grown accustomed to the uncomfortable bed at the King’s Head.
That was the trouble, he supposed, of growing up with down mattresses, eiderdowns of the softest goose feathers, and pillows stuffed with the softest gander feathers. Even as a child, only the very best for the future Duke of Dulverton.
Since becoming the duke, of course, his beds had only become more resplendent. Velvet coverings embroidered with gold silk covered even larger beds. Large enough for him to stretch out like a starfish and not quite reach the corners.
No wonder he had struggled to sleep in the poxy single bed tucked into a dark corner of the room at the inn.
It was why Henry was astonished, upon waking in Minny’s arms, to discover three things.
Firstly, he had slept well—the best night’s sleep, perhaps, since leaving Dulverton Manor in a fit of pique after discovering someone in Pathstow was the gossip monger.
Secondly, he never wished to sleep anywhere else other than with Minny in his arms.
And thirdly, most surprisingly, that he loved Minny with a dark and dangerous passion that meant he would be incomplete without her.
Sunlight drifted through the thin curtains of her bedchamber window. He hardly remembered how they had got up here—his memory too overcome by their passion, his skin tingling with recalled pleasure.
The sheets were softer than he would have predicted, perhaps a sign of how his heart had softened. Besides, it was Minny’s skin, not sheets, that brushed against his.
Henry turned slowly until he was looking at Minny.
Dark eyelashes grazed over her skin, fluttering as she dreamed. Her breathing was slow, her breasts moving under the cotton nightgown she had eventually flung on after declaring, at a godawful time in the early hours, she could no longer take any more pleasure.
Henry swallowed, his heart pattering painfully. He could spend a lifetime attempting to understand this firebrand of a blacksmith and still never uncover all her complexities.
Minny Banfield.
The only trouble now, of course, was understanding precisely what he was going to do with her—with himself. Do with these feelings Henry had tried to deny for weeks.
But after sharing such passion with her, how could he pretend his desires for Minny were wholly innocent?
A slow smile spread across Henry’s face. No, he would not describe what they had shared together last night as…innocent.
Minny shifted in her sleep. Henry held his breath as though that alone could prevent her from waking. A cockerel crowed. The sound of a cart, slow and steady with the clopping of a horse ahead, echoed around the small bedchamber.
Pathstow was waking up. It was only a matter of time before someone arrived at the forge. The least he could do was get the furnace going.
He was out of practice, however, at sneaking out of bedchambers and leaving the bed’s occupant undisturbed.
He grasped at his clothes, pulling on breeches and shirt without any incident.
Though he was able to pull the cover back onto the bed without disturbing her, the moment he stepped across the room—
“Henry?”
Henry turned as his heart melted. Minny had opened her sleep-filled eyes and blinked in the daylight.
“Morning, Minny,” Henry said softly. “I’m going to get the furnace going.”
She stared as though he had started spouting Hindustani, then her gaze sharpened as she took in his words. “I will help—”
“You will stay in bed and enjoy the first slow morning in you have undoubtedly experienced in a good long while,” Henry said firmly, a wry grin slipping onto his lips. “Rest.”
But Minny was pushing herself up in the bed. “No, I must—”
“Must nothing,” Henry said, putting his hands on his hips and raising a sardonic eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me you have absolutely no desire to sit in bed with the luxury of knowing your man is doing the dirtiest and most difficult job?”
Minny’s cheeks flushed crimson, but she did not drop her gaze. “My man?”
Henry swallowed. Well, it was a little presumptuous. No promises had been made between them, no offer—as though he could offer!
Not that he didn’t want to offer. Damn. But a duke and a blacksmith—she did not even know he was—
“I rather like the sound of that,” Minny said dreamily, slipping back into the pillows and fixing him with a languid look. “My man.”
Henry’s heart skipped a beat. He liked it, too. Blast. He would have to think about this later—in this moment, he needed to step out of the bedchamber before his manhood started to do the thinking for him and he ravished her again.
“Furnace,” he said shortly, as though to remind himself precisely what he was supposed to be doing. His fingers itched to reach forward, remove that nightgown and—
“Glad to hear it,” Minny yawned. “Goodness, I cannot recall the last time I just stayed in bed, it feels…wrong, somehow.”
Henry resisted the urge to tell her that when living as the Duke of Dulverton, it would be a fine day indeed that he was out of bed and dressed before midday.
“I am sure it does, but I urge you to rest, Minny,” he said aloud. “I’ll even allow resting out of bed, if you truly do not do any work. You hear me?”
The smile she gave him was so dazzling, it threatened to melt him into a red-hot puddle, much like her furnace downstairs could. Henry did not understand it. He was no fool—at least, he did not think so. Yet standing here, feeling the biggest fool in Christendom.
“Rest,” he repeated as though that would break the spell she somehow had over him. He took another step back. “Rest!”
Minny giggled as Henry opened the door and closed it behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he caught his breath.
It was a wonder he had not got down on bended knee and offered himself, all his wealth, and the duchy to boot. A woman like that…
Something he would have to untangle in the privacy of his room at the King’s Head, once today was over.
Henry’s mind rebelled against the idea as he stepped into the passage alongside the forge. Back at the King’s Head? How was he supposed to sleep in that pokey room, when he knew there were welcoming, soft arms waiting for him here?
Swallowing hard and hoping to goodness the hard work ahead of him would distract him, Henry strode along the passage and into the forge.
It was freezing, as was to be expected. Heaving a heavy sigh, Henry allowed his muscles to take over. The routine of stacking the furnace, choosing the best logs, putting them carefully in place, layering small logs, coals, and kindling took over.
There was a sort of pleasure in the activity. Henry would never have believed it if someone had tried to tell him before he had arrived at Pathstow, but the knowledge of doing something productive, following a routine, knowing this went here and that went there…
There was something calming about it, if that was the right word.
That was perhaps why at first, Henry did not notice the sound of shifting feet above him. Only when he first lit the furnace and started blowing the bellows rhythmically did he realize what his ears had been trying to tell him for a few minutes.
Minny was up and about.
Henry rolled his eyes. It was almost impossible to keep that woman still!
Her muffled footsteps sounded down the stairs and into the passage. Henry had rather expected—hoped—she would come straight into the forge. Despite all his fine words about her resting, every moment he was not looking at her felt, somehow, like a moment wasted.
But she did not appear.
Henry paused for a moment at the bellows, curious. If she were not coming into the forge, then she was surely going into the kitchen. But there was no sound of footsteps in the room next door.
A flash of dark, almost black hair.
The windows in the forge were small, like most windows in the village, but Henry’s eyes were so attuned to Minny, he immediately spotted her movement from the corner of his eye.
Something stirred in his stomach. She was outside? What could she possibly be outside for?
Placing the bellows on the anvil and telling himself he was allowing the furnace to settle, Henry stepped soundlessly across the forge and peered out of the window.
His heart skipped a beat and joy rushed through him. There she was. His Minny. In the growing brilliance of the sunshine, she glowed almost like an angel—an angel, that is, that made his loins stir and every part of wish to throw aside his title and spend his life here, with her.
Henry swallowed. Why, she would make a remarkable duchess.
The thought pattered through his heart at almost the same moment Minny did something most unaccountable.
She looked around, as though reassuring herself she was alone. Her eyes glazed over the forge windows, and Henry’s heartbeat increased at the idea of seeing something he should not. Something forbidden.
Then she pulled something from her nightgown pocket. Something small and pale and folded into a square. A letter?
Henry’s stomach dropped as he watched the woman he loved place the folded letter into a place behind the water trough, wedging it in so tight it was impossible to see it was there unless one had watched it be placed there.
And then she rose, smiled briefly, and stepped around the smithy toward the door.
Henry reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. His legs were shaking, his whole mind reeling at what he had just seen.
He had been right all along.
“No. Believe it or not, the miscreant who I will be dealing with is…the blacksmith.”
Dear God, he had never wished to be so wrong before, but he had been right. Every moment he had been here, Minny was merely waiting for a chance to sneak out and place one of her scandalous, gossiping, reputation-ruining letters out for her partner.
The room spun. Henry blinked several times, but his vision did not calm.
Minny? Minny Banfield?
That she could do such a thing, spread gossip most heinous and painful! Surely she must know the consequences of her actions, must know that what she did harmed not only the women she wrote of, but their families.