Chapter 4 #2
His father had used the estate for disreputable hunting parties that scandalized the local people.
In the decades since, it had fallen into a drafty, leaking wreck with broken windows and sagging floors.
The roof repairs had been completed by a crew brought in from his main estate, but Farley was having trouble finding good local workers for the rest. He was hopeful more would come around soon for good wages and a more respectable employer than the last Earl of Lindhorst.
It would be an expensive endeavor. No furniture would be ordered until they decided what could be salvaged from the attic and lumber room.
Farley reported that he’d scrounged an adequate bed for the chamber Lindhorst occupied.
It was the only room with a bed—the steward and his sister had a cottage a stone’s throw away, and the grooms lived above the stable.
“I intend to use it as a hunting box until my heir comes of age,” Lindhorst said. And it might take those full six years to make it shipshape. “After that, it will be his to manage.”
A violent shiver went through her.
“You’re drenched,” he said. Her rucked-up skirt revealed one shapely ankle. The wet, heavy cloth of her carriage gown was starting to freeze like the ground under the horse’s hooves. He had good cause to be grateful that Icarus was a plodder, and as reliable as a horse could be.
The gelding’s foot slipped, and Lady Loughton gasped. The loyal fellow quickly righted himself and stepped on, but warily.
“We should walk,” she said quietly.
While they’d talked the rain had turned to snow and was blanketing the ice beneath.
He reined up. “Can you manage it, my lady?”
“Yes, of course. He’ll be no good to us lame.”
No complaints about her drenched garments, how cold she was, or her boots which were certainly ruined.
He slipped from the horse and lifted her down, impulsively bestowing a kiss on her cheek.
She looked up in shock.
“It’s just around the next bend. Stout Icarus here can carry our baggage that short distance. Come; we may find better footing on the verge.”
* * *
Neda sat shivering before the kitchen fire, cradling a steaming earthenware mug in her still-gloved hands.
Tendrils of warmth rose from the drink that Lindhorst had presented, bidding her to drink and then leaving to confer with the young man he’d introduced as his steward.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed that steam was also rising from her thawing boots and skirts.
She chuckled and, finally a bit warmer, looked around. Ribbon-wrapped evergreen boughs here and there signaled an attempt at holiday cheer. The tidy kitchen was evidence of a female presence—the mostly tidy kitchen; a few unwashed dishes perched on a sideboard near covered platters.
Where was the female who ruled this realm?
Though the steward’s missing sister niggled at her, she was still too cold to fret much about her absence. Outside the hearth’s circle of heat, the room was almost as cold as outdoors. She missed Lindhorst’s warmth.
She shook her head and chuckled again. The cold must have addled her—she was well on her way to liking Lindhorst.
Touching her lips to the rim of the mug, the scent of the drink assaulted her.
The scant portion of strong tea had been drenched with warming spirits, a healthy dollop of them.
She sniffed and took a sip. It was a well-sugared gin, a spirit she’d only tasted once.
Not often a gentleman’s drink, at least at Loughton Manor; Lindhorst must have grabbed the first bottle at hand.
To warm her, or to render her easier to seduce?
She took another careful taste and reminded herself—alone with an amorous man who’d made his interest clear, she needed to keep her wits about her if she didn’t want to succumb to temptation.
He’d been a gentleman so far. Despite the snow and the cold, the walk had been invigorating, even with Lindhorst’s steady arm around her. Perhaps more so with his arm around her.
What a henwit she was, all because a handsome, desirable man had shown her attention. She might as well be that sixteen-year-old girl again casting herself at a fetching rogue.
Oh, yes. When she was honest with herself, she recognized that Henry had been a bit of a rogue, one who’d later teased her that she’d managed to tame him.
But he was different than Lindhorst and she was different than that young girl of sixteen, wasn’t she?
She shivered again. What if Lindhorst wasn’t really a shallow, callow, scoundrel?
He’d been kind to his servants, even kind to his horse. Icarus, Lindhorst had called the beast, with surprising affection. Before they’d even reached the manor house, they were spotted on the road by a groom who’d hurried out to take charge of the mount.
Then Lindhorst had scooped her up summarily and carried her the rest of the way to this kitchen. He’d draped a blanket over her and busied himself preparing this hot drink.
She took a healthier swig, letting the warmth swirl around inside her. A new wave of shivers wracked her, and exhaustion swept through her, along with shameful self-pity, and fear.
She’d failed James and, in the process, let herself fall into the hands of the disreputable, womanizing, desirable man who’d help to ruin her eldest son’s first marriage.
Where was James? She ought to be thinking of him, not swanning about in her head over being alone with Lindhorst. James might be out there in this, cold, hungry, perhaps losing fingers to frostbite, or catching a chill like the one that killed his father.
She drained the cup. Her son might die while she—
“Ah, good. You’ve drunk all of it.” Lindhorst had crept in so silently his words tickled her ear. “Come with me, my lady. You need to change out of those wet clothes.”
Praise be. He must have found the missing sister who could help her undress and loan her a dry gown.
She staggered to her feet, alarm bells clanging as Lindhorst swept her up again.
“Is Miss Farley—”
“Do not worry,” he said, his voice gentle. He must have heard the embarrassment in her squeaking voice. “Ah, here is Farley. Is all ready?”
Farley was descending the stairs as they were going up. He edged to the side, allowing them room to pass. “Yes, my lord,” The younger man said. “I’ll fetch some dinner for you and more tea.”
He bowed and passed them, his bootheels clacking on the uncarpeted stairs.
“I have no clothes. I…” Her small valise held only toiletries and a fresh chemise, probably drenched also. What was she to wear?
If this was a hunting box… many so-called gentlemen brought ladies to these places. Would he give her one of his mistress’s castoff night rails? There’d be no warmth in that sort of negligee. What she needed was a thick, humble flannel.
Or… “Is there something of Miss Farley’s I might borrow?”
“You’ll be modest and warm,” he said blithely.
“In one of your Cyprian’s gowns?” The words had come out more waspishly than she would have wished.
Oh, why should she care if he thought she was waspish. She’d had a devil of a day.
Lindhorst paused before a closed door. “I have brought no Cyprians here before you, and there will be none after.”
His solemn tone had her head spinning.
The room they entered, a small bedchamber, smelled of fresh plaster, paint, and a roaring coal fire, the flames jumping in the drafty space.
She glimpsed flimsy shutters closed over a window opening, leaking in frigid damp air through a seam in the shutters and cracks in the casing and sill.
Near the hearth there was just enough room for two shawl-draped armchairs and a small table.
On a far wall stood a clothes press, and in a far corner an antique screen.
And of course, the room held a tester bed.
The four posts and canopy had been hung with rich blue velvet.
The bedding looked newly laid, the coverlet and blankets folded back and ready to receive the person destined to lie here, the person who may or may not freeze in his or her sleep on a night like this.
The beckoning bed was wide enough—just barely— for two.
Lindhorst set her on her feet and began whisking away her garments. First the deflated bonnet, then the blanket he’d draped over her in the kitchen.
She gasped as he pulled the sopping mantle from her, tossed it aside and, turning her, began unfastening her redingote with its attached fur capelet. When his long fingers reached the level of her breasts, she clamped a hand over his.
That had been a mistake. He’d noticed her gloves, the once soft kid molded and stiffening. Pausing, he tugged at the leather with a look of fierce concentration.
First one glove, finger after finger, and then the other, and when they were both off, his large warm hands swallowed her icy ones in a clasp that made her want to weep.
It was because of the drink. The spirits were muddling her.
“I shall get the rest,” she said. “You may go.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, and looked pointedly at the top of her gown. “You are able to manage the gown underneath the redingote on your own?”
Oh. Botheration and blast it. She’d expected to have met up with her maid by now or at least to have found herself at an inn with a female servant who might assist her.
She could rip the seams of the skillfully sewn gown, but then what would she wear on the morrow?
A tap at the door brought the steward and his laden tray.
“Mr. Farley,” she called. “Will you please send for your sister to assist me?”
The young steward shifted from one foot to the other, increasing her vexation.
“My lady, I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “She’s gone to Peterborough for our sister’s confinement. I expected her back by now, but the weather…”
Chest tightening, she held herself very still trying to quell the jumble of emotions, the only sounds the whistle of the wind through the poorly sealed window, Lindhorst’s quiet voice dismissing the steward, and the snick of the door shutting.