Chapter Four
Rhys woke up in a cold sweat some hours later. His dreams were never comforting or peaceful, instead only replaying his experiences on the battlefield, which caused for him to wake up in a panic most mornings.
Though the room they were in had no windows, he knew it was about five o’clock in the morning and sure enough, when he looked at the mantel over the fireplace, he saw the long hand a single minute away from the hour.
He always woke up early, even after a night of drinking, which was seldom. It didn’t matter if he was ill or sleep deprived. Rhys rose with the sun, in more ways than one when he remembered the attractive-looking redhead in the bed above him.
How had he let Bessie trick him into this mess?
Perhaps trick wasn’t the right word. He had asked for her help after all, and she had delivered.
And although she was na?ve, Louisa didn’t seem frivolous or silly, nor was she critical of his lack of hearing.
Of course, it might prove difficult in the weeks ahead, but overall, Rhys couldn’t help feeling as though he had fallen into a bit of luck.
Not only did Louisa seem to have a sensible head about her, but she was also rather pretty.
Standing up, Rhys looked over his shoulder to the lump beneath the duvet. Louisa’s auburn hair was scattered over the pillow, just beneath the edge of the blanket. Although he had lain awake for a good hour before falling asleep, he had foolishly been straining to hear her.
Suddenly, the pile of blankets jerked, startling him. Taking several steps towards the bed, he wondered if she was awake.
“Louisa?” he said, making sure to keep his voice in a whisper, lest she was not awake.
He couldn’t hear her if she answered and so approached the edge of the bed. To his surprise, soft curls framed her still-sleeping face, though it looked as though she were angry. Was she having a nightmare?
Her mouth opened, her brows cinched together as she began to move her head back and forth. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t understand. Jeremy? Was she calling for someone? And who was Jeremy? Or was it, John?
“Louisa?” he said again, his voice louder than before, but still, she did not open her eyes.
Her arm flew up over her head, her hand clenched tightly.
She was dreaming, and it didn’t appear to be a very comforting one.
Deciding to release her from her sleeping imprisonment, he placed a hand on the mattress and leaned over her, his other hand hovering near her cheek, before moving to her shoulder.
Tentatively, he let his fingertips brush against the skin of her bare shoulder.
Smooth and warm, Rhys felt his breath catch as a wave of orange and clove wafted on the air. What a peculiar scent. Why should she smell so sweet?
But then her frown deepened, and she began to whimper. Leaning down, with his left ear hovering above her, he heard her faintly call out the name John. She was dreaming about someone. A boy or a man named John. Who was he and why did he haunt her dreams?
“Louisa,” he repeated once more, applying the gentlest of pressures to her shoulder. “Louisa, wake up.”
Louisa’s eyes opened, but she didn’t look directly at him. Instead, she appeared confused until she turned and, upon seeing him, she yelped.
“Oh!” she shouted, gathering the comforter to her chin.
His hand dropped and he stepped back before she recognized him.
“Oh, yes, of course. Lieutenant. Is it morning already?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, well,” she said, giving him an awkward smile, holding the blankets up. “Um, I suppose I should get up.”
“Yes,” he said, turning around to pick up his coat that was still rolled up into a ball on the ground. He picked it up by the collar and whipped it out, shaking it before glancing back at her.
“Your jacket is wrinkled.”
“So it is.”
There was little to be done about it.
“Are we to be married in the clothes we wore last night?” she asked.
“I’m sure Bessie will return the gown you came here in last night.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“I’ll go get it.”
“That would be grand, thank you.”
Rhys was out of the room and down the hallway before Louisa could say another word. In all honesty, he was itching to be out of her presence for a moment so that he might stop staring so much.
He knocked on Bessie’s door three distinct times and waited.
The door opened to reveal the young, pretty face of one of Bessie’s private secretaries. Rhys believed her name was Hermia.
“Yes?” she asked evenly.
“Er, I’m here to collect Miss Babcock’s things.”
“One moment, please.”
The door shut for a moment and Rhys waited patiently.
A few minutes later, the door opened wide again, and the young woman stood back to reveal a perfectly composed Bessie, sitting behind her desk, writing something.
She appeared just as she had the night before, except that she was wearing a black muslin morning dress.
Her hair had been restyled and her veil had changed from Chantilly lace to black crepe fabric.
“Ah, Rhys. How was your evening?” she asked, her tone of voice suggestive.
“Her gown. Where is it?” he asked, walking into the room.
“My, wha a mnr t wa up oo.”
He turned to face her.
“What?”
“I said,” she began, her mouth moving slowly. “My, what a manner to wake up to. Did you not have a pleasant evening?”
“I slept on the floor.”
Bessie cocked her head.
“The floor? Why?”
“Because despite all your trickery, she’s still an innocent, unwed lady.”
“And you must be one of those true gentlemen I hear so much about,” she said, nodding to the corner of the room. “Her gown is over there.”
Rhys went to retrieve it, but Hermia was quick to get it and hand it over to him. He nodded his thanks when Bessie spoke.
“You know, the archbishop will not be awake for another few hours. You don’t need to rush from this place.”
“On the contrary, I was set to leave London tonight and I plan to keep my schedule. So, I will bid you goodbye now—”
“Now?”
“It’s been, as always, an adventure visiting you, Bessie. But the state of Fenwick Park is dire, and I was only in town for a brief time.”
“Very well, then. Take care of her, Rhys. She’s a good one.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I can tell. Goodbye, Rhys. Safe travels.”
He nodded and left, eager to return to the room and quit this place. But when he opened the door, he was met with a shriek.
“I found your—”
“AH!”
Though it was muffled, Rhys knew a yell and looked up immediately. There, in the middle of the room was a tub with soapy water, with Louisa sunk up to her chin.
Her pink cheeks, wide gray eyes, and damp auburn hair caused his throat to become dry and though he knew he should look away, he could barely make himself move.
“I, uh, I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t you know to knock?” she asked indignantly, her mouth barely above the waterline.
The corner of his mouth pulled up.
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t hear your command on the other side of the door anyway,” he said factually, while trying extremely hard not to look anywhere else but her mouth. But even that was a touch too tantalizing. He draped her gown over the closest chair and went to leave.
“I’ll wait for you outside.”
After another thirty minutes of waiting, Louisa finally appeared in the hallway, as simply dressed as she was the night before. Her hair was still damp but pulled back so fiercely that it looked nearly painted on.
“Shall we?” she said, coming towards him.
He only nodded and held out his arm, which she took instantly. It was a bizarre sensation, escorting her down the hall of the infamous Lyon’s Club, out the door, and down the steps into the early morning London air. The city was already awake, buzzing and moving as it always had.
Rhys escorted her to a new carriage, painted with black lacquer and gold-leaf wheels, pulled by four black horses.
Louisa hesitated.
“Are we borrowing one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s carriages?”
“No. This is my own.”
“Your own?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you didn’t have any money.”
“I never said that.”
He helped her into the carriage and soon they were whizzing down the streets of London, toward the Grosvenor Square chapel.
“Didn’t you? You said last night that I would have to work the fields with you—”
“Louisa, as strong as I’m sure you are, I never said you were to work in the fields. I’ll be doing a good amount of planting and farming over the year, but you will oversee the manor, which, I assure you, is no small feat.”
“But in what way?”
“It’s in need of renovations. Extensive ones. I’ve hired an architect and I’m sure you’ll be able to take it from there.”
“Take it from there?” she repeated. “Sir, I’ve never overseen a household, let alone one that’s in need of renovations. How can I discuss such things with an architect?”
“You’ll manage, I’m sure. Besides, it’s only a house. Walls, furnishings, that sort of thing. You may make it to your own specifications, I’m sure.”
“My own? But what about yours?”
“I’ve no interest in what the house looks like, only that it’s practical in function. Paint the entire thing in orange and purple stripes, for all I care. As long as it’s warm and well suited for us.”
“I wouldn’t put orange next to purple,” she said off-handedly, as if the idea was criminal in and of itself. Then, her expression turned thoughtful. “Why are you so easy to please?”
He shrugged.
“It’s amazing how much thinking a man can do when he can’t hear the world around him. I’ve come to the realization that there are many trivial matters in the world, and I do not wish to waste my life worrying about them. Particularly when there are better people to handle such matters.”