Chapter 5 #2
“You heard me,” she said, finally meeting his eyes as he returned his cuff to its proper place.
There was a fetching touch of pink colouring her high cheekbones, but she met his gaze steadily.
“If you want this hotel to be everything Mr and Mrs King, and the Dowager Duchess, expect it to be, you need my help. You had no idea about the withdrawing rooms because you are not female. You see everything from a male perspective, but the hotel is to cater for women from the highest ranks of the ton. If they do not approve, they will ruin you, Mr Bramwell.”
Gideon hesitated. Every instinct told him he’d be best served by removing Lady Henrietta from his building site, bodily if necessary. Yet she was right, damn her eyes, and he’d be a fool not to acknowledge the fact.
The idea of telling her as much made a nerve leap in his jaw, but he told himself not to be so craven. He was not so unsure of himself that he could not accept advice from a woman, no matter how vexing he might find her.
“What do you suggest? For I’m telling you now, you’re not coming to site.” He folded his arms, unwilling to budge on this point.
She shrugged, apparently unconcerned by this stipulation.
“You will see in time that this is a foolish rule, but I shall let you come to it in your own time. For now, I suggest you come to the Hall. Everyone knows by now that the dowager has taken an interest in the project, so it ought to cause no tongues to wag unduly. Your reputation should not suffer for it,” she added soothingly.
Gideon bristled a little at the implication he was being overly sensitive but refused to rise to the bait. “Very good. When?”
She shrugged, apparently unconcerned over details now that she had her own way. “Today, once you have finished work, if that suits you. If not, suggest another time of your choosing.”
“Today works well enough, but it may not be until six. If it’s any later than that, I shall send my apologies.”
“As you wish. I shall await you in the library at the Hall. Until later then, Mr Bramwell, good day to you.”
With that, apparently, he was dismissed, as next she turned and walked away.
Gideon watched her go. He had the unnerving sensation that he’d just made a deal with the devil. Heaven only knew what would come of it.
Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 18th July 1816
Hetty got up, intending to go to the window and look out, but forced herself to sit down again.
Mr Bramwell would be here when he got here, and no amount of gazing forlornly down the driveway would make him appear quicker.
She really ought to stop acting like such a fool.
It wasn’t as if she even liked the man. He was arrogant and rude, and he thought she was a frivolous nitwit.
But that hadn’t seemed to matter much when she’d gazed at his powerful forearms. They’d been tanned and muscular, covered in coarse, wiry hair that she’d had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch.
She hadn’t, obviously. She wasn’t completely insane.
But it had been harder to resist than she’d liked to admit.
The truth was, Mr Bramwell bothered her.
He’d bothered her from the first time they’d spoken when he had refused to dance with her, and it appeared to be growing worse.
Still, spending more time with the man ought to cure her of whatever odd ailment had afflicted her and driven away her peace of mind.
If he vexed her sufficiently, she was bound to lose her temper and then he’d do likewise and any spell he’d cast over her would surely be broken in the aftermath.
Not that she would go out of her way to vex him.
She truly was interested in the hotel and wished to help make it a success.
Perhaps it was silly but finding that fault in his plans and improving upon it had made her feel valued and…
seen, in a way she had never known before.
Not because she had proven a point and shown him up, not that, well, not entirely that.
But the respect that had glinted in his eyes—that had been a heady thing.
She wanted to see that look again, to prove herself worthy of it.
“Mr Bramwell to see you, my lady.”
Hetty jumped at the sound of Howard’s voice and a swift surge of colour tinged her cheeks.
It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed for her thoughts when Mr Bramwell could not know she had been thinking of him, but all the same.
She met his serious grey eyes with as much self-possession as she could muster.
“Good evening, Mr Bramwell. May I offer you some tea, or perhaps a cool drink,” she amended, seeing that his hair was ruffled and his neckcloth had wilted and appeared more disordered than usual.
“Something cold would be welcome, thank you,” he agreed, glancing about the room with a frown.
“I shall see to it at once,” Howard said, and left the room, careful to leave the door ajar.
Mr Bramwell shifted uneasily.
“Where is the dowager? I assumed—”
“Why?” Hetty asked in surprise when he did not finish the sentence, only looking increasingly ill at ease. “Surely you don’t want both of us picking holes in your plans?”
“No,” he replied, his fingers flexing upon the leather folder he carried. “But for propriety—”
“Oh, that.” Hetty waved this away. “You are quite safe within the confines of this house, Mr Bramwell. The staff here would walk over hot coals for the dowager. They would do nothing to upset her, and gossiping about her guests certainly comes under that heading.”
“Still, shouldn’t you have a maid or—”
Hetty ignored the comment and frowned, considering.
“Perhaps I ought not include the entire staff. Alfonse would as soon smother her in her sleep, I think.”
Mr Bramwell’s eyebrows shot up. “Who is Alfonse?”
“Her French chef. They are forever at odds, though I believe they both thrive on their little disputes. In any case, I believe it is unlikely Alfonse will accost us in the library. Dear me, where are my manners, do please put your papers and plans down upon the table.”
He nodded, moving to the table and setting down the leather folder before sliding the plans out of the large tube he carried under his arm.
Hetty walked over to stand beside him. “Well then, where shall we begin? How about in the—” She had been about to suggest, in the bedrooms, but caught herself just in time. Her cheeks burned. “The drawing rooms and parlours?”
Mr Bramwell gave her an oddly searching look but then nodded, uncapping the tube and sliding the plans carefully out. Hetty helped him to unroll them, using glass paperweights to keep the corners from curling back in.
Feeling suddenly very self-conscious, Hetty leaned over the plans.
“They truly are very elegant,” she admitted.
A breeze from the open window drifted into the room, bringing the scent of the roses that climbed this side of the house and loosing a lock of Hetty’s hair. She pushed it out of the way, tucking it behind her ear, and glanced up to see Mr Bramwell watching her.
“I’m glad you think so.”
She looked away, wishing his attention didn’t do such odd things to her equilibrium. It was most unsettling. “Where does the afternoon light come into the building?”
She dared another glance at him, in time to register the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes, but Mr Bramwell indicated the little compass at the bottom of the drawing.
“The hotel faces south, so the afternoon sun comes in through these windows on the west side. The morning sun will be enjoyed most in the breakfast parlour.”
Hetty looked up, impressed. “Excellent,” she replied, aware of the amusement in his eyes.
Was he just placating her, or did he truly value her opinion?
Uncertain, she turned her attention back to the drawings.
He’d made sketches and watercolours of what the rooms would look like fully furnished.
Some even had fashionable ladies and gentlemen sitting at their ease or walking around.
“You have remarkable skill for drawing. An asset in your line of work, I am sure. But these sketches are wonderful. You must show my sister Cecilia, she is also very talented and has a fine appreciation for such things. I’m afraid I cannot draw a straight line,” she said with regret, for she had often envied those with such talents, and Mr Bramwell was gifted indeed.
He laughed softly. “Thank you, however, I must tell you drawing a straight line is often far harder than creating a small sketch.”
She smiled and looked back at the drawings, considering them once more. “It’s very smart, but I worry that such dark colours will make the room gloomy on dull days. Did Mrs King choose them?”
“No,” he replied, sounding suddenly a little defensive. “Mrs King has not yet decided about the décor for all the rooms, but it helps me to see the room in my mind if it is decorated. The choices are mine. I’m sure Mrs King will do better.”
Hetty smiled, appreciating his candour. “Well, it’s certainly very elegant, but I feel a lighter touch might be best, pale green or blue with touches of cream and gold.
You can warm a room decorated with cool colours on a grim day with a lit fire and carefully placed lamps, but all that dark red will make it feel rather oppressive, I fear. ”
“Point taken.”
She glanced at him uncertainly, but he did not seem to have taken offence.
“Have you allowed for a pianoforte?”
“Here.”
Hetty shook her head at once. “Oh, no. That won’t do. It’s all very well if the pianist is talented and everyone has gathered expressly to listen, but what if they are not? All these people seated in this area will flee, for they will not be able to hear themselves think. Let me see.”