“Then I’d love for you would call me Jane as well. You’re wondering why I sleep in the head groomsman’s cottage instead of Bocollyn House.” A long moment passed during which Harriet wondered whether Sidmouth’s dark sprite of a wife would speak again. “Since ours was an arranged marriage, I had little time to get to know Cornelius, his wants, his needs…his umm, preferences.”
Harriet leaned forward, fearful she’d miss a word. “This is none of my business, of course, but if he’s hurt you, I’ll run him through myself. Just say the word.”
Jane snorted at Harriet’s fears, and that was when she fell in love with her cousin’s bride. The snort was followed by peals of uncontrolled laughter which didn’t seem to fit the diminutive, serious duchess.
When she finally quieted a bit, Harriet assured her. “I suspect he’s made an arse of himself somehow. He’s prone to do that from time to time, but, fortunately, he can be swayed from his wrong-headedness. It takes a lot of time and patience, but he’s a fair man. And I’m only an hour’s ride away at the lodge, if you need to talk.”
At that, Bocollyn’s efficient housekeeper arrived with tea things and some wonderful cream cakes. Harriet smiled. If Sidmouth’s treasured housekeeper had abandoned him for his new duchess, she had no doubt whatever transgression of which he was guilty would be resolved post-haste. He hated to have his routines unsettled. One bite of a lush cream cake and she realized Bocollyn’s imperious Cook must have joined the estate mutiny as well. Harriet calculated this rebellion would be quashed by the end of the month. If White’s had a book started on how the hostilities would be settled, she’d put her money on Jane.
Richard chafedat not knowing where Harriet was. Anything could have happened on a ride to Bocollyn house. Her former brother-in-law could have shown up to harass her, she could have fallen from her horse… And no one at the main hall knew to expect her, because she’d taken off like the hounds of hell were after her once she’d elicited the confession from Sidmouth that he’d somehow alienated his new wife. What kind of man came back from a shortened wedding trip with an unhappy wife at his side?
He slanted a glance at Sidmouth, who sat drinking wine and holding court over a very fine bean stew, crispy sausages, and crusty bread. Nicholas sat at rapt attention while his cousin held forth on his experiences in the cavalry.
Richard suspected the tales were whitewashed for the boy’s young ears. Harriet had explained Sidmouth had purchased a commission in the cavalry and lost himself straight away in the Peninsular Wars after his first wife’s death. Those were bloody years indeed at sea while the inland war raged just as savagely.
However, Nicholas was at an age when lads became mad for horses, and he was taking in every detail of how war horses were transported to war and cared for. He hoped the boy was much older when he discovered how many horses were destroyed when troops were transported back to England. Only officers’ mounts were allowed to return with them, because of scarce space on Royal Navy transports.
Richard’s restless mind spun back to Harriet. Where the hell was she? Was she safe? He’d retrieved her bow and quiver of arrows from inside the wrecked carriage and returned them to her lady’s maid for safekeeping. Which meant she prowled the countryside without her favored weapon at her side.
Captain Thorne, sitting next to him, put a steadying hand on one of his arms. “She’s fine. It’s no more than an hour’s ride to Bocollyn House, and she’ll spend the night.” He settled back into his chair and then leaned closer again. “Don’t give Sidmouth a reason to start coshing you on the head again. It’s better if he finds out more gradually how you two feel about each other.”
Richard nearly jumped to his feet to deny what Thorne had said, but the look in his eyes, followed by a side glance toward Sidmouth made him think again. Apparently, he and Harriet had not been as discreet as they’d thought. The captain was right. He’d have to face Sidmouth eventually, because what was between him and Harriet could not stay in the shadows indefinitely.
“Bourne,” Sidmouth barked out. “You’re entirely too quiet. Did I hit you so hard, you bit through your tongue?”
Richard did not take the bait but simply raised one of Harriet’s fine crystal wine glasses in a salute. “To a pair of fine fighters, one much finer than the other.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Lieutenant” Sidmouth acknowledged his toast before rising from the table. “Young Lord Blandford, it’s long past time you were abed. Perhaps we could read one of those stories about the knights and the round table again.”
Nicholas’ eyes shone. “Could we?”
“Of course, and after we’ve had our story, Lieutenant Bourne and I are going to have a long talk over cigars and brandy in the library.”
Richard nodded at Sidmouth’s veiled threat and then stared at his calloused hands. This had been a very long day, and it looked as though the night would be much longer.
Harriet staredat the ceiling in her old room at Bocollyn House and wondered. She wondered what had happened to the girl who had gone from unhappy abandoned child to one who had thrived in the sun of unconditional love she’d received from her aunt and uncle, Sidmouth’s parents. Now, she was somewhere in between, a lonely war widow with a boy to raise. And not just any boy, but the Marquess of Blandford. One day Nicholas would take his father’s place and be responsible for the lives of hundreds of tenants on the Blandford Estate. She hoped to God she could help make him worthy and get him safely to that point.
She was not particularly tired, but happy to let her thoughts flit to the last time she’d danced with her husband at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels. They’d whirled to the strains of the scandalous waltz together, and then he was gone.
She’d begged him to let her accompany him to Brussels when he’d been ordered there with his regiment. He’d flatly refused, but then relented when she’d begged and cried. They’d had a plan that she’d move to Antwerp in the unlikely event any fighting occurred near Brussels. Thank God she’d prevailed.
It had taken Charles a week to die in a small farmhouse near Waterloo. Thank God she’d been there to nurse him till the end. She refused to think beyond that point. If her late aunt had not insisted she take the current footman Thomas’s father along as a servant, she did not think she would have survived in the Belgian countryside in the aftermath of Waterloo. He’d saved her life and returned her to Bocollyn where another kind of horror awaited.
With that thought blazing across the carefully constructed avoidance of her past, she could no longer stay abed. She arose, put on a wrapper, and paced until fingers of morning light edged the heavy curtains in her old chamber. The past, at best, could be held in abeyance, but not avoided. Hiding away at the hunting lodge hadn’t changed anything. She was still a widow, her son was still in danger, and she was still a sensual woman who craved a man’s touch. For one horrible moment, she actually looked forward to old age and the fog of remembrance that plagued Nana.
When one of the Bocollyn maids tapped at the door before entering to build a fire, Harriet snapped back to the present. She requested a basin of hot water and put together a plan for the day.
First, she’d return to Lady Sidmouth’s cozy domain in the head groomsman’s cottage to bid her farewell and to thank her for her unexpected honesty and offer of friendship.
And then there were two men back at the hunting lodge and Rose Cottage she needed to deal with.
EARLY MORNING
When Richard had hefted Captain Thorne’s boarding axe again after a quick breakfast of a thick oat porridge, the blisters on his hands protested by breaking open and bleeding. So now, he was inside the low-ceilinged main parlor of Rose Cottage, with his hands wrapped in strips of linen, repairing the crumbling stones around the fireplace.
Nicholas was making the job go more slowly with his questions, but Richard didn’t care. He assumed the boy must be the image of his father, since the only sign of Lady Blandford he could see was in the dusting of freckles across the child’s nose. But he’d come to care for the boy in the short time he’d been with him. Right now, he’d stopped Nicholas’ incessant questions with an order to recite the bard’s sixth sonnet, one he knew Nana had been teaching the boy. Every time he slipped and stuttered, Richard made him start over.
He watched carefully, gauging the child’s level of frustration, until finally he ordered, “Take your troops outside for some fresh air and then we’ll try again later.”
