When the barn at Rose Cottage loomed close out of the cotton-thick mist, Bert trotted double-quick to the haven where he expected his due of a bucket of oats. Richard complied and attached a blanket over the donkey’s back. The floppy-eared beast gave a short whuff of acknowledgement before returning to devouring his oats.
A tentative thwack echoed out of the mist. Thorne was trying to chop wood. That’s where Richard would start his day. He’d insist his elderly host should take a break and write a note to Lady Blandford about the play. Richard craved the exhaustion of efficient wood-chopping. He needed to clear his brain, and his body, of the delectable, sated marchioness he’d left behind beneath the sheets.
“I trustyou delivered the duke safely to the lodge.” Captain Thorne leaned against the handle of the boarding axe with one of the wicked sharp points buried in the stump they’d been using to split firewood.
“Taking Bert along was a great idea. The sight of the Duke with his feet dragging across the ground was a bit inelegant, but fortunately, nobody important saw His Grace.”
“What happened when you got him back to the lodge?”
Richard could feel his cheeks redden and hoped his old friend wouldn’t notice. “Nothing, really. I turned him over to one of the footmen and his valet.”
“I see.” Thorne jerked the axe out of the stump and offered the handle to him. “Did you see Lady Blandford while you were there?”
“Um, yes. She wasn’t happy about our um, noisy entrance.” In spite of his best efforts to blot out the memory of the night spent in Lady Blandford’s bed, his cheeks burned even hotter.
“It would appear you had a very enjoyable night indeed. I’m sure Sidmouth cannot say the same this morning. Pity about the misunderstanding between him and his duchess that’s haunting him.”
“How did you know?”
“Harriet confided in me. When she tore off to Bocollyn House she made it her business to meet his duchess and ensure she’s well.”
“And?”
“She’s well.”
“Then what is the problem between her and Sidmouth?”
“No one is saying exactly, but Lady Harriet suspects he did something so unforgivable on their honeymoon, he’s going to have to atone for his sins.”
At the sound of voices singing, they turned toward the path up the hill. Harriet and Nicholas approached, shouting out the tune, “Baa, Baa Black Sheep.” The boy seemed so lost in the game of rhyming verses with his mother, there was nary a slip of a stutter.
Next to him, Thorne shoved an elbow into his side. “Well, now. Looks like we won’t have to send her a note after all. We can present our case directly to the marchioness.”
Harriet was flushed with the twin efforts of climbing the hill and keeping up with Nicholas’s tune. She had a ridiculous bonnet covering her glorious hair, but tendrils had managed to escape and were blowing across her face.
Richard fought the urge to run down to meet her and kiss her lips that were probably still swollen from the love he’d made to her the night before.
When she finally stood before him, he noticed a leather case she carried beneath one arm.
Nicholas begged Captain Thorne. “I brought an apple for Bert. Can I give it to him? Please?” After a brief glance at Richard and Harriet, he put his arm around the boy and they headed toward the cottage’s small stable.
“What’s in the case?” Richard hated to admit he was curious.
“It’s for you. I should have given it to you long ago, but I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s inside.”
Now he was really curious, and without further words, clasped her other hand and led her toward the cottage.
Harriet’s heartbeat out a strange rhythm. One minute she thought it would pound out of her chest, and the next, the fickle organ hesitated, as if in sympathy with the tears that threatened to destroy the calm demeanor she’d clutched at for the sake of Nicholas.
Once they were inside the warm, dark cottage, the expression on Richard’s face nearly gutted her. They could not avoid the relentless truth circling them like a vicious predator. Another one of the precious days they had together was gone. Instead of explaining what was inside the battered leather box, she simply handed it to him.
He sat in Captain Thorne’s rocker and worked at the hinged clasp. When he opened the box, the silence between them was broken only by the loud crack of a wood knot exploding from the heat of the fire warming the hearth.
Her beloved late husband, Charles, had carried her gift through all of the campaigns of the Peninsular War, following Wellington. Inside were all his shaving implements his valet had used over the long years.
She knew being clean-shaven was an imperative for a man in Richard’s position. She also knew he’d been borrowing the tools to stay that way ever since Max had brought him low on her drive cobblestones. First, he’d borrowed them from her servants, and now, he was probably sharing them with Captain Thorne. And what a fractious beard the man had. The dark Irishman’s stubble always appeared after lunch, no matter how smooth his face had been when he’d started the day.
Her quim had the audacity to twitch at the mere thought of how that beard felt. Her lady’s maid had merely shaken her head and helped apply more powder the last time she’d come back to the lodge with reddened cheeks.
