∞∞∞
It took them nearly two hours to reach Bovey Manor. The direct road was still flooded, forcing Anthony to lead Horatio through a succession of narrow bridlepaths. Fortunately, the cart didn’t get lodged in any muddy holes since the only item it was carrying was a large bag of nails. Anxious to get back, Anthony had declared he’d return once the road was passable to collect the planks of wood he’d ordered.
Throughout the journey, there was very little conversation, and George was content to watch Nelson dash in and out of the hedgerows, paying no heed to the mud at all. Having only three legs didn’t seem to impede him, and by the time they turned into the drive leading to the manor, the dog was cheerfully filthy.
Ordering her to remain with Horatio, Anthony immediately strode into the house to see if the roof had held during the storm. Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared his face wreathed in smiles. ‘As dry as a bone,’ he announced, the relief in his voice clear. ‘I’ll stable Horatio while you get Nelson cleaned up. The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, his tail wagging. ‘You won’t be so ‘appy when I dump you in the blo- in the well,’ George grumbled, tying the hound onto the lead.
By the fifth bucket of water, Nelson was relatively clean, but looking down at herself, George decided that most of the mud had ended up on her. She’d have to ask if Mrs. Parsons would do another wash. It was scandalously soon she knew, but somehow she no longer felt the same indifference to wearing grimy clothing. Indeed, she might even have to consider having a wash.
Not a bath. She’d never be having one of those again as long as she lived if she could bloody well help it.
Leaving the dog outside to contemplate the error of his ways, she went into the kitchen to find Anthony busy frying some eggs. The smell was heavenly, and she realised she was starving. She sat down at the table and picked up the pitcher of milk Mrs. Parsons had left.
‘May I have some milk,’ she asked slowly and carefully.
Sliding the eggs onto two plates, he turned round and raised his eyebrows. ‘You may,’ he responded, equally politely. George scowled, knowing he was trying not to laugh.
With a sniff, she helped herself to milk and a large hunk of bread. After slathering the bread with butter, she dunked it enthusiastically into the first egg and ate it with her eyes closed in pleasure.
She had egg yolk dribbling down her chin, but nevertheless, Anthony felt his cock stir at the look of almost ecstasy on her face.
‘I ain’t never…’ She paused and grimaced, ‘I mean, Ihaven’tnever had a fresh egg before,’ she amended, helping herself to more bread.
Anthony didn’t bother to correct her misuse ofnever, but grinned at her, enjoying the sight of a woman savouring her food. His sisters had never had any time for the female practice of eating like a bird, and all of them enjoyed healthy appetites. But since Prudence had married, he’d become accustomed to watching well-bred ladies pick at their food.
‘What did you eat when you lived with your foster parents?’ he asked her.
‘Bread an’ taters,’ she answered promptly. ‘A bit o’ porridge at the beginning o’ the week if John an’ Frank din’t get there first.’
‘Taters?’ Anthony quizzed.
‘Taters, you know, them wot grow in the ground.’
‘You mean potatoes?’
She nodded, giving a mock sigh and repeating, ‘Pow tate oes,’in an exaggerated accent. ‘Don’t tell me you din’t call ‘em taters when you wos a lad - afore you got too ‘igh and mighty.’
He shook his head, and George frowned, adding, ‘So ‘ow is it a vicar’s son’s got the coin to own this place?’ She waved her hunk of bread around the kitchen. ‘And wot about your sister? She ain’t … I meanisn’t… short o’ blunt if ‘er fancy clothes were anythin’ to go by.’
Anthony abruptly realised how little she really knew about him. If he told her the truth, would it make her more or less likely to accept his marriage proposal? And that thought led to a second realisation.
He was actually quite desperate for her to say yes.
He took another hunk of bread and began buttering it slowly. Watching him, George raised her eyebrows, well aware he was fudging.
From the very first meeting, their relationship had been plagued by half-truths and complete fabrications. Anthony was very aware that if he was ever to win her absolute trust, it was time to come clean. She’d shared her past with him, and now it was his turn.
Anthony put down his bread, took a deep breath and started with the Duke of Blackmore.
It took nearly an hour before he finally got to the part of Nicholas gifting him Bovey Manor, and throughout his account, George hadn’t interrupted once. However, once he trailed off, she shook her head in amazement and muttered, ‘It sounds like a bloody fairy tale. You sure there ain’t no fairy godmother ‘angin’ around you lot somewhere?’
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford jumped to his feet and stuck his head through the still open door into the receiving room, where the Bishop was busy pouring himself a swift brandy. ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ he bellowed, almost causing his superiorto shove the snifter up his nose. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. The Lord be with you.’ He waved a vague cross and hurried back towards the door into the passageway, muttering, ‘Get a move on Percy.’
The Bishop’s assistant remained rooted to the spot but began muttering the Lord’s Prayer as the curate jumped to his feet, cradling his still undulating bulge which now appeared to be emitting a whining noise.
Offering a tremulous smile to the terrified clerk, Percy made a grab for the rippling lump and took off after his superior.
