Hetty was pleasedto find the sandwiches still edible, if a trifle squashed, in their brown paper wrapping. She fed the apple to The General.
Despite the strain of keeping her secret from his lordship, she enjoyed his company. His affection for his rakehell father, mother, and sister, shone through, and she liked him for it. She supposed he would seek a suitable bride in London. But her friend Fanny, the daughter of a baronet, would be perfect for him. She was sweet-natured and very pretty. Hetty wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t relish remaining in Digswell to witness it.
Hetty shivered as she checked the stormy, dark sky. What if they were snowed in? The thought terrified and enticed her in equal measures.Bother!She wished she understood these feelings, so new to her. She had accepted her independent nature would make it difficult to accept marriage, but now she wanted so much more, and there wasn’t the remotest likelihood of her experiencing it in this small country village. After scooping snow into the bowl, she hurried to the hut.
“Ah, you are back.” He lowered the bottle. For a moment, she suspected that he might be in his cups, a worrying circumstance she hadn’t considered, but he looked far steadier than he had an hour ago and seemed to hold his liquor well.
She unwrapped the sandwiches and placed them on the table beside him. “I’m not sure if you have pickles in France,” she said. “Would you prefer cheese?”
“I have not eaten them, but I am ready to try all English foods,” he said with an uneasy smile.
“Half of each, then.” She offered him the meat and pickle, curious to see how he fared with it. He took a bite of the meat along with a slice of pickle, and his dark brows rose as he chewed.
“A curious flavor.” He washed it down with whiskey.
Hetty almost giggled and pulled herself up sharply. “Perhaps the cheese will be more to your liking.”
“I am grateful for the food,” he said. “It has been a long time since I ate. But your pickles might take a little getting used to.”
“You were telling me about your family, my lord.”
“Was I? How about you tell me more about yourself, Simon?”
“There’s very little to tell. I work for Colonel Cavendish, a retired army man at Malforth Manor.”
“Is the manor far away?”
“About six miles as the crow flies.”
There was a pause while he studied her, making her glad the light was poor. He nodded toward the door. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh out there.”
She bit into the sandwich and took her time chewing. “The General is progeny of a stallion the colonel rode in India. Let’s me exercise the horse when he’s away, he does.”
“That is remarkably good of him. Will someone be worried when you fail to return?”
His scrutiny made her nervous. Tired of the effort required to continue with her fabrication, she struggled to come up with an answer. “I live over the stables, so I doubt that’s likely,” she said finally.
He chuckled. “You don’t wish to tell me the truth of it?”
“There’s nothing to tell, my lord. I was exercising the horse. With the colonel’s permission, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed with amusement in his voice. “As long as no one awaits your return.”
Did he suspect she’d ridden the horse without permission? Might he suspect she was on her way to meet a lover? Hetty was quite comfortable with that. It was a virile thing for a groom to do, after all. She settled on the rug by the fire again, and they finished the sandwiches in silence.
The pleasure and ease she had begun to feel in his company was broken when he stood up. He looked very big and strong as he eased out of his greatcoat. She ducked her head when he joined her on the rug. He drew up his long legs and clasped his knees with his hands. The wind howled around the creaking hut, and the flames popped and spluttered in the fireplace as they ate into the wood.
When his arm brushed Hetty’s, nervous prickles traveled up her spine. Alert to every movement, she resisted moving away. He made it worse when he patted her on the shoulder. “I cannot thank you enough, Simon.” He smiled. “I would be lying dead out there, but for you.”
“’Twas merely luck, my lord.” She was glad that dusk had fallen because his features had begun to blur in the glow of the fire. “You should treat that wound.”
“Would you do it for me?” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You can use my cravat to tie up my head, if you will be so good.”
He closed his eyes. Hetty knelt at his side, and her pulse leapt at the prospect of touching him. She firmed her lips and edged closer, to dab at the wound with the handkerchief dampened with whiskey, wiping away where the blood had run down into a black eyebrow. The cut had stopped bleeding. His soft breath tinged with whiskey touched her cheek. She swallowed. “No need of a stitch.” Her gruff voice sounded unsympathetic to her ears.
“Then it will not leave a scar and spoil my good looks.”
“I doubt it.” Indeed, it might serve to make him more attractive. As she moved, so did her unfettered breasts beneath her coat. Her sensitive nipples rubbed against the material and she leaned backward in fear he might discover them at any moment. Luckily, his eyes remained closed.
