Chapter Seven
Mortified, Hetty hurriedly slipped on her best morning gown with a rose-pink pattern, hoping it would give her confidence. Confidence was needed to put the baron in his place. She discarded the lace cap and parted her hair to sweep it back in a smooth bun, secured with pearl-handled combs. If Guy had sought to show how weak she was when a man wished to take advantage, he’d succeeded. But in her heart, she knew he was concerned for her safety. The appearance of highwaymen had changed Digswell. It was no longer a quiet backwater. Did he fear he’d brought them here for some other purpose? To her shame, his kisses had made her feel passionately alive. She now accepted she needed passion in her life. How else could she write splendid poetry? But she wouldn’t find passion stuck in Digswell for the rest of her days.
After a quick glance in the glass, she hurried downstairs. With a deep breath, she entered the drawing room, where Guy and her father were enjoying a slice of Cook’s plum bread. Guy threw down his napkin and stood as she entered the room. “How good to see you again, Miss Cavendish.”
Her father’s brow puckered. “Where have you been, Horatia? I sent Molly to find you fifteen minutes ago.”
“I was out in the garden, Papa, and had to tidy myself.”
“You’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.
So annoying to be fair and blush like a ruby rose in midsummer. Henrietta curtsied. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”
He angled his head so that his eyes met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”
“Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”
Hetty sat on the sofa beside Guy. “Oh, not so often, surely, Papa.”
“Byron is a favorite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that a roué and a rake can produce such sensitive verse, don’t you agree?”
Hetty scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”
Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of bread. “Roué? Rake? These are not words bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “If Byron is one of these, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”
Guy’s eyes twinkled.
She leveled a glowing look at him. “I’m surprised you’ve read Byron, my lord.”
His eyebrows peaked. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.
“Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
’Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”
Hetty released the breath she’d been holding. She’d hung on every word. He quoted Lord Byron as if he truly understood the meaning behind Byron’s words. With the memory of his kiss, she feared she was gaping like a foolish, smitten girl and bent her head over the teapot.
“Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.
Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’ll go to the library, there’s some business needs my attention. It has been a pleasure to have your company. I had no idea you were so interested in fly fishing. You must call on us again.”
Guy stood and bowed. “Merci, Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted to learn more from you before I embark on the sport.”
With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.
After a glance at her father rustling his periodical, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”
She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you did,” she said in a small voice.
“I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “I could not resist. You were very beguiling.”
She was? Hetty tried to ignore that. “You’re not sorry at all.”
“You did trick me, Horatia.”
“I explained why.” She glanced at her father who was intent on lighting his pipe. “I was right not to trust you.”
Guy grimaced. “But you can trust me, I promise you.” He tilted his head and smiled. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”
His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary and certainly not dull. She would consent to a friendship for it put the relationship on a safer plane. “You’ll tell no one…?” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Kiss and tell? That is not my code.”
She allowed him to take her hand. He was quite convincing, despite his behavior in the stables.
When he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss on her palm, endless quivers of sensation raced along her nerve endings. She snatched her hand back. “That is not within the bounds of friendship!” An English gentleman would never behave so…
He held a finger to his lips, his dark lashes hiding his expression. She was sure his eyes were dancing. He was so outrageous she tamped down an urge to laugh. She must not give him an inch, he was likely to take a lot more.
“Forgive me,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It won’t happen again. Unless you wish it.”
“Rest assured, I shall not. Let us talk of something else.”
Mary came in and bobbed. “Shall you require more hot water, Miss Hetty?”
“No thank you, Mary.”
“So, you’re called Hetty?”
“Yes. Although my father prefers Horatia.”
“Mm. I shall you call you Hetty.”
She sighed and shook her head. It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good to argue with him.
“I have discovered an excellent library at the hall. I imagine you have availed yourself of it? You’re welcome to continue. There are some excellent volumes of poetry.”
“That won’t be possible now. As you must know.”
“Come dressed as Simon. I shall enjoy it to no end.”
She glanced across at her father. It was lucky he was slightly hard of hearing. “You are impossible!”
His gaze roamed over her. “But I must confess, I do prefer you in that rouge-colored gown.”
She gathered the folds in her fingers. “This hue is called rose-pink.”
He laughed and shrugged in that Gallic way he had, which was so charming. “Rouge, rose-pink, chestnut?”
“They are all different.” Her tone censorious, she resisted the urge to pat her hair.
“Well, the color suits you.”
“You are a compulsive flirt, my lord.” She shook her head but couldn’t prevent a small smile hovering on her lips. “Weren’t we to speak of other things? How is my godfather today?”
Guy shrugged. “He has taken to his bed.”
“Poor Eustace. He suffers terribly from gout.”
“So I believe.” He fell silent.
“I’m sure he will rally soon and become better company.”
“I do hope so. There is much for us to discuss.”
“I daresay. Years to catch up on.”
“I have tried, but he shows little interest in the family.”
“Oh? Because he is unwell, I suppose.” This surprised her, for wasn’t it Eustace’s wish to confirm Guy’s right to claim the barony?
He looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”
“Is Eustace returning to London?” Would he be cast out of his home after all these years? Surely Guy would not do such a thing.
“In truth, he has enjoyed my father’s hospitality unencumbered for many years. It might be difficult to relinquish it.”
“He enjoys living in Digswell,” Hetty said. “He has made many friends here.”
“I wrote to advise him. Did he mention it?”
“Not to me.”
“Until he heard from me, he might not have expected an heir to appear after the bloody Revolution.”
“Nevertheless, he would wish you to take your rightful place.”
He shrugged. “Not if I had met my end on the way here.”
What was Guy suggesting? She cringed. “Surely, you don’t suspect Eustace to be behind the attack.”
Guy looked down at his hands. “I’ve yet to find that out. As well as what lies behind the poor state of the hall. Until then, it makes no sense to discuss it.”
Outraged at even the faintest suggestion of impropriety on her godfather’s part, Hetty rose. “I’ve known Eustace for many years. He’s a good man. He would want to do the right thing.”
“It is hard to know the workings of a person’s mind. We are strangers after all. He holds no affection for me in his heart.”
“That’s very different from…” She couldn’t say the words.
He stood. “I must go. I hope we shall meet again soon.” A grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “On horseback perhaps?”
She sighed. “This episode has put an end to my riding alone. And Papa seems to have lost his love for it.”
“That’s regrettable. But it has become dangerous, as I’ve taken pains to explain to you.”
He was just like her father beneath his bravado. His wife would have to obey him in all things. It hardly mattered, for it would not be her. Fanny, perhaps, with her biddable nature, would make him an agreeable partner in life. Hetty walked with him to the door. “You have much to do to put your estate to rights. I wish you well with it.”
He pulled on his gloves. “A difficult but necessary enterprise.”
At the parlor window, she watched him ride away through the trees. Guy must have met the real Simon at the stables who would have returned from the village.
She shivered and returned to the fireside. Did he really believe her godfather could be capable of such evil? Although to be fair, Guy hadn’t come right out and accused him of it.
She wound the tassel on a cushion through her fingers. What had occurred for the hall to fall into neglect? Perhaps Eustace’s condition was more serious than they knew.
Simon’s voice came up the kitchen stairs. Hetty was tempted to go and ask him what he thought of Guy. The groom was a levelheaded fellow, and she trusted his judgment. No need for the matter was at an end. She sighed and patted the cushion back into place. Guy had expressed the intention to marry and safeguard his heritage with an heir. And, rightfully, his wife would come from the upper ten thousand. She must put him out of her mind. A season in London had become imperative. She must find a way to persuade her father.