Chapter Three
December 22, 1816
Huddled beneath the warm covers, Mark came awake and smiled smugly, given the soft body that hugged him from behind. Ah, his Amanda always snuggled close in the winter months. Then again, she sought his attention year-round, especially in their bed, and that was fine with him. Resolved to give her what she wanted, he reached down and caressed what seemed to be a rather large thigh.
Telltale snoring cut through the delicious fantasy, and he recalled his current predicament in vivid detail. With a violent flinch, he fell off the mattress and connected rudely with the floor.
“Frederick, what in bloody hell are you doing?” Standing, Mark raked his fingers through his hair and then kicked the frame. “Wake up, man.”
“Hmm?” Frederick snuffled and farted, and Mark almost vomited. “What is it?”
“Er, it is nothing.” When he realized his friend had no idea what happened, Mark cleared his throat and grabbed his boots. “But I want to get an early start, and we have yet to find a way home, so you had better get moving.”
“All right.” Sitting upright, Frederick stretched his arms overhead and yawned. “You know, I did not think I could rest, given the inn had only one room available, with a single bed, due to the weather and the holidays, but I slept surprisingly well.”
“Indeed, you did.” Mark shrugged into his waistcoat and tucked Amanda’s portrait miniature, along with her lace-edged handkerchief, in the pocket she sewed into the garment for just that purpose. “In fact, you never stirred when the coachman knocked to apprise me of his arrival and the condition of the rig.”
“After that long walk in the frigid storm, and the hot meal, I was more than ready to collapse.” Frederick scooted from the mattress, discovered one sock missing, and searched among the covers. “Where do you get your stamina, given we are the same age? And what news from the coachman?”
“My wife.” At the washstand, Mark cleaned his teeth and scrubbed his face. “As for the coach, not good, I am afraid. The axle is broken clean in two, and most of the local businesses are closed. The stableman I hired managed to retrieve our trunks and the horses, and he brought my driver into town. Clegg will remain in Dartford until the coach is repaired and then continue to Faversham.”
“Where does that leave us?” Frederick tied his cravat in a less than elegant mathematical. “I am not opposed to staying here, especially if I can procure my own accommodation, because no one awaits my arrival.”
“That is not an option, and the innkeeper made it clear this room was available for only one night, given it is already reserved for the holiday.” In the long mirror, Mark scrutinized his neck cloth. “Now, I will go downstairs, settle our account, and meet you in the dining room, where we shall break our fast, so do not delay.”
With that, he crossed the room, opened the door, and strode into the hallway. In the reception area, he approached the desk and flagged the innkeeper.
“Good morning, Admiral Douglas.” The innkeeper smiled. “I hope you passed a pleasant night.”
“I did, thank you.” Excepting the rude awakening that still gave Mark a twinge of nausea. “Have you had any luck securing a hack that might convey me to Faversham?”
“I checked with every possible stable, and either all coaches are already let, or the proprietors refuse to rent them, owing to the poor road conditions, which you must understand, in light of your accident.”
“Of course.” Mark sighed, because it seemed all was lost, and he would not be home for Christmastide. “Thank you, Mr. Armbruster.”
Dispirited, Mark turned just as his coachman walked into the foyer.
“Admiral, sir, I just coming to find you.” Clegg doffed his hat and nodded once. “I may have found you passage to Rochester.”
“Rochester?” Mark shifted his weight. “But what good will that do me?”
“It gets you halfway to Faversham, sir.” Averting his gaze, Clegg shuffled his feet. “Perhaps, you can find another means of travel from there.”
“You are right.” Mark tamped his frustration, because Rochester was but a couple of hours from Faversham, by coach. “Tell me of your plan.”
“There is a stablemaster in need of riders to help him deliver a set of mares to a business in Rochester.” Clegg compressed his lips. “He will pay you, sir, and you must leave in one hour.”
“Then I haven’t a moment to spare.” Mark signaled Frederick, as he descended the stairs. “Come and let us eat.”
“Did you find us a way home?” Frederick turned up his nose, as they sought an empty table. “Over by the window there is a place.”
“When is the last time you rode a horse?” Mark braced for the response.
“About five years ago, as I am a sea captain, not a cavalryman.” Frederick pulled out a chair and sat. “Why do you ask?” He glanced at Mark, then Clegg, and then back at Mark. “Whatever you have arranged, I get a peculiar inkling I am not going to like it.”
“Well, this could be interesting.” Mark draped a napkin in his lap. “And I have a feeling you’re going to hate it.”
From the drawing room window, Amanda stood as sentry, awaiting Mark’s return. Based on his letter, she expected his arrival by the previous evening, at the latest. It was for that reason she had not slept much, and she grew more concerned by the hour.
“Mama, please, do not worry.” From behind, Cara hugged Amanda. “Papa will be home soon, and he will be vexed when he learns how you fretted for him.”
“It is understandable that he would be delayed,” Sabrina stated with an expression of sympathy. Heavily pregnant, she rested on a chaise. “The roads were positively dreadful, and—”
“Clegg is the finest coachman in all of England.” Cara huffed a breath. “If anyone can navigate the turnpike, in any condition, he can, is that not right, sister?”
“Oh—yes, of course.” Sabrina sputtered and swiped a piece of shortbread from the tea trolley. “That is precisely what I meant to say.”
“Indeed, we arrived a day after Sabrina and Cara, and the lanes were a vast deal more than manageable.” Alex poured a cup of tea and reclined in a Hepplewhite chair. “Will you not come and sit with us?”
“I appreciate what you are trying to do.” Wringing her fingers, Amanda joined Elaine on the sofa. “But Jason said the roads were treacherous.”
“The man has no sense.” Alex waved dismissively but did not convince Amanda. “Besides, he is rather occupied with more important business, because he indulges in a new wager.”
“Not another one.” Caroline rolled her eyes. “Really, Blake and Damian just finished their test of wills, with Lenore and Lucy offering evidence to that effect. What is it now?”
“Actually, I planted the suggestion in my husband’s ear, because I want another babe.” Cara strolled to the hearth and warmed her hands. “So Lance and Jason are competing to see which of them can conceive a new addition with their respective wives.”
A chorus of giggles erupted, and Amanda relaxed, as she enjoyed the company.
“But Alex is already pregnant,” Sabrina blurted. Then she quickly covered her mouth. “Uh-oh.”
“Sabrina, you promised you would not tell anyone.” Alex folded her arms. “And I am not entirely certain of my condition, so I would thank you to keep my secret.”
“I do not understand.” Eileen, Sir Ross’s younger sister and new member of the family, tapped a finger to her chin and furrowed her brow. “If the wager is to conceive first, then Captain Collingwood is done, is he not?”
“My dear Eileen, you know that, and I know that, but what my husband does not know will not hurt him.” With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Alex hugged a pillow to her belly. “Besides, I am enjoying this contest, and I would not dare interfere in his manly pursuits, because it inspires his poetry.”
“Well said, Alex.” Cara raised her teacup in toast, and Amanda could not help but laugh, because Jason’s original, ribald compositions were the stuff of legend in the Brethren circles. “Likewise, I am quite enamored of Lance’s attentiveness and dedication to the cause. Who am I to disillusion him?”
Another chorus of mirth filled the room, but Amanda could not forget Mark. As the Brethren wives discussed the benefits of married life, she realized that, in her preoccupation with her husband’s absence, she neglected Eileen, who seemed a tad out of sorts, given it was her first Christmastide with the large, extended family.
“Eileen, I wonder if you might assist me in a minor task.” Amanda stood and flicked her fingers. “If it is not too much trouble.”
“It would be my honor, Lady Amanda.” Eileen stood and deposited her cup on the trolley. “How can I be of use?”
“Let us adjourn to the library, given the men congregate in Mark’s study, and I will explain what I need.” As they walked into the hall, Amanda signaled Hamilton. “How are the preparations coming for Stir-Up Day?”
“We are almost ready, my lady.” The butler bowed. “Perhaps, we can gather in the kitchen, in half an hour?”
“Perfect. That will be all, Hamilton.” Amanda steered Eileen toward the back of the house. “Every year, when we observe the Christmastide tradition, I provide a quick summation of the holiday custom, because there are those among us who never took part in Stir-Up Day.”
“Myself, included.” Eileen followed in Amanda’s wake, as they navigated the massive collection of books. “Upon my word, but this library is magnificent.”
“It is my husband’s favorite place, and he spends hours in here, when he is in residence.” How she pined for her man, especially when she spied the two-seater bench, upon which her husband often seduced her. “I believe there is a book—”
“Who goes there?” George queried in a tone to which she took great exception.
“I beg your pardon?” Amanda stopped and rested fists to hips. “Who dares question my presence in my home?”
“Aunt Amanda, my apologies.” George shifted, when she arched a brow. “And to Miss Logan, if I offended her.”
“No offense taken, Viscount Huntingdon.” To Amanda’s surprise, Eileen curtseyed.
“My dear, we are family here. We do not stand on formalities, thus we do not use titles within these walls.” On a table, Amanda located the reference she sought. “Ah, here it is.”
“Do you read, Miss Logan?” George rocked on his heels, and Amanda viewed him in a new light, as he interacted with Eileen.
“Of course.” Eileen narrowed her stare. “Do you?”
“That is some cheek, Miss Logan.” George stretched tall.
“Unlike yourself.” She half-smiled. “Why, you evidence the whole of polite society, from A to B, Viscount Huntingdon.”
“Impossible woman.” George bared his teeth. “If you were my wife, I would poison your tea.”
“Viscount Huntingdon, if you were my husband, I would drink it.” Then Eileen turned to Amanda. “But I ignore my hostess, when you asked for my aid.”
Before Amanda could reply, her nephew stepped to the fore. “What does my aunt require?”
“A brief review of the history of Stir-Up Day, if you can manage it.” She flipped to the requisite page. “But if you intend to help, then you had better comport yourself as I would expect of a nobleman.” She wagged a finger. “Do not make me write your mother.”
“Yes, Aunt Amanda.” From her escritoire, George gathered a pen, an inkwell, and some stationary.
When the two put their heads together, Amanda backed from the area, but she monitored their interactions, as they continued to hurls insults, neither sportive nor serious. But it was when Eileen began to write that George admired her and smiled. They would bear watching.