Chapter One
Surrey, April 1815
Sir Hugh Grey huddled inside his greatcoat, tugging the collar up as far as it would reach. Even so, he could not prevent droplets of rain from sliding down his neck and saturating his shirt and coat. If he had a good reason for lingering at his father’s grave, he might be able to justify soaking himself to the skin. But the truth was, he didn’t know what held him there. There was no explanation, except he’d missed the burial and was sorry for it. And that he had always been, and probably always would be, inextricably bound to his father. By blood, by character, by reputation.
“The Grim Reaper came calling, and even you couldn’t turn him away,” Hugh said aloud, staring at the gravestone.
His words went unremarked by the denizens of the church graveyard, including his father. The weather reminded him of the day he’d left England more than two years ago, although rather than a spring rain, November sleet had accompanied him on his journey to the coast. He’d been in British North America until six weeks past, when his brother, Adam, had sent word of Benjamin Grey’s death. Hugh had been ready to sell his commission by then, anyway. It had been time to come home.
Home to what, remained an unanswered question. Estranged from his brother and mother, Hugh had nobody he considered family. His father had left the country estate, Longmere, where Hugh had grown up, to him. It had been in a sad state before he left, and he dreaded seeing what further damage two more years of neglect had wrought. After another moment of wasted contemplation, he spun around, passed through the lych-gate, and climbed into the carriage he’d purchased in London. The estate owned no such conveyance, and he suspected he might have need of one. Hugh had also bought four Cleveland Bay carriage horses, with strong, capable shoulders. A newly hired coachman sat on the box, and a groom rode at the back, by the boot.
On the drive to Longmere, they passed the approach to the Broxton home. He wondered if Eleanor were there right now, reading, perhaps, or working. She liked to sew, he recalled. Design things. Gowns, and dresses. Then it struck him that she may not live there any longer. She may have wed. Hell, she may even have children. And with that jarring thought, his mind traveled back to the last time they were together, when he’d taken her virginity in a frenzied, heated passion. Visions of that night were what had sustained him through the first year in British North America, during the cold, ceaseless winter. Kept him warm and comforted him. While the mystique of it had faded somewhat, the memory had not. Making love to Eleanor had been, against all odds, the best moment of his life.
She had drawn him from the first. They’d met at his mother’s country home, at a house party he’d reluctantly attended because she had entreated him to do so. Eleanor had been the one bright spot in an otherwise lonely week. Her loveliness was only part of it. There was something about her…her reserve, perhaps. Her reluctance to reveal herself, despite the fact that her every emotion shone out of those radiant eyes of hers. He had found out later that her father had hoped to marry her to Adam. Thank God, Adam had already been in love with Cassandra Linford, whom he’d since married.
Though Eleanor had been reticent with the others, Hugh had drawn her out, and he’d sensed her ease with him. By the end of the week, there was no denying their attraction was mutual. Still, making it known she had wanted to dance with him at the assembly ball, then following him and making love to him with abandon had taken him by surprise. He hadn’t expected her to be so daring. So ready. In a mere few months she’d matured, changed. Known what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. After him.
But in more than two years, how else had she changed? Hugh didn’t know, but he intended to seek her out and discover the answer for himself.
…
Three weeks later
The day was waning. The gradual loss of light was Eleanor’s enemy. In her north-facing work area, it became too dim in the late afternoon to continue sewing. Not if she expected the highest quality of work from herself and her assistants.
Discouraged, she sighed and pushed herself away from her worktable. “Let’s be done for today, Jane.”
Needing no encouragement, Jane dropped what she was doing and said, “Yes, miss.” She neatly folded the gown she’d been working on, jabbed her needle into a pincushion, and placed her thimble and scissors into a box. Eleanor, who worked best when the tools of her trade were organized, was grateful the other girl followed her example in this.
Eleanor stood and stretched, then hunched and released her shoulders a few times, trying to work out the knots in her muscles caused by too many hours bent over her work.
“Are you eating dinner with your parents tonight, miss?” Jane asked.
“I told them not to expect me.” In truth, she was simply too tired to walk up to the house, nor did she wish to be subjected to her mother’s belittling comments. “You should be on your way. Your mother will be needing you.”
“Nan is there today. She’ll help.”
Jane had many siblings. The fact that her family needed every penny each one of them of working age could earn was no secret. One of her brothers had been lately looking for work. “Has Simon found employment yet?” Eleanor asked, hoping for good news.
“Oh, aye, didn’t I tell you? He’s working for Mr. Grey over at Longmere. Or I suppose I’m obliged to say ‘Sir Hugh’ now, aren’t I?”
The box of thread Eleanor had been carrying to the cupboard slipped from her grasp, narrowly missing her toes. Spools of all colors popped out onto the floor and rolled around the rug. It was like a children’s game. She and Jane dropped to their hands and knees, scooping up the wayward spools and safely stowing them back in their container, which happened to be an old hatbox.
Eleanor sat back on her heels. “How long has he been home?” She tried to sound indifferent, but she didn’t know if she succeeded. How could Hugh have been back for weeks and she not even aware? Was she so closed off from the world? Shut away in the cottage every day, she supposed she was.
Jane rose and donned her bonnet and shawl. “Near a month now, I’d say. He’s rebuilding the place, and he needed laborers for the job.” She tied her bonnet strings and continued. “Simon thinks he must be rich. He hired himself a top architect from London to draw up the plans for the new house. Simon and the rest of the crew are pulling down the old place meantime.”
“I see,” Eleanor said, even though she didn’t see at all. Clinging to a chair for support, she got to her feet.
When Jane had finally gone, she put the kettle on. Hugh was home, and he’d made no attempt to see her. The cad. The wretch. The complete rogue. She wanted to throw something, but couldn’t risk damaging her very small, necessarily tidy work area. Instead, exhorting herself to be calm, she poured her tea, added milk, and wandered outside to her garden.
Her cottage had been constructed on reclaimed meadow, and so her garden bloomed with lady’s-smock and buttercups; she had added heartsease and cowslips. It was a small space, dominated by the flowers, which had to be continually thinned or they would, like spoiled children, take over. No room for grass, but there was a flagged area, where she’d installed a bench. It invited her to sit, and so she did.
Why was she so angry about Hugh’s lack of attention to her? After all, she’d heard nothing from or about him in all the time he’d been on a different continent. And now he was “Sir Hugh.” And, according to Jane, he was rich. A military commission wasn’t so lucrative, was it? Amazing that whatever exploits he’d undertaken to gain himself a knighthood hadn’t reached her ears, although she’d had other things on her mind since he’d been gone. Given her situation, it was far better that he stay as far away from her as possible. And yet, she yearned for him. She had thought there was genuine affection between them. And for more than two long years she’d romanticized their one night together, the night of the Haslemere assembly. She had relived it, dreamed about it, and no doubt exaggerated its significance. To him, it apparently had meant little. It was different for her. For her, it had changed everything.
A wet nose tickled her ankle and she looked down at her pup, Bobby. Eleanor picked him up, holding him aloft to examine. “Who were your sire and dam, little one?” Her guess was spaniel and border collie, and her father, who knew about dogs, had agreed. The dog had wandered into her garden one day looking lost, probably abandoned, and she hadn’t had the heart to turn him out. Probably because he was the most adorable creature, save one, she’d ever seen, with his black and white curly coat and floppy ears. She drew him close, and he licked her nose and face until she put a stop to it.
“Time to feed you, Bob, you bothersome imp.” She set him down, and he followed her excitedly into the cottage, where he knew he’d find sustenance and generally a special treat.
…
The following morning
Hugh stood, hands on hips, monitoring the progress on the tearing down of the old Elizabethan manor house he’d grown up in. He reckoned they had another week’s worth of work before it was complete, and then a second week disposing of the remaining rubble before the builders could start on the new place.
He hadn’t wanted to take down his childhood home, but the architect he’d hired, John Ridley, who had spent a week in Surrey thoroughly going over the house and working on plans for the new structure, had recommended it as the only sensible—and safe—choice. Parts of the house were rotting away due to improper guttering and a roof that had leaked for years. Other sections were infested with termites. Ridley deemed some of the beams and supports so weak, the place was no longer fit for habitation.
Fortunately, the stables were in far better repair than the house, so the groom, coachman, and footman he’d hired could lodge there temporarily. They’d moved most of the furniture—the pieces worth saving—out there. Without a kitchen, he couldn’t feed anybody, including himself. Every day, Hugh purchased cheese, bread, and meat pies from the local shops for his own staff and all the other laborers working on the property. In his experience, well-rested and well-fed men made the best workers.
Hugh was staying in an old tenant’s cottage. Unlived in for years, it remained in surprisingly good condition, much better than the manor house. It had been locked, which was a good thing, because it had forced Hugh to search for the estate key ring. He could picture his father, back when he still cared about the place, wearing it over his broad forearm. He’d finally found it in a drawer of Benjamin Grey’s desk. Hugh had moved his bed, an old wooden chair, and a small table into the cottage, and it would meet his most basic needs for now. The mere where he and Adam had swum as boys would serve for bathing.
Most days, he labored alongside the other men. Hugh was no stranger to hard work. In the past, he’d often helped tenants with repairs and rebuilding and had done what he could to patch up the manor house with what little money he’d had. And the army had taught him much about putting in long days. But not today. This morning he was traveling to London to meet with the family solicitor. He wanted a list of his father’s outstanding debts so he could settle them. He was also meeting with Ridley to finalize the building plans and construction schedule.
That evening, he would be dining with Adam and Cass. He’d reluctantly accepted the invitation and scheduled the other appointments for the same day. His nephew had been born while he was away, and Hugh was looking forward to meeting him, if not spending time with his brother. He hoped to God, Deborah, his mother, wouldn’t be there. According to Adam, she was frequently away, in the company of her devoted admirer, Freddie Cochran.
Hugh’s attention was drawn by something rooting about in the rubble, a little creature, probably a weasel or a squirrel, and Hugh walked over to chase it off. But no, when he drew closer, he saw it was a small dog. A pup, really. A little black and white ball of fur. Quickly, he reached down and grabbed it. “Hey, little scamp, you must go back from where you came. It’s not healthy for you around here.” He called to his men. “Anybody know whose mongrel this is?”
Simon Weeks laughed from his perch on a ladder. “That must be Miss Broxton’s dog. My sister told me she’s got a new pup. Do you want me to take him home before he gets himself killed?”
Hugh assessed. “No, I’ll do it myself.” It was just the excuse he’d been looking for to see Eleanor. Dressed for Town, he was more presentable than on most days. He set off on a path through the woods toward her cottage, thinking about why he’d delayed this visit, since he’d found out, his first day back, where she was living and what she was doing. Gossip traveled fast among the countryfolk. No, he blamed putting this off on his expectations, or lack thereof. Would she be happy to see him? Would the two years he’d been gone fall away, and she would be eager to hop back in his bed? Or back on top of his hay bale, as it were. Or would she despise him for making love to her and leaving for North America without a word since? Surely, she knew he’d returned. Wouldn’t she be wondering why he hadn’t called on her?
These disparate thoughts clashed in his mind until the dog distracted him, nuzzling into his coat, probably drooling all over it. “Does your mistress hold you like this, old boy? Does she snuggle with you? God, how I’d like to be in your shoes…paws. You’re a lucky devil, eh.”
…
Eleanor had departed the cottage for the garden to escape from the hurt feelings she’d caused. She’d had to spend the better part of an hour ripping out stitches, and Minnie, her second assistant, blamed herself. As Eleanor had patiently explained, it was the poor light that was at fault. From now on, both she and Jane must tell her if they couldn’t see well enough to stitch. Ripping out could ruin expensive, delicate fabrics. And so on. They’d discussed all this before, but the two girls, Minnie especially, still seemed to think haste was better than fine workmanship. The three women were acutely aware of the large number of orders they’d been receiving and worrying about how they would be able to fill them. The Season would be ending in a few months, and ladies wanted new gowns for the final entertainments.
She stooped down by the flower beds and began pulling weeds. The garden needed more attention from her, but she hadn’t the time to spare, except erratically. Like now. Muttering to herself, she tugged unmercifully at the damnable, pestilent things, working without pause until her hair came loose and fell around her face. Eleanor didn’t notice. She was too busy complaining out loud.
Why hadn’t some clever person invented a source of artificial light? Why couldn’t she have a larger work space, so she and the girls weren’t elbow-to-elbow all the damn time? Why was it so hard for them to understand that the highest quality work, along with her designs, was their stock-in-trade? Their reputation for both was what kept them afloat.
It was then that a pair of booted feet caught her attention, and she ceased her grumbling. Staring at the boots, she inferred two things in short order: they were beautifully made top boots, probably from Hoby’s in London; and second, nobody in the immediate vicinity would be wearing such boots. Which caused her to look up at last.
Into the devastatingly handsome face of Hugh Grey. Dazzling dark eyes, prominent nose that screamed arrogance, beautiful male physique boasting wide shoulders and muscled chest. Oh, God, how she had missed him. All six-plus feet of him.
She toppled over onto her haunches and saved herself from tumbling completely backward only by planting her palms on the ground. Was that a chuckle she heard? Before he could help her, she scrambled to her feet.
“Hello, Eleanor,” Hugh said.
She must look a fright, with her unkempt hair and her worn day dress. And here he stood, looking like a plate out of Ackerman’s Repository. Forest green coat, immaculate shirt, silk waistcoat. And those boots.
She said the first thing that came to mind. “Aren’t you a bit overdressed for the country, Sir Hugh?”
He laughed, a deep sound emanating from his chest. And then he said, “Aren’t you missing something?”
A stab of fear hit Eleanor in the gut, and she could barely catch her breath. He knew. How? It was the best kept secret in all of Surrey. And then she saw that he was talking about Bobby, and she could breathe again. “That’s my pup you’re holding.”
“So I’m told. He was nosing around my property, and it’s not safe for him there. Nails, broken glass, big male feet. Bound to get hurt.” The pup wiggled, and Eleanor gathered him into her arms.
“He’s called Bobby.”
Hugh smiled, watching her. “It suits him.”
Eleanor cast about for something to say. “My condolences on your father’s death.” She was sincere in the sentiment and hoped he didn’t dismiss it as mere pleasantry.
He nodded his thanks, and they stood there awkwardly. He had put his hands behind his back, and his coat pulled snugly against his chest and shoulders. The man could fill out a coat. His tailor must love him—no padding required. And his britches. She shouldn’t even think about his britches. Was she staring? Oh God, she was. Gesturing to the bench, she said, “Will you sit down, Sir Hugh?”
“No, thank you. I’m off to London on business this morning.” He glanced at the cottage. “You are residing here now?”
There was no censure in the question. “No. Working here. I live with my parents.” That was a half truth. She slept at her cottage many nights. Sometimes it seemed easier. When he didn’t respond, she explained further. “I have a dressmaking business. I work primarily for the London set, although I do have some local custom.” He could make of this what he might. She didn’t care.
Smiling, he said, “I recall your love of creating your own designs. It must be demanding work.”
A breeze ruffled her hair, and she brushed it off her face. “It is. I have two assistants, girls whose families needed the extra coin. They’re good workers, and I try very hard not to take advantage of them.”
“I can’t imagine you would do any such thing.” He nodded toward the cottage, then said, “Is there enough room for the three of you to do your work in such a, well—?”
“Ridiculously small space? Barely, but so far, we’ve managed.”
A brisk nod, and then he said, “I must be off, if I’m to make my appointments in Town.” He held out his hand, and what else could she do but offer hers? For a moment, she thought he might kiss her fingers, but he simply gave her hand a gentle caress and let go.
“I’ll count the days until we meet again, Eleanor.”
He spun around and was gone before she thought of replying.