Chapter Three
The groom sat on the floor beside the fire. “What is it about a fire that draws one’s eye? It has a certain fascination.”
“As long as it’s contained,” Guy answered, with a swift rush of memory.
Simon’s shoulders drooped into a relaxed pose. He was quite graceful for a man, the shape of his hip and thigh rather feminine. Guy fought an absurd pull of attraction as he studied the slender column of his neck and the curve of his cheek. The lad had delicate skin like a woman. Guy pulled his gaze away. These feelings were very strange. A la Greque had never interested him. A woman’s body offered enough delights for him.
To distract himself from this absurd and peculiar sensation, he began to speak of his childhood in France. “My mother was French,” he said. “We were forced to flee France during The Terror and lived in Brussels for a time. While we were away, our properties were seized and our relatives, who remained, were murdered by guillotine. The shock and strain of it made my mother ill. After she died, my father quickly followed. Before he passed away, I vowed I would return to England and claim what was rightly ours. That I would marry and have sons. It was his dearest wish.”
He climbed to his feet, relieved the dizziness had abated and made for the door. “I shall have to brave the cold to relieve myself. Will you join me?”
Simon ducked his head. “No, I’m right. I, um, went before.”
*
A log tumbled onto the hearth, and Hetty jumped up to kick it back into the fire as the baron returned and slammed the door shut behind him. He sank onto the cot and scratched somewhere near his groin. Hetty peeped at the bulge there. She had tucked a rolled-up stocking into her breeches, but it was small by comparison.
“Did you join the army?” she asked to distract herself as well as him.
“I suspect we have bugs in this bed. I do hope not. What I would give for a hot bath, would not you, Simon?” He frowned and continued. “France was at war on many fronts when Napoleon seized power. Every able-bodied man was forced to join the army. I contracted a fever, which brought me low for some months, and by the time I recovered, the situation had changed, and they had forgotten me. I was glad. After what happened to my family, I had little sense of patriotic duty, I’m afraid. And my father had instilled in me a pride in all things English.”
“Why didn’t your father return to England when the other French émigrés began to desert France?” she asked.
He gazed down at his hands. “No doubt you know the story?”
“There has been some mention of a duel.”
“The thought of being tried by his peers deterred him.” He shook his head. “I suspect Father suffered great shame. He had not intended to kill the man and wasn’t proud of what he’d done as a callow youth. He hesitated too long. He did not wish to subject my French mother to the cruelty the ton would inflict on them. And by the time we had to leave, Maman was not strong enough to endure the journey to England.”
Filled with sympathy for his sad life, Hetty didn’t trust herself to speak. She stared at the fire as the room became hushed.
*
Simon half-turned toward him. “Do you have any family still living?”
A woman would be glad of such a profile. Guy was almost sorry the silence had ended. It had become strangely companionable. “Oui, I have a sister, Genevieve, she is married and lives in Paris.” He frowned. “I had a twin-brother, Vincent. He was lost after our chateau was ransacked by peasants and set on fire in the days of The Terror.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“We were twelve at the time. My father risked his life searching for Vincent. He continued to look for him when we returned to France but found no proof that he lived. It was very difficult for Papa to accept that Vincent had died in the fire. It broke his heart.”
“How sad. You will remain in England?”
“Oui. It is a nobleman’s duty to marry and secure his lineage.” He shrugged. “Whether he loves the woman he chooses or not.”
Simon jumped to his feet and snatched up a bowl from the table. “I’ll fetch some snow. We can melt it for water. I have sandwiches and an apple in the saddlebag. I planned to stop for a bite but then forgot.”
“Sandwiches?”
“Bread and cheese, meat and pickles.”
“Bon.”
Guy watched Simon wrestle with the door as wind and a flurry of snow blew into the room. The temperature dropped, and the flames in the fireplace flattened, then roared.
The groom managed to slip through and close the door behind him. Guy was left with the thought of a female derriere, though where it had come from, he knew not. Bemused, he recollected that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman for a while.
*
Hetty was pleased to 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.
“You have a gentle touch for a man, Simon.”
“My work with sick horses and foaling taught me to be gentle.”
“Such good work you do. I would like to work with animals.”
“You would?”
“Oui. Animals are noble. I cannot say as much of some people. I have had dogs and horses I could rely on for my life.” He frowned. “I hope my poor horse has found shelter.”
She drew away and bit down on a sigh. “You are very lucky, my lord. You could have been killed.” She wound the cravat around his head.
“Well, there is no wife or child to mourn me,” he said cheerfully. “Do you have any family?”
“Yes, my father,” Hetty said, unable to lie about such a thing.
“No siblings?”
“No, but I wish I did.” A sister or brother would be a distraction for her father.
“And your father. He works with horses, too? On the same estate?”
“No. He’s retired. Lives in the village.”
“You get on well together?”
“Most times. One doesn’t always agree with a parent, does one?”
He chuckled. “Non. But most times?”
“Yes. My father is a fair man. He’s kind and wishes the best for me.” Hetty realized this was true. She had not behaved well, and a sense of shame washed over her. If she was discovered, she could destroy his life as well as hers. If she escaped censure this time, she would not ride The General again.
“There, all done.” She tied the cravat ends and moved away.
He climbed to his feet, looking rakish and handsome in his white turban, like that sketch she’d seen of Lord Byron in Albanian dress.
“I’m much better already. It’s so dark, there’s nothing to do but sleep. If you were a woman, it would be another matter, oui?” He laughed and tossed her the pillow.
Unbalanced by his remark, she fumbled and almost dropped it. She held it against her chest, wondering what unnerving thing he would say or do next.
He sat on the edge of the cot. “Would you mind doing one more thing for me? Help me with my boots?”
“As you wish, my lord.” A tingle climbed her spine, and she marveled at her calm voice. How dangerous this had become. What would he do if he discovered her sex? She shivered.
“You are cold?”
“A little. The room is warmer though.”
He raised his leg and rested his boot on Hetty’s thigh. She grabbed the boot and pulled. It didn’t give an inch.
“Perhaps if you turn around?” he said. “My valet used to do it that way.”
She turned her back and reached her shaky hands down as he threaded his riding boot between her legs. The boot rubbed against her most vulnerable spot, stirring something within her. She started as he rested his other boot against her derrière. Frantic to get it over with, she grasped the boot and tugged with growing alarm as heat radiated out from her nether regions. She let out a relieved sigh as the boot came away in her hands.
He repeated the procedure with his left boot. It was an exquisite torture.
“You’re a slim young man, Simon,” he said from behind her. “When you’re a bit older, you will fill out and put on more muscle.” Was he studying her derrière? She quickly sat.
By the time his lordship stood in his stocking feet, Hetty’s face burned so hot it must have rivaled the logs in the fireplace. Adding more, she raised a cloud of sparks with the hope they would last the night. Then she pulled off her boots before he suggested he might help.
When he stood to loosen his trousers, she spun around and fussed over the arrangement of the horse blankets on the bed. She turned back as if compelled to watch him as he ran a hand over his chest beneath his shirt.
He winced in pain. “I might have bruised a rib. Have a look, will you?”
“I doubt I can be of much help, my lord,” she said. “I doubt there’s a bone broken. The pain would be more intense.”
He unbuttoned his waistcoat and lifted his shirt. “I doubt that, too, but just look, will you?”
She had never seen a grown man’s naked chest before. Sucking in a breath, she bent to examine him. Small brown nipples jutted from his sculpted chest, and his stomach was ridged with muscle. A soft mat of dark hair disappeared into his breeches. Her stomach clenched as his manly smell teased at her and her fingers curled into her palms with the need to touch him. What would happen if she did? Her tentative finger traced a rib. She’d never expected a man’s skin to be so smooth. The desire to sweep it over the planes of his chest caused her to pull away. “You’re right. There is a bruise here.”
“Thought as much.” He yawned then yelped, cradling his forehead. “Devil plague it!” He patted the cot. “We can throw those blankets over us and sleep top to tail. Not ideal, but ’twill do, will it not?”
He looked so trusting he made her ashamed of her dishonesty. “I can sleep anywhere. Curled up on the mat by the fire will do, ’tis all the same to me,” she said in a tight voice. That she found him so attractive surprised her when she wasn’t sure she approved of him. But then, Byron’s transgressions only served to make him more charismatic.
He patted the cot. “I won’t hear of it. There’s plenty of room here.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
“You’re a gentlemanly fellow for a groom, Simon,” he said. “I haven’t got you into trouble, have I? No doubt your colonel will think you’ve absconded with that horse.”
Hetty knelt at the foot of the cot. “I’ll set that to rights in the morning.” She suffered a pang of guilt. Simon would be worried. But he would have to wait for the storm to pass before he could search for her.
She’d ride to Rosecroft Hall for help at daylight, even though it would risk revealing her identity to Williams, the head groom. Williams seemed a decent sort of fellow. If she pleaded for his silence and made a quick getaway before her godfather, Eustace, saw her. Her disguise wouldn’t fool him for a minute. She must arrive home before her father came back from London. Heaven knew what the servants would tell Papa if he arrived before her. Simon would be forced to take the servants into his confidence. Some knew she rode The General, and would rally to protect her, but she hated to make them witnesses to her deceitful behavior.
“You look most uncomfortable.” He spread his greatcoat over them, then lay down with his hands clasped behind his head. “Aren’t you going to take off your hat?”
“Keeps my ears warm,” she mumbled.
“No man wears a queue these days. You should get your hair cut short like mine. Short hair is de rigueur.” He ran his hands through his hair, careful not to disturb the makeshift bandage.
Frenchmen were far too concerned with their appearance. Fops, many of them, she decided, warming to the idea. It was uncharitable of her and possibly unfair, but it helped her keep her distance.
“I haven’t been accused of snoring. Do you?”
“I don’t believe so.” She wished her voice didn’t sound so strained. The gruff voice made her throat hurt.
He raised his head to gaze at her with those blue eyes, his well-defined lips stretched into a grin. “You do not know?”
She shook her head.
“Even in this poor light I can see your cheeks are smooth as a juene fille. I take it you are not old enough to have enjoyed feminine company?”
Hetty shifted her gaze to the cobwebs on the ceiling as she tried to work out a way to extricate herself from this mess of her own making. “Old enough yes … but no.”
His deep laugh made her catch her breath. “We men are always old enough, are we not? You have much to enjoy when you do throw a leg over. Ah, mademoiselles.” He gave an appreciative sigh. “What would we men do without them? I’ve known some great beauties in my time.”
How boastful! She wished she wasn’t so intrigued.
“You must become a good lover, my friend. It is a skill that requires much study to perfect.”
“In what way?” Oh, why had she asked that? She’d just invited him to tell her. She bit her lip, half wanting to hear it and half fearful of what he would say.
“By listening,” he said, surprising her. “What lies beneath her words can give you clues.”
“And if you learn nothing?”
“You ensure the woman has her pleasure before you take yours, using all of your body, your hands, your tongue, and lips, as well as your cock. When she comes, you will hear it, see it, feel it, and delight in it.”
Hetty dipped her head to hide her hot cheeks as he elaborated on what he liked a woman to do to him. He must notice her rapid breath. Women would need little encouragement she was sure. She slanted a glance at him under her lashes as he ran a careless hand across his broad chest. A desire to move closer, took her by surprise. Such an arbitrary thought horrified her. There was far more at risk here than her reputation.
“But don’t fall in love with the first one you bed.” His fingers rasped over the beginnings of a beard. Would it be prickly against her cheek? “I don’t allow my cock to rule my head.”
Startled, her wayward thoughts vanished. Aware she gaped at him, she shut her mouth.
“I’m aware of my obligations,” he continued, “particularly since most of my family has been wiped out. The only male left, apart from me, is my English relative who has been caretaker of the estate these past years.”
“Mr. Fennimore is well known hereabouts, my lord. A friend of the colonel of long standing, he often dines at the manor.”
“I have not warmed to him in our correspondence, but the English are known to be reserved.”
This surprised her. She was very fond of her godfather, who was a gregarious soul. “Were your father and Mr. Fennimore close at one time?”
He frowned. “No, but I owe him a great debt of gratitude for his care of the estate in our absence. I am keen to marry and make my home here.”
“I expect you shall seek your bride from the debutante’s during the season, my lord. I’ve heard Almack’s is the perfect marriage mart.”
He smiled. “I might find one prepared to live with my bad habits.”
“You take after your father, my lord?” Was he bragging about his rakish ways? Annoyed, Hetty yearned to put him in his place.
His eyebrows rose at her impudence, but he laughed good-naturedly. “Papa was fond of the ladies, and it got him into trouble when he was young. But when he met my mother, he knew what he wanted.”
“And was he faithful to her?” An even more impertinent question, but she was compelled to ask it.
His gaze roamed over her, and she bent to smooth the blanket. She must hold her tongue and be more careful. Had he become suspicious?
“I saw no reason to doubt it.” His eyes remained on her, and she resisted tugging her hat lower. “But there are many fillies who will wish to snare you, so beware, Simon. A handsome jeune homme like you …” His voice drifted off, and his dark brows rose.
She held her breath.
He propped his head in his hand. “Do I embarrass you, young Simon? This knock on my head has addled my brains.”
“Not at all, my lord.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, to find herself arranging the blanket like a maid would do. “You must be tired. I shall allow you to sleep.”
He turned on his side and closed his eyes.
With some small measure of relief, she settled ramrod stiff on the cot, determined not to touch any part of him, but it was so narrow it proved impossible. Her feet ended up settled against his back while his stocking-clad feet were somewhere behind her head. He smelled pleasantly of Bergamot soap, overlaid with male, leather, and horse.
He was soon asleep, his breath slow and even.
What would it be like to lie in his arms, safe and comfortable? Well, perhaps not so comfortable. Or so safe? She nestled her feet close to his warm back, she listened to the creak of the roof timbers and the snap of frail branches breaking under their burden of snow. The General shuffled in his makeshift stall. No doubt, the horse was hungry. She was, too, and a little light-headed from the whiskey. She must be gone at first light before the baron saw her in broad daylight. Now that he had recovered his wits, it wouldn’t take him long to realize she was a woman.
Hetty doubted she could sleep in such proximity to a man who made her pulse leap when he smiled. She tucked her cold hands between her legs. Such powerful emotions this man stirred in her. Tomorrow, she would leave. How could she ever view life in the same way again?