by Quinn, Paula
The tops of his boots barely cleared the snow, coming perilously close to spilling over the top. But even wet, cold feet was better than sitting in his carriage listening to the muffled curses of his coachman and the two footmen accompanying him while they crawled along at a snail’s pace.
The snowstorm had hit unexpectedly, following on the one a few days earlier which had prevented him from getting to his house in time.
After a tedious duty visit to relatives, he was keen to reach his home. A heavy snowfall two days ago had kept him immured at an inn, seething with frustration when he could not return in time to greet the guests arriving for his Christmas house party.
As soon as he could, Harry had set out, forcing his coachman to brave the weather, but more snow arrived.
Although snow had fallen for less than an hour, the countryside was left in chaos. Overturned coaches and teams of men trying to pull them clear of the ditches, broken wheels and the rest, left Harry glad they didn’t have far to go. Even then, they’d taken most of the day to travel less than ten miles. Dinnertime was approaching as they reached the gates of Caverton House.
But now the coach was stuck in the snow, unable to go any further.
A man stood behind the gates, scratching his head, his hat in his hand. When Harry appeared, he blinked rapidly, as if not believing what he was seeing. Then he bowed. Harry acknowledged his presence with a nod. “How’s the drive, Bowford?”
His head gardener grunted. “We’ve cleared the area near the house, your grace, but we’ve still to do the rest. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours, but the coach won’t get through it yet.”
“Leave the coach,” Harry told his driver and footmen. “It won’t come to any harm. Just bring the luggage and lead the horses to the stables.”
Harry buttoned his greatcoat up to his chin, crammed his hat down to his eyes, and set off.
The drive was easy to follow at first, but paths led off it and to the side; not that he could see them. If he didn’t know them so well, he’d have lost his way a thousand times.
He stopped at a crest where the drive bent and gazed down at the house in its sheltered hollow. His most favored house had its Jacobean origins fully on display. It hadn’t lost its stone exterior to stucco and had a Palladian front slapped on it. It was honest, as lovely as the day it was made. A central block, a story higher than the wings to either side, towered up, the huge stone-mullioned windows dominating the front. The wings had towers at the end, as high as the central block, with the family crest proudly engraved into the topmost stories. The honey-colored stone would contrast well with the lush park that surrounded it, if it wasn’t covered with a blanket of snow.
Smiling, glad to be home, he carried on down the gentle swoop of the drive.
A few more steps and he was walking by the side of a wood, the trees carefully thinned and pruned. Further on, the trees thickened. Something rustled ahead and a flash of green appeared on one of the branches, then was gone. A ladder was propped up against the trunk and a booted foot reached down, groping for purchase. The ladder teetered, then fell away onto the hard, snow-blanketed earth below.
A feminine shriek bounced off the wood, and the foot was swiftly withdrawn.
Who on earth had come out in this weather? What would bring anyone out here? Perhaps someone was planning something nefarious, or maybe a tryst was in the offing. Whatever it was, Harry wasn’t about to miss it. He strolled over to the great tree.
The woman was sitting in the branches of an oak tree, about ten feet up. Evidently, the tree had been here before the wood was planted, since they were not as gnarled or thick as this one. He lifted his gaze.
She was wearing plain, not to say threadbare, clothes, but respectable. A thick, brown cloak and a plain hat topped it. She was too high up for him to make out much of her face. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” In deference to the weather, he didn’t doff his hat.
“Oh, th-thank God! I thought I’d be here all night! Would you restore the ladder, please, sir?”
“Certainly not. What are you doing up there, ma’am?”
She waved a gloved hand to one side. The gleam of a sharp metal knife in her hand, rather a large one, caught the weak sunlight.
Harry went on alert. That was no penknife. “I believe I shall go to the house and send someone to help you.”
“And leave me here? Have you no heart?”
Despite his alarm, her pathetic tone made him grin. Of course he wouldn’t leave her here. “Mine is as good as any, I believe. Explain what you are up to, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Look!” She made the gesture again. So she wasn’t trying to aim the knife, but she was waving at a spot a short distance away.
Harry took a chance and looked. Ah. A pile of mistletoe explained the knife and her presence up the tree. But in this weather? Sending a servant out here to find decorations did not speak well of his steward. If she was acting under orders, Harry would have the man sacked. “Are you on your own?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody to carry your prizes?”
She made a sound of exasperation. “Good lord, please just put the ladder against the tree and leave me be. Who are you, anyway?”
He chose not to answer directly. “I’m staying at the house.”
“And you arrived in this weather? Are you desperate?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” This sharp-tongued woman was a conundrum. Dressed like a servant, she nevertheless addressed him as an equal. He had invited several people to the house for the season under the chaperonage of his sister. Surely she had not invited such riffraff.
“There was barely any snow on the ground when I left the house. I decided to wait it out, but the storm was more than I’d imagined. I misjudged.”
Her tone indicated she didn’t do that often.
“Very well, come down. I’ll hold the ladder steady.”
“I won’t if you’re standing there,” she warned. “I’m no strumpet.”
Ah, yes. If he held the ladder as she came down, he’d see everything she had. “What if I promise to keep my head down?”
“No.”
He grinned. “So you would rather stay up there than risk your modesty?”
A small pause followed. “You could go to the house and send someone here.”
“He’ll want to hold the ladder, too, whoever he is.” He wanted to be the one to hold the ladder, not a footman from the house. He’d found her, so she was his to rescue.
He picked up the offending item, relieved to find it sturdy, and propped it against the tree.
“Do step back now, sir,” she commanded. “I have no intention of allowing you a free show.”
“Certainly not. The ladder is by no means safe. You’ve proven that yourself.”
She humphed. “I won’t come down until you step back.”
Two steps. He didn’t trust that ladder. While the ground was rock-hard, the sparse grass and vegetation were slippery. Especially where his and her feet had trodden and half-melted the snow.
“Further.”
He took another step back.
“Turn around.”
With a sigh, he did so, but prepared to turn back the minute she was decently down the ladder.
A rustling sounded from above, and movement, as she must be turning to come down. Harry listened, wondering if he was completely insane, or the snow had driven him mad. First, he had left his comfortable, warm coach to strike out on his own, then he obeyed this woman’s commands—for commands they were.
A crack and a scream warned him. Harry only just had time to turn around and lunge forward before he found himself with an armful of woman.
Chapter Two
Harry sprawled on the ground, rolling so the woman in his arms was cushioned by his body. She flailed, her skirts tangled around them both, her cloak adding to the confusion.
Harry had cloth wound around his legs, impeding his hold on her, and a swathe of it cov
ered his head. His coat was crushed under him. Just as well because the last thing he needed was more damned cloth getting in his way.
Gasping for breath, Harry registered her shocked scream. Indeed, he could hardly miss it, since his ear had been in her line of fire. His head rang along with his bones as the impact of someone dropping on him from ten feet took its inevitable toll. “Quiet, woman!” he commanded.
Fortunately, she obeyed him.
He took stock. They were lying on the hard ground, the snow seeping through their clothes. His arse was soaked. The roll he’d performed had also helped to cushion their fall, even though it had bound them together. She was lying on top of him and, despite his shock, Harry registered the deliciousness of a warm, soft female. She smelled of ivory soap and lavender, and her cheek against his felt silky enough to kiss. Not that he would.
She rose above him as far as she could, using her hands to gain purchase on the ground. However, her cloak stopped her moving more than a foot away. Her chestnut hair was falling down from its neat bun, threads of silver glinting in the sharp light.
He’d lost his hat and his wig, and his close-cropped hair was transmitting the chill to his skull.
She was smiling.
Harry forgot who he was as he stared into her green eyes. Those beautiful eyes were glistening with life and intelligence. They were set in a pointed face that also held the promise of soft lips. “I don’t know you,” she said.
“No,” he agreed affably. “My name is Harry.”
“Harry,” she repeated, and licked her lips. No doubt they were dry, but the gesture served to draw his attention to them. He fixed on them, before meeting her gaze once more. “I’m Matilda. No doubt, we’ll have a formal introduction later, but I don’t think now is the time for it.”
“No doubt.”
She fascinated him. She wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but she was far from a crone. He doubted she’d ever make a crone, whatever her age.
The name rang a vague bell. Ah yes, he had it. His guests included the new Earl of Carbrooke and his family. The Countess of Carbrooke had an aunt called Matilda. He hadn’t visited London last season, but he’d read about the shocking misalliance, as the Morning Post had put it. The earl had not expected to inherit, but he’d settled in well enough. However, he’d set society on its ear by marrying the female owner of a silversmithing business in the City. Or as the Duchess of Illingworth had put it, “He married into trade.”
And now they were staying at his house. Society was too inward-looking by far.
If he told Matilda who he was would she poker up or grow embarrassed? Rather than either of those things happening, he’d enjoy this woman a little longer. Harry and Matilda it was.
He moved, but she stopped him by putting her hand on his chest. The chill struck through his waistcoat, right into his skin. “Let me,” she said. “I’m on top, and most of this fabric is mine, so I’ll disentangle us.”
“Unentangle?” he suggested.
She managed a shrug, which was nothing short of a miracle considering how tightly they were bound. “Whatever you want to call it, I’ll start. If I pull my cloak out, we should find the task much easier.”
So he lay still while she pulled and tugged and found the ends of her cloak.
“Why did you go up that tree?”
Under his fascinated gaze, Matilda flushed. Or perhaps the cold was giving her those red cheeks. She concentrated on gathering the folds of her ample, but drenched cloak around her. “I hate having nothing to do. And I’d seen this lovely clump of mistletoe, so I came back for it. If I’d brought anyone with me, they wouldn’t have let me do it. And at my age, you have to get all the enjoyment you can.”
She’d freed her cloak, and now started on her skirts. Even without hooped petticoats, women had what seemed like miles of fabric below their waists.
She was sitting on his thighs, busily pulling her petticoat free. Then she bent and pushed herself up. They were free.
Harry scrambled to his feet, dignity thrown to the four winds. He brushed himself down, shaking the heavy folds of his greatcoat to try to knock off as much snow as he could. But the attempt was doomed to fail. The coat now weighed twice as much as it had when he’d left his coach, soaked through. But it wasn’t far to the house. He would do.
Matilda had come off worse. Her cloak was drenched, her hair clung to her neck and face in clammy curls, and her skirts were soaked to her knees, the fabric of her green gown darker where the snow had invaded. She bit her lip. “We should go.”
“We should, indeed. A brisk walk will keep us warm.”
She nodded and peeled a strand of hair off her cheek. Pushing the wet strands off her face only accentuated her fine bones, the high cheekbones and the sculpted nose. Harry liked what he saw, and he was seeing a great deal more than he should. Her fichu, the square of fine linen tucked into the top of her gown was as wet as her skirts. It had come loose, so he had a glimpse of her smooth breasts and satisfyingly deep cleavage.
Harry turned away, disgusted with himself. He should be thinking of getting Matilda into the warm house, not ogling her. Good Lord, had he forgotten all his manners? Now that he was upright, he regained some of the gravitas that he preferred. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, bending to sweep up the bunch of mistletoe. She’d collected a fair bush of it, and she couldn’t hold it properly. Under his gaze, she whipped off her cloak and made an improvised knapsack. Gathering the corners around the greenery, she tied them together at the top.
“Very impressive,” he murmured, holding his hand out for the bundle.
Matilda moved away. “This is my prize, sir, and I worked hard for it. I’ll keep hold of it, if you don’t mind.”
Beneath the cloak she wore a serviceable jacket, but she couldn’t be warm. But he had nothing to give her. His greatcoat would only weigh her down. Useless. Harry retrieved his hat while she found her knife and tucked it into a leather pouch at her waist.
He would get that unwieldy bundle off her before he was done. Watching her carry it pained him, went right to the heart of his chivalrous spirit. One could push independence too far.
They set off towards the house. “My coach is stuck at the gates,” he said. “I decided to walk.”
“That house is full of servants eating their heads off,” Matilda told him. “I’m sure we’ll find somebody to help you. They’ve cleared this part, but there’s a faster way to get to the gates, so they probably took that route.”
“Yes.” He glanced back at the snowy landscape which, if he was in the mood to admire it, would have been very pretty. But all he could think of now was a hot bath and a pot of tea. Perhaps a little brandy to top it off.
They tramped on in silence, the snow creaking under their boots. Harry’s fine riding boots had given up the fight and were now soaked through. His feet squelched in pools of cold water every time he took a step.
Why did he think walking in the snow would be a relaxing and enjoyable stroll? What madness had seized him?
But at least he had an intriguing companion. “I have two children,” he said. “They’ll probably be in the nursery wing.” They had better be.
“It’s going to be lively.” She flicked a glance at him, smiling. “I should tell you that I’m Matilda Cathcart, great-aunt to the children of the Countess of Cathcart’s first marriage. That makes me decidedly City,” she added helpfully. “You might not want to acknowledge me.”
Startled, he blinked, forcing a few snowflakes off his lashes. Damn, it was snowing again though, thankfully, not as thickly as before. “Why should I do that?”
“Because society does. We’ve unwittingly started a society war between two of society’s most prominent hostesses, the Duchess of Illingworth and our hostess here, the Countess of Comyn.”
“I heard about that,” he said. “It’s one reason I stayed away from balls this season.”
“Well, I’m glad you have no objection,” she said. “B
ut someone does.”
“Who?”
She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t say. For all I know you might be him.”
“Who?” he repeated.
She stopped and gazed at him, a perceptive gleam in her eyes. Matilda hid nothing, but Harry wasn’t sure if it was because she couldn’t or because she didn’t care to. A person could never tell with women, and he was decidedly out of practice with them. His wife had died ten years ago and ever since, he’d avoided the marrying kind of woman.
“No, you can’t be him. He doesn’t speak to people,” Matilda said eventually. “He’d never have walked in the first place or risked the snow.”
Harry waited for the name of this paragon.
“Well, he’s a duke, the owner of this house. Not Glenbreck, Damaris’ husband, who is the sweetest man, but another one, Lady Comyn’s brother, the Duke of Trensom. He was supposed to have arrived before we did, but I daresay the snow delayed him. Lady Comyn says he wants to look over Delphi and Dorcas.”
Ah. Well, there was no mistaking that. She could be talking about him, although he’d never considered himself pompous. And yes, his sister had told him the same thing. “If this duke is so high in the instep, why would he want to marry the sister of an upstart?”
Matilda made a sound in her throat. “I don’t know. Money, perhaps? Dorcas is continually up to her elbows in soil, even in this season. She’s in awe over the hothouses at the country house. And Delphi has her nose stuck in a book, or she’s studying ancient statues. She’s mad to go to Rome. I’ve said I’ll go with her, but Gerald is adamantly refusing to let her.” She glanced down. “You’re married.”
He recalled that he’d stripped off the glove from his left hand. Although he’d stuck his hand in his pocket in a vain attempt to keep warm, she’d probably had time to see his wedding ring. Did her expression hold just a smidgeon of regret? “I’m a widower,” he said.
He wore it from habit, and a little self-protection when matchmaking mamas got too close. Perhaps it was time to take it off. Especially now that he was considering remarriage.
