HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  Shoulders stooped, he made for the stairs.

  Any preconceived notions that Hazel might be alone, lonely, and dejected were dashed the moment he stepped inside. Perhaps not the precise moment, for his first sight upon entering the room was Hazel, only Hazel, a brilliant smile lighting her heart-shaped face, almost as though she were as happy to see him as he to see her, as though she had been counting down the days to his return, as though she knew his thoughts and wanted to embrace him, a woman with a heart available for love. Ah, but then crept the realization that she was not alone. The smile was a polite welcome, nothing more. He had read too much in her expression. Had he not?

  He surveyed the guests. To his surprise, Nana and Miss Plumb.

  “Mr. Hobbs, welcome home,” Hazel said, offering the empty chair next to her. “You remember Miss Plumb?”

  He bowed over Miss Plumb’s knuckles. “Come to keep my wife company?”

  The young lady flushed and flashed Hazel a sidelong look.

  Nana was more welcoming, accepting his kiss to her cheek with one of her own, followed by a sharp remark about his unshaven prickles. He took his seat, looking from one lady to the next. Tedious. He wanted Hazel alone.

  The first to speak was Nana. “Well, young man, you’ve gotten your wish.”

  Taken aback, he looked to Hazel rather than his grandmother. How the deuce did his grandmother know?

  Since he stared at Hazel, it was Hazel who explained, “Nana has moved in with us. For the present time. It’s easier for her to help me become acquainted with the house if she’s living here. Helping in tandem with Helena, of course.”

  Oh. Oh! So, not the wish he had in mind but that wish. The news came as quite the surprise given how adamant his grandmother had been about remaining independent. Rather than look to Nana, he maintained the study of his wife. Somehow, in the stretch of not quite two weeks, Hazel had accomplished the impossible. Who was this remarkable woman he had married?

  “You should know, as well,” Hazel continued, unperturbed by his stare, “Miss Plumb is staying with us. She only arrived three days ago, but already we’ve had a marvelous time, haven’t we? She’ll be staying for the foreseeable future. Her, er, departure date has not yet been decided. Isn’t this lovely? Now there will be four of us should Lord Kissinger call, even numbers.”

  All he could do was award Miss Plumb a tight-lipped smile. That she had been Lord Driffield’s paramour was the least of his concerns, but rather that he would be competing with her for his wife’s attention while she stayed. Why the devil was she here? They were, technically, still in their honeymoon days, never mind that he had spent the past week and more in London. Granted, it had been his idea for her to invite either or both Miss Plumb and Lady Williamson as guests, though he had not meant this soon. Discourteous for him to be annoyed. Annoyed he was, all the same.

  With a polite albeit hollow chuckle, Harold said, “It would appear the past week and change have been productively busy at Trelowen. Here I thought you might be so stricken with loneliness you’d miss me.” Wincing, he bit his tongue as soon as he said the words.

  Hazel’s lips formed an O. Then she laughed. “There’s that sense of humor of yours, Mr. Hobbs.” She turned to Miss Plumb. “Have I mentioned what a jokester he is? Are you shocked?”

  Miss Plumb did not meet Harold’s eyes when he looked to her.

  Nana said, “My grandson has a sharp wit. Takes after his grandfather. So much like his grandfather.” Surprising everyone in the room, she patted Miss Plumb’s hand and said, “Come with me, dear. I’ve something to show you. And—” Her voice dropped to a not-so-subtle whisper. “These two need time alone. I’m perceptive about these things, you know. Newlyweds always need time alone.”

  Harold cleared his throat. Hazel blushed and picked invisible lint from her dress.

  Miss Plumb looked for all the world as though she would protest. In the end, Nana tugged her from the drawing room.

  Wasting no time, Harold stood and turned to Hazel, ready to pull her into the embrace he had dreamt of for the entirety of the journey home. He took a step forward, their knees almost touching. She looked up at him and smiled. The smile was so bashful, so genuine, he stepped back again, awe-struck, taken, an awkward schoolboy.

  “I, uh, see you’re well,” he said dumbly.

  “Yes, quite well.” Her soft laugh fluttered his stomach. “Was your trip successful?”

  “Depends who you ask.” Curse his awkwardness. “Yes, successful. Would you…” He searched for what to say. Would you let me kiss you? Would you tell me the truth of what happened? Would you care to make a real marriage of this situation? Would you consent to fall in love with me? More than a dozen possibilities popped into mind. He said, instead, “Would you join me upstairs?”

  At her startled expression, he clarified, “In our sitting room. We could exchange tales of our past week and a half. That is, if you’re not busy. If you’ve the time. We could wait—”

  “No!” she interrupted, rising in haste. “I mean yes. I mean I have the time. Now. Yes. Let’s go upstairs.” That pretty blush again, the one that pounded his heart. “To the sitting room.”

  A low but warm fire crackled in the hearth, dispelling the cold seeping past the window edges.

  Hazel was a blushing bride all over again. The first sight of Harold stepping into the drawing room sent her stomach to her feet and her heart to her throat. How was it possible for him to become more handsome each time she saw him, even more so after only a brief trip to London? For the length of a shared stare, she had forgotten they were not alone and wished him to rush across the room and embrace her, two newlyweds in love. Then the truth crept over her. They were not alone. They were not in love. She was, in his eyes, a fallen woman forced to marry.

  Even now that they were alone, he was wooden. His lips frowned, his movements jerky and hesitant. He did not want to see her as much as she wanted to see him—a humbling realization.

  Did this change her decision to tell him of Agnes’s condition? No. She had made the decision after much fretting and at least one sleepless night, worried he would judge her more harshly than he must already, merely by association, and worried he might refuse to allow Agnes to stay as a guest. Neither of those actions matched his character as far as she knew him. He had, after all, married her under similar circumstances. Although she had not been in a delicate way, Harold had been concerned enough to question her on that point in advance of the marriage; yet he married her anyway, even consummating the marriage to legitimize any potential child conceived from her supposed dalliance.

  His actions proved him a good man, a trustworthy man. If anyone could help, he could.

  Should she ask about London or get straight to the point? Hazel feared she must get to the point or she would lose courage. And how was she to pay attention to his tales if Agnes shadowed her conscience? Best get that out in the open, then she could hear all about his journey and how dreadfully dull London was without her company.

  Hazel looked up to find Harold standing by the fireplace, arm propped on the mantel, studying her.

  “About Agnes,” she began.

  “I already know,” he interrupted. “In full disclosure, it is what I had hoped to discuss.”

  She gaped at him. Impossible! “How?”

  “Lord Driffield cornered me in London.”

  “He told you?” Hazel could not be more shocked.

  “Not in so many words, but I pieced it together. I want to hear it from you, Hazel. Your own words. The truth.”

  Nodding, she smoothed her hands over her dress and clasped them in her lap. This would be easier than she planned since he already knew, although his opinion of her must be lower than ever, for he would think both she and Agnes were involved with Lord Driffield. How humiliating. At least he acted accepting of Agnes’s condition. If he objected, he would not ha
ve wanted to talk about it.

  “I want to do all I can to help her,” Hazel said, voice firm, though her whitened knuckles belied her nervousness. “But whatever I do, I need to work quickly. Time is her enemy.”

  Harold propped his chin on his open palm, covering his mouth with his hand.

  When he did not respond, she continued, “I’ve been thinking about matchmaking. I know you’ll protest, but it’s a viable course of action if I can move fast enough. Have you any available tenants? Friends? Relations? Anyone eager to fall in love with an amiable young lady who is talented at the pianoforte?”

  His features darkened the more she talked, looking quite ferocious now.

  Tapping a finger against his mouth, he shifted position and stretched his arm across the mantel. “I know it’s been a long morning for me, and a cold morning at that, so I’m afraid I’m not following. What has matchmaking Miss Plumb to do with what happened?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like the matchmaking idea. I’ve other possibilities, none as good or as plausible. Do you have a better plan?”

  Harold stared at her for so long she thought he was trying to read her thoughts. “Start from the beginning? I’m sluggish. Miss Plumb arrives at Trelowen in your carriage…”

  “Yes. In the luggage carriage, of all things. I only learned the truth of her situation after she arrived. I was as shocked by the news as you must have been to hear it from Lord Driffield, although I can’t see what he would gain from confessing. When I learned she’s three months and will start showing, well I could have swooned, for I never knew she had…oh, let’s not discuss that further or I’ll swoon now. I said to her—”

  Harold’s palm met the wood with a thwack. “Miss Plumb is increasing!”

  All Hazel could do was look back at him.

  He crossed the room in two strides and sat beside her, draping an arm over the back of the chaise. “As much as I’d like to hear about Miss Plumb’s plight and your plans to save her, again, I’m far more interested in you and how the blame of the parlor scandal came to rest on your shoulders rather than hers when Lord Driffield was her paramour, not yours.”

  Hazel covered her mouth with both hands. He knew! He knew. Why tears chose this moment to prick her eyes, she could not say, but they blurred her vision and stung. Before she could say anything more, she wrested the handkerchief from her pocket to dab at eyes and nose.

  “What did the earl tell you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “Never mind him. I want to hear from you what happened. The truth.”

  Nodding, kerchief held to her nose—how dreadfully embarrassing to have a runny nose and waterpot eyes in front of the gentleman one hoped to seduce in the near future—she confessed all, recounting the event in question and backtracking to when Agnes’s and Driffield’s affair first began, sparing no detail, not even how infuriating it was that his charm had beguiled them all. The story ended at her father’s announcement that she would marry Harold to save the family’s reputation.

  Clearing the air was a far greater relief than she could have expected. Now, he would not see her as a fallen woman, disloyal of heart, mind, and memory.

  Throughout her confession, she stole glances, hoping to read his reactions. Whatever his thoughts, he hid them well. She thought she saw a flicker of anger when she spoke of Driffield’s behavior in the parlor. She thought she glimpsed the hint of a smile when she admitted her failure as sentry was caused by spying on Harold on one occasion and bumping into him on another. But she could not be certain his expressions showed those reactions. What she saw in his features could be what she wanted to see.

  When she finished her tale, he remained silent for some time, his gaze roaming her tear-streaked face.

  “And so,” he said, “you married me. A tragedy you had to sacrifice love to marry for convenience.”

  Her chin trembled anew.

  His tone was not flippant, accusatory, or resentful. He did not spit the words. He did not enunciate with cynicism. The declaration lifted as though in question, as though gauging her immediate reaction to the sentiment. Her reaction, though not visible as far as she knew, was a wrench of the heart, a fear that he would see it that way, that he had been the one to sacrifice.

  If true, nothing she said would make a difference.

  Her voice wobbling, she said, “There’s no one else I would have wanted to marry, with or without the scandal.” She did not look up, but she heard the hiss of his breath.

  The backs of his fingers found her cheek, caressing the wet skin from temple to jaw. Hazel shivered at the tender warmth of his touch.

  When she met his gaze, she found him smiling, a dreamy sort of goofy smile that made her laugh. To her relief, rather than be insulted, he laughed with her. Neither spoke, only laughed, but Hazel believed this moment marked the beginning of something beautiful, something that felt astonishingly like the first stirring of love.

  Chapter 16

  Sunrays full of promise woke Harold the next morning. When the slats of light crossed his face, he did not cover his eyes with his forearm, rather he tossed the bedding aside and leapt to his feet, eager to greet the day. There was a striking young lady to be wooed.

  If he had expected everyone else to be abed or to have Hazel to himself in the morning room, he was set for disappointment. The morning room was bustling with conversation when he arrived, everyone present, everyone breaking their fast. So much for thinking he had arisen early. Nana and Agnes were deep in conversation. Hazel and his mother were chattering. His father was cupping steaming tea while reading the newspaper. The domesticity and familial nature of the scene set him to smiling as he heaped bacon onto a plate and took a seat next to Hazel.

  That striking young lady to be wooed turned a cheery smile his way—a clear admission, if Harold had ever seen one, that she knew she was going to be wooed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hobbs.”

  “And a good morning to you, Mrs. Hobbs.”

  Their gazes lingered just long enough for Nana to titter across the table. “Observe, Miss Plumb. Newlyweds. I do believe you’ll be helping me with my needlework today.”

  His mother poked at Lord Collingwood’s arm, sending the tea sloshing. “Remember when you looked at me that way?”

  Harold cast his mother and grandmother a smirk before turning back to Hazel. “Is it too early for a row on the lake? I believe we’re overdue.”

  Her eyes brightened.

  Before she could respond, Miss Plumb spoke up. “I’ve never rowed on a lake before. What a wonderful idea. We could take turns.”

  Harold’s smile slipped as he looked to the guest.

  Nana came to the rescue. “Don’t forget about the needlework. I couldn’t possibly finish without you. You wouldn’t break my heart, would you? The lake will be there forever, but I won’t.”

  A morbid thought, but Harold hid his smile by sampling the bacon, all too familiar with his grandmother’s dark humor and methods for getting exactly what she wanted.

  Unable to deny a woman her dying wish, Miss Plumb bowed her head. “I would like nothing better than to help you, Lady Collingwood. You’re too kind.”

  An hour later, Harold handed a bundled Hazel into the boat, a diligent footman holding it steady. The sun shone above, but the chill bit through his greatcoat and layers. At least she was warm. Or appeared to be. Over a wool dress, she wore a second layer bodice—whatever women called that in fashion terms—and on top of that a hooded cloak, and even on top of that a fur-lined pelisse with matching muff. Once settled, he nodded to the footman to push them off. The wind nipped at his cheeks.

  Harold hunched into the coat, determined to make this outing undeniably romantic despite the weather’s insistence to the contrary. Hazel looked about her, taking in the serenity. Every so often she would watch the oars dip into the still waters then steal a glance at Harold,
each peek warming him against the cold.

  When he had decided to pay her court after returning from India, he had hoped for a marriage of contentment. Luck might turn contentment into companionable love over the years, but he never expected a love match from the start. Arranged marriages between dissimilar people rarely equated to love, after all. Now, as he looked across the little boat to his wife, he realized how unjust that hope had been, denying them both the potential of something greater. Hazel deserved the deepest and most passionate love. With her, he coveted the same.

  Giving the oars firm pulls, he propelled the boat across one side of the lake. Once they reached the deepest point, he tucked in the oars, the boat drifting to a standstill.

  Hazel made a showing of breathing in the crisp air and sighing. “Divinity. It’s far more romantic than I expected.”

  Waggling his eyebrows, he said, “Perfect. It’s one of my methods for wooing you.”

  “Wooing me?” she questioned with a laugh. “How chivalrous of you. I’ve never been wooed before. What does this entail?”

  He gestured around them with a stretch of his arms. “Behold. Stage one of wooing has commenced.”

  “Does this method have proven success?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been in India since I was seventeen so never had the opportunity to put my wooing strategies into action. But I’ve imagined a time or two that this might be a successful approach. Is it working?”

  Hazel hid her smile in the fur collar of her pelisse. “It would spoil the challenge for me to say.” She studied him from beneath long lashes. “You rowed at least one lady on the lake at the hunting party. Was it not successful then?”

  Harold had to think for a moment to recall. With a sly smile he said, “Indeed I did row a lady or two across the lake. But I wasn’t trying to woo anyone at the time.”

  “No? Not even Miss Evans?”

  He laughed at the hint of jealousy in her voice. “Especially not Miss Evans. In fact, you’ll be amused to know that not only did she nearly tip us over when it started to rain, but I spent the whole of the outing thinking of you.”