The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

Harry looked around his room. In the light of a few candles and the glowing fire, everything seemed the same as usual. Nothing out of place.

  He briskly finished removing his shirt and threw it at the chaise, missing again. Next came his boots. For that he lowered his buttocks to the leather-padded fender seat around the hearth, and tugged them off, somehow managing not to tip backward into the fire despite a distinct lack of good balance this evening. The boots were a little muddy still from his ride with Max and his aunt had spent half an hour that evening reprimanding him for wearing riding boots to dinner. But this was still his house, was it not? He would wear whatever he wanted to dinner and they could all go —

  There it was again! He knew he was not imagining it now.

  Barefoot, he stood in his breeches and approached his bed.

  "Miss Hathaway." He rested his hands on his hips. "What, by the devil's own arse, are you up to now?"

  * * * *

  She groaned. Her hiccups had given her away. Once he began removing his clothes there was nothing she could do to stop them escaping her mouth with greater alacrity.

  "Would you be so good as to come out from under my bed, Miss Hathaway?"

  "How did you know it was me?" she managed meekly.

  She might not be able to see him roll his eyes, but she heard it in his voice clear enough. "Who else might it be, madam? I told you I have nothing worth stealing, but I knew you'd have to see for yourself."

  "I had no bad intentions, Commander," she exclaimed anxiously from her dusty hiding place. "You must believe me."

  "Must I? Sometimes I wonder if you think your schemes through thoroughly before proceeding. Do you never consider the possible consequences? Out you come, madam, and explain yourself."

  Oh lord, how could she do that? How to explain that she meant to wait there until he slept and then lock him in, as well as take away any other key he might have. She had to hide in his room in order to see how he got out, if it was true that Brown had been locking him in at night.

  Harry had begun to pace again and she watched his feet stumble back and forth by the bed. "Even for you, Miss Hathaway, this is remarkable behavior."

  "I was worried, sir, about—"

  Suddenly he stopped. Fingernails were scraping at his door.

  "Sir Henry," a sing-song voice floated through the key hole. "I know you are still awake. Do let me in."

  "Damn it," he murmured, "Parkes was right, this is becoming a fine farce."

  With desperation racing through her, Georgiana tried to remain still, but every ounce of her wanted to crawl out, run at that door and slide her key in the lock. She would flatten herself to the door, she thought, and stop him from letting the other woman in. He'd have to pry her cold, dead hands off the door handle!

  But in her agitation she banged her head under the bed and then, while rubbing it with her hand, could only watch as his feet stomped the door. A cooling draft blew across her face as he opened it.

  "Mrs. Swanley? Is anything amiss?"

  "I don't know, sir. Is there? I am here to cure you, if there is."

  Georgiana screwed herself into a knot, trying to stay hidden, even though she desperately wanted to see what the other woman was doing.

  "I regret, madam, that I cannot entertain you this evening."

  "But I can entertain you," the persistent woman replied. "That's what I'm here for, ain't it?"

  "I would advise you to seek out Maxwell Bramley's room, madam. I believe he is far more in need of a cure than I."

  "But he said—"

  "Mrs. Swanley, I appreciate your devotion to your work. It is admirable. But I am not the one who requires servicing this evening."

  "Dear old Max can shift for himself. I'm here for you. He says you've had difficulties."

  "Dear Old Max wouldn't know a true difficulty if it bit him on the hindquarters. If you have no liking to share his bed, I would pocket the money and enjoy this brief sojourn in the country. Take a few walks with the parson's wife. Enjoy yourself. Let the fresh air give your cheeks a natural blush, Mrs. Swanley, and you'll save a fortune on carmine rouge."

  Georgiana could not help smiling at that. She could well imagine Mrs. Swanley's face as that door began to close.

  "Good evening, madam." Having disposed of that lady, he paced back across the room. "Well, Stowaway, I keenly await your explanation. Must I poke you out with a stick?"

  Slowly she crawled out from under the bed. "I was just looking...for something I—." Oh, what was the point? "I was concerned for you, sir," it came out in a rushed whisper, "and wanted to be sure you were secure in your room...with so many other folk about."

  "You don't think I can manage, madam? You think I require the assistance of —"

  "A nineteen year-old girl, sir? Yes, I do. And I am heartily tired of being told my age as if I might forget it. Would you like me to remind you of yours?"

  He glowered at her, hands on his hips. "What do you think you can do for me? Do you not have your own troubles? A certain newspaper column, for instance, that faces a libel suit from a man about whom it may, or may not, have been written?"

  She tried to swallow, but found her throat dry. "I do not know what you mean."

  "No. Of course not."

  "And even if I had troubles, it would not stop me from helping you with yours."

  "Putting the world to rights, eh, my little meddlesome miss?" Harry finished his brandy in one swig and then bent for the coal shovel. "So you want to help me. Like Mrs. Swanley?"

  Although he hid his face, she heard the smirk in his voice. Georgiana remained undaunted. He had caught her again in another embarrassing position so she might as well plow onward and get everything out into the open. They had tip-toed around each other and the matter of his problem for long enough. She refused to be like everybody else, who ignored it, hid it like a shameful sin and dare not raise the subject to him.

  "Mrs. Swanley wants to help one part of you. I want to help the whole man." She took a breath to steady her nerves. "If you would let me."

  "Rather brave of you. My crosses are heavy enough for me to bear." He dropped into a chair and stretched out his long legs, his pose careless. "What can you do? A girl who has barely been out in the world yet. How can you know what I have been through?"

  "I would know if you shared anything, but you insist on keeping it all inside. Hiding from me and the world." She paused. "If I were in trouble, would you not seek to offer me assistance?"

  "That's different."

  "Why?"

  "You're a woman." He frowned up at her, evidently annoyed. She wondered why he had not yet tossed her out of his room. But even as she thought that, here it came— "And you should not be in my room, Miss Hathaway."

  Of course, he relied on what was proper only when it suited him.

  "Last night you wanted me to stay here with you," she exclaimed.

  She watched his fingers curl tighter around that empty glass as if he might throw it. "Last night?"

  "When you called me Georgiana."

  * * * *

  Sprawled in his chair, clutching the empty brandy glass to his bare chest, he eyed her thoughtfully.

  "You called me Georgiana," she repeated. "And you said you needed me."

  "Why would I say that?"

  "These past few nights I have walked with you up and down that passage and tried to keep you out of trouble," she confessed reluctantly.

  Alarm rattled through him, but he kept his expression calm. Harry knew he must deal with this one step at a time or else his head would become too crowded and the rage would set in. The frustration at a failed memory; the anger at so much of his life stolen by fate. The fury of being put out to pasture before he was ready, before he had done all the things he planned.

  But this girl did not deserve his wrath, any more than the ghost of poor Parkes.

  "So I asked you to stay last night. Did you?" he demanded softly.

  "No."

  He should have felt relief, b
ut he did not know what to call this emotion careening recklessly through him. Harry looked at his empty glass. "Then why come back tonight?"

  "I hoped to keep you in your room and out of Mrs. Swanley's grasp. Sometimes, at night, you are not completely yourself, and unfortunately you have no control over it. But you know all that, of course."

  She put it so simply and easily, as if it was nothing to be ashamed of.

  "Shall I pour you another brandy?" she asked.

  He sat forward, arms resting on his thighs. "No. I'd better not. I think I've had enough."

  "The truth is, sir, you are still lost at sea. Part of you, seems to be. You have floated all alone for a long time and then you ran aground here, with no hope of rescue."

  "That's your theory, is it?"

  "Yes. I have given your predicament a great deal of thought."

  In truth, he was touched that she cared enough to help, but she had no idea what she would be taking on. If he let her.

  He had his masculine pride still, despite his "predicament".

  Harry set his empty glass on the floor. "You had better go to your own room."

  "I'm not going anywhere unless you let me lock you in and give me your key. Brown says he's been locking your door at night, so you must have another key somewhere."

  Forearms resting on his thighs, he squinted up at her, bemused. "What do you think Mrs. Swanley might do to me? You don't believe I can manage her myself?"

  "Now you can," came the brisk reply. "But later, when you are not yourself, you might want her company. You might welcome it."

  "That would save you some trouble then, would it not? Let her take me off your hands at night. Clearly I've been a great concern, making you keep me company all these nights."

  She scowled fiercely. "I didn't say I minded."

  Other thoughts clicked slowly into place. "Wait...you have discussed me...and this... with Brown?" he demanded tightly.

  "I would not say we discussed it. I asked him to give me your key, that's all."

  "But you talked together, gossiped about me wandering about at night." He got up, too angry now to sit still. "That damn fellow should know better."

  "It was not his fault," she exclaimed. "He was concerned about you, just as I am. It was not gossiping at all. Nobody else knows."

  "What about your dear friends? You have not shared all this with them in your letters?"

  "Of course not, sir. This is our secret."

  "Bloody women!" He took a step toward her, swaying slightly. "This is precisely why I didn't want you here!"

  "Do not raise your voice to me."

  "I shall do as I like. This is my damned house, my damned room. My damned everything!"

  She started for the door, but he caught her by the sleeve.

  "I may not have invited you here, but I shall say when you leave my presence, woman!"

  The rage was glowing hot now, as if he were wrought iron heated in a blacksmith's forge, ready to be bent into a new shape. He felt the hammer coming down, heard the clang echoing inside his head.

  "They may have taken my life and career away from me, but here is where I am in control," he hissed. "This is my island. I say how it is."

  Her eyes were wide, the long lashes still, unblinking.

  "I rule this place. I, Dead Harry, take charge here. Do you comprehend me, woman? This is my world. I made it. I decide who stays and who leaves. You will not leave me until I am done with you."

  His blood was pumping too fast, it made him light-headed for a moment. But when he closed his fingers around her arms and held her tight, his world stopped tipping and he saw clearer.

  Why was he still wearing his breeches? He felt too constricted and uncomfortable in these clothes forced upon him by the rigid demands of civilization.

  Ah, but she was here. And his nakedness made her anxious. Which was foolish, since he was in a better mood without clothes and so she should welcome it.

  Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. Harry could see his face reflected in the satiny darkness of her eyes. "When you are quite done shouting at me," she said softly. "May I speak? I know I'm supposed to hold my tongue until I'm asked, but these are unique circumstances. And I shall have bruises on my arms, if you do not stop squeezing them."

  The clanging hammer stopped.

  He glared down at her.

  "I told nobody about our secret." She faced him bravely, chin up, hands curled into little fists at her side. She still had on the dress she'd worn at dinner, but now the front of it was covered in dust from under his bed. The woman was hard on her gowns, he mused. "Why else would I go to these extreme lengths to try and keep you in your room, if I didn't care to help you keep this secret? And you can glower at me and shout at me all you like, I am not afraid of you. I've dealt with the temper tantrums of little boys before, sir."

  He narrowed his gaze and relaxed his fingers— but not enough to release her arms completely. "Should you not call me Harry by now?"

  He saw her swallow and then she bent her lips in a shy smile. "Your aunt would never approve."

  "She's not here." His gaze traveled down her throat to that little mole at the base— her "witch's mark".

  "Why would you want me to call you Harry, when you have made it clear you do not trust me and in the daylight I am an inconvenience?"

  "If I have made you feel so unwelcome, why did you come to save me tonight? Why do you care?"

  She had no answer for that, apparently.

  Harry bent his head and pressed his lips to that tiny mole on her skin, just as he'd wanted to on her first evening in his house. He heard her gasp, felt her shudder. Slowly he trailed the tip of his tongue all the way up her neck to her chin, her cheek, and then her ear. "It is just you and I," he whispered, "everybody is in bed now. Whether their own or somebody else's. That leaves you and me."

  No response. Her eyes had turned dewy, her lashes looked heavy now and she struggled to keep them lifted.

  "If you want the other key to my room, you'll have to find it," he added, mischief awakening in his veins. "Before Mrs. Swanley does."

  Her lips parted again and then snapped shut. Apparently he had rendered her speechless. No small feat.

  "Harry likes to play." He grinned.

  Her brow ruffled in a frustrated frown, but she could not keep the expression for long, far too curious and amused, he suspected.

  Stepping back, he spread out his arms. "Look for it. Harry will tell you when you are cold or hot."

  She licked her lips, her gaze wandering down over his bared chest and then hastily looking away around his room. Harry took two more steps away from her.

  "Now you are cold, Georgiana."

  With one deep breath she began her search for the key.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harry was different tonight. His eyes were more alive than they had been on previous nightly adventures and he seemed aware of who she was, why she was there. Was it possible that the two sides of his personality were slowly melding back together?

  Excitement lifted her heart and made it beat out a new rhythm. She did not mind playing this game if it helped him recover his lost self again.

  And kept Mrs. Swanley out of his bed too, of course. That was motivation enough.

  So Georgiana began her hunt for his key. She checked the mantle above that roaring fire, only to be assured she was almost freezing with the cold. Next she looked in the pockets of his dressing-gown, under his chair, even inside his discarded boots— shaking them by the heel. As she moved around his room, Harry walked behind her, always keeping a distance of two or three steps.

  It occurred to her, finally, that the only thing she had not searched was the man himself. She spun around to face him.

  Harry stood there looking smug, hands behind his back, wearing only one garment.

  The one thing left to explore.

  "It's in your breeches," she said.

  He arched an eyebrow. "Is it? To what do you refer, woma
n?"

  "The key." Georgiana held out her hand. "Give it to me."

  But he pursed his lips in an idle whistle and shook his head.

  The wretched man did love his games. And winning them.

  She took a step toward him.

  He paused his whistle to say, "Getting warmer."

  Naturally he would not make it easy for her, but in truth she rather liked that about him. Harry Thrasher was a mystery that challenged, intrigued, and fascinated her.

  "Very warm now," he added as she came right up to where he stood.

  Well, she had always felt quite certain that she was destined to go where no other woman dared. Gathering her courage, Georgiana reached into the fall of his buckskin breeches.

  There was his fob watch. She brought that out and gave it to him, then returned her hand to the search.

  "Warmer still," he muttered, sounding a little hoarse.

  Her questing fingers had discovered a bulge. She knew what it was, of course, having met it before when he was naked.

  "Hot," he groaned."Very hot."

  "I happen to know that's not a key. It doesn't open any doors."

  "Not true. I can show you what it's for, if you like. All the doors it does open."

  She caressed the arching ridge and heard his breathing deepen. "I refuse to be shocked. Where's the key, Harry?"

  "Impatient, aren't you? Keep looking, woman."

  With a gasp of frustration, she moved her fingers to the buttons at his waist and quickly slid them open.

  "Getting hotter!"

  She had to pause for a moment, just to appreciate the tightness of his stomach and the splendid, powerful way all those hard muscles worked in perfect unison. There was even a kind of beauty about those scars crisscrossing his torso. A slender trail of dark curls led her gaze, and her fingertips, downward, under the opened waist of his breeches. Plunging bravely in, she tugged the buckskin from his hips.

  "Thank you," he muttered wryly. "I thought you'd never get there."

  "Harry Thrasher! There is no key! Did you do this just to get me to take your breeches down?"

  "Well, they are very constricting and I find it easier to think without my clothes."

  "Where is the key?" she demanded.