The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2)

by Cheri Champagne

  This topic now took on an entirely new meaning. She was unsure how to respond. She had enjoyed losing her virginity to him five years ago, but upon his return from war, he had broken her heart. While his recent kisses had given her much to think about, she was adamant that she keep her emotions locked away from his reach. But…what of their physical association? Could she engage in a purely physical relationship with Charles and keep her heart safe? The decision was rather more challenging than she would have thought.

  She both hated him and was aroused by him. It was terribly vexing.

  He gazed expectantly at her, awaiting her response. She had better opt for honesty; regardless of how cruel he had been, he did not deserve to be tricked.

  Pulling from his embrace, she straightened her skirts with trembling fingers. “I currently have no desire to reopen old wounds. I do not believe that a relationship—even a strictly physical one—would be a wise decision on my part.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued before he could begin. “However, despite it being the obvious, and most appropriate response…I am having difficulty bringing myself to say ‘no.’”

  Bridget could not help the small smile that cracked her lips as she saw the aroused incredulity on Charles’ face. “Please, Charles, let me think on it.”

  Charles gained control over his expression. “Very—” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Very well. Take as much time as you need.” He trailed his heated gaze down her body, pausing at her breasts, waist, and the apex of her thighs. Bridget’s skin grew warm in every place his gaze touched, which only proved to flame her growing arousal. “I will leave you to your packing then.” He clasped her hand in his and bent to brush a lingering kiss on the back of it. Despite how light the contact was, it sent a bolt of pleasure up her arm.

  She was still quivering when Charles turned on his heel and left her bedchamber.

  * * *

  The click of Charles’ fingers snapping reverberated through the brightly lit hallway outside Bridget’s bedchamber door. Charles coughed lightly, then continued on his way, taking long strides down the hallway and jogging down the stairs to the foyer.

  Charles’ dealings with Bridget would undoubtedly haunt his dreams for many nights to come. He would welcome the exquisite torment, however, should she come to accept his offer. The delight of entering Bridget’s soft, sweet haven again was most definitely worth the agony of waiting for it. Patience was a virtue, as they say.

  If he could use that time to reverse the effects the past two years had taken on their relationship, Charles would be immeasurably pleased. He might very well be able to have a proper future with Bridget. Perhaps even have a marriage and some children. He would unquestionably have to retire his spy activities, but it would be worth that, and much more, to have Bridget back in his life.

  First, however, he must focus his attentions on capturing The Boss, and outing the French spy within the Home Office. Bonaparte might have been banished to Elba, but his spies were doing their utmost to discover the weaknesses of the British army, and Charles suspected that if they gained any pertinent knowledge, Napoleon might escape and pose an even larger threat than before.

  It was his duty, and the duty of all the intelligence agents working for the Home Office, to protect their king and country. If he maneuvered things correctly with his protection of Bridget, it would be possible to capture The Boss, and through him, discover the identity of the spy within the Home Office.

  Once that was done, and this war with the damnable Napoleon Bonaparte concluded, Charles might be free to be with Bridget. Or, if even greater fortune was with him, winning this damnable fight would earn him a secure desk position in the Home Office. The thought sent a fresh surge of hope through him. He simply had to keep her safe from harm and change her opinion of him…

  Charles’ heels clicked on the marble floor of the foyer as he strode determinedly across the space.

  He nodded at Geoffrey, where the man stood vigilantly at the front door, and accepted his greatcoat, gloves, and beaver hat. “Good day to you, Geoffrey.” He tipped his hat at a jaunty angle, then strolled out the front door and down the steps to where his closed carriage sat waiting. The sky was overcast, but still bright despite the clouds, lending a grey lightness to all of Hertfordshire.

  He snapped his fingers as he climbed in, the muffled sound subtly signalling his driver. Adjusting his coat, Charles sat on the thickly padded seat. The door closed, and the carriage moved down the drive.

  Soon, the carriage rolled to a stop behind a copse of trees, just off the main thoroughfare. He checked his pocket watch, then sat back comfortably in wait.

  Several minutes passed in which Charles gazed at the seat across the dimly lit carriage. Charles checked his pocket watch once more. What is taking the man so long?

  The door abruptly swung open, a gust of cool October air rushing into the carriage. Charles squinted briefly at the bright light as a man dressed in Devon livery entered and sat on the seat opposite Charles, closing the door quickly behind him.

  “My apologies, sir. I had a difficult time leaving the back way; Cook spotted me and asked me to fetch her some herbs from the garden. God knows why she asked me; she’s got kitchen maids wot do that sort of nonsense for her.” He caught the look of expectancy on Charles’ expression and sat straighter in his seat. “My apologies again, sir. I expect you’ll be wanting an update on the security for milady.”

  Charles nodded. “Indeed you are correct, Brown. I trust the shift changes have gone smoothly?”

  “They have, sir. In the evening, I switch my hall position with Davis, and Henderson and Thomson switch off on their post downstairs. We’ve also got five men working out of doors; one in the stables, two working as gardeners, and two more hiding out in the shrubbery. Everything seems well and secure. Thomson had expressed concern for Lady Devon recognizing him, but he’s taken care not to be seen by her.”

  “Very good. You are all doing excellent work.”

  Brown’s chest visibly puffed at the praise. The man was an early recruit, but he did an outstanding job.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all. Now tell me, has Bridget left the house without an escort of late?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man visibly swallowed. “Lady Bridget left during Davis and my shift change. He was updating me on the night’s events in an empty room near her bedchamber, when she walked past. I managed to follow her without her being the wiser, thanks to a very timely tomcat.”

  Charles frowned. “What the devil was she doing wandering about at such an hour?”

  “From what I observed, she walked along the garden path to the lake. She just sat there staring at nothing for several hours, then returned to her bedchamber.” He scratched his jaw for a moment, looking as though he wanted to say something more, but he dropped his hand to his lap and remained silent.

  Frustration rode Charles. “What is it, Brown? I can see that you want to say something, so out with it.”

  The young man scratched at his jaw once more, the night’s growth of hair abrading noisily against his short nails. “Well, sir, it might be nothing, but I don’t rightly know.” He caught Charles’ impatient gaze and hurriedly continued, “I was just starting my last shift when I heard some noise from Lady Bridget’s bedchamber.”

  “Noise? What sort of noise?”

  Brown glanced out the window, then tugged on the sleeves of his livery. “Grunts and such.”

  Charles’ eyebrows shot up. “Grunts?” He eyed Brown, waiting for an explanation.

  “It sounded as though someone was getting some…exercise. There were thumps and grunts and lots of…er…heavy breathing.”

  Charles froze, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The conversation he’d just had with Bridget careened through his mind. She had mentioned taking a lover… Was it possible that she had already found one? His body burned with the intensity of the jealousy blazing its fiery path through him. He pinched the bridge
of his nose. Damn, but he was such a fool. Of course she had moved on, but the realization that anything between them was at its end put his stomach into knots.

  But she’d not refused my offer, his inner voice argued. Perhaps there is still hope? Not if she already has a lover, damn it.

  “Sir?” Brown’s hesitant voice cut through his thoughts, “Hydra?”

  Charles dropped his hand and looked steadily at Brown. “Thank you, Brown. That will be all. I will return before we are to leave for High Wycombe, in three days’ time, to get an updated report from the lot of you. Please inform the others.”

  “Very good, sir.” Brown nodded and eagerly vacated the carriage, closing the door behind him.

  Charles knocked on the ceiling once with his fist, then sat back against the squabs as the horses pulled them off at a trot.

  Bridget had a lover? Or, God forbid, multiple lovers? A scowl marked his brow as the jealousy in him raged to a higher intensity. What was she thinking to waste her charms on ungrateful rogues?

  He forced a slower pace to his breathing, comforting himself with the knowledge that Bridget’s new governess position would remove her from her family’s estate. She would not be able to entertain lovers while she was living in High Wycombe…would she?

  * * *

  Bridget idly scratched behind Artemis’ ears as she listened to Katherine play the pianoforte. The music room was filled with pleasing notes and the lilt of Mama’s and her sisters’ voices.

  “…any larger, and I might fall forward with the weight!” Anna remarked, rubbing her protruding stomach.

  Mama threaded a cross-stitch needle with bright blue thread. “Oh, my dear, growing to that size is normal…” Her voice faded from Bridget’s awareness.

  Artemis panted, his big tongue quivering as he pressed the back of his head against Bridget’s hand. She smiled, then bent to hug him to her leg, scratching his chest and murmuring into the scruff of his neck.

  Rain fell heavily against the back wall of windows, the droplets dribbling and squiggling down the panes of glass. The distant clash of thunder rolled over the estate, and the low gallop of a horse’s hooves—

  Just a moment.

  “Who is that?” Bridget looked toward the window, her words halting the ladies’ discussion about Anna’s pregnancy.

  “Who is what?” Katherine’s fingers stilled on the pianoforte’s keys, the last note hanging in the air.

  Bridget rose from the soft armchair and strode to the window. “A rider is approaching.”

  Emaline shook her head with a cluck of her tongue. “Your sense of hearing continuously astounds me, and I’ve lived with you my whole dratted life.”

  “Language, Emaline,” Mama corrected.

  A rider appeared far down the road, a mere speck against the foliage.

  Katherine appeared at Bridget’s elbow. “Is it Lane?”

  “He is not due to be home for several hours,” Anna noted.

  Excitement bubbled in Bridget’s chest. “It’s a messenger!”

  It was several minutes before Geoffrey opened the door to accept the messenger’s missive. The voices were low, but Bridget heard her name and her stomach jumped.

  “Lady Bridget, a missive has come for you,” Geoffrey intoned from the music room’s doorway.

  She grinned and strode across the room to accept it, her anticipation heightening as she saw the handwriting.

  Kat sat beside Emaline on the settee. “Who is it from?”

  “Oliver!” Bridget resumed her seat across from her sisters and mother and tore open the seal.

  Dearest Bridget,

  I apologize for not writing sooner; I received both of your missives together. Congratulations on the position! I know that you will be a wonderful governess. Lady Bridget, the governess. How droll!

  Your letters lightened my mood considerably. While I adore our social visits, I confess I had despaired that we might never engage again.

  Fortuitously, I am in High Wycombe visiting an acquaintance. It would be but a short ride to call on you at Mr. Stevens’ estate. Do write me once you have settled in and we shall arrange a rendezvous.

  Affectionately,

  O

  Bridget sighed, clutching the letter to her chest.

  “Pray, what does Oliver write?” Kat asked.

  Folding the parchment, Bridget smiled at her sister’s eagerness. “He writes to tell me that he misses me and that he is in High Wycombe. He wishes to call on me once I have settled into my position.”

  Kat clapped her hands elatedly. If her family knew of her true association with Oliver, they mightn’t be so pleased with their friendship.

  “Kat,” Bridget cautioned, “you know Oliver is but a friend, nothing more.”

  Her sister waved a hand through the air. “Pish.”

  “Come, Bridget, Katherine is a romantic.” Emaline watched Kat with one light eyebrow lifted above her deep brown eye.

  Mama continued her cross-stitch pattern of a waterfall as she spoke. “Do tell us, Bridget, how fares Oliver?”

  “Well, I believe. I have not seen him in several weeks, though his missives come regularly.”

  Mama threaded another shade of blue through her needle. “You must tell him to call when next he is in Hertfordshire. He is such a dear!”

  “Of course, Mama.” Oliver was a dear. Her friendship with him had begun as one of her project acquaintances. What she hadn’t anticipated was that his personality was perfectly agreeable. It was her that required changing.

  Naturally, she was altered by each friendship, as seeing the world from another’s perspective, understanding what makes a person who they are fundamentally, changes an individual. But with Oliver, it was different. She had learned that she was strong. She was capable. She was driven by something other than her love for Charles, no matter how keenly she felt the unfamiliar emotion.

  When Charles broke her heart the lessons she had learned cracked. But now she was mending them. And darn it, she was going to be stronger than before.

  * * *

  Thursday morning dawned with a spectacular rising sun, the bright pinks and purples streaking across the sky as far as Bridget could see. A crisp breeze lifted the edge of her skirts and the ribbons of her bonnet, her stray strands of hair teasing and tickling her cheeks. Bridget tilted her face to the rising sun and adjusted her gloves, refusing to release the tears that threatened to fall to her cheeks. She was happy, as she should be, but she would dearly miss her family while she was away.

  Turning to face them now, all gathered on the front drive to see her off, Bridget gave them a broad smile. How well they all looked.

  Anna gave a delicate sniff as she held a handkerchief to her nose. Bridget pulled her into a warm embrace. Since Anna had become enceinte, she had had a propensity to weep.

  “I will return for visits on my days off,” Bridget assured her. “You shall see me often.”

  “I know. I simply cannot help myself.” Anna dabbed at her eyes before stepping back.

  “Good luck, little sister.” Lane strode forward to wrap his arms tightly around her. “I have every faith that you will succeed admirably in your endeavour.” He kissed her forehead, then stood back to put a comforting arm around his weeping wife.

  Bridget gazed at her family. Each wore an expression of dread or sadness. She shook her head. “You all behave as though I will not return. I assure you, I will. You shall see me on my first available moment.”

  She embraced her Mama and her younger sisters, each of whom wished her well and expressed their desire to receive letters from her regularly.

  Mr. Stevens’ footmen loaded her luggage on the back of the Stevens carriage, opened the door, and let down the steps. Bridget’s lady’s maid, Helen, boarded the carriage while Bridget gave her last farewells to her family.

  Bridget paused with one slippered foot on the carriage step to take another look at her family. Then, with a smile and a wave, she was in the carriage, moving down the d
rive toward the road.

  She ought to feel nervous, but instead she felt anticipation. This was her first foray into the world of independence, and it felt wonderful. In the past two days, she had readied some educational books, began her own teaching journals, and prepared some lessons she wished to teach. Her dip pens were ready with their ink, she had extra sheets of parchment and vellum, and she had proudly brought her watercolours and examples of some of her paintings.

  She had plenty of supplies, as she did not know whether or not Mr. Stevens would provide them for her. She’d concluded that one could never have enough writing and art supplies when a seven-year-old boy was involved. She smiled to herself. She imagined Henry as a sweet, cherub-faced lad that was interested in creating mischief. Bridget had entered into a mischievous phase, herself, as a youthful girl, and could certainly relate to Henry’s desire to garner attention.

  Bridget had lost her father when she was young, not as young as Henry had lost his mother, but certainly at an impressionable age. Bridget hoped that her knowledge of loss would aid in connecting to Henry.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, my lady,” Helen’s voice drifted to Bridget from the rear-facing seat, “I’m a mite overwrought about working in a new home.”

  Bridget leaned forward to pat her maid’s hand. “Please do not fret, Helen. We shall be together.”

  Her maid released a quavering breath with a quick nod.

  Bridget relaxed against the squabs, letting her mind wander, the gentle rocking of the carriage giving her a sense of peace.

  Chapter 7

  The journey to Mr. Stevens’ estate in High Wycombe went by more rapidly than Bridget had expected. Soon after her departure from Mason Hall, the skies had darkened, and then opened with a loud downpour of rain. The pitter-patter of water droplets upon Mr. Stevens’ equipage was both calming and peaceful.