by Diane Gaston
Miss Tilson replied before Garret opened his mouth. ‘Thank you, sir. It was very satisfying.’ Then she shifted her gaze to him as if he might object to her speaking.
As they approached the stairway, Garret remembered the innkeeper’s offer of a maid. ‘Would you like the maid to attend you now?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘A maid now. Or as soon as it is convenient.’ She glanced back at the innkeeper.
The man spoke up. ‘I will send someone directly, miss.’
Garret followed her up the stairs and escorted her to her door. She took a key from her pocket and he opened his hand. She gave him the key and he unlocked the door. In the open doorway she turned to face him.
He was quite aware of how close he stood to her and how the soft light of the hall lamps made her skin glow and her eyes darken.
‘I’ll arrange for the maid to wake you in time to leave tomorrow,’ he managed to say.
Her voice turned raspy. ‘Thank you, sir. For eating your meal with me.’
He lowered his voice, too. ‘I hope it eased matters for you.’
Her eyes softened. ‘Much better than being alone.’
That seemed faint praise.
She affected him more than he wished to admit. His arms itched to hold her.
To comfort her, that was all. Merely comfort her. He had no business acting upon any other temptation, although it struck him how easily it could be done. She could not refuse him, could she? She had nothing but the position of governess that was entirely in his control.
No. He would not touch her.
Oh. And he was betrothed. He’d forgotten about that.
He stepped back. ‘My room is across the hall. Knock on the door if you need me—if you need anything. Otherwise, sleep well, Miss Tilson.’
She lowered her head and curtsied. ‘You, as well, sir,’ she replied dutifully.
She turned and entered the room, closing the door behind her. The key sounded in the lock.
Garret stared at the closed door for a moment before heading back to the stairway and returning to the tavern for something stronger than ale.
Chapter Four
The next day Garret rose early, ignoring the pounding in his head from too many glasses of a rather bad brandy. He sought out the innkeeper and arranged for a man to ride ahead to Preston on a specific errand.
When Miss Tilson was ready, he arranged for breakfast in the private dining parlour. The sun shone through the parlour window, lighting her face with its dark circles under the eyes. Her skin was nearly as pale as his first sight of her abed in Moelfre.
He frowned. ‘I fear you did not sleep well, Miss Tilson.’
She blushed, which at least gave her some colour. ‘Not very well.’
‘Were you troubled by dreams?’ Nightmares followed battles. Why not shipwrecks?
She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I was. I dreamed of the water.’
Poor girl.
‘You won’t always have the dreams,’ he reassured her.
She nibbled on toasted bread and jam. He ate a piece of ham and racked his throbbing brain for some way to make this trip less unpleasant for her.
‘I could hire a larger carriage, if you like. Ride with you.’ There was really no need for her to be alone.
Although how comfortable would it be to be so close to her for so many hours?
She looked alarmed. ‘I would not so inconvenience you, my lord. I will manage well enough in the landaulet. You must not give up the pleasure of riding horseback.’
He was most comfortable on a horse, that was true. On the Peninsula, he and his horse moved as one and in battle his horse never failed him.
He glanced out the window. ‘It does look to be a fine day for riding.’
Her voice turned wistful. ‘A lovely day for riding.’
He heard her take another bite of her toast. He gazed out the window, but his mind was working.
Finally he turned back to her. ‘Do you ride, Miss Tilson?’
To his surprise, her hazel eyes kindled with pleasure—a captivating sight.
‘Once upon a time I rode every chance I could,’ she said dreamily. ‘So I well understand what a joy it is to view the countryside from the back of a horse.’
He nodded. ‘If we can procure a riding habit for you and a ladies’ saddle, would you like to ride today?’
He could pay off the coachmen. They certainly would not mind receiving the same pay for a trip they did not have to take.
Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you cannot arrange such a thing.’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I can try. We shall see what can be done.’
Her eyes brightened. ‘I would love to ride.’
* * *
It took some effort—and a generous output of coin—but Garret managed to provide Miss Tilson with a decent and well-fitting riding habit, riding boots, gloves, hat, riding crop and a side saddle that suited her almost as well as if made for her. He paid enough for the owner of the items to purchase three replacements and ones of finer quality, too.
But he would not tell Miss Tilson the cost. It exceeded her yearly salary, which would seem a fortune to her, but to him, now that he’d inherited wealth, it was a mere trifle.
The stable provided them both with horses, which they would change periodically at other coaching inns on the road.
The air was crisp and the sky so vivid a blue it almost hurt the eyes. Rolls of white clouds added to the day’s grandeur. What finer day could there be for a ride?
In Chester the road was busy with farm wagons, mail coaches, carriages of all kinds, from the simplest gig to elegant landaus to a lumbering post chaise, but as they rode further away from the town there were times they were alone on the road and could ride side by side.
‘How are you faring?’ he asked. ‘I can always hire a carriage if riding is too taxing.’
She was as game as he’d hoped, though. ‘It is not too taxing.’ She smiled at him. ‘It is wonderful!’
Garret was pleased. He’d brought her some happiness after all she’d been through.
‘You ride well,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘It is one of my favourite pastimes, I must say. When I was a little girl I rode astride and bareback on my beloved pony. When I was sent to school, my father provided a horse and I learned how to ride properly.’
‘Where was your school?’ he asked.
Her smile faded and she took a moment to answer. ‘Bristol,’ she finally said.
Whenever he asked her a question, her demeanour changed. It kept him from asking more.
But as they rode in silence for a while, he felt compelled to say something. ‘You must have the use of the stables at Brookmore. There are a couple of mares there—my sister-in-law’s horses—that you would find pleasant to ride.’
Her face lit up. ‘I might ride? How very wonderful!’
Changing horses at the inns gave them both a chance to stretch their muscles and ease any soreness from the time in the saddle. Garret was used to long hours on horseback, but Miss Tilson could not be as seasoned, even if she loved riding.
When they took refreshment at the inns, their conversation was more comfortable than the night before, but, then, any questions he asked her were about the inn, the food, the fresh horses they were given. Apparently questions about the present were not difficult for her to answer.
He liked being in her company. She was neither too chatty nor deadly silent.
* * *
When the sun dipped low in the sky, they reached the outskirts of Preston. Preston was a large and busy town and the traffic on the road was almost as bustling as London. Many a male rider would have found it daunting to guide a horse through such busy streets. Miss Tilson still rode confidently.
He led her to the inn. In the yard, ost
lers ran up to hold the horses. Garret dismounted and turned to see Miss Tilson expertly slip off hers. Their gazes caught briefly and, for a moment, he was lost in the depths of her hazel eyes.
He quickly glanced away.
For a multitude of reasons—her position, his fiancée—he must not allow any physical attraction to her, yet at unexpected moments like this desire coursed through him.
The ostler handed him his valise and Miss Tilson gathered the small bag carrying the few items she could now call her own.
She took a step and winced.
He stepped towards her and put his arm around her. ‘Are you able to walk?’
She let him support her. ‘I am stiff, of course. I’m sure it will pass.’
He was more than happy to have her lean against him, although this was precisely the sort of contact he should avoid.
When they entered the inn and Garret gave the innkeeper his name, the innkeeper’s eyes lit up.
‘Lord Brookmore, sir. Welcome.’ The man bowed. ‘Let me assure you your rooms are ready and the items you requested have been placed in the lady’s room.’
Miss Tilson looked at him quizzically.
He did not enlighten her.
Their rooms were on the first floor, next to each other, too close to make defying temptation easy. Better he were on the other side of the building.
The innkeeper grinned as he opened Miss Tilson’s door.
Obviously the man Garret had sent ahead had managed his task very well. Across the bed were items of clothing and rolls of cloth, everything he could think of that would be of use to her.
* * *
Rebecca gasped. ‘What have you done?’
The bed was laden with rolls of cloth, but there were also three dresses, shifts, petticoats, gloves and hats.
She stepped into the room as the innkeeper withdrew.
Lord Brookmore stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Preston is known for its cloth. I simply took advantage of this fact. I sent a man ahead.’
‘The cloth is beautiful.’ She gestured to the pile. ‘But there is clothing here, as well.’
The innkeeper spoke up. ‘My wife took up the challenge, miss. She found a dressmaker who had dresses the buyers never collected. I will send my wife to assist you whenever you wish. She has a seamstress on hand to address any alterations.’
Rebecca could not find her voice. Lord Brookmore had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense for her, so unlike how other men had treated her of late. Her brother begrudged any expense and had only arranged the marriage in order to be rid of her.
Lord Brookmore spoke. ‘You must select what you like, Miss Tilson. As many pieces as you like. When we get to Brookmore House a local seamstress can make whatever you need.’
She smiled at him in wonder. ‘This is so generous.’
His face stiffened. ‘I am clothing my nieces’ governess. You need clothing and I am well able to provide it.’
She walked back to his side. ‘I am so very grateful.’ She touched his arm and it seemed as if the warmth of his kindness spread all through her.
The innkeeper broke in. ‘Shall I ask my wife to attend you?’
Rebecca lifted her hand away. ‘Yes. Please have her come at her convenience. I will just wash off the dirt of the road.’
Lord Brookmore stepped away from the doorway. ‘I will leave you now. Send word when you wish to dine.’ He turned to the innkeeper. ‘May we have a private room for dining?’
‘I’ll see to it, m’lord.’ The man bowed again and left them.
Rebecca did not wish for Lord Brookmore to leave. ‘What time would you wish to dine, sir?’
‘Whenever you wish.’ His tone softened. ‘I need to clean up, as well.’
But neither of them moved. His blue eyes seemed to pierce her, reaching parts of her that felt vulnerable and raw. Perhaps he really could see inside her. He certainly was able to anticipate her needs and discern her emotions. When had a man ever been able to do that? She’d been used to demanding what she needed.
Lord Brookmore averted his gaze and took another step back. ‘I will leave you now.’
She watched him enter his room and close the door behind him. Only then did she do the same.
* * *
By the time Rebecca had stripped off her riding habit and washed off the dirt of the road, the innkeeper’s wife and the seamstress knocked on her door.
‘I am Mrs Bell, dear.’ The woman was small and round, with a kind face and warm voice. ‘This is Miss Cox. We were told of your misfortune. You poor creature!’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well. Let us see what we can do about providing you with some clothes to wear.’
The two women helped Rebecca out of the corset and shift she’d been given in Moelfre and into the undergarments that Mrs Bell had brought her. Two of the shifts fit her very well and one of the corsets was near perfect and so much more comfortable than the one from before. There was a nightdress that would be heaven to sleep in and two day dresses that fit her well enough.
One needed only minor alterations, which were accomplished on the spot. The other, the seamstress promised to have ready by the morning. With the help of the two women, Rebecca chose a length of wool for a winter dress and another for a cape. She picked out some plain white cotton for some aprons and caps and a print for another dress.
The ship had carried two trunks full of her clothing. She’d packed walking dresses, morning dresses, carriage dresses, dinner dresses, nightdresses and ball gowns. She had hats for all occasions and several pairs of shoes and gloves. Her undergarments had been made of soft linen. The wardrobe had been worthy of an earl’s daughter and soon-to-be wife of a baron.
These makeshift clothes were—serviceable. But they were also more dear to her than all of her lost dresses. Because of the thoughtfulness behind them.
Her father had indulged her with the finest clothes and jewels—all lost now—but he’d been unable to stand the sight of his daughter after her mother died. She’d reminded him too much of his beloved wife.
When Mrs Bell and Miss Cox left her, Rebecca took the pins from her hair and brushed it out with the brush Lord Brookmore had purchased for her. She rearranged it into a simple coil at the back of her head, as Claire had done. She wore the dress that the seamstress fixed for her, a dress of plain grey.
She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror that had been provided for her.
Her breath caught.
She saw Claire Tilson.
Donning the lavender gloves Lord Brookmore had purchased for her in Moelfre and the paisley shawl, she glanced at her image again and felt a little more like herself.
She left the room and knocked on Lord Brookmore’s door.
He answered it in his shirtsleeves and looked even more handsome than when wearing his well-tailored coat, waistcoat and neckcloth.
‘Miss Tilson,’ he said in some surprise.
Oh, dear. This was a bit improper of her. ‘You said I should let you know when I was ready to dine.’
‘I assumed you would send word.’
Yes, but it had seemed silly to send someone else with the message when she was right next door. Besides, she had seen her father and brother in shirtsleeves on occasion—but they did not look at all like Lord Brookmore.
He quickly donned his waistcoat and buttoned it.
She averted her gaze. ‘I can return to my room, if you would prefer to eat later.’
‘No. No. I am quite ready.’ He put on his coat, pulling at the lapels and the cuffs to straighten its fit. He threw a neckcloth around his neck and managed to tie it into a reasonably neat mathematical.
He paused, his eyes scanning her. ‘That is one of the new dresses? It looks well on you.’
Her face flushed at the compliment. Why should she reac
t so to such mild praise when most men’s flattery left her cold? Who had ever complimented her when wearing such a plain garment?
* * *
Their dinner was a lovely relaxed affair and Rebecca marvelled that there were long moments when she did not think of the shipwreck and when she quite forgot she was supposed to be a governess.
When Lord Brookmore’s eyes lit upon her, it seemed as if her insides would melt. She’d met other handsome men, but he was so much more than any man she had ever met.
How ironic that she should meet him as his lowly employee and not as a suitor. As Lady Rebecca she would have been acceptably eligible to him.
Not that he would have desired such an impulsive, wilful female, who’d defied her brother until he’d put her in a corner from which she could not escape.
Except she had escaped. All it had taken was the loss of Claire’s life.
That thought brought a stab of pain.
But during the dinner with Lord Brookmore she tried very hard to push thoughts like that away and instead simply enjoyed his company.
* * *
After dinner they climbed the stairs to their rooms.
‘Do you wish to ride again tomorrow?’ he asked.
She glanced up at him. ‘I would love to ride.’ Riding had made the trip a pleasure.
‘We should reach Brookmore House tomorrow.’
He walked her to her door where she would have to take on the role of governess completely and leave Lady Rebecca behind. A companionable night like this would be impossible then. A viscount simply did not become friends with a lowly governess.
Like the night before, he held his hand out for her key. She took it from her pocket and placed it in his palm, very aware of her fingers brushing his skin.
He unlocked the door and returned the key to her.
She gazed up into his face. ‘My lord, this was a lovely day. How can I ever thank you for all the kindness and generosity you’ve shown me?’
He stared at her, not speaking. They stood close, no more than a foot apart. His scent filled her nostrils, the faint odour of horse, of lime and something very male. It was more intoxicating than the wine she’d consumed at the meal.
