The Earl's Honorable Intentions

by Deborah Hale

  Lasting peace would never be possible while Bonaparte remained at liberty. Gavin knew he had a vow to keep. And he must keep it, no matter the cost.

  It was all very well that the army had been victorious, Hannah reflected. But why must the earl inquire about military matters before asking about his children?

  Hard as she tried, she could not quench a spark of her old antagonism toward him. She told herself not to be so foolish. His lordship was awake at last, with wit and energy enough to speak. Was that not what she had prayed for during these past anxious days and nights? Surely his thoughts would turn to his children soon enough.

  A strenuous examination of her conscience forced Hannah to admit she was partly vexed that the earl had opened his eyes just when she’d closed hers. She had only meant to rest them for a moment, but fatigue had gotten the better of her.

  Now she berated herself for the lapse. What had been the point of sitting up with her patient night after night if she could not remain alert to keep watch over him and respond if he needed her? Worse yet, his lordship had caught her in the failure of her duty. She had compounded her disgrace by seizing hold of his hand and crying out her relief at finding him awake. What must he think of her for behaving in such a forward manner?

  In response to her report of the battle, Lord Hawkehurst nodded. “Lasting peace is my wish, too, Miss Fletcher. And of many others, I am certain.”

  His words came as a relief to Hannah. When the earl had returned to Edgecombe the previous year, he’d seemed distracted and restless, as if he could not fully embrace a life of peace. Perhaps his latest taste of warfare had made him ready to settle down to family life at last.

  The earl seemed to rally his strength to continue. “I fear any hope of lasting peace will be in vain as long as Bonaparte remains free to plot his next conquest. The man must be stopped!”

  His right hand clenched into a fist, which he pounded on the bed with some force. The instant he did, his features twisted in a grimace of pain.

  Hannah chided herself for getting him started on a subject that provoked such strong feelings. The earl needed to stay quiet to give his wound a chance to heal. “I am certain he will be, sir. The Duke of Wellington will see to it.”

  Hoping her assurance would calm his lordship, she sought to divert his mind to less troubling subjects. “Now that you are awake, you must be hungry and thirsty. Dr. Hodge recommended beef tea to help you regain your strength. Let me heat some for you.”

  For the next little while, Hannah busied herself pouring a quantity of broth into a long-handled copper saucepan then warming it over the glowing coals in the hearth. She hoped by the time it was ready, Lord Hawkehurst would have grown calmer.

  Perhaps his outburst had tired the earl, for he lay still and silent while she prepared his beef tea. Was he beginning to wonder what she was doing here? The Edgecombe servants, and even the doctor, might not question her decision to the earl. But now that he was aware of her presence, Lord Hawkehurst might have a very different opinion on the subject.

  After several minutes, Hannah tested the beef tea with her finger to make certain it was warm enough to be appetizing but not so hot that it might burn his lordship’s mouth. Then she decanted it into a spouted cup, which she bore back to his bed.

  As she brought it toward him, the earl scowled. “I am not an infant, Miss Fletcher. Now that I am conscious, I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

  Hannah bit back a sharp retort. It had been a good deal easier to feel caring and protective toward Lord Hawkehurst while he lay unconscious. Now he turned his dark gaze on her and spoke in a gruff parade-ground tone, as if he expected his every order to be obeyed without question. On top of her exhaustion and grief, his imperious manner stirred up turbulent feelings that she was hard-pressed to subdue.

  “As you wish,” she replied through gritted teeth. “If you believe you are equal to the effort.”

  She drew back and watched his lordship struggle to sit up. From the way he moved, she could tell he was weaker than he’d realized, and perhaps light-headed as well.

  “Don’t just stand there.” He seemed vexed at being forced to ask for help. “A little assistance, if you please.”

  “Of course, sir.” His request brought Hannah a flicker of satisfaction, but she took care to conceal it. Instead, she set the cup on a nearby table then slipped her arm beneath his for support.

  Several times during the past days, she had lifted the earl’s head to give him a drink and thought nothing of it. Now that he was aware of the contact between them, she found herself intensely conscious of it as well. With an awkward effort, she adjusted his pillows then helped him lean back against them.

  When she offered him the spouted invalid cup, his lip curled. “I would prefer to eat with a spoon from a proper bowl.”

  Keeping her mouth firmly shut, Hannah poured the broth into a bowl and fetched his lordship a spoon. Then she stood back and watched him try to feed himself. As he raised the spoon to his lips, his hand trembled. Some of the beef tea spilled onto the breast of his nightshirt.

  He muttered something under his breath. A curse, perhaps?

  “Would you like my help, sir?” she inquired.

  “I can manage.”

  He persisted, though Hannah wondered whether he was getting more of the broth on his nightshirt than into his stomach. Exasperated as she was with his stubborn independence, she could not help but admire it, just a little.

  She did not want to admire anything about the Earl of Hawkehurst, Hannah reminded herself. She had cared for him well, perhaps even tenderly, while his survival was in doubt. She’d done her best to forget the veiled hostility that had existed between them and all the complaints her poor mistress had voiced about him. Seeing him awake, gruff and obstinate as ever, she could no longer forget.

  “Now that you have inquired about the military situation, perhaps you would care to know how your children are faring.” She sank back down onto the chair beside his lordship’s bed, her spine stiff as a poker.

  “My children.” The earl’s voice lingered over that word as if it referred to something strange and possibly frightening. “Your letter arrived just as my regiment was summoned from Nivelle. We were obliged to ride through the night to Waterloo. I did not have an opportunity to read it until just before the battle. By then it was too late to…”

  His voice trailed off, and for the next few moments he concentrated on spooning the beef tea into his mouth as if his life depended on it.

  Did he expect some response from her? Hannah sat stubbornly mute. Clearly she’d been wrong to assume Lord Hawkehurst had deliberately ignored her summons to his wife’s deathbed. Still she could not bring herself to say anything to soothe his conscience. It was up to God to forgive him, not her.

  Finally his lordship broke the brittle silence that had descended between them. “I tucked your letter into my sabretache before the charge. It must still be there.”

  Must he bring everything back to military subjects? Hannah pressed her lips tightly together to keep from saying something she might regret. No matter what her opinion of the earl, she must try not to increase the antagonism between them. Otherwise he might decide to engage a more congenial governess for his children.

  “My wife was delivered of twins.” The spoon in his hand trembled again. Had he overtaxed his strength already? “A boy and a girl, I believe you wrote.”

  “That is correct, sir. Her ladyship asked to have them christened Alice and Arthur. In honor of her late mother and His Grace the Duke of Wellington.” A lump rose in Hannah’s throat as she recalled the vicar performing the sacrament at the bedside of the children’s dying mother.

  When she managed to get her voice under control, she added, “Her ladyship requested I stand as their godmother.”

  Though she was able to keep her voice from quavering, Hannah could not prevent a note of defiance from creeping into her tone. Being a godparent conferred certain obligations and r
ights regarding the child’s upbringing, especially if one or both parents were deceased. It was an honor usually bestowed on a relative or close friend of the family. Among the nobility, it was customary to ask someone of higher rank. Certainly not a mere governess.

  “Did she?” There could be no mistaking the earl’s disapproval as he scowled down at his beef tea. “I suppose there was no one more suitable at hand. How have the little ones been faring? Are they well?”

  Hannah gave a stiff nod. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances, sir. I placed them with wet nurses. They seem to be thriving.”

  “Very good. And Lord Edgecombe?”

  “Your son is well enough in body but very much affected by the loss of his dear mother, as you may imagine.”

  The earl would have to imagine his young son’s feelings for Hannah was under no illusion that he shared them. From the moment he’d regained consciousness, Lord Hawkehurst had shown far more interest in whether Napoleon Bonaparte still lived than the fact that his wife had died.

  “Indeed.” His lordship’s voice sounded suddenly weary. His hand sank onto the bedcovers, the spoon lightly grasped between his fingers. “I have had enough of this beef tea. Kindly take it away.”

  Hannah doubted he had managed to feed himself half as much as he might have eaten with her help.

  “Is there anything else I can fetch or do for you, sir?” she asked as she retrieved the bowl and spoon. “A clean nightshirt, perhaps?”

  The instant she asked the question, Hannah wished she could take it back. She had not been able to resist the urge to remind Lord Hawkehurst that his stubbornness was responsible for the state of that damp, stained garment. As a consequence, she had left herself open to a most awkward possibility. If his lordship agreed to her suggestion, she would either have to go wake the footman or assist the earl herself.

  “That will not be necessary,” he replied, to her vast relief. “It can wait until morning. Then I will want a footman to help me wash and shave as well.”

  “I will make the arrangements, sir.” Hannah returned to the bed to help him lie down again, but he warned her away with a stern look.

  With obvious effort, he inched down in the bed until he lay nearly flat again. By the time he was settled, his eyelids were beginning to droop.

  When Hannah resumed her seat beside his bed, the earl shot an exasperated glance in her direction. “I have no intention of dying, Miss Fletcher, so there is no need for you to watch over me. Go to your own bed and get a proper sleep. You look as if you could use it.”

  No sooner had he finished speaking than his eyes fell shut.

  “I will, sir.” Hannah replied, though she did not stir from the chair. “If you insist.”

  As she expected, no such insistence came. Lord Hawkehurst’s fierce features gradually relaxed and his breath soon came in slow, deep waves.

  An answering sigh escaped Hannah’s lips. In part it expressed her relief and gratitude that the earl seemed likely to live. But it also contained a note of frustration. Now that he was conscious, she feared her master’s stubborn independence might prove the greatest obstacle to his recovery.

  Gavin could not remember closing his eyes. But when he opened them again the room was bathed in muted red-gold light. This waking did not disorient him as the last one had. He recalled his late-night conversation with his son’s governess and his pitiful effort to feed himself.

  “Good morning, sir.” Hannah Fletcher’s greeting made him start, provoking a sharp twinge in his wounded side.

  Had she deliberately tried to startle him in retaliation for catching her napping last night?

  “What are you still doing here, Miss Fletcher?” he demanded. “I thought I ordered you to bed.”

  “You did mention it, sir.” She tried to smother a yawn but failed. “I asked if you insisted, but you did not.”

  Gavin scowled. As colonel of a regiment, he was accustomed to being readily obeyed. “I am not in the habit of giving orders I do not insist upon. I expect you know that. Why did you choose to ignore me?”

  “As I said, sir—”

  He did not need to hear her excuse again. “From now on, you may take my insistence for granted. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir.” Her answer sounded meek enough, but a mutinous tilt of her chin suggested otherwise.

  If he was not careful, Miss Hannah Fletcher might soon be running his household and him along with it, just the way she had with his wife. An unexpected pang of sympathy for Clarissa stung his heart. Poor creature, overborne by two strong-willed people with very different ideas.

  “Good.” Gavin wished he could stand. It was difficult to exert the proper authority while he lay flat on his back and had to look up at Miss Fletcher. Not to mention that the woman had recently seen him at his most helpless. It rankled his pride and inflamed his temper.

  As this point in a conversation with him, any of his junior officers would have had the good sense to hold their tongues and make themselves scarce at the earliest opportunity. It seemed his son’s governess had less discretion… or perhaps more courage.

  “I can assure your lordship it was never my intention to disregard your orders,” she insisted. “When you went to sleep so quickly, I was afraid you might have fallen unconscious again. I felt it would be unwise to leave you alone in case you took a turn for the worse.”

  So she had disobeyed him for his own good? It made Gavin feel rather a fool for speaking sharply to her. So did the vague memory of having been tenderly cared for while he was incapacitated.

  “What do you mean fallen unconscious again?” He did not recall any waking before last night.

  “The night before last. Or was it two?” Clearly exhaustion had muddled Miss Fletcher’s memory. Gavin had seen the effect often during the grueling Peninsular campaign. “You began speaking quite clearly, as if you were awake. But you did not appear to know where you were. You addressed someone named… Molsely? Molesby?”

  “Molesworth.” The name burst from Gavin’s lips before he could contain it.

  “That’s right.” Miss Fetcher rubbed her eyes. It made Gavin weary just to look at her. “You kept telling him not to go. You said the two of you must put a stop to Bonaparte.”

  Her words revived a wrenching memory. If she had struck him hard on his injured side, Gavin doubted it could have hurt worse. But it was worth the pain to be reminded of his vow and his mission. Valuable time had already been lost while he’d lain here useless.

  “If I might ask, sir,” she continued, “who is Mr. Molesworth?”

  “You may not ask!” Gavin snapped. “And he is… was Major Molesworth.”

  Before the impertinent creature had the audacity to quiz him further, he seized command of the situation. “Enough of this, Miss Fletcher. I am in full possession of my faculties now and I want you to summon a footman to help me make myself presentable.”

  He wished his aide-de-camp had been able to accompany him back from Waterloo. Then he would never have been placed in the awkward position of being tended to by Miss Fletcher. But the lad had sustained wounds of his own, so Gavin had insisted he stay behind to recover.

  In case the governess should be in any doubt about whether he meant to be obeyed, he added, “I insist upon it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hannah Fletcher shot to her feet, her spine stiff and straight as a ramrod. Gavin half expected her to snap a mocking salute. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “As a matter of fact, there will. I want breakfast ordered. Not gruel or broth or jelly, but a substantial meal that will put some strength back in me—eggs and bread and meat.”

  Miss Fletcher’s lips, which had looked so soft and innocent while she slept, now tightened in a frown of disapproval. “Are you certain that will be wise, sir?”

  “It is not for you to question the wisdom of my instructions, Miss Fletcher, only to carry them out at once. I also want the newspapers fetched so I can find out how the situatio
n in Europe stands.”

  She did not agree with that, either. Though she managed to hold her tongue, Miss Fletcher’s countenance expressed her opinion most eloquently.

  “Very well, sir.” She started for the door.

  “One more thing,” he called after her.

  She came to an abrupt halt.

  “And what might that be, your lordship?” she inquired through clenched teeth.

  “After you have carried out my other instructions, get to bed and do not stir from it for at least eight hours. Or better yet, ten. I reckon you look worse for this whole ordeal than I do.”

  She stalked away without another word—at least none he was meant to hear.

  But as she withdrew from the room, Gavin thought he overheard her mutter, “That’s because you have not looked in a mirror lately.”

  For reasons he could not fathom, her insult made him break into a foolish grin.

  Chapter Three

  THAT MAN!

  The moment Hannah woke, she began to fume again. The arrogance of him, ordering her off to bed in that domineering manner! As the earl’s employee, she was paid to do his bidding with regard to the care of his children. That did not give him control over every aspect of her life. How much she slept or ate was her own business, not his.

  She also chafed at his rudeness in pointing out how haggard she looked. Would it have pained him to spare her a word of thanks for watching over him night after night?

  Such thoughts had run through her head before she lay down to snatch a brief nap, making her fear they would prevent her from sleeping a wink. Badly as she needed the rest, part of her wanted to defy Lord Hawkehurst by remaining awake. But the moment her head touched the pillow, she had fallen into a deep, exhausted doze from which she did not stir for…