"I shall come sit with you if you can just give me a bit more room, and see what I can do."
He soon wheeled the chair over a few inches to give her more room. They spent a companionable hour going over the rest of the report. She volunteered to make him a fair copy to post to Horse Guards.
"Oh, no, really, you don’t have to."
"I don’t mind, honestly. You can catch up on your correspondence whilst I do."
In truth, she was bursting to read the whole thing. What she had seen already piqued her curiosity no end, and she was still looking for clues as to why he was so grim and haunted by the past.
So Michael sat beside her going through his accumulation of mail while she wrote out the corrected final draft of the report, occasionally asking him to clarify a word or check the spelling of a name.
But always Michael was aware of Bryony’s gentle presence, her dark cloud of hair escaping from the confines of its pins as she worked. He looked consideringly at her profile, her exquisite neck.
What to do for the best so far as Bryony was concerned, that was the question. She and her sons had settled in well, but this was not the life they could have. Not if he helped them. To allow her to continue working for him was unthinkable.
But then so was letting her leave. She had too much pride to take his assistance without working for him in exchange. She really ought to have an establishment of her own. He felt a selfish brute for ever allowing her to remain.
The truth was he adored having them in the house. Had enjoyed every minute they had shared, playing chess and cards and conversing all the while, reading aloud, and even playing the pianoforte. He had adored music before the war, but had not played for a very long time until she encouraged him. Her wonderful soprano voice even gave him the urge to set to music some of the poems he had composed in Portugal and Spain, kept in a separate journal as too personal to ever be revealed.
He wondered what her life had been like in Wales. If she had a home of her own, he was sure that the men would buzz around the well-bred widow like flies around a honey pot and she would be far away and truly lost to him. She seemed happy here, and less haunted by her past. Was it really so unfair to allow her to stay?
But the fact was that her eldest lad would be a great man one day if given the right chances and upbringing. Living with him as the son of his housekeeper was simply not in his best interests. The boys needed a real man in their lives who could take them hunting and fishing, riding. All the pursuits of a gentleman.
Of course they could learn languages through their mother, and now all about business, and trade. They would have a great number of choices, if only they would go back home to the earldom.
What to do about their evil uncle was the problem. Michael took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote to his old friend Alistair Grant the barrister, confiding Bryony’s situation to him and asking for his expert opinion. He would hear from him soon, and they would leave....
"That’s a very weighty sigh," she observed quietly.
"I was just thinking about all of the opportunities the boys are missing by being here with me. Never having a chance to spend time with a normal man. I would ask you again to reconsider going home. In fact, you know full well I could force you to."
Her eyes flashed with defiance despite her despair at his seeming determination to get rid of her. "Do I not get a say in the matter?"
"You do. We’re discussing it now," Michael said mildly.
She sat back in her chair. "I see. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been so happy with you this past fortnight ever since the storm. I know I’m still trying to settle in, but I will work hard, make you proud."
He sighed again. "I know it. That isn’t the issue. It never has been. Don’t you see, Bryony, the longer you stay, the more difficult it will be to take up the reins of your old life once more. You’ve already been away six months and—"
"But I don’t want to go back. I was married to the Demon, for Heaven’s sake! If I never step foot in Wales again it will be too soon. Why do you refuse to believe me?
"Besides, who are you to judge? You’re no different. You refuse to rejoin the bosom of your family. Have rejected all the opportunities that being in your aristocratic milieu would entail. If you believe there’s more to life than endless rounds of socialising, why are you asking me to go back? Is it because you think that’s all I’m fit for?"
"No, not at all," he denied hotly.
She grasped his hand as it lay on the blotter. "Then don’t ask me again to leave. Please. I know you’re trying to help, that you care for us, the boys, I mean," she clarified quickly.
"They adore you, disabled or not. They’re not coming to any harm by being here with you. This is the happiest they’ve ever been. Me too. Please don’t keep trying to send us away?"
Her limpid blue eyes pleaded with him for understanding, and answers he really didn’t want to give her. She was so close, so tempting....
"I only want you to be happy. It must be a big change, living with a crusty old bachelor like myself—" He shrugged.
"I’m sure I’ll be fine. So long as you treat me like a useful and sensible member of society, not a bit of skirt, let me really help you with the things in your life that are important, we’ll get along well."
He stared at her for a time and then glanced down at the blotter at her lovely neat handwriting. She had done it again, got round him despite his best intentions.
"How are you coming with that paper?" he asked curtly.
"Nearly finished."
"Good. As soon as you are done with that, Miss Skirt, we can start teaching you about my investments."
She grinned at him and nodded.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the time dinner was announced, Bryony was famished, and her head was spinning. But she felt a huge sense of accomplishment, and was delighted with Michael’s warm praise for her quick grasp of the basic principles. They said Grace and then began to devour their fish with gusto.
"You’ve done very well. Now, I expect you to keep a little account book. The newspaper is delivered every morning. You can check the price of your consols and so forth."
"Thank you for not treating me like a twit."
"I’m a firm believer in equal rights for women. I do believe you ought to be protected in other ways, but there’s no reason why you cannot manage your affairs yourself. I had to learn, after all. Males are not born with a mastery of the stock market any more than a woman with a mastery of the harp or pianoforte."
"I know you play very well. Do you also paint and sketch?"
He nodded. "Yes, but only caricatures. I was known to have a very scathing wit in my day. It got me into all sorts of trouble at school. My brother Randall is an artist, a very talented one when he chooses to focus upon that side of his personality."
"I can well imagine you getting into all sorts of scrapes. You must have been a willful little article, worse than Darren or Gavin."
"Most assuredly." He gave a slight smile.
She marvelled at how something so simple could render him even more divine to look at.
"Such a busy man as yourself, it’s a wonder you have time for the boys. You will tell me if they are a nuisance, won’t you?" she requested quietly.
His pale blue eyes flashed fire. "They could never be that."
"I’m sure I have been, though. Nagging you about—"
"I’ve pressed you too," he conceded in a gracious manner.
"I know, but we’re clear about why I’m here. Anything you want or need. Please, let me help," she said firmly.
His breath caught in his throat at the offer. "I shall consider the matter. But for the moment you might contemplate helping the servants take inventory, discover all you can about the innermost workings of the household. I must admit it’s not something I pay much attention to. It runs smoothly, so I leave it alone. You may have different ideas as to what constitutes smoothly. I ask you as a favour to see what can be done
. If you can run a whole estate in the country by yourself, you can most certainly take me in hand."
"I shall then. Thank you for your confidence in me."
They smiled at each other tentatively, and turned back to their dinner.
After dinner, they went back to the study to work until supper, with the boys coming in and out pretending to be race horses, much to Michael’s amusement.
"Do you think you could ride if we were to manage to get you into the saddle?"
He shook his head. "No chance. Not unless it was one of those ornamental ones that support one before and behind," he said with a sigh.
"You wouldn’t think to look at me know that I was once a great horseman. Well, all my brothers were, especially Randall. Alas, my brother Francis was killed in a riding accident."
"Oh yes, I can tell with your muscles," she said, then blushed. The memory sprang to mind once more of his bare chest, his trousers slipping down over his huge…
Bryony shook her head and shuddered. Stop that.
She took a deep breath to calm herself. "I’m sorry about your brother."
He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I lost my family before that anyway when I enlisted."
He looked so grim she quickly suggested some music.
He nodded, relieved, and wheeled himself toward the drawing room. They finished the night with some Bach airs, and retired early. Each could not wait to get away to the privacy of their rooms to dream about the other.
The next fortnight of her sojourn in Bath was spent as per Michael’s request with, Bryony overhauling the house from top to bottom. She took him at his word and left no room untouched.
Apart from a couple of rides around the small property to see the lay of the land, she devoted herself to Michael and the boys. With a pinafore over her gown, and her hair tied up in a kerchief, and smudges of dust all over her, she was more lovely than ever in Michael’s eyes. He had all to do not to pull her into his lap for a bit of comfort, which he suspected would be as welcome to her as it would be to him. But no...
Bryony was acutely aware of Michael as a man, just as she knew he was aware of her as a woman. Once her initial round of frenzied chores were out of the way, she decided that whilst he admired her for her ready mind and hard work, few men found a bluestocking alluring.
She also knew that he was not acting upon his interest in her because of his role as employer, but also his conviction that he was somehow less than a man. She grew determined to show Michael just how much of a man he could be.
So each morning she woke him, putting on her most winning smile as she entered with a cup of rich hot chocolate which she put by the bedside before fluffing up his pillows and propping him up more comfortably. Her gowns were not too obvious, but she did occasionally pull them down and smooth them over her ample breasts, and bent over a great deal when she was near the bed.
Michael looked up and smiled. "Hello. How are you?"
"Well. And you?"
"Very well, thank you."
She would give him a few long intimate looks and reminders of what they needed to do that day whilst she bustled about selecting his clothes to wear and ensuring he had everything he needed.
Then she would strategically withdraw and wait for him to come to her.
Most of their day was taken up with chores, the investments and dictionary, and they worked long hours into the evening. Throughout the day the boys were ever at their side, clambering onto his lap for attention when their mother was running around tending to other things.
She was delighted at how well they got on with each other. It was as if he had always been with them. Occasionally she even fantasised that Michael was their real father, that her first husband had been a mere figment of her imagination, a horrible nightmare now over.
Bryony had other nightmares to contend with in any event. She still spent a great part of her nights in his room comforting Michael, and his violent reactions were diminishing as well. In fact, he seemed quite tender with her now, and even smiled in his sleep a few times as if he were glad she were there. But she was fairly certain that he had never awakened, had not guessed. She had a feeling he might be very angry if he did.
At the end of the fortnight he commented at breakfast one day, "I must say you’re doing wonders with the place. Much more cosy. Wonderful cushions, crocheted blankets, and I think I must have the best wardrobe in Bath now thanks to you. Not to mention Cook’s new receipts. Something smells delicious."
"I’m glad you’re pleased."
"I should like to take the boys to Bath shopping and for tea today."
"Oh, but we have so much to do—"
"I always make time for things which are important."
"Thank you. I shall get them ready. I hope you all have a lovely time."
"You’re coming too," he said, looking at her quickly.
"Oh no, I—"
"Of course you shall. I want your company. In any event I could never manage them both on my own, as well you know."
"What shall I wear?"
"I like your dark blue with lace. It really brings up your eyes." He blinked when he realised he had said too much. "Have you checked your investments today?"
Said blue eyes sparkled with delight that he should even notice her wardrobe in such minute detail. "I have." She hastened over to the desk to show him her book, with the price and her tracking on the graph.
"I have heard that’s as high as it’s going to go. Would you like to sell now, or take a gamble that my informant was wrong?"
"I trust you. You were correct last week, after all. We shall sell."
"We shall speak to our broker on the way to Sally Lunn’s."
She had been in and out of Bath several times on her own for some simple shopping, but had never gone to see that for which the small town had become so famous. Once they were at Sally Lunn’s they were so close to the Pump Room she suggested they go in.
"Dashed waste of time," he grumbled.
"You don’t mind if I go, do you?"
He looked surprised but shook his head. "No, I think I can manage the boys here."
"I won’t be long."
"Take your time. I find there is always some kind-hearted matron willing to take pity on a father out of his depth with his children."
"Especially one as handsome as you," she returned pertly.
"Of you go, bold wench, before I thwack you on the rump for teasing me."
"You really do look most splendid in that cravat and waistcoat, though," she said, admiring the silvery silk which shimmered like his eyes.
"I have the most amazingly talented woman in my life. Everything she touches turns to gold." He gave her a warm smile.
She stroked his shoulder and stepped back out into the street. She admired the Abbey for a brief moment before putting her back to it and hurrying down the street to the Baths.
She wasn’t really sure what she was looking for, what had prompted her to come apart from her promise to Blake that she would try to convince Michael to go back for treatment.
Had the soaking in the mineral baths really been as useless as he had given her to believe? Or had he just got stubborn?
She could see how he might not want to be gawped at by people, manhandled, treated like a sack of bones to be hauled from one place to the next.
Bath had become a fashionable watering hole for many invalids, just as Brighton was now becoming for its seawater thanks to the patronage of the Prince of Wales, and Buxton Spa in the north thanks to the patronage of the Duke of Devonshire. Michael had hinted at an aristocratic background. Was it also possible that he, like she, did not want to be recognised?
But no, he had friends, Blake, Alexander, the other Rakehells. Friends who had known him for years. He couldn’t be hiding, could he? He was hiding only from himself, and avoiding company for the same reason. He wanted no one’s pity.
She went to explore the bathing area, struck by the wall of heat as she entered. She stood at th
e edge and looked in at the greenish water.
She noticed a very large young man being pummelled by a small woman sitting on the edge of the tiles. She was using her hands to rub his shoulders and back and legs in a most determined fashion.
The couple were so striking in terms of both their appearance and deportment that she could not help staring at them. They were both dark-haired, with skin which gleamed like honey and eyes that glinted like gold.
At last the man met her eyes. He was accustomed to being stared at, not always for the right reasons. He decided the lovely dark-haired young woman was motivated by genuine curiosity, not racism, and spoke at last.
The Model Master Page 13
