“They belong to a dead woman who will no longer use them,” she replied bravely, lifting up her chin. “Why do you keep everything here?”
She expected him to answer her question with a crotchety response. Instead, Bramwell reached out, put his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed it hard. His eyes glared with disapproval, and his lips pressed together in a familiar straight line. The look in his eyes frightened her, and for a brief moment, she thought he would physically hurt her body. Instead, he slipped his arms underneath her and stood to his feet.
Surprised by his action, she flung her free arm around his neck to hang on. Gently, he lowered her upon the bed. His eyes turned lustful as he contemplated her open robe that had come undone from the movement. Caroline flinched when his hand moved toward her neckline and fingered the nightgown between his thumb and finger.
“This used to be Rebecca’s,” Bramwell said.
He looked mesmerized as he touched the fabric. Caroline wondered if he remembered taking it off Lady Bellingham’s body. “Please remove your hand,” she asked softly, not wanting to anger him. Reluctantly, he pulled back.
“I apologize for my foolhardy behavior,” he said in a clipped tone. Bramwell stood tall and looked down upon her reclining on the bed. “I will call Millie to tend you, Miss Woodard. My advice is that you do not leave the bed without assistance lest you fall and injure yourself further.”
He turned to leave, but Caroline did not want him to go. She felt lonely and needy for his company. “Do you think I might dine with you this evening rather than taking dinner in bed?”
Bramwell stopped in the doorway and turned around with a dismal look upon his face. He stared at her for a few moments as if he were deciding whether he wanted her at his table or not. “I suppose that would be amenable,” he said. “I am afraid, though, the menu tonight is sea bass. Will that be agreeable to your taste, or would you rather have fowl or venison?”
“Did you purchase it or catch it?”
“What do you think?”
“For someone who owns and manages a mine, you do seem to have a lot of time to hunt and fish,” she said lightheartedly. “The fish will be fine. However, you will have to carry me downstairs. Will that be a problem?”
“No, it is not. Until seven thirty then,” he said. Bramwell gave a courteous nod and exited the room.
Caroline patted the side of her robe, relieved that the letter she had tucked in her pocket remained unnoticed. Thank God he didn’t discover her thieving act. Nevertheless, it felt good to comb her hair and dab a bit of rouge and lipstick on her face. At least he didn’t see her appalling appearance earlier.
“Oh, and Miss Woodard,” Bramwell said, startling the daylights out of her when he returned to her doorway. “You may choose one of Rebecca’s dresses to wear for dinner this evening.”
Bramwell looked at her thoughtfully and then made a surprising move toward the armoire. He opened the double doors and slid the hangers one by one until he found a particular gown.
“Why don’t you wear this one,” he suggested, laying it upon the foot of her bed. “It was always one of my favorites on Rebecca. I think your figure will do it justice.”
“If you wish,” she answered, eying the fashionable frock.
Apparently, he did not mind her wearing the perfume after all since he just asked that she put on another piece of Lady Bellingham’s clothing. Caroline didn’t know whether to be thankful for the offer or concerned.
Latest Kill
Bramwell paced his usual course in front of the fireplace, stopping intermittently to poke at the logs with an iron. The fire already burned hot, but he found an odd sense of relief with each jab he thrust into the burning wood.
He had spent the entire afternoon in torment over the evening ahead. When he fingered the nightgown that had been Rebecca’s, it resurrected the past with heated desire. The thought of their lovemaking in the very bed upon which he sat with another woman had been arousing, to say the least.
In spite of Miss Woodard’s prickly personality, he had surprisingly begun to feel an attraction toward her physically. No doubt the eruption of pure lust coursing through his body had been due to his lack of sexual intimacy for such a long period. Marital vows were not a prerequisite to enjoying the pleasures of sexual intercourse as far as he was concerned—whether or not he loved the recipient of his passion.
As he stood looking at the flames licking and consuming the wood, he pondered his emotions for the broken-legged guest on the second floor. Frankly, she merely reminded him of what he once lost and nothing more.
“Master Croft, dinner is ready,” Pearson announced from behind him.
Bramwell swung around and anxiously asked, “Is the dining room set as I requested?”
“Yes, sir, just as you asked,” he replied.
He had made an odd requirement for the dining table, but his butler had the sense not to question the reason. “Then I will fetch our dinner guest,” he said.
Bramwell turned and climbed the staircase. After reaching the landing, he took a few steps down the hallway and entered the room to find Miss Woodard sitting upon the edge of her bed waiting for his arrival. She looked stunning in Rebecca’s gown. In fact, she appeared ravishing, causing him to halt in his gait and take in the lovely vision. A moment later, he approached.
“Here, give me your hands and let me help you stand. I wish to look at you.”
She obeyed and placed her cold hands upon his palms. Perhaps she felt anxious about the evening ahead too. He pulled her gently to one foot and examined her plump breasts spilling over the top of her bodice.
“I’m afraid it is more revealing than I care to wear, Mr. Croft,” she proclaimed. “Nevertheless, since you deemed the dress important, I decided to comply. My only requirement going forth with dinner this evening is that you please not stare at me like a lecherous male as you do so now.”
Bramwell raised the brow over his left eye and noted her cheeks turn rosy pink. “Very well,” he said. “If you insist that I do not flatter you with praise, I shall keep my eyes focused elsewhere.”
Without any further warning, he gripped her around the waist, hoisted her into his arms, and carried her out of the room. She reacted to his swift action and held on to him tightly around the neck. She felt like a feather in his arms, and the scent of Rebecca’s perfume made it difficult not to think of the softness of her bosom.
Pearson met them at the dining room and held open the door. A moment later, he lowered her gently onto a chair and scooted it forward. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, for the most part,” she said, moving slightly in her posture.
He sat down and saw her consider the white rose on her plate. “I thought we were eating fish this evening and not flora,” she remarked sarcastically. Caroline picked up the rose and sniffed the bud. “White. How remarkably beautiful,” she commented.
“You’ve been through quite a bit of late, Miss Woodard, so I thought that the rose might soothe some of your disappointment.”
“That is very thoughtful, Mr. Croft.”
“I think now that you have slept under my roof we should dispense with our formal names. I have no objection to you referring to me as Bramwell and hope that you hold no objection to me calling you Caroline.”
“No, that’s perfectly fine,” she answered, laying the rose down above her plate. Her eyes remained on the flower, the meaning of which she did not know.
Pearson entered with the first course of soup. “Would you like a glass of wine with your dinner?” Bramwell opened a bottle of white wine on the table.
“Yes, that would be pleasant,” Caroline replied.
He poured an ample amount into both of their glasses. As they sipped their soup, Bramwell found it increasingly difficult not to imagine Rebecca next to his side. Caroline’s physical qualities held some similarities to Rebecca, but they were far from identical. To his chagrin, Caroline retained a smug look that tainted her beauty.
> “You know, Caroline, I will admit that when I first met you when you dined here at my home, I found you to be quite annoying in many respects.” His mouth curled into a half smile.
“Annoying?” She raised her head and looked at him brazenly.
“Well, you are very strong willed for a woman and outspoken. Am I not right in my assessment of your personality? You have said so yourself in not so many words.” He lowered his spoon to the rim of his bowl and then dabbed his lips with a napkin.
“Perhaps,” she admitted sheepishly. “But I dislike weak-willed women.”
“Define what you mean by that phrase. I am curious.” He leaned toward her showing interest.
“I mean women who cannot stand up for themselves nor have the bravery to express an opinion,” she clarified. “I have opinions, thoughts, and ideas like any man, and I don’t appreciate being silenced.”
“So I gather,” he replied. He inhaled a deep breath. “I will admit, to my shame, that when you used the term weak-willed women, I thought you were referring to morally loose ladies,” he snickered. Caroline dropped her spoon into the bowl. He had struck a nerve. “I apologize if I shocked you with my supposition,” he added.
“Not at all,” she replied with a clenched jaw. “From what I understand from Millie, you do not consort with women of morals.”
Bramwell snapped his fingers at Pearson. “Next course,” he bellowed, pushing his soup bowl away. The poor man was in for it tonight, he thought, as he watched Pearson jump into service.
“As you wish, sir,” he said. He removed their soup bowls and replaced them with the main course of sea bass.
“Ah, Mrs. Williams has done a fine job,” Bramwell said, as he eyed the mouthwatering meal. For Miss Woodard’s sake, he told her to remove the fish heads. Under the circumstances, though, he would have enjoyed witnessing her expression had they remained.
“You should watch what you say, Caroline, while eating. I wouldn’t want you to choke on a bone and have a repeat of our last dining experience.” He took a bite and let the flavor of the sea bass melt against his tongue, knowing he would refuse to answer her last statement regarding Rebecca’s morality. In retrospect, he began to wonder about Caroline’s morality and if it had ever been tested to the breaking point.
“Your catch is quite tasty,” she remarked.
“Well, then,” he began. “Are you saying that my latest kill is to your liking?”
“I said it is quite tasty, didn’t I?” she countered. “What more do you want?”
He put down his fork and then reached over and snatched the fork out of Caroline’s hand. Surprised over his move, she went to grab it back, but he kept it out of reach.
“You will get your fork back after we have a few words,” he told her with narrowed eyes.
“Fine, then. Say your few words and then give back my fork,” she snarled. “I am hungry.” She leaned back in the chair and folded her arms like a disgruntled child.
Bramwell placed his elbow on the table and leaned toward her to the right. She pulled back in response to his nearness. “Let us call a truce, Caroline. You are to be under my roof for quite a few more days, and if you wish to eat at my table, then I prefer we do so in peace. Snarling at each other like dogs does neither of us any good and will only strain any relationship we hope to form.”
Caroline paused before answering and kept her gaze focused upon his eyes. He remained steady in his scrutiny of her in return. As she continued to consider his comment, he thought perhaps a compliment might draw some response from her quiet pondering.
“You look lovely in the dress I chose. The color suits your complexion, and the style fits you flawlessly.” Bramwell twirled her fork between his fingers teasing her for a moment.
“Thank you,” she muttered. She lifted her head and then shoved her chin in the air. “I agree that we should call a truce between the two of us. If I am ever to get a bite to eat at your table, it is apparent that I must tone my attitude.”
“Very well,” he replied, handing back her fork. “Enjoy your sea bass.”
He took a few bites while watching Caroline out of the corner of his eye. Surprisingly, she devoured the food on her plate. While he was taking the time to enjoy Mrs. Williams’ fine cooking, she interrupted his last swallow with a question.
“So tell me, what did you mean by your words about hoping to form any kind of a relationship between us?”
He set his fork down and then leisurely took a sip of wine before answering her question. “Well that depends, of course, upon our getting to know each other better. I would imagine if our civility continues it could evolve into a friendship. However, as I understand it, you will be returning to London, so the chance of anything further developing between us is doubtful. Don’t you agree?”
Bramwell studied her reaction to his comment. She appeared as if she struggled to rein in her sentiments rather than express them outright. He swore that he observed dismay and sadness in her eyes. Rather than answering his last remark, she remained guarded and silent.
After finishing her food, she pushed the dinner plate away and dabbed her lips. Pearson quickly snatched it up. “Would you like another piece of fish, Miss Woodard?”
“No, that will be all,” she replied. Caroline continued her indifference.
“Shall we retire to the sitting room? I often enjoy an evening smoke—that is if you don’t mind.”
A weary sigh puffed from between her lips. “I suppose that would be agreeable. However, I will need you to take me there in your arms.”
Without hesitation, he scooted his chair back, pulled hers away from the table, and lifted her up. When her skirt slipped up slightly, he noticed that her ankle appeared swollen.
Bramwell set her in his favorite wingback chair. He had forgotten about Merlin who, upon seeing Caroline, jumped up from his place in front of the fire and greeted her with a wagging tail. He placed a paw upon her lap and looked at her eagerly.
“Merlin, go lay down,” he ordered. The dog did as commanded and turned around with his tail between his legs. He plopped on the floor and resumed his leisurely position in front of the warm flames.
“I apologize,” he said. “He must have recognized Rebecca’s dress and no doubt smelled her scent upon it.” The thought troubled him, but he attempted to slough off the memories.
He pulled a small stool over to the front of her chair. “You need to elevate your leg,” he said, picking it up gently and placing her foot upon the rest. “I see that your ankle is swelling.”
“Yes, it is uncomfortable and aches,” Caroline frowned.
“You know if you were not so bullheaded this wouldn’t have happened,” he said. He wandered over to a chair and sat down. “Pearson, get me a cigar, will you?” he yelled. Caroline flashed a disapproving frown over his tone. “He is used to my gruffness,” Bramwell said, defending his actions.
“Yes, quite used to it, miss. Nevertheless, I do not take it to heart. The master and I have been together for many years.” Bramwell nodded in agreement and took the cigar. “Your light, sir,” Pearson said, placing the flame at the end.
After a few puffs, Bramwell sank back into his chair and relaxed. “Are you sure you don’t care?” he asked, taking a drag. “I know some women do not like men who smoke.”
“No, I don’t mind. My father constantly has a cigar hanging from his mouth, so I’m familiar with the smell.” Bramwell glanced over at Merlin drooling over Caroline. “Merlin appears to like you,” he said.
“He is a fine-looking Labrador. Do you mind if I pet him?”
“No, go ahead.”
“Come here, Merlin,” Caroline said. Immediately he rose, wagging his tail, and walked over to her side. “Be a good boy and sit.” Merlin obeyed and then laid his chin upon her thigh. “You are a very nice dog,” she said. “But I think you need a bath.” She wrinkled her nose. “Cigars I can handle; smelly dogs I cannot.”
Bramwell chuckled. “Yes, he could use a b
ath. I will have Pearson give him a dipping in the morning and see if we cannot freshen him up a bit.”
After a few minutes of petting and silence, Bramwell thought the dog had gained plenty of Caroline’s attention. “That’s enough, Merlin. Go lay down.” Slowly he walked away and obeyed his master, plopping in front of the fireplace and rolling over on his side. “He will be asleep in a few moments in front of the fire, dreaming and twitching over something.”
A few strained moments of silence passed between them. Caroline seemed relaxed but lost in thought as she stared into the flames. As he looked at her sitting in a chair wearing Rebecca’s dress, the familiar sadness rose in his heart. Without warning, she turned her head and looked pointedly at him as if she knew his thoughts.
“Please,” she implored. “Tell me about Rebecca. Were you together for very long?”
Bramwell stiffened over her inquiry and drew on his cigar. He exhaled the smoke above his head, flicked the ashes in the ashtray on his side table, and then looked over at her anxious anticipation.
“For a few years,” he coolly replied. “Why do you want to know?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. She nonchalantly straightened her skirt with the palm of her hand. “I suppose if two people are to have any kind of relationship, they should feel free to share with one another on a more intimate level.”
“Intimate?” he smirked, visibly amused over her choice of words.
“Intimate conversation, Mr. Croft,” she tartly clarified.
“Well, I suppose you are right. What other tidbits would you like to hear, Miss Woodard?” He returned to the use of formalities as she had done.
“To be frank, I would like to know everything about you and Rebecca Bellingham. I am curious about your relationship and even more curious about the matter one must not speak about.”
“Are you?” he replied snidely. “You are quite intrusive with your questions.” He glanced at the flames for a moment and then responded. “On the other hand, for the sake of our growing intimacy, as you call it, I will tell you.”
Thorncroft Manor (A Novella) Page 7
