by Julia Donner
“I must see to Jupiter.” He started to say something more, shook his head, and left. She stared at the doorway until the maid arrived. The scruffy footman followed, carrying her few belongings. Rosellyn had brought with her a tin of warmed water.
A spare frock, a nightdress, her brushes and a change of underclothing were taken from the makeshift luggage of her knotted cloak. After a quick wash, her soiled frock was taken away to be washed, her half-boots to be cleaned and polished. She hadn’t brought a hat or another pair of footwear. The small satchel held her toothbrush, spare gloves, her Bible, and handkerchiefs. She suffered a twinge of longing for the clothes left in the wardrobe at Charhill. She might not wear them often, but they were available should they be needed.
The nightdress lost some of its wrinkles hanging in the humid air drifting in from the slightly opened window. She had no night robe, and until she became more familiar with Rosellyn, sent the maid away. She needed time to think and reorient.
A brace of candles had been set in front of a tall mirror to reflect light around the room. She placed the chair in front of it and brushed her hair. After a while, she stopped thinking about her rash decision and evaluated the work needed to set the house aright. It was a frightful mess. She must speak with Mrs. Graham first thing in the morning. The elderly woman was quite obviously no longer able to attend to the responsibilities of a great manor. She would have to prepare Mrs. Graham for retirement and the idea of her place being assumed by another.
She gazed around the bedchamber, which wasn’t in much better condition than the rest of the house. All of the drapes would have to be taken down. The servants she would keep would need to be measured for new liveries. Next, an inventory of all that had to be done. Taffy would do most of it, but a budget and plan of attack would take days. With centuries of additions and changes, the manor had become a warren of wings and corridors. The scope of the task boggled. How had Bainbridge survived with an ancient housekeeper, no butler, no valet, and no discipline below stairs?
She resumed brushing, which helped her to concentrate. There were a few positives, beyond freedom from Cousin Henry’s scheme. Bainbridge had no strong ties to the purse strings, like most men. She would have a proper riding horse, an expense Cousin Henry refused.
In the negative, Holcombe presented something of a problem. She could be glad that she wouldn’t have much to do with him, since he was the sort who would not appreciate her meddling. He made her uncomfortable and she expected that in the household hierarchy, he was going to be the bitterest pill to pare down to size. He belonged to Bainbridge, but she planned to investigate why the steward had allowed the staff to become lax, while saying nothing about it to his employer. Perhaps that wasn’t fair. Bainbridge had no interest in anything but his horses.
The deplorable state of the house was more of an interesting challenge than a negative. Taken in parts, not as a whole, all could be restored, cleaned, repaired and improved. Charhill, a much smaller residence, had been easy enough to manage with Taffy’s help, but Cousin Henry had allowed no improvements.
After braiding her hair, she paced the room while munching cheese and bread. She was pleased to discover that Stokebrook had a fine well or other water source. The water tasted fresh and free of any metallic aftertaste.
One moment she pondered problems, and in the next, sudden weariness sapped her strength. Her feet felt impossible to lift and to carry her to the bed on the other side of the room. Exhaustion numbed the intimidating immensity of the canopied bed. The maid had folded back the bedcovering. She sank onto linen that held Bainbridge’s scent. She rubbed her nose against the pillow, liking it.
The mattress needed turning or replacement. Tomorrow. That was not a worry for tonight. She turned on her side to reach for her Bible and felt the familiar shift of her unfortunate bosoms. Sometimes, especially when she felt tender at the time of her courses, she’d bind them. During the day, the upper part of her corset held them still, but the annoying shifting of them bothered her during the night.
How wonderful it would be to have a thin, small-bosomed figure. Gowns draped so beautifully on slender frames. Her lumpy curves had nothing in common with Mrs. Rawlins, the woman the district whispered about, Bainbridge’s longtime mistress.
The widow lived well, set-up by her late husband. She wanted for nothing but male companionship, and for many years, she got that from Bainbridge. It had been a topic featured in letters sent from friends while she was at seminary. She often thought about Bainbridge and his relationship with the widow, even though thinking about it left a residue of sorrow. His longtime association with the widow was the reason she’d asked Bainbridge to be certain of his proposal.
County people had started to accept the liaison. Some speculated on a marriage between the two, even though the widow was a few years his senior. The supposition was countered with the notion that a woman nearing forty was too old to start breeding children and that the earl needed a nursery full of heirs. It was universally accepted that men married for heirs but kept mistresses for unspoken amusements.
Heavy-eyed and saddened by such thoughts, Leticia rolled away from his scent to lie on her back and gaze up at the underside of the canopy. She’d seen the widow many times in the village, a nodding acquaintance. Gossip hadn’t harmed the widow’s reputation, evidenced by the fact that Mrs. Rawlins never lacked a dance partner at the local assemblies.
She had sleek, dark blond hair, a willowy figure, and languid grace when she moved. Leticia’s family name numbered among the well-respected in England, but that didn’t hold the allure for men that the widow’s grace and beauty garnered. Would Bainbridge be repulsed by her lumpy figure in comparison? Stays helped to hold in the extra flesh and contain the jiggles, but no matter how she tried, she’d never been graceful.
Had she run from one man who’d considered her a frump to another man who thought the same but would be too kind-hearted to reveal his disappointment? A tear slid from the corner of her eye and into her hair.
She rubbed a cuff over her eyes when the door latch clicked. A shadow filled the doorway. Floorboards squeaked when he crossed the room but otherwise Bainbridge moved in silence. He halted in the light of the bedside candle, looming impossibly large by the bed. She knew that in time she would become accustomed to his size.
He started to snuff the candle between his fingers but stopped. “You’re still awake, little Cia.”
“It’s been an exhilarating day. I haven’t heard you call me that in years.” The deep mattress made for a bit of a struggle to sit up. “I’m tired but the irony of running from one marriage and into another has kept my mind spinning.”
Too late, she realized that she hadn’t pulled up the sheet to hide the wobbles. The candlelight barely reached his shoulders, leaving his face in darkness. He hadn’t acted like he noticed, but the suppressed tension he carried with him intensified.
She jerked the linen over her chest and tucked the ends under her arms. When she started to speak, he interrupted, “Are you having second thoughts, Leticia?”
“No. I made a vow in front of your friends. To me, that’s as important as saying the words with a priest. I am committed, Bainbridge.”
Before she realized what he planned, she found herself scooped up in his arms. The iron band of his arm against her back crossed under her shoulder blades. The other landed under her bottom, securing her against a torso that felt like a wall of stone.
The vibrations of his deep voice vibrated against her chest when he whispered, “Cia, you’re so soft.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll never be—”
He nipped her lower lip. “Have you ever been kissed?”
“What? A-a few times.”
“Did you like it?”
A wicked spurt of defiance made her say, “Only with Jeremy Buckham.”
Against her mouth he growled, “You won’t be kissing him ever again.”
“Of course not. Are you going to kiss me now?”
>
He brushed his lips back and forth over hers. “It’s always best to know how things will go on between us. As husband and wife.” He raised his head slightly to look into her eyes. “Until the ceremony, I won’t do more, but tonight and every night, whether or not we share this bed, it will begin and end with this.”
He tilted his head for the correct alignment, and gently, at first, placed his lips on hers. Jeremy Buckham’s kiss had been sweet and brief. Bainbridge wasn’t rough, but his mouth felt like he meant to conquer until he got his fill. She wanted to reciprocate but her body melted until she sagged in his arms.
Dazed and breathless, she could do nothing but silently blink when he deposited her back on the bed and pushed the sheets aside. He didn’t smile as he leaned down and placed his fists on either side of her waist. Braced over her, he surveyed her from her bare toes up. The pleased, territorial gleam in his eyes gave her a flicker of confidence.
Staring at her mouth, he said, “That was encouraging. We will do well together.”
Words were beyond her, so she merely nodded and gaped at him as he continued, “That was your first lesson, my Cia. Every night we will progress until you are comfortable with me touching you. Being near you, then with you.”
She swallowed, trying to imagine what came next, while feeling a bit disappointed that she had to wait to find out. He was preparing her, approaching her carefully, gentling her, as he would an untrained horse. A thought occurred—if he stayed with her every night, perhaps he wouldn’t visit the widow.
“Bainbridge, I don’t think I’m going to want to use your mother’s apartments. I would prefer to be with you.”
His eyes narrowed slightly and jaw muscles flexed. “It will be as you wish. For myself, I will welcome your company with me at night.” After kissing her again, he said, “Every night.”
Pushing away from the bed, he straightened up. She couldn’t see his eyes and yet felt the intensity of his stare. His voice sounded hoarse when he said, “Since you’re in unfamiliar surroundings, I’ll leave a light burning and the dressing room door open. Good night.”
He didn’t move, and she felt her breathing deepen under his gaze. Surprise and acute pleasure held her still when he cupped a hand around her breast, a gentle lift to test the weight, then he withdrew.
“Thank you, Cia, for agreeing to marry me. As you can see by the condition of the house, I’ve needed a wife.”
He drew the tossed aside sheet up to her chin, blew out the candle with a harsh puff, and headed through the shadows to the dressing room. Pale orange candlelight glowed in the doorway. He left it open, as he said he would.
Her skin tingled and her mouth felt dry. She wished he hadn’t ended the night with only a kiss. After all, she’d given him permission to ruin her at the inn. She was in his house, his bed. There was no question that she was utterly ruined if for some reason they didn’t marry. Why not have the experience? Did that make her an unwholesome sort, to have such an interest in what happened during intimacy?
The thumps of boots hitting the floor came from the other room. She hoisted up and propped her weight on her elbows, leaning a bit to peer through the shadows. He stood by the candle, his back to her, as he removed his jacket. Next, he reached with both hands over his head to grab the back of the shirt and pull it off. Taut skin gleamed in the mellow light. Then came the slow unfastening of breeches buttons. Her mouth went drier as he stepped out of the breeches and moved out of sight. He wore no underclothing.
She collapsed back on the pillows. Fudge! He hadn’t turned around. Other than statuary, she had no idea what the male lower half in front was like. Marble statues had the interesting bits covered with those ridiculous leaves.
What if she pretended to be afraid, or having a bad dream, and called out? Would he come to her, all naked and magnificent, show her what the lower half looked like? Better not call him tonight. The room continued to spin. She still couldn’t get enough air and she tingled all the way down to her toes.
One of the lights in the other room went out, leaving the flickering candle by the open door, and just as abruptly, she fell asleep.
Chapter 7
Bainbridge leaned his forehead against Jupiter’s neck. His horse smelled fragrant from the pasture. There had been no breeze last night and the stable block felt stifling. He had all the horses turned out onto the grass.
Earlier, the herd had come running the moment they saw him at the gate, slowing to a walk as they approached. Each one marched by, tails swishing and rumps swaying as they filed into and shuffled through clean straw. Crunching noises sounded as they found grain buckets.
Bainbridge strolled down the line of stall doors, sliding the locks home as he reviewed recent changes in his life away from the stable. The step he’d taken the day before still seemed unreal but had brought to his attention all that had been neglected for so long, since his father died. There was so much to think about now that Leticia was here.
Walking her through the house the night before evoked another kind of shame. The place had gone to rack and ruin. He spent his time in the stable and never paid attention to the manor. Other than to sleep, he was rarely there. But little Leticia deserved better.
He turned and leaned his back against Jupiter’s shoulder. The stud stood quiet and contented with his company, his large, brown eyes sleepy. All of his horses were a happy lot, he made sure of that. Would he be able to make his wife the same? She didn’t know the real Bainbridge. Oh, she knew about his fighting. She pretended to not like it, but he sensed her dislike of it had more to do with the possibility of him getting hurt than the violence involved. He couldn’t help that he had a violent, passionate nature. For her sake, he’d work on tempering it. He hoped she hadn’t heard about his mistress, for a man had to have some relief. Then he prayed she didn’t discover his shameful secret until they were well and truly married.
Scalding tension filled him from head to boots as he recalled the feel of her breast in his palm. She’d shocked him when she’d given her permission at the inn, but he knew better than to rush his fences. Untried horses needed time. So did women, and he didn’t like the idea of having a wife for heirs and another woman for sex. A smart man arranged things so that he had everything at home. His contemporaries never deemed fidelity as normal or regular, but that was the way he was going to have it.
His married friends, Rave and Peregrine, had no intentions of adultery. A smile twitched his lips as he thought of how their level-headed wives would react to another woman dipping into what was theirs. He pitied the female Freddy ended up marrying. Bates had been a bounder since they’d met at school. He veered away from those memories, as the stud shifted his weight and cocked a back hoof.
Bainbridge draped an arm over Jupiter’s back and pressed his face into Jupiter’s mane. He flexed his fingers. The weight of her breast, the fact that he’d been so bold and forward, still took his breath. This odd lack of confidence only happened with Leticia.
He’d known only two women in his life, the brash maid who’d enticed him up to the hayloft and Jessamyn Rawlins, the widow who’d taught him how to be a lover. Neither had made him feel as wild as Leticia did with her wide-eyed trust. Last night in that brash move, he gave in to temptation. He could no longer resist the soft mound and thrust of a prominent nipple. Surprise had quickly fled from her eyes, replaced by the flicker of passion. It had taken all of his will power not to fall on that lush body and devour it. He’d hungered for her the whole night through. Frustration drove him up from his bed and out to the stables long before dawn.
He rubbed his cheek against Jupiter’s mane. When had Leticia gone from laughing girl to voluptuous, mysterious woman? As an excited girl heading off to school the night of her parents’ party, she’d been irresistible. He’d dared to kiss her brow in farewell. The unexpected sight of her yesterday, standing in the sunlight, surrounded by a rough mill crowd had made him dizzier than all of Trupp’s blows put together. Hatless, her golden-red
hair gleamed under the bright sun.
When she’d smoothed her fingertips over the insignificant cut on his eyebrow, his imagination flamed, seeing her fingers elsewhere. The drive to claim her, take her, keep her, hold her as his own had taken over his thoughts. Last night, it had taken all of his will to leave and walk into the dressing room.
Perhaps it had always been there, this feeling of possessiveness, even when he was eleven and a part of her christening. Both sets of parents had stood by, sharing their intentions of making it a match. He’d looked down at the crying babe and sensed a connection, a comforting understanding for his future. He’d wished he could be the one smoothing the baptismal water over the brow of the girl he would one day marry.
After the christening, his mother had kept her hand on his shoulder, while the adults talked and planned the futures of their children. That was before his father went mad and sent his mother away, followed by the shock of his mother’s absence. Most mothers never bothered with their children once the heirs were born and the line secured, but his mother had been there to temper the crudeness and cruelties of the earl. And then, she wasn’t. She’d disappeared from his life without a word.
The hard knot of anger under his heart disintegrated into fear from the sudden thought that Leticia might also leave. The house had been neglected for decades. Seeing it through her eyes, the state of the place could only be described as slovenly. Everything needed tending and his servants had had little direction for years. It was long past time to accept the fact that Mrs. Graham was too old to contend with the scope of the disorder. Leticia mentioned someone named Taffy. He recalled a stern-faced, wiry woman making purchases in the village. His attention had been engaged when he overheard someone say that the woman was from Charhill. Perhaps the woman’s presence would help.
Bainbridge left the stall and headed for the house. He stopped at the pump to wash his face and hands, even though he loved the smell of horse and meadow. He took the stairs two and three at a time and strode down ill-lit passages, again noticing the neglect. At least he’d gotten rid of the broken pieces. The old earl smashed whatever he could get his hands on when in a rage.
