“Wherein two lonely souls find each other.”
Once the most pressing jobs were done, Ned took himself off to Lewes and handed over what seemed a great deal of money as security on a common licence to the Archdeacon. He didn’t like leaving Grace or the farm for the best part of the day, but if they were to marry without the banns being read, there was no other option.
He’d left Rufus on guard and made Grace bolt the doors behind him. It was unlikely Rufus would let anyone within a mile of the house, but if someone was ruthless enough to kidnap a woman, a dog would not stand in his way. Ned had left Grace instructions to keep away from the windows, and to hide if anyone came prowling about, but he still spent the four hours it took him to get to Lewes, do his business and get back, looking over his shoulder and fretting himself to death.
Once he’d returned, the licence tucked securely in his pocket, he saw to the horses and hurried back to the house. Never in his life had he been more impatient to get out of the cold and return home. Though their relationship had been perfunctory, once Sarah had gone, the house had felt bigger and emptier than Ned could have imagined. They might not have been lovers, or even really friends, but they’d discussed the day’s work, the beasts, and what crops had done well and those they were disappointed in. Since she’d died, loneliness had eaten at him, gnawing at his bones and making him feel hollow and weary, making every job that needed doing seem a trial to be endured.
He’d been fortunate enough to have found other work for the men he employed for the weeks before Christmas. Work was scarce, especially since the last blast furnace had closed at Ashburnham. Many of the men in these parts had been in iron production until the Midlands and the North had discovered a cheaper method using coke. Too many men had lost their livelihoods, and he’d not have turned his own workmen away if they’d had no other means to support themselves. As it was, he’d take them back on after Christmas, when that hardest of festivals had passed. It was a time for gathering your family about you, and Ned knew what he risked by giving himself time to think, to dwell on the bleak landscape of his life.
This was when loneliness bit hardest, when a bottle of strong spirits could feel like an old friend, beckoning oblivion. Ned would not allow himself such weakness, so he’d found other work for his men and decided the winter jobs would be his alone. He set himself a bone breaking schedule and kept his hands and mind busy. Mending fences over acres and acres of land was hard work and would send him home weary, weary enough to sleep without thinking and regretting.
Now he was reborn. Since Grace had arrived, he flew about the farm, working like a man possessed, with a vigour he’d not felt in a decade, and all for her. Every second of the day he was desperate to return to her, to be in her company again.
Her beauty still astonished him. It was like having some fine piece of art that ought to be in a museum given into his care. Except she was no artwork. She wasn’t cold and untouchable. No. Grace was warm and soft and, when she smiled at him, he felt like a king. She blushed often and easily, and he constantly reminded himself she was an innocent. Being raised on a farm and surrounded by boys and girls of the same ilk, Ned found it hard to credit how sheltered she’d been. No, not sheltered, but caged, shut away from the world. She’d no friends to speak of and had known little of life outside of her home, certainly not of men… until the past months, at least. Rage simmered inside him for everything she’d suffered at the hands of her father and brother. The desire to make others suffer for her pain was so visceral he could taste it.
He’d coaxed a little more of her history from her today. Her father had been an unpleasant, unloving man who guarded his daughter jealously. He’d forbidden her to mix with others, forbidden her to make her come out, preferring to keep her possessively at home. He’d had a cruel tongue and would lock her in her room if she disobeyed him. Occasionally he’d slap or shake her, but that seemed to be the extent of the physical violence she’d endured. Oh, it was enough to make Ned wish the man wasn’t dead so he could kill him himself, but compared to her brother….
Her brother.
Mr Harold Honeyfield.
Bastard.
The man would never know how much it took to rouse Ned to anger, but soon enough Honeyfield would know just how bloody angry he was. Ned had a score to settle there, and he was itching to do it, as soon as Grace was his wife and safe from her brother. As if selling his only sister to a monster wasn’t wicked enough, tormenting her with vulgar descriptions of what the life he’d arranged for her would hold….
Ned tamped the fury down, pushed the tempting image of his hands wrapped about Harold’s throat from his mind and forced himself not to run back to the farm. A fast walk was acceptable. He might feel like a lad with his first girl waiting for him with the promise of a kiss, but he was damned if he’d look too much like one.
Rufus scrambled to his feet, wagging his tail as Ned reached the door.
“Good lad,” Ned said, giving the dog some fuss for having guarded Grace so faithfully.
He kicked the mud from his boots and unlaced them with impatient fingers before hurrying into the house. As he entered the kitchen he was spellbound in a moment, just as he’d known he would be. The sight of her forced the air from his lungs like a punch to the gut as he took in the scene before him.
Grace was bent over the cookery book, her white teeth worrying her full lower lip in a way that made him want to kiss the poor, tormented flesh better. Her hair had fallen loose, several blonde locks escaping her pins, and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek.
Tenderness welled inside him as he saw the concentration she devoted to her task, so absolute that she’d not heard him enter. He remembered her pride and delight at midday as she’d presented him with two freshly baked loaves of bread, and the way she’d flushed with pleasure as he’d praised her efforts. She was so determined to learn how to please him, how to care for him.
His mouth grew dry as he wondered if that determination might be present in other, more intimate areas of their life. Desire rose like a tide, and then he was that green boy after all. God, he was so desperate for her he’d likely spend in his britches if she so much as touched his hand.
He watched as she peered into the saucepan she’d retrieved from the stove and then took a spoon, dipping it into the contents. His brain ground to a halt and other parts of him surged to life as her lips parted and she blew gently on the spoon. She tasted whatever it was, her nose wrinkling a little as her delicate tongue darted out and licked her lips.
That was all it took. His mind was ringing a bell and calling for last orders as his brain shut down, shut up shop and turned control over to his cock which was paying complete attention.
No. No. Behave. Ye have not wed the lass yet, Edward, my lad. Ye will treat her with respect, like she deserves to be treated.
Ned sucked in a breath as Grace looked up. It left his lungs again all in a rush at the smile that dawned on her face at the sight of him.
“Mr Hardy!” she exclaimed with such obvious pleasure that it was all Ned could do not to cross the distance between them, haul her into his arms, and show her just how pleased he was to see her too.
“Ned,” he said, though it sounded more like a croak than his name. “Call me, Ned, eh?”
Her smile widened. “Ned,” she repeated, as though she was trying it on for size.
He couldn’t breathe.
“I’ve cooked dinner,” she said, gesturing to the pot and then frowning down into it. “I’m not sure it’s very good, mind,” she added, wrinkling her nose again, the expression so endearing Ned longed to kiss her nose and smooth the tiny furrows away.
“Can’t wait,” he said, not daring to take his coat off in case she noticed his… er… affliction. Christ, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so out of control. It had been so long since he’d felt desire at all that it was hard to credit how overwhelming it was. He was as hard as the frozen ground outside, and he needed to ge
t away from her and deal with it before he frightened her half to death.
Try as he might, however, he couldn’t stop staring at her and remembering the moment this morning when she’d all but admitted to wanting him. Her quiet intake of breath as he’d kissed her palm would have sent him to his knees if he’d not already been there. Moving away from her and finishing breakfast had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life and he still couldn’t fathom how he’d managed it.
He could only marvel at the capriciousness of fate, such a fate that could allow him to get caught by the oldest trick in the book to a woman who didn’t care a fig for him, only to take her from him long before her time. That the same fate would then drop a damned goddess in his lap made his head spin.
“Are you all right?” she said, turning to study him now. “You look a little flushed. Oh,” she said, hurrying towards him. “You’ve not caught a chill, have you?”
Ned might have laughed if he’d not been so desperate.
“No. No chill,” he managed, moving away before she could offer to help him out of his coat. Good Christ, he was burning up. “Better go and wash up,” he rasped, heading for the stairs. “Don’t want to spoil dinner.”
He ran up the stairs and shut the bedroom door, only to discover she was still all around him. She’d lit a candle for him and left hot water in the jug for him to wash. The fire was lit too, and the room was warm and cosy in the glow of candle and firelight. Her scent lingered, the sweet trace of roses, and the nightdress she’d worn last night was folded neatly on the pillow.
Feeling like a fool but quite unable to stop himself, he moved to the bed and reached for it, lifting it to his nose and breathing deeply. He ought to feel guilty perhaps, for seeking the scent of another woman on his dead wife’s nightgown, but he couldn’t summon it. He’d done his best by Sarah and, after the initial shock of her betrayal, he’d never used it against her. They might have been happier if she’d let him in, if she’d tried to love him, but she’d only ever loved the farm, the land, and the security that came with Ned’s name. He’d given her all she’d allow, and he’d not grieve for a woman who’d not wanted him to love her.
The delicate scent of another woman’s skin rose up and enveloped his senses as he held the nightgown to his face. Ned groaned, imagining that scent upon her body, imagining his mouth upon her skin. In his mind’s eye he took the clothes from her slender frame, the too–big, ill-fitting garments that Sarah had worn. He hated to see those clothes on her. She ought to be dressed in silks and velvet and lace, everything that was fine and beautiful and befitting of a lady.
He didn’t imagine those clothes, though. He imagined skin, warm and silky and lush, imagined his hands on her and the sound of her pleasure at his touch. Might she sound like that? Might she welcome him into her body and take pleasure in him as he knew he could with her? She’d welcomed his touch so far, shyly perhaps, but that was to be expected. If he was patient and gentle, might she come to want him, perhaps even to love him? The idea stole his breath and his heart, and he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers until he could take himself in hand and relieve his body’s torment, for the moment at least.
He was so overwrought that it took little more than seconds, and he smothered the desperate sounds as he came hard into his own hand, the release barely dulling his hunger, which rose from years of aching loneliness and a life filled with less love and affection than he would bestow upon a dog.
Unsettled and on edge still, shameful of having such lewd thoughts of a woman who was not yet his wife, Ned washed and changed into clean clothes, forcing himself to appear calm before he headed back down the stairs.
The moment she looked around and smiled at him, any measure of calm he’d attained fled. He ached to touch her, even just to hold her hand, to kiss her palm as he had that morning, the warmth of her skin still burning against his lips like a brand.
“Please, sit down,” she said.
Ned moved towards her and pulled out a chair for her to sit down, his awareness of her absolute as he moved to take his place at the head of the table.
“I made soup,” she said, anxiety flickering in her blue eyes. “I thought that might not be too hard. It’s from a recipe in that book.”
She ladled a generous serving into a bowl and Ned sat, riveted to the sight of her slender fingers curved about the ladle. Everything male in him twitched. He swallowed.
Grace set the bowl before him. She looked rather as if she was awaiting a death sentence. Ned smiled.
“It smells good,” he said, taking up his own spoon and determined to eat with gusto even if it ought to be fed to the pigs. He tucked in and found—a little to his surprise—that it was delicious. “That is a very fine soup,” he said, feeling the strangest ache in his chest as he saw happiness bloom in her eyes.
“Is it? Truly? You’re not just being kind?”
“God’s honest truth, love,” he said, intrigued by the flush of colour that stained her beautiful face. He wondered if he would ever learn to breathe in her presence. Heart thudding, he dipped the spoon into the soup and held it out to her. “Here, try yourself if ye don’t believe me.”
Grace stared at him, and for a moment he thought she’d refuse, but then she leaned towards him as he moved the spoon to her mouth. Ned could not take his eyes from her lips, waiting for the moment her tongue swept out and licked them. They were full and pink and the longing to taste them was a sharp ache in his heart. The rest of his body was just as badly afflicted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to leave the table.
“It is quite good,” she said, glancing up at him. “Isn’t it?”
“More than good,” he replied, forcing himself to carry on eating.
She served herself a bowlful, and they ate in silence until Grace got up to clear the table. Ned stayed her, demanding another bowl of soup and basking in the delight in her eyes as she served him.
“I can’t take much credit for the pie,” she said, bustling about the kitchen as Ned watched her with a dreamlike sense of unreality. “Your Mrs Tucknott left it in the pantry. I did the vegetables, though.”
The vegetables were less successful, the potatoes rather raw, and the cabbage boiled to a mush, but Ned ate everything and asked for more, praising her efforts. He’d have eaten pigswill happily if it would have kept her with him, kept that smile in her eyes when she looked at him.
Grace laughed, and the sound lifted his heart in a way he’d forgotten was possible. Was this what happiness felt like? He’d lived so long without it, he wasn’t sure he’d recognise it. Whatever it was felt foreign and yet so natural in her presence, and even more precious and wonderful for its rarity.
“I think you are flattering me, Mr Hardy,” she said with a sigh. “Mrs Tucknott’s pie was excellent, and I did creditably with the soup, but the vegetables….”
She pulled a face and Ned laughed too, a sound he hardly knew, it had been so long. He felt emotion rise inside him, pushing at his ribs, such joy in this moment he didn’t know how his chest could contain it.
“I think ye are marvellous,” he said, meaning it, enchanted by the pleasure his words brought to her face.
“Do you?” she asked.
Ned nodded, daring to reach out and touch her hand. “So soft,” he marvelled, stroking over her skin with a fingertip.
He heard her gasp and looked up, wondering if he ought not touch her, but she was smiling at him. Ned took her hand in his and she didn’t look away from him, the smile didn’t falter. They sat that way for a moment, not speaking until Ned got up the courage to raise her hand to his lips. He kissed each finger, his heart hammering as desire held his breath captive. Lowering her hand again, he released his hold so she could draw back if she wanted, but she only slid her fingers from his grasp, and raised them to his face.
Ned held his breath, closed his eyes as her palm cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin. Thank goodness he’d troubled to shave before he came down, hating t
he thought of his coarse beard abrading her delicate skin. Oh God, he would die or disgrace himself if she kept touching him like this. Unable to resist, he covered her hand with his and turned his face into it. He kissed her palm as he had earlier, kissed the heel of her hand, and her wrist, where the pulse beat like butterfly wings against his lips.
He forced himself to look at her, praying his kisses had not offended her. She was breathing hard, the rapid rise and fall of her chest obvious even beneath the shapeless garment that so disguised her feminine curves. Her mouth was a little open, her blue eyes dark, and Ned felt the jolt of recognition burn a path to his cock as he saw the echo of his own desire.
“Grace,” he said, his voice low. “Grace, I know I ought not ask it but… Oh, God, love, I’m desperate to kiss ye.”
“Y-You are?”
He gave a strangled laugh at the question. “I am. Do you mind?”
She stared at him for a moment and then licked her lips. It was all he could do not to groan at the sight.
“No,” she said, her voice sure. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Come here,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table and tugging at her hand.
She got up, moving to stand in front of him, unsure of what to do.
Ned smiled and gave another gentle tug. “Please, love.”
Her eyes widened as she realised his intention, but she didn’t object, and she perched precariously on his knees. Ned reached out and touched her cheek, still astonished by the satin texture of it. She closed her eyes as he caressed her, smoothing the sleek line of an eyebrow, tracing his fingers over her cheekbone, over her jaw.
“I never saw anything so lovely in my whole life,” he said. “Will ye really wed me, lass? It doesn’t seem possible.”
A smile curved over her mouth. “I think I’d better,” she said.
Ned let his hand fall away. “Is that the only reason?” he asked, knowing it was ridiculous for him to feel such anguish at the idea. “Because you’re ruined now, because you’ve no other option?”
Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 35
