Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe / Twelfth Night Proposal / Christmas at Oakhurst Manor. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
the shutter almost closed. ‘How close are we to a turnpike road?’
‘Too far and when you get there it will be no better than this. Even the mail will be stopped if it is lying so thick.’
‘The post boys will get through, even if they have to take a horse from the traces and abandon the mail coach.’
‘They will reach the next inn, perhaps. But you are not carrying the mails, so why should you even try?’
Was it really such a prison sentence to be trapped here? But then he had shied away from all his close friends’ invitations because he did not want to be with a horde of children—and hers certainly qualified for the description—and he had been uneasy about her lack of a chaperon. Was that what the matter was? Not the interruption to his journey, not the presence of two lively boys, but her? Did he expect the poor lonely widow to make a pass at him? The idea brought the colour flaming up under her skin.
‘I am an unconscionable nuisance to you and, whatever you say about your supplies, you cannot have expected to be feeding a large man and a considerably larger horse.’
‘When the weather is like this the whole hamlet works together and shares food and fuel with everyone, residents and chance-met strangers alike. It is called neighbourliness, Major. Or perhaps on your big estate you are not familiar with the concept of neighbours and mutual dependence.’ She was fanning her temper as though she could cover her own embarrassment, and, deep down, her guilty pleasure that he had to stay. ‘We will set you to work for your board, Major, never fear. There are several elderly people to dig out and check upon and that will be the first task come morning.’
Even in the poor light she could see him stiffen, presumably with affront at being spoken to like that by an alewife. ‘I have helped dig out villages in the Pyrenees, Mrs Weston, you need have no fear that I do not know one end of a shovel from the other. And it is not that I do not understand and appreciate the hospitality of your community, merely that I have no wish to add to its burdens.’
‘Excellent. Then we understand each other,’ Emilia snapped. He did not like having to explain himself. Presumably majors did not have to very often, let alone ones who were well-bred landowners. ‘I will see you at first light, then.’ She gathered her inelegant robe around her with as much dignity as she could muster and swept out, remembering in the nick of time to close the door quietly so as not to wake the boys.
Idiot, idiot, idiot, she apostrophised herself all the way back up the stairs. You go and disturb a man in the early hours, you blush like a rose because you have no sensible excuse for doing so and then you bite his head off quite unfairly because he unsettles you. Emilia hesitated on the landing at the top of the stairs. Should she go back and apologise? And what, exactly, would be her explanation? No, there was nothing for it but to go back to bed and hope he was still talking to her in the morning.
And what was that about? Dim light struggled through the shutters and Hugo gave up on sleep and sat up in his cocoon of blankets to contemplate his situation. And his hostess.
Another woman and he might have suspected that her visit was an invitation of a most blatant kind and one he would have been sorely tempted by. But no woman bent on seduction, however humble her circumstances, visited a man clad in a frightful garment apparently cobbled together from an old horse blanket and with her hair in plaits, and then picked a quarrel.
He was going to have to get used to the company of respectable women, if he was to find himself a wife this coming Season as he had planned. The idea had seemed reasonable when he had thought of it, months ago in France. It should be easy enough to find a well-bred young lady, a pretty society virgin who would give him an heir and, he had thought vaguely, a few other children to be on the safe side. He was eligible enough not to have too much trouble finding the right bride, he concluded without undue modesty. He had title and lands and wealth and an unblemished reputation.
This theoretical bride had no face in his dreams, no name, no character, now he came to think about it. In fact, he supposed he had not given her much thought at all. But living with a woman like this, in a home, with children, was unsettling. It made him realise that he could not just marry a cipher, he must find a person, one he could get on with, one whom he would like and respect.
Finding a bride would not be like buying a horse and he was guiltily aware that he had been thinking in much the same terms—age, bloodlines, temperament, looks…Yes, he was going to have to consider someone he could look upon as a companion.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard straw mattress. Was this theoretical woman he intended to court going to insist on declarations of love, exchanges of emotion and intense conversations about feelings? He had the suspicion that she would, but how the devil did a man spout this stuff when he did not feel it, or understand it?
A gentleman was self-reliant and kept his feelings to himself, that was how he had been raised. Duty, honour, patriotism, friendship, loyalty—those were the important emotions and gentlemen did not need to speak of them. They took it for granted that their friends felt like that, too.
No true gentleman experienced violent emotions that might burst forth inappropriately—love, despair, fury. Passion. There had been liaisons in the past, of course, but even sexual encounters should not descend into uncontrolled passion and the sort of lady he would be courting would be horrified by those kinds of demonstrations.
No, you did not treat ladies—or respectable ale wives, come to that—as you treated a courtesan.
And that, Hugo concluded, rolling out of his nest of blankets, included removing one’s unshaven, unwashed self before she came downstairs to start the day.
Fifteen minutes later Hugo emerged from the cellar, where the copper had yielded enough warm water for a wash and a shave, rolled up his bedding, stowed it in a corner and went out to check on the animals. When he came back the inner door was open and both boys, hair uncombed, were standing in the kitchen, looking confused.
‘Mama’s still asleep,’ Nathan said. This was obviously outside their experience.
‘Are you sure she isn’t unwell?’ Hugo asked. In retrospect she had not seemed quite well last night, standing there shivering in that hideous robe, which was probably why he had wanted to put his arms around her.
Both boys stared at him, wide-eyed with anxiety. ‘Don’t know,’ said Joseph. ‘How do we tell?’
‘I had better have a look.’ Hugo walked softly upstairs. One door stood open on to what was obviously the boys’ room, the other was closed. He cracked it open, but the still figure under the heap of blankets did not stir. Now what? Knock and risk disturbing her if she was simply asleep or go in and check she was not running a fever?
He padded across the boards in his stockinged feet until he could see Emilia’s face. She looked peaceful enough: there was no sweat on her brow, she was not shivering and her breath stirred a wisp of hair in a steady rhythm. Hugo reached out and brushed it back, his fingers just touching her forehead. Her skin was cool, not feverish. Just tired, then.
It was an effort to lift his hand away. Her skin was smooth, soft, and yet beneath his fingers he could feel the delicate arch of her brow bone, the brush of her eyebrows. He felt himself hardening with desire and cursed his own lack of self-control. He should stop touching her. Now. Then Emilia stirred and her lips curved into a slight, tender smile. Something caught in his chest, almost painfully. His hand cupped in an instinctive gesture to caress her face and she opened her eyes.
‘Hugo?’ she murmured. She had been dreaming about him and here he was bending over her bed, those deep blue eyes intent on her face, his face serious, his hand brushing lightly over her cheek. It was still a dream, of course, a lovely dream. Emilia closed her eyes and drifted away again. Such a real dream…she could feel the cold of the room, the warmth of his breath, smell the soap on his hand.
‘Hugo?’ Emilia sat bolt upright. ‘What is wrong? The boys—’
‘Nothing is wrong.’ He backed away towards the door as she began to push back the