Chapter 7

Several Mornings Later

As usual, Andrew rose before dawn and was the first of the houseguests to arrive at the stable.

What had not been usual, however, was the dream that had woken him that morning. It had been shockingly vivid.

It had been arousing.

And yet all he could recall of it was that Miss Martin's hair—which had to reach well past her arse—had been unbound and spread across his chest, abdomen, and cock. His hard cock.

That was all, and yet he could not recall being so hard in years.

It was…disturbing.

Naturally, he'd needed to take himself in hand.

Andrew scowled, shoved the memory from his mind, and focused on the breaking dawn. As sunrises went it wasn't especially remarkable, but the pale-yellow sun made the frost glitter on every surface, turning the morning into something almost magical. Indeed, the enchanting scene filled him with an odd feeling of optimism.

Are you sure the reason for your elation isn't the result of boxing the Jesuit first thing in the morning?

Andrew ignored the mocking reminder.

Being astride a horse was one of his favorite places in the world. It allowed him to clear his mind and order his thoughts.

This morning, he had good thoughts to ponder.

Like silky coffee-brown hair and—

Andrew jerked his errant thoughts back to the real reason for his happiness today: the letter he'd received right before he'd left Chatham Park. It had come from Jem Moore, the man who managed Andrew's stud enterprise. Jem had filled all but two of the slots they had remaining for their prize stallion. Thanks to several excellent colts from last year's mares the operation was, if not booming, at least flourishing. And all without requiring any large infusions of money.

Andrew smiled at the thought, the tension leaking out of his body as he rode through trees so ancient he felt as if he might encounter Arthur and Guinevere any moment.

He'd ridden every morning since he'd been a boy. It was a ritual that helped clear his head and prepare him for the day ahead.

These past months at his cousin's house he'd ridden with Sylvester, too, but those jaunts took place a bit later in the day and were often shared with the duchess who was as skilled in a saddle—side or astride—as anyone Andrew had ever met.

He had never invited anyone else to accompany him on these early rides.

Not even Mariah.

She had been a slapping rider and had often begged him to come along.

After her death, Andrew had regretted that he'd not relaxed his rigidity and invited her. Especially since he had lost more and more of her with every year that had passed, his memory no more resilient against the incursion of time than a sandy beach against the tide.

Alarmingly, the forgetting process seemed to have sped up since he'd begun to reconcile with Sylvester, as if he had only room in his memory for one of them: his cousin or his dead lover.

Andrew was glad that he'd accepted his cousin's invitation to spend time with him at Chatham Park. It was past time to let go of the hatred that had fueled him for more than a decade. But he'd not expected the giant void that had appeared in his life once he'd relinquished his vendetta.

It would have been all too easy to run from his cousin's home and return to the familiar, almost comforting, cycle of retribution and hatred.

But Sylvester had said something during Andrew's second week that had kept him at Chatham Park.

"You're my brother, Drew—the only one I have left. Having you back in my life is worth some awkwardness and discomfort as we make up for lost time."

Sylvester was right. It had been painful to reacquaint himself with a man who'd once been his closest friend. Part of that pain was admitting just how many years he had wasted—because there was no denying that the majority of their estrangement had been his doing—and would never—

A sharp yelp pierced the early morning air and cut off his thoughts.

Andrew reined in Drake and listened, but there was nothing other than the sound of his horse's breathing. He was about to nudge his gelding into motion when he heard the sound again. It was undeniably a canine cry—a dog in pain—and it was coming from somewhere in the trees.

"Let's go and see what this is all about, Drake," he murmured, guiding the horse off the path. A quick glance at the ground showed a disturbance in the frost that covered the fallen leaves, branches, and bracken which had somehow managed to grow in the shadows beneath the tree canopy.

The next time the yelping sound came it was followed by the murmuring of a voice. A female voice.

Andrew dismounted when he encountered a huge rotting log. "You stay here, boy," he said, looping Drake's reins lightly over a branch before following the disturbed detritus toward the canine whining and human cooing.

"Hello?" he called out.

Both the dog and human sounds ceased and then a head popped up above a thick cluster of ferns.

It was the companion—Miss Martin—the very woman he'd been dreaming about, although she looked nothing like the temptress who'd aroused his sleeping body.

Her small face was a study of emotions: worry, relief, indecision, reluctance, and a dozen others. "I've got an injured dog. His foot is caught in a trap. I tried to free him, but I am not strong enough to pry it open."

"I will have a look," he said, climbing over lumps of old deadwood so thickly covered in moss they looked as if they'd grown green fur. When he reached the patch of bracken, he parted the tall fronds and found her kneeling with a wiry-haired mutt that looked to be chiefly terrier.

Miss Martin's gray walking costume was liberally smeared with blood and dirt, and she was holding the shivering animal on her lap, along with a very nasty snare.

"That's a cruel looking thing," he said, dropping to his haunches. "We'll get that off you in a trice, you poor little blighter," he said to the dog and then looked up at her. "Hold him firmly and keep talking to him. He's going to want to pull his paw away when I open the trap."

She nodded, her attention on the dog. "There's a good boy," she praised. "Just another minute and Lord Shelton will take away that awful pain. Be a good boy for a little while longer."

Andrew looked for a release plate that was sometimes on such devices, but this was a rustic trap that was hardly more than a tangle of metal with spikes. He was going to have to wrench it open.

"Here I go," he warned.

The dog whined and twitched as he began to pull the jaws apart, but Miss Martin held him steady.

"Be ready to lift his paw off the spikes before he can jerk it away."

She nodded and moved one hand to the dog's haunch.

Andrew gritted his teeth—more against the pained animal sounds than the effort required—and the jaws grudgingly parted. He'd barely opened it an inch when Miss Martin carefully freed the paw.

"Well done," he said, closing the trap and tossing it aside before turning to look at the dog. "Hold him steady and I'll check the leg for a break."

"There's a good boy," she said, gently but firmly holding the little beast still.

"I know, I know," Andrew said when the dog made a pitiful whine as he felt the limb. There was a lot of blood coming from two deep punctures. "I don't feel a break," he said after a moment, releasing the leg and looking up. "But I'm sure it hurts like the dickens."

Her cheeks were stained with tears and her eyes red and swollen. She was not the sort of woman who could cry prettily and looked almost as bedraggled as the poor creature she held.

Andrew pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound while the little dog stoically watched without making a peep. "There," he said, scratching the dog behind the ears. "That should hold it until we get back to Wych House. Although I'm afraid your gown is ruined."

She raised a hand to her cheek and wiped away the tears with the back of her trembling hand.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"I don't know; it feels like a long time."

"I imagine it does. It is a little early for a walk, isn't it?"

"You are out walking," she shot back.

Andrew bit back a smile at her sharp retort; a little hostility was better than weeping anguish.

He held out his hands. "Let me hold him while I help you up."

She hesitated, but then gently lifted the little dog.

"No squirming," Andrew admonished, cradling the dog in one arm and offering his other hand to Miss Martin, who ignored it and pushed to feet with a harsh intake of breath that told him her legs had probably fallen asleep.

He gestured to the fallen tree trunk. "Sit for a moment and allow the feeling to return."

"No, I am ready."

"I want to dispose of the trap first," he said, handing her the dog.

"Oh. I'd forgotten about that."

Andrew found the nasty piece of metal and used the hard heel of his riding boot to crush the trap, over and over and over, until it was so bent and twisted it could never be repaired.

He looked up to find Miss Martin watching him with wide eyes.

"I loathe those things," he said, feeling his face heat a bit in the cold morning air. "It is a coward's way to kill and oftentimes the poor animal languishes for hours or days before the hunter returns."

She nodded.

"My horse isn't far," he said after an awkward moment. "I can take you both back."

"On your horse ?" She looked so scandalized that one would have thought Andrew had just informed her they were heading for the Scottish border. "I can walk, my lord. It is not—"

"I was riding for almost a quarter of an hour, Miss Martin. It will take you at least twice as long afoot."

She opened her mouth, clearly bent on arguing, but then heaved an exasperated sigh and said, "Oh, very well," employing the ungracious tone of a person who was doing him a favor.

Andrew was amused by her prickly nature. How did she manage to efface herself to Lady Addiscombe when she was so combative? Or perhaps it was only Andrew who brought it out of her?

The little dog bore the jostling in stoic silence, and they reached his horse without any fuss from either his canine or human companion.

Andrew turned to the woman and saw that she was gazing up at the big gelding with an uncertain look. "Don't worry—he looks big, but he is a gentle giant and shan't hurt you."

She pulled her gaze from the gelding to glare up at him. "I am not afraid of horses, my lord."

He grinned at her withering tone. "No, of course not. I will mount and then you can hand him up."

Still looking dubious, she nodded.

Once Andrew was astride, he leaned low and scooped the dog up with a minimum of squirming, holding it as he'd done before.

He turned to Miss Martin and extended his free hand. "Take my hand and put your foot on my boot."

Her brow furrowed and she bit her lower lip, a lip he couldn't help noticing was nicely plush in contrast to her far slimmer upper lip.

After studying him for a moment, she set her gloved hand in his and lifted her foot.

"The other one," he said.

The furrows in her forehead deepened briefly before a sheepish look flickered across her features. "Oh."

She was small—indeed, tiny was a more fitting word—but as stiff as a plank, which made it awkward to maneuver her with only one arm. Still, Andrew managed to get her hip onto the saddle.

"Take our patient," he said, shifting so she could collect the dog. Once she had, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, until she was securely tucked between his thighs. She might be small, but she had a pleasingly full, soft backside.

His brain wasn't the only part of him to take note of how nice she felt, and warmth pooled in his groin. Christ! He had definitely been without a woman for too long if a plush arse was enough to get him excited.

She whimpered.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked.

"Hurting? No, but it is rather, er, cramped."

Andrew laughed. "I'm afraid there is no avoiding that."

"No, I suppose not." But he felt her try to shrink away, regardless.

"Stop squirming," he said, tightening his arm around her midriff.

"I am not squirming," she said, stilling her squirming.

They rode in silence as Drake picked his way through the trees. Only when they reached the path did Andrew feel some of the tension leave her body.

"So, you are an early morning riser, too," he said when it was clear she would not speak.

"Yes."

He thought that was all he'd get, but then she went on.

"It is the only time of day when my services are not needed."

"When does your mistress usually wake?"

"Not until eleven, sometimes even twelve."

"And then you are at her beck and call until you retire?"

"That is the life of a companion," she agreed, a certain wry amusement in her tone.

Odd how Andrew had never given any thought to companions before. Well, not really odd, he supposed. Why would he think about such people? Companions were, in his experience, wraithlike women who flickered insubstantially around either very old ladies or young girls in their first Seasons. The only time he had really noticed a companion or chaperone was when he'd needed to conceive of ways to get around them and steal time with their charges.

"Do you like working for Lady Addiscombe?"

"She pays a generous wage."

Andrew was amused by her evasive answer. "Is she your first employer?" he asked, recalling what Kathryn had said about her father dying.

"Do you really care? Or are you just asking questions to pass the time?"

He blinked at her hostile response. "I don't think you like me, Miss Martin. Why is that, I wonder?"

"I should think the answer to that question is perfectly obvious."

He had been expecting a polite denial and was nonplussed by her direct answer. "You refer to my notorious debauchery, I suppose."

"Debaucher ies. "

He couldn't help grinning. When was the last time a chit barely out of the schoolroom—or any woman—had scolded him to his face?

Andrew couldn't think of a single episode. Ever. It was his experience that women giggled, stammered, or lowered their eyes in his presence. Even those matrons who disapproved of him never made a peep of protest if he asked their daughters to dance.

Lady Selina had not giggled or blushed, but neither had she given him a proper raking. At least not until he had behaved abominably toward her.

You behaved abominably last night in the conservatory. Or have you forgotten what you said about Miss Martin?

Andrew felt a pang of embarrassment at the memory of his unkind words. But she had not been there—

He suddenly recalled how they had encountered each other on the stairs. He assumed she had been fetching and carrying for her employer, but the countess had gone up to bed earlier.

Just what had Miss Martin been up to wandering around the house?

Was it possible that she'd been in the conservatory—although it was certainly not on the way to anywhere else—and heard him?

His stomach clenched at the appalling thought.

Unfortunately, it seemed like the best explanation for her dislike.

"You will forgive me if I point out that your animus sounds almost personal in nature, Miss Martin."

"Your past behavior should be a personal affront to every decent woman, whether she knows you or not," Miss Martin retorted heatedly. "But it just so happens that I am friends with Sarah Creighton."

Any sympathy or guilt he'd been feeling toward her drained away. "Indeed," he said dryly. "Friends with Miss Creighton, are you? Surely, as you are such dear friends, you know that is no longer her name?"

She twisted around until her nose was touching his chin, her dark brown eyes burning into his. "You are smiling!"

"Am I?" he asked.

"You are not even ashamed or regretful of what you did, are you?"

"Ashamed? No. Do I regret it? More often than you would believe," he muttered, and then laughed at her look of horror.

"You are—you are—"

"What am I?" he asked, although he could guess.

Her jaw worked, but she clamped her lips tightly together, drawing his attention to her mouth again, which was quite lovely. Indeed, this close to her he had to admit her features were not without charm. She had no stature to speak of and would never be called beautiful, but she was not unattractive. Her eyes, which were large and well-formed, were a warm shade of dark brown. Or at least he thought they might warm up when she was not regarding a person with outraged loathing.

Interestingly, Andrew decided that her most appealing trait—aside from her lush bottom, sweet lower lip, and big brown eyes—was her keen, albeit hostile, intelligence. It had been Sylvester's new wife who'd shown Andrew that a woman's appeal could sometimes be enhanced by a magnitude if she was clever.

Who would have guessed?

Hyacinth Bellamy was such a scrawny, unprepossessing female that she'd had no problem convincing half the ton —the male half—that she was a man. For months she had rubbed elbows with dozens of men in London's gambling dens and yet nobody had guessed her gender.

After living in proximity with the duchess for several months, Andrew could not deny the woman emanated a magnetism—not to mention significant sexual appeal—that was far more compelling than a pretty face.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Miss Martin demanded.

Andrew realized he'd been staring rather than watching where they were going. Not that Drake needed any help on this well-trodden path.

"Like what?" he asked. Andrew silently willed her to say the word; he wanted to see what her lips looked like when they formed the word lustful.

She frowned, visibly irked. "I don't know. But I don't like it."

Andrew grinned. "Why are you so angry at me?"

"I'm not—"

"Were you in the conservatory that first night?"

The scarlet wave that flooded her face was answer enough.

God damn his wretched mouth! What an arse he was. "I deeply regret what I said, Miss Martin. It had nothing to do with you. It was just a thoughtless—"

"You must think I am stupid as well as a drab little dab of a woman if you think I will believe that!" she all but snarled.

"My words weren't just unkind, they were untrue, as well. No—" he said when she opened her mouth, probably to argue—"just listen a moment and allow me to finish. I was being flippant and disagreeable to Lady Kathryn. We have a—a, well, let's just call it an adversarial relationship and I was looking for something to say that would put her back up, hoping it would drive her away." He stared into her disbelieving eyes. "It is the truth, Miss Martin. Your clothing is, I think you would have to admit, not exactly colorful, but your person is not drab. Surely you must know that?"

Her blazing gaze, pink cheeks, and flaring nostrils told him that his words had failed to appease her.

Andrew couldn't blame her. He'd behaved like a cad.

He suspected that she was about to launch into a proper raking, but they were near enough to the stables that a lad came trotting over to take Drake's reins and interrupted whatever she was about to say.

"Leave the horse for a moment and take the dog," he said to the boy. "Have a care, it is injured."

Once Miss Martin had handed over the dog, Andrew took her hand. "Use my boot again and I'll lower you."

Andrew was amazed by how much he missed the soft warmth of her body once it was gone.

She smoothed out her gown, as if that would rid the garment of blood and muck, and then looked up at him and—very grudgingly—said, "Thank you for helping me."

"Shall I go with the lad and—"

"I will see to the dog, my lord." Go away ! her hostile eyes shouted.

"As you wish," he said, and then watched as Miss Martin, the boy, and the dog disappeared into the stables.

***

By the time Stacia had finished binding the dog's leg—with the help of not only the stable boy, Gerald, but also the kind stablemaster Mr. Higgins—settled him into a vacant stall, fetched some milk and a bone from the kitchen, and then sat with the quivering little dog until he dropped into a restless sleep, it was already past ten o'clock. She hurried up to her quarters to change before heading to Lady Addiscombe.

It was the friendly maid Dora who delivered her hot water. "Goodness!" she said when she saw Stacia's gown. "What happened?"

Stacia told her about the dog—leaving out Lord Shelton's rescue—and then said, "I don't suppose there is anything that can be done to save the dress?"

"You leave it to me, Miss."

"Thank you, Dora." Stacia quickly stripped off the gown, politely declined the maid's help to dress, and then donned her dark brown morning dress, the newest of any of her clothing.

She paused to regard her reflection in the mirror. The gown was suitable and the color was not unattractive on her.

But it is, undeniably, drab.

She scowled at her reflection as she speedily unpinned, brushed, and then re-plaited her hair. There. That was good enough. As good as she ever looked.

As she made her way toward Lady Addiscombe's chambers Stacia told herself to forget Lord Shelton and anything he'd said. Unfortunately, her body clung to the man as tenaciously as her brain and kept reminding her of what it had felt like to be pressed up against his gorgeous body as tightly as paint on a wall.

Even through all the layers of clothing she'd felt the warmth of hard muscles, his far bigger body easily enclosing hers, his strong arms gently but firmly holding—

Enough. Stacia gritted her teeth against the distracting clenching between her thighs.

She had been a fool to not take Lady Addiscombe's side and encourage Lord Needham to banish Shelton from the property. The man was an unrepentant menace.

You should banish yourself from the property. Lord Shelton did nothing untoward this morning other than be exceedingly helpful and proper.

Stacia hated the accusation. He had behaved like a gentleman.

And that is why you're so miffed. You were expecting him to importune you or carry you off to the border.

No, actually, I wasn't. You forget that I heard his brutal assessment of me three nights ago. You forget—

Stacia pulled a face when she realized she was arguing with her own mind and scratched softly on the door before opening it.

The room was black—so black that somebody must have covered the windows because not even a sliver of light was showing.

"My lady?" she asked, hesitating on the threshold.

"Don't shout so, Martin." Stacia didn't immediately recognize the croaky husk of a voice as Lady Addiscombe's. "I have a dreadful migraine."

"I am so sor—"

"Do not speak."

Stacia closed her mouth.

"I want an ice compress brought up every two hours. And I want it delivered without any noise ."

Stacia almost said yes, my lady , but caught herself at the last second. Instead, she closed the door without making a sound and immediately headed toward the kitchen.

She entered the warm, noisy room and skidding to a halt when she saw Lady Needham seated at the roughhewn oak table, drinking tea with the housekeeper, Mrs. Nutter, and the cook, Mrs. Barton.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady."

"It is no interruption, Miss Martin. I am finished here." Lady Needham gave her a sunny smile and pushed to her feet with a groan. "Neither of these ladies needs direction to keep things running smoothly, but they both humor me and discuss the menu every week."

Both women laughed, clearly at ease with their mistress.

"Did you need something, Miss Martin?" Lady Needham asked.

"The countess has a migraine and requires an ice compress." She turned to Mrs. Nutter. "She asked that on be delivered every two hours. I will wait for the first one."

Mrs. Nutter nodded and hurried off.

"This is unfortunate," Lady Needham said, and then cocked her head. "Has my mother had one of these lately?"

"Not since I've come to work for her."

"You should be aware that her migraines often last for days. Other than the compresses, what she really needs is complete quiet, darkness, and rest."

"I understand, my lady."

"There is no reason for you to wait, Miss Martin. A servant can bring the compresses to my mother—and Mrs. Nutter will make sure she gets them regularly."

"Er, I really do feel that I should bring it myself, my lady."

Lady Needham gave a dismissive flick of her hand. "Nonsense. I'll see to her myself. I have years of experience with my mother's migraines." She smiled. "Why don't you take the day for yourself while she is bedbound and does not need you?"

Stacia shoved down the excitement that bubbled up inside her at the other woman's words. "I couldn't—"

"Yes, you can. Needham is guiding a big party over to the pond. Our groundskeeper has assured him that it is frozen enough to bear even his great weight. You must go and have fun. I insist."

"But—"

"If my mother asks for you, I will tell her that I have co-opted your services for the day. But she won't ask for you. These episodes are quite debilitating, and it often takes her a week or more before she is ready to leave her room."

A week ? Stacia's heart leapt at the other woman's words. She was an awful, awful person.

"I'm afraid I don't have any skates." Stacia said. "I have only ever been one time before."

Lady Needham chuckled. "My husband purchased enough skates to equip the entire neighborhood. Needham is from the north, Miss Martin. He believes that skating is a mandatory activity at Christmas. Go. You deserve to have a bit of entertainment." She gave Stacia a mock stern look. "That is an order from your hostess."

Stacia laughed. "Very well, then. I shall go."

Lady Needham wagged a finger at her. "And you must have fun."

"Yes. I promise to have fun."