Louise Allen - Snowbound Wedding Wishes

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 covers. ‘They were worried because you were still asleep. Apparently that is unusual. I was concerned in case you were ill.’

‘No, I am quite all right. But I never oversleep.’

He shrugged, halfway through the door now, in full retreat. She realised what she was doing and left the covers as they were.

‘Perhaps you felt more secure with a man sleeping downstairs. More relaxed. We’re fine,’ she heard him say as the door closed. ‘I’ll start breakfast.’

Breakfast? Emilia threw back the blankets and almost fell out of bed. The chill of the room was more than enough to banish hazy dreams of tall, blue-eyed men. What on earth did he mean, relaxed? That she never slept properly because she always had one ear open for danger, for the boys, for the animals?

Perhaps he was right, she conceded reluctantly, as she splashed cold water on to her shivering body and scrambled into her warmest clothes. But she had never been aware of fear, of being braced for trouble. It was just that it was all her responsibility now, hers alone.

By now there was probably carnage in the kitchen. She bundled her hair into a net as she ran downstairs and then stopped dead, her hands still lifted to tuck in stray locks. The table was laid, the boys were dressed, their hair ruthlessly brushed, and the aroma of frying bacon was wafting appetisingly on the warm air.

‘Four eggs,’ Joseph said in triumph as he set the basket down on the table. ‘One each.’

‘Excellent.’ Hugo glanced up from the vast skillet he was wielding expertly. The intensity she had seen—imag-ined?—in his eyes in the bedchamber was replaced by nothing more disturbing than concentration. ‘Pass me those slices of stale bread, Nathan, and we’ll fry those in the bacon fat. We men will need some solid ballast inside us today. Joseph, pour your mama some tea.’

‘You are making breakfast.’ Emilia sat down on one end of the bench and smiled rather blankly at her son as he passed her the tea. Order, unburned food, quiet boys. The man was a miracle worker. Or a very good officer.

‘Of course. Soldiers cook. It was that or starve half the time when the baggage train got left behind. There, we’re ready. Plates, boys.’

Four plates were produced, loaded and conveyed somewhat unsteadily to the table. Tea and milk were poured. Hugo began to slice bread. ‘I can’t make bread, though,’ he said, passing a slice over to her.