Ann Lethbridge - More Than A Lover

He softened his tone, kept it devoid of expression. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned. As a soldier I am used to being a bit damp around the edges. My greatcoat kept most of me dry.’

She inclined her head as if in acceptance of his clumsy attempt to recoup, but there was pride in that movement, too, and a faint flush high on her cheekbones.

A faint suspicion crossed his mind. Had she, too, had a vision of him naked? Was that why she had averted her gaze? His body hardened. Blast. He really was losing his mind. He strode into the pantry, forcing himself to think of anything but the woman beside the hearth. The stone room was blessedly chilly. He focused on that cold and thoughts of icy rain trickling down his neck during the long hours of guard duty. Finally he got himself under control, found the milk jug, took a deep breath and returned to the warmth of the kitchen. He filled a small pan from the jug and placed it on the hearth to heat. He added the brandy from her glass. ‘It won’t taste quite so bad this way.’

‘I keep thinking of that poor man. Of facing his wife with the news.’

He’d offer to tell the widow for her, but he already knew she would not accept someone else shouldering her burdens no matter how unpleasant the duty. He liked that about her. Her inner strength. Her quiet pride.

And there was no comfort he could offer that would not sound false.

He sat beside her on the settle and placed his hand over hers, lightly. Her hand was small beneath his and, despite the warmth in the kitchen, icy cold. ‘You can only do your best.’

To his surprise and pleasure, she did not pull her hand free, though she could easily have done so.

A small sigh escaped her lips. ‘It is all anyone can do, I suppose.’

Not anyone. Those with good intentions. There were far too many of the other sort waiting to trap the unwary. He forced himself to rise, before he did something really stupid like putting his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing her soft, pretty lips. Crouching at the hearth, he pressed a palm to the side of the pan. It had warmed up nicely. He filled her glass and handed it to her. ‘Try it now.’

She took a sip and made a face. ‘Not quite as bad.’

‘Drink it quickly and—’

‘Get it over with.’

They both chuckled.

‘Mrs Lane gave me the same advice, but having experienced it once it seems worse than ever.’

‘Everything that does you good tastes bad,’ he said. For the first time in a long time he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Saying those very same words with a catch in her voice. He frowned at the memory. He could not place where it came from. The circumstances. Or even imagine why he would think of it now when he tried never to think of her at all. Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he rose to his feet.

Oblivious to his reaction, she lifted her glass in a pretend toast and drank it down quickly. She shuddered from head to toe. He poured the last of the milk into her glass, sans brandy. ‘Perhaps this will help take the taste away.’

She drank it down quickly. A residue of the milk clung to her bottom lip. He wanted to lick it away. To taste her. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand, leaving him disappointed.

Bah, he was a fool. He turned away. Went to the window to look out, to get his thoughts into some sort of logical order. ‘I informed Lane that we plan to leave for Skepton at first light, if that is all right with you. It will take us a couple of hours given the state of the roads after all this rain.’

He heard the rustle of her clothes as she rose to her feet behind him. As he had intended, she had taken his words as a dismissal.

To his shock, her hand landed on his arm. His left arm. He swung around to face her and found her looking up at him, a smile on her lips and warmth in her eyes that only a fool would pretend not to understand. Gratitude. Kindness.

If she really knew him, she would not look on him so kindly.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I think I will be able to sleep now. I will be up and ready to leave first thing.’

For a moment, he thought she might rise up on her toes and kiss his cheek, like a sister or a friend, but it was his mouth where her gaze lingered. Heat rushed through him. His blood headed south.

The distance between them was so very slight he could feel the graze of her breath against his throat, see into the warmth in the depths of her melting green-flecked soft brown eyes. Could such a kind gentle creature, such a respectable woman, really want a man like him? One who had been to hell and back.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. Felt the pound of his blood in his veins. And inhaled the scent of brandy on her breath.

The brandy. She wasn’t used to it. Was likely unaware of its effects. The numbing of reason. In complete command of her senses, a respectable vicar’s daughter would have nothing to do with a man who was only two steps from the gutter.

He stepped back. ‘Then I will bid you goodnight.’ He gestured to the door.

And cursed himself for a quixotic fool when he saw the disappointment on her face.

* * *

The drive back to Skepton was uneventful, though it had bothered Caro greatly that Mr Read had insisted on riding in the rain, instead of joining her in the carriage. She had the feeling that her earlier coldness, her insistence upon the proprieties, had influenced his decision.

She sighed as they pulled up outside the house. Propriety had not been the first thing on her mind the previous evening. It was a good thing he had more of a conscience than most men. She had felt so warm and fuzzy after drinking the brandy she could have sworn she might have kissed him, had he not been too much of a gentleman. If he knew the truth about her, he might not have felt bound by such moralistic sensibilities. Apparently Carothers had said nothing to his friends about the liberties she had allowed in a haze of what she had thought was true love. It eased her mind to know that he had spoken the truth when he had said a gentleman did not kiss, or anything else, and tell, even if he had not kept any of his other promises.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Shame. Embarrassment at her youthful foolishness.

A footman ran out to open the door and let down the steps. There was nothing she could do about the past. It was the future that mattered. All her focus must be on making sure she did nothing to ruin it for Thomas. She stepped down, pleased to discover that at last it had stopped raining.

Still on horseback, Mr Read was speaking to Lane’s driver. He glanced over as if sensing her gaze.

She made a gesture towards the house. ‘Will you come in for some refreshment?’

He walked his horse closer. ‘Thank you, no. I will have to see to the stabling of Sir Reggie’s cattle and arrange some accommodation for myself. Tonbridge said there were decent rooms above the stables.’ He paused. ‘Would you like me to accompany you to speak with Mrs Garge beforehand?’

Gratitude rushed through her. Some of the tightness left her chest. She ought to say no, but... ‘You might be able to answer her questions better than I.’ She was such a coward. ‘Having spoken with the coroner, I mean.’

He dismounted. ‘We should go right away.’

Before gossip ran rife throughout the house, as it would when she was seen returning in a strange coach.

He handed his horse off to a footman. ‘Walk him. I will not be more than half an hour.’

Side by side they walked past the kitchen towards the arch into the small courtyard at the side of the house, where a side door allowed entry to the stables and where Mrs Garge would be waiting as usual. Once the horses were settled and the carriage put away, it was usual for her and Josiah to walk to their own small cottage on the edge of town.