The Seduction of an Earl (27 page)

He was about to chide himself for his uncharitable thought – Harold had saved his son, after all – when he heard his name whispered.

And it did sound like a prayer. As if she had overheard his thoughts. “Hannah?” he whispered. He put down the glass and shook her gently, stroked the back of a finger down one of her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered and then opened. “Thank God,” he breathed, holding her tighter against his body.

Hannah stared up at Henry, her mind a jumble, as if she couldn’t tell where a dream stopped and reality began. “Henry?” she whispered in reply. She attempted to push herself away from his body, to look around at their surroundings. “Where? What?” she murmured.

His tense body suddenly relaxing, Henry repositioned her on his lap and kissed her temple and forehead. “Do you think you can take some brandy?” he offered, holding the glass to her lips. Hannah gave him a look that suggested he should not be offering her spirits, but she sipped a bit, not the least bothered by the strong flavor or the burn she felt as it reached the back of her throat. “You’ve had an awful shock,” he whispered.

The words seemed to bring her back to reality. He felt her body tense, saw her cornflower blue eyes widen before tears welled up in them. “Harold died,” she whispered, one gloved hand covering her mouth.

“I know, I ... I found you with him. He went back to the same place where he and Nathan were yesterday.” He didn’t know what else to say so he merely held her for a few more minutes, coaxing her to drink more of the brandy. When she had drained the glass, Henry set it aside and then used two fingers to begin pulling the gloves, one finger at a time, from Hannah’s hand.

“He was old, you know,” Hannah whispered before a sob wracked her body. “It’s been at least ten years since Father brought him back from Italy,” she explained, her tears subsiding nearly as quickly as they’d started. “He was still a puppy then. Father was allowed to take him from the den because he was generous with his support of the monks that lived in the Alps. They rescued his friend, you see. Mr. Aldenwood was injured in a mountain pass ...”

The name startled Henry. He had just removed one glove and was about to start on the other. “Aldenwood? The adventurer?” Henry interrupted, remembering how her father had described the man who was known to have traveled the world. The man who was now claiming the effects of a volcano would make this growing season especially difficult in Northern Europe. Henry still hadn’t decided what to plant, or even if he should give credence to Aldenwood’s prediction that the summer would be too cold and rainy to support a decent crop at all. If they could get the final drainage ditch dug, they could at least channel the excess water to the river. But even wheat required sunlight to grow. Two large greenhouses were under construction on the part of the east fields scheduled to be fallow this season. There was plenty of timber to erect the frame. He had already talked to the glazier in Bampton about glass panes. If the man wasn’t able to make enough for a greenhouse or two, then oilcloth could be used in its stead.

Henry’s mind was racing when he realized Hannah was still speaking.

“Yes,” Hannah nodded. “He had a badly sprained ankle, so my father continued without him until he spotted an Alpenmastiff on the trail. The dog had supplies – he’d been sent by the monks to help them, you see,” she explained in a whisper, “And one of the bitches had given birth to a litter a couple of months earlier. The monks couldn’t afford to keep all the dogs, of course, so Father was allowed to take Harold.” She took a deep breath and sighed, burrowing herself against Henry, fighting the sobs she could feel coming from the very center of her body.

Mrs. Batey hurried into the room with a tray of cups and two pots. “Tea and chocolate, my lord,” she said as she set the tray on the table nearest the fireplace. “How is she?”

Henry gave the housekeeper a cursory glance. “I think she has a fever, but she seems in one piece, at least.” His wife had fallen asleep, her occasional jerks and trembles suggesting her sleep was filled with nightmares. “Could you help me get her into bed?” he whispered, slowly rising to stand with Hannah’s limp body held in his arms.

“Of course, my lord,” Mrs. Batey replied with a nod, hurrying to turn down the bed linens. “I’ll see if I can’t find a nightgown ...”

“Behind the pillow,” Henry said as he motioned with his head toward the front of the bed. He had to fight the sudden flush he felt coloring his face; how many husbands knew where their wives kept their bed clothes? Of course, it was there because that’s where he had stuffed it after removing it from her body the two nights before, hiding it from her so she couldn’t insist on pulling it back on after they’d made love. He thought of this morning, of how hard it had been to take his leave of her and the warm bed, of how hard his erection had been even as he made his way through the cold room to his own. It had been that strange tug on his heart that made him leave the ruby pendant and chain on her pillow when he’d returned to her room to say his farewell for the day.

Sitting her on the bed, Henry noticed the ruby he’d left for her that morning as it caught the faint lamplight, red streaks flashing out from where it rested in the hollow of her throat.
She’s wearing it!
He placed the front of her body against his as he leaned over to undo the series of buttons down her back. He was aware of Mrs. Batey’s barely contained gasp as he lifted her to a standing position and lowered her bodice and sleeves. “Can you ..?” he hinted, keeping Hannah up as the suddenly efficient housekeeper stepped forward and stripped his wife of her gown and petticoats.

“At least she put on more petticoats,” Mrs. Batey commented as she removed the third one. “Should I leave her stockings on, my lord?” she wondered then, not sure if the earl expected her to remove his wife’s corset and chemise while he was still in the room.

“Are they dry?” he asked, reluctantly pulling his attention away from Hannah’s bare shoulders and the curve of her neck. A quick memory of Lady Charlotte’s back, with its series of black stitches marching between her shoulder blades, came unbidden. Where Charlotte would have scars from those stitches – from the wound put there by a horsewhip – for the rest of her life, Hannah would have smooth, creamy skin that molded beautifully over sensuous shoulder blades and the delicate bumps of her spine. It took every fiber of his being not to stroke that smooth skin right now, not to place the palm of his hand against that space between the triangular bones and simply revel in touching her, in allowing the warmth of his hand to seep into her.

“A bit damp, I think,” Mrs. Batey replied with a shake of her head. “And cold,” she added under her breath, her head shaking as if she couldn’t fathom the countess’ strange foray. She pulled the stockings and socks off Hannah’s feet before loosening the ties of the corset. Giving the earl a questioning look, she waited until Henry nodded.

“She is my wife. I have seen all of her, Mrs. Batey. You needn’t worry about propriety.”

The housekeeper had to close her mouth quickly or risk looking like a fool to her employer. A few tugs and a swish of the fine silk of her chemise, and Hannah was left bare. With the warmth of the fabric removed from her, Hannah’s skin turned to gooseflesh. Mrs. Batey quickly pulled the nightgown over Hannah’s head while Henry helped to smooth it down around her body. Satisfied she was ready for bed, Henry lifted her into it. “Parkerhouse brought up brandy. Could you refill her glass? And I could use a cup of tea,” he murmured, thinking this had to be the most he’d asked of the housekeeper since he’d moved into Gisborn Hall upon his uncle’s death. “And could you bring up dinner when it’s ready? Along with a hot brick? My lady’s feet are freezing,” he added then, pulling off his boots and stockings.

Mrs. Batey nodded nervously, not accustomed to the earl undressing in front of her. She hurried over to the tea service, pouring a cup while she tried not to watch as Henry climbed into the bed, positioning himself so he sat against the upholstered headboard before pulling Hannah into his arms and the bed linens up and over the both of them. And then, her face a bright red, Mrs. Batey gave him the tea, left the glass of brandy on the night stand, and performed a quick curtsy before leaving the room.

Henry placed a feather pillow behind his back and pulled another to prop up the arm that held Hannah. Downing the tea, he leaned over Hannah to place the cup on the night stand. She murmured something unintelligible, a tinge of sadness in her voice. He sensed quite suddenly the growing spot of wetness in the linen of his shirt under where her head rested.
She’s weeping
. His heart clenched, a sudden need to comfort her overwhelming him. Sighing, Henry rather wished he had completed undressing, even if it would have scandalized poor Mrs. Batey. Deciding he could at least get out of his breeches, he moved Hannah to his side and pushed them off under the covers, tossing them over the side of the bed.

Even before he could reposition Hannah in his arms, she had turned onto her side, her body clinging to his bare thigh, one arm bent so her hand rested next to his manhood and her head rested on his hip. He had to stifle a chuckle. At the moment, that area was the warmest part of his body. But if she opened her eyes, she might not appreciate the sight of his manhood only inches in front of her. Lifting her back onto his body, he held her close, whispered into her hair and sprinkled feather kisses along the top of her face, telling himself he was checking for fever. She was warm, and the weight of her curled body made Henry succumb to the drowsiness that suddenly enveloped his entire body. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Chapter 19

Hannah Falls in Love with Her Husband

Hannah stared out the window, her elbows resting on the sill as her chin lay atop her hands. She had awakened to find the household quiet and Henry gone from the bed. She was sure he had been there, holding her, stroking her arm and kissing her temple as she wept and shivered.

Or had she dreamed that?

Had he spent the entire night in her bed? She remembered feeling ... protected. The thought reminded her of why she’d felt such sorrow.

Harold.
Poor Harold.

The excitement of the day before yesterday, when he’d rescued Nathan from the river, had obviously been too much for his aged heart and his old body. To have chosen to die so near to where Nathan had nearly lost his life, though – perhaps he had done so because he knew she would look for him there.

She wondered if she could ask Gisborn to have his body buried where he lay. Would he think her request foolish? She couldn’t stand the thought of Harold laying out on the hillock like that. A tear escaped the corner of her eye. Thinking she should wipe it away, she instead ignored it and continued to stare out over Gisborn’s lands to the south. If she squinted, she might make out the tops of the tress that lined the riverbank.

The farmland went all the way to the river and extended to the east and west beyond her line of sight. Instead of the typical one-acre strips of farmland that surrounded Bampton, Gisborn had managed to combine his tracts into several large farm fields for his tenants. The fact that he worked with his tenants to improve their situation seemed out of the ordinary for an earl. Instead of the seven pence a day a typical farmer in Bampton might earn, Henry was determined that those who farmed his lands would earn eight pence a day or more. He was so unlike the other men of the
ton!
She knew of no other earl that labored in his fields – most had estate managers to oversee such details, and even those men wouldn’t dirty their hands with the actual working of the land. But Gisborn was up early every day, riding out on his horse to wherever the next project lay unfinished. He was a responsible land owner, she realized. A good man.

He is my husband
.

She sighed as she continued to stare out the window.

Henry strode into the entry hall, glancing into the various rooms as he passed them, hoping to find Hannah awake and dressed and doing whatever it was countesses were expected to do everyday.

But the house was strangely quiet.

Perhaps she had gone calling on the villagers, he hoped. He found Mrs. Batey dusting the statuary in the parlor. “Good morning, Mrs. Batey,” he greeted her, not wanting to startle her with his sudden presence for fear the bust of his uncle’s father would tumble from its perch on a wooden pedestal.

“Oh! My lord, I did not hear you come in!” she answered, suddenly a bit flustered. She was no doubt remembering the sight of her master undressing his wife. Or perhaps she had seen him sleeping whilst he held Hannah when she delivered the dinner tray later that night.

Before she could say more and in an effort to stave off further embarrassment, Henry asked after Hannah. “Is Lady Gisborn making calls?” He could immediately tell from the way the housekeepers eyes darted about that Lady Gisborn was most certainly
not
making calls. “What is it, Mrs. Batey? Is she here?”
Good God, would she have gone running off again?
If so, Henry hoped she wouldn’t have gone back to where Harold had died. He had arranged for two of the laborers to retrieve the corpse, although he wasn’t yet sure where he would have them bury it.

“She’s still in her bedchamber, my lord,” the housekeeper answered, her hands nervously wringing together in her apron. “I took chocolate up to her at ten, but when I checked on her again at eleven, she hadn’t touched it. She just stares out the window, my lord. She’s still in her night clothes, but she must be freezing ...”

Henry was out of the parlor and taking the steps two at a time before Mrs. Batey could finish her sentence. When there was no response to his knock on Hannah’s bedchamber door, he opened it slightly and peered around the opening. “My lady?” His first glance was to the bed, but  it had been made up and looked as if it hadn’t been slept in. Then his attention turned to the only source of light in the room. As he feared, Hannah was still staring out the window, her forearms resting on the sill and her chin resting on one arm. She wore no dressing gown or even a blanket against the cold – she would certainly be chilled to the bone.

Quite unaware she was no longer alone, Hannah sighed. What would she do without Harold? He had been her constant companion for nearly ten years. At some point, she would have a baby to care for, a baby to play with and to feed and put to bed and to love ... but that would be at least nine months away! What would she do ..?

“My lady?”

Oh, so now I am hearing things
, she thought with derision. I
should get dressed. I should get something to eat. I should ...

“Hannah!”

Startled, she sat up straight and turned to find Henry staring down at her, the worry so evident in his eyes that she thought something horrible had happened. But what could be more horrible than Harold dying? Another tear fell from the corner of her eye.
How long have I been crying?
she wondered. “My lord?” she finally replied, realizing the earl was indeed real and perhaps a bit impatient and standing rather close. She could feel heat radiate from his body.

“Good God, Hannah, you’ll freeze sitting there like that!” His arms were suddenly around her, lifting her from the chair and pulling her stiff body against the front of his. Warmth seeped into her, wakening her other senses. She was shivering, although she’d been unaware of it until the heat from her husband’s body was suddenly so apparent. Her mind seemed slow, unable to form a coherent thought. Where was she? And where was Lily? Shouldn’t her maid be here to dress her?

“Hannah.”

Her name was said in a sigh as she was vaguely aware of being lifted and taken to her bed. A mound of bed linens were suddenly covering her body, although she clung to the source of heat that still held her. “You’re frozen!” The words were apparently said to admonish her, but she could not figure out why. “How long have you been sitting there like that?” Henry asked in a whisper, his lips coming down onto her forehead. She rather liked those lips, she remembered. They were soft and firm and forceful and forgiving and ...

“Hannah, my love,” the voice said again, only this time there was no admonishment.
My love.
What a very nice thing to hear in that voice she found so comforting. Coming from the body that was so warm and so hard and so very male. He smelled of musk and eau de cologne with just a hint of spice. So why at this moment would she think of Harold? Harold was warm. But he was also hairy. He slobbered. He sometimes smelled ... like a dog. But he was so ...
had been
so devoted. Another tear spilt from an eye and ran down her cheek. It didn’t make it far, though. For the tip of Henry’s tongue reached out and captured it before his lips pressed against her cheek.