Regency Christmas Proposals Page 2

  Perhaps she would raise enough from the sale to buy them a cottage where they could live out their days? Unconsciously she shook her head, knowing that even if she were by some miracle able to provide a roof over their heads, she could not support them as well as herself.

  She must have made some sound in response to the realisation. Hannah turned from the fire she’d been building up to look at her.

  ‘Shall I rub your temples? Or perhaps a kerchief dipped in vinegar? My mother swore by that. Troubled by headaches, she was, until the day she died.’

  ‘It isn’t my head,’ Isabella confessed. ‘In truth…’ She hesitated, hating to share the very painful realisations she herself had been forced to face this morning. ‘I don’t know how we shall get on,’ she finished weakly.

  It wasn’t for herself that she feared. Not only was she well-born, she had also been well-educated. And she had travelled extensively during a period when that pastime had been denied to most Englishwomen. Even in these troubling economic times she had no doubt she could find a position as a companion or even as a governess, although her experience with children was very limited. Hannah and Ned, on the other hand…

  ‘We’ll be fine, love. Don’t you trouble your head about us. As long as we’ve a roof over our heads and something for our tea, why, what more could we want? Ned was saying just the other day that plot to the side that gets the morning sun would be perfect for planting some more vegetables. There’s no telling what else he could grow if he set his mind to it.’

  The knock at the front door took them both by surprise. Hannah put down the poker she’d been wielding to wipe her hands on her apron. ‘Now, who could that be in this rain?’

  She was right, Isabella realised. The storm now pounded against the new roof. She said a silent prayer that the costly repair would hold against it as Hannah disappeared towards the front of the house.

  Her eyes fell to the stack of bills again. Please, God, it’s not one of these demanding payment.

  She could hear Hannah’s voice, but not that of the caller. A neighbour, perhaps? Or a traveller seeking directions? Apparently not the dunning she had feared.

  ‘A gentleman, Mrs Stowe,’ Hannah said as she re-entered the room. ‘He insists on speaking to you.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘Wakefield, he said. Doesn’t seem to be from around these parts. Too fine, if you take my meaning.’

  Isabella wasn’t sure she did, but she rose, brushing at the wrinkles in her skirt. It was her second-best dress, but it had already been carefully darned. If the gentleman at the door was as fine as Hannah indicated, then she should have had the housekeeper direct him to the parlour. She didn’t do that because she couldn’t imagine a real gentleman would come calling on her.

  More than likely he’d been sent by someone whose accounts she’d been trying to figure out how to pay. If that were the case…

  ‘I’ll go to him,’ she announced.

  The housekeeper’s mouth opened and then closed, but by that time Isabella had already pushed by her to walk towards the front door. Hannah was right, she decided as she got her first glimpse of their visitor. He was too fine to fit into any of the categories she had mentally assigned him.

  Although she’d hesitated before entering the hallway where the housekeeper had left him, the man somehow became aware of her presence. He turned to face her, destroying the lingering possibility that he might be some tradesman’s messenger.

  From the intricately tied cravat to the gleaming Hessians he was every inch the gentleman. The beaver he held in his hands had probably cost more than she’d spent maintaining her household during the past year.

  ‘Mrs Stowe?’

  ‘Yes?’

  The quick upward tilt of his lips caused a very peculiar sensation in the pit of Isabella’s stomach. Not only was her visitor impeccably turned out, he was rather shockingly handsome.

  His coal-black hair was touched with grey at the temples, which seemed to belie the youthfulness of his features. The most striking of which, she realised, was a pair of blue eyes rimmed with lashes that would have been the envy of any London beauty.

  ‘How may I help you, Mr…Wakefield, is it?’ Although her hand had nervously found the throat of her gown, she managed to resist the ridiculous impulse to touch her hair, which she knew was in complete disarray.

  There was a brief hesitation before her caller responded. ‘That’s right.’ As he agreed, he stepped towards her.

  It was only then that she saw the scars, which had been concealed by the dim light of the hallway until now.

  ‘I know you,’ she whispered.

  She did. This was the boy she’d given water to while he’d awaited transport at the harbour of St Jean de Luz.

  A boy no more, she acknowledged. If he had been then.

  One long-fingered hand lifted to touch the marred area on his right cheek. ‘I wasn’t certain you’d remember.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ She was beginning to get her bearings, finally able to put this into perspective.

  Mr Wakefield was here because she had attempted to succour him in an hour of need. Just as she had done with so many others during the years she’d spent in Iberia.

  He was not the first of those to seek her out. Especially after William’s death had become known to the soldiers who had fought with him.

  ‘I see you have recovered from your injuries,’ she said with a smile. It was always gratifying to see someone who’d survived, given the rather ghastly odds against it.

  ‘Despite my fears.’

  The answering tilt of his lips disturbed the emotional equilibrium she had just congratulated herself on achieving. And she couldn’t quite decide why.

  ‘If I remember correctly, those fears were well justified.’

  ‘Perhaps, but…’ He hesitated again, the smile in his eyes fading. ‘If it were not for you—’

  ‘I offered you water and some words of comfort,’ she interrupted briskly, well accustomed to dealing with unwanted gratitude. ‘I wish I could claim that I believed them, but I had in all probability offered the same meaningless phrases to the man lying beside you.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  He smiled at her again, something she found she was enjoying a little too much. Too long out of the company of attractive men. Out of the company of any men, she amended.

  It’s amazing I’m not bowled over by the butcher. And if I pretended to be would he give us something for the table?

  She tried to arrange her features into some appropriately sincere mode, determined to let Mr Wakefield express his gratitude as he’d clearly come here to do. When he had done so, there would be time to decide what to do about the butcher.

  ‘I am not, however, so certain of that as you seem to be,’ he continued. ‘Our conversation was quite specific, I assure you. And your remarks too apt to be given by rote.’

  ‘Or perhaps I had grown very good at telling sorely wounded men what they needed to hear.’ A skill she had rather not have had occasion to develop.

  ‘I was taught never to argue with a lady. And I promise you that debating our memories isn’t why I’ve come.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve come for—’ she began, only to be interrupted.

  ‘I had hoped to express my gratitude in some…tangible way.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  Actually, she was very much afraid that she did. And, despite the stack of duns on the table in the kitchen, she felt her temper rise.

  ‘I was told your husband succumbed to a fever in the last days of the war.’

  ‘A pinprick.’ Her bitterness over the stupidity of it came through in her tone. ‘All the times he’d been injured… This was nothing. Less than nothing. Maybe if it had been he would have let me see to it in the beginning. Instead…’ She paused again to control her emotions. ‘Instead the wound began to suppurate, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My husband was gone in three days,
his body burning up before my eyes.’

  Only the prolonged silence after her words made her realise that she had told this stranger more about William’s death than she had ever confessed to anyone else.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said softly. ‘From all accounts he was a fine man. And a fine officer.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Unconsciously she lifted her chin, a reaction to her embarrassing display. Was she not a soldier’s wife?

  ‘It can’t have been easy for you since his death.’

  Her chin inched upward another notch. ‘Thank you for your very kind concern, Mr Wakefield, but I assure you it is quite unnecessary. My husband provided for me very well. You need have no fear on that account.’

  Another silence, during which she held his eyes, daring him to offer an additional bit of unwanted solicitude. Thank God the man had sense enough to realise he had overstepped his bounds.

  She held out her hand, suddenly eager to be done with this. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. I’m so very glad that what you feared that night did not come to pass.’

  Again there was a heartbeat’s hesitation, and then he touched her outstretched hand, bringing it to his lips. They brushed her skin, lingering not a second longer than politeness dictated. ‘Thank you for my life, Mrs Stowe. I confess I should have been very loath to lose it.’

  ‘You give me too much credit, Mr Wakefield. Please know, however, that although I deny any role in your survival I am very glad it came about.’

  He smiled at her again, a hint of genuine amusement in the depths of those remarkable blue eyes. ‘Then…until we meet again.’

  It seemed almost a question, but before she had time to think of an appropriate answer he had let himself out through the front door, stepping forward into the deluge. The door of the black closed carriage pulled up before her cottage was immediately opened to receive him, and her gentleman caller was swallowed up into its elegance so quickly she doubted his clothing would even be damp when he arrived at his destination.

  And that is that, she thought decisively. She realised her hand was still hovering in mid-air, in approximately the same place where her guest had released it.

  She retrieved it before stepping forward to close the door against the wind. Instead of doing so, however, she stood a moment watching Mr Wakefield’s carriage drive smartly away, despite the condition of the lane.

  As she turned to go back to the kitchen her eyes were drawn to the mirror over the hall table. It was exactly as she had feared.

  Too late, she used her fingers to tame a few of the most recalcitrant strands of hair before she gave the exercise up as futile. The black gown drained all colour from her cheeks, and her lips matched the chapped condition of her hands.

  At that thought her eyes fell from her unappealing reflection to stare at the fingers her visitor had so recently held. It seemed as if she could still feel the warmth of his wrapped around her own. Suddenly she drew her outstretched fingers into a fist, as if to hide their embarrassing condition.

  What could it possibly matter? she demanded of herself brusquely. All this had been was an unexpectedly diverting interlude in an otherwise dreary day.

  As William had so often reminded her during the deprivations campaigning had imposed, one should be grateful for small favours. The lovely Mr Wakefield had introduced a bit of romance into her rather bleak existence.

  One that would, she reckoned, have to last her a depressingly long time.

  Guy rested his head against the deeply padded seat of his carriage and closed his eyes. The long day of travel yesterday, added to the excitement of finally completing his quest, had conspired to produce another of the megrims that had periodically felled him since he’d regained his sight. And, since he refused any further doses of the laudanum that was all his physicians could offer for them, there was no help for what lay ahead.

  Eyes still closed, he concentrated on remembering each detail of his meeting with Mrs Stowe. Those memories wouldn’t stop the pain, of course, but they would—if briefly—take his mind off its impending attack.

  He had known from General Abernathy’s description that Isabella Stowe would not be the typical English beauty. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the very atypical nature of her attraction.

  Dark hair and eyes. The latter far too direct for polite society. A classically oval face, whose perfection might by some be considered marred by the high cheekbones and strong chin. His lips curved in remembrance of the proud tilt of her head on that swan-like neck.

  Not beautiful, he conceded. Handsome would be a more appropriate description. Or perhaps, given the slightly foreign cast of her features, striking.

  He could almost feel the fine bones of the hand she had given him. The skin that covered them had been cold and reddened from work. Hardly the hand of a lady, but the surge of pure sexual attraction that had jolted through his body when he’d touched it had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

  She had accused him of misplaced gratitude, an emotion he readily admitted to. One that did not, however, come close to explaining the effect she had had on him.

  If she were right, then the effort he had made to track her down and his professed thanks should satisfy any obligation he might feel. He very much doubted that would be the case, but there would be time enough to determine that when they met again.

  Because there was now, of course, no doubt in his mind that they would.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, his mind occupied with the problem of finding a believable excuse for calling again on Mrs Stowe, Guy almost bumped into a slight figure hovering near the door to the public room of the inn where he had taken up residence. He looked down to make his apologies—and straight into the face that had haunted his dreams.

  ‘Mrs Stowe?’

  Her eyes widened with recognition. ‘Mr Wakefield. Forgive me, but I believed from our conversation that you were not from the area.’

  ‘London. And Hertfordshire. As I have business in the district, I’m stopping here a few days.

  ‘I see. Two birds with one stone?’ she suggested, with a touch of asperity.

  ‘Have I offended you?’

  ‘Of course not. I simply was not aware of your additional…engagements. I hope your accommodation is a pleasant one. The Wren’s Nest is reputed to be one of the finest inns in the area.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, but…’ Puzzled by her presence at the public house so early in the day, Guy glanced around the bustling inn in an attempt to find some explanation for it. The sight of a servant carrying baggage out the main door made him realise what that must be.

  ‘You’re waiting for the stage?’

  ‘I have some shopping to do for which I’m afraid our local establishments won’t suffice.’

  ‘Newark?’ he guessed. ‘Then allow me to offer what I’m sure will prove to be a more comfortable means of transportation to your destination.’

  Her gaze moved to the wide doorway, crowded with those waiting to board the public conveyance. When it came back to his face, she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Wakefield, but I’m quite accustomed to travelling by stage. And quite content with my experiences.’

  Guy raised his own eyes, letting his gaze linger meaningfully on the throng by the front doors. A nursemaid struggled to control a couple of rambunctious boys determined to play tag, despite the close confines of the hallway. Beside her a farmer, who wore a great deal of his fields on his boots and trousers, was smoking a malodorous pipe. A large red-haired woman, whose muddy footwear marked her as very possibly his wife, held by their necks a duo of freshly killed chickens. The birds swung back and forth as she conversed with the wizened cleric at her side—a conversation of great interest to the three louts standing behind them. Through the open door he could see the coachmen loading a pile of bags and boxes, presumably belonging to the motley assemblage waiting to board, onto the already laden coach.

  Guy looked back down, his brows raised in question. ‘Is it a
lways so crowded?’

  Her eyes focused briefly on the coach before returning to his face. ‘I believe there is a market today.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a smile. ‘Then all the more reason to avoid the crush. I should be delighted to convey you to whatever shops you wish to visit.’

  ‘I would not dream of troubling you.’

  ‘It is no trouble, I assure you. I am going to Newark on business. As are you. Why should you not travel there in comfort?’

  Her eyes reflected her disbelief. ‘You intended to drive to Newark?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘This very morning?’

  ‘Mrs Stowe, are you doubting my veracity?’

  ‘Mr Wakefield, do you think me so gullible as to believe such a happy coincidence?’

  ‘Then you admit such a coincidence would be happy?’

  ‘A figure of speech. As you well know.’

  ‘Not in my case. I should be delighted to see you safely to your destination.’ He touched her elbow, gesturing as he did so towards the crowded doorway of the inn.

  Her eyes followed the direction of his hand. ‘I cannot—’

  ‘But you can. It is merely a matter of walking with me past those attempting to board the stage and out to my carriage, which I can assure you is warmer, better sprung, and far less crowded than the one on which they will ride. Come, Mrs Stowe. I took you for a practical woman. I shan’t bite you, you know.’

  ‘You are not foolish enough, I hope, to think I am afraid of you.’ Her gaze, now challenging, came back to his face.

  ‘What else am I to think?’ Perhaps the thought that he might believe it would convince her.

  ‘That I don’t like to feel under obligation to anyone. I seriously doubt you have business in Newark, Mr Wakefield.’

  ‘Doubt it if you wish, but I give you my word as a gentleman that is the case.’

  She held his eyes a long moment.

  Before she broke the contact between them, he knew he had won. It was all Guy could do not to gloat as he led her down the crowded hall and into the fresh air.