Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Gwen felt very out of her depth as Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge and their maid fluttered around her, helping her out of her wet half-boots and cloak, bringing her slippers and a shawl, urging on her a glass of Mr. Kittridge’s own gooseberry wine. They were kind but inquisitive, and there was only so much she felt comfortable telling them.

She’d expected the captain to quickly stable the horse and return within half an hour, but the time dragged on and he didn’t come. That provoked some comment from the vicar and his wife, and Gwen unfortunately had no idea what to say. She didn’t know where he was, or what he was doing, and since she didn’t really know him, she had to invent some reason why he was taking so long.

It was even more difficult when she realized they believed her to be his wife.

The landlady at the Black Hart had said it, and she’d not protested because it had felt safer. The captain had played along very readily with it as well. Too late she realized the danger of obtaining a room under that pretense: the Kittridges had only one room, and of course a husband and wife would share it.

As the evening ticked by, and the Kittridges poured more wine and asked more questions, Gwen felt her powers of invention being tested. She told them what she knew first: the captain came from north of here, near Bury St. Edmunds. She had never been there but had family in the area and was eager to see it. They were on their way there now. The captain had been in the war, yes, in Spain. He had only recently returned to England.

At that point she ran out of truth and had to create some fiction, and for some reason she embroidered it shamelessly. Gwen found herself describing how gallantly the captain had rescued her from a runaway carriage on the streets of Salisbury. Then how he had charmed her by presenting her with a kitten named Reggie. Then how he had won her heart by buying her a new bonnet when hers was ruined, but not before he had researched the latest fashion and learned her favorite colors so he could present her with a bonnet that was the most perfectly beautiful bonnet she had ever owned. Not this bonnet, of course, but one in her luggage back at the inn.

She blamed the wine. And Mrs. Kittridge’s propensity for romantic gossip. By the time the little clock on the mantel tolled ten o’clock, she thought anyone would be in love with him—at least, the man she’d presented as Captain Fitzhugh.

It gave her a jolt when the man himself finally returned, soaking wet and half frozen. “I took a bit of a wrong turn,” he explained as he struggled out of his sodden cloak and ice-encrusted scarf. “I mistook the road in the dark, on foot.”

“Don’t say you had to walk from the Hart,” exclaimed Mr. Kittridge. “In this weather?”

“I promised to return the horse,” he replied.

Gwen realized with a start he’d only borrowed the horse to bring her here, so she wouldn’t have to walk in the freezing rain. On top of all the romantic lies she’d been telling, it was a dangerously appealing discovery. He’d better do something rude soon, or she would think herself in love.

The captain gave a groan of relief as his waterlogged boots came off, and Mrs. Kittridge rushed to prepare another cup of tea while the vicar fetched a towel. Gwen helped him strip off his scarlet coat, which took some work with the wool as wet as it was. She noticed that it was worn, neatly darned in some places, including one long cut on the sleeve. She wondered if he’d been wounded, and hoped the coat had taken the worst of it. Mrs. Kittridge fussed with hanging the coat on a chair to dry, and Mr. Kittridge promised to work some magic on the boots.

“I’ve tramped this entire parish in the rain, in my thirty years here!” he declared. “I know how to treat wet boots.”

Thankfully the Kittridges were soon ready to retire. They showed Gwen and the captain to a spartan but clean room at the back of the house. The maid had laid a fire, the bed was made up, and then they were alone.

Gwen, tipsy on gooseberry wine, was alone with the man she’d built into a romantic hero for the Kittridges’ sake, but also a bit for herself. How mortifying it would be if he knew.

“What an adventure this has become,” she said lightly.

He dragged one hand over his face. “I should have protested earlier when the woman at the Black Hart presumed we were married.”

“I understand why you didn’t,” she assured him. “I shall roll myself in a blanket on the floor.”

“You will not,” he exclaimed. “The bed is for you.”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not. You’re wet to the skin and half-frozen, you are sleeping in the bed.”

“This floor is a far sight more comfortable than a camp bed in Spain, where I slept for the last eight months.” He folded his arms—unhelpfully, as the damp linen clung to his muscled forearms, and Gwen was having a hard time looking away.

“This floor is far more appealing than the scullery maid’s pallet at the Two Owls in Ipswich, or that corner bench at the Black Hart, which is where I would be sleeping if not for you.”

“This floor, with this rug and this fire, is the height of luxury compared to an army tent!”

Gwen had her own arms crossed now. “And you have clearly never been a governess! I would have given my right arm for a fire or a rug, to say nothing of both!”

The captain stared at her, blinking. Gwen saw the twitch of his mouth and realized how absurd they were. A giggle shook her, then another, and then she clapped both hands over her mouth to muffle the gales of laughter that overtook her.

“Great God,” gasped the captain, caught in his own laughter. He waved his hands in the air as if to calm them both. “They’ll cast us out as lunatics.”

“Rightly so,” she croaked, pointing a shaky finger. “This is the m-most ordinary rug.”

“And we’re almost at pistols drawn over who wishes more desperately to suffer through a night on it.”

Gwen had to gasp three times to get enough breath to reply. “And the fire is too small to warm the room!”

His shoulders shuddered as he bit back more merriment. His face was flushed from laughing, and his hair hung in his eyes, which danced with glee. Gwen couldn’t stop smiling at him. She’d met this man today, and yet he seemed incredibly familiar and dear to her.

It’s the wine, she told herself, and turned toward the bed. It was nice and wide, with several blankets piled on top. “We could simply share the bed,” she heard herself say.

He went still, the smile frozen on his face. He, too, turned to regard the bed in question as if just becoming aware of its presence.

“It’s rather a large bed,” Gwen’s voice went on. She certainly didn’t feel in control of it. “I trust you, and I am so tired, I’ll be dead to the world within minutes.”

He just stared at the bed.

It was definitely the wine. She should be shocked and horrified at herself, but instead she unrolled the bundle she’d retrieved from her valise and reached for the tie of her chemisette. “Turn your back, sir.”

Captain Fitzhugh spun around and faced the wall, ramrod straight, as if he were standing on parade.

Gwen took off her dress—damp to the knees and splattered with mud—and her petticoat. She stripped off her stays and pulled her nightgown on over her shift. She untied her garters and rolled off her stockings. Mrs. Kittridge’s shawl went back around her, and she felt every bit as covered as before. “Thank you,” she said, taking her dress and stockings and spreading them out to drape over one of the chairs beside the hearth.

The captain didn’t turn around. “If you are certain… about the bed…”

“Of course.” She made herself smile, even though he wasn’t looking at her. She’d said it, and she would honor her word. She’d shared a bed before—with her mother, with her cousin, with various children in her care when storms frightened them at night. This was hardly different.

He cleared his throat. “Then why don’t you… arrange yourself for the night.”

“Oh! Of course. I’ve only to wash my face and comb my hair,” she replied.

His shoulders hunched. She could see his muscles tense through the clinging linen. She went to the washstand and quickly washed her face and scrubbed her teeth with a corner of the flannel. She pulled out the hairpins and ran her brush through her hair until it fell smoothly over her shoulders, then plaited it, only to realize she’d lost the bit of ribbon she usually tied it with. Oh well; she coiled it at her nape and slid into the bed, tucking the blankets securely around her. “Done,” she whispered.

He nodded and blew out the lamp.

The fire emitted only a faint glow, and Gwen resolutely kept her face turned away, but she could hear him washing, then undressing. The soft sounds of cloth against cloth as he removed his waistcoat, and the clink of his watch being deposited on the mantel. The sounds of him peeling off his stockings, and the silence as he hung them to dry. That silence extended until she felt quite tense. What was he doing now?

Then finally the sound of breeches being stripped off, wet cloth being peeled down and yanked free. Gwen tried to keep her mind a blank but she recalled the muscled hardness of his thighs beneath hers, flexing to control the horse. A cavalry officer’s thighs. He’d felt quite strong and solid all over, she thought, from his arms around her to his chest at her back. And now he was standing only a few feet away, wearing just his shirt, which was damp in the sleeves, he would have to take it off so it could dry?—

A rustle of cloth suggested he had.

Gwen, who’d been confident she would be fast asleep as soon as her head touched a pillow, felt her every nerve buzzing with taut attention. She was twenty-five years old, not a virgin but far from experienced. She’d just lost her post, and likely any hope of finding another one as good. She should be clinging tightly to her respectability with both hands, and instead she was lying wide awake listening to a man undress and wishing fiercely that she had the right to watch. Wishing that she knew the captain, really knew him, and didn’t have to make up romantic deeds from thin air. Wishing that the moment in the Black Hart, when she’d awoken from her doze to feel his warmth and weight against her and his breath on her skin, had been intentional, or at least meaningful, and not the result of him being so tired he couldn’t sit up straight.

Wishing that the charming lover she’d created for Mrs. Kittridge’s entertainment was really hers.

She didn’t move a muscle as the captain moved about the room. She couldn’t hear what he was doing anymore, over the clamor of her own thoughts and longings. Then the bed creaked and the mattress dipped, and the blankets shifted as he lay down beside her.

She banished her useless longings and dangerous thoughts. “Good night, Captain,” she whispered.

“Good night,” he said tersely.

Gwen closed her eyes and prayed for sleep.

Adrian lay perfectly still, staring at the dark ceiling, stiff and hard all over.

He was the biggest idiot on God’s earth. He should have corrected that landlady immediately. He should have said Miss Barrett was his sister, or his cousin. He should have insisted they needed two rooms, or if there was only one to be had, it must be for her alone.

Instead, he found himself in bed with her, after receiving a knowing smile from Mr. Kittridge and some murmured words about his bride warming him up, and he’d had to listen to her undress and brush out that shiny, silky hair and know she would be within arm’s reach all night.

He couldn’t survive a whole night of this. He would wait until she was asleep, then he would slide out of bed and sleep on the threadbare rug before the fire, which he’d built back up in anticipation. He prayed she didn’t make any arousing little moans in her sleep.

He just had to wait. Adrian had a fairly accurate internal clock, and he told himself half an hour should be sufficient. She was as exhausted as he was, and she should be sleeping soundly enough by then that he could move without disturbing her. Until then, he would lie here, silent and motionless, ignoring his cock, which had stiffened to attention the moment she asked him to turn his back.

He could hear her breathing beside him.

He couldn’t stop picturing her stockings draped over the arm of the chair. Nor imagining her bare legs against his. He reconsidered having removed his breeches. They were wet, but wearing them might be miserable enough to keep his thoughts in line. Thank God he’d brought an extra shirt, or he would be lying here, naked, beside her?—

Beside him she shifted, just a little stretch, and his wicked mind immediately drew up an image of her sleeping naked, draped in honey-colored curls and soft linen sheets. He knew she was not naked; he’d caught a glimpse of white nightgown from the corner of his eye, when she’d climbed into the bed.. He wondered what it looked like, and if it had buttons down the front, buttons that a man would have to undo as he kissed his way down her throat to her plump, tempting breasts?—

A coal snapped in the fire and he flinched violently. Half an hour, he told himself desperately. Half an hour.