Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Gwen awoke feeling warm and blissfully relaxed. She stretched out, savoring the comfort of the whole wide bed.

Her eyes flew open. She was alone in that bed, and sprawled across the middle of it, not lying decorously on her side of the mattress. She sat up in alarm even as she recognized that the captain was gone. His things were no longer on the chair or mantel, and the room was quiet.

She sank back down, oddly bereft. Of course she hadn’t expected to wake up with him smiling down at her, ready to offer a morning kiss and perhaps even more. She blushed at the memory of his mouth on her skin, and then blushed even harder to think of doing that in the light of day—she ought to be ashamed for wanting him to make love to her again. The last thing he’d said to her had been sorry .

What’s done is done , she told herself, and threw back the blankets. It was frigidly cold in the room, which she welcomed, and she hurried into her dirty dress as quickly as she could. After tidying the room, she brushed her hair and pinned it up, then folded her nightgown around her brush before opening the door.

The maid directed her to the kitchen, where Mrs. Kittridge herself was making breakfast. “There you are, dear,” she said with a smile. “Sleep well?”

Gwen blushed. “Yes, thank you. Is the captain…?”

The vicar’s wife waved one hand. “Up at dawn he was, shaving himself here in the kitchen with cold water! He told Mr. Kittridge he had to go to the Black Hart and see about a carriage. The two of them set off some time ago. Now, sit down and have some porridge, a nice hot breakfast for this cold day.”

Gwen sat down and ate. She had just finished her bowl of hot porridge with dried apricots when a jingle of bells sounded outside. Mrs. Kittridge raised her brows and hurried to the front door. Gwen followed close behind and had to shade her eyes.

The rain had turned back into snow at some point, and everything in sight was covered by a brilliant blanket of glittering white. The bells heralded a small sleigh, pulled by a pair of gray horses. Mr. Kittridge waved at them from the seat, and when the captain stopped the horses in front of the house, he touched his fingers to his hat in salute.

“A fine day for a drive, isn’t it, Mrs. Fitzhugh?” crowed the vicar, climbing out of the sleigh. Gwen started as she realized he was speaking to her. “I hope Catherine fed you, for the captain tells me he’s anxious to be on the way.”

“Of course I did, Jasper,” scolded his wife. She was already holding Gwen’s cloak. “Here, dear, you’ll want to be off as quickly as possible, for the horses.”

“Yes,” said Gwen, wrapping it around her. Her bonnet, left to dry by the sitting room fire, was stiff and deformed, but she didn’t have another one, so she put it on. The sky blazed a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the air was sharp with cold. “Thank you, Mrs. Kittridge, for everything?—”

“Of course, my dear. It was our pleasure.” The woman patted her hand. The vicar was waiting to help her into the carriage. Gwen tucked her small bundle down by her side and spread the thick carriage blankets securely over herself. With a wave to the Kittridges, the captain lifted the reins and the sleigh leapt forward.

“Good morning,” she said as he drove back out toward the road. The bells were louder here, and she had to raise her voice to be heard.

He grinned. The sun was blinding off the snow, and his hat was pulled low while his scarf was pulled high. All that was visible was a narrow piece of his face, eyes to mouth. “Good morning.”

“I’ve never ridden in a sleigh,” she went on, chattering nervously as she tried to think how to broach the unmentionable. Those lips had kissed her last night, all the way down to her breasts.

“The snow is only six inches deep. A carriage would flounder in it, but the stable master was persuaded to part with this sleigh. I was fortunate enough to be the first to ask. I daresay many a guest rising late will be disappointed, as this was the only one.”

She laughed, then remembered why he had risen so early. He turned the horses into the main road, and she realized they weren’t going back to the Black Hart. “Oh no,” she exclaimed. “Reggie!”

“At my feet,” said the captain.

Gwen lifted the blankets and peered down to see Reggie’s basket next to his boots. She tugged it out and opened the lid. Reggie’s orange head popped out, swiveled around to take in the snow, then lowered back into the basket. Gwen reached in to scratch his ears. “Poor Sir Reggie! I should have asked for some scraps for him.”

“He’s had a bit of gravy and fried egg from my breakfast at the Black Hart,” said Captain Fitzhugh. “I daresay that will tide him over to Blackthorpe.”

Gwen looked down, torn between being charmed that he had remembered her stolen cat, and unreasonably disconcerted that they were almost there. “We shall make it there today, then?”

“Yes, barring a washed-out bridge or other calamity.”

“Surely we’ve had our full share of calamities already,” she tried to joke, but it sounded flat.

“One hopes,” he agreed.

Gwen didn’t think he’d looked at her once since she got into the sleigh. Her heart sank. It was too difficult to talk; the air was bracing and her eyes ached from the glare, which the misshapen brim of her bonnet did little to block. The wind kicked up as they drove, and she had to pull a bit of her cloak over her face to protect herself from the fine mist of snow thrown up from the horses’ hooves. The captain, similarly muffled, concentrated on driving. The horses seemed restive, and more than once she realized he had barely kept them on the road, or whatever passed for a road under the mantle of snow. It was impossible to tell, to Gwen’s eyes, where the road even was. After an hour they stopped to change horses, but aside from a quick walk around the yard to stretch her stiff legs, they were off again.

When she spotted a sign marked Blackthorpe, she screwed up her courage. “Captain Fitzhugh,” she began.

“Adrian,” he said. “My name is Adrian.”

She stole a peek at him. He still faced forward, eyes squinting at the horses and the road. Was she supposed to call him Adrian? “I want to thank you again for taking me up yesterday. It was very generous and kind of you, and I deeply appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it.” He flashed her a brief look. “I was hardly able to provide the quick and direct journey you wanted.”

“I think it’s been as quick and direct as it could have been, given the storm.”

He gave a nod as he turned the horses into a narrower lane. The snow lay deeper here, slowing the horses. “It’s remarkable how thoroughly a storm can divert your plans.”

She took a deep breath. If she was daring enough to make love to a man, she must be bold enough to speak to him about it. “And I wish to assure you that last night was?—”

He coughed. “Yes. Last night.”

The way he said it made Gwen’s entire body flush with heat. It was the same tone he’d used when he murmured her name in question, as his hands moved over her with devastating skill, when she’d pleaded that he not stop. That he carry on and make love to her. “Yes, that,” she said bravely. “I only wanted to ask for—for your discretion.”

“That seems the very least you should ask for.” He reined in the horses again, slowing them to a slow amble. A neat little stone cottage stood in front of them, smoke puffing from the chimney, but no other sign of habitation. He stopped the horses in front of it, and finally turned to her.

To Gwen’s astonishment, he reached beneath the blankets and took her hand. “It was my very great pleasure to bring you north. Never feel yourself in my debt for that, as the journey was greatly improved by your company.”

She felt herself turning pink. “I think I must have been a terrible burden!”

He smiled, his faint, fleeting smile. “The very opposite.” He hesitated, then spoke just as the cottage door creaked. “I know there is much to be said, after last night. Miss Barrett— Gwen —I wish—that is, I hope—Might I?—?”

Gwen gasped, recognizing her Great-aunt Maisie peering out, a shawl around her shoulders. “Oh! Are we here already?”

“Larkspur Cottage, didn’t you say?”

“Yes—I did—but I didn’t know we were so near—” Nor has she expected him to remember the name of the house. What had he been about to say? Oh, heavens, she didn’t need Maisie overhearing this conversation.

Flustered, she began struggling to extricate herself from the blanket. The captain climbed down and came around the sleigh to lift the thick carriage blankets and help her down, then handed her Reggie’s basket. Gwen floundered through the snow toward Maisie, who recognized her and gave a little cry of delight. In between her rambling explanation and Maisie’s cries to Gran that Gwen had come and Reggie’s squalling to be released, Gwen didn’t notice that Captain Fitzhugh had brought her valise from the back of the sleigh. He set it on the doorstep beside her as Maisie flung wide the door, calling out in reply to Gran’s questions.

Setting down Reggie’s basket, Gwen turned to him. There were things she needed to say, and now that the moment was at hand, she did not want to say goodbye to him. Even if they met by chance in the village, it wouldn’t be the same. Their acquaintance was at an end, despite the remarkable intimacy they’d shared. “Captain?—”

“Adrian,” he said again.

“Adrian.” She blushed. “Please come in and have a cup of tea,” she said urgently, even though it wasn’t her house or her tea. She couldn’t just let him walk away.

He smiled ruefully. “Alas, I am also rushing to see someone.”

She’d forgotten about that. “Of course,” she said in dismay. “Forgive me. I hope your grandfather recovers his health.”

“As do I.” He took her hand and bowed over it, touching his lips to her knuckles and lingering there a moment. “Au revoir, Guinevere Barrett.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered, gripping his hand. “Please, not yet.”

From inside the house came Gran’s voice, weak but full of hope. Without thinking Gwen looked away from the captain, and he released her hand.

“Gwen? Is it really my dear Gwen?” Gran was coming down the stairs, slowly, clinging to the banister, but she was well enough to do it.

Gwen couldn’t stop a wide smile of relief at the sight. “Yes, Gran,” she called. “I’m here.”

Maisie bustled back to the door, beaming. “Come in, child, come in!” Then she caught sight of Captain Fitzhugh—Adrian—and gasped. “My goodness. Sir! Come in, you are very welcome!”

He touched the brim of his hat and bowed. “Thank you, madam, but I cannot linger.”

She gave him an agonized glance. He gave her his little half-smile again and tipped his head toward Gran. Eyes prickling for more than one reason, Gwen ran to her grandmother and hugged her.

Maisie was still talking behind her, gushing thanks, and she heard Adrian reply as he went back to the horses. It was shocking how attuned she’d become to the tone of his voice, and now she would likely never hear it again. Gran was exclaiming over her sudden appearance, and Gwen was straining her ears, desperate for one last word from him.

“But you’re crying,” said Gran in concern. “What is the matter?”

Gwen dashed a hand over her burning eyes. “It was the wind. I must say, now I’ve got a new appreciation for a carriage with well-fitted windows, after riding in a sleigh with the wind and snow in my face.”

“And a very happy Christmas to you, my lord!” called Maisie behind her. She shut the door and hurried over to join them, her face wreathed in smiles. “Well! My dear, what a marvelous surprise! Belinda made no mention of your coming.”

“I didn’t know!” Gran beamed at Gwen. She was still in her bedclothes, with a thick shawl over her shoulders, but she was walking and there was good color in her face. “But we’re so terribly glad you’re here!”

Gwen nodded, her mind on something else. To Maisie, she said, “Did you call the captain ‘my lord’?”

Maisie looked surprised. “Of course. That was Lord Westley, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Gwen slowly. “It was Captain Fitzhugh. Who is Lord Westley?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, yes, Fitzhugh. He’ll be the one who went into the army. The Fitzhughs do that, have done for generations. His father died a hero, you know, back in ‘Ninety-nine.” She clicked her tongue sadly. “And I think there was another—his uncle? No, it was too long ago, perhaps it was a great-uncle?—?”

“Who is Lord Westley?” Gwen repeated.

“The young gentleman who just left.” Maisie looked at her in bemusement. “I’ve never met him, but he’s the image of his father. Such a handsome man Lord Victor was! And so kind and good-hearted. It seems his son is, too, to bring our dear Gwen all the way here.”

“How did you meet him, Gwen?” asked Gran with a puzzled smile. “Of course I’m very grateful to him for bringing you?—”

“Who is Lord Westley?” demanded Gwen for the third time, her voice rising in agitation.

Maisie and Gran exchanged a look. “The Earl of Wroxham’s grandson. His Lordship’s heir.”