Page 35 of The Winter Companion

He held the door for her, and she preceded him down the steps. It was too cold and wet to stroll and talk, even if they’d had a mind to. Instead, they made their way down the cliff road at a quick clip, Paul and Jonesy loping ahead of them, barking.

By the time they reached the safety of the stable, Clara was wet and breathless, raindrops streaming from her bonnet and cloak. She deposited Bertie on the ground with the other dogs before reaching to untie her bonnet. “Gracious. If Mrs. Bainbridge could see me now.”

Mr. Cross gazed down at her. A second passed, and then he moved to assist her. She dropped her hands, permitting him to unknot her wet bonnet strings, as if she were the veriest child. It took him but a moment. Less than a moment.

But he didn’t stop there.

The strings untied, he reached up and very gently lifted her bonnet from her head, revealing her rumpled hair, pinned in its haphazard chignon.

And Clara no longer felt breathless. She felt as if she had no breath at all. No lungs. Only a rapidly beating heart, and those dashed butterflies, who had chosen this inauspicious moment to open their wings and give an honest to goodness, full-bodied flutter.

“Mr. Cross,” she objected. “I really don’t think you should—”

“You’re very…”

“What?” Her voice was a whisper of sound. “What am I?”

His neck reddened faintly above the line of his cravat, but he didn’t look away from her. This time, when he spoke, he didn’t falter. “You’re beautiful, Miss Hartwright.”

Neville gazed down at Clara Hartwright, her wet bonnet held loose in his hand. He was riveted by her. By her eyes, soft and shimmering, like rich, chocolate brown satin. By the graceful arch of her dark, winged brows, and the damask rose hue of her half-parted lips.

All day he’d been aware of her. As she’d moved about the Abbey, twining pine boughs on the banister, and arranging alum-frosted holly and ivy on the shelves in the library. He’d been conscious of her soft voice, and her gentle, competent manner. Of the rustle of her woolen skirts over her starched petticoats as she walked past him. Aware of her to the point of distraction.

She was beautiful, though no one else seemed to notice but him.

She was also plainly shocked at the liberty he’d taken with her person.

“Thank you, Mr. Cross. That’s very kind of you. But…I must say, I’m not feeling very clever at the moment.” She cast an anxious glance down the aisle. There were no grooms standing about. No stable boys or other servants to have witnessed his brief breach of decorum. “I suppose I’ve ruined it.”

“Ruined what?”

“My bonnet. I’d have fetched an umbrella, but it didn’t seem necessary. It was only a light drizzle when we left the house.” The words tumbled out more quickly than was her habit. It was the only sign that he’d flustered her. That and the heightened color in her face. “Is there somewhere you can hang it to dry? And my cloak, too?”

“On the…on the door of the loose box.”

Her fingers moved to unbutton her cloak. Her hands were trembling.

Neville felt a stab of guilt. Was she afraid of him? Had he crossed some sort of line—not only in terms of social decorum, but in regard to her sense of personal safety?

They weren’t alone together. Not in the strictest sense. The grooms and stable boys might appear at any moment. But a gentleman could still pose a threat to a lady, even in the most public of settings.

“I d-didn’t mean—”

“Here you are.” She handed him her cloak. “I hope it will be dry enough by the time I return.”

He privately cursed his stammer as he took her wet things and draped them over the door of an empty loose box. If only he were more eloquent, like Alex or Tom. If only he were as confident as Justin. None of them ever seemed to have difficulty when speaking to their ladies—or to any ladies, for that matter.

Paul and Jonesy nosed about nearby, Bertie snuffling right along with them. Neville gave the dogs a cursory look before turning back to Miss Hartwright. He made an effort to speak slowly and calmly. To avoid the difficulties that plagued his speech whenever he got anxious.

“Would you like to see Betty?” he asked.

A look of relief came over Miss Hartwright’s face. “Oh, yes. I was hoping we could. Should I bring Bertie, or—”

“Leave him. They won’t run off.” He led her through the stables to the loose box at the back. It was ideal for a wild pony. She needed to feel safe and protected. And she needed to rest her injured foreleg. Her life, thus far, had been one of tumult. Captured from her home on the moors to be sold at the annual horse sale, she’d been manhandled and beaten—though never into compliance.

The first time he’d seen her had been in the coaching yard at the King’s Arms. A horse peddler had had her trussed up with ropes, and was trying to force her to follow his wooden cart. Betty had been limping badly, but her injury hadn’t stopped her from kicking and snapping her teeth, thrashing about with such violence that she’d shaken the peddler’s cart on its wheels. That’s when the peddler had begun striking her with his stick.

Neville related the story to Miss Hartwright as they walked. He halted and stuttered over the worst bits, his anger rising as he recollected Betty’s mistreatment.