Page 83 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Chapter 4

“Wherein our heroine dares to dream of the future.”

Grace watched out of the window, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. Mr Hardy was busy in the yard, his breath blowing steamy clouds on the freezing air. The sun was coming up, a brighter patch glowing on the horizon against a grey-white sky.

She watched him haul bales of hay and trudge back and forth with buckets of water. He’d greeted the pigs and stopped to rub the huge sow’s big belly, laughing as Rufus got jealous and demanded equal attention. He’d tugged at the dog’s silky ears with affection and stroked his head, and Grace had smiled. Her brother would never have treated one of his dogs with such fondness. She watched as Mr Hardy carried on with his work, sending handfuls of corn scattering across the cobbles for the hens to fuss over before moving on to see to the horses.

If Harold didn’t find her and ruin everything, this would be her life. Fear prickled beneath her skin as she realised how ill-equipped she was. Not only could she not cook anything but bread, she had no knowledge of how a farm ran. She barely knew one end of a sheep from the other, or a pig. Mr Hardy’s late wife would have known; she’d have been raised for such a life and been a help to him, someone he could turn to. What use would Grace be?

Well, she would learn, and she’d do it quickly, too.

She knew most of her class would pity her for marrying a man so far beneath her, but Grace knew better. The only gentlemen she’d ever known hadn’t been worthy of the name, and had only ever viewed her as a possession. If she’d been lucky, she’d have been dressed in finery and jewels, and paraded about until the time her husband got her with child. If she survived that, she could turn a blind eye as he took a mistress. Such was the life of a lady, as far as she could tell. It was the life her mother had lived until she’d died, when Grace was still a little girl.

If she found herself married to Mr Carrington, life would be a good deal worse. She closed her eyes against the memory of his hand on her wrists, holding them above her head as his free hand burrowed beneath her skirts. It had been instinctive to raise her knee, though it had been more luck than judgement that she’d found her mark.

Mr Carrington had made a strange sound and gone the oddest colour, but Grace hadn’t waited to see what came next. She’d taken to her heels and run, hiding in the attics until Mr Carrington left and her brother had gone to bed before she’d come down again. The next morning, Harold had beaten her for her behaviour, though nowhere the bruises would show.

It had still been worth it. Anything was better than having that vile man’s hands upon her.

With a sudden rush of guilt for having spent so much time watching Mr Hardy work and not lifting a finger herself, Grace hurried to wash and dress. She decided she must ask him for a needle and thread so she could alter the clothes he’d given her to fit. That was at least something with which she had some skill; she could mend for him, too. Altering these clothes would be a thrifty, wifely thing to do, would it not? Grace paused. Perhaps he’d not want that. He’d kept the clothes, after all, so perhaps they were precious to him. Had he been desperately in love with his wife? Did he keep her things close from sorrow? Did he mourn the loss of her still?

Grace’s heart clenched, and she told herself it was pity for him that made her chest tight, though she knew better. What an ungrateful wretch she was, to have a man like this give her so much in such a short time, and yet still resent the fact that he might have loved his wife. Shame washed over her and she hurried down to the kitchen, determined to make amends and make herself useful.

The door opened just as she set foot in the kitchen, and Grace felt awkward as Mr Hardy came in. She froze as he set eyes on her. He stared for a moment, unmoving, and then let out a huff of laughter.

“I still can’t believe you’re real, lass,” he said with a crooked grin, putting down the dirty boots he carried on an old cloth in the corner of the room, apparently set aside for the purpose. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, the scent of icy, winter air reaching her as he moved. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” Grace said, trying to make him laugh, but his face fell, and he frowned, his dark eyes serious.

“Don’t say that. It’s far from true. You’re the best Christmas present I ever had in my whole life. Certainly the prettiest,” he added, flashing that grin again as Grace noted a dimple in his cheek.

Her chest tightened, the air caught and held in her lungs as pleasure filled her chest. How easily he said such lovely things.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said, aware she sounded breathless. She was breathless. That dimple had been disarming in the most devastating way.

He stared at her and shook his head, consternation in his eyes. “If that ain’t the most tragic thing I ever heard, I don’t know what is.”

She watched as he scratched his head, setting this thick, dark hair all in disorder. It was a touch too long and Grace had the sudden urge to reach out and smooth it back down again.

“Hungry?” he asked, looking relieved as Grace nodded. “Right. Breakfast, then. Sit yourself down.”

“Oh, but… I….” He paused as she protested, and Grace flushed. “Isn’t that a wife’s job, to… to make breakfast for her husband?”

She watched, fascinated, as two spots of colour burned high on his tanned face.

“Aye,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Reckon it is, though you’ll have Mrs Tucknott most days, and we can get a maid, too. Not much point with just me here, but you’ll need one, I know. I’ll not work you to the bone, lass.”

“I want to help, though,” Grace objected. “And I would like to cook… for you.”

Pleasure warmed his eyes, and Grace didn’t bother to fight the quiver of anticipation inside her at the sight.

“D’ye know how?” he asked, his voice soft as he knew the answer as well as she did. It was his innate kindness that framed the question gently, not wanting to embarrass her.

Grace bit her lip, humiliated as she reminded herself what a bad bargain the man had made in rescuing her. She hadn’t the first idea how to be a farmer’s wife. “N-No,” she stammered, praying he’d not change his mind about marrying her when he realised how useless she was. “But I should like to learn. I must learn. Please.”

“Right ye are, then,” he said. “Fetch the last of the bread from the pantry. We’ll be needing some fresh when that’s gone.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Grace said with a rush of satisfaction at being able to do something useful. She hurried off to fetch the bread.