The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 9

  Stevens slid down in his seat, resting his head on the backrest, his legs stretched out before the fire. “That white-blonde hair is bright like the sun,” he murmured, “and her piercing green eyes are so warm, honest, and inviting, one could get lost in their depths.” He heaved an audible sigh. “And those curves. Good God, she was made for a man’s touch.”

  Charles shot to his feet with his hands balled into fists, a jealous anger burning inside him. “Say anything more, Stevens, and you will face my fist, by God!”

  Stevens held his hands up in the air as if in surrender, laughter shaking his shoulders. “Easy now, Hydra, it was just an observation. One that, evidently, other men have noticed.”

  Charles’ stomach roiled as jealousy blazed through him. “Bridget is not available to you, so mind your eyes. She is a lady and must be treated as such.”

  The curst man hid a grin. “Duly noted.”

  Charles resumed his seat in the armchair, but continued to feel the tension running high in his body.

  “What do you plan to do about it?” Stevens said to the fire.

  “About what?” Charles grumbled.

  “Your amorous feelings for Lady Bridget.”

  “Damnation, Stevens.” Charles stood. “I’m returning to my quarters. Send word if you have need of me. I will arrive, as planned, after dinner for an update.”

  “Deny it if you wish, Hydra, but it is plain as day.”

  Charles chose to ignore his fellow’s comment. Turning on his heel, he opened the hidden panel beside the fireplace and stepped through.

  There were passages throughout the castle, leading to every room. One led underground for a half mile and ended at the entrance of an abandoned cabin. Charles had elected to stay there; it was not visible from the castle unless one knew where to look, as it was disguised with vines and shrubbery. It did, however, have a spectacular view of the castle…and in particular, the nursery. Only he, Jones, and Stevens knew of its existence. The other men knew he had planned to stay in the area, but they did not know the location he had chosen.

  He wondered at the cabin’s origin. It was not terribly large, with two rooms: one was a bedchamber, and the other contained a sitting area, cupboards, grand fireplace, and an area to prepare food. Charles could not decide whether it was a strange hunting cabin, or a hidden lover’s den.

  Naturally, a lover’s den was not something he endorsed, being that it often hurt one spouse that the other kept a mistress on the estate’s grounds, but at the moment it was convenient. He was also blissfully alone. As there wasn’t space for Jones to sleep at the cabin, he was forced to remain at the castle, which was, despite how fond he was of his friend and comrade, peaceful.

  Charles kept one hand pressed to the wall as he navigated his way through the dark, narrow passage. He had gotten lost the first several times he had walked between the walls, but he had spent hours memorizing the location of each room.

  The passages let him observe the happenings within the house, which Charles hoped would reveal any of Bonaparte’s spies.

  It also enabled him to observe the progress with Bridget and the boy.

  His mind wandered to the conversation he’d just overheard between Stevens and Bridget. It had not occurred to him, either, to provide the boy with toys. He was thankful that Bridget had thought of it.

  His stomach twisted as he recalled the other facets of their conversation. Lord, how could he have missed the other signs? Bridget was a beautiful woman no longer in possession of her virginity; she was bound to have found comfort in another man’s arms over the past five years. Charles had certainly not been celibate, himself; there had been the occasional camp follower during his time abroad, but they had left him feeling cold and unclean. Since his return from war, however, Charles had not indulged himself with any woman. He had been far too consumed with finding Bonaparte’s spies to give humour to his baser urges, even had he met a woman that caught his attention. But he hadn’t. No, indeed. His thoughts were focused only on one woman in England.

  “Shall we dress you for luncheon?”

  Charles froze.

  “Yes, Helen. The peach one, if you please.”

  Charles suddenly realized that he had taken a wrong staircase, and several wrong turns. No doubt it was his overeager male appendage, and his raging jealousy, leading him to Bridget’s bedchamber.

  He turned to return the way he had come; Bridget did not deserve to have her privacy invaded while she dressed, regardless of how much he wanted to stay and watch.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Stevens is quite the handsomest man I ever saw.”

  Charles stopped his retreat, his heart rate accelerating. Squelching his guilt, he stood with his ear to the wall, waiting expectantly for Bridget’s response.

  “You know I never mind your frank conversation, Helen. And you are quite correct; Mr. Stevens is breathtakingly handsome. His golden eyes are striking; they make him appear exotic and…” She sighed. “Slightly dangerous when he isn’t smiling. It is unnerving that I cannot tell what he is thinking.”

  Resentment burned in Charles’ gut. Why had they chosen Stevens for the position of “father”? He was too damned mysterious with his oddly coloured eyes. Why had they not chosen Brown, or Davis, or even Thomson?

  “Here you are, milady.” Charles heard a rustling of fabric, and inched toward the thin seam in the hidden panel.

  Despite his mind telling him to walk away, the other more primitive parts of his body were telling him to sneak a quick look.

  The seam was too narrow for him to see the entire room, but Bridget’s half-clad form was clearly visible where she was standing.

  Charles’ body instantly came alert. It had been five years since he had seen her in so little material, and the time had been very good to her. Her light hair was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Wisping sunny blonde tendrils lightly grazed the sides of her face, coiled down the sides of her neck, and rested on her shoulders.

  His gaze paused to rest on her generous bosom, before it travelled further down her body, over her narrow waist, shapely hips, and long, slender legs.

  Bridget turned sharply to look around the room, and Charles stepped away from the wall. He knew that Bridget could not see him from his hiding spot, but felt obliged to hide, regardless.

  “Is something the matter, my lady?” Helen asked softly.

  “I am sure it is nothing, Helen.”

  Their voices faded away as Charles walked purposefully toward the nearest hidden spiral staircase.

  His lust for Bridget was strong, but clearly unwelcomed. He would undoubtedly have difficulty accepting that she had not reserved her heart for him, no matter how undeserving of it he was, but he would be damned if she entertained her lover under his roof.

  * * *

  The hallways of the castle proved challenging to navigate, and the eerie feeling that someone watched her constantly prickled at her neck.

  Bridget had had that uneasiness at home, as well, in the last several days, so it could not possibly be this castle that unsettled her. Perhaps it was something within her; she had embarked on a new chapter of her life, journeying into the unknown. Was it possible that stepping out of the familiar had created her disquiet?

  She felt Henry’s hand slip into hers as they walked toward the dining room, and something melted in her heart.

  They passed an open doorway to what appeared to be the morning room. She glanced within and saw a young man dusting a vase. Odd that a downstairs maid did not have that duty. She frowned in thought as they descended the last staircase to the first floor. The realization hit Bridget immediately, and she stopped in the middle of the hallway to turn to Henry.

  “Do you know, Henry, if there are any women working in this castle besides me? And my maid, Helen, of course.”

  He scrunched his face in thought, then shook his head.

  “Hmm.” It was peculiar that Mr. Stevens would employ no women. Perhaps the late Mrs
. Stevens preferred it that way. “Oh, well. Come along, Henry. We had best not be late for luncheon.”

  The dining room was a splendidly appointed space, with raw stone walls, a large wooden table down the centre, and two long sideboards along the back wall. Grand windows ran the length of the room, and were adorned with heavy burgundy drapes. The plates were set at one end of the table, the silver cutlery and glasses sparkling with the light from the windows and the glittering chandeliers hanging above.

  Mr. Stevens entered behind them. “Good afternoon, Lady Bridget. Henry, my lad.” He reached out a hand to pat Henry’s shoulder and the boy glowed. “Please, do have a seat.”

  Bridget fought a blush as she sat to the left of the head of the table. That spot was ordinarily reserved for the lady of the household. Henry sat across from her, and once they were both seated, Mr. Stevens sat at the head.

  Had Mr. Stevens forgotten about their conversation earlier? She glanced surreptitiously at him from beneath her lashes. It was highly unlikely, no matter how much she might wish it. She was merely grateful that he hadn’t reprimanded, or, heaven forbid, dismissed her.

  “I trust you are settling in well enough, Lady Bridget?”

  “I am, thank you. This afternoon I plan to recruit two of your footmen to assist with moving the furniture in the nursery, then I will begin preparing my notes for future lessons.”

  “I am going to help!” Henry sat proudly straight in his chair, while both Bridget and Mr. Stevens stared in shock.

  Since her arrival, Bridget had not heard a word from Henry.

  Several footmen entered the dining room holding plates aloft, entirely unaware of the inhabitants’ stunned silence. One plate laden with food was placed before the three of them and several serving platters, topped with additional food, were placed in the centre of the table. The footmen exited, leaving them in silence, once more.

  Bridget recovered. “Your assistance would be much appreciated, Henry. Thank you.”

  “That’s a good lad.” Mr. Stevens smiled fondly at Henry, then turned his attention to Bridget. “Tell me, Lady Bridget, how does this castle compare to your home in Hertfordshire?”

  Bridget picked up her napkin and carefully placed it across her lap. “Mason Hall is smaller in size. Everything here is much grander in scale, from the rooms to the hallways. One would expect a castle as great as this would be prone to a draft, but I have found it quite comfortable.

  “I will miss my family, to be sure, but I am very thankful for this position. I am rather looking forward to exploring the grounds.” At Mr. Stevens’ sharp look, Bridget added, “Escorted by footmen, of course.”

  Mr. Stevens flashed a quick grin, easily replacing the severe look in his eyes. “Very good. I am pleased that the castle is acceptable to you.”

  Clearly Mr. Stevens felt strongly about the rules he had set for this position.

  Bridget picked up her fork and took her first bite of the meal. And immediately had to suppress the urge to spit the bite into her napkin. Good heavens, the food was dreadful! She picked up her glass and quickly swallowed down some wine. Mr. Stevens’ cook was either very new to the position or had simply not been educated by a qualified predecessor in the kitchen.

  The beef was dry and burned around the edges. The beige-coloured, lumpy mass that Bridget could not identify was overly salted, and the vegetable dish was bland and strangely gelatinous.

  She flicked her gaze toward Mr. Stevens and Henry. They did not seem to mind the indigestible state of the food. In fact, they ate with gusto.

  Bridget shrugged and began to eat. It was not her place to question the cook’s skills in the kitchen. A small amount of terrible food was trifling in comparison to the potential heights that this position could bring her.

  Chapter 9

  Bridget lay replete in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Charles was indeed a tender lover. She had been told that the first time was never pleasant, and sometimes painful, but the evening with Charles could not have been more magical.

  “You are amazing, Bridget.” Charles tightened his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, his breaths still coming in rapid puffs.

  “Does this mean you have changed your mind?” She couldn’t keep the hopefulness from entering her voice. “Will you stay here with me? You will not leave for war?”

  He pulled back from her embrace, putting some distance between them on his soft, dishevelled bed. “As much as I would like to spend an eternity lying here with you, love, I still intend to leave. I am sorry.”

  * * *

  Bridget was not certain what had awakened her, but she sat up and attempted to adjust her eyes to the darkness of the room. She blinked them several times, but her sight remained blurry.

  “What in heaven’s name?” She mumbled as she reached a hand to touch her damp cheeks. She was crying!

  It must have been her dream. Another about Charles. Goodness, her thoughts were so consumed with him that she felt certain that she could smell him. She shook her head in an effort to rid her thoughts of him. The exercise proved fruitless.

  Even if she chose to accept his offer of becoming his mistress—about which she still felt uncertain—she must accept that their past was no longer leading to their future together. She would never marry him…or bear his children, for a mistress would not be so presumptuous as to become impregnated by her keeper.

  Perhaps she needed another purge of his letters to banish him from her dreams. Clearly her heart was having difficulty understanding her mind.

  Bridget leaned over the side of her bed and reached for the box of letters that she had brought with her.

  She took several moments to light her bedside candle, then adjusted her pillow behind her back, settling against it. She brought the box to her lap, opening it with heaviness in her heart as she gazed at the remaining untorn letters.

  Bridget let her gaze travel over several letters, pausing on the occasional sentence. I will love you forever, Bridget… I cannot wait until I return and we can be wed... You are my best friend… I cannot express the value I have placed on the letters from you, my love. It comforts me to know that you are well and happy at home… I often imagine that I am at home once more with you, laughing over the latest trickery our siblings have gotten into… I love you… I love you… I love you…

  Instead of the heart shattering sorrow that Bridget had expected of herself, she felt…anger. A deep, burning anger at her foolish naïveté for believing his florid words of love and devotion. Anger at Charles for spouting the lies that she so eagerly believed. And anger at herself for giving her virginity to him and effectively ruining her chances at a decent marriage and having children—not that she had any desire to marry without love, but she would appreciate having the option to do so if she wished.

  She frowned at the stack of letters, and without a second thought, picked up the first on the pile and ripped it in two, the crinkling rip echoing off the walls in the large, dark room. She picked up the second, third, fourth, and on, until all one hundred and fifty-seven letters lay in halves on her bed.

  Bridget sat gazing at the pile for several moments. She was surprised at the sudden, cathartic release that came with the destruction of her letters from Charles. She took a deep breath and released it—along with a multitude of damaging emotions—in a whoosh.

  Picking up handfuls of paper, she stuffed them back into the chest, then placed it back under her bed. She supposed she could burn the letters, but she would rather not burn them here; it would be more fitting if she brought them home to burn them in her bedchamber, or better still, to burn them in the fireplace in the cottage she intended to purchase.

  She allowed herself a grim smile as she blew out her candle, lay her head back down on her pillow, and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Charles stood in the darkness against one wall of Bridget’s bedchamber, his jaw clenched to silence the cries of protest that threatened escape and his heart in his throat. He w
as stunned into immobility and torn between sorrow, dismay, and gut-wrenching guilt.

  He knew that Bridget had been experiencing distress at his hands, but witnessing the extent of her unhappiness struck horror into Charles’ heart. With each shredded letter he had lovingly written her, a piece of his heart had been ripped as well.

  He felt near to being ill. His chest was tight, his mind in turmoil, and his stomach in knots.

  Charles had tried to convince himself not to spy on her, but he seemed irrevocably drawn to her. His body hummed with anticipation when he was around her…and he was not certain he wished that feeling to end. He’d fought it for so long that he had not noticed how strong his feelings were until he had lowered the churlish walls that he had erected around himself to see what he had missed over the past years.

  As distressing as the experience had been for him, he’d needed to see it. He’d needed to see the full impact of what he had done. His quandary now lay in how he was to fix it.

  * * *

  “This one!” Henry excitedly lifted a box of tin soldiers from one of the shop’s shelves.

  Since the moment they had arrived at the toyshop in town, Bridget had a perpetual smile on her face. Henry’s enthusiasm and exuberance filled her heart with joy.

  While Bridget preferred to find toys that would also prove to be educational, the soldiers that Henry held gleefully in his hands simply could not be set aside.

  She turned her amused, assessing eye on Davis, the young footman that escorted them into the store. The poor man had his arms laden with an absurdly large box of wooden building blocks, a jigsaw puzzle featuring botany, and one with the alphabets. His tall, thin frame was already nigh overwhelmed with his burden.

  “What say you, Davis?” she asked in an undertone. “Might you be able to carry more?”

  The young man’s blue eyes shifted agitatedly below thickly-arched, orange-red eyebrows. “I am at your disposal, Lady Bridget.”