The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Read online

  "Are all young ladies as forward and demanding as you these days, Miss Hathaway?"

  "Only when obliged to be. You are the most difficult shape I ever encountered," she exclaimed, pouting with cherry-stained lips as she gazed angrily at her effort. "There is too much of you for the dratted paper, and each time I look up at you there seems to be more. How am I supposed to fit you all in? Can you not make yourself smaller and less stiff?"

  "I'm afraid that is an impossibility." Never had complaints before, he mused.

  "Gah!" She tossed her charcoal aside. "Why do men have to be so difficult?"

  "Are you finished then, madam?"

  "Oh yes, I am quite done with you." With a wave of her fingers, she gave him his leave. "Off you go, back to your burrow."

  Harry did not envy the man that would become her husband one day. It would happen, of course, whatever her plans. It must. She would fall in love eventually, with some fool who couldn't get out of her way fast enough. Then she would boss her husband about for a few years until she managed him completely into a grave.

  For the poor fellow's sake, he had better be hard of hearing. And exceedingly patient.

  "Madam," he said to his aunt one morning, "Is it not the business of that ladies academy you patronize to turn out perfectly suitable brides? Surely you must wonder at the efficacy of the place if it's turning out restless, unaccomplished troublemakers, resistant to matrimony, like Miss Hathaway."

  "The Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies does very well, Henry. Several of last year's graduates are now married to peers of the realm. One of them is soon to be a duchess." She sighed. "Miss Georgiana Hathaway, I fear, is not destined for those heights, but we must do the best we can with the materials at hand. I have been assembling a list of potential suitors, although it is not vast."

  "But she declares herself in no haste to marry," he muttered, watching through the window as she ran by in a desperate flash of ankles with his aunt's dog chasing her. "She means to have colorful adventures. I suspect, of an unsavory kind."

  "She's nineteen, Henry. Few girls of that age know what is good for them."

  "Did you, madam?"

  "Of course, I knew my duty. I was born and raised knowing it."

  "You never wanted to do anything else with your life but marry?"

  She hesitated. "There might have been a time in youth when I thought I could try my hand at one or two other things, but that folly passed and I saw reason." She quickly picked up her usual stern tone. "My father decided Lord Bramley would do for me and so I set about improving his life immediately, putting all my energies into that. By the age of nineteen I was not only a wife, but a mother. I was sensible of my responsibilities in life. But the same cannot be said of young girls these days." He heard her moving closer, her gown rustling. "And when, pray tell, did you speak to Miss Hathaway of her marital prospects? I do hope you're not going to interfere in matters of which you know nothing, Henry. Leave that side of things to me, if you please. I know something of marriage, and you do not."

  "I merely thought you should know of her intention to remain unwed. She seems steadfast in that opinion, as she is in all of them. If marriage is your ultimate scheme for her, you may find your efforts are in vain. She tells me that sometimes young ladies have other plans. And she utters the phrase with such perilous gravity, that I dare not ask what these plans may entail, for a I fear the images conjured by her reply could scar me for life."

  "Nonsense. She is not a stupid girl, and she will see the advantage of a good, settled marriage. Once I find her a suitable match. Just as one was found for me."

  Harry scowled, remembering wistfully the days when he commanded a ship and people actually paid heed to what he said. "I think I agree with her opinion that your school should provide lessons in subjects other than dancing and how to fool a man into marrying them."

  "Then don't think, Henry. It seldom comes to any good when a man thinks too much. And what on earth are you doing, agreeing with her opinions? Since when did you agree with any marked opinion but your own?"

  "I suppose you include my name on your list of potential suitors," he grumbled, hands clasped behind his back.

  "Good lord no." She stood with him at the window to see what he was looking at, just as Miss Hathaway dashed by in the other direction, still being chased by the determined little beast. "She's only the daughter of a newspaper publisher. She'd never do for you, Henry."

  "A newspaper publisher?" Interesting. "Which paper?"

  "The Gentleman's Weekly, I believe. Frederick Hathaway is new wealth. A parvenu. An ambitious grasper who thinks breeding may be bought, no doubt. She's a funny little thing though, don't you think?"

  "Hilarious," he replied flatly.

  "Of course," said his aunt, following a short pause, "I knew you were in danger after the garden party, when you knew her name already. I cannot recall the last time you remembered a young lady's name, Henry."

  He turned his frown upon her. "In danger of being assassinated by her, you mean?"

  "Don't be tiresome. In danger of falling in love, Henry."

  But that, in his mind, equated to the same thing. Returning his gaze to the woman on the lawn outside, he said, "I am quite safe, madam. It was merely by chance that I knew her name."

  "That's as may be. As I said, she is entirely unsuitable for you." She moved away from the window. "It would, of course, be just like you to take such a contrary fancy, especially when you have been warned against it by me."

  He huffed loudly, but did not turn to watch her leave— too busy watching Georgiana's ankles. "I have taken no fancy, madam."

  "Just as well, for your sake." He heard her open the door. "Miss Hathaway is highly unlikely to fall in love with an unsociable, unfashionable curmudgeon like you, Henry. I told you, she's not a foolish girl at all. You need somebody far stupider."

  He smiled grimly at his reflection in the glass. "What did you make of my portrait? Does her sketching pass your test?"

  "What portrait? What are you talking about, Henry?"

  "She said you wanted a sample of her drawing ability and forced me into posing for her due to a lack of suitable subjects. Two entire blasted hours of my day wasted."

  "Well, she didn't do it for me. I did not leave her any such instruction. Perhaps she wanted it for archery practice."

  He heard the door shut loudly soon after.

  As a cloud slipped by, a sudden harsh glare of sunlight bounced off the glass and made his eye smart. At that same moment, Miss Hathaway saw him watching and waved with one hand, while trying to wrestle the hem of her skirt from the little dog with the other. He squinted against the sun, cursed his sore eye, and finally turned away from the view.

  What the devil was that stowaway up to on his ship?

  Chapter Fourteen

  For several nights there was no repetition of "Dead Harry's" midnight adventure. Georgiana sat up late, reading or writing by the fire and listening, in case she heard his steps, but there was no sound other than the usual creaks and moans of the old house. She was rather disappointed.

  Then, at last, she heard him again.

  Creeping out of her room, she followed the Commander barefoot down the corridor quite a way before he realized she was there. It gave her an opportunity to admire the muscular contours of his back and the shocking sight of his firm buttocks as he moved along, stroked by starlight through the windows. She shouldn't admire any of it, of course. She shouldn't even look. But she did, and she sincerely doubted that any other young lady, finding herself in the same extraordinary circumstances, and in full command of her senses, would not look.

  When he finally turned and noticed her there, she was glad of the dim light so he would not see her blush.

  "You again!" he exclaimed. "My stowaway."

  "Yes. Sir, you should go back to bed. Are you not cold...without clothes?"

  "No. I'm hot. Feel me."

  Before she could argue he took
her hand and placed it on his chest. Really, she mused, how could one debate propriety with a naked man? It seemed altogether too late for that.

  "I am always hot," he said. "I do not care for clothes. They restrict me, and I have much to do."

  "Much to do?"

  "I must hunt food and smoke it over the fire. I must build a shelter."

  She realized he was still a castaway on his island, planning for his survival. Under her palm she felt his heart beating, strong and fast. So much power throbbing within his body, waiting to be unleashed. As she took her hand away from his chest, his strong fingers were still wrapped tightly around her wrist, slowing her progress and causing her fingertips to accidentally trailed across the sandy hairs that curled there.

  Until she first saw naked Harry, Georgiana had never imagined there to be hair growing on a man's body, under his clothes. In so many curious places.

  Marble statues and grand frescoes did not show men with hair on their bodies and her elder brothers had never been in a state of undress around her.

  It was still a shock now that she saw her host a second time completely uncovered. Her throat went dry quite suddenly and she could not swallow.

  "You do not want to touch me?" he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

  "I do not think it wise, sir."

  Abruptly he placed his hand over her right breast. The weight of his caress caused her own body to react instantly in a manner that seemed to please him. And encourage him. "Not wise, eh?" he whispered.

  Oh lord, definitely not. But she couldn't speak.

  A slim breath of teasing laughter blew against her temple as he leaned over her. "I think you are wrong. I think you know you are wrong. I think you want what I want."

  "No, sir." She placed her hand over his. "It is just not right for us...this way."

  "Women only board my ship for one reason," he said, sounding puzzled. "They have no other purpose on a ship, but sometimes the crew deserves a reward."

  "Yes, I...I see that, sir. But I am not that sort of woman." Why wasn't she? The angry question darted through her mind. She wanted adventure, did she not? She felt no great desperation for a husband, who would likely curtail any hope she had of achieving something beyond what society expected of a woman.

  And he was tempting. Everybody knew she was a wicked chit, so what stopped her?

  Georgiana looked up into his hungry, wild gaze and felt sadness cool her own eager blood.

  He did not know who or where he was at that moment. He needed help. For once she would get it right and not leave disaster in her wake.

  "Let me take you back to your room, sir. You will be safe there."

  "I need you."

  "Yes, of course. You need me to help you. Now come back to bed." She spoke firmly, as she would to one of her little brothers if he misbehaved and she'd been sent to corral him.

  And to her surprise, he let her take his arm and lead him back to his bed chamber. At the door he stopped and bent toward her.

  "A kiss, my stowaway, before I retire. One kiss and then I shall sleep." His eyes were hidden in shadow.

  "Do you promise to sleep then?"

  He nodded, waiting. She would have to trust his word, of course; he was a war hero, even if he did have an aversion to decent clothing.

  So she rose on tip toe and pressed a small, shy kiss to the corner of his mouth. Much to her relief this seemed to satisfy him and he went slowly into his room. Georgiana waited a moment to be sure he did not come out again and then returned to her own room.

  A wonderful feeling of having accomplished something powerful made her light on her feet, and she knew she was smiling when she lay down in her bed. All because Dead Harry appeared to like her. He certainly listened to her. She knew how to manage him and that was no small feat with a man of his size.

  The same routine happened the next night, and the next. Each time he wanted a kiss and she gave it as gently as she could. Each time he let her take his arm and lead him back to the safety of his room.

  "You must regret stowing away on my vessel now, woman," he said. "Now we are shipwrecked and it is just you and I left in this savage place. Like Adam and his mate, Eve."

  "I do not regret being here with you at all," she replied softly, "for you would be quite alone without me."

  It was a strange parade— the tall naked man and the girl in her maidenly nightgown— wandering together down the moonlit passage, but it soon became almost normal to her. The night turned into another world, another state of being, and there was just the two of them in it.

  She would keep this to herself, for she knew the proud man would be mortified if anybody else should learn of his nightly wandering in the nude. The Commander was a very private man who did not even want to talk about his previous life at sea. During the day he treated her as if she was an irritating fly buzzing around his head.

  So this was a secret she shared only with Dead Harry.

  When he let her take his arm and lead him along, she felt a thrill like nothing she'd ever experienced. Gone was the "dizzy girl" and in her place there was a woman who finally had an important purpose, and somebody who needed her.

  By her bed Georgiana kept his picture— the sketch she had persuaded the Commander to sit for. She had pretended to burn it out of frustration, but instead had folded it carefully and smuggled it up to her room inside a book. Every night she whispered, "Goodnight, Harry", in his ear before she blew out her candle.

  She felt a little guilty about keeping the portrait to herself, actually, because her first intention had been to send it, along with a letter, to Emma and Melinda. Perhaps she might encourage one of her friends to fall in love with him and then she could play matchmaker, but in the end she decided it was unfair of her to undertake such a project when he told her from the start that he did not want a wife. She would be most annoyed if anybody meddled in her life the same way.

  Besides, it was not a very good sketch, was it? She was not a good enough artist to capture the intriguing nuances of his expression.

  The more she considered it, the more reasons she came up with to keep his picture to herself. At least she would have this souvenir of her adventure at Woodbyne Abbey.

  One day, she mused sleepily, the paper upon which he was drawn would be very worn and yellowed with age, and one of her nieces would find it among her treasures when she was dead. They would all speculate on the identity of the sitter and imagine he was once her lover.

  That was the way tragic, Grand Romances usually went, of course.

  Luckily she was far too clever to fall in love. She had too many adventures ahead of her and an entire world to put to rights, without the complication of love to get in her way.

  * * * *

  The weather slowly improved and sun shone down on the sodden fields again. At last it seemed as if summer was truly upon them. An abundance of honeysuckle blossomed outside her window— perhaps the reason for the name of the house— and the view across the lawn was breathtaking. A great improvement on the bustling, noisy street outside The Pearl.

  One day, when she woke early and looked out, she caught a glimpse of the Commander galloping his horse across the grass, leaping hedges and ditches with a fearless, powerful grace. When he came to breakfast later he still wore the same mud-spattered breeches and boots, much to his aunt's loud despair and his own quiet indifference. When he passed Georgiana's chair, muttering a gruff "Good morning", it seemed as if he bristled with energy and fresh air. It was no surprise to her anymore that his clothing gave up on the struggle to restrain it all. In fact, she would have been shocked if he ever came to the table with all his clothes intact and his hair brushed.

  He resisted any attempt to improve his manners and watched the steady invasion of his house with a sort of morbid fascination. Whenever he could, he stole away to his study and stayed there for hours behind a locked door.

  With the roads now passable again, Lady Bramley's coachman returned, bringing more luggage and some
household staff. Georgiana saw how this new influx of people caused the master of the house to withdraw even more often into his study, but his aunt still insisted that this storming of his fortress was the proper method of cure and she was not a lady accustomed to being wrong. In frustration she barged about his house, shouting at the staff and thumping on his study door, but she achieved little more than the stirring of dust.

  "Do you not think a little gentleness might be more effective at drawing him out, madam?" Georgiana inquired politely, thinking of how she managed to get him back to his bedchamber at night. Admittedly, he was a different man in the daylight, but perhaps the same method might work then too.

  "Gentleness? Gracious, girl, I have neither the time nor the patience for that nonsense. Brisk and sharp is the way of it. The British Empire was won with cannon and rifle, not with a tickling feather."

  Georgiana chuckled. "The world would be a far better place if it had been though, don't you think?"

  Lady Bramley was not amused. At least, not so that it showed.

  Her war campaign of "Brisk and Sharp" continued.

  "Today I have arranged to pay a visit to Parson Darrowby and his wife," she announced at breakfast one morning. "You will come too, Henry."

  He was in a grim mood that day, rustling the newspaper and muttering under his breath as he searched within the pages for something of interest.

  "I understand they have not long been married and Mrs. Darrowby is a young, genteel lady, the daughter of a magistrate." She turned to Georgiana and said, "This will be a good chance for you to practice your manners, but perhaps it would be best if you say as little as possible for now." Lady Bramley had not yet managed to curb her student of wandering off into subjects deemed unsuitable. Apparently she was to talk only of meaningless things— to compliment the carpet in a room without veering off into a speech about the terrible working conditions in the textile mill where it was made, for instance.