Page 8 of Love Denied

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Is, damn it!” He turned in his chair and scowled at Isaac. “The waris, notwas. It didn’t end just because I abandoned it.”

Isaac’s cheerful countenance fell. He may have dressed like an aging dandy, but he still had the face of a lad, a bloody cherub actually; his cheeks remained as round as a youth’s, with a crop of golden curls to boot. Nicholas felt like he’d just kicked a puppy.

“Bloody hell.” He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in resisting knots. “You are right. I am in need of laundering myself. How is the bath? Any improvements?”

The valet brightened. “Well, my lord, the water runs clear these days, but we have yet to master the hot stopcock. Oh, we can get it hot right enough, but as it draws on the rainwater, we still have problems with the little extras that crawl in.”

Nicholas could swear the man shivered. He almost laughed out loud. Well, he’d be grateful for a warm bath, little, crawling extras and all. A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in, lads, come in,” Isaac chirped, comfortably back in control.

Four young men entered, each carrying a steaming bucket of water. Isaac ushered them through the door on the left. Hot water splashed into the tub. Nicholas’s muscles ached in response to its lure.

Standing, he reached to his waist and loosened his whip sash, letting it fall to the floor. What need had he of it anymore? Methodically, he unbuttoned his jacket. After shaking it from his shoulders, he held it in one hand. How many nights had he done thus, wondering if the morrow would be the last time he would don it again? He ran a hand over the remaining epaulet. Advancement came quickly in war. What had he gained? Was he a man now? Would Catherine see him as worthy?Washe worthy?

He threw the jacket to the chair. Had he learned nothing? He had seen men, with life and hope in their hearts, slaughtered like cattle. Worse, he had watched other men, good ones with women and children waiting at home for them, desecrate the living. Badajoz. He must never forget those lessons.

He ripped off his waistcoat, drew the shirt over his head, and then sat down to pull off his boots as the servants exited. All except Isaac, who quickly knelt to remove the second gaiter.

“Thank you, Isaac. If you could have Nan send up something in about an hour. That will be all.”

“Oh…but…my lord,” Isaac veritably stammered, “I would see to your toilette.”

His toilette? For years he had existed in squalid conditions, always taking the hardest assignments. His toilette! He was anxious to enjoy an honest-to-goodness hot bath, but he did not need any assistance to cleanse himself.

He rose. “Thank you, but that will be all.” A flash of guilt at the valet’s crestfallen expression forced a concession. “I will need assistance in the days to come. I stopped in London and was told that a certain Brummell has taken the town by storm and that the most fashionable of men follow his dictate.”

Isaac bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yes, though I hold to the old form of color. He is terribly stark, my lord,” he said and, catching his criticism, added, “but quite dashing.”

“Well…yes.” Nicholas was not sure how to respond, fashion never having been a priority for him. “Stark will do, I think. I am in mourning.” Besides, he’d already been to the tailor. His new garments would be arriving within a week. Quick attention was one of the advantages to having gained a title.

He strode toward his bath but stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening at the hound on his heels. “Thank you, Isaac. You are dismissed for the evening.” He waited in the doorway until the outer door clicked shut.

Finally alone, he shed his trousers, small clothes, and stockings, and stepped into the large tub—another joy of having an oversize father. He relaxed into the steaming water, tension easing from his fully immersed shoulders. How many nights had he dreamed of such an extravagance?

Candlelight flickered in the spigots. The cold ran clean because it was from the cistern. The hot was still a problem. Well, it would be one of the challenges he could pick at, when he had the time. When he had the time. What did his time look like? For years, it had not been his own. Now he had full control. What would command his time? His father had indicated that the estate was neglected. That Brownlee was on leave. For how long? And what of the tenants? Would they remember him? Why had Brownlee not managed better? Daniel surely would not have stood in the land steward’s way.

He grabbed the round of soap and swiped it over his body. The scents of cinnamon and orange tickled his nose as he swirled it into his hair, hair that was becoming far longer than he was accustomed to, and massaged his scalp. It was a luxurious indulgence. After ducking under the water for a rinse, he resurfaced spurting like a whale. He wiped the excess moisture from his face, then settled back to let the warmth of the bath work its magic.

If he had not been near Lisbon when he’d received word, he might still be on the continent. With so many ships in the water, it had been a simple task to return to British soil once the second captain had arrived to assume Nicholas’s duty. He’d lingered in London for a single night’s rest, just long enough to see to some ordering. Clothing. A ring for Catherine. A visit to the Doctors’ Commons—that had proven to be a tonic for his flagging vitality, and he had left immediately. Anxious to be home, to see her in the flesh, he’d ridden hard. Poor Taurus. He hoped the horse was being indulged in the stable.

He closed his eyes and smiled. Catherine. Four long years. Years that had proven nothing except his love for one woman. She was so eloquent, so beautiful. Her burgundy hair had been pinned up today and covered by a bonnet, one strand hanging enticingly by her ear. He could still see her hair as it had been on the day he’d left, its richness undulating in waves. Her green eyes had been clouded that morning, but when she was happy, they were like the moss by the stable. Catherine.

He must find a way to embrace this new title. For her. For them.

*

Dawn’s dew kissedthe window, the rising sun a bleeding watercolor behind its misty sheen. Nicholas had never been one to tarry in the morning, and for certain, years of army routine had conditioned him to an early rise. He must have slept deeply, since for the first time in recent memory, no dreams had haunted him through the night.

He leaped from the bed, grinning like a bloody Cheshire cat. He, always the more somber of the two brothers, felt like a youth in the first bloom of love. How early would Catherine arise? Was she already awake? Was she as anxious to see him as he was to hold her in his arms again? He wiped at the window, and the forest that lay between their properties blurred even more.Well, dear brother, I shall graciously accept this gift you have left me, this chance to finally begin a life with Catherine.

A dark, navy velvet banyan lay over the chair, replacing his discarded clothing. He pulled it on. The cherub certainly did not neglect his duty. He must have crept back in. Any other night, Nicholas would surely have heard him. A slight tap sounded at the door. Like clockwork. It would seem the man had some of his grandfather’s second sense.

At least he had the wisdom to wait for permission.

“Enter.”

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