The old woman asked, “Was there a chill in the room last night?”
Arabella moved to the basin to wash her face. “No, why do you ask?”
“You slept in your dressing robe and stoked the fire. The coals have all but burned off most mornings when I arrive.”
Turning to look at the hearth Arabella found the woman’s words to be true. There were licking flames... a blazing reminder of what had transpired amidst the windstorm. Scrubbing her face to hide the color burning her cheeks, Arabella pressed her thighs together, provoked by the subtle soreness between her legs.
Gregory Harrow had taken her on the chair, had stroked and coaxed, made silent demands that left her boneless under his hands. His doings had seemed effortless, even as his member found its way inside her body. And there had been no horrific pain, no blood.
The wrongness was that it had not hurt. If anything it had felt…
What had he done? How would she ever look him in the eye again?
It was some punishment, she was certain, the way he’d confused her, terrifying her with that foreign wave of pulverizing nothingness. Just when it was about to break, she’d whispered that she loathed him. Mr. Harrow had stopped, taking the very instrument that had caused such sensation away, leaving her empty. She should have screamed, attacked and ranted, instead Arabella had wanted nothing more than to be held by her tormentor.
She’d fallen asleep and the villain had carried her to her room. Gregory Harrow had lain beside her in the dark for an unknown amount of time, had added coal to the fire. He had also left before the household could be made aware of his nocturnal visit, preventing a scandal.
It was too much to process; his actions left too many questions, too much dread.
Before Arabella could completely fall to pieces, Magdala offered assurance. “Maybe we are finally thawing that ice in your veins. It is as I’ve been saying for years. Your habit of nesting in a bone chilling room is why you toss and turn. How well you look this morning!”
Arabella rushed the remainder of her bathing. Magdala trying to take extra care styling her hair until Arabella was fed up, disinterested in appearing elaborate for the men. “They are only going to eat and leave... they should be grateful I am even feeding the louses. There is no need for me to primp, Magdala.”
“Ahh, but he is a good lad for seeing to you last night,” Magdala countered, accustomed to her mistress’s touchiness. “Are you telling me you disliked the courtesy?”
Blushing vividly, Arabella grunted, hoping Magdala referred to Edmund and not the argument and subsequent... aftermath... she shared with Mr. Harrow. Muttering something unintelligible, she ended her toilette, and moved toward the door.
Descending the main staircase into the great hall, Arabella could hear the good natured chatter of Mr. Jenkins and knew the men had already arrived and awaited her. The soft blue silk afternoon dress Magdala had chosen split at the front to display a snowy full skirt of white muslin with each step downward. Arabella hated it, wishing for her drab woolen dresses and the comfort that came with coarse fabrics. Dressed as a beggar, no one would look at her the way Edmund was looking at her.
For a brief second she dared a glance toward Mr. Harrow. He stood, arms clasped behind him, pensive scowl in place. There was no change in his arrogance, no leer. Uncomfortable with the way he too stared, Arabella found the unaffected easiness of her other guest easier to bear.
Edmund stepped forward to offer a hand to assist her descent. “How lovely you look this morning, Lady Iliffe.”
Hesitating, her eyes glued to the hand waiting for her, she debated simply going back up the stairs and leaving the men to sort themselves out. That would not do. Her fingertips followed the path of politeness and settled in the smooth upturned palm. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Harrow.”
Arabella offered a tight smile and directed them to the adjoining dining room.
“Did you rise early to fit into the hours of gentlemen?” smiling, Edmund took a seat and began buttering a roll.
Arabella offered his fresh-faced grin a forced smile. “No, Mr. Jenkins. I typically rise with the dawn.”
He laughed, a lighthearted sound. “That is as Mr. Harrow assured me when I protested that the hour was too early for a lady of your rank. How well he seems to know his nearest neighbor.”
Darting a glance at the man himself, Arabella found Gregory watching her as if weighing her sins. The set of his jaw was harsh. “Did you sleep well, Lady Iliffe?”
She could not help but frown when he scowled so meanly yet asked in such a casual tone. She didn’t answer.
With an instant tight smirk, he growled, “Is it a difficult question?”
Once the man sipped his coffee she said, “I was over-hot from the fire.”
He coughed once, sputtering, and looked up with an angry scowl to find her eyes brightened by her small victory
. Feeling braver, Arabella looked to her other guest, “And you, Mr. Jenkins, how did you find your accommodations?”
“Quite comfortable. Makes me long for a bachelor’s residence of my own,” Edmund replied, taking a serving of cold roast beef. “The dish is delicious, Lady Iliffe. Is your cook French?”
The compliment earned a genuine smile. “No, Mr. Jenkins. My housekeeper found her in Liverpool, at Saint Augustine.”