It was quiet in the drawing room, with Regan and Katharine and Miss Kennett seated in various chairs set about the room. Katharine was ensconced at the writing desk, penning replies to various letters and invitations (though Regan suspected that the longest missive was intended for her betrothed and would not likely be finished for another hour.) Miss Kennett sat near the window, a piece of embroidery in front of her. Regan had complimented Miss Kennett's skill with a needle and thread several days before, her work neat and delicate and showing obvious aptitude for the task.
"I can also crochet," she had said, showing a lace collar created with a small silver hook and thread, the quality of it finer than anything Regan had ever seen.
Only six days had passed since Miss Kennett had arrived in Kent, but Regan had learned that Miss Kennett's education had not been lacking. Aside from her talent with embroidery and crochet, she spoke French and some German, played the harp tolerably well, had a strong foundation in mathematics and geometry, and was incredibly well-read for someone her age.
"I had not much to occupy me while I lived at Brindledown," she admitted, referring to her time at Lord Hays' estate. "And I did have a governess, plus there was a substantial library on the grounds, though most of it was so old and dusty I wouldn't be surprised if I was the first person to open any of its volumes in three or four decades."
"Probably not," Regan agreed, considering that Lord Hays had not chosen to spend much time at his ancestral estate, aside from when he jaunted back from London long enough to see Miss Kennett impregnated with his child.
"What are you working on today?" Regan set down her book - a novel, a gothic mystery, but too overwrought for her current mood - and blinked the words from her vision. Yesterday, Miss Kennett had been putting the finishing touches on a flowered band to dress up a rather plain bonnet. This afternoon, all Regan could make out were a few stitches of blue on a white field.
"It is to be a ship." Miss Kennett indicated a detailed plan on the paper beside her. "Peter is in love with all things to do with the ocean, and so there will be waves cresting white against the rocks here, and the ship positioned in the deeper waters over there," she described, waving her hand over the still empty fabric.
"I would accuse you of being overly ambitious," Regan said, her gaze darting from the paper to the fabric and back again. "But as I have already seen evidence of your incredible skill, I will not doubt that you shall do every stitch of that scene justice."
A blush stole across Miss Kennett's cheeks. "I-I thank you, Lady Griffith, for the kind words. Perhaps I could design something for you, or for the children! I would so enjoy creating a gift to give you in exchange for allowing Peter and me to stay here as guests in your home."
"You owe us nothing," Regan assured her. "But if you feel you must repay us in some way, then maybe you could show Maria a bit of your work, teach her the fine way you do some of your stitching. She needs to move on from mere piecework, and I am not as gifted with a needle and thread as I would like to be."
"Oh, I would love to teach her!" Miss Kennett's face lit up with excitement. "I could work with her while Peter has his nap. We could even sit outside, since the weather has been so fine the last few days."
The stifling heat and humidity of the previous week had indeed given way to a string of cooler days, and Regan could not help but think of autumn, even though it seemed as if the summer months had only just begun. "Yes, that would be..." Regan bit her lips, her thoughts suddenly expanding on their discussion. "I have an idea," she said, and shifted forward in her chair, her hands braced on her knees. "Once Katharine is married and gone from here, and Jack goes to school, I will be in need of a governess for Maria. We had one before, for Katharine, but she moved to Yorkshire a little over a year ago to help care for an ailing sister. But if you-"
She stopped at the look on Miss Kennett's face, pale and wide-eyed. "Oh, my lady. I do not think... I mean..." She swallowed, her gaze darting from side to side. "I mean, considering my situation..."
"Your situation?" Regan leaned back and looked towards Katharine's back, still bent over her letter. "You are young, yes," she said carefully. "And I am sure you still carry much grief over the recent loss of your... husband." She cleared her throat. "But if you are worried that your son will be a distraction from your duties, or that I do not believe you to be qualified for such a task, then please do not fret. I think you would do a commendable job, but I will give you time to consider it, if you wish."
Miss Kennett's eyes remained wide-open, but she nodded once. "Thank you, my lady," she said. And swallowed again before returning to the beginning of her embroidery work in front of her.
Regan blew out a breath in a long, slow sigh. She wondered at what she had just done. If Miss Kennett accepted, and she could not yet be certain that she would, it meant that Miss Kennett - and the risk of scandal if the truth of her son's parentage was discovered - would be a part of her life and household for years to come.
It had not been a hasty decision, though. For the last few days, she had asked herself how best she could help Miss Kennett. Miss Kennett who was intelligent, well-educated, who had a son to raise and a tremendous secret to keep. It had been a foolhardy offer, wrought with danger. What if it was discovered that Miss Kennett was an unwed mother, and that Regan had knowingly invited her into her home, to live among her family? The scandal would taint both Katharine and Maria, and even herself.
But Miss Kennett needed help, and she had neither the status nor the money to purchase her way out of ruin. Maria and Katharine both had sizeable dowries, and they were the granddaughters of an earl. There would be talk if the truth were to come out, but they would not be banished from society because of it.
Miss Kennett, on the other hand...
Yes, Regan was glad she had made the offer. Even if Miss Kennett did not accept, Regan wanted the young woman to know that she was not bereft of champions, that Thomas would not be the only person willing to help her.
"If you two ladies will excuse me," Regan said, standing up and smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "I have some business to tend to this afternoon. If either of you need me, I plan on being in the study until supper."
She smiled at each of them, picked up her book, and departed. Her smile faltered as she left the drawing room, the corners of her mouth descending into a tight line by the time she arrived at her study. There was work to be done. There was always work to be done. She was not sure if it would make her a better or worse mistress should she turn over every aspect of the running of her estate and the tenants' farms to her steward. Other women did. Other men did, as well. But she rather liked having a hand in the decisions that ultimately affected the daily lives of herself and her children. She wanted to be busy. She wanted to have something to do. It kept her mind from burrowing too deep into itself, and some days, that was a blessed thing.
Her work took up several hours, her neck aching from looking over too many tidily written sums, along with the reports from her steward of what repairs the various tenant farms would need before winter. The Bannons would need a new roof, as the attics had developed a leak, and the portion of road leading to the Gendry's was so pockmarked that it had caused damage to Mr. Gendry's wagon, another repair or replacement that would no doubt need to be reimbursed.
She was still sorting through a mass of letters she had put off dealing with - more social than business, though the business of keeping up with social matters when an eldest daughter was on her way to be married was at least as stressful as any work the estate left on her lap - when a knock sounded on the door.
"Enter," she said without looking up, expecting it to be one of the maids with tea or a reminder that supper would soon be served.
But she knew it was not any of the staff or even her children as soon as the door opened and he stepped into the study. She drew in a breath, the words before her losing focus as she reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose.
"Lady Griffith?"
Six days it had been. Six days since she had invited him to stay here for as long as suited his pleasure. Six days during which he had not sought her out, had not spoken to her beyond the banalities of polite conversation in the presence of others.
But then, she had made no move to seek him out, either. Not that she had not wished to. Dear Lord, every night had been a torment, knowing that he slept beneath the same roof, or did not sleep, if he was at all disturbed by her presence in the house as she was by his.
"Mr. Cranmer." All politeness as she pushed back her chair, as she stood up from her desk and the mass of work laid out across its surface. She moved as if to walk towards him, to hold out her hand in greeting as if he himself were one of his tenants come to steal a few minutes of her time.
Her hand fell back to her side after she had taken only three steps. He remained near the door. The partially open door. As if he now lived in such fear of bringing scandal down upon her household that he would not occupy the same room as her without the proper show of propriety.
"I did not mean to interrupt you," he said, nodding towards her desk.
She shook her head. "I needed a rest," she assured him. "Any longer and I would have developed a permanent stoop to my shoulders from peering at my steward's immaculate but miniscule handwriting."
He smiled, but it was fleeting. "I spoke to Miss Kennett just now." He glanced over his shoulder, at the open door, as if the entire household staff might be standing by the gap and eavesdropping. He took another step into the room. "She told me of your offer, to keep her on as a governess for your daughter. You did not have to do that."
"I know I did not have to do that." There was a vexatiousness to her tone she could not pull back even if she had wished to. The sight of him there, in her study, one of the more quiet, undisturbed parts of the house, brought out a peevishness from inside of her. Why had he had not made any move to speak to her during the last six days? Because this was her home? Because her children were here? Because if scandal touched her here, it was not something she could simply climb into a carriage and be driven away from?
Or was it because - as he'd said six days before - that he was only staying for Miss Kennett, until she was settled and comfortable?
"Of course you did not. But it was well done of you. Very well done."
His praise should have warmed her heart. But instead it left her feeling... deflated. "I certainly did not do it in order to earn your approbation," she said, her ire spilling out of her now. "She is in need of help and I am in a position to provide it. She has some money, yes, but not enough to go someplace where no one knows her and begin again. Certainly not enough to provide for a growing boy for the rest of his life, and while Lord Hays is still legally in charge of her affairs. Something had to be done."
She turned partially away from him, her hands on her hips. She needed to move, needed to pace. She certainly could not look at him. Everything about him left her feeling as if she was standing on a knife's blade.
And yet even without fixing her gaze on him, his presence insisted on making itself known to her. The sweep of the dark curls on his head. The constant shadow along the edge of his jaw, as if he was always in want of a closer shave. The curve of his mouth. The smell of him. The slow hiss of his breath as he sighed.
"Lady Griffith-" he began.
"Do not call me that!" she cried. "Not after..." She closed her mouth, shut her eyes, nearly kicked the leg of the table closest to her.
There was a click. She looked over her shoulder to see Thomas standing with his back against the door. A door that was now firmly shut. Propriety be damned, apparently.
"Have I done something wrong?"
Oh, that he would begin with such a question. She shook her head.
"But you are angry with me." He didn't pose it as a query. She was upset. He had recognized it and acknowledged it. Were there many other men who could do the same?
Again, she shook her head. "I am not angry with you. It is more that I am... I am frustrated with myself."
He said nothing to that. She was still pacing, still clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt. No doubt she appeared ready to lash out at him, but that was not what she wanted, not at all.
"You must think that Miss Kennett is well and truly settled with us now," she began, feeling her way through her words, untangling them as she would a mass of knotted yarn. "So I expect you will be leaving soon." It was difficult to keep the question out of her own voice. But she watched him while her courage waxed and waned within herself.
"I should, yes." He remained with his back pressed to the door, the fingers of his right hand tapping out a tattoo beside the doorknob. "I will have to find something with which to occupy my time now that I no longer have Miss Kennett's needs at the forefront of my mind. And my purse strings."
She walked up to the window. It was not open today, but she looked out through the glass, at trees and lawns and dots of color she assumed were flowers if she could force her sight to focus on them. Instead she stood there, listening to him, while her heart pounded in rhythm with his fingertips on the solid oak of the door.
"I had thought about going into the law," Thomas went on, before the silence could stretch to near painful limits. "There are so many others out there like Miss Kennett, their lives dictated by the moth-eaten papers of dusty wills drawn up by generations before them. Perhaps, if I could see a way to help some of those people caught in the tangle of entailments and primogeniture and... and..." He shrugged.
Regan did not see the shrug, but she heard it. In the way his words fell away from him, in the rush of breath that slid out of him, in the stutter of his fingers as they ceased their drumming and flattened themselves on the door.
He wanted to help people. Just as he had helped Miss Kennett. But what would he say if she offered him a different sort of life? Would he consider staying here in Kent with her, helping her with the running of the estate, with her family? Or would it not be enough for him? Would she not be enough for him?
Their time together at Brandon Hall had been fun and pleasurable, but there had been no promises made, no future discussed. A timeless thing, unbeholden to the past or whatever may come afterwards.
And he was so young, she reminded herself. Over and over again. He was young. He would not wish to settle, not yet. And she was established, with children grown, with every day dwindling the possibility that there may be more children. Surely he would not want to step into a life, a world already set into place by someone else. He would want to forge his own path, have his own home and family line to create. Or maybe...
Or maybe she could simply ask him what he wanted, instead of pretending she could read his wants and desires.
"Thomas." His name. His first name. She turned away from the window, though her hands reached behind her, seeking out the sill for any support it would impart to her. "I thought I could pretend," she said, pausing to bite down on her lip before it could betray her with a quiver of nervousness. "I thought I could be a merry widow, taking on a lover and casting him off again without a qualm of guilt, without it ever truly reaching me." She placed her hand on her chest, over her heart. "But I am not like that. A part of me envies people like that, who can..." Her head tilted to one side and she took her hand from her chest to twirl it through the air, poorly sketching out the words she wanted to say but that had so swiftly flown from her head. "I am not like that," she repeated.
And still, he would not move from the door. This man, this infuriating man who had been so relentless in his pursuit of her only a few weeks before, stood there with as much animation as a coat rack, only the rise and fall of his throat giving away the fact that he might actually be a living, breathing creature.
"I want you to stay," she said. She ground the words out, her teeth clenched to prevent them from chattering. It was not as romantic as it had sounded when she had planned it all before, the words instead coming out as if they were forced from her. "And I know how absurd it must seem to you, and no doubt you will laugh or think I am silly and that I have been closeted away here with my children for too long, but..." She paused to swallow, then nearly choked because her mouth was too dry. Her hand at her throat, she fought to calm her breathing. She sounded like a fool. Dear lord, she must look and sound like a complete and utter fool to him. He would thank her for her interest in him, but there would be something mocking underneath, and he would leave her. Because he had an entire life still in front of him yet to live. And she... she...
Thomas reached beneath the doorknob and locked the door.
Her mouth snapped shut. And then she licked her lips with a tongue that felt like sandpaper and tried again. "What...?"
He took a single step away from the door. Into the room. Towards her. "I did not want to say anything. I did not know if it was my place to say anything. And here, with your children, with your servants... If I did something wrong, if I looked at you or touched you or - God forbid! - if I kissed you and someone saw... "
He had held back for her. Because he was worried about bringing scandal down on her head in her own home.
"I had already taken such a risk bringing Miss Kennett here, I did not wish to compound the difficulties of the situation."
"The difficulties of the situation..." she echoed numbly.
"I am in love with you," he said. He spoke in a hurry, tossing out the words to see what would come of them. "With your life, your family. With every little thing that makes up who you are. And I know there are some who will think I am too young to believe myself capable of such strong feelings without first spending myself on the world, but... I do not want that. I do not need it. I saw you, and I spoke with you, and I wanted you... more than anything else."
Regan stayed where she was, stranded in the middle of the room. Six days he had been here, and they had said little more to each other beyond the perfunctory greetings and words required of them by politeness. But she had always been aware of him, in the garden playing with the children, in the nursery with Peter and Miss Kennett, building towers out of blocks for the little boy to knock over.
With ease, he had ingratiated himself into the household, never once behaving as if their quiet life in the country did not offer enough excitement for him. As far as she had seen, he had been perfectly content. No, more than that. He had appeared happy. And yet...
She looked at him. At his eyes. There was something there. A reticence, she thought. Perhaps even fear. And she realized at that moment it was taking all of his courage for him to stand there and tell her he loved her. Because... because he assumed she would reject him? Because of his youth?
"Oh." She nearly laughed, her fist against her mouth.
"What? What is it?" He took two more steps. A few more and he would be beside her.
She sniffed. The effort to prevent herself from laughing had made her nose begin to run, and now she worried that tears would be next. "What fools we are. Always believing what our minds tell us others think of us, what we assume others want." She covered her face with her hands. The desire was there to curse, or to cry, or to stamp her foot on the rug and laugh like the fool she had already claimed herself to be.
And she was tired. She had not slept properly for days, every night knowing that Thomas was in the house, only a half dozen doors separating her own bedroom from his. She had thought about going to him. Every night. Last night, even, she had donned her robe, a sturdy, sound-reducing pair of socks and made it as far as the hall before her courage had failed her and she had turned around and returned to her room. To her bed. Alone.
"I do not want to be alone anymore," she said, in reply to her own thoughts. Her own fears, she realized. "I know it sounds absurd when I have my children, but there are times when I miss companionship, when I miss..." She paused, her color rising. "What we... did together at Brandon Hall," she forced herself to continue, forced herself to have this conversation now before she lost any other chance to speak with him. "I did not know it could be like that, between a man and a woman. I loved Edmund because he made me feel safe, because he was safe." She would not say boring. Because even though her husband had been calm and quiet and reserved, there had never been a moment during their marriage when she could have claimed to be bored by him. "Yet you possess the singular talent of shrouding me in that same cocoon of safety... while also making me feel as if I am about to tumble into the unknown." She smiled. "And I adore it. I adore how I feel when I am with you, and I want to feel that way every day for the rest of my life."
He did not say her name. She thought he might. He crossed the last of the distance between them, and she met him halfway. He did not kiss her at once. Neither did she. But he held her in his arms, one hand reaching up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing something away from the corner of her eye.
"Speak," she thought. "Say something." She did not know if that order was for him or for herself. But she did not want to talk anymore. She had told him the truth. He knew now, and he could do with that information what he would.
And what he did was touch his lips to hers. Lightly. So lightly she thought she might curse and drag him more tightly against her. He pulled away from her long enough to look into her eyes. She studied his own face, her finger tracing that faint scar on his cheek, nearly hidden by his hair.
"Your hair is entirely too long to be fashionable in London," she said, all mock severity, as she twisted one of his dark curls around her fingertip.
"Well, I am not in London, my lady." Mmm, his voice had deepened, that burr she loved so much vibrating through her, making her muscles tighten between her legs. "I am precisely where I want to be," he said, then pursed his lips, eyes narrowing in thought. "Well, not quite where I want to be. Not yet."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. But only for a moment. Then his hands pulled at her skirt, hiking it upwards inch by inch until he had most of the fabric bunched up around her hips. She reminded herself that the door was locked. The windows behind her and beside her were shut. No one could walk in on them or interrupt them. And if anyone tried, they could go to the very devil.
"Dammit," he cursed, and she laughed when he realized what had him vexed. His hands were full of her gown. Her legs were bare, but for her stockings. But he was still fully covered and unable to open his trousers without letting go of her and throwing away all of his hard work.
She clicked her tongue at him and reached for his falls. Her fingers worked quickly. She was not nervous this time. One button, two buttons, then enough that she could slip her hand inside, enough to grasp him and hold him, to relish the hardness of him against her palm.
She wanted this, as well. To be wanted like this, to be desired. And to desire him in return.
He reached between them and stilled her hand. "I've been a wreck for six days and nights," he growled out, his mouth still curved in a grin. "I do not have the patience for teasing."
"Am I teasing you, Mr. Cranmer?" She slid her hand along his length, brushed her thumb across his moist tip.
A string of curses tumbled out of him. One arm wrapped around her lower back, the other still struggling to keep her skirts pinned up around her hips, he walked her backwards until they bumped up against a piece of furniture. Her desk, she spared a quick glance to see, half of her papers skimming through the air as he hoisted her up on its edge and moved to stand between her thighs.
He was there before she could fully orient herself, the head of his cock teasing... teasing just for as long as it took her to grab the side of the desk and clutch his shoulder, and then he thrust into her, full and deep, his hips flush against hers.
Something clattered behind her on the desk, but she did not care. With a nudge from him, she wrapped her legs around him, holding him inside of her, while she squirmed with the need to keep him there and the urge for him to pull out and thrust into her again.
"Now I am where I want to be," he said, his words whispered into her hair, tickling the top of her ear.
There was no more hesitation after that. Their lovemaking was swift and fierce, both of them coming quickly, she biting down on her cry in case anyone should be walking past the door at that moment.
She held onto him, placing her head on his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart as his breathing slowed to a more normal pace.
"Regan," he said, and kissed her hair. "I feel I could do this a dozen more times today and still not be fully sated."
She laughed. She could not help it. "I think we would be very tired by the end of it," she spoke into his shoulder. "And hungry. And everyone would wonder where we were."
"No, it would not do to have your Mrs. Dale knocking on the door, the entire household lined up behind her."
A sobering image, that was. Regan cleared her throat and pulled away, enough to look up into his face, to see if his thoughts were written across his features as clearly as she believed hers to be. "I do not want this to end," she said, hoping he did not think this... this meeting in the study was some manner of farewell. "If you will have me-" But she could not say anything more. He kissed her again, beginning with an urgency that softened into something more lingering as the seconds slipped away.
"If I will have you?" He kissed her forehead then, and laughed loud enough for the sound to rumble through her as well, a minor earthquake of mirth. "I have labored through the last few weeks, agonizing over the fear that I am not enough for you.That you would require someone with more experience, someone closer to you in age and wisdom, someone-"
She placed her fingers over his lips. His breath was warm on her skin, but she did her best to ignore that at the moment.
"I love you," she said. Three brief words, and yet their utterance seemed to change the very air in the room. "That is all. And if you love me as well, if you love my family, my children, then that is enough. That makes you more than enough."
"Lady Griffith." One corner of his mouth lifted in that crooked smile of his. "Regan," he said, his voice now deeper than before. He shifted and she only remembered then that he was still inside of her, fully erect again as if they had not finished only minutes before.
"Oh," she gasped. "This is wicked." But she did not stop him.
He pulled out and slid into her again. "Will you marry me?"
"What?" She blinked and struggled to look up at him. Though it was difficult to focus on anything when he insisted on thrusting into her with such maddening slowness. "I thought..." Hadn't that been what they were discussing? But, no. Neither of them had mentioned marriage, at least not that she could remember.
"Will you accept my offer to become your husband?"
"Yes. Yes, of course!" She slid her hips nearer to the edge of the desk. His next thrusts were harder, powerful enough to shake the books she had stacked on the shelves nearby.
"And you will consent to be my wife?" He slid into her once more, then paused, his hips against hers, his gaze seeking out her own. "Know now that I will take whatever meagre scrap you offer me. I will live in your attic and only sneak down to your room at the witching hour of every night, if that is what you wish. But I want to marry you. I want to share in this life with you. I want..." His words faltered into silence.
Regan nodded. "I know," she said, and burrowed her head into his shoulder, into his heart. "I know. It is what I want, too."
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Only a few more chapters to go!
Chapter Twenty-Two should make its appearance on Friday, September 13th, and then this will be finished next week! (It's already written, just needs to be posted.)
Quenby