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Standard disclaimer.
With his vision restored, and the fever gone, Mr. Harcourt felt almost like his usual self.
But a surge of impatient energy coursed through him, as his mind over-ran with thoughts of his store.
He needed to communicate with his managers, his press officer, his private secretary, his suppliers and manufacturers.
Although he trusted his staff, to carry on competently for the short term, their work would soon become slipshod, if he was not there to supervise.
Stroking his jaw, he discovered that he was as bristly as a hedgehog.
Disgruntled, he rang the bell at his bedside.
After about, half an hour had passed and no one had arrived, Mr. Harcourt was about to reach for the bell again, when a white-haired, elderly man arrived.
He was a short, burly fellow, dressed in a simple black swallowtail coat and dark gray trousers.
His plain, unremarkable face, had the appearance of an unevenly risen bread loaf, the nose somewhat bulbous…but the dark currant eyes, set beneath the snowy frills of his brows, were wise and kindly.
Introducing himself as Horace, the valet asked how he might be of service.
"I need a wash and shave," Mr. Harcourt said. And in a rare self-deprecating moment, he added, "Obviously, you have your work cut out for you."
The valet didn't crack a smile, only replied pleasantly.
"Not at all, sir."
Over the next two hours, the elderly man washed Harcourt's hair and smoothed it with a touch of pomade. He steamed his face with hot towels, shaved him, and tended his hands and feet, with a variety of implements.
Finally, he held up a looking glass, and Harcourt viewed his reflection with a touch of surprise.
His hair was shorter and well shaped, and his jaw shaved as smooth as an eggshell. His hands had never looked so clean, the surfaces of his fingernails buffed to a quiet gleam.
"Is it satisfactory, sir?" Horace asked.
"It is."
The valet proceeded to put away the supplies, while Harcourt watched him with a contemplative frown.
It seemed that he had been wrong about valets. No wonder, Arthur Pendragon and his like, always appeared so impeccable and smart.
The valet proceeded to help him don a fresh nightshirt, borrowed from Will, and a dressing robe, made of diamond quilted black velvet, with a silk shawl collar, a sash and silk cord trim.
Both were finer than any garments that he had ever owned.
"Do you think a commoner should dare to dress like a blue blood?" Mr. Harcourt asked, as Horace pulled the hem of the robe over his legs.
"I believe every man ought to dress as well as he is able."
Harcourt's eyes narrowed.
"Do you think it's right for people, to judge a man for what he wears?"
"It is not for me to decide whether it is right, sir. The fact is, they do."
No answer could have pleased him more. It was the kind of pragmatism, that he had always understood and trusted.
He was going to hire Horace, no matter what it took. No one else would do. He needed someone old and experienced...someone who was familiar, with the aristocracy's intricate rules of etiquette and fashion.
Horace, formerly a valet to two Earls, would provide him with necessary insurance, against looking like a fool.
News traveled fast around the Pendragon household.
By the time Arthur came to visit Harcourt later that evening, he was already aware of Horace's new position.
"It appears, you've begun to hire my servants away from me," Arthur said.
"Do you object?"
Mr. Harcourt lifted a glass of wine to his lips. He had just finished his dinner tray, and was in an unsettled, edgy mood.
Hiring a valet, had given him a sense of satisfaction, that had lasted only a few minutes. Now, he was hungry to make decisions, accomplish things, take the reins in hand once more.
But it seemed as if, he would be stuck in this small bedroom forever.
"You must be joking," Arthur said. "I have too many damn servants. Hire ten more, and I'll dance a jig for joy."
"At least one of us can dance," Harcourt muttered.
"You couldn't dance, even before you broke your leg," Arthur said.
Harcourt grinned reluctantly. Arthur was one of a handful of men in the world, who had no fear of mocking him.
"You won't go wrong with Horace," Arthur continued. "He's a solid old fellow."
Settling into the chair by the bed, he stretched out his long legs and crossed them.
"How are you?" Harcourt asked, noticing that he was moving with uncharacteristic carefulness.
"Grateful to be alive," Arthur replied.
He looked more relaxed and content, than Harcourt had ever seen him.
"Upon reflection, I realized, that I can't expire for at least forty years...there's too much to do at Hampshire Priory."
Mr. Harcourt sighed, his thoughts returning to his department store.
"I'll go mad here, Pendragon. I have to return to London as soon as possible."
"Dr. Gauis said, you could begin to walk on the cast, with the aid of crutches, in three weeks."
"I have to do it in two."
"I understand."
"If you have no objections, I want to send for some of my staff, and have them visit for a day. I need to find out what's been happening in my absence."
"Of course. Tell me how I can help."
For a few minutes, Mr. Harcourt outlined exactly what he required of Arthur, where his employees are concerned. After that, somehow, the subject landed on social activities.
And the moment, Mr. Harcourt started speaking about the opposite sex, he heard a familiar voice in the hallway.
The voice of Lady Cassandra.
Something inside him shifted.
He recalls how gentle she had been, as she helped nursed him to health, and kept his company at a very desolate time in his life.
Arthur leaned back, interlacing his fingers, as he rested them on his midriff. He saw the change in Mr. Harcourt and recognized it for what it was.
"Lady Cassandra is an accomplished young woman. She's been educated in history, literature, and art, and she's fluent in French. She also knows how to manage servants and run an upper-class household. After the mourning period is over, I intend to take her to London, along with the twins, for her first season."
"No doubt she'll have many splendid offers," Harcourt said bitterly.
Arthur shook his head.
"At best, she'll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality."
In response to Harcourt's perplexed glance, he explained.
"The late Earl didn't provide for a dowry."
"A pity," Harcourt said, dryly.
If Arthur was going to try to borrow money from him, to improve Lady Cassandra's chances of marrying a peer, he would tell him to sod off.
"What has any of that to do with me?" Harcourt asked.
"Nothing, if she doesn't please you."
Seeing his baffled expression, Arthur shook his head with an exasperated laugh.
"Confound it, Harcourt! Don't be obtuse. I'm trying to point out an opportunity, if you have any interest in Lady Cassandra."
Mr. Harcourt was stunned into silence.
So Arthur chose his words with obvious care.
"On the surface, it's not the most obvious match. However, there are advantages to both sides. Cassandra would gain a life of security and comfort and she would have her own household.
For your part, you would have a well-bred wife, whose pedigree would gain you entrance, to many of the doors that are closed to you now."
After a brief pause, he added casually,
"As the daughter of an Earl, she would keep her title, even after she became your wife."
Harcourt bloody-fucking-well loved that. He had never dreamed of marrying a respectable woman, much less a daughter of the peerage.
But he wasn't fit for her. He was a Welshman with a rough accent and a foul mouth, and vulgar origins.
And he was a merchant.
No matter how he dressed or improved his manners, his nature would always be coarse and competitive.
People would whisper, seeing the two of them together.
They would agree, that marrying him had debased her. She would be the object of pity and perhaps contempt.
And she would secretly hate him for it.
But...he didn't give a damn.
He had no illusions of course, that Arthur was offering him Lady Cassandra's hand without conditions.
There would be a hefty price.
The Pendragon's need for money was dire. But Cassandra was worth whatever he would have to pay.
His fortune was even vaster than people suspected. He could have purchased a small country if he so desired.
"Have you discussed it with Lady Cassandra yet?" Harcourt asked. "Is that why she played Florence Nightingale, while I had fever? To soften me in preparation for bargaining?"
"Hardly," Arthur said with a snort. "Cassandra is above that sort of manipulation. She helped you, because, she's naturally compassionate. No, she has no inkling, that I've considered arranging a match for her."
At that, Mr. Harcourt decided to be blunt.
"What makes you think, she would be willing to marry the likes of me?"
Arthur answered frankly.
"She has few options at present. There is no occupation fit for a gentlewoman, that would afford her a decent living, and she would never lower herself to harlotry. Furthermore, Cassandra's conscience, won't allow her to be a burden on someone else, which means, she'll have to take a husband.
Without a dowry, either she'll be forced to wed some feeble old dotard, or someone's inbred fourth son. Or…she'll have to marry out of her class."
He shrugged and smiled pleasantly. It was the smile of a man, who held a good hand of cards.
"You're under no obligation, of course...I could always introduce her to Stanton Cambridge."
Harcourt was too experienced a negotiator, to show any reaction, even though a burst of outrage filled him at the suggestion.
Staying outwardly relaxed, he murmured,
"Perhaps you should. Stanton would take her at once. Whereas, I would probably be better off, marrying the kind of woman I deserve."
He paused, contemplating his wineglass, turning it, so one last tiny red drop rolled across the inside.
"However," he said, "I always want better than I deserve."
A week after the railway accident, Arthur had still not healed sufficiently, to go on his customary morning ride.
He was accustomed to beginning each day, with some form of physical exertion, and a simple walk wasn't enough.
His temper grew short with the enforced inactivity, and to make things worse, he was as randy as a stoat, with no way to relieve either problem.
He was still puzzled over Gwen's refusal, to even consider an affair with him.
You're dangerous to me…
That statement had baffled and infuriated him. He would never harm a hair on her head.
How could she even think otherwise?
Her proper upbringing by Lady Gemswick, had given her an overactive conscience, he decided. And obviously, she needed time to adjust to the idea, that she was no longer bound by the same rules, she had always followed so strictly.
For his part, Arthur knew that he would have to earn her trust.
Or seduce her.
Whatever happened first.
He struck out for the countryside along a footpath, that led through the woods and passed the remains of a medieval barn.
The day was damp, the air bitten with hoarfrost, but the brisk walk kept him pleasantly warm.
Noticing a hen harrier flying low to the ground, he paused to watch it hunt.
The bird seemed to drift, as it searched for prey, its grey and white plumage, ghostlike in the morning light.
And in the distance, a flock of bramblings in flight, quivered against the sky.
Continuing on the footpath, Arthur realized, that he'd become attached to the estate.
The lifelong responsibility of preserving it, and restoring the house, no longer seemed like a punishment.
It called to a deep ancestral instinct.
If only, the past few generations of Pendragons, hadn't been such shortsighted fools.
At least, two dozen rooms at Hampshire Priory, had become uninhabitable. And seeping water had assailed the walls with damp and rot, ruining plasterwork and interior furnishings.
Restoration work had to be done soon, before the damage worsened beyond repair.
But he needed money, a large sum, without delay.
He would have loved to sell Pendragon House in London and immediately pour the profit into the Priory, but that would be seen as a weakness, by potential lenders or partners.
Perhaps, he could risk selling his land in Norfolk. That would attract far less notice.
But the proceeds would be unimpressive, and he could already hear the howls of complaint from Gwen and Will, if he decided to evict his Norfolk tenants.
A self-mocking smile curved his lips, as he recalled, that not too long ago, his problems had consisted of issues, such as, his cook-maid bringing him weak tea, or his horse needing to be reshod.
Brooding, he headed back to the Priory, its intricate roofline, silhouetted against the December sky.
As he gazed at the proliferation of openwork parapets, arcade arches, and slender chimneys, topped with ornamental finials, he wondered grimly, which parts of it were likely to fall to the ground first.
Arthur passed by outbuildings and neared the row of chalk paddocks, behind the stables.
A stable boy stood at the post and rail fencing, of the largest enclosure, watching a small, slim rider, put a horse through its paces.
Gwen and Ahmad.
Arthur's pulse quickened with interest.
He went to join the boy at the fence, bracing his forearms on the top rail.
"Milord," the boy said, hastily grabbing the cap from his head, to give him a respectful nod.
Arthur nodded in return, watching intently, as Gwen rode the golden Arabian, around the far side of the paddock.
She was dressed in a severely tailored riding jacket and a small hat with a narrow crown. And, on her lower half, she wore trousers and ankle boots.
Like the breeches he had seen her in before, the trousers had been designed to wear under a riding skirt, never by themselves.
However, he had to admit, that the somewhat outlandish ensemble, gave her a freedom and athletic ease, that heavy draped skirts would never have allowed.
Gwen guided Ahmad into a series of half circles, her weight transferring fluidly with each turn, the inside hip pushing forward with a deep knee.
Her form was so perfect and easy, that the hairs on Arthur's neck lifted, as he watched.
He'd never seen anyone...man or woman...who could ride with such economy of motion.
The Arabian was acutely sensitive, to the subtle pressures of her knees and thighs, following her guidance, as if he could read her mind.
They were a perfect pairing, both of them fine-boned, elegant, and quick.
Noticing Arthur's presence, Gwen sent him a brilliant smile.
Not above showing off, she urged the horse into a supple trot, the knees elevated, the hind legs flexed.
And after completing a serpentine pattern, it trotted in place, before executing a perfect turn on his haunches, spinning in a circle to his right, and then a full spin to his left, his golden tail swishing dramatically.
'The damned horse was dancing.'
Arthur shook his head slightly, watching them in wonder.
After taking the horse around the paddock in a rolling, gliding canter, Gwen slowed him to a trot and then walked him up to the fence.
The horse gave a welcoming nicker, as he recognized Arthur, and nudged his muzzle between the rails.
"Well done," Arthur said, stroking the horse's golden hide. He glanced up at Gwen. "You ride beautifully. Like a goddess."
"Ahmad would make anyone look accomplished," she replied.
He held her gaze.
"No one but you could ride him, as if he had wings."
Face heating, Gwen glanced at the stable boy.
"Frankie, will you walk Ahmad on the lead and then take him to the turn out paddock?"
"Yes, milady!" The boy slipped between the rails, while she dismounted in an easy motion.
"I would have helped you down," Arthur said.
Gwen climbed through the fence.
"I don't need help," she told him, with a touch of smugness that he found adorable.
"Are you going into the house now?" he asked.
"Yes, but first, I need to collect my overskirt from the saddle room."
Arthur walked with Gwen, stealing a surreptitious glance at her backside and hips. Her clear outline of firm, feminine curves, caused his pulse to quicken.
"I seem to recall a rule regarding breeches," he said.
"They're not breeches, they're trousers."
He arched one brow.
"So, you think you're justified in breaking the spirit of the law, as long as you keep to the letter?"
"Yes. Besides, you have no right to make rules about my attire in the first place."
Arthur fought back a grin.
If her impudence was intended to discourage him, it had the opposite effect. He was a man, after all, and a Pendragon to boot.
"Nevertheless," he said, "There will be consequences."
Gwen shot him an uncertain glance.
But he kept his expression impassive, as they headed through the stables to the saddle room.
"There's no need for you to accompany me," Gwen said, her pace quickening. "I'm sure you have much to do."
"Nothing as important as this."
"As what?" she asked warily.
"Finding out the answer to one question," Arthur said.
Gwen stopped near the wall of saddle racks, squared her shoulders, and turned to face him resolutely.
"Which is?" She tugged meticulously at the fingers of her riding gloves and pulled them from her hands.
Arthur loved her willingness to stand up to him, even though she was half his size.
Slowly he reached out and removed her hat, tossing it to the corner. And some of the defiant tension left her slight frame, as she realized that he was playing with her.
She looked very young with her cheeks flushed and her hair a bit mussed from the ride.
Arthur moved forward, crowding her back against the wall, between two rows of empty racks, effectively pinning her into the small space.
Gripping the narrow lapels of her riding jacket, he lowered his mouth to her ear and asked softly,
"What do ladies wear beneath their riding trousers?"
A breathless laugh escaped her. And the gloves dropped to the floor.
"I would think, an infamous rake would already know."
"I was never infamous. In fact, I'm fairly standard, as far as rakes go."
"The ones who deny it are the worst."
Gwen strained, as Arthur began to kiss along the side of her neck.
Her skin was hot from exertion, a little salty, and her scent was divinely arousing...horses, fresh winter air, and roses.
"I'm sure you caused no end of mayhem in London, with all your drinking, gambling, carousing, chasing lightskirts…"
"Moderate drinking," he said in a muffled voice. "Very little gambling. And, I'll admit to the carousing."
"And the lightskirts?"
"None." At her skeptical snort, he lifted his head. "None...since I met you."
Gwen drew back, her perplexed gaze lifting to his.
"There haven't been women since…"
"No. How could I take someone else to bed? In the morning, I would wake up still wanting you."
He moved closer, his large feet bracketing her small ones.
"You still haven't answered my question, milady."
She shrank from him, until her head pressed against the wood-planked wall.
"You know I can't."
"Then I'll have to find out for myself."
At that, his arms slid around her, one hand traveling beneath the hem of her riding jacket, to the small of her back.
His fingertips drew across the ribbed surface of her riding corset, shorter and lighter than the usual ones.
Exploring beneath the waist of her trousers, he encountered thin, silky fabric, where he would have expected linen or cotton.
Fascinated, he used one hand to unfasten the row of buttons at the front of her trousers, while the other eased into the back.
"Are these drawers? What are they made of?" Arthur asked.
Gwen began to push at him, but remembering his injury, she stopped.
Her hands were suspended in midair, as he pulled her hips against his.
Feeling how hard he was, she drew in a quick breath.
"Someone will see," she hissed.
But Arthur was far too occupied with her drawers, to care.
"Silk," he said, his hand wandering deeper inside the trousers.
"Yes, so they don't bunch up beneath the…oh! Do stop…"
The legs of the undergarment were hemmed, so that they only just covered the tops of her thighs.
And as Arthur continued to explore, he discovered, that there was no split-seam opening in her drawers.
"They're sewn shut."
A nervous giggle broke through Gwen's indignation, as she saw his genuinely perplexed expression.
"One wouldn't want an opening there while riding," she explained.
Then, shivered, as one of his hands slid down her front, to caress her over the silk.
Arthur traced the delicate swells of feminine flesh, the heat of Gwen radiating through the fabric.
His fingertips played over her, tickling and soothing, and he felt a change in her body...the way she began to soften against him.
Returning his mouth to her neck, he kissed the smooth curve, down to the collar of her jacket. And very gently, he used his knuckle to stroke into the furrow between her thighs, the knobbiness drawing a moan from her.
She began to say something on a desperate breath, but he took the words into his mouth, kissing her with avid hunger.
Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, and she clung to him with an agitated sound.
Her reluctance was collapsing, melting deliciously, and he didn't allow her one second of respite, only kissed and stroked, until a bit of dampness came through the silk.
Gwen struggled, until Arthur let go of her and stepped back.
Holding the front of her trousers closed, she snatched her overskirt from the hook on the wall. And grappled with the heavy mass of fabric, unable to find the fastenings.
"Would you like me to..." Arthur began.
"No!"
Huffing with frustration, she gave up and bundled the skirts in her arms.
Instinctively, Arthur reached out for her, but she hopped back, with an anxious froth of laughter.
The sound aroused him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve.
"Guinevere." He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. "If you hold still, I'll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you're going to be caught." He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, "And I'll make you come for me again."
Her eyes turned huge.
And he took a deliberate step forward.
This made her bolt across the nearest threshold and fled to the carriage room.
Arthur was at her heels instantly, following her passed the workshop, with its long carpenter's benches and tool cupboards.
Inside the carriage room smelled pleasantly of sawdust, axle grease, lacquer varnish, and leather polish.
It was quiet and shadowy, illuminated only by a row of skylights, over massive hinge-strapped doors, that could be opened onto the estate's carriage drive.
Gwen darted through rows of vehicles, used for different purposes. There were carts, wagons, a light brougham, a landau with a folding top, a phaeton, and a hooded barouche for summer.
Arthur circled around and intercepted her beside the family coach, a huge, stately carriage, that could only be pulled by six horses.
It had been designed, as a symbol of power and prestige, with the Pendragon family crest...a gold dragon on a red background.
Halting abruptly, Gwen stared at Arthur through the semidarkness.
Taking the overskirt from her, he dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage.
"My riding skirt!" she exclaimed in dismay. "You'll ruin it!"
Arthur laughed.
"You were never going to wear it anyway."
He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly.
Quieting her with his mouth, he worked on the row of buttons. And after the sides of the jacket had listed open, he took the back of her head in his hand and kissed her more deeply, ravishing her mouth.
And she responded, as if she couldn't help herself.
A shock of pleasure went through Arthur, as he felt Gwen suck on his tongue, with a shy little tug, and he reached out to fumble for the ring-shaped handle of the carriage door.
Realizing what he intended, she said dazedly,
"You can't."
Her words did nothing to stop Arthur, who was more aroused and entertained, than he'd ever been in his life.
After tugging the door open, he pulled down the folding step and stated,
"Here's your choice...out here, in full view of anyone who passes by…or in the carriage, where no one will see."
Gwen blinked and stared at him, seeming aghast. But there was no concealing the deep flush of excitement on her face.
"Out here, then," he said ruthlessly, and reached for the waist of her trousers.
Galvanized into action, she turned with a whimper and climbed into the carriage.
And Arthur followed instantly.
The interior of the carriage was luxuriously upholstered in leather and velvet, with lacquered wood inlays, compartments for crystal glasses and wine, and silk-fringed damask curtains framing the windows.
At first, it was too dark to see, but as Arthur's vision adjusted, he made out Gwen's petite frame, clearly.
She moved uncertainly, sliding her arms from the riding jacket, as he tugged it from her.
Next, he reached around her, to unfasten the buttons at the back of her blouse, and felt her trembling.
Catching the rim of her ear with his teeth, he nipped softly and soothed the little spot with the tip of his tongue.
"I'll stop if you tell me to," he whispered. "Until then, we'll play by my rules."
Arthur moved to strip off his coat, with a grimace of effort. Then, he pressed a smile against Gwen's forehead, as he felt her hands go to the knot of his necktie.
With each item of clothing that was removed…waistcoat…braces…shirt…he began to seriously question, how much self-control he would be able to maintain.
Carefully, he eased Gwen against his naked chest, and she slid her arms around him, her palms coming to rest on the backs of his shoulders.
Groaning, he kissed his way down to the upper curves of her breasts, where the corset had plumped them high.
He longed to unhook her corset, but there was no way he would be able to refasten it in the darkness.
Searching beneath the loosened waist of her trousers, he found the drawstring of the silk drawers, and untied it with a deft tug.
Gwen stiffened, but she didn't protest, as he eased the garments down passed her hips, and lower still, with hands that weren't quite steady.
His heart pounded in a rough staccato, every muscle knotted with craving.
Kneeling on the carpeted floor, he ran his palms over the smooth curves of her bare hips and along the length of her thighs.
The riding trousers had caught on her short boots, bunching at her ankles. But thanks to the gussets on the sides, and the leather tabs at the backs, the boots were easily removed.
After divesting Gwen of the trousers, Arthur drew a single fingertip along the line of her clenched thighs.
"Open for me," he whispered.
She didn't.
Sympathetic and tenderly amused, he caressed her legs with patient hands.
"Don't be shy. There's no part of you that isn't beautiful."
His hand moved to the top of her thighs, his thumb sliding into the delicate fleece of curls.
"Let me kiss you here," he coaxed. "Just once."
"Oh, God…no." She reached down and weakly pushed his hand away. "It's a sin."
"How do you know?"
"Because it feels like one," she managed to say.
He laughed quietly and pulled her hips farther towards him, with a decisiveness that drew a little yelp from her.
"In that case…I never sin by half measures."
Stay safe!