Clasping the edges of his saddle, Rumford pushed up on his foot and pulled himself up onto his horse, throwing his leg over to sit astride the horse's back. He gathered the excess length of the reins between his hands, flicking the excess over his left thigh, clasping a comfortable length in his right hand. Using the stirrups, Rumford stood and repositioned himself in his saddle. Settling himself, his gaze was on Jefferson, chatting to the maid, he'd been chatting up while Rumford had been going about town, attending to his business. He breathed in, expanding his chest, setting back his shoulders, aware of the tightness in his back as he dropped his eyes back to the reins in his hands, sliding the extra through his left hand, to drop across his left thigh again.

Another sleepless night was taking its toll on him. He had hoped the soak in the tub, he had last night, would've helped him. After the maid had left him, Rumford had made sure to turn the key in his bedroom door and clambered into the tub, discarding his nightshirt to the nearby armchair. Relaxing in the tub, basking in front of the fireplace, letting the warm water ebb away his aches, he had watched the firelight dance in the fireplace.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, soaking, when her hand had dipped into the water, collecting the soap from the bottom of the bath. Lounging with his arms hooked on the edge of the bath, his head lulled on the rim, Rumford had let her rub the soap over him, rewashing where he had already washed, observing her petite hand as it had glided across his skin. She didn't say anything. She didn't even look at him, which he had found all the more arousing. His eyes traced the path of her hand, while it gradually worked its way down his chest, leaving a zigzag pattern of bubbles as she worked, lowering further and further to the surface of the cloudy water. This was the point, where the whole world just fell away, and it was just him and her, and the unbidden question of whether she would or not.

He had known the answer. She had known the answer.

Yet, she had looked at him, for the first time in their encounter, questioning whether she should do it, asking permission to delve deeper. They didn't speak, they didn't break eye contact, either. A crook at the corner of his lips was all she needed. Her hand had dropped the soap and submerged her hand into the water, grasping his already straining erection.

"Hey!" Jefferson swatted a newspaper against his chest. "I managed to get you this, when I was in the store. It's a day old, but it's news you haven't read."

"Thank you." Rumford peeled the newspaper from his chest, blowing out a hot subtle breath as he repositioned himself in his saddle.

"I got some chocolates for Lady French, while I was there." Jefferson collected his reins of his horse and then lifted his foot to secure into the stirrup.

Folding the newspaper again, making it smaller, he twisted to slip it under the flap of his bag, slung over the back of his horse, stating to Jefferson. "A frivolous gift."

"I got Lord French a bottle of whiskey as well." Jefferson bounced, twice, a third time, and hoisted himself up and onto his horse. "And showing our thanks is not frivolous. It's good manners. What would your mother say?"

Leading the horse via the reins to turn left, a gentle tap to its flanks, Rumford said. "My mother would've told you to get flowers, not chocolates. A lady has to watch her figure."

Behind him, he heard Jefferson making a clicking noise, setting his horse off to follow Rumford's, muttering. "The rounder the better, if you ask me."

"I don't remember you buying much chocolates for Priscilla." Rumford commented, angling his head to watch Jefferson trot up beside him.

Jefferson grinned, leaning in favour of Rumford as he lowered his voice to say, smirking. "That's because she was round in all the right places."

Rumford chortled, whilst he tapped the flanks of his horse with his heels, nudging it to increase its speed. Together, they trotted at a nice steady pace out of the village, taking the road back to Lord French's estate. He settled himself into a gentle rock with his horse's rhythm, enjoying the short leisurely ride back to the estate, picking a spot on the horizon to focus on as they rode back.

Though, as he thought about Lord French's estate, his mind wandered to Lady French. They'd hardly spoken to one another, apart from the polite conversation at dinner and in the drawing room. Last night, Rumford had wanted to take her to one side after dinner, to apologise for his carelessness and his state of undress, coveting to receive her forgiveness. He didn't get the chance. Not long after they had entered the drawing room and he had gone to cross the room to her, she had swiftly wished them all a goodnight and had gone to bed, excusing herself early with a headache. Loitering near the chair, she had been inhabiting, Rumford hadn't known what to do with himself and had excused himself as well, telling them all he wanted to bath before bed.

Stood at the top of the grand staircase, he had looked down the corridor to the left, taking an educated guess, her bedroom was on that side of the house. Rumford had turned to go to his room, refusing to intrude on her virtue, by giving people reason to doubt her, if he had gone seeking her in her chambers.

"Did I tell you I took tea with Lady French yesterday?" Jefferson queried.

Rumald pivoted his gaze round to Jefferson. "No, you didn't."

"Very interesting conversation." His friend teased him to prompt him.

"I'm glad." Rumford didn't bite, returning his attention in front of him.

They settled back into a comfortable silence. Rumford found his spot again on the horizon, pursing his lips as he allowed his mind to drift back to last night, to the point where her hand had reached into the murky water and had grasped his throbbing member. She hadn't been surprised by it. She should've been, but she wasn't. If he went by the look, he had seen on her face, she was exceedingly satisfied with how big his member was in her small hand. Not an ounce of fear in her eyes. Her gaze had crept up his chest to meet his gaze, grinning at him. He had opened his mouth to say…

Jefferson tapped Rumford's leg with his foot. "Ask me."

"Ask you what?" Rumford inquired, annoyed Jefferson had disturbed him again.

"Ask me about my interesting conversation with Lady French." Jefferson urged.

"How would you like me to ask you?" He asked, shifting in his saddle to see his friend beside him more easily. "In a certain tone? Sarcasm, intrigue? Or what, where, when, why? Which would you care for?"

Jefferson nudged his horse to close the gap and grabbed Rumford by his coat sleeve, pulling at his arm, much like a child would for attention, as he said. "Would you just ask me about it! I know you want to know!"

"I most certainly do not!" Rumford asserted, leading his horse to widen the gap.

"You most certainly do!" Jefferson accused.

"Jefferson, you're not supposed to share every private conversation with me!" Rumford scolded with a scowl, unconsciously leading his horse back to Jefferson. "Especially conversations you've shared with a lady, such as Lady French. Whatever she felt inclined to tell you, doesn't mean she wants that being shared with the likes of me or anyone else, for that matter."

He rolled his eyes at his friend, swinging his hips to return himself into a more comfortable position. "Makes me wonder, if you go round sharing all of our private conversations with people."

Jefferson grumbled. "Well… Someone definitely woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning."

Exhaling loudly through his nose, Rumford wasn't really annoyed with Jefferson, he was annoyed with himself for allowing himself to be distracted by her. The last two days, she had dominated his thoughts, inhabited his daydreams, persistently tortured him when he closed his eyes, was literally the air he breathed. She had become everything, yet she was nothing to him and he was nothing to her.

Nevertheless, Jefferson was right. He was thrilled to learn more of Lady French. He was enthralled to find out all the mundane things about her. Did she like to sew? Was she an avid reader? How did she like her tea – one lump or two, milk? What did she dislike? Would she care to sit by the fire with him, on rainy afternoons, enjoying one another's company? There were so many things, he wanted to know about her, it scared him. When he had met his first wife, Rumford couldn't have cared to know these things about her, and if he was honest, he still probably didn't know the answers to these questions after four years of marriage.

It had been an arranged union, one made in haste and one he regretted. Rumford had been twenty-one, when he had been introduced to her, Milah. A ball or some event to celebrate God knows what, he couldn't remember. His mother had made the introduction, having known Milah's mother when she was younger. He somewhat remembered, telling his mother she would do. A part of him wished it had been more romantic than that. She was sixteen, when they got married, hardly a clue as to who she was and what she wanted out of life.

In the beginning, it had been amicable, they would take tea together, sit and read together, and being young, had sex at the drop of a handkerchief. He never forced himself upon her, but she had been as eager after he had awakened her to the forbidden pleasure. Because of their fervent need, it was not long after they had married, she had become pregnant with their son, Neal.

Rumford had been over the moon. A son, a child of his own, his own flesh and blood, family. He had been the first to hold him. Still covered in vernix and blood, he had clutched his son snugly to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings as his son had slept peacefully in his arms. The birth hadn't been easy on Milah. She had been bedridden for several weeks afterwards, finding it difficult to get around unaided. Dividing his time between Milah and Neal, and running the estate at the same time, he'd had a lot on his plate at the time, but he made it work for their sakes, for his family.

Rumford would've loved to put his finger on the catalyst in their timeline, where it had started to crumble. Slowly, arguments had started. Milah wanted more of this, more of that, demanded to be included in the estate's business, didn't want the pressure of duties, wanted to build a new wing on the manor, thought about tearing down walls. She used to come out with so many crazy ideas, she had driven Rumford to despair. At some point, she had started paying less attention to Neal and had spent more time out of the house, riding her horse around the estate…

That wasn't true. Rumford had known exactly where she had gone.

Jefferson had been visiting with his late wife, Priscilla, and Grace. It had been a very stormy night, teeming with rain, and Rumford had stupidly worried for Milah. Throwing on his cloak, he'd left Neal with Jefferson and had taken his horse in search of Milah. She always followed the path back from the lake, when she went out 'riding'. He had ridden his horse hard, agonising about her, he had gotten to the lake to see no sign of her. Reluctantly, he had pushed on from the lake, heading to the old cottage for the gamekeeper, which was empty at the time.

He approached the old cottage, entering the clearing, and had let out a long sigh at seeing the light through the cottage window and her horse tied up beside the cottage. The relief to know she was safe and sound washed over him and he had smiled, shaking his head at himself, while he had let out a short laugh. What he hated, when he thought back to that night, was how naïve and foolish he had been to not listen to own gut. Teaching him a lesson for the rest of his life.

Rumford had launched himself off his horse, tied it next to her horse, and had raced into the cottage. What he had told himself to believe and what he had seen, were definitely the polar opposites of what he had witnessed. In his head, he had imagined that she would've been huddled up by the fire, alone, her hands outstretched beckoning him to come to her, like she used to on such evenings. What he saw was a mass of blankets, moving and withering, in front of the fire, moans of pleasure emanating from said mass. Clothes had been discarded about the cottage. There was food on a plate, a half-drunk bottle of wine, he had recognised, and two glasses, which he had also recognised, with traces of wine on a table.

"What the hell!" He had roared, slamming the cottage door shut with a loud clatter.

The mass on the floor had exploded outwards, sending blankets everywhere, revealing quite a lot of naked flesh. Rumford had stared at the ass of his wife, down on all fours, frantically reaching for one of the discarded blankets, while the other occupant of mass had flown across the room, wrapping a blanket around himself. Standing there, clenching his fists at his sides, he hadn't known what to do, how to react to what he had just seen.

"Rumford!" Milah had shouted, clambering to her feet, tightly clutching the edges of the blanket. "What the hell are you doing here!"

"What am I…? What am I doing here?!" Rumald had declared loudly, gesturing uncontrollably with his hands.

Milah had glared at him. "You've got no right to be here! Get out!"

"I'm sorry, I thought I was the fricking Earl of the Frontlands and owned this fricking estate!" He had thrown back at her, holding his arms out wide.

"Hey, mate." An Irish accent crooned at Rumford. "No need to swear in front of the lady."

Slowly Rumford had levelled his gaze on the man, standing casually, blanket wrapped around his waist, leaning against the wall of the cottage. He had looked to be about the same age as Rumford. The man was devilishly handsome. There was no denying that, but that didn't stop Rumford from wanting to punch the man's face in, especially with that toothy smile.

"The only thing that makes her a lady right now, is her title! Her behaviour is more of a whore!" Rumford had stated coldly and had pointed a finger at the man. "You are a fricking shit-sack!"

"That's not very gentlemanly of you." The man had baited him, he had known it at the time, but being so angry at the time, he had acted instead of thinking.

Rumford had grabbed the half-drunk bottle of wine from the table, thrown it at the man, hitting the wall next to him, exploding the bottle into glass shards and splashing wine onto the wall and floor. The other man had been startled. Using it to his advantage, Rumford had launched himself at the man, grabbing him by the throat to throw a punch at him. They had fought, throwing fists and kneeing each other, falling into a heap on the floor. Milah had screamed at him to get off her precious lover, jumping onto his back, wrapping her arms around Rumford's throat to choke him. She couldn't get him off of her lover and her shouts had fallen on deaf ears as the pair of them had fought.

"Stop it!" She had exclaimed and had changed tactics, and began hitting Rumford in the back of the head.

Rolling to knock her off, she had fallen to the floor, but had kept fighting with him, tugging hard at his soaked cloak to pull him off her lover. She had randomly kicked him in his ribs, giving her lover the distraction he had needed, to hit Rumford squarely in the face. He had slumped to the floor with a groan and blacked out.

Waking up in the early hours of the morning, Rumford hadn't known where he was when he awoke, but had found himself alone in the cottage and his horse gone. They had searched for her, riding from inn to inn, village to village, but there'd been no sign of them. Rumford had relented on finding her himself and had paid men to find her, prioritising his time to Neal. The scandal was kept hushed. Nobody outside of the household knew anything. To the outside world, she was visiting an acquaintance, no name of the acquaintance was ever given and nobody had questioned it. It wasn't exactly unheard of for a lady to go touring round her acquaintances. Rumford had feigned ignorance to anyone who had asked, informing them he was waiting to receive a letter from her.

The day, they brought her home, in a box, on the back of the cart, was the most heart wrenching day of his life. Killian Jones, privateer, had taken her to his ship, promising to show her the world. What they hadn't expected, was the men, who Rumford had paid, would find them and try to bring her back. If he had been there, he would've just let her go, so her death wouldn't have been on his conscience, but he wasn't the one who had picked up the pistol. Mr Jones had decided to go down in a blaze of glory, because 'if I can't have her, no one will'. Milah had been caught in the crossfire, protecting her lover, shot in the heart with a pistol.

Rumford would've liked to say, it was her, which had made that day so unbearable. But it wasn't. No, it had been their son. The three-year-old, who had stood on the step with him, tightly clasping his father's hand, when they had brought her home. The little boy asked him, when his mummy was coming home, unable to comprehend his mummy was in the wooden box, they had lowered into the ground. The young boy, who screamed in the middle of the night, crying out for his mother at the age of seven. Then he would realise his mummy wasn't coming, like she hadn't for the last four years of his life, setting the boy off into more tears. At the age of twelve, Neal no longer asked for his mother.

The whole experience with his late wife had left a sour taste in his mouth to the prospect of taking another wife. Rumford may now have a choice as to who he would marry, but it didn't mean he wanted to open himself to being hurt like that again. Inviting someone into his home, a stranger, to share his life with them, share his son with them, for them to hurt them with their own selfish needs. He wouldn't do it, which was why remarrying had never entered his mind.

Briefly, Rumford turned his head to look at Jefferson, who was staring off in front of them, as they approached the brow of the hill, leading to the short path down to Lord French's estate. Adjusting the hold of his horse's reins, he shifted his position in his saddle, glancing down to the reins between his hands. If he was honest, Rumford was jealous to hear Jefferson had shared tea with Lady French yesterday, while he had been out completing his business. A chance to sit and chat with her, to cunningly ask her his questions, to learn what made the Lady happy, what excited her, would be a glorious honour. To sit with her and discover her mind was as beautiful as her face, could complete his fantasy of the perfect woman. It would also give him the time to determine whether her wit was sharp enough to engage with his own.

"She doesn't like him, by the way." Jefferson asserted from nowhere.

Rumford slanted himself to look at Jefferson, whilst their horses traversed from the road onto the gravelled area in front of the manor. "Excuse me?"

Jefferson nodded and threw his hand towards the house. "The Baron, she doesn't like him."

"Can't say that I blame her." He grumbled, straightening on his horse.

"Lord French is eager for the union, but she isn't." Jefferson said with a shrug of his right shoulder.

"She has her right to refuse." Rumford commented, tugging on the reins of his horse to slow it down, whilst they entered the bricked courtyard at the side of the manor.

Jefferson nodded, following Rumford's horse. "That she does."

Slowly trotting around the corner of the outbuildings, Rumford pulled to a stop outside of the stables and hopped down from his horse, landing at the side of his horse, a steadying hand on the back of the horse. Opening the flap of the satchel, secured to the back of the horse, Rumford retrieved the newspaper Jefferson had bought him, while Jefferson came to halt close beside Rumford.

"Ah," The Stablemaster came out of the stables to greet them. "Have they been well behaved for you, M' Lords?" He asked, claiming the reins of both horses.

"Very well behaved." Rumford told him, stroking a hand over the front shoulder of the horse.

Jefferson dropped with an 'oof' and said. "Yes, very good."

The Stablemaster inquired. "Will you be requiring horses tomorrow, M' Lords?"

"No, I shouldn't think so." Rumford answered, while Jefferson retrieved the chocolates and the whiskey he had bought for their hosts, from the satchel on his horse.

"M' Lords." The Stablemaster bowed his head to them as he backed away, leading the horse into the stable with him.

Clutching the box of chocolates to his chest, the bottle of whiskey held in his hand, Jefferson wiped down the front of his clothing, brushing off the dust and dirt. Rumford tucked his newspaper under his left arm and started towards the manor with Jefferson falling into step beside him. He avoided looking in Jefferson's direction, averting his gaze, so Jefferson couldn't catch his eye. They've played this game many times in the decades they've known each other. Jefferson always had a knack, when he was socialising to get information out of people, which was always useful to Rumford, when he was conducting business. His friend was good at reading people, yet it was the most annoying trait of his friend, when he used this ability on Rumford. What surprised him was how Jefferson had even seen any hint of Rumford's interest in Lady French. He had been careful with his glances, minimising the amount of time and concealing his glimpses behind hooded eyes. He hadn't passed comment about her appearance or inquired too much about her, feigning disinterest when her father or the Baron spoke about her, or she was in the room, keeping himself at a safe distance across the room. The only evening, he had allowed himself to indulge, was when she had been playing the piano for them, but to anyone else he would've looked to be appreciating her playing, not the delicate slope of her neck… the softness of her skin… the smell of violets and lavender… Rumford quickly dispersed his thoughts, catching Jefferson in the corner of his eye, knowingly smiling at him.

Without knocking, Rumford opened the front door to the manor, startling the frontman on the other side of the door, and traipsed into the house with Jefferson close behind him. The young footman composed himself and bowed his head to them. Giving the young footman a curt nod of his head, Rumford stopped in the foyer, snatching the folded paper from under his arm, and looked around, wafting the newspaper through the air, lost for something to do.

"Fancy a brandy?" Jefferson waved in the direction of the drawing room. "Bound to be in time for another of the Baron's hunting stories."

"No." Rumford shook his head. "No, I think I'm going to find myself a quiet nook and read my paper." He gestured with the folded newspaper in a random direction.

Jefferson showed him a small smile. "As you wish."

Going to take a step in the opposite direction to Jefferson, Rumford halted, hearing Jefferson say one word. "You."

"Excuse me?" Rumford turned his head to face Jefferson, who had continued to walk away.

Knitting his brow, Rumford wasn't clear as to Jefferson's meaning, when he had said 'You'. He took a step, leaning to see Jefferson pass the banister, but Jefferson had already reached the drawing room doorway and walked through it, leaving Rumford with just that one word. Settling his weight evenly between his feet, he looked down at the newspaper in his hands, deepening his frown, whilst repeating the word 'You' in his head. What was that supposed to mean? 'Me, what?', he thought, turning his head to look in another direction, hoping he might get some clarity from another perspective. Was Jefferson toying with him, like he did at times, or was he referring to their earlier conversation? Casting his gaze back towards the drawing room, he pondered about joining Jefferson, only so he could needle his friend for an explanation.

'What the frick does 'you' mean anyway?', Rumford contemplated, swinging himself round to head towards the library.