The sun was shining brightly through the French doors into the dining room. With his back to the doors, in the spot he had taken to sitting, Rumford stabbed at his scrambled eggs and fed himself a piece, secretly eyeing the doorway for her arrival. The others chatted: Lord French and the Baron was discussing the prospect of hunt, later on in the season, while Jefferson meekly agreed with them, his disinterest in the subject clear as day to Rumford. Years of listening to babble in the gentlemen's club, had honed Rumford's skill to nod at the right time, grunt or 'pfft' at the right moments, and knew when it was best, to resign himself from a conversation. It wouldn't have mattered the subject, Rumford had no interest in talking to the gentlemen at the table.
He wanted to talk to her.
Rumford shifted in his chair, grunted and lightly nodded his head at whatever was being discussed, glimpsing to the doorway. Though, he didn't need to see her in the library, to know that she was there. The hairs on the back of his neck had pricked, much like the first night he had spent in this house. His body had responded to the heat of her gaze, much like it had in the library, waking him from his daydream of her.
The library was quite quaint and was small in comparison to his own library. As he had strolled through the lower level of the library, Rumford had glanced up to the floor above, once he had walked out from underneath the balcony. Continuing to the fireplace, he had let his gaze roam around the library, until his gaze had settled on one of the armchairs in front of the large fireplace. He had sat down, taking in the impressive fireplace, and once he had settled into the armchair, he had unfolded his newspaper and crossed his legs. Scanning the contents of the front page, Rumford had turned the page, skimming the content till he had found an article on a recent highway robbery.
It wasn't, he hadn't found it interesting. It was a crucial bit of news to him. A few of his own shipments had been hit in the past, bundles of cotton stolen, profit lost in the blink of an eye. Yet, his mind had wandered, evident when he had felt a pair of hands, press down onto his thighs. Rumford had been about to question the identity of the person, but had frozen as the hands glided up his thighs, appearing from underneath the newspaper, and had stopped in their travels at the apex of his thighs, near enough touching him, before they receded back down his thighs, dipping to the inside of his thighs. Intently watching, the hands had returned like the sea lapping at the beach, a wave of hands washing over his thighs, mimicking the same route, barely making contact with him before rushing back down his thighs. On the third surge of the hands, Rumford had sucked in a breath, through the gaps in his teeth, as the hands had gushed over his crotch, giving his hardening manhood a firm, but gentle, squeeze. His head had fell back to hit the back of the armchair, his eyes wide, staring blankly at the ceiling, whilst the fingertips of said hands clawed lightly into his thighs, on their return to underneath his newspaper.
While the hands reached up under the paper again, the hairs on the back of his neck had erected themselves, drawing his attention away from the tantalising caress. Rumford had blinked his eyes, a couple of times, waking from his daydream, disappointed the hands were gone. His brow had knitted together, at a lost to what had disturbed him till he had heard the distinct sound of a dress swish. Marking his place in his newspaper with his finger, Rumford had closed his newspaper and had leant forward in his chair, surprised to see Lady French, several feet away from him.
He had felt as if she had caught him, had witnessed the beginning of a forbidden daydream. Alarmed, Rumford had thrown himself up and out of the chair he had occupied, feeling very hot under the collar. Needing something to do, to occupy his hands and pull himself back together, he had tugged down on his waistcoat, enduring the scrutiny of her bemused smile.
"Lady French." Bowing himself over, he had silently reprimanded himself, the heat in his cheeks noticeable. "My apologies, I didn't hear you."
Reclining himself back to his full height, Rumford had prayed to whatever God was listening, hoping it wasn't obvious, where his thoughts had been moments ago. He could hear his mother in his ear, chastising him, a slight knowing smirk to her features, as she said, 'You have to show some decorum, Rumford'. Hearing her words had made him uneasy. His mother had been dead for eight years, yet she was still a source of comfort and discipline.
Her movement had caught him. Watching her approach, he had been struck by her confidence and beauty, rendering all other thought mute in her presence. Her plump pink lips had stretched into a wider smile; her bemused smile had turned into one of amusement.
"No need to apologise, my Lord." Lady French had curtsied, stood feet away from him. "It is I, who should apologise for disturbing you."
'Disturbing you, oh God!', Rumford had thought, with a rush of heat invading his cheeks.
If she had known of his daydream, Lady French wouldn't have been apologising to him. If she had witnessed herself, knelt between his feet, hidden by his newspaper, stroking his thighs, provoking a hard, throbbing reaction from him; she wouldn't have been apologising to him. If her sudden appearance hadn't of shocked him, there would've been physical evidence of his ungentlemanly thoughts. No, Lady French shouldn't have been apologising to him. He should've been begging her, for her forgiveness, for using her heavenly image in such illicit thoughts. Using her beautiful face on his imagery mistress, whilst he took himself in hand, vainly seeking satisfaction, every night so far.
Rumford reached for his tea and drank from it, hiding behind his cup, as a small blush settled in his cheeks. Slyly looking at the other occupants of the table, he blew out a quiet breath, thankful no one was paying attention to him, while he set his teacup back down onto its saucer. His fingers lingered on the teacup, studying the lucrative blue pattern of the delicate china. There was a similar set of teacups at his home, hoarded away safely in a glass cabinet, kept away from the fiendish fingers of the children. The elegant tea set had been his mother's. Passed down from her mother, and her mother's mother, and so on. It was sacred to him as it triggered one of the first memories he had, for the woman who became his mother.
She had been the one, to give him his name, bestowing the forename of her father onto an orphan, who didn't deserve their kindness, or the home they had given him, or the life they had left to him. His first clear memory of her, was from the first night, he had spent in their home. Freshly washed and dressed in foreign clothes, he had curled up into the corner of the room, they had said was his bedroom, and had cried uncontrollably for the pathetic excuse of his father. The room had been dark until she had come into his room, bringing light with her. Setting it down on the mantelpiece, she had come over to him, shushing him, whilst she gathered him up into her arms, cradling his head to her chest, and had sat down into an armchair with him.
It had been such a foreign experience for him, Rumford hadn't known what was happening or what he should do. Nobody had ever held him in such a manner. He hadn't known, whether this had been a prelude to a beating. Rumford had learnt to read his father's body language, able to tell from the tension in his father's shoulders, if he was about to receive a beating for something he'd done. Because he had known, when a punishment was coming, Rumford had been able to keep his distance from his father and had even found a nook in a tree he could hide in, to avoid his father. However, his father had caught onto this and would tantalise Rumford, teasing him with a bait of comfort, before pinning him down and beating him.
Tense in her embrace, Rumford had waited and waited, for her calming shushing to become hisses of disappointment. Waiting for the inevitable, when she'd throw him on the floor and kick him, like his father did, when his hand was sore from smacking him. He had waited, his brow tight with apprehension, silently pleading she didn't beat him for crying. It had always angered his father, when he had cried. Shedding tears, because his belly hurt, because he couldn't please his father, because he felt so alone.
It had been some time, before her comforting embrace had eased the stiffness in his thin frame. The Earl's wife had cradled him in her arms, cushioning his head to her bosom, gently rocking back and forth in the chair. Slowly, Rumford eyes had closed, unable to keep them open any longer. Exhausted from being abandoned and the endless tears he had cried. He had slept in her arms and she had slept in the chair, holding him tightly in her arms, guarding him as if her life depended on it.
His mother had never let go of him, always held him, always found a reason to give him a cuddle, grateful for the gift of the small boy, who had become her son and grew into a man that she could be proud of. Rumford had been heartbroken, when the Earl had passed, but had been completely beside himself, when his mother's grip had eased around his hand on her deathbed. He had wept that night, head buried into the covers, clutching her lifeless hand in his larger hands, crying uncontrollably for one more comforting embrace from his mother.
Sniffing hard through his nose, Rumford stabbed at the remaining piece of sausage on his plate, harpooning the tasty piece of meat, and added a piece of egg onto his fork before feeding it to himself. He raised his eyes from his plate to Jefferson, sat across from him, whose eyebrows were encroaching into his hairline, baffled as the Baron babbled.
"I wasn't so sure, about mounting the stag's head in the entryway." The Baron remarked, casting his gaze off into the distance, and then reached out to slap Jefferson's arm, nearly knocking Jefferson out of his chair. "But it's definitely an eye catcher, when we have visitors. Everyone always comments on it."
"I bet they do." Jefferson mumbled, sounding far from interested in the conversation, rubbing at his arm.
Rumford smirked, tuning into their conversation as the Baron inquired. "Are there any good hunting grounds near your estate?"
"Near my estate?" Jefferson was flummoxed by the question, clutching his arm, where the Baron had hit him.
"You wouldn't want it to spoil!" The Baron declared. "Believe me, Mister Mandermer, every house should have a trophy or two. It would be best to hunt the animal near your estate, then it'll be the perfect specimen, when you have it mounted."
"Right…" Jefferson shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
The Baron lent over and gave Jefferson a hard punch to his upper arm, jostling Jefferson in his chair again. "Don't be deterred!" He chortled and shoved Jefferson hard. "We'll find you a perfect stag and then I'll kill it for you before slitting its throat."
Even Rumford grimaced at the imagery, whilst he looked at Jefferson, rubbing absently at his own throat, picturing the scene the Baron had described. Dropping his attention to his breakfast, he was grateful his father hadn't been into hunting. Their estate was one of the few, which did not allow hunting on its grounds. Much like his father, he enjoyed an evening ride, from time to time, riding through the woodland of the estate. It was awe-inspiring to chance upon a deer grazing in one of the many clearings. He loved to unmount his horse, taking a moment to observe the precious animal, enjoying the serene scene as he would kneel in the long grass, holding the reins for his horse. He shook his head at the image, dispelling it before the Baron could ruin the moment.
Pushing the last remaining pieces of scrambled egg onto his fork, the Baron addressed Lord French across the table. "French, could I trouble you, for a couple of minutes of your time?"
"Of course, I should be attending to my affairs anyway." Lord French declared cheerfully, folding the newspaper he had barely read into quarters and left it on the table. "Why don't you accompany me to my study?"
Lifting his eyebrow at the exchange, Rumford laid his knife and fork down onto the plate, eyeing the Baron as he replied to Lord French with an evil grin on his face. "Perfect."
The Baron was up and out of his chair, before Lord French had even had chance to push back his chair, and strutted by, behind Jefferson, to join Lord French as he stood up. Motioning with his arm, for Lord French to precede him, the Baron's grin had broadened to show his perfectly straight, white teeth.
"Please excuse us, my Lords." Lord French bowed his head to them.
As Rumford was wiping his mouth with his napkin, he nodded his head to acknowledge them leaving, keenly watching the two men leave the room. The Baron was whispering into Viscount's ear. His gaze narrowed, not liking the feeling that stirred in his gut. The Baron was most definitely up to something. It was becoming obvious, Lady French's attempts to avoid the Baron, were taking their toll on the Baron's patience. With that thought, Rumford's eyebrows knitted together, concerned what the Baron could be plotting.
"Rumford!" Jefferson hissed across the table, his eyes wide, glaring at Rumford. "What the blazes…!"
Laying the napkin on the table, Rumford raised a questioning eyebrow at Jefferson. "What's the matter, Jefferson?"
"Were you even listening to the conversation!" Jefferson waved his hand wildly through the air, gesturing to the men, who had left the room.
"Not really." Rumford confessed as he pushed back his chair and stood, tugging down his waistcoat.
"Why the blazes, would you agree that I want a bloody stag head!" He exclaimed, forcefully pushing back his chair.
Tucking his chair back under the table, Rumford gave Jefferson a curious look. "Did I…? Well…" A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "Given the décor of your room, it wouldn't be too outrageous."
Jefferson scowled. "Don't be ridiculous!"
"I wouldn't dare!" Rumford appeared affronted, laying his hand on his chest, while he walked out of the room, Jefferson following him out of the door. "I leave that sort of thing in your capable hands, sir."
"I was getting tempted to rip his tongue out with my fork!" Jefferson confessed, aggressively grabbing at Rumford's arm, tugging him partly back, as they went through the doorway together.
Rumford whirled round, grabbing a hold of Jefferson, beseeching him as he said. "Please! Please, Jefferson!" Jefferson balked, but grinned at Rumford. "Rip his tongue out with a fork, please!" He tugged Jefferson closer. "Do it! And I'll hold him down!"
"Oh, I love it, when you talk dirty!" Jefferson said in a sultry tone.
Chuckling, Rumford let go of Jefferson, shaking his head at his friend. "I bet you do."
Jefferson smoothed down the front of his coat, adjusting the flaps of his coat. "It's too bad, for Lady French, that the Baron has his tongue in Lord French's ear."
"Jefferson." Rumford scolded, frowning at the imagery, whilst he turned, to follow the hallway into the large sitting room, at the back of the house. "Please, I've just had my breakfast."
"I'm just saying, she doesn't really stand a chance, does she?" Jefferson remarked as they entered the large sitting room.
"Lady French has been quite resourceful in avoiding the Baron's advances." He commented, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, troubled by what the Baron could possibly be plotting for Lady French.
Jefferson flopped down into one of the two seater sofas. "I know this much, if a suitor like the Baron ever comes seeking Grace's hand, I'll be marching him out of the house and telling him, where he can shove his proposal."
"Would that be before or after, I've threatened him with my pistol?" Rumford inquired, clasping his hands behind his back, gazing out on the patio and the gardens, through the middle set of French doors.
"You really don't like the Baron." Jefferson chuckled.
Blowing out a noisy breath, Rumford shook his head. "The man is rude, vulgar and intolerable company." He pulled back his shoulders, straightening his back, as he said. "The man is hardly a gentleman and she deserves better. She should be matched with a man, who…" He paused to think. "Who would appreciate her intelligence and by no means, lock her up in a cage, as if she was some sport. She should be free to do as she pleases, encouraged to broaden her horizons and…"
He stopped, catching himself before he compromised himself, by saying, 'loved unconditionally, by a husband, who appreciates the beauty of her and her soul'. Breathing in, painfully expanding his chest, trapping the words inside his chest. Rumford could not deny that he found her remarkable. He had enjoyed her brashness in the library. It had been a welcome change, whereas usually ladies would bite their lip, holding back their true opinion, conforming to the opinion of their fathers or their husbands. Blind to the affairs of the world and of current affairs. The Baron would never appreciate her mind. He would break her down into a mould, constraining her into the role of a typical lady. The match, between them, was ludicrous – He'd never value her independence, like Rumford would.
Rumford pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze focused on the gardens, hearing the echo of her saying, 'Because I'd quite like to get to know you, my Lord'. Why would a creature as beautiful as Lady French, able to acquire any hand, be interested in getting to know him? He wasn't ignorant, to how women could whisper in his ear, attempting to seduce him into doing whatever they wished. It was a tone his first wife had used very well and one he'd heard many times at various balls. Yet, Lady French had been, refreshingly, upfront with him, if he chose to believe her.
Disregarding his status, a man in his position with such a dark secret, so embedded into the foundation of who he was, it was hard for him to trust people. Apart from the servants, who had pledged their service and secrecy to his parents and to him, there was only one other person, who knew the truth of his lineage. Though, Rumford was well established in his lie and had no real reason to worry about being exposed, he always kept an eye over his shoulder and his ear to the ground. They were habits, which have served him well, with so many in court and in business, trying to pull the wool over his eyes. Any interest in him was always met with a sceptical eye. And sadly, even on this occasion, when a beautiful, young woman, brazenly admits her interest in him, Rumford couldn't ignore the cynical whispers in the back of his mind.
Could they really share a mutual interest? An attraction? Did she also have a moment, where the world had stood still, struck by Cupid's arrow? He quickly dismissed, such a notion. Nobody, apart from his parents, had ever truly wanted him. People saw an opportunity and his wealth. They never truly saw him. Even Jefferson had latched onto him, using him to escape the responsibility of his own estate, hiding in Rumford's shadow, but was the only true friend Rumford had, a bond forged as young boys. And the only person, outside of the family, who knew the truth.
Though, he had dismissed the notion, marking it as foolishness, Rumford found himself longing for it to be true. If she even returned, a tenth of how he felt, if she could humour him in the idea of being attracted to him, or dare to consider a proposal… His thought dwindled, lost forever in the cosmos.
He was shocked at where his mind had wandered. He didn't love this woman. He couldn't possibly love her. Attracted, yes. Love her…? How could he possibly love her, when he didn't know her? They'd known each other, what? Three days at the most? Hardly spoken to one another. It was absurd to consider, such a possibility. Scoffing at the ridiculous nature of his thoughts, Rumford turned away from the French windows and sat down into the other two seater sofa, mirroring the one Jefferson inhabited.
Adjusting the flaps of his coat, Rumford raised his gaze to look at Jefferson, smiling knowingly across the expanse between them. He loved Jefferson as a brother, but right now, Jefferson was that annoying little, pesky brother, who you just wanted to smack around the back the head.
"What?" Rumford questioned.
"It's so rare to see you distracted." Jefferson commented, laying his hands to rest in his lap.
Furrowing his brow, Rumford opposed Jefferson's statement. "Hardly, more bored of the tedious wait, for the carriage to be repaired."
"I think you forget who you're talking to." His friend remarked. "You seldom get bored."
"And I think you don't know me as well as you presume." He argued, crossing his legs.
"Now you're just being argumentative, because you know, that I know, your mind's been wandering off to consider the very lovely and beautiful Lady French." Jefferson stated matter-of-factly.
"Don't be absurd!" He refuted the truth.
Jefferson rolled his eyes at him. "You're so obvious, it's painful to witness."
"I was just taking in the view of outside. The gardens are quite remarkable." Rumford defended himself, throwing a hand at the French doors to emphasise his point.
"Don't tell me, you've developed a fondness, for the doorway into the dining room?" Jefferson teased, crooking an eyebrow in interest.
Rumford glared at Jefferson. "It's quite impolite to watch people."
Shaking his head, Jefferson sat forward, propping his elbows onto his knees, as he said. "Look, we can sit here and argue about this all day, but I know you're interested. I saw it that first evening, when you first saw her."
"Jefferson," Rumford shook his head. "Leave it alone."
"I totally understand that you don't want to get married again." Jefferson threw his hands up, palms to Rumford. "Hell, I'm just as guilty."
Waving a flippant hand at Jefferson, Rumford snapped back. "Exactly! So don't preach to me!"
"I'm not preaching. I want to point out, that it's good, that you've met someone, you could possibly want to move on with." Jefferson's tone softened as he spoke, but only served to annoy Rumford further.
Abruptly, Rumford stood up and stomped to the French windows, telling Jefferson. "I'm not looking to move on, Jefferson. And I'm, especially, not looking for love!"
Jefferson got up, motioning with his left hand to the sofa, Rumford had been sat on. "Rumford, come and sit down."
"No!" Rumford shoved open the French doors, twisting to bark at Jefferson over his shoulder.
"You're just being stubborn!" Jefferson accused.
"I'm not being stubborn! I'm being realistic!" Rumford flared up, spinning round to face his friend. "You wouldn't understand!" He flung his hand, gesturing wildly. "You've always had people, who've loved you unconditionally! Me? I'm only ever thrown to the gutter, used and discarded. Nobody could ever love me, the way Priscilla loved you!"
Realising he had hit a nerve, Jefferson's shoulders slumped before he reached out to Rumford. "That's not true." He managed to hook his hand around Rumford's arm as he said. "Come on, come and sit down. We'll have a brandy or some of Lord French's whiskey."
"No!" He roared, losing all grasp on his control, snatching his arm out of Jefferson's hold, and whirled away from him, rushing through the open French doors.
"Rumford, wait…!" Jefferson called after him.
Twirling round, ready to unleash his anger on Jefferson, hating his friend dared to encourage his fanciful thoughts. Goaded him, to risk his heart and lay himself bare to her. To want a future with a woman, who was so innocent, she could hurt him without even realising. A woman, who was pure and didn't deserve to be tainted by his dark secret, forced to live in the shadow of his first wife, spoiling any chance of them having happiness.
Except the anger, resentment and insecurities were suddenly expelled from him. All the hurtful things he had wanted to say to Jefferson, truthful or not, were knocked out of him, along with any energy to fight. It had happened so fast, Rumford hadn't a clue of what had happened, till he looked up into her face. Lying flat on his back, his back sore from hitting the ground, his chest constricted by the weight on top of him, staring up into her blue eyes. Her hands were pinned between them, clutching to the lapels of his coat, her fists prominent against his chest. Loose strains of her hair dangled down, lightly caressing his face. Rumford took in a shuddering breath, becoming very aware of how perfectly their bodies aligned with one another, her weight a pleasurable burden.
"I'm so… I'm so sorry, my Lord." Lady French uttered in barely a whisper, her eyes darting to different points on his face.
He swallowed, finding his mouth dry from her closeness. "It's no bother."
"I hope I didn't hurt you." She said, her eyes full of concern.
"No… No, I don't think so." He muttered helplessly, delving deeper into the blue pools of her eyes.
"Let me help you up." Jefferson declared as he reached down, clasping Lady French by her upper arms, lifting some of her weight off of Rumford.
As she was raised off his chest, allowing him to breathe easier, Rumford realised his hands were tightly gripping her dress at her waist, anchoring the lower half of her body to his own. He quickly relinquished his grip, springing his hands from her, his eyes wide as he looked down at his hands, unable to believe he had held her between his own hands. The ghost of her body pressed against him, quickly dissipated, causing him to reach out helplessly, wanting to drag her back down. To anyone else, it would've looked like a futile attempt to help, but if he had gotten close to grabbing her, his intention would've been clear.
"Rumford," Jefferson offered his assistance, holding a hand out to his friend. "Are you alright?"
"Yep." He responded quickly, grabbing Jefferson's hand, and hauled himself up onto his feet, his gaze locked on Lady French, who too, was staring at him as she wiped down her dress.
"Really, my Lord, I am so sorry." Lady French apologised again.
He waved off her apologise. "It's quite alright."
"What had you in such a hurry?" Jefferson inquired, patting down the back of Rumford's coat.
"I was…" A rose blush slightly coloured her cheeks. "I was looking for Lord Gold, actually."
Rumford's eyebrows pushed up his brow as Jefferson slapped his hand on Rumford's shoulder, declaring. "Well, you found him!"
"Yes, literally." She let out a small nervous chuckle, while Rumford eyed Jefferson from the corner of his eye, not liking the smug look on his friend's face.
Jefferson squeezed at Rumford's shoulder, drawing Rumford's gaze to it, as he stated to them. "Seeing as Lady French was seeking you out." He gave Rumford a very pointed, knowing look. "I'm going to see if Mrs Lucas, would be gracious enough to make me a pot of tea."
"Oh, I'm sure, she'll be more than willing to do that for you, Mister Mandermer." Lady French smiled at him, oblivious to the look being shared by Rumford and Jefferson.
"Yes, I totally agree with you, my Lady." Jefferson turned his attention to her, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "But, don't you find, we should always keep ourselves open to other possibilities. Things we thought weren't possible or had accepted may never happen."
Her eyebrows fused together, crinkling a deep line in between her eyebrows. "How very… studious of you."
Rumford didn't miss the underlying message. "You better go then, and see Mrs Lucas, before a possible outcome hits you in the face."
"Not with a lady present." Jefferson uttered from the corner of his mouth.
"You never know what could happen, fate's tricky like that." Rumford whispered, with an underlying tone of menace.
"Lady French, I'll leave you in Lord Gold's company and hope to talk to you later." Jefferson bowed, smiling, and sauntered back through the French doors into the large sitting room.
Lady French moved closer to Rumford, while he shook his head at the retreating form of his friend. "Did I miss something?"
"Not at all." He told her, not wanting to discuss it with her. "Just Mister Mandermer, being his usual self."
"Right… Anyway," Her tone became overly cheerful. "I was wondering, if you'd like to take a spin around the garden and that… We may continue our conversation from yesterday?"
Turning his head to look at her, Rumford was shocked to find her so close to him, his gaze fleeted down to the small gap between them, then back up to her face. Her face was so open to him, allowing him to see her nervousness, trumped by her courage, a smidgen of hope hidden in the depths of her eyes. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he simply nodded his head to her, unable to trust the words out of his mouth. Scared, he would confess his heart and soul to her.