Page 3 of The Earl’s Gamble (The Lovers’ Arch: Later in Life)
3
Rose
“ W e’re almost there,” Griff told her. The car had been trundling along for the better part of an hour, long enough to leave the Old Smoke behind. Just the thought had her nerves on their tiptoes. Rose had never left London before. “We’re on the main road into the village now.”
For Griff, it was as easy as getting in his outrageously expensive car. Because he wasn’t just any old toff; the chauffeur had called him my lord .
Was it just a courtesy? Or was he an actual lord? It would have been impolite for her to ask, but that didn’t stop the questions from chasing each other around her mind.
Rose swallowed, her apprehension rising. “What is the village called?”
“Harpenden,” he responded, the edge of his lips curling into a somewhat self-deprecating smile. “Same as my title.” Oh fiddlesticks, he is titled. “It’s a splendid little village, if I do say so myself. We’ve got the Midland Railway connecting us to St Pancras, so it’s not a provincial backwater by any means.”
“Do you live in the centre of the village?”
Griff shook his head. His arm easily resting on the car door and his relaxed posture suggesting it was a journey he made often. “The outskirts. ”
“Have you lived in Harpenden long?” Rose’s palms burned with a relentless ache. Even the callouses she’d built up over long years as a seamstress hadn’t been enough to prepare her hands for the workhouse.
“All my life,” Griff responded. “I was born in Harpenden Manor, and I hope to never leave.”
A manor . She almost laughed. She was going from a workhouse to a manor. “Do you live there with your family?”
“My mother. Although she’s at a house party in Yorkshire at the moment, so I’ve a brief reprieve. Here we are, we’re just turning into the driveway now.”
Rose sat up straighter, eager to see their destination. Fields adjoined either side of the driveway, populated with fluffy white sheep, aimlessly chewing and meandering. A small castle loomed behind the fields, made up of four central turrets neatly topped with crenellations. “Is that Harpenden Manor?” she asked breathlessly.
In the driver’s seat, the chauffeur made an odd noise.
“No.” Griff’s voice was gentle. “That’s the folly.” Embarrassment burnt her cheeks to cinders, but Griff carried on. “If you follow that treeline over there, in a moment you’ll be able to see the manor.”
The folly. Good grief, she was never going to live that one down.
True to his word, a few moments later the trees cleared, and the sprawling grandeur of Harpenden Manor came into view. The sunset threw soft golden light on its many chimneys, gathering around one central spire launching itself into the skies. White mullioned windows contrasted against the dark stone, with ivy winding itself around the building’s face, seamlessly blending it into the lush countryside below.
“That’s definitely not a folly,” she whispered, giving him a shy smile. She wasn’t so proud she couldn’t poke fun at herself.
Griff’s laugh was warm. “No,” he agreed. “Not quite. ”
The car rolled to a stop beside a set of wide stone steps leading up to the front door, an arched behemoth that opened at the same moment. A short, thin man strode out, meeting the evening breeze with a dignified expression. His neat suit marked him as a member of staff, but his greyed hair and matching moustache told her he was most likely the butler.
Griff left the landaulette first, coming round to open her door before she could figure out how. He held out his hand. “Allow me.”
There was no avoiding it. Rose gave him her hand, hoping to swallow the pain away and act naturally—but her vision went white with agony as she lifted herself out of the car, her palm tearing beneath her touch. Exhaling through the pain, she managed to keep any sign of it from her expression—something the workhouse had taught her well.
“Miss Finch, this is my butler, Walker. Walker, this is Miss Finch. She’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future.”
Rose nodded politely, pressing her palm into her handkerchief to mop up the blood. “It’s lovely to meet you, Walker.” Or should she have called him Mr Walker? Only those of a certain class could drop the mister , and nobody was going to mistake her for a lady.
Walker’s clenched-jawed nod told her she absolutely shouldn’t have dropped the mister . Grumpy old sod. His eyes travelled down her person to linger on the frayed hem of her dress. “Shall I have a room made for Miss Finch in the servants’ quarters, my lord?”
“Miss Finch is here as my guest , Walker,” Griff answered sharply.
Walker pulled back. “I apologise, my lord,” he said, without a trace of it in his expression. “Miss Finch. Perhaps the Admiral’s Room would suit? Or the Rose Room?”
Griff shared a private smile with her. “I think the Rose Room would suit just fine. But some clothes would be appreciated. A hot dinner too, I think. A little bit of everything. Would you take this into my study whilst I get Miss Finch settled?” He handed over the unopened cognac bottle.
“Of course, my lord.”
Griff guided her towards the wide stone steps, but she hadn’t touched them before he stopped in his tracks. “You’re bleeding,” he declared, turning her trembling hand over and sucking in a hissed breath. Her handkerchief was stained red with blood, freely dripping onto the driveway in dark droplets. He swore beneath his breath. “And get Mrs Mercer to send up some medical supplies, please. As soon as you can.”
“My lord,” Walker nodded, quickly disappearing back into the castle.
“I’m sure my hand will be fine after an oatmeal bath.” Rose moved her cane to her less injured palm and clumsily attempted to scale the first step. “And there are only two more steps.”
“You must know there are a great deal more steps inside.” Griff’s voice was almost apologetic.
A large, warm hand landed between her shoulder blades, a faint tremor running through her at his touch. A man’s touch. “Rose…” he whispered, their eyes locking together in a moment of shared understanding. You don’t have to do this alone , his gaze said.
“I may need some assistance,” she finally admitted, feeling blood trickling down to her fingers.
Griff exhaled his relief, his kind eyes lingering on hers before he moved. Goodness, he was a handsome man. “May I carry you?”
She nodded, tensing slightly as he bent to slot one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. A little squeak of unease escaped her when she left the ground, but her discomfort wilted as Griff pulled her against his burly frame with frightening ease.
His touch was so…secure, so capable, so manly .
She was beginning to regret letting him assist her, but then how could she know how her body would react?
“Did you know,” he began, scaling the steps into the house, “near the end of the war your brother had to do this for me?”
“He did?” Harpenden Manor’s entrance hall unfolded before them, a veritable bastion of one family’s wealth through the centuries. As they moved across the smooth stone floors, she noticed a line of shields on the walls, each with a different emblem. What do those represent?
Regardless of the answer, Rose preferred to look at the shields more than the fancy portraits on the walls. The judgemental eyes of their occupants followed them, and she had a queer feeling that they knew she didn’t belong—and a sudden urge to stare back and tell them to sod off.
Ahead, tall marble pillars framed a truly enormous staircase, one she could have never hoped to climb by herself.
“He did. We were in Armentières, on the Belgian border. Our plan was to attack, to drive back the Germans and gain land. As it happened, though, the Germans had another idea. One night, they started shelling the town. Thousands of shells rained down on us from above, releasing mustard gas in every direction.”
Emotion clogged her throat, enough to dim the throbbing pain in her hand. “I remember he wrote to me about that.”
Griff gave her a wry, handsome smirk, the smile lines bracketing his mouth deepening. Her eyes rested on his lips, and for an insane moment, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
Unaware of where her mind had gone, he began the staircase’s long ascent, a journey he had no doubt made thousands of times. “Unfortunately, I was in the hospital tent with a broken ankle and a raging fever. Archie took one look at me and said, ‘Not to worry, old boy.’ Next thing I know, he hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes with my rear in the air for all to see.”
She bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back a smile. “He…he did not include that detail.”
“Well, I’m glad he spared my dignity there.” Griff’s snort broke her restraint, and a wide grin spread across her face. “We all need help from time to time, Miss Finch. There’s no shame in it.”
As he reached the top of the stairs, his arms tightened around her ever so slightly, as though he was expecting her to insist she be put down.
But, strangely enough, she didn’t want to be put down. Even Cecil had never carried her like this.
Griff’s long, capable strides made short work of the pale marigold runner lining the corridor. They soon arrived outside a door, a wooden nameplate labelled it the Rose Room in an elegant, calligraphic script.
As he opened the door, Rose forgot to be polite. Her lips slowly parted as she glanced around at the unrivalled luxury on display. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the room, crowned with a rich floral canopy. The same pattern could be seen on the heavy curtains and the lavish settee.
Matching upholstery , she thought, gobsmacked. Before the workhouse, all she’d asked of her upholstery was that it would hold her weight.
She tucked her hands securely in her lap as Griff gently laid her on the settee, close enough to observe the rose patterning on the fabric. She immediately missed the secure hold he’d had on her, but her longing was overshadowed by a desire not to bleed all over his cushions.
They’d have to re-upholster the whole room; it would be a nightmare.
A large marble fireplace was to her left, its mantlepiece adorned by a collection of expensive-looking trinkets. “Am…am I staying in here tonight?” she whispered, half expecting a servant to rush in and sequester them all out of reach of the beggar on their doorstep.
“If it’s to your liking.” Griff nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the door. “I can always move you somewhere else.”
She shook her head. “Oh heavens, no. It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. If you show me anything more luxurious then I’m likely to keel over in shock.”
His laugh was smooth, flowing through the air like warm honey. “Well, we can’t be having that now, can we, Miss Finch?”
“Call me Rose,” she whispered, her gaze briefly dropping to his lips. Stop it, she scolded herself.
There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the very hint of a smile. “It’s an honour to meet you, Rose.”
She tried to hide the shiver of pleasure that reverberated along her spine. Why was it so very pleasing to hear him say her name? “In truth, I haven’t been Miss Finch for almost 17 years.” She was rather enjoying hearing it again. It made her feel like a maid of 20 instead of a widow of 36.
Griff’s head snapped up. “You’re married?”
Had Archie never mentioned that? “I was. My husband, Cecil, passed away just before the start of the war.”
“I’m so sorry.” A knock on the door tugged his attention away. “Come in.”
The door opened to reveal a young woman in a smart black dress, carrying a tray of fabric, an empty bowl, and a first-aid kit. “Good evening, my lord. Walker asked me to bring this up to you, and Cook’s about to send up dinner.”
“To the breakfast room, ideally.” Griff took the tray from her and placed it on the settee next to Rose. “I’ll assist Miss Finch, but can you bring up some clean clothes, Mrs Mercer? ”
The housekeeper’s smile lines deepened. “It was next on my list, my lord.”
As Griff began to fill the bowl with water from the en-suite, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he needed any assistance. On second thought, though, she realised he probably didn’t want the bedroom painted red. It was a pretty coral colour at present, and it would be a shame to cover that up.
Griff placed the steaming bowl on the table beside them, alongside a collection of soft, fluffy towels and flannels. “Give me your hand,” he said.
She obeyed, watching him delicately dab the blood from her hands with a damp flannel. “Shouldn’t a maid be doing this?” Did a lord really concern himself with injuries?
“Before the war, I would have said yes—for your sake rather than mine.” The water in the bowl turned red as he worked, the blood quickly disappearing from her hand to reveal the cracked mess beneath. Griff hissed in sympathy when it was revealed, and she couldn’t blame him. It was a hideous jumble of skin and raw flesh. “What happened? I thought it was just one hand that was injured, but they’re both red raw.”
“For the last two weeks, my assigned work has been picking oakum.”
Griff’s head snapped up with understanding, just as she wondered whether he’d know what that was. Apparently, the answer was yes. “But that shreds your hands to pieces.”
Rose gave a soft huff. She knew that all too well. “That’s the point.”
“But… why?! ”
“Because I wanted day leave to go and visit the Lovers’ Garden for Archie’s birthday. I had to earn it.”
Stark disgust rippled across his face, and he shook his head. “That’s barbarous.” He gently dried her hands, pressing the towels against them gently. “Have you had iodine applied to your skin before? ”
She shook her head. The workhouse made them take oatmeal baths on occasion, but they mattered too little to waste fancy tinctures and treatments on. Before that, she’d been too poor to afford them.
“It will sting, I’m afraid.”
She winced her way through it, focusing on his touch on the back of her palms rather than the liquid flames being dabbed on the front. All too soon, he was wrapping clean bandages around her hands—just as a knock sounded on the door once again.
Mrs Mercer entered, tucking a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Dinner is about to be served in the family breakfast room, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mrs Mercer.” He lowered his voice. “It’s just across the hall, Rose—or would you prefer to eat in here on a tray?”
Rose smiled at him, getting to her feet a tad unsteadily. “If there’s no stairs, I should be able to manage.”
Griff offered her a gentlemanly arm. “It’s this way.”
There weren’t any stairs, but something stopped her in her tracks nonetheless.
Her stomach gave a sharp growl of hunger as she surveyed the breakfast table laid out before her. Griff tucked her chair in, whilst Rose tried to pretend that any of this was normal—that she could understand the overwhelming excess of the dishes. “This…this is quite a selection.”
She’d been expecting stale bread and hard cheese, if she was lucky. Instead, her stomach clenched at the scent of spices and herbs she couldn’t even name. The heady smell of butter warmed to perfection was identifiable, and Rose wanted to dissolve into it.
Food. Real food. Since entering the workhouse, Rose had eaten nothing but gruel and thin, watery soup. Once in a while, she’d find a chunk of soft, grey meat of questionable origin in her soup, and that was a treat. The last time she’d eaten a proper meal had been before she entered the workhouse, but she’d never eaten food this fine in her life. To go from one extreme to the other almost made her dizzy.
The food wasn’t even this fine in her dreams . A lump formed in her throat, but she managed to swallow it down.
Griff smiled kindly, taking the seat beside her at the head of the table. He was at ease here—but then of course he was; he was born into it. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a little bit of everything. We’ve got lobster Vol-au-Vents, tomato and basil Panna Cotta.” He tapped the side of each dish as he went. “Quiche Lorraine, black truffle bruschetta, goat’s cheese mousse with crostini, pheasant pate with cranberry jelly, gougère, crab and avocado mousse, and blue cheese and walnut tartlets.”
I know some of those words.
Rose blinked, her gaze jumping from plate to plate in disbelief. Fluffy, buttery pastries, succulent lobster, tangy cheese, and smoked bacon, citrus bursts, and the earthy scent of something she couldn’t name. “How was this all made up so quickly? Is your kitchen staffed by fairies?”
And if so, did he have any to spare?
Griff barked out a laugh. “Cook makes a lot of things ahead of time,” he admitted, his elbow brushing up against hers. “Especially my favourites, like the gougère and blue cheese and walnut tartlets. She stores them in the refrigerators.”
“You have more than one?”
He gave her a gentle nod. “These would have all come from the savoury refrigerator, and everything on the side over there from the sweet refrigerator.”
Very fancy. Rose looked where he was pointing and found a sideboard full of dishes covered over with silver tops. “There’s more?” she asked, her eyebrows in danger of disappearing into her hairline .
Griff’s devilish grin had her heart beating faster. “Well, we have to save the best for last, don’t we?”
She nodded, wondering how the food could get any better than this .
“To start with, though,” he said softly, picking up a set of tongs, “I’d recommend my favourites, of course, but does anything else take your fancy?”
Their eyes locked, and for one frightful moment, Rose wondered if he could hear her thoughts. You, they whispered. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. Stop lusting after the handsome captain. “I’d like to try anything you’d recommend,” she replied, her smile delicate.
Griff took that as his cue to move a bit of everything to her plate, serving her as though their stations were reversed. Only when her plate was full to the brim did he start moving food to his own, answering her queries.
“I can taste something… earthy in this,” she said, frowning at the toasted piece of bread. A healthy slathering of something was spread on top. “It’s lovely, but what am I tasting?”
“The truffle,” he answered her.
She remembered the name of the next thing on her plate—goat’s cheese mousse with some kind of fancy bread. The first bite told her that this would certainly be one of her favourites, creamy richness exploding across her tongue. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she declared, entirely forgetting how awkward it was to eat with bandaged palms.
A pleased smirk tipped up Griff’s mouth, but then he did a double take, his dark gaze firmly planted on her lips. “You may have missed a bit of cream.”
She roughly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, dipping her head in embarrassment. “I do beg your pardon.”
“It may have eluded you again,” he said, holding up a napkin of his own. “It’s quite a wily smear, I must admit. May I?”
Rose held still as he leant over to assist her, her field of vision narrowed to his face. He gently brushed the luxurious fabric across her lips, his touch far gentler than hers had been.
“There,” he whispered, placing it back on the table. His dark gaze was fixed onto hers, until, inch by inch, it descended to land upon her mouth.
Griff’s retreated, his gaze dipping farther still, until it landed on her bandages. Something threaded into his expression as he glanced at her hands. Was it anger? “I’m sorry, Rose,” he murmured, his voice like crushed velvet.
She was used to it by now. Picking oakum was the matron’s favourite punishment. “About?”
“Your situation. If I’d have known, I would have come to fetch you from the workhouse on day one.”
A feeling warmed her from within—affection for her brother. “Archie always said you were a kind man.”
“I don’t know about kind. My timing could certainly use a bit of work.” Griff leant back, his jaw ticking up in a lopsided smile. His enticing, masculine scent washed over her as he reached over to pile more mousse on her plate.
She accepted it gratefully. In the back of her mind, though, she couldn’t help but compare the two.
Between goat’s cheese mousse and the captain giving it to her, Rose knew which one she wanted more.