Lance for help...
He forced the memory away, although the bitter sting of it remained. He didn’t want to think about Arthur, but he was going to honour his family’s promise anyway. He wouldn’t have chosen to shackle himself to Miss Harper either, not by a long chalk, but he was going to go ahead with the marriage, for all the same cynical reasons as his father, and simply because his father had wanted it. At long last, he was going to be the son his father had wanted him to be, with one notable difference. He wasn’t going to simply exist on the money and do nothing. He was going to restore the family fortunes, no matter what anyone might think of an Amberton going into business.
He’d already made a start with his new mining venture, but with the Harper fortune he could achieve even more, could build a blast furnace to go with the new tunnels that had already been dug so that his iron wouldn’t have to be transported for smelting. He could start his own works on the site, provide employment for people in the estate villages, as well as schools, new houses and maybe even a hospital, too. He could revitalise the whole Amberton estate and Violet Harper could pay for it. There was a kind of poetic justice to the idea. Since the rift with his father had been largely her fault, it seemed only appropriate that she ought to pay.
They rode into the courtyard and he felt an intense sense of relief. What had started as a mild blizzard was rapidly turning into a full-blown snowstorm and he felt as if the cold had seeped into his very bones, making them freeze from the inside out.
‘Bring her in.’
He addressed the words to Martin as he dismounted and limped towards the front door without so much as a backward glance. Even if he had wanted to help her, which in his present state of mind he didn’t, his leg was causing him far too much pain to do anything about it. What he wanted—no, what he needed—was a drink and the stronger the better.
He barged through the front door and headed straight for the drawing room, snatching up a decanter of brandy and gulping straight from the bottle, revelling in the warmth of the liquid as it scoured the back of his throat.
‘Captain Amberton?’
He lowered the bottle again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve at the sound of his housekeeper’s prim voice at his shoulder. Clearly his trials with the opposite sex weren’t yet over with today and Mrs Gargrave was a perpetual trial. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his father had trained her specifically to annoy him. Her strait-laced and perpetually disapproving manner were eerily reminiscent of the old man, not to mention her habit of creeping up silently behind him.
‘Yes?’ He didn’t bother to hide his bad temper.
‘I came to offer my congratulations on your nuptials, sir. Cook has prepared a celebratory luncheon if you’d like to adjourn to the dining room?’
‘No.’ He took another swig from the bottle. ‘She’s not my wife and she can damned well starve for all I care.’
‘Captain!’ The housekeeper’s stiff posture turned more rigid than a guardsman’s. ‘I’ve asked you to moderate your language before.’
‘So you have and, as usual, I apologise. But as I just mentioned, she’s not my wife.’
‘Then might I enquire what the young lady is doing here? If you’re not married, then it’s highly improper for her to be visiting on her own.’
‘She’s not visiting either. She’s moving in early.’
‘But she doesn’t have a chaperon. It’s not seemly.’
‘I can’t see what difference it makes if I intend to marry her anyway.’
‘People will talk.’
‘People already talk. I wouldn’t have thought there was much more they could say.’
‘I won’t be party to any licentiousness. I thought I made that clear when you came home and I agreed to carry on with my duties.’
Lance took another swig of brandy deliberately to provoke her. Mrs Gargrave’s habit of implying that he’d begged her to stay was yet another irritation in his life. Frankly he would have been happy to see the back of her, but she’d been there for so long that he doubted she had anywhere else to go. He’d never heard her mention any family and his conscience had prevented him from simply dismissing her. That and the fact that she was an excellent housekeeper—when she wasn’t lecturing him, that was.
‘You made it crystal-clear, Mrs Gargrave. At great length, too, as I recall, though I don’t believe I’ve given you any cause for complaint.’
‘Until now.’
‘The worst thing I’ve done so far is threaten not to give her luncheon. I haven’t exactly ravished her on the hall table.’ He flashed a sardonic smile. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘Captain!’
‘But since you object so strenuously, you have my permission to drive her back to Whitby in the snow yourself if you wish. You’ll probably freeze to death, but at least your virtues will be intact.’ His smile widened insincerely. ‘Just be sure to hurry before the roads become completely impassable.’
The housekeeper made an indignant sucking sound, pursing her lips so tightly they looked in danger of turning blue. ‘I suppose, under the circumstances... In that case I’ll take her up to the blue room.’
‘Damned if you will!’
‘Captain Amberton!’
This time he didn’t apologise. This time he raised the bottle to his lips and drained what was left of the liquid in one long draught. The blue room had been his mother’s chamber, adjacent to the master bedroom that had belonged to his father, though he hadn’t summoned the nerve to enter either since his return. He’d avoided the family quarters altogether, to Mrs Gargrave’s frequently expressed disapproval, selecting one of the guest chambers to sleep in instead. He’d intended for his wife to share that, for a while at least, but since they weren’t yet officially married, he supposed for propriety’s sake he ought to make alternative arrangements. After what had happened that morning, however, his mother’s chamber was the very last room she could use.
But he knew exactly which one she could.
‘Captain?’
Mrs Gargrave gaped open-mouthed as he stormed past her and back out to the hallway. His mother had designed the entrance to resemble a medieval great hall, with wooden beams across a high ceiling, oak floorboards and a matching oak table in the centre, a selection of antlers and coats-of-arms around the walls, and a perpetually crackling fireplace, in front of which Miss Harper now stood warming her hands.
She’d removed his greatcoat, he noticed, though not that ridiculously flimsy cloak. She hadn’t even pulled the hood back from her head. Was she ever going to take the damned thing off? He’d barely caught a glimpse of her face and what he had seen had been cast deep in shadow, as if she were trying to hide from him on top of everything else. The thought, aggravated by brandy, made him suddenly furious.
‘Come with me.’ He seized her hand as he limped past.
‘Where?’ She almost tripped over her skirts as she spun after him. ‘Your housekeeper said...’
‘My housekeeper had no business saying anything.’
He tightened his grip on her fingers as he mounted the staircase. There was no carpet here either, so that the hard tread of his footsteps echoed loudly around the cavernous hallway. Generally, he preferred to climb stairs on his own, or at least without an audience, but he was too angry now to care what she thought of him or his leg. If she was offended by his infirmity, then the sooner she got used to it, the better.
‘Where are we going?’
She tugged against him as they reached the half landing, but he held tight, hauling her up the right-hand branch of the staircase and down a wood-panelled corridor.
‘You can’t hold me