The Rightful Lord (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 3) by Sahara Kelly (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Gwyneth nodded. “Yes. I heard that Mrs Fields was having a bit of trouble with her lungs. She’s Mrs B’s sister-in-law, I think.”

“A large family, I take it?” Harry’s brows lifted in question.

“Oh yes,” smiled Gwyneth. “They’ve been at Wolfbridge for generations and could probably run the whole place as well as anyone else.”

“Mrs B could, that’s for certain,” remarked Gabriel. A general laugh greeted his observation, along with nods of agreement.

Royce rose. “Well, I’m for bed. Tomorrow looks to be a busy one, what with play lists, and a Fivetrees visit.”

“My Lady, you’ll come to Fivetrees?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And…Gabriel?” He turned to Evan and Jeremy. “Can you spare him? He has a good eye for details.”

Gabriel grinned proudly as the other two men nodded.

“Excellent.” Royce crossed the room. “Then I shall bid you goodnight.”

He left the light and warmth of the parlour to seek solace in his own chamber. It had become his sanctuary, a large room in one corner of the building. The windows were thus on two walls and the sun shone freely across his modest bed. No massive carvings for him, but a comfortable mattress over which he could sprawl if he wanted to. The serviceable bureau matched, and he even had a separate room for bathing and personal needs.

It was ideal for him, an ex-soldier with few belongings.

It would not have served the man he was supposed to be, of course. Viscounts weren’t usually expected to sleep in the second-best bedroom.

He sighed as he drew the curtains back to see fat flakes of snow drifting around outside his window. Praying it wouldn’t amount to much, he undressed, shivered, and slipped naked beneath the quilts, drawing them up to his chin and waiting for his body heat to warm them.

One remaining candle burned low, its light flickering softly against his eyelids.

What would the others say if they knew he was a titled aristocrat? How would they react if they knew his military history? If they should find out his disgrace…

Sleep eluded him, though. His attempts to think calm thoughts were overridden as the well-remembered sounds of cannon fire slid into his brain.

The thuds shaking the ground, the smoke, the stench—some from the bodies littering the ground around him. And over it all, that unspeakable fool of a commander, ordering what was left of his division to rush the guns. It was suicide, certain death for them all, and a pointless manoeuvre.

Pulling the quilt up around his ears, he tried to block out the memory, but as always, it haunted him, crystal clear in his imagination. The moment his protests had been ignored, the moment when what was left of his military square had been ordered to march forward into that fatal cannon fire.

The moment he shouldered his rifle and took matters into his own hands.

The sound of the shot that took his colonel’s life, but saved two dozen of his men and countless others.

Once again he relived the moment that had changed his world, but once again he found he could not regret it. He probably never would, even though it had cost him dearly. Whispers had followed him from the battlefield back to England, whispers with enough truth in them to hint at a terrible disgrace. He knew he had to renounce his title and all but disappear. He’d met Giles some years later, and now here he was, at Wolfbridge, living what was becoming the best life he could imagine.

Did he regret the Earldom? Not at all. Could he return to the title if he wanted to? Yes, he was certain he could. A long enough time had elapsed now, and the war was no longer of any interest to Society. But why bother? There was no property to it, just status; the silly idea that a title meant he was a better man than the one he stood next to.

Which was completely wrong.

He shuddered and turned over, wrapping the quilts firmly around his ears, and shifting his mind deliberately to Gwyneth. Probably not the most sensible thing to do, but the chilly bed guaranteed that his consequent arousal would be short-lived.

She enchanted him, he realised. Not just because of her appearance, which he found most appealing, but because of her sharp mind, equally sharp wit, along with her determination to be as in control of her life, and Wolfbridge, as she could.

The business of the play was quite ingenious. The fact that it was all designed for the benefit of her tenants was…well, little short of impressive. She was indeed a true Lady of Wolfbridge, right down to her toes.

And then there was the rest of her body. And her eyes. And her lips…

Chapter Thirteen

The following morning dawned bright and chilly, the rising sun illuminating a magical landscape—white with snow.

Fortunately, there had been a light dusting rather than a heavy fall, so Gwyneth, Royce and Gabriel were able to tuck themselves up into the gig and travel to Fivetrees without much difficulty. Other than being quite squashed together.

With Royce driving, Gwyneth had to sit on Gabriel’s lap, and after he’d muffled them both in thick blankets, he gave her a big hug. “Warm enough?”

She nodded. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

The two men laughed aloud at her quaint phrase, and the journey to Fivetrees was accomplished with all parties in good humour.

In spite of her deep dislike of winter, incurred by her miserable experiences at Kilham Abbey, Gwyneth could not help but admire the way the sunlight glittered so brightly off the trees and fields.

As they passed, there would be a shimmer of fine flakes drifting from branches stirring in the light breeze, and as the sun grew warmer, the occasional large mound of snow fell with a plop to the