Page 100 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Chapter 9

“Wherein a wedding night to remember.”

The snow stopped falling and the sun rose higher while the horse trudged up the rise to Netherfield and they made their way to the seaside town of Hastings. Netherfield was a nothing much sort of village which straggled for a mile or more with no real centre, no church or anything to focus its inhabitants into a coherent community. It was on a high spot of land, though, and the view across the woods and the patchwork of fields below was stunning as the morning light glittered upon the sparkling scene beneath.

“How beautiful it is,” Grace said, tucking her hand into Ned’s arm.

“Aye,” he said, and she turned her head to discover his gaze on her, not the view. “Most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

She rewarded him with a kiss and laid her head on his shoulder.

Farther on they came to the village of Battle, with its great abbey. It was an attractive village, more so nestling in the brilliant white quilt that settled peacefully about them. Grace had visited the abbey once as a child, when her mother was still alive. On this quiet, snow-covered morning it seemed nothing bad could happen in such a place and she reflected then how strange it was that the village was named for one of the bloodiest battles the country had ever seen, and famous as the provider of the finest gunpowder in the country, possibly in Europe. Its production had provided powder for battles all over the world, from Blenheim, Quebec and India, to Nelson’s Trafalgar and the Battle of Waterloo.

“Are ye frozen, Gracie?” Ned asked, tucking his arm about her. “We could stop at an inn and warm ye up a bit?

Grace leaned into him and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I want to get to Hastings.” She held his gaze, surprised when the blush didn’t come as he stared at her, his eyes darkening.

“Eager for yer wedding night, are ye?”

His voice was low and a little hoarse and Grace did feel a rise of colour then, but did not look away.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Ned glanced about to see if they were being observed before leaning down and kissing her hard.

“Get on,” he said to the horse, urging it into a trot and snapping the reins.

Grace laughed and Ned turned to grin sheepishly at her.

The Stag, on All Saints Street in Hastings, was a handsome building, though a much more ancient timber body hid behind the elegant facade which had been added in the last century. It towered over the narrow street before it, raised up on a higher level as though it thought itself above the rest of the town with its fine new appearance.

Hastings had become a fashionable seaside resort in the past twenty years or more and, in the summer, the great and the good came for the sea bathing and the fine air, and to see and be seen. Now, in the dead of winter, the crowds vanished and it reverted to the simple fishing village it had once been. The Stag was bustling, however, the inclement weather a good inducement to stop and get a drink or a bite to eat by a warm fire.

Ned thought he might burst with pride as he guided Grace inside. They’d stopped at the dressmaker to order a deal of new things for his wife and, to his relief, the woman had a gown she altered on the spot for Grace to wear at once. It had been ordered for a lady who had never come to collect it, and was last year’s style—which Ned had frowned about—but Grace only rolled her eyes and said it was perfect.

Last year’s style or no, Grace looked every inch the lady she was. The dress was a bright blue, with a darker blue pelisse of heavy velvet trimmed with silk. A bonnet with a velvet bow and ostrich feathers dyed the same colour as the pelisse completed the ensemble. To Ned’s eye she looked like a duchess, and something had shifted in his chest as she’d taken his arm, smiling up at him as they left the shop. It had felt as if the ground had lurched beneath his feet and settled again, but her presence had reshaped the world; it was brighter and warmer and would never be the same.

Now, he felt like the proudest man who ever lived as heads turned and people stared at the fine lady on his arm when they entered the inn.

“I’d like one of your best rooms for the night, for myself and my wife,” he said, a thrill of pleasure rolling through him at the right to call her his own. “Also, the lady requires a hot bath, and we want a private parlour for dinner as soon as is possible.”

“Certainly, sir,” said the inn keeper, beaming at them. “If you would like to come this way.”

They followed the man until a hand reached out and grasped Ned’s arm.

“Hardy? That you?”

Ned turned to see a tall, thin man with an improbable violet waistcoat. Mr George Howarth fancied himself a man of fashion and at this moment his curious gaze was fixed on Ned. They widened so far Ned worried they might pop from his head as the man discovered Grace on Ned’s arm.

“Mr Howarth,” Ned replied, taking the man’s hand and hiding his dismay at being recognised.

Howarth was minor gentry who played at farming, and a silly fellow who didn’t know one end of a sheep from the other. He was not a bad chap, however, and Ned liked him well enough. At least he wasn’t a snob, and would chat amiably enough to Ned when their paths crossed. He was a tattle monger, though, with tongue enough for two sets of teeth, and the story of Ned’s marriage to a fine lady would spread like wildfire. Not that it wouldn’t have done so, soon enough, but Ned had hoped they might keep it quiet for a few days.

“And may I demand an introduction to the vision beside you, Mr Hardy?” Howarth asked, and Ned realised he must get used to the avaricious look of interest glinting in the fellow’s eyes. There would be many like him.

“Aye, ye may,” Ned replied. “This is my wife. Grace, this is Mr Howarth. He owns Crockett’s Farm, about five miles south of our own.”

“Wife?” Howarth exclaimed, his surprise palpable. “When did that happen?”