Page 38 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

Esther threaded her fingers through his. “Let us go to the kitchen then. I find myself a little hungry.” In truth, she needed nothing, but she easily guessed he would not submit unless he fulfilled a need for her. Esther reached for her candle, but he moved first, his whole body shifting closer to hers in order to take it up in his hand.

He paused mid-motion, his body twisted toward hers, his warm breath stirring the hair atop her head. She hadn’t bothered to put it up in papers, too tired to worry about her appearance, it was only in a braid that barely reached past her shoulders. She had cut it all off a few years ago, attempting to mimic a hairstyle she had seen on a fashion plate. Her hair wasn’t really curly enough, so she gave up and worked to grow her hair out as quickly as possible immediately after.

Why on earth was she worrying about her hair?

Silas cleared his throat and picked up the candle, then put a more comfortable distance between them. “I apologize for my lack of proper wardrobe,” he said, his voice thick in her ears.

“Nonsense. I am in my nightdress.” She tried to say it lightly, but the last syllable came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “There is no one about to see either of us, and we might excuse each other the impropriety given our situation.” Saying it so clearly, without stumbling over a single word, restored some of her confidence. “Come. The larder awaits us.” She dared a glance up at him, seeing the smallest twitch of his lips as encouragement.

Esther tugged at his hand, leading the way out the door and into the dark halls. Her bare feet made no sound on carpet or stone, but she sincerely regretted her lack of slippers when her skin made contact with the cold floor. Silas wore sensible footwear that clicked upon the hard surfaces, a soft sound magnified by the silence surrounding them.

Arriving in the kitchen, Esther released his hand and went in search of the lamp she knew the staff kept upon the table. Securing that, she returned to him to light it from the candle, then turned up the wick.

“There, that is better. Sit down and I will find us something to keep the wolves at bay.”

“Wolves?” he asked, perplexed.

“The growling sort that live in hungry bellies,” she said, taking the lamp into the pantry. She reached for a loaf of bread, then started when she turned to find Silas directly behind her. He held out his hand for the loaf, which she gave him with a gracious nod of her head. Then she handed him a block of cheese, a cured ham, and a tin of cake.

“Cook will not take kindly to you pilfering her stores,” Silas said, some lightness returned to his expression. “Isaac and I stole biscuits once, and jam. When she found out she made the pair of us put on aprons and cook a new tray of biscuits. I am not sure who suffered more during that punishment—the cook or us.”

She did not bother trying to hide her amusement. “Isaac tried to hoodwink our cook with the trick at home, too. But he enlisted my help. When we were caught, I cried and cried. I never did anything wrong, you see, that I didn’t feel terribly guilty about later. My tears saved us from severe punishment.”

Silas chuckled, then finally stepped back, allowing her to exit the small space as well. They laid their spoils upon the table. His voice altered from teasing to solemn. “I suppose tears will save us again. No one can be angry at us at present, can they?”

“No. Grief excuses many strange behaviors, I should think. Such as walking around without a coat and cravat, or in one’s nightclothes. Rest assured, it grants us pardons when we steal food from our own kitchen.” She pulled in a deep, steadying breath, feeling that heaviness in her chest that preceded tears. “I believe that is in part what our mourning period is for. It sets us apart from society and allows us to behave in a manner the more refined would not tolerate.”

“Esther.” He reached out and touched her cheek, startling her into meeting his eyes again. There was compassion and understanding there, a match to her feelings in every way. “What do you need from me?” His fingertips travelled from her cheek to her jaw, sliding to just beneath her chin. “You have but to name it.”

Her breath shuddered and she leaned slightly forward. No one had ever touched her like that, caressed her. It both soothed her and stirred a longing within she could not name.

“I need you to let me take care of you,” she said at last. “Please.” When she spoke, her voice hardly more than a whisper, his hand dropped and he took a step away. He lowered himself to a chair. “Very well. I suppose I could—” His stomach let out a fierce sort of groan and he stopped speaking, his face lifting as he whispered in surprise, “The wolves.”

She almost laughed, his over-comical expression something she hadn’t expected to see from him. “Exactly. Let us feed them.” She moved around the kitchen, not entirely sure where everything was but finding her way tolerably well. She located cups, cider, a knife and carving board. “Would you do the honor, my lord?” she asked, giving him the tools.

Silas sliced ham, cheese, and bread to put upon the plates she laid before him. She poured the cider and settled in the chair across from his, nibbling at the food. He started with small, polite bites, but it seemed as soon as the food hit his stomach he stopped caring about appearances. Silas consumed large mouthfuls of everything, washing down chunks of bread with cider, not saying a word as he chewed, swallowed, and then reached for more. Esther barely nibbled at her food, keeping her eyes on her husband’s progress through their impromptu supper.

The silence that settled between them was comfortable. Eventually she allowed her mind to wander, absently rubbing her feet against each other beneath the table. The fire in the kitchen hearth had been banked, so it radiated with some heat but not enough to warm a woman foolish enough to be without shoes or stockings. She adjusted her shawl more tightly about herself, looking down at the bright greens and blues in the cloth with some regret.

Everything of color must be put away. The usual mourning period for a sibling was six months, if one wanted to make a point of showing sisterly devotion. As she sincerely loved her brother, Esther could not imagine ending her mourning even a day before that time. She had worn mourning for her mother for eight months, then Diana insisted she put it off and go to school until she came out.

“Is there a reason for that rather bleak look upon your face?” Silas asked. “Besides the obvious.” He ducked his head slightly, looking up at her most contritely. “I am sorry. I spoke without thinking.”

“No, it is quite all right.” Esther reached out, laying a hand on his wrist where it rested on the table. She offered a smile she hoped was warm and understanding. “We mustn’t tiptoe around each other. Isaac and I tried that, when Mother passed away. It only led to more trouble, more heartache. Speak freely to me, please.” She squeezed his arm gently and allowed herself a melancholic sigh. “I was thinking of all the black crepe I will need.”

His shoulders tightened, then relaxed. “And here I already have black coats, boots, hats, and everything else in the appropriate color. Excepting cravats.” He leaned back in his chair, gently pulling his arm away from her. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe Isaac is gone, and we are sitting here, discussing it—” He released a bitter laugh. “I want to rail against it. Go to the Continent myself and demand answers.”

“I know. I cannot believe it either.” Esther allowed her posture to slump. “I want him here, with us, telling us what fools we are to be married in such a strange manner. I think he might find the situation humorous.”

“Isaac always did enjoy the ridiculous.” Silas ran his hands through his hair again, demonstrating how it had come to have such odd form. “But I think he would be pleased. His friend and his sister, that sounds like a good match, doesn’t it?” He met her eyes, and there was more to his question there. A different sort of weight rested upon her answer; she felt it.

What could she say? She had been so angry at herself, at him, for the situation in which they were forced together. But with Isaac gone, it seemed less important to be angry.

“I suppose it does.” She tilted her head to one side, studying the man she had married with curiosity. Did he regret their union? She wouldn’t blame him if he did.

If only she could help him see what they could be, how well they might get along. They might even develop a true affection for one another—but there her thoughts betrayed her. Loving him meant a greater risk to her heart if she lost him, as she had lost too many people.

What if he never cared for her any more than he did any of his responsibilities? If he continued issuing orders instead of giving her the measure of freedom she had longed for all her life? As no more than a servant to his wishes, losing her heart to him would pave the road before her with heartache and regret.