The Cheer in Charming an Earl(8)
“Here?” she asked timidly. At Chelford? Please, let that part of her scheme be unspoiled.
“Until the snow lets up, yes. Though I must warn you, my hospitality will be stretched thin, what with my kitchens in disarray. I hope you like soup?” He smiled wanly.
She nodded emphatically. “I adore it.”
De Winter’s eyes narrowed and she wiped the overt eagerness from her face. Grantham didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Your meals will be brought to your bedside, as well as anything additional you require. Simply say the word and it will be delivered to you.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, my lord. I am perfectly able to leave my room—”
“Don’t,” both men said at the same time. They traded a look that made her feel like an imposition that must be managed. But she couldn’t be, not when Grantham had spoken so whimsically of her before.
“You’ll remain here,” he said, looking back to her. “If you find it impossible to stretch your legs in this little room, then you may traipse the corridor. No farther.”
She blinked. That hadn’t been said whimsically at all. And she couldn’t leave her bedchamber? That was a terrible blow to her strategy.
“I’m well enough to go down to dinner, though, don’t you think?” she tried. “I feel quite the thing, now that I’ve got my bearings. And it is Christmas Eve.” She couldn’t waste a moment in her room. If she couldn’t see Grantham, then he couldn’t fall in love with her. How many days before her absence from Aunt Mildred’s was discovered?
Grantham swallowed so thickly, he grimaced. “I simply cannot permit it, though you do have my sympathies. Perhaps we should all say a prayer of thanks that you and your driver were not killed, and assume He did not intend for you to miss Christmas permanently. There will be others.”
As Grantham’s words sank in, Elinor stared at the white cotton sheet swaddling her legs. Permanently. She’d never dreamed a broken carriage wheel could result in anything but an incapacitated vehicle. Had they really almost been killed?
“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “I am glad we are here at all.”
“Good.” The gruffly uttered word caused her to look sideways at him. He was as pale as the sheets drawn up around her. “I’ll return shortly, Miss Conley. Do try to get some rest.”
As he and Mr. de Winter turned to leave, she felt Lord Chelford pull away from her, and her belly tightened. Withdrawing was precisely the opposite of what she desired from him.
He’d seemed so warm at first. What had gone wrong?
Chapter Three
GRANTHAM RETURNED to the drawing room. His guests had resumed their bacchanalia, and now that he’d had a breath of fresh air, the stench of liquor and smoke wafting through the room almost overpowered him. He paused just inside the door. The thought of entering the hazy chamber physically repulsed him.
De Winter stopped at his back. “They don’t bite,” he murmured low enough for only Grantham to hear.
“Mariah does.” Grantham clapped his hands together to draw the attention of his guests. “My dear friends,” he said loudly, “while I do realize retiring to Chelford has become our annual tradition, and you were each hoping to stay for the Twelve Days of Christmas, it is with heartfelt regret that I must withdraw my invitation. As soon as the storm passes, you must leave.” He might have delivered that last with a bit more relish than necessary.
“I say,” protested Lord Scotherby, “my wife won’t have me back now. I’ll have to adjourn to my hunting box until the Season starts.”
“Agreed!” Mr. Tewseybury chimed. “This is very badly done of you, Chelford. I haven’t let my rooms in Town yet. I have nowhere to go.”
Lord Steepleton crossed his arms and turned his narrow nose into the air. “How disagreeable of you, Chelford. Surely your servants can manage to cook over an open fire.”
Mariah Fawcett, Becky Bennett, and three of their lightskirt friends whom Grantham didn’t know by name offered him similar looks of annoyance. “Where will we go?” the blonde who’d been fondling him half an hour ago asked. Her lips pouted prettily.
“Anywhere we like. We were paid at the start.” Mariah sat back against the couch as if entrenching herself. “I, for one, won’t return a shilling.”
Scotherby gave her a bored once-over. “Enjoy your little mutiny, Mariah, but don’t think I intend to leave without you. I’ve never been one to give up perfectly good coin for no reason.”
She didn’t look as pleased by his reproof as she had at the thought of keeping money she hadn’t earned. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Scotherby had been her protector for years, and she knew better than to argue with the man who kept her in splendor.