Bound by Honor

Chapter 20

Petre nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “We’ve been trying to raise a

temporary scaffold to support the rest of the ceiling in the dining room.

There’s some heavy timber there to be put in place.”

Percy took off his hat and placed it on the newel post, then draped his

coat over the rail.

“Very well,” he said.

His muscles, after a week of similar exercises, protested at the very

thought of lifting any timber at all. He rubbed his shoulder and followed

Petre. No one had a stronger obligation to join in rescuing the tattered

remnants of the former splendor of the Hanburys than he.

It had been a hellish week for him, getting up at dawn and returning home

after dark. Wycombe Oaks had swallowed him whole. The estate was

ruined. It would take years to bring it back to an acceptable functionality.

Most fields were fallow, the outbuildings beyond repair and the books not

kept with any regularity or, he would wager, adherence to truth. The

accounts were in infuriating disorder. It was clear that all Stanville had

wanted was as much money as he could drain from the estate and that

Stanville’s steward was more than dishonest. Percy had sent the man

packing on the day following that first nightly visit after his wedding.

He would not rest until the place returned to its former glory. His cousin,

who was his heir, would thank him one day, and the Hanburys would

continue despite the adversities of life. He had money to help Wycombe

Oaks get back on its feet. Thanks to Letitia’s misadventures, he’d defeated

his enemy without so much as calling a single shot. A decade of hard

work, of profitable, though often risky investments brought gains which

were to pay for buying back his ancestors’ home from Stanville’s

descendants—those funds were his to enjoy now, his to use for the

restoration. Acquiring a wife seemed a small price to pay, after all.

Four hours later and as dirty as one of his laborers, Percy nudged his

horse into a trot when Bromsholme’s stables came in sight. He left the

rain-soaked animal to the ministrations of two stableboys and marched

toward the house.

“Hot bath,” he told Slater, who tried in vain to conceal a disapproving

scowl at his appearance. “Is Lady Letitia home?”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, holding Percy’s hat and coat at a distance as

if they would bite him. His frown grew deeper when he beheld the

condition of Percy’s other clothes. “I believe she is in her rooms.”

“Thank you, Slater. Send some refreshments to the library in about half an

hour, if you would.”

Slater bowed and walked away, taking the wet coat and the scowl with

him.

Percy’s thoughts fled to Letitia as he walked upstairs. She must have

taken his talk about the “covenant” seriously, because all linen and silver

at Bromsholme had been inventoried meticulously. The report from Mrs.

Waters was most favorable. He didn’t really give a damn about the linen

and silver, but at least the new Lady Hanbury had kept busy without

getting in his way.

Once she established that secret studio of hers, her attention would

hopefully be diverted from him or the idea of having children. And once he

determined that she could live on her own, who knows, he might even

demolish the damned orangery altogether. Uninvited, her image as she had looked yesterday intruded again.

Sunshine and beauty. If there were better words to describe his

impression, he could not find them in his vocabulary. That light, white

dress she had worn only underscored her sensuality. More than once, his

hands had begged for the repetition of the touch, and his brain, and

perhaps also other parts, had recalled the exquisite feeling her alluring

curves gave him when he prevented her fall on the stairs. More than once

when he watched her mouth while she was speaking, he had thought of

his tongue slipping between those inviting lips. And many more times than

once, he had issued a stern warning to himself to abandon this foolery.

Ethel had infuriated him with her blatant attempt to stake a claim to his

wife. Whatever she had told Letitia during the half hour they spent together

in the gardens had put Letitia on edge for the rest of the day. If there were

any friendships he was not overjoyed to see his wife develop, this was the

one. Ethel’s nosiness had always irritated him. Her overzealous attempts

to run his house after Sarah’s death had nearly driven him to uncivil

behavior a few times. Ethel would surely try to ingratiate herself with

Letitia, in which case he might be forced to endure her overbearing

presence more often than he wished.

The footmen carrying the hot water arrived right on his heels, and soon

Percy let himself sink into the heat of his bath, closing his eyes for a

moment. Thank God Letitia kept to her rooms. He liked that. They would

eat dinner together today. That would be enough. Wycombe Oaks’ ledgers

sat on his desk in the library, and they definitely needed more attention

than his wife.

The unexpected intruder was a kitchen maid holding a large tray.

“Where would you like me to put your refreshments, my lady?” the girl

asked.

How thoughtful of Slater to send up some food. After all, she’d hardly had

a bite for breakfast. The old hawk must have noticed. But how did he know

where to find her?

The girl stared at her expectantly, so Letitia pushed Arthur Young’s book

and the ledgers to the side. “Here on the desk, if you please.”

The maid deposited the tray, curtsied and left the room, closing the door

quietly behind her.

Letitia sniffed. The delicious smell of smoked ham, fruits and freshly

baked bread made her stomach give a little gurgle of appreciation. She

plucked the largest strawberry from the cook’s artful arrangement and took

a big bite. Sweet juice rolled over her tongue. She popped the rest of the

strawberry into her mouth, then followed with a few paper-thin slices of

ham. It was easy to keep a good table with a cook like her husband’s. And

that bread. Even her father’s French master never came close to such

perfection.

Letitia poured herself a glass of wine from the small carafe Slater had

placed on the tray. Without water, it tasted stronger than what she was

used to, but it was really good. She must thank Slater for his

thoughtfulness.

After another slice of bread, she took a halved peach, no doubt plucked

from Sir Percival’s hothouse, and set out for a leisurely stroll along the

shelves while eating the delicious fruit. The perusal of titles on the book

spines confirmed her suspicion. Her husband’s library was a shrine to

agriculture. She never imagined there could be so many books on this

subject and in one place.