evening. And she didn’t want to marry him, either, so it wasn’t as if he’d be breaking her heart if they did have a dalliance.
But there was Bertie. And duty. Gregory had promised to marry Pippa off properly. Only a selfish bastard would do anything else.
“Then I want to be a selfish bastard,” he whispered aloud before he blew out the candle.
At about four in the morning, he finally fell into a deep sleep, and in his dreams he heard thumps and even a shouted, “No!” But he never woke until someone pushed at his door. Even then he opened only one eye. Someone was in the room. He could hear him snuffling about. A servant with a cold? Bending over the grate to add coal?
But then there were more snorts and snuffles and clickety-clacks all about the floor. He forced himself to roll over and face the door.
It was an invasion of corgis, and he remembered he was at Bertie’s and that he mustn’t have shut the door hard enough last night. The corgis had nudged their way in.
What did Pippa look like while she slept? He wished he could peek in her bedchamber to see—and to say good-bye one last time.
“Good thing you woke me,” he said to the furry mass of bodies on the floor, and then stole a glance at the window. The day was overcast. With a sigh—because tonight he’d be late, damned late, to the house party—he reached for Uncle Bertie’s timepiece on the bedside table. He’d given it to him last night, as a gift for taking care of Pippa.
“What do I need to look at the time for anyway?” Bertie had said. “Wear it on grand occasions. It’s my lucky watch. I wore it when I first met your mother as a baby, and then years later, you and Pippa.”
“Thank you.” Gregory had clutched the orb of burnished gold in his fist.
Bertie got a wicked gleam in his eye. “I also suggest wearing it when Pippa gives you trouble.”
“Then I suspect I shall don it frequently when she comes to Town,” Gregory said dryly, and left to the sound of Bertie’s laughter behind him.
Now he saw that it was ten-thirty. He cursed loudly enough to send the herd of corgis leaping in a frenzy of longing to climb the vast mountain that was his bed and become masters of it—and him.
But there were no bed steps, thank God.
He sat up, threw his legs over the side, and stretched his bare arms above his head, which reminded him of how Pippa had put her arms around his back and neck in Eliza’s garden a year before and held on to him as if he were a runaway horse she wouldn’t let go. He’d only remembered that later, when he was in his cabin of the ship sailing to America. Every night he was away from England, he’d thought about that kiss.
He’d have to stop thinking about it now—and of Pippa in her bed. Otherwise, he’d not be able to don his trousers.
But wet noses on his calves and his feet brought him back to perfectly sober thoughts. “I’m late,” he told the gathered company, who were all ears and wagging tails.
He readied himself in a few minutes. His driver, Oscar, would be waiting impatiently, no doubt, Gregory’s trunk strapped behind the carriage.
Nobody was in the breakfast room, and he stole out of the house quickly.
Once on the road, rain began to fall lightly—and then harder—and he was glad for his dry seat. He wasn’t worried about Oscar, either. They’d been on enough trips together that Gregory knew the man welcomed harsh weather as a challenge to his driving skills. He made sure Oscar’s flask was always filled with the Marquess of Brady’s finest Irish whiskey and that his driver’s coat was of the best material available, with the large, flat gold buttons featuring the crest of Brady that Oscar loved to flaunt in every inn yard they entered. He couldn’t boast any other way—the Sherwood family all traveled in unmarked coaches.
Gregory closed his eyes and hoped the horses were feeling spritely, that the road was smooth, and that the rain didn’t uncover many rocks and
But there was Bertie. And duty. Gregory had promised to marry Pippa off properly. Only a selfish bastard would do anything else.
“Then I want to be a selfish bastard,” he whispered aloud before he blew out the candle.
At about four in the morning, he finally fell into a deep sleep, and in his dreams he heard thumps and even a shouted, “No!” But he never woke until someone pushed at his door. Even then he opened only one eye. Someone was in the room. He could hear him snuffling about. A servant with a cold? Bending over the grate to add coal?
But then there were more snorts and snuffles and clickety-clacks all about the floor. He forced himself to roll over and face the door.
It was an invasion of corgis, and he remembered he was at Bertie’s and that he mustn’t have shut the door hard enough last night. The corgis had nudged their way in.
What did Pippa look like while she slept? He wished he could peek in her bedchamber to see—and to say good-bye one last time.
“Good thing you woke me,” he said to the furry mass of bodies on the floor, and then stole a glance at the window. The day was overcast. With a sigh—because tonight he’d be late, damned late, to the house party—he reached for Uncle Bertie’s timepiece on the bedside table. He’d given it to him last night, as a gift for taking care of Pippa.
“What do I need to look at the time for anyway?” Bertie had said. “Wear it on grand occasions. It’s my lucky watch. I wore it when I first met your mother as a baby, and then years later, you and Pippa.”
“Thank you.” Gregory had clutched the orb of burnished gold in his fist.
Bertie got a wicked gleam in his eye. “I also suggest wearing it when Pippa gives you trouble.”
“Then I suspect I shall don it frequently when she comes to Town,” Gregory said dryly, and left to the sound of Bertie’s laughter behind him.
Now he saw that it was ten-thirty. He cursed loudly enough to send the herd of corgis leaping in a frenzy of longing to climb the vast mountain that was his bed and become masters of it—and him.
But there were no bed steps, thank God.
He sat up, threw his legs over the side, and stretched his bare arms above his head, which reminded him of how Pippa had put her arms around his back and neck in Eliza’s garden a year before and held on to him as if he were a runaway horse she wouldn’t let go. He’d only remembered that later, when he was in his cabin of the ship sailing to America. Every night he was away from England, he’d thought about that kiss.
He’d have to stop thinking about it now—and of Pippa in her bed. Otherwise, he’d not be able to don his trousers.
But wet noses on his calves and his feet brought him back to perfectly sober thoughts. “I’m late,” he told the gathered company, who were all ears and wagging tails.
He readied himself in a few minutes. His driver, Oscar, would be waiting impatiently, no doubt, Gregory’s trunk strapped behind the carriage.
Nobody was in the breakfast room, and he stole out of the house quickly.
Once on the road, rain began to fall lightly—and then harder—and he was glad for his dry seat. He wasn’t worried about Oscar, either. They’d been on enough trips together that Gregory knew the man welcomed harsh weather as a challenge to his driving skills. He made sure Oscar’s flask was always filled with the Marquess of Brady’s finest Irish whiskey and that his driver’s coat was of the best material available, with the large, flat gold buttons featuring the crest of Brady that Oscar loved to flaunt in every inn yard they entered. He couldn’t boast any other way—the Sherwood family all traveled in unmarked coaches.
Gregory closed his eyes and hoped the horses were feeling spritely, that the road was smooth, and that the rain didn’t uncover many rocks and
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