Page 122 of Snowbound Surrender
CHAPTER 1
December, 1813
London
“Spicer?I’m running late, unfortunately, and the House is to sit in but an hour. Is everything prepared?”
“Of course, my lord.” Rupert Spicer had been his faithful valet for the past five years, and Hunter didn’t know what he would do without him. The man helped him shrug into his coat, and passed him his hat as he ran out the door. It was the last day the House of Lords was to sit before Christmastide. Hunter diligently attended, unlike his father, who had always abhorred what he called the dull and dreary proceedings.
“Three times!” he would thunder at Hunter. “Three times I would have to sit there and listen to the same bill read. I amdonewith it!”
Despite his initial hesitation, Hunter had found that he enjoyed the opportunity to sit within the House, to affect decisions that could make change in the world. There was nothing of consequence to be discussed today, although Hunter agreed that the recess until March did seem inexplicably long.There was much to be discussed — not only the war with Bony and France, but after his recent visit to the mill and his ensuing horror at what he found there — children not even ten, worked to the bone — there was much to be done.
While he agreed with Sir James Mackintosh on the fact they should move up the next year’s sitting date, the man droned on and on without saying much of anything, and Hunter found his mind wandering. Christmastide. Should he stay in London? Should he attend a house party? He had been invited to several. He attended select parties throughout the Season, but unlike many men such as himself, his primary purpose for remaining in London was not so much the social scene but the true reason he was there — the politics. If he did attend a party or some such event, often it was simply to gain the ear of another lord or cabinet minister.
London would be fairly empty at the moment, however. Should he return to his own country home — to Wintervale? Wintervale, where his bride awaited. At least, he assumed so. He hadn’t heard from her since he had left in August. He figured his steward would write him a note if she actuallydidleave. Stone had informed him that she visited her mother now and again, their homes being but a couple of hours’ journey between. Hunter had never been a particularly attentive lord, but his father had insisted he take over Wintervale, as he and Hunter’s mother preferred to remain in London and had many other estates they could escape to if they found the need for time in the country.
By the time Hunter returned to his townhouse that evening — the townhouse he had purchased for his bride, he thought regretfully, having been perfectly happy in his rented rooms — he was still undecided, and after a quick dinner alone, instead of sitting in his library stewing, he picked his hat up off the desk and called for his carriage to be readied once more. He couldalways find company at White’s. He hopped into the carriage and it soon deposited him in front of the Portland stone building on St. James’ Street.
He was relieved to enter and find his friend, Lord Wimbledon, awaiting him.
“Wimbledon!” he called, and the man poured another glass of brandy, leaving it awaiting Hunter across the table.
“Oxford,” the man greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought with the break in Parliament you would be off to see that new wife of yours.”
“Yes, well…” Hunter shifted uncomfortably as he took his seat, unsure of how to answer that. He knew his relationship was on the tongues of many of theton, but there was not much he could do about it. His wife hated him, and he had no idea why.
He had tried to get close to her, truly he had. After their wedding, he had attempted to make peace with her, to find a common ground, but she had completely closed herself off to him, and eventually, not wanting to face any further rejection, he had given up and made his way to London.
Hunter had suffered enough rejection in his life. While he looked up to his father and had spent his life learning from the man, anytime he had spoken a word of his own ideals his father had pushed them aside as though they meant nothing. And as for his mother… Hunter couldn’t think of another soul on the planet who possessed less compassion or love — even for her children. His father had always told him to toughen up, that he didn’t need the love of a woman. But it had created within Hunter a fear of rejection that he never could quite shake. He knew, however, it was much worse for his sister Lavinia, who had to spend much more time in the presence of the marchioness.
And now here he was, facing another woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He’d prefer not to dwell on it. He had enough on his mind as it was. He had hoped for a conventional, cordial relationship, without the need to worry about his wife and whatever it may be that was causing her such vexation. At some point in time, he supposed he would have to deal with it, but for now, he was preoccupied with the concerns of the House. He sighed, noting that Wimbledon still stared at him.
“I look forward to a wonderful break,” he said simply, and Wimbledon took what he wanted from that, leaving it be. Hunter lit a cheroot, sat back in his chair, and stewed. What was he supposed to do now?
He didn’t haveto wonder for long.
When he walked into this office the next morning, a footman trailing through the door behind him with a tray holding his coffee and pastries, Hunter found a single envelope on the surface of his otherwise tidy desk. He cut through the seal to find the scrawl of his steward, a man to whom his father had entrusted the estate for many years now.
Lord Oxford,
Forgive me for the intrusion; however, I am aware you are currently on recess. Unfortunately, an urgent matter has arisen that requires your attention. There is an issue with the accounts, one that I cannot solve. I have my suspicions as to the cause of the disturbance. While it should be a straightforward solution, we must speak further.
Sincerely,
Mr. Stone
He sighed.That was certainly cryptic. But his decision was made. He supposed he would be returning to Wintervale after all.
Scarlett smiledas she pulled on her gloves and dipped her head under the stone archway of the young family’s home. The cold bit into her uncovered face, but she paid it no mind. Not now, with the cozy cottage’s warmth still filling her as the cool air blew a whisper of snow across the yard.
The children were tiny and so lovely, one just a babe, snuggled deep in his mother’s arms. Scarlett’s smile faded, however, as she looked out across the fields in front of her. The sun was beginning to set, and she could see the dim light of a candle or fire through windows in the distance. This was but one home, and she had many more to visit over the next few days.
She cursed her husband. The Earl of Oxford. So concerned with his great ideals in the House of Lords that he completely neglected his own tenants. Here were people who needed him, who had barely enough to survive. Did he know? Or did he truly not care?
Scarlett untied her horse from the fencepost and hoisted herself up, hiking up her skirts and swinging one leg over the top of him. No one was around to see her, and she hated riding sidesaddle. When she did, she couldn’t mount without assistance, she could hardly control the horse, and she hated when the saddle was cinched so tight that the horse seemed uncomfortable. Of course, the odd time when anyone sawher riding as she was now, they were absolutely shocked, but Scarlett didn’t overly care. Let them talk. What did her reputation matter, anyhow?
Wintervale had now been home for four months, and Scarlett had to admit that the adjustment hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she had initially thought. The servants were lovely and welcoming, and she had enjoyed visiting the tenants and seeing the lands. Someone had to. The steward, while experienced to be sure, cared only about the numbers and nothing about the people. Any time Scarlett had attempted to discuss anything of importance with him, he had pretended to listen for a moment, then quickly waved away her words with a frown of annoyance. Apparently, he was the sort, as most were, who believed women had nothing to offer.
