The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2) Sahara Kelly (book club recommendations TXT) 📖

of your gentlemen and if you tell me to fuck you, I am duty bound to do so. I want to see what lies in store in case you decide to request my services.” His eyes were glued to her face, blazing with some emotion she could not define.

“Blunt words, sir,” she returned his stare with difficulty, since his statment had caught her off guard.

“Would you prefer sweet ones? The intent would be the same.”

“From you? I’d be surprised if you even know any sweet words.” She paused. “You like being in charge, in control, don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now are you going to let me take that off the easy way, or shall I rip it from your body?”

An unusual dart of what could possibly be lust pierced her loins, but she fought it, tired though she was. “Go ahead then. Take the damn thing.”

She dropped her hands and looked at him as the flimsy cotton puddled around her ankles, refusing to turn away, blush or avert her eyes. He wanted her naked in front of him? He would have his wish. But damned if she’d ever take him into her bed.

“You need more food,” he said after a few long moments.

“You need better manners,” she flashed back. “I can get food anytime. God knows where you’d find new manners.”

“Point well taken, my Lady.” He slipped her nightgown over her head.

“And what’s this about…about…f-f-fucking you?” She stuttered a little. It was not an unfamiliar word, but also not one she’d used very often. If ever.

“Giles will tell you.” He pushed back the covers. “In you go.”

She had no choice, since once again he lifted her as if she were thistledown and deposited her within the linens. “Are you comfortable?” He strolled around snuffing the candles and making sure the fire was banked for the night.

She sighed. “Does it matter?”

He was quiet for a moment, then picked up her hairbrush from the bureau, and came to her side. To her surprise, he ran it gently through what was left of her hair. “There. Better.” He put the brush back. “And yes it does.”

“Uhh…” Astonished by his behaviour, she had no idea how to respond.

“Good night.” He walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Well.” She blew out the candle next to her bed. “That was unexpected.”

Chapter Thirteen

 

 

She is recovering.

The welcome thought flashed through Giles’s mind as Gabriel escorted Gwyneth to his study. He rose with a welcoming smile. She smiled back.

“You have breakfasted?” he asked, nodding to Gabriel and taking over her care.

“I have indeed. Thank you,” she took the seat he held for her. “And I am looking forward to this conversation. I have, as I mentioned last night, some questions for you, Giles.”

“I am glad,” he nodded, resuming his own seat behind his desk. “Glad that you feel up to asking questions, and glad that you have formed them by yourself. All good signs that your recovery is well underway.”

She agreed. “I was in an appalling condition, wasn’t I?”

He hesitated.

“Please. Give me the truth with no bark upon it. I need to know.”

He chose his words carefully. “When I found you, I believe you were near death.”

She took a breath, but remained silent, her eyes fixed on his face.

“There was no food, little water, and the only warmth came from a small fire which was using what must have been the last of your firewood. You had aged blankets that you had bundled around yourself, a bite on your foot from a rat, and—” he paused.

“And?”

“You were infested with other, smaller vermin.” He sighed. “I could not bring you into the carriage as you were. I got rid of the worst of it all, cut off most of your hair because of it, and wrapped you in the blankets I had brought with me. All were burned when we returned here.”

“I was starving,” she murmured, one hand drifting absently to touch a curl.

“You were.” He folded his arms. “What happened, my Lady? Can you tell me?”

She nodded. “I can now, I think. It seems like another lifetime, and thus easier to talk about.” She leaned back in the chair. “My stepson happened, to put matters in a nutshell. The Earl, my husband, passed away at the end of an illness which had begun to make itself known close to a year before. The doctor believed his heart was failing and could do little to help, other than recommend rest and tranquillity. His son from his first marriage arrived unexpectedly a few months later, and from then on...”

She paused, her lips tightening, her brows meeting in a frown. “For some reason he had taken a violent dislike to me and had not returned to Kilham Abbey after the wedding. From what I saw of him at that time, he seemed mean, angry and potentially vicious. I assumed that money was involved, since my husband mentioned his son’s tendency toward profligacy.” She shifted in her chair. “The Earl was not a miser, by any means. But he was at heart a decent man with a belief that he was best served by a policy of financial caution. I certainly did not starve at Kilham Abbey, although we lived quietly and hardly ever entertained.”

“Did you go to London?”

She shook her head. “No. Never.”

“So, your stepson arrived …and…”

“My husband’s health deteriorated. There were arguments, angry words…” She swallowed. “None of which were beneficial to my husband’s health. After he passed away, barely a day after the funeral, his stepson threw me out. I was told—not asked, told—that I was to remove to the Dower House forthwith, and only allowed to take with me the clothes that were essential. I managed to pack a couple of