Relieved, she nodded. “Later, after dinner. Now, come on.”
She tugged mightily, and he consented to get moving.
Whoever she was, he was going to marry her, therefore, he would be wise to keep her sweet.
They reached the Hall literally minutes before the clouds opened and a hard downpour pelted the land. Gregory made straight for his room while Caitlin sought out Snibbs and sent him racing up, followed by a pair of footmen lugging a large copper bathtub.
When, two hours later, once more clothed with his usual sartorial elegance and blessedly warm all the way to his bones, Gregory strolled into the drawing room, it was to discover that everyone had heard of his efforts in rescuing William Poole.
After fielding numerous queries as to his health, he finally reached Caitlin, who was standing with several others by the fireplace and sipping a glass of sherry. He directed a narrow-eyed look her way, only to be told, “It wasn’t me.”
Julia chipped in, “No, indeed.” She bent a mock-severe look on Caitlin. “Our dear Caitlin didn’t mention a word about your joint exploits, but she did send Alice down to see William, and Alice brought back the news.”
Meanwhile, Alice had been examining Gregory with a keen eye. “You don’t appear to have taken any lasting injury from your unexpected immersion.”
He inclined his head. “I’m a strong swimmer, so other than a temporary weakness, I’ve felt no ill effects.”
“Well, if you do find a cough coming on, be sure to come and see me,” Alice warned. “With an apothecary in the house, it would be the height of silliness to develop an unnecessary fever of the lungs.”
Interpreting that—he was sure correctly—as a general admonition based on his sex’s predilection for not confessing to weaknesses, he merely nodded and kept his lips shut.
When Cromwell appeared to announce that dinner was served, Gregory turned to Caitlin and offered his arm.
She arched her brow at him—he hadn’t offered, and she hadn’t taken his arm previously—but when he simply waited, she set aside her empty glass and wound her arm with his, and he led her to the door, with the rest of the company falling in behind them.
He could feel the looks trained on his back as others noted his new courtesy to Caitlin, and those gazes felt smug rather than in any way disapproving.
He walked her to her chair and held it for her, and she sat. As he stepped back to walk up the table to his place, he caught her eye.
Later, after dinner.
As if she’d heard the unspoken words, she fractionally inclined her head, and he walked on to claim the carver at the table’s other end.
The meal passed off in the usual pleasant fashion he’d come to expect of evenings at the Hall. At home. He definitely thought of the place as that, despite the many with whom he shared the roof.
Smiling benevolently, he lifted his wine glass—one Vernon had made—sipped, sat back, and looked around the table. Savoring the enveloping warmth of companionship as various members of the company contributed to a humorous tale about one of Joshua’s goats, Gregory inwardly admitted that, in some strange way, he’d fitted into this group quite neatly.
Quite comfortably.
He sipped again, then set down his glass and returned his attention to his meal. As he delighted in Nessie’s offerings, he recalled what had taken him and Caitlin to the river that day. They’d spoken to Mrs. Poole, established her requirements, and raised her hopes, but hadn’t got much further. They needed to push on. The Pooles and the Edgars often joined the company for dinner on Wednesdays; he made a mental note that if both families arrived at the Hall tomorrow, they would all make time to pursue the matter of the storehouse.
After dessert had arrived and empty dishes were all that remained on the table, the company rose and returned to the drawing room.
In light of Gregory’s ordeal, Cromwell insisted on doing the rounds with the brandy decanter, and along with most of the men, Gregory accepted a glass. Naturally, Cromwell filled Gregory’s glass half full while the others received the customary two fingers. When Cromwell retreated, the others teased Gregory, but everyone smiled as they did. They all claimed seats and settled to savor and chat.
Gregory had taken his first appreciative mouthful when someone rang the doorbell, then started hammering on the front door.
Everyone paused and looked toward the open doorway; as the hammering continued, Cromwell, with two burly footmen to back him up, hurried past on their way to the door.
The banging abruptly ceased, and as a chill breeze blew into the otherwise warm room, they heard voices in the hall.
The front door was shut, and the waft of cold air dissipated as a low-voiced argument between Cromwell and some other deep-voiced man continued before petering out.
Three seconds later, Cromwell strode stiffly into the drawing room, a large, shaggy-haired presence at his back.
The man drew every eye in the room. He was taller than even Gregory and was dressed in breeches and riding boots, with a heavy jacket over a distinctive waistcoat of green plaid. His hair was a rioting curly mane that was long enough to brush his shoulders, forming a browny-red corona that framed a face of strong, rugged features.
Cromwell neatly stepped aside—permitting everyone an unimpeded view of the giant—and opened his mouth.
