The next morning, Sarah woke to the smell of bacon. Bacon and … coffee? Yes, coffee. Mrs. Goatsocks must have returned! Sarah pushed herself out from under the pile of quilts, pulled on a dressing gown, and hurried toward the kitchen. Fergus II scampered at her heels. Awaiting her in the kitchen was a delightful sight: a platter of crackling bacon, a pot each of coffee and tea, and a plate of golden-brown biscuits, with syrup and honey set out beside them. But where was Mrs. Goatsocks? And Mr. Fergus? Sarah turned in a circle. She was quite alone. Who had made this? Surely not …
“Good morning,” Mr. Forester said in a cheerful voice as he came through the door with a pile of wood braced against his shoulder. Fergus II took the opportunity to trot through the open door to see to his morning needs.
Sarah gasped, from both the rush of cold air that found her bare skin and the fact that a man was seeing her in her dressing gown. She pulled the gown tighter around her neck and held it together with one hand. What in heaven’s name was Mr. Forester about? First of all, the man looked far too good for this hour of the morning. He’d clearly cleaned himself up a bit, and even though his hair was still longish and his beard hadn’t been shaved, he looked even better in daylight. His broad shoulders were outlined in a rough plaid shirt and the coarse linen breeches he wore outlined his backside in a way that made Sarah swallow unintentionally. He’d surprised her in another way as well. A gentleman, even one of the gentry, wasn’t normally up at this hour. Why, her father and brother slept till well past noon. And cooking breakfast? She couldn’t imagine her father preparing any sort of meal. Perhaps the gentry were more different than she realized.
“Would you like some tea? You don’t strike me as the coffee-drinking sort.” He dropped the stack of wood into a pile near the fireplace and brushed the dust from his shirt, his hands moving against his flat abdomen. Forcing her eyes away from the sight, Sarah struggled to breathe evenly.
“Don’t you have any servants?” The words left her mouth before she had a chance to examine them. “Oh dear. Forgive me. That was terribly rude.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m certain it’s more rustic here than you are used to, but Mr. Fergus is the only one in my employ up here, and as you’ve informed me, he is unavailable at the moment.”
“I’ve just never known anyone like, er, you to cook and—” She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she’d just assumed a maid or someone else would arrive in the morning to see to such things.
“You cooked last night, didn’t you?” he asked. “Besides, I’ve not only been cooking. I’ve seen to Oberon and cut this wood for the fireplace.” He gestured toward the stack near his feet. “If I don’t miss my guess, this storm is only going to worsen. We’ll be quite snowed in before nightfall.”
“Snowed in!” She froze. Her hand tightened at her throat till it ached.
“Yes. Don’t look so alarmed. We’ve plenty of food and wood for the fire. I always ensure the lodge is well stocked before coming for the winter.”
Sarah’s heart raced. “It’s not that. It’s…”
“Don’t much like the idea of being snowed in with me?”
“It’s not proper—” Her voice cracked.
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you took off into the Highlands alone.”
She gave him an unamused look. “I had Mrs. Goatsocks.”
“By accident.” He pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window at the rapidly falling snow. “At any rate, by the looks of things, Mrs. Goatsocks won’t be journeying back here today or anytime soon. You’ll just have to make do with me.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Yes, yes, of course. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful and I’m…” She glanced down at her dressing gown. “I’m sorry for my … my … lack of proper attire.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
She couldn’t squelch her smile.
He winked at her. “And Fergus Two only speaks Gaelic.”
“Is that right?” Releasing the garment at her throat, she put her hands on her hips and stared through the snowy window at the little dog outside. “No wonder he hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Would you care for some breakfast?” Mr. Forester asked.
Sarah’s stomach growled fiercely and she gave him a sheepish grin. Seemed sheepish grins were quickly becoming her specialty around this man. “Yes, please.” She frowned. “But I should dress first.”
“There is no one here to report it if you don’t.” He crouched down and added two more small logs to the fire. Yes, his backside was definitely noteworthy. “And I certainly won’t tell.” He stood again and dusted off his hands. Sarah shook her head and willed herself to stop thinking about his backside.
She gave him a half grin. Eating breakfast with a bachelor in her dressing gown? This was positively scandalous, but it was so tempting to just sit at the table and gobble down bacon in her dressing gown the same way she would at home if she were served a tray in bed.
“Very well,” she said, warming to the idea.
Fergus II came back in the front door and Mr. Forester shut it behind him. Then he walked over to the kitchen and served them each a plate of biscuits and bacon.
The snow fell steadily outside the window, and the wind whipped along the eaves. The sky turned progressively more gray, and soon wind and snow were battering the small house—so much snow that they could see only pure white out the windows.
“What did you say you were going to teach me today?” Mr. Forester asked with a wide grin when Sarah finished clearing away the breakfast dishes.
“I want to take a look at your clothing,” she announced.
“Ah, that’s right. But I’m hardly dressed for a London ball while rusticating in Scotland. What would be the point?”
“I understand completely, but as you know, in London, clothing is quite important. All the best-outfitted gentlemen buy their hats at Yardley’s, their coats at Weston’s, their shirts at Martin’s, and their boots at Hoby’s. And yes, I do see the irony in the fact that I’m lecturing you about clothing while I myself am in my dressing gown.”
He returned her smile. “By all means, lecture away. I’m quite fond of you in your dressing gown already.”
Sarah’s face heated while Mr. Forester took another drink of his coffee, obviously unrepentant over his remark.
“As for Yardley’s and Weston’s,” he continued, “I believe I’ve heard Owen Monroe mention those places a time or two.”
“You’re acquainted with Lord Owen?”
Mr. Forester nodded.
“Well, Lord Owen would certainly know. The man rivals Brummel himself for well dressed.”
“You remember Monroe?”
“Yes, of course, he…” She trailed off, realizing how rude it sounded that she remembered the earl’s son and not Mr. Forester himself. “The point is that Lord Owen knows how to dress.”
“I’ve always thought the simpler the better,” Mr. Forester said.
“Simple, yes. But quality counts, and there is nothing more attractive than a man outfitted well in fine black evening attire and a perfectly tied white cravat.”
“And here I thought ladies liked wit and charm.”
“We like those things, too.” She grinned at him.
“Very well. I’ll go fetch my clothing. What little there is of it. And you may examine it at your leisure.”
He was back in the span of a few minutes, his arms loaded with garments. He dumped the pile on the sofa and turned back to Sarah, gesturing toward the mound of clothes. “I await your advice, my lady.” He bowed to her.
Sarah stood and dusted her hands on her dressing gown. She was entirely improper at the moment. Not only was she indecently dressed, she was about to go pawing through a man’s clothing. Positively unthinkable in London. Scotland was an odd place. It was as if none of the rules and strictures of Society mattered up here. It was a bit freeing, actually. She felt positively wicked.
She folded her arms across her chest, walked over to the pile of clothing, and stared down at it. It all seemed perfectly clean, if rumpled. Her father’s valet would faint if he saw such poor treatment of clothing. She picked up a dark blue woolen coat and shook it out. “This is … adequate.”
“Adequate?” Mr. Forester frowned.
“Yes, I mean, the cut seems fine, but—”
“What about this?” He pulled a shirt from the pile and held it in front of her in his fist.
“I’d have to see it on before I could properly judge.”
Before she had a chance to protest, Mr. Forester ripped off his flannel shirt and proceeded to put on the other. Sarah gasped. She was studying his chest in the firelight. Her throat worked as she swallowed. She quickly spun on her heel, facing the opposite direction.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Forester said. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s quite all right,” she called over her shoulder. “Just let me know when you’re decently … I mean properly … I mean—”
“I have a shirt on,” he announced, putting Sarah out of her misery.
Despite his assurance of being properly dressed, she decided to count to ten first, to be safe. The entire time she was counting, she remembered the look of his skin in the firelight. His flat abdomen. His rippled muscles. Her mouth went dry. The man obviously did something for sport.
When she finally did turn around, his shirt was on as promised and he had an untied cravat hanging over his neck. She examined the shirt. “It’s a bit wrinkled, but it’s a fine cut. Where do you have your shirts made?”
“Not at Martin’s,” he admitted with a guilty grin.
She nodded toward the cravat. “What is your favorite knot?”
“I’m supposed to have a favorite knot?”
She shook her head and tried to squelch her smile. “Show me how you tie it, then.”
He tied it quickly in a modest, imperfect knot.
“This is how you wear it, to a ball, in London?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“Yes, is there something wrong?”
“Well, it’s a bit … simple, isn’t it?”
“I like simple.”
“May I?” She nodded toward the cravat again.
“By all means,” he replied.
She moved closer to him. He smelled like freshly cut wood. When she reached his chest, she looked up into his blue eyes. They were twinkling with mirth. “Do you find this amusing?” she asked.
“A little. I’ve never worried much about my clothing before.”
“I’m trying to help you, as you requested.” She’d never noticed before how very good freshly cut wood smelled. It was positively distracting. She swallowed hard.
“Yes.” He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. “Of course. I’m willing to do whatever you recommend.”
She arched a brow at him and reached up to untie the knot he’d created. Why were her hands trembling ever so slightly? “I’ll show you one of my favorite knots.”
“You are an expert at tying cravats?” he asked.
“I’ve helped Hart more times than I can count.”
“Instead of his valet?”
This time she steadfastly tried to ignore Mr. Forester’s scent. She was certain she would never be able to smell freshly cut wood again without remembering him. Without remembering him shirtless, that is. Another swallow. She also tried to ignore the fact that her hand had brushed against his short beard, sending a trail of shock down her arm. She concentrated on keeping her fingers steady. “Hart’s valet drinks.” She shook her head. “Half the time the poor man is passed out in the silver closet.”
“What? Why doesn’t your brother sack the man?”
“Hart’s too kindhearted. Father threatens to sack him on nearly a daily basis, but Hart won’t hear of it. He’s extremely loyal, my brother. Perhaps to a fault at times.”
“Funny,” Mr. Forester said, his eyes fixed above her head. “My father used to say the same thing about me.”
“It’s not a bad trait.” She kept her eyes trained on the cravat she was tying.
“Try telling that to my father. Which is an impossible task for more than one reason,” Mr. Forester said. “Given that he’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“I’m not. He never approved of a thing I said or did my entire life.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Sarah sighed. “It’s the same with me and my mother.”
“But the difference is you seem to put a great deal of stock into what your mother says about you,” Mr. Forester added. “You’ve mentioned her more than once.”
“Did I?” Did she? “I can well imagine what she’s saying about me now.”
“If she had any heart, she would be wondering why her beloved child has fled and is worried sick that you’re missing.”
“I can assure you, neither of those things is likely.”
“Why not?”
“‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she mimicked in a stern, matronly voice. “That is my mother’s very favorite thing to say to me. I was supposed to be at half a dozen parties since I’ve been gone. No doubt Mother is lamenting the fact that I’ve been unavailable to Lord Branford and am ruining my reputation and putting my highly sought-after engagement at risk.”
He glanced down at Sarah briefly. “That’s why you feel guilty for running away? Because for the first time in your life, you didn’t do as you were told?”
She nodded. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You said your parents don’t know that you don’t love Branford?”
She snorted at that. Her hands nearly fell from the cravat. “Of course they know. I think they’d be surprised if I did.”
Mr. Forester’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
She concentrated on the knot, weaving the stiff fabric through itself and pulling tight. “My parents have raised me like a prize heifer since the day I was born. Status, power, position at court, reputation. Those are the things that matter to them most.”
“And not their daughter’s happiness?”
She tugged a bit too hard on the cravat. “It’s not—it’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it? You’re not a piece of chattel to me and I’ve only known you two days.”
She tugged hard again, trying to ignore those words. “I’ve always known what was expected of me. It’s my duty to make a good match.”
“But can’t you make a good match and one you actually might enjoy at the same time?”
“There is no better match than Lord Branford.”
“That’s your parents’ opinion, not yours.”
“‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she whispered. She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then tugged the cravat one last time. Mr. Forester was pulled off balance. He grabbed her shoulders to steady himself. His large hands cupped her shoulders and Sarah closed her eyes.
He righted himself and pulled his hands away.
“I obviously don’t know my own strength.” She laughed and reached up again to pat the cravat. “There, a mathematical knot.”
Mr. Forester’s jaw was rock hard and he was staring above her head. “I heard those are quite fashionable.”
“You heard right.”
She moved away from him and walked over to stoke the fire with the poker. She tried to banish the memory of his bare chest from her mind, the smell of him, like soap and firewood, and the look in his eye when he’d told her she wasn’t a piece of chattel to him. Then the feeling of his hands on her shoulders … Dear God. For the first time in her life, she’d wanted a man to kiss her.
She quickly shook her head, clearing it of such unhelpful thoughts. “‘Do as you’re told, Sarah,’” she murmured. She wrapped her arms around her middle. She was engaged to another man, for heaven’s sake. “I hope the weather turns soon. I must leave as soon as possible. I need to get home.”