“Damn and blast—uh, pardon, sir. How did that happen?”
“You are not yourself, no doubt, my lord,” the older man said kindly. He cocked his head to one side, a mannerism common to both father and daughter, Hardcastle noticed. “Are you generally a better player than this?”
Hardcastle thought about it a moment. Chess was not his game of choice. He preferred something he could wager on. “To be honest, I don’t think I am a much better player than I am this moment.” He laid back against the pillow and regarded the gentleman in front of him for a moment. How did an ethereal beauty like Phaedra Gillian spring from the loins of such a foggy, frumpy gent as this? “Sir, if it is not too painful, would you tell me what your wife was like? Phaedra’s—er, Miss Gillian’s mother?”
The vicar glanced up in the act of scooping the carved wooden chessmen into the velvet sack. “What? Ah, Constance. You are asking about my Connie.” He tightened the drawstring on the sack and stared at the wall with a fond smile on his face. “She was a gem, was Constance Leonora Allen—m’wife’s name before I married her, you know. I was a curate, poor, young, foolishly idealistic. Constance was better than me in every way. Family connections, wealth, opportunity. But we fell in love.”
Hardcastle moved irritably on the bed. He wanted to know about Mrs. Gillian as it related to Phaedra, not about how the vicar and she met. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Gillian was already talking again.
“’Twas summer, and I was lucky enough to get the curacy of a Mr. Franklin Arbuthnot, in Shropshire. And there was Constance—daughter of Baron Darden—like some kind of angel; great bell-like skirts, walking through the long swaying grass, the brilliant sun making her hair like some kind of halo.”
Hardcastle closed his eyes. He could imagine Phaedra walking through the long swaying grass, her skirts fluttering in the breeze, the afternoon sun making her crinkly golden hair like a halo.
Mr. Gillian’s gentle voice continued. “I fell in love that first moment I saw her, coming through the meadow toward the church. I knew in that instant that everything had changed. My life had changed. I had not intended to marry. I received a fellowship—took first in Greek at Balliol, y’know—and it was almost my sole subsistence beyond the small wage promised a curate. I sincerely felt my first duty was to God, but oh, how I wanted to believe that Constance would only enhance that duty, not distract. And yet it was four long years before we were able to marry.”
Hardcastle opened his eyes. Despite himself, he was interested. “Why? Did she not love you back?”
Mr. Gillian smiled. “Oh, yes, she did. I did not know it for quite a while—a maiden will not make it obvious, y’know, if she is the right sort of girl—but she did love me. I will never understand why. No, we could not marry as there were family objections and financial barriers. She was sent away when it became clear to her father that she would marry no one but me. Those were different times, none of this modern notion of children arranging their own marriages, falling in love. She was promised already to another man, a powerful man. She could have had wealth, but she wanted me.”
Silence fell in the tiny room as Mr. Gillian, swept back in time, smiled a gentle smile that radiated from his eyes as much as his lips. Hardcastle frowned and stared at the wall. This was the sort of romantical nonsense he had never believed in. “Falling in love.” Ugh. When his friends spouted such nonsense he generally left the room, for there was nothing so idiotic as a man in love. And look what it did to them, what it had done to Byron, poor chap. And yet . . . he gazed again at Mr. Gillian’s rapt expression. Here was a man of sense, of intelligence and logic, judging by the way he played chess, and he believed in love.
“Sir,” Hardcastle said, loath to break in to the man’s reverie but overwhelmed by curiosity. “You said it changed your life, your plans. How so?”
Mr. Gillian smiled. “I had great plans. I distinguished myself at Oxford, you know; took first in Greek, as I said, and in classical studies, too. I was going to be the one to definitively translate the Greek texts; if you are not familiar with the Book, you may not be aware that there is some controversy surrounding the translation of the Book from Greek into English. I was the one who was going to solve that. I would have been content to live on my fellowship for the rest of my days so long as I could study the Book and work.”
“The book? What book?”
The smile became wry. “Young man, you really should not display your ignorance quite so profoundly. Think to whom you are speaking, a vicar. To what Book would I be referring?”
Chagrined, Hardcastle thought maybe he ought to apologize, but the twinkle in the older man’s eyes showed him there was no need. “Miss Gillian is a very lucky girl to have a father like you,” he said without thinking. “I would have given much—” He broke off, confused that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. That was unlike him. And even those thoughts were unlike him. He moved restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position.
Mr. Gillian assessed him shrewdly. “Father not all he should have been, eh? But now you are the master of your own life. Your father does not control you anymore, and you can be whomever or whatever you please.”
“And I am. I do what I want and go where I please.”
“Do you?” Mr. Gillian cocked his head to one side. “Do you indeed? Or do you do what you do, live how you live, to spite the old man, eh? Or to prove something to others?” He stood and picked up the board, tucking it under his free arm. “I forget you are still an injured man and my daughter will never forgive me if I tire you overmuch. By the way, as to what you said, I am the lucky one, m’boy. She is a rare one, is my Phaedra, a shining credit to her mother’s upbringing. I try her sorely, I’m afraid, but she bears it well. Good girl.”
Mr. Gillian headed toward the door. He turned, as he opened it, and regarded Hardcastle for a long moment. “Young man, make your own choices and live your own life, not your father’s, not your friends’, not your betters’ nor your inferiors’. It is your life and the only one given you in this time and place. Choose wisely. Not my place to say, of course, but it is what I would say to you. Choose your actions, your companions, your path. Get some sleep now. You’re looking frightfully ragged.”
Chapter Eight
Phaedra poked her head into the bedroom. Lord Hardcastle was asleep, and she could do a few things in the room without having to talk to him or feel his eyes on her. She tiptoed in and started tidying by moving away the table her father and the earl had used to play chess.
Inevitably she snuck glances at the man sleeping under her pristine white counterpane in her low, narrow bed.
He was handsome, more so now that the bruises were fading and the cuts healing. His black hair lay in careless waves across his broad forehead. He moved restlessly, and her gaze was riveted by the image of his powerful frame outlined by the covers as he twisted and turned in some kind of unsettled dream. His hands clutched and grabbed at the cover. She had never quite noticed before the strength in those hands, callused likely from hours holding the reins.
“—kill you, you dogs!” He shouted hoarsely and flailed.
“Lord Hardcastle,” Phaedra said, flying to his side and grasping his shoulders. “Sir, you are dreaming!”
“Wha—” His black eyes open now, he glared at her for a moment, and then his body relaxed, all the tension easing as his gaze sharpened.
“You were having a nightmare, my lord. Was it of those villains who attacked you?”
“Yes, only this time I gave as good as I got. I fear I shall never be satisfied until I do.”
Phaedra kneaded his shoulders, feeling his muscles loosen. “Squire Daintry has hired extra men to patrol the roads, but with so many roads and so few men, I fear it is a lost cause. There have been no more attacks since yours four nights ago, though.”
“They are probably lying in a drunken stupor still from the proceeds of that robbery.”
“Did you have a lot of gold with you?”
; “No, not much, but enough for them to drink themselves stupid for a good long time. Not more than a hundred guineas or so.”
“A hundred . . . oh, Lord, to be rich enough that I could speak so casually of a year’s income.”
Hardcastle stared up at her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious massaging his shoulders. She stopped and folded her hands together. Blood flow. She had just been helping him maintain the blood flow to his muscles. His splendidly bulky muscles. Mrs. Lovett had intimated that he was thus all over, a “right prime specimen of manhood,” she had called him. And who would know better than a married, or formerly married, woman? Her face felt warm of a sudden.
“Do you long to be rich?” he asked.
His quiet regard flustered her. He was a rake and a roué. How that knowledge had changed how she regarded him, even though she didn’t want it to! She couldn’t help it. It was as if she examined everything he said now, every glance, every gesture, through the lens of that knowledge.
But he had asked her a question. She considered it. “No,” she said slowly. “No, I don’t think I long to be rich.” She must be honest, must answer truly. “Well, maybe sometimes. I would like to be able to help people more. There is so much good that money can do, and there is so much need. And I would like—”
“Some pretty new dresses,” Hardcastle said with a smile.
Stung, Phaedra stood and patted down the old blue print. “No, I . . .” Confused, she turned away.
“No new dress could make you prettier than you are this moment, you know.”
His voice was low-toned and gentle and felt almost like a physical caress. Taking a deep and shaking breath, Phaedra stared at the floor, at the faded pattern of the ancient carpet. Seducer. Rakehell. She couldn’t help hearing those descriptions over and over. He was practiced at using his words and voice to tempt women.
And then in the next second she chastised herself for being so utterly foolish. He was being kind, not flirting. Vanity. She was prey to it and it vexed her sorely. It was a besetting sin and she would not let it make her absurd. Stiffening her spine, she turned back to him and smiled. “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.”
He gave her a surprised look. “Do you think so?”
She chuckled. “Yes, I do. Why do you sound so disbelieving?”
“Nobody has ever called me kind before.”
“And nobody besides my father has ever called me pretty before,” she responded tartly.
“Then you reside in a village of idiots.”
She could almost believe him when he spoke so fervently. Gazing steadily at him, she saw only honesty in his eyes, and yet, how could she believe that he was genuine? He was a practiced flirt, and if his words were not inspired by that side of his character, then he was merely kind. And it was easy to say a few words. Were not rakes insincere flatterers by nature? Or was it unfair to judge him based on the gossip that had been relayed to her by Deborah Daintry? She turned at a light tap at the door.
“Miss Gillian,” Sally said, her eyes straying to Lord Hardcastle. “Miss Daintry has arrived for a visit, and says—”
Phaedra waited. “Says what, Sally?”
The maid’s gaze snapped back to her mistress’s face. “Oh!” Her cheeks flushed. “She says she will wait for you in the parlor.”
“All right. Thank you, Sally.”
Sally was staring back at the man on the bed.
“That will be all, Sally,” Phaedra said, somewhat louder.
The maid, who had only been in the earl’s room when he was sleeping, and then only to remove the slops, flushed an even deeper cherry and hustled from the room with a flip of her skirts. Phaedra wondered how much of Sally’s fascination with the earl was with his personal attractions, which were considerable, and how much had to do with the rumors of his reputation, which had been circulated among the serving staff of the village by Deborah’s verbose maid. What was it about the distaff half of society that was attracted, utterly and completely, to a rogue? She had seen the enchantment on Deborah’s face when she discovered the identity of the Gillians’ patient. And Deborah, more than Sally or even herself, had seen enough of society to know the heartache a rake could cause.
She turned back to the bed in time to catch a grin on Hardcastle’s face. He was accustomed to conquering the hearts of maid and mistress alike, she thought sourly. “I must see to my guest, sir, and leave you to your own devices for a while.”
“Miss Daintry is the young lady who flushed me from my cover, is she not?”
“She is. I will return with Mrs. Lovett later, Lord Hardcastle. It’s time you were up and about, Mrs. Lovett thinks, and I concur.”
“I look forward to it.”
“You won’t when it happens,” Phaedra said darkly. “It will hurt abominably, my lord, but we must get you moving.”
“Anything for you, Miss Gillian.”
• • •
Deborah Daintry was turning a small china bird over and over in her hands when Phaedra joined her, and her expression was troubled.
“Deborah, how nice of you to visit again. I’m surprised that you have not yet returned to London.”
“I’m not going back until I talk to Charlie,” she said sullenly. “And I cannot even get a message to him right now because he has some of his fellows turning people away, saying there is fever and no one must approach. It is ridiculous.”
“There has been fever locally. Dr. Deaville has been away for a while for just that reason.”
“But that is at Fordham Wells. Thwicke House is far enough away that they are not in danger; it’s just an excuse,” Deborah said, setting the bird down with unneeded force.
Phaedra picked up the little bird, one of her mother’s cherished possessions, and put it away from the girl, and said, “Why would you say that?”
“I just know something is wrong. When you love someone, you know when they need you. You won’t understand that, having never had a—er, well . . .” She trailed off, flustered.
Never having had a beau, Phaedra thought, finishing Deborah’s thoughtless statement. She brushed it aside in her mind and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and pushed her over to a chair. “Sit. We’ll have tea and you can tell me why you think something is wrong.”
An hour later it still didn’t seem to Phaedra to be much more than an ill-defined “feeling” on Deborah’s part. But the girl had cheered up considerably, and was flitting around the room restlessly, chattering about her London experiences. Finally, she settled back on her chair and gazed at Phaedra with an innocent expression. “So, Phaedra, what is it like living with a rake?”
Sighing, Phaedra looked back into the girl’s green eyes. “I wouldn’t know. Lord Hardcastle does not detail his amorous conquests to me.”
Deborah giggled and sprang to her feet again. “Perhaps he would like a visitor,” she said, dashing to the foot of the stairs and looking up toward the second floor. “I could read to him, or cool his fevered brow.”
“Deborah Daintry, don’t you dare go up there! I will tell your papa, and he will lock you in your room until you behave. Besides, he’s not fevered, just injured.”
With a sly look, the girl returned to her seat. “So, you’re keeping him all to yourself. Well, he’s handsome enough, I will give you that. And his physique! Mrs. Lovett says he has the most muscular legs—”
“Deborah!” Phaedra felt the flush well up in her face as her cheeks turned hot.
“Phaedra!” the girl echoed saucily. “Do not tell me you haven’t even noticed how very good-looking he is. Mrs. Lovett says you come out of his room looking just as flushed as you are this moment.”
“I do not!”
“And she says that Sally told her you visit his room every night!”
“I check to make sure there is nothing he needs! Deborah Daintry, I cannot believe you would stoop to common gossip with the servants!”
“Where else does one get gossip from? They notice everything, you know.”
Her face burning, Phaedra wondered how far the gossip was going, and how to stop it. But there was nothing wrong with having a visitor under their roof when her own father was present at all times. Was there? So far the gossips had said nothing that was not strictly true, but it was how it sounded! Visiting his room every night, coming away looking flushed? It sounded positively as if there were some wickedness going on. But he was an injured man! Badly injured!
“I suppose I should be going,” Deborah said, standing and glancing over at the stairs again. “Unless you really would like me to entertain your guest for a while?” she said, a hopeful note in her voice. “You’re so busy. I could keep him company while you go about your duties.”
“He is not my guest. He is hurt badly, barely able to move.”
“So Mrs. Lovett says. She says she hopes he stays hurt, for she rather likes looking after him. Especially his daily bath!” She giggled and raised her eyebrows significantly.
“He’s getting better,” Phaedra said with a quelling tone in her voice.
“So, what reason did he give you for not telling you he was the Earl of Hardcastle?”
“It was the merest misunderstanding,” Phaedra replied as airily as she was able.
“Ah.”
“He said Lawrence, and I thought it was his last name, but it is his first name, and—”
A thud interrupted her, and a loud groan. Phaedra, alarmed, paused only a moment before racing up the stairs and into her erstwhile room. Hardcastle lay on the floor, his bare legs exposed.
“My lord!” Phaedra cried, racing into the room. “What are you doing? I told you Mrs. Lovett and I would help you get up for the first time!”
“Can’t have you—ow! Can’t have you run off your feet for me every time I need something,” he gasped.
Deborah had followed her upstairs, and between them they helped him back onto the bed.
“You will do me no good by hurting yourself worse,” Phaedra scolded, fussing over him and tucking him back under the light covers.
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