She gripped it, and he assisted her to the pavement.
Stacie released Frederick’s hand and bent to shake out her skirts, then she straightened and turned to him.
And time seemed to slow.
Frederick was looking at her, smiling, waiting to take her arm and escort her up the steps.
Beyond him, a heavyset man stepped out of the crowd and lunged at Frederick.
Stacie’s eyes locked on the knife in the man’s hand.
She screamed and flung herself at Frederick, shoving him back against the carriage.
A paving stone tipped, and she stumbled.
Into the path of the oncoming knife.
She felt the cold steel slide into her side, into her flesh.
She gasped. Her knees turned to water, and she started to crumple.
The last thing she knew was Frederick’s arms closing around her.
Then chill darkness swallowed her whole.
Frederick swore as Stacie slumped, lifeless, in his arms. Rage erupted; narrow-eyed, he looked up, searching for the attacker, but pandemonium had broken out, and the man had vanished into the melee.
The crowd surged, driven by avid curiosity, yet ready to flee if there was more danger about.
Some helpful woman stepped in. “The lady’s fainted—give her room to breathe.” She waved her arms and succeeded in forcing the crowd to back away, clearing a small area around where Frederick crouched in the lee of the carriage, cradling Stacie’s limp form.
Ignoring everyone and everything else, he looked into Stacie’s pale face, noted that her breathing, although shallow, was still steady. He’d seen it happen—seen the knife meant for him slide into her instead. Taken by surprise, the villain had already been pulling back, but the knife had been there, thrust out, and she’d fallen onto it.
The damn coward had wrenched the knife free and fled.
With desperation building, Frederick held on to every ounce of control and searched Stacie’s midsection. He found the seeping red stain low on her left side. Supporting her with one arm, he hunted with his other hand, found and hauled out his handkerchief, wadded it, and pressed it to the spot, but the wound itself lay hidden beneath gown, stays, and chemise.
Jenkins appeared beside him. “I saw the blackguard what did it, my lord, but he’s away in the crowd, and there’s no chance of catching up with him.” Jenkins paused, then asked, “Is the mistress all right?”
I don’t know. “She’s alive.” That was the critical fact. “We need to stop the bleeding and tend the wound, but we can’t do that here—or in the carriage.”
Frederick slid his arms beneath Stacie and lifted her.
Jenkins leapt to open the carriage door.
Frederick paused with his foot on the step and caught Jenkins’s eyes. “Use your whip. I don’t care how you do it, but get us back to Albury House as fast as humanly possible. Then, once we’re inside, fetch Dr. Sanderson. Regardless of where he is or what he’s doing, tell him Lady Albury has been stabbed and needs urgent attention.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Frederick climbed in, and Jenkins shut the door.
Frederick sat and drew Stacie protectively close.
Jenkins took him at his word; the whip cracked and the carriage lurched into motion, plunging and weaving back around the square.
Frederick looked down at a face more pallid than he’d ever seen it. And prayed.
Stacie’s senses returned in fits and starts.
She felt as if she was surfacing from a very long sleep, her wits rising through a fog of dreams. She had no idea what time it was—not even what day it was; when she tried to remember, she discovered her recollections of what had happened last, before she’d fallen asleep, were too vague and cloudy to make any sense of them.
It took too much effort to raise her lids, much less shift her limbs. Gradually, she realized there was a tight band wound about her ribs; it prevented her from drawing in a deeper breath.
But she was breathing steadily. Now she thought of it, there was a dull pain radiating from her left side, just above her waist, beneath where the band—a bandage?—was so tightly wrapped.
Eventually, it dawned on her that she was lying in a soft bed—it might even be hers. Hers and Frederick’s.
Then her hearing sharpened, and she heard voices. Two voices, talking in hushed tones. She made out the comforting rumble of Frederick’s voice. The other was lighter, a woman’s…Ernestine’s.
Stacie concentrated and heard Frederick tell Ernestine to go to bed, that he would stay with her—with his wife.
She heard the door open and softly close, then she sensed Frederick draw near.
She thought he hovered over her, then she felt his lips lightly brush her forehead.
Heard his voice whisper, “Sleep and get well.”
She knew he settled in a chair by the bed, knew he was close, but the effort of making out his words had been too much, and the clouds billowed again, and she drifted back into the fog.
The next time she awoke, her wits were her own, and her mind was fully aware and able to focus.
She blinked her eyes open. Judging by the quality of the shadows wreathing the room, it was nighttime. The bed curtains had been left open; she glanced to the side and, through a gap in the curtains drawn across the window, saw the blackness of the night sky.
A lamp had been left burning on the bedside table, its flame turned low.
She shifted her head on the pillow and, in the soft light, saw Frederick, still sitting in the armchair drawn up beside the bed; still holding her hand, he’d fallen asleep with his head and shoulders on the covers by her side.
His grip on her hand remained definite, yet gentle, as if he held the finest porcelain.
Moving slowly, she raised her free hand, reached across, and almost wonderingly, stroked her fingers over his dark hair as the memories, now clear, rolled through her mind.
She remembered the moments before the steps of St Martin’s—recalled in vivid detail seeing the knife heading Frederick’s way. Relived the panic and desperation the sight had evoked.
More vaguely, she recalled what she’d done, but that didn’t matter. He was still there, by her side, and as far as she could see and sense, he was unharmed.
Good.
As she was alive, too, then to her mind, all was well.
She smiled—in relief, in satisfaction—and settled her head back on the pillow.
Her hand shifted in Frederick’s hair, and he stirred.
She let her hand fall as he woke and raised his head.
His lids rose, and his eyes met hers—and she saw the leap of joy, the flare of hope.
And so much more.
In that unguarded moment, she saw into his soul.
Saw what lived there.
The sight shook her to the core.
“No,” she whispered. Horror gripped her; she couldn’t breathe.
All she could do was stare at the mind-numbing truth of what he felt for her, shining undeniably in his eyes.
She was vaguely aware of how haggard he looked, of the contrast between the drawn lines of his face and the welling emotion that was all brightness and light that filled him.
That, steady and sure, radiated from him.
She locked her gaze with his as fear rose up and all but choked her. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
The anguished accusation fell on Frederick’s ears—and he realized how much he’d allowed her to see…
It was too late to reassemble the shields shock had ripped away.
Equally impossible to deny the reality of what she’d seen. He wouldn’t—didn’t think he could—do that.
He couldn’t go on that way—denying what was so real and true, so powerful and potent.
They couldn’t.
It’s time.
Undoubtedly, yet he was drained, wrung dry by the past hours, the past day; he wasn’t up to explaining and reassuring her, not yet.
Holding her gaze, refusing to turn aside and hide the truth any longer, he told her, “Sanderson said the baby was unharmed. That as long as you recovered, our child would survive.”
Nearly overcome by the tide of emotion the words evoked, he raised her hand and pressed a long, fervent kiss to her knuckles.
Her expression had blanked. She blinked. “Baby?”
He’d wondered if she’d realized. “It’s early days yet, but Sanderson’s probably the most experienced practitioner around, and he was sure. He said you’re somewhere between one and two months along. We’re apparently to be blessed in January.”
He was somewhat cravenly relieved to see that she was as distracted by the news as he was. Ever since Sanderson had told him, his mind kept returning to and fixing on the fact—on the prospect of holding his own child in the new year. Of sharing those precious moments with her.
Gently, he eased his fingers from hers and rose. “I’ll get you some water.” He crossed to the side table where a pitcher and glasses stood waiting.
Stacie’s eyes tracked Frederick, but she wasn’t truly seeing him. Instead, her mind was filled with the vision of her cradling a babe—hers and Frederick’s.
If anyone had asked if she wanted children, she would have said yes, but now the prospect was staring her in the face…she wanted it with a desperate ardor that stole her breath.
She hadn’t known it—she—would be like this.
Then Frederick was back with a glass of water. Her arms were still weak; he helped her to sit up, helped her guide the glass to her lips so she could drink.
When she pushed the glass away, he turned and placed it on the nightstand, within easy reach.
He wasn’t, she realized, meeting her eyes, not even when he glanced back at her and said, “There’s color in your cheeks—I think it’s safe to say you’ve turned the corner.” His lips quirked a fraction in self-deprecation. “Sanderson felt confident you would.”
He hesitated, his fingertips trailing over the back of her hand—as if he’d intended to reach for it, but wasn’t sure he should. Then he drew in a deep breath and said, “As you’re awake, I’ll send for Ernestine.”
She would have turned her hand and caught his and argued, but he raised both hands, rubbed his eyes, then drew his hands down over the achingly weary planes of his face.
“I need to get some sleep.” Finally, his eyes met hers. “When you’re fully recovered, we can…discuss whatever you wish.”
Her mind was still reeling as she watched him walk to the bellpull and tug it. She wanted to insist he stay and sleep beside her—where else?—then she realized she wasn’t, as she’d supposed, in the bed they now shared but in the one in the marchioness’s apartments.
They’d been redecorated, too, using the same garnet-red fabrics as in the main bedchamber. The only real difference was that the furniture in this room was lighter, more feminine in style.
Someone had come to the door, and Frederick had spoken with them. Now, he closed the door, glanced at her, then walked toward the connecting door leading to his bedroom.
The way he moved told her just how dragged down he was; small wonder he wanted to get some rest before discussing the issue that now lay between them.
With his hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked back at her, as if, despite all, he didn’t want to leave her.
She summoned a smile, weak though it undoubtedly was, and managed to raise a hand and wave him on. “Go. You need to recover, too.”
That he did testified to the reality she dreaded. He held her gaze for an instant more, then dipped his head to her, opened the door, and left.
She watched the door close behind him, then the smile fell from her face. She needed time, too—to assimilate all that had changed between them and decide what she ought to do.
Chapter 18
Stacie awoke the next morning alone, feeling much improved physically, but with a problem more fraught than any she’d ever faced looming before her.
Her worst fears had come true. Frederick had fallen in love with her. What on earth was she to do?
For long minutes, she lay staring at the canopy overhead, debating unanswerable questions such as: How deeply in love was he? Might he fall out of love if she pushed? What could she do if…?
Regardless of her inability to form any answers, the issue wasn’t about to go away; she had to get up and confront it.
She rang for Kitty, who was delighted to see her awake, alert, and—so Kitty claimed—blooming. Stacie allowed the maid to fuss over her and tend to the wound in her side, which, thanks to her stays, had proved less serious than everyone had feared, before helping her dress.
She insisted on donning a new gown, one in a stunning shade of teal; she felt certain she was going to need every ounce of confidence-boosting support she could muster for the upcoming discussion with her loving spouse.
Eventually, she deemed herself as ready as she would ever be. Leaving Kitty tidying the room, Stacie headed for the stairs; she carefully held on to the bannister as she descended, in case she suffered a sudden spell of the fainting sort to which she’d heard ladies in a delicate condition were sometimes prone.
Regardless of what lay between her and its father, she wanted their child with every bone in her body.
She reached the front hall, paused to draw breath, and heard lovely music spilling from the music room. Frederick was playing that lilting, dancing air she’d heard him practicing before, but it seemed he’d finally strung all the segments together; the melody was vibrant yet delicate—a truly glorious piece.
She let her feet follow the sound. Not wanting to interrupt and have him prematurely stop, she paused in the corridor just outside the music room and listened.
And found herself swept into a magical delight of exquisitely playful chords, accented by trills executed as only a player of Frederick’s quality could produce.
Finally, the piece drew to a well-rounded conclusion. As the last chords rang out, she drew in a deeper breath and walked into the music room.
“Bravo!” Smiling—with the echoes of the piece still ringing in her ears, she was unable not to—when Frederick looked up from the keyboard, she met his eyes. “That was utterly captivating.” She walked to where she could lean against the piano’s side. “What is it? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Any hope she’d entertained that he didn’t love her—that she’d imagined it—was slain by the warmth in his gaze.
Although his eyes searched hers, his fingers returned to the keys, idly stringing together bits and pieces of the melody. “I haven’t named it yet,” he told her. “I wrote it for you.”
Understanding rocked her. He hadn’t composed for years, not since the piece he’d written for his first love more than a decade ago. All the ton knew that. All the ton hoped he would start composing again—and now he had.
For her.
As if to underscore that, he said, “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Anthem to My Muse.’” The devil arched a brow at her, inviting her comment.
What lady in her right mind wouldn’t want her musician husband to compose such a wonderful piece in her honor?
Yet such a piece, played for others, would be tantamount to a public avowal of his love for her.
She narrowed her eyes on his face. “You are diabolical.”
Unrepentant and assured, he held her gaze. “I’m a man in love with my wife.”
And there it was.
Unable to look away, captured not only by his personality but also by all he now meant to her—and all that he was making it abundantly clear she meant to him—she ignored the vise tightening about her lungs, ignored the fear that hovered, waiting to swamp her, and instead, drew in a determined breath and said, “You promised. You gave me your word you wouldn’t fall in love with me.”
He nodded in ready agreement. His fingers embarked on a succession of trills, and a wistful, almost-artful smile flirted about his lips. “Think back,” he said. “I promised
I wouldn’t fall in love with you after we were wed. And I didn’t. I couldn’t, because I was already very much in love with you by then.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Falling in love is one of those peculiar activities you can’t really repeat,” he explained, “not unless you somehow manage to reverse the state first—and I haven’t a clue how to do that, and I daresay, neither do you.”
She frowned. “You’re saying you were in love with me before we agreed to marry?”
His smile turned self-deprecating, a sight she realized she’d seen often in recent weeks. “Why else do you think I suggested we make our sham engagement a reality?”
She stared at him. “I thought it was because of all the perfectly sensible and logical reasons you gave me.”
He inclined his head. “For those as well, but the most compelling reason was that I was in love with you.”
Her legs felt weak. She folded her arms and leaned on the piano.
His smile deepened, and he went on, answering her unvoiced questions, “I think I loved you from the first instant I laid eyes on you—when you walked into my mother’s drawing room—although I admit it took me a little while to realize what it was I felt, and by then, I was too deeply enthralled to retreat. Put simply, I didn’t want to.”
His eyes had remained steady on hers throughout his revelations, allowing her to confirm that all he was saying was the truth.
Stacie gnawed her lower lip. One thing she knew about love was that, once it bit, it never, ever, let go. If he truly was in love with her—as she was with him…
He glanced at his fingers on the keys, then looked up and, again, met her eyes; this time, his gaze held a challenge. “What would have happened if I’d confessed at the time that I loved you?”
“I wouldn’t have married you.” The truth fell from her lips without thought.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 35
