What had my response been then?
He was quite sure he had not felt such a jittery energy inside him after meeting his first betrothed. Their meeting had felt businesslike and formal. But with Miss Deborah Wilds, things had been different.
There was a sparkle to Deborah that her sister had not possessed. Once her nerves had begun to settle, Leonard had seen a sharp-witted and clever young lady, whom he longed to know more about.
They had spent the afternoon telling each other of their hobbies, their passions, their pasts. She had gifted him with warm smiles that had made his heart swell. Her cheeks had been so endearingly flushed he had found his mind drifting forwards to their wedding night. What a joy it would be to see those cheeks flush beneath his touch. Three hours had slipped by without him having any thought of it. Leonard couldn’t deny there was a feeling of anticipation inside him that had not been there the day he had met Miss Edith Wilds.
“Miss Wilds is well,” he told his mother evenly. “Our meeting was most pleasant. I enjoyed it very much.”
His mother clasped both of her hands around one of his. “I’m so glad to hear that, Leonard. So very glad.”
He hesitated. “It’s just…”
His mother frowned. “It’s just what?”
Leonard slid off his greatcoat and scarf and handed them to their butler. “I think very highly of Miss Wilds, Mother,” he said carefully, “but I can’t help feeling a little uncomfortable at the whole situation.”
“Uncomfortable? Why?”
He let out a small sigh. “I was to be married to Edith Wilds. And now Deborah Wilds is to take her place. You don’t think it a little odd?”
“Odd?” his mother replied. “Certainly not. You’re a fine young gentleman, Leonard. Kind and honorable and loving. Not to mention, a Duke. Lord Chilson is no doubt honored to have you as part of his family.”
Leonard winced. “But Edith… She—”
“Edith’s death was a tragedy,” his mother cut in. “But life goes on. And what better way for Viscount Chilson and his family to move past their grief than by celebrating the marriage of their youngest daughter?”
Leonard nodded acceptingly, knowing he’d get no more from his mother. But as he climbed upstairs to his office, the thought weighed heavily on his mind. Miss Edith Wilds’ death was far more than a tragedy, he knew well. No sudden illness, or dreadful accident.
Miss Edith Wilds had taken her own life. And Leonard had no choice but to ask himself why.
Chapter 2
Deborah found herself walking across the grounds of her father’s manor, a chaos of conflicting thoughts charging through her mind. The grounds were deserted, the gardener having finished his work hours ago, the cold wind ensuring the rest of the household was safely tucked away inside.
The trees at the edge of the property were blazing reds and oranges, a stark contrast to the gray blanket of sky. A squirrel darted across the grass in front of her before scampering up the nearest tree.
Deborah pulled her cloak tighter around her as the wind whipped across the garden. She lifted her face to the clouds, letting the stiff breeze disrupt her carefully styled hair.
Despite the cold, there was a warmth deep inside her. A warmth left by the Duke. The moment the Duke had left the manor, both her parents had come barreling into the parlor, eager to hear all that had transpired.
“She looks happy,” her mother had said.
“Indeed.” Her father reached out and squeezed his daughter’s wrist, which Deborah knew was his way of showing how much he cared for her. “You enjoyed your meeting with the Duke then, my dear?” He looked at her expectantly, his cheeks pink. Her father was always impeccably neat, but he seemed to have made a particular effort for the Duke. He wore his finest blue and silver waistcoat and matching cravat, and she was certain his gray hair had been trimmed for the occasion.
Deborah knew there was color in her cheeks and light in her eyes. Knew the attraction she felt for the Duke was splashed all over her face. His Grace had left her heart thudding, her cheeks hot. Had filled her with an unplaceable ache she could neither explain nor define. She only knew she needed to see him again. And soon.
“Yes, Father,” she had said, as evenly as possible. “I enjoyed our meeting very much.”
These feelings felt like something of a betrayal. Though Edith had been gone for near on three years, she still felt close. Though her rational mind knew it was foolish, Deborah couldn’t help but feel that she was letting herself fall for her sister’s betrothed.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to force the thoughts from her head. She knew how lucky she was to be marrying a gentleman to whom she felt such an attraction. Already, so many of her friends had been wed to husbands they cared little for. They’d become third wives to aging barons, playthings for philandering earls.
And I am to marry a gentleman who makes my heart speed with longing. I cannot live my life carrying guilt at my feelings toward him.
Deborah quickened her pace across the grounds, her boots sinking into the muddy grass. She stopped walking when she reached the family cemetery that lay in one corner of the property.
The graveyard was carefully maintained, with the grass trimmed neatly between the evenly spaced headstones. Some of the graves were ancient, marking the resting places of ancestors Deborah knew only by name. Then there were extended family members who had passed within her lifetime; uncles and aunts and grandparents. And among them all was Edith.
Deborah wove slowly through the graves to find her sister’s. Her headstone was the newest, the cleanest, the one festooned with the most flowers. The pink petals were bright against the dreary late afternoon.
Deborah knelt beside the grave. How desperately she missed her sister. With just two years between them, she and Edith had always been close. As children, they had shared everything. Had taken turns sleeping in each other’s beds, whispering to each other about their dreams and loves and fears, until they fell into exhausted sleep. They had always been the best of friends.
But after her eighteenth birthday, Edith’s personality had begun to change. In the months before her death, she had become secretive and closed off. Had built an impenetrable wall around herself that not even Deborah could penetrate.
Deborah had tried to convince herself it was little more than a passing phase. Something was bothering Edith, of course she could see that, but she had felt sure that it would pass. Felt sure that her sunny, loving sister would one day be returned to her.
But then came that dreadful day that had changed Deborah’s life forever.
A scream from the garden. The maid running into the house. And then her mother’s anguished cries echoing up the staircase.
Deborah had stood in her bedroom, her stomach turning, too afraid to venture out into the house. Too afraid to discover what had made her mother so wild with grief.
Her father had come to her bedroom, his face ashen. “Your sister is dead.”
Deborah had heard the words but had been unable to register their meaning. Edith, dead? Such a thing did not seem possible. How could Edith be gone? How could Deborah live in a world without her sister in it?
Edith had taken the pistol from her father’s desk drawer and pulled the trigger on herself beneath the apple tree in the manor’s orchard. She had left no note, no explanation. Had left nothing but endless questions.
Overcome with grief, Deborah had found herself raking through the possibilities. She and her sister had the most luxurious, privileged of upbringings. They had wanted for nothing. What could possibly have happened to make her sister feel she had no option but to end her life?
Edith’s suicide had come less than a fortnight after her betrothal to the Duke. Surely it was not the prospect of becoming his wife that had led her to do as she had?
At the time, Deborah had considered the possibility only fleetingly. The Duke was a kind, wonderful young gentleman. Even if Edith had not loved him, surely her impending marriage to him w
ould not have driven Edith to suicide.
No. Deborah had been certain of it then and was even more certain of it now. Her sister’s strained behavior had begun weeks before their father had announced her betrothal. The Duke, she knew instinctively, was not to blame.
Deborah hugged her knees, feeling the damp earth soak through her skirts.
“Why?” she remembered asking her father tearfully, over and over. “Why, Father? Why would she do such a thing?”
Melancholy, her father had said. Inexplicable sadness.
But of course, the Viscount had not known Edith’s reasons any more than anyone else. No doubt he had needed to cobble together an explanation to stem his own tide of grief. Needed a reason to give some meaning to what felt like a senseless act.
The Viscount’s explanation had never sat right with Deborah. Edith had never had a melancholic disposition. At least not until those few months before her death. No, there was more to her sister’s death than a mere melancholic episode, Deborah was sure.
But what?
She had been wrestling with this question for the past three years. Over the past year, she had begun to resign herself to the fact that she might never know the truth. But then her father had announced that she herself was to become the Duchess of Tarsington. She was to take the place that ought to have been her sister’s.
The announcement had re-sparked Deborah’s need for answers. And so had today’s meeting with the Duke. Her afternoon with the Duke had made Deborah happier than she had been in three years. At least, until the guilt had taken over.
She brought her knees to her chest and stared at her sister’s headstone. “Edith,” she said aloud, “I need answers. What happened to you? Why did you do this?”
Silence, of course. Nothing but the wind sighing through the grass. Deborah closed her eyes.
“I need answers,” she said again, pressing a hand to the cold stone and closing her eyes so she might picture Edith’s face. “I need to understand.”
Chapter 3
That night, Deborah waited until the house was quiet. She lay on her bed staring up at the ceiling, listening to the creaks and groans as the household shifted and settled with the night. Finally, when silence fell over the old building, she lit the candle on her nightstand and slipped out of bed.
She pushed open the door of her bedroom and stepped out into the passage. The orange glow of her candle sent shadows bouncing across the walls. The scent of melted wax lingered in the hall. Deborah stepped slowly down the passage, soundless on her bare feet.
After Edith’s death, the Viscountess had left her daughter’s room untouched. She forbade everyone from entering, even the housekeepers. Even her husband. As far as Deborah knew, it was the only thing her mother had ever asked of the Viscount. She knew her mother would be furious if she caught Deborah inside Edith’s room. But she had no choice. She needed answers. Perhaps her mother had already searched Edith’s room, looking for answers. Deborah knew it likely.
But where else am I to begin looking?
As she approached the room at the end of the hall, Deborah’s heart began to thunder. Part fear of being caught, yes, but there was more. How would she react when she stepped inside her sister’s room for the first time since her death? Would the weight of that grief she had only recently begun to crawl out from crush her again?
Perhaps. But I need to do this.
She held her breath as she pushed open the door. Candlelight flickered over the room Deborah had once known so well. The large canopied bed stood in the middle of the room, its curtains tied back with silky blue ribbon. A dressing table stood against one wall, a padded window seat against another.
Deborah lifted the candle, shining the light around the room. She felt an ache in her chest. How many hours had she spent in here, playing dolls and tenpins and knucklebones with her sister? Sudden tears escaped down her cheeks and she pushed them away hurriedly.
Drawing in a breath to steady herself, Deborah sat the candle on the small table beside Edith’s bed. Long shadows lay across the room. For a moment, Deborah was a child again, huddled in the canopied bed with Edith, listening to her sister tell ghost stories by flickering candlelight.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the enormous wardrobe, the drawers beneath the dressing table, the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
What am I even looking for?
She had not thought of it, but the act of beginning this search for answers, Deborah realized, had begun to still that guilt that had taken root within her the moment the Duke had stepped through the parlor door.
With no idea of where to begin, Deborah pulled open the wardrobe, lifting the candle to light the yawning darkness within. Inside, Edith’s gowns were hung neatly, along with her favourite blue cloak and embroidered pink shawl. Deborah had borrowed the shawl on many occasions. But she had not dared wear it since her sister’s death. It felt wrong somehow. Disrespectful.
The sight of the neatly hung clothing made her heart lurch. She rifled through the rack, pushing the gowns aside, searching. Searching for what? She didn’t know. She could only assume that when she found something of importance, she would know it.
Finding nothing of interest hanging in the wardrobe, she knelt to examine the shoes lined up neatly in pairs. It occurred to Deborah that she did not expect to find anything of value here among Edith’s shoes and gowns. She just wanted to feel close to her sister.
She went to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a hairbrush, and a novel with the bookmark still in place. Deborah lifted it out of the drawer and opened it. The words swam in front of her tired eyes.
Had Edith been reading this in the days before she had died?
Had she tried to lose herself in a world of story so she might forget the whatever horrors were haunting her reality?
She closed the book, running a finger over its soft leather cover.
“Why?” she said under her breath. It was a question she had asked herself so many times. “Why, Edith?”
Deborah sighed heavily. Her eyes were stinging with exhaustion and her legs were aching. She needed to sleep. Her emotions were getting the better of her. If she stayed searching any longer, she would likely disturb something and someone would catch her in here. Whatever secrets Edith had would remain hidden tonight. Deborah took the candle and tiptoed back toward the hallway, careful to leave the room just as she had found it.
Chapter 4
Leonard could tell Miss Deborah Wilds had something on her mind. He guessed it was the same thing he had on his mind.
Miss Edith Wilds.
This was the third time he had met with Miss Wilds, and not once had either of them said a word about her late sister. On several occasions, Leonard had debated whether or not to raise the topic. It needed to be spoken of. Needed to be addressed. In the end, he had decided against it. He had no idea of how raw her sister’s death still was for Miss Wilds. And he had no desire to upset Miss Wilds by forcing her to discuss painful topics.
Perhaps she will discuss her sister when she is ready.
Today, they had taken a walk along the river. After a morning of rain, the sky had cleared to a fierce blue, the water churning noisily beside them.
He and Miss Wilds walked close together, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Her touch was achingly pleasant. It made his mind drift. Made him long for more.
Leonard dared a sideways glance at the young lady who was to be his wife. How beautiful she was in her own, understated way. He could see glimpses of her sister in her if he searched for them, but Leonard had no desire to search. He didn’t want to see Edith. He wanted only to see Deborah.
Today, her pale hair was pinned neatly beneath her bonnet, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose clearly visible in the bright sunlight. How utterly endearing those freckles were. Leonard was glad she had not tried to cover them with powder or creams. He fought back a sudden urge to touch them.
The thought of running a finger alo
ng Miss Deborah Wilds’ freckled cheek sent Leonard’s mind cartwheeling. His attraction to Deborah had been there from the beginning. So far, he had done his best to keep it in check.
This betrothal was a delicate situation, one that would be far easier to handle without the added pressure of battling errant urges. But now those urges were beginning to rear their heads. Now he was imagining the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Imagining its creamy white beneath the layers of her cloak and gown. Imagining how her breath might quicken if he were to trace his fingertips over every inch of her.
Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2
