Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  The guilt was still there, of course, but not as sharp as it had been. He’d apologized and made generous monetary settlements to all the injured parties and survivors; perhaps that would have to be enough.

  He couldn’t change the past no matter how much he wanted to.

  However, he had some say over the future, and he wasn’t going to take advantage of Nicola. He needed to respect himself; it was hard enough to hold his thoughts together as it was. Jack was only beginning to come to terms with what had happened, but if he overstepped—

  The nightmares might never cease, and he would earn every one of them.

  Nicola was vulnerable. Isolated with her disability. It was natural that she would look for affection—she was alone in this odd place, missing her family.

  Trouble was, he had affection for her, and wanted it to be more. Wanted, to be honest, to have sexual congress with her as much as she appeared to want to with him. One simple kiss told him that, though there was nothing simple about kissing Nicola at all. He’d never experienced the like.

  She was a proper young woman, and deserved more than a quick improper tumble. She deserved a better man than Jack. One who was not distracted and lost in panicked dreams half the time. One not crippled by guilt.

  Damn it.

  “We cannot, Nicola,” he said gently.

  That foot came down again, along with a flash of anger in her blue eyes. Why not?

  “Look, I like you very much. More than like, I think. I am honored you like me enough to even contemplate such a…” What to call it? “Thing.” It was the best he could do.

  “Believe me, nothing would suit me more if we came to know each other better. You make me feel, oh, I don’t know, more comfortable than I’ve been in months. I enjoy your company.” He touched her lower lip. “I enjoy your kisses.”

  So what is your objection?

  “I’m not a good bargain right at the moment. You must know that, or I wouldn’t be here in Puddling.”

  What had he told her? That something bad had happened. Maybe he should be more explicit.

  Jack took a deep breath and a step back. “I am responsible for a railway accident that resulted in the death of two men. Countless injuries as well. I—I haven’t been able to sleep much since. I wasn’t there, but saw the photographs, the train cars dangling from the bridge. The spilled suitcases. The…the carnage. I can’t get the images out of my mind no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

  Her face turned as white as the sheet that had covered the potting bench. She dropped the red pencil and it rolled beneath the piano.

  What could she write anyway that would make either of them feel better? The horror was written all over her face.

  If she’d had any desire for him, it was thoroughly scotched now.

  But honesty was the best policy. Or at least that’s what the vicar and the doctor tried to drum into him every chance they got. Jack was to face the past head-on, assume ownership, make amends, move on.

  It was the moving on part that he was having so much trouble with.

  “A foundry I owned cast bridge girders that failed. The flaw in the material was never noticed during construction—I was much too busy doing other things to pay close attention, and the people I placed my trust in were in the end not so trustworthy. They were careless, cut corners, which I would have known if I had supervised the company more closely. It’s taught me a hard lesson—one has limited resources in life. Only so much control. Only so much time. I’ve narrowed my focus, but can’t help feeling it’s too late sometimes.”

  Nicola’s paleness was alarming. He really should go—he’d said too much already. Honesty might not be the best policy in this case, and he was only digging his hole deeper. But he kept rambling.

  “So, you see why I can’t begin a serious relationship until I sort myself out. I don’t think I have the patience to remain in Puddling, but when I’m better—when I don’t have this cloud hanging over me—I would very much like to pay my addresses to you. That is, court you. Get to know you better, even if nothing comes of it. I don’t care if you don’t ever speak another word. I mean, of course I do for your sake, but I like you just as you are.”

  He was making a terrible mess of this confession, had never felt less articulate in his life. It wasn’t quite a marriage proposal—at least he hadn’t been entirely ridiculous. Nicola’s lips had lost all their color and he was very much afraid she was about to faint. He touched her elbow to guide her to the sofa, and she flinched.

  Yes, he definitely should go. So much for courting.

  “Never mind me—I don’t expect you to understand. I hardly understand myself. Thank you for a lovely Christmas lunch. It’s late. Dark. I’ll just take my silly tree back, shall I? You don’t want something so unsightly spoiling the looks of your parlor.”

  He’d wanted to make those clever Japanese shapes out of paper for it, but there hadn’t been time, not to mention he’d pounded his thumb once too often hanging cupboards in Primrose Cottage and his dexterity was off. Jack wondered who the next poor victim would be to move in and enjoy the fresh scent of new wood and the dubious benefits of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation.

  All he knew is that he would be leaving once arrangements could be made—perhaps tomorrow or the next day. He couldn’t stay in the village and know that Nicola held him in disgust.

  He’d never forget the look on her face.

  His overcoat hung on a hook in the hall. Shrugging into it, he returned for the tree and found Nicola twisting an uneven metal bow.

  “Don’t! You’ll cut your finger.”

  She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her what happened, and continued to bend the wire.

  Did she understand? She should be grateful, not offended, for his refusal of her ill-advised offer. She must know that, tempting as she was, he was still clinging to a thread of gentlemanly behavior. When she woke up tomorrow, she’d feel nothing but relief.

  He was unreliable, and she needed more.

  Jack bent over to pick up the red pencil. Nicola took it and dropped it into her pocket, making no effort to write anything in her notebook.

  “Well, I’ll be leaving then. Happy Christmas.”

  She met his gaze. No more tears; that was a good sign. She would soon forget about him, their strange winter interlude an amusing anecdote if she ever felt the need to discuss Puddling with anyone. Jack was sure that she would talk one day, and was sorry her words wouldn’t be for him.

  He clasped the bucket to his chest and was nearly poked in the eye by a branch. The blasted thing probably would die, being uprooted in the dead of winter. Just another victim of Jack’s mad ideas. He really should know better by now.

  He’d more or less said good-bye. Why was he still standing here?

  “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and the pencil and notebook came out of her pocket.

  I am not angry.

  “Good. I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you, just the situation. You are much better off without me.”

  You don’t like yourself much.

  “Why—” He halted before he could argue. He’d never given the idea of liking himself much thought before. One didn’t go about thinking of one’s good and bad points all the time, at least if one was sober. But it was true that since the accident he’d been much more self-critical, which was only natural, wasn’t it?

  “I don’t hate myself,” he said finally.

  You said you feel guilty.

  “Well, of course I do.”

  How could you have prevented the accident?

  An excellent question, one he’d asked himself for nine months. He’d been unable to give an answer.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her brow was furrowed as she continued to write. You can’t control everything. Yo
u said so yourself. Some would say you can’t control anything. She underlined anything twice.

  “Are we talking about fate again? For I must tell you, I am a rational man. Usually. Of course, we have control over certain circumstances. Free will. We make choices.”

  This conversation was becoming suspiciously serious. But if Nicola didn’t like him at all, she wouldn’t bother writing in her notebook, a look of concentration on her face, her pink tongue protruding a bit from between her lips.

  The doctors say there is no physical reason for my silence. Am I just choosing not to talk?

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  None of this makes sense. Some things just…don’t.

  No truer words were ever written.

  Chapter 13

  Nicola was surprised she was still standing upright and making “conversation” with Jack. After the shock she’d just received, she should be lying on the sofa with a bottle of smelling salts at the very least.

  Heretofore, she’d never given much thought to coincidences. Or kismet, for that matter. But she was in Puddling because of the railway accident, and so, it seemed, was Jack.

  She didn’t dare tell him—she’d already been enough of a fool inviting him to her bed. He had refused her, as a gentleman of his caliber should. She could blame the liquor-soaked fruitcake for her unseemly offer, but knew in her heart she would have made advances toward him anyhow if she’d never touched a brandied bite. Kissing him had unlocked something within her that she really didn’t want to shove back into a dark corner. Nicola felt alive, prickly with desire, ready to cast away twenty-six years of modesty.

  However, he was not smitten enough to abandon his principles. Nicola should be grateful, but wasn’t. The cloud, as he called it, prevented him from living his life.

  Jack felt the accident was his fault, which was ridiculous. He didn’t pour the iron into the forms personally. He didn’t erect the girders. It’s not as if he drove the train over the unsound bridge determined to kill all the passengers.

  It was an accident. A mistake. People made them all the time. Governments too. The world was a dangerous place, and no one in it was perfect.

  How could she help him see that?

  She had not once held any one person responsible for the train wreck. How could she? A number of unfortunate events had collided, and she was simply one unlucky bystander. Nicola might have left London a day early or a day later. She didn’t blame herself for making the choice she had. There was no point in trying to change history, wondering “what if.” It wasn’t as though she’d intended the present outcome.

  Nor had Jack. He was torturing himself over something he’d ultimately had no control over.

  She could write him a letter, if she managed to organize her thoughts. If she spoke, it would be even better. That might be months, or, God forbid, years from now.

  Damn. This was so frustrating! She vowed to do all the breathing exercises before bed. To imagine she was at a dinner table asking for the potatoes to be passed. To shout out a warning to a child who chased a ball into the street. To order Tippy not to jump on the gentleman’s trousers. Silly scenarios, all, but much of life was made up of the mundane.

  Jack still stood in his coat, holding the disastrously decorated shrub. Nicola didn’t want him to leave—she should be mortified or embarrassed, but somehow wasn’t.

  Don’t go.

  Jack lowered his eyes to the absurd tree. “I cannot…do as you asked. Though I’m very flattered.”

  Never mind about that. I was stupid to have suggested such a thing, and hope you will forgive me. I treasure our friendship too much to spoil it. I shall play for you and you can relax. She made a great show of striking out the five desperate words she had written, then tore the whole page out for good measure.

  “Play?”

  My piano. Put that plant down and sit.

  Nicola knew she was being bossy, but she wasn’t ready to face the evening alone. She crumpled those damning words and tossed the paper into the fire, then spread her skirts on the piano bench. After a few moments, Jack set the bucket back on top of the piano, took off his overcoat, and went to the sofa.

  “I’ve heard you before, when I’ve been out walking. You have real talent.”

  Her music had been everything to her since the accident. It was the one thing that proved she was still the same person, not the silent diminished creature that drove people away from her.

  She acknowledged his compliment with a shrug and a smile, then set her fingers to the keys. She played from memory, a song she’d learned as a little girl from her first piano teacher. It had a simple refrain, yet she’d added chords and varied the tempo to make it her own. She moved on to another, then another, familiar old favorites that had kept her company for years.

  A quick look over her shoulder showed her that Jack’s eyes were closed. Perhaps he was asleep, and that was fine. He’d said he had trouble sleeping, and often looked on the edge of exhaustion, so if she could soothe him in any way, she would. They were linked together in their unhappiness.

  What would he do if he found out she was a victim of his firm’s carelessness? He had an over-keen sense of justice. Would he try to “save” her in some way? He was a gentleman.

  Would he go so far as to ask her to marry him, to somehow make up for his role in her failure to speak?

  Nicola didn’t want to be married out of pity or duty. She stumbled over the notes and forgot what came next. Her hands stilled on the keyboard, her brain reeling.

  Jack thought she had finished and clapped politely. “That was beautiful. I could listen all evening.”

  It was black as pitch outside now, the moon covered by clouds. It had been the oddest Christmas Day of her life, yet she would hold it in her heart forever.

  He rose from the sofa, looking comfortably rumpled. She had played for more than an hour, losing herself in the music. He had probably been bored to near death.

  He leaned over her as she sat frozen on the piano bench. “We are still friends, aren’t we?”

  Nicola nodded.

  “I had thought earlier—well, I wondered if I should leave Puddling, even before my time is up. I would hate to think you hold me in aversion because of what happened. With me refusing your generous offer. And the train accident too.”

  Idiot man. Did he think she went around inviting men to her bed because she disliked them? But she’d done that before he confessed why he was here. She’d been so stunned she had no idea how what her reaction had looked like or how he’d interpreted it. Nicola had felt faint at his news, had an ominous ringing in her ears, and had seen scattered black spots. She’d almost fallen down to the carpet. But he couldn’t see all that inner turmoil.

  She’d pricked her finger purposely on a sharp leaf to bring herself back to life, then coiled a bit of wire, arranging her face to be as smooth as an egg. He must not suspect what had caused the cessation of her speech, or his part in it.

  Truly, he had no part. Her problem was hers alone. But would he see it that way?

  She picked up her notebook. Don’t go, she wrote again.

  Don’t leave Puddling, she added to clarify. He had to go home to Tulip Cottage at some point. Nicola was worn out from her foray into the kitchen and trying to keep up with the Countess’s arch conversation, plus thinking so very hard through the music this past hour. She looked forward to going to bed, even if she would be alone in it.

  “I don’t know if it’s doing me much good. I have two more weeks of it. You’ve been here over two months—I cannot stay that long. I’ll go mad. Madder. More mad? I’ve lost my grammar here.” He gave a rueful grin.

  You are not mad.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. And thank you for everything else today. I…hold you in the highest esteem, Nicola. Please remember that.” He held his hand out to shake her
s.

  A handshake? A good-bye kiss would have been much better, but Jack was resisting temptation tonight. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. She drew him back into the kitchen pantry for the jar of peaches.

  His face lit. “You do know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll have to hide this from Mrs. Feather.”

  If he was going to get into trouble, she might as well make it worth it. Nicola held up a finger, then began to wrap up a few slices of ham, three leftover rolls, a thick wedge of cheese, and a slice of fruitcake. Tucking everything in a basket she hoped Mrs. Grace wouldn’t notice was missing, she handed it off to Jack.

  “You are an angel! Now I know what to have when I awaken at midnight. Which I probably will.” He sighed.

  Her fingers went involuntarily to his cheek. She stroked his beard, wishing she could comfort him somehow.

  But he wouldn’t let her. Wouldn’t engage in an affair that would bring relief to them both. She felt a flare of heat every time she saw him, and his kisses…well, they promised pleasure that she was quite unversed in. Nicola should thank him for guarding the virtue she was so hasty to get rid of, but was still a bit resentful of his superior control.

  She had two weeks to seduce him. Redeem him. There were four jars of peaches left on the pantry shelf, and they might come in handy. She would use every resource at her disposal.

  Chapter 14

  Her fingertips were on his face, soft pads of blissful solace. Jack wished he could invite her to touch him everywhere, but one of them had to be strong. Sensible.

  The latter word rarely applied to him. He was frequently off on a wild goose chase, lost in a conundrum, so absorbed in his work an elephant might sit down to take tea with him and he would pass the sugar without noticing.

  As she’d played, he’d closed his eyes and imagined himself in a different life, one that was uncomplicated by shadows or disaster. It was an altogether perfect if impossible daydream featuring a scantily clad Nicola and a bottle of French champagne. Perhaps two bottles, to be on the safe side. He moved them to a suite at an exclusive Parisian hotel for good measure, for the anonymity and amorous adventure. Things whispered in French were always more jolie, in Jack’s experience.