The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

  Katherine’s eyes widened. She ran a loving finger over her brother’s image, then handed the pad back to me. “You love him,” she wrote in the pad.

  I couldn’t deny it. I nodded.

  She shook her head sadly, then wrote again. “You are cursed.”

  She dashed into the house, and I ran after her. “Katherine, wait,” I shouted, forgetting in my need to stop her that she couldn’t hear me. We bounded through the solarium and into the foyer, where Katherine came to an abrupt halt. I nearly ran into her. Mr. Simons stood in the foyer.

  “Katherine.” With her name on his lips, he sounded as if he’d been granted his greatest wish in life.

  Katherine shook her head and stepped back, bumping into me.

  She turned to look at me, her eyes wide and tragic. She looked back at Mr. Simons, then doubled over as if in pain.

  Mr. Simons caught her shoulders, keeping her upright, making her face him.

  The moment was so emotionally intense, I had to turn away from them, give them whatever privacy they needed. I went directly to the library and shut the door.

  But I found I wasn’t alone. I smelled his scent first.

  Benedict, dressed in tan riding breeches and a loose white shirt, lay impossibly wedged on a small sofa, one leg bent at the knee and planted on the floor, the other sticking off the end. A book rested on his chest. One arm was thrown over his eyes; the other hung off the side, his hand lax upon the floor. The deep, even rhythm of his breathing told me he was asleep.

  I didn’t move. I barely breathed. I didn’t want to do anything that might wake him. Since Robert’s illness, he’d been looking more and more tired every day, as if his nights were as restless as mine. My gaze ran down his form, committing every nuance of his male contours to my memory. His broad chest and shoulders seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world, but I’d seen them bent in worry and grief. I knew a mortal man lay beneath his heroic stance. And that human vulnerability made him that much more dear to my heart. His hands, more than ample enough to cause harm, had tendered only gentleness. His legs, the long sinewy length of them, made me ache to feel them against mine, to be once again trapped against his study door with the hardness of his male arousal insistently pressing against me, making me want what no proper spinster should ever consider. The key to the secret passage hung in the balance between my breasts.

  I longed to go to him in the restless mists of the midnight hours. It was as if no armor of practicality could protect me, nor threat of ruin dissuade me. I yearned to hold him within my arms as a woman holds a man more than anything else, and I felt I’d go mad for the want of him. I should leave Trevelyan Manor, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. So I stayed trapped, yearning, and yet knowing I could never have him.

  Some women in the West were known to reach out and take what they wanted from life, whether what they wanted was in the bounds of propriety or not. I wished I were such a woman, at least just long enough to hold the man I’d grown to love.

  Suddenly I tensed and tingled. My gaze darted up his body and met his. Heat and fire slammed into me with the force of a train at full speed. We stared at each other. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us had to. We both well knew the hot iron of desire branding us. He’d moved his arm up, just enough to watch me look at him. No heated blushes stung my cheeks. No oh-my gasps escaped my lips. I’d moved beyond that. I stood before him as a woman ready for a man, but the gap between us was too great a distance ever to cross. I turned my back to him and quit the room.

  The moment I shut the door, I ran, my courage fading as I wondered if he’d pursue me, since I’d so boldly gazed upon him. I headed blindly for the day parlor, where our sign language lessons were usually held. Dobbs appeared out of nowhere. One moment my path was clear; next I had barreled into him, and we both went sprawling right into the suit of armor, which promptly toppled over. I’d never heard such a clattering din in all my life as the armor bounced over the marble.

  Dobbs sat up, so utterly flabbergasted that he just looked about his wrecked foyer, speechless. Benedict came barreling out of the library. Justin, Robert, and Mr. Simons dashed into the room from the parlor. Stephen came flying down the stairs, and Mr. Henderson came in the front door with Constance at his side. I kept my composure, determined not to give in to the hysteria of laughter boiling in my stomach. But when Cook Thomas came to a skidding stop, his hat askew and a spoon dripping gravy clutched in his hand, I couldn’t hold my mirth back any longer. “Mr. Dobbs…you…really need to…watch where…I am going.”

  “Watch where you are going!” Dobbs sputtered, his hair sticking straight out in undignified tufts.

  Stephen started laughing, and everyone there succumbed to the hilarity one by one. Robert, Cook Thomas, Mr. Henderson, Mr. Simons, Benedict, Constance, and then, God bless my soul, Justin too. Whatever my dignity suffered, it was worth the price, though I’m not sure Dobbs would ever forgive me. I looked up at the stained glass, feeling the warm dots of color dance over me. Hope for a happy future filled my breast.

  It took quite a while to settle down to our sign language lesson, but we eventually did so. Stephen and Constance joined us again. This time Constance didn’t seem as determined to attract Mr. Simons’s attention; she appeared distracted. I know I was. I kept wondering what the outcome of Katherine and Mr. Simons’s encounter had been. Although it would be highly forward and completely improper, I decided that, if after the lesson, opportunity shone my way, I’d ask Mr. Simons about Katherine.

  Timing handed me a golden opportunity. The boys went to Cook Thomas for lunch. Constance received a summons from Benedict’s mother, and Stephen had something to give Mr. Simons and ran back to his room to get it.

  I delved right in before I could change my mind. “Forgive this intrusion, Mr. Simons, but about you and Katherine…I care a great deal for her and can’t help but see her pain. Nor can I find the strength to ignore yours. Is there more that stands between you than her fears of not being a good mother and her concern for her family?”

  “No.” He fisted his hands, his anger catching me by surprise. “If there were any way to change her mind, I would move heaven or hell to make her my wife.”

  “Does she know you love her that much?” I asked softly, wondering how Katherine could deny herself so great a love.

  “She knows,” he said tightly.

  “I am sorry. I know she loves you.”

  “Not enough,” he said, his anger spilling into an almost hopeless tone.“She does not love me enough to come to me no matter what.” He sounded as Benedict had, saying that little Robert would die, that the doctor said there was nothing left to do.

  “No,” I said firmly, standing up and pacing across the room. “Maybe she does not know. Maybe you have not shouted it loud enough from the treetops. Maybe you have not lain siege to her self-imposed prison. Maybe you have not shown her the depth of your love. Maybe you have accepted the fate that she believes, so she sees no other future.”

  I quite lost myself in my supposing and came to a startled stop in the middle of the room. My speech must have been rather impassioned, because Mr. Simons was looking at me, completely surprised.

  “Bravo, Miss Ann.” Stephen stood in the doorway, clapping. “You wield a sharp sword. The Trevelyans’ very own avenging angel. May nothing stand in your way until you slay all the beasts lurking within our lives.”He turned to Mr. Simons. “Anthony, I think we need to do some strategy planning. Since Katherine will not let down her hair, there must be another way up to her tower.”

  “Then, gentlemen, I leave you to it.” I quit the room, wondering if I weren’t already going mad. I didn’t quite know what to make of myself. I didn’t seem to be the same woman who’d torn the employment notice from the window of Mr. McGuire’s Bookstore. Or maybe I was.

  The time for my riding lesson approached, and I promptly made my way to the stables. It was late afternoon. I’d finished with the boys’ lessons, and left them with Stephen
for horsey rides and a chess game. A lively wind whipped up from the bay with enough gusto to steal away the scent of the roses from the garden, leaving behind a briny smell that spoke of seaweed and salt and sailors. As I neared the stables, I could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance and the neighs of horses romping in the pasture behind the stables. Excitement pranced in the air and in my breast, and it wasn’t the prospect of riding on the horse that had my heart dancing. Other than that brief moment in the library when I’d come upon Benedict sleeping, we hadn’t been alone together since before I fell ill. We weren’t going to be exactly alone today, but last I heard, the only tales horses carried were those firmly attached to their rears.

  There were a number of things Benedict and I needed to talk about, and I had already made up my mind that if we argued about them and this led to his becoming aroused— well, so be it. I rather enjoyed his study door at my back— among other things.

  Benedict, holding Gunnlod’s reins, walked from the stable as I approached.

  “Right on time, Miss Lovell,” he said, his voice as cool as the breeze. If it weren’t for the way his heated gaze took its sweet time rising up my body, I might have thought I’d imagined his heated look from the library sofa. “I have Gunnlod ready, so we can start immediately. Now, do you remember how to mount?”

  I blinked. This rushed, businesslike interaction wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured our lesson. I furrowed my brow, wondering with no small amount of irritation what had him on edge.

  “Of course, I remember,” I said. At his motion, I set my boot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and slid gracefully into the sidesaddle. He adjusted the stirrups quickly and handed me the reins.

  “The next step is up to you. The best way to ride is to feel. Tune your body to the movements of the horse. I am going to walk beside you and guide Gunnlod. I want you to shut your eyes and tell me what you feel as you ride.”

  He led Gunnlod to the copse of woods away from the manor, his strong hand clasping the leather strap of Gunnlod’s bridle just below her ear. He was close enough that my skirts brushed his arm and his side. My gaze drifted across his broad shoulders, seeing the play of muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and my hands itched to feel the fabric. To feel him.

  “Miss Lovell, I believe I asked you to shut your eyes.”

  I snapped my eyes closed.“They are, Mr. Trevelyan.”

  “Now what do you feel?”

  Seeing as he was determined on this lesson, I concentrated on what he asked, surprised by the senses that seemed to take over now that I couldn’t see.“She walks with a steady motion.”

  “Good. Relax into the rhythm. Do not fight it. Let yourself become part of it. What else do you feel?”

  “Power.”

  “How can you guide that power the way you want to go?”

  I opened my eyes.“I am not sure what you mean.”

  “The reins, Miss Lovell. You hold them. You are in control.”

  We were out of sight of the house, upon a path shaded with trees that shielded us from the bay breezes. Late-afternoon sunshine dappled through the leaves with penetrating warmth.

  “Would you like me to show you how, Miss Lovell?”

  I nodded, and he brought Gunnlod to a stop.

  “Then shut your eyes again.”

  I shut them.“I am ready.”

  I felt his arm across my leg one moment, and the next he’d swung up behind me on the horse. His chest pressed to my back, and his arms came around mine as he slid his hands over my hands. I kept my eyes shut, not daring to open them, lest I break the spell that had him so very close to me.

  “Ride with me,” he said softly. His voice was deep and smooth against my ear and rumbled along my back through his chest. His thigh brushed mine as he urged Gunnlod into motion, and I opened my eyes, feeling a new world unfold before me. Minutes later we cleared the trees to a hilly stretch of grass that slowly sloped to the deep blue of the bay. He pushed Gunnlod into a canter, and we went racing across the turf. I could feel it all. The power. The freedom. The excitement. Experiencing the exhilaration within the safety of his arms made me feel as if heaven had reached down and carried me to the stars. He stopped on a knoll, and one of his hands left mine to curl around my stomach and press me tighter against him. His lips brushed over my ear.

  “God help me, Titania. I can do naught else but fall beneath the spell you cast.”

  I leaned into him, turning my head to his questing lips. His mouth covered mine, his kiss demanding as his tongue sought to ease his burning need. Fire flared between us, insistent, desperate to feed its licking flames with my very soul. He leaned me back against his arm, urging me around on the sidesaddle’s seat until I was completely sideways and could twist to press my breasts to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, eager to touch him, feel him, know every curve, every silken hair, every ripple of muscle, every difference that made him a man.

  One of his hands supported my back, and the other cupped my breast, spreading sweet fire to my loins. I moaned, arching to him, needing so much more than this embrace could give me. I slid my hand down his chest, pressing and kneading the contours of his chest and abdomen, moving down until I brushed his hard arousal. He groaned harshly, jerking as if he’d been shot.

  “Every night I long for you,” he said.

  I placed my hand over his heart, absorbing its thundering beat.“And I you. It is most disconcerting to know that I care for naught else but your kiss, your arms, your love.” My body froze. Love? I’d not meant to reveal my heart to him. Not ever.

  He pulled away from me, groaning as if I’d stuck a dagger into him. I had to grab the saddle horn to stay upright.

  “I am sorry,” he said, moving back and sliding from the horse. As before, he kept his back to me, breathing deep, ragged breaths.

  This couldn’t be happening again. He couldn’t be shutting me out as he had before. I refused to go back to being Miss Lovell in private.

  “What is it?” I demanded. “What is it that drives you away from me?”

  “Honor. What little I have left of it.”

  “But why? Is there not honor in love?”

  He turned to me.“Do you understand that I cannot offer you love? The shadow of my wife’s death hovers over my life. The world sees me as a murderer, and it is a burden I cannot allow any other to bear.” His eyes were stark, burning coals that were turning to hopeless ashes.

  “But the inquest ruled your wife’s death a suicide.” Though I knew that Francesca had been murdered, I found myself searching for ways to prove him innocent and to prove it to the world. Why wasn’t he trying to prove to the world his innocence?

  “The court ruled what I paid them to decree. Did you know that the rich can buy justice, Titania?” His voice rang bitterly.“The only thing I cannot buy is innocence.”

  Buy innocence? The blood drained from my head, rushing to my heart to keep it beating. Only one who was guilty would need to purchase that. Had he truly had a hand in his wife’s murder? No. I knew that he hadn’t. So who needed innocence? Then it hit me. Benedict wasn’t trying to prove his innocence because he was protecting someone else. Someone he loved and felt responsible for. Who? Stephen? His mother? Katherine?

  Cursing, Benedict turned from me. Then he took up Gunnlod’s reins and walked back the way we’d come. We traveled in silence. I gripped the saddle horn with one hand. In the other, I pressed the secret passage’s key against my heart. I wanted to prove him innocent.

  For a man who claimed he didn’t run away from complexities, Benedict was very good at avoiding me. At least, avoiding being alone in my company. By Saturday morning, I deduced from the servants’ activities that Benedict was planning on leaving for a long business trip the next day.

  Part of me thought that his departure would be best. We both needed time to reclaim our sanity. But another, more truthful part of me dreaded his leaving.

  Longing for Benedict when he was gone
was more difficult than longing for him when he was near, for when he was near, I had hope, and the ever-growing choice of going to him. When he was gone, I had nothing. Rather than brood in my room all day, I made my way to town—more for the need to clear my head than for any errands I had to attend. It didn’t take me long to purchase the few items I needed; then I went to Mr. McGuire’s. As always, he was relieved and glad to see me. Neither of us had any new information about Francesca’s death, and I was reluctant to discuss the Trevelyan family too much. I feared my feelings for and involvement with Benedict would become too apparent.

  I didn’t want Mr. McGuire to learn that I’d been foolish enough to fall in love with the master of Trevelyan Hill. Nor did I want to hear another person claim him guilty. But Mr. McGuire noticed my distraction, my evasiveness about his inquiries, and several times I caught him looking at me with concern and a question heavier than he wanted to ask in his watery blue eyes. I decided not to linger for the tea he offered. I was glad to see he’d kept his promise and hired an assistant, though. Manuelo was a boy of no more than twelve, but eager to help and more than capable of moving Mr. McGuire’s cartons of books and climbing ladders.

  Upon leaving Mr. McGuire’s shop, I felt oddly strange, as if I’d lost my hold on something precious, but I refused to examine myself too closely. I didn’t want to see anything that would sway me from the path I’d chosen. I went to the florist, deciding the single bloom that I could afford to buy more decorous than a handful of wildflowers. I bought two blooms at the last minute, deciding to place one on Francesca’s grave for Robert and Justin.

  At the cemetery, I stopped suddenly and ducked back into the shadows when I saw Constance at her sister’s grave. Her voice drifted my way. She was talking to her sister as if her sister sat beside her, discussing a day of shopping. She held up a scarf, modeled it, then drew a hat from a box and put it on, asking Francesca what she thought of the combination. Constance had said that when she shopped, she shopped for her sister, too. Grief had many faces, and I was learning that some of them were very strange indeed. I left without her seeing me; some moments weren’t meant to be disturbed.