Be My Bride

by Regina Scott

  Justinian frowned at the display, although he was terribly tempted to laugh. “Have a room made up for Miss Brigid.”

  “My lord, I wouldn’t dream of imposing,” Eleanor began. She hadn’t stopped to think about where she’d sleep that night, but nothing short of a winter snowstorm would have compelled her to stay at Wenworth Place alone with him. Even if he didn’t remember her, her memories were still potent.

  “Nor would I dream of turning a lady out into a winter’s night,” Justinian countered. Sensing her reluctance, he forced himself to continue more gently. “Have no fear for your reputation. My mother lives here as well. Besides, I will not be able to entertain you. I have pressing matters I must attend to, as I mentioned. If I do not see you again, have a pleasant journey tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor managed, deciding to be relieved by the kind gesture. If she didn’t have to see him again, perhaps it might be all right to stay the night. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go.

  Justinian bowed and turned from her curtsey. However, grateful Miss Brigid might be, the fact of the matter was that she had handed him another problem, at least for the night. And he felt another premonition that she would be far more difficult to deal with than an aristocratic young kitten named Jingles.

  Chapter Three

  Morning would prove Justinian correct. He hadn’t even started on the blasted pile of papers when Faringil slipped into the room to stand rigidly behind him. It seemed that Miss Brigid was more ill than anyone had suspected, and Faringil was clearly concerned that she had brought some dire disease upon them that would decimate the entire area. Justinian had dispatched a footman for Dr. Praxton, who had arrived in due course.

  Justinian considered going up to see the woman himself, but thought she somehow wouldn’t appreciate a visit by the lord of the manor if she wasn’t feeling well. It was a rather cowardly excuse, but he kept thinking that if he could just get through a third of the papers that morning, he might be able to sneak away that afternoon and write. Jareth had sent him one of the recently published novels from London, which read like so much drivel that he itched to try his hand at something finer. Not that he’d ever go so far as to admit to anyone but his scapegrace youngest brother that he was writing a novel in the manner of Walter Scott. A Darby didn’t parade anything so common as artistic abilities in public. No, he crafted his stories in the library’s quiet, assuring himself that the work had literary merit. Hoping to finish soon enough to write, he plunged into the report on the state of the levees.

  Unfortunately, after only three pages, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, warning him that he was not alone.

  “Yes?” Justinian clipped, hoping the tone of his voice would let Faringil know that the interruption was unwanted.

  “Pardon me, my lord.”

  “What is it?” Justinian demanded.

  “Dr. Praxton would like to speak with you.”

  “Then send him in,” Justinian replied. He lowered his eyes, scanning the page to find where he left off. Faringil did not move. “Well?” Justinian snapped.

  “He’s with Miss Brigid, my lord. He would like you to come there.”

  Justinian rolled his eyes but rose to follow the man from the room.

  He was not a little chagrined to find that Faringil had placed the kindly school teacher in the servants quarters at the top of the house. Dr. Praxton stood waiting for him before the door. The doctor was a small, slender man, with an unruly shock of thick gray hair he never seemed troubled to comb. His eyes were close set and nearly black. Justinian had heard that some of the local women thought him shifty eyed, considering him to resemble a rat. He had always found the man professional in his dealings and intelligent in his conversation. Now Dr. Praxton nodded in greeting.

  “Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said in explanation, reaching for the door handle. “I thought you would want to see this.”

  Justinian felt another premonition of dread. He shook his head. He had to get over these feelings that everything was going to turn out badly. Miss Brigid hardly seemed the type to have brought a gallon of port with her in her carpet bag, although her lying inebriated certainly would have been enough for the servants to suspect she was deathly ill and for Dr. Praxton to want his attention.

  “What is the difficulty?” he asked, hoping to be prepared for whatever lay beyond the door.

  “Hold your nose, please,” the man replied, “and I’ll show you.”

  Justinian frowned at him. “Hold my nose?”

  Faringil obligingly shook out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and handed it to Justinian. “Your nose, my lord.”

  Still frowning, Justinian accepted the white lawn square and held it against his nostrils. Doing the same, Dr. Praxton opened the narrow door, and they all peered in.

  Justinian could have sworn the very air in the room swam with the noxious odor that reached him even through the handkerchief. Ammonia, the scholarly part of his brain asserted. Cat piddle, the more practical part of him corrected. What had possessed Faringil to shut the poor woman up with the kitten? It had been over twenty hours since he had seen Miss Eleanor. If she had been ill and too weak to rise, she could hardly have cared for a cat. Now, thanks to Faringil’s sensitivity, or lack thereof, the woman must be nearly dead.

  Eleanor lay on the narrow bed in the small room, eyes closed against a pounding headache. The last thing she remembered was feeding Jingles the remains of the dinner she had had little interest in eating, changing hurriedly into her pink flannel nightgown in the chilly room, and burrowing beneath the counterpane with the kitten beside her. Just before falling asleep, she had thought of Justinian again, remembering his appreciative smiles years ago when she had answered a question he could not. Their minds had seemed so attuned then. That was obviously no longer the case. She had started to regret that she’d agreed to stay then promptly scolded herself for her lack of humility. She was considerably warmer and more comfortable than if she’d had to sleep in a barn, and the little room was no smaller than the one she’d lived in all her life at Barnsley. She had fallen asleep telling herself to remember her place.

  Waking up, however, had proven far more difficult. Instead of getting better, she felt much worse. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and her tongue was thick in her dry mouth. Twice now she had felt as if someone was watching her, but both times she had found herself alone when she had managed to raise her head. Now she felt the same sensation and tried once more to look. Her body seemed willing enough, but her chest felt as if there were an anvil on it.

  Glancing down, she met Jingle’s gaze. The kitten yawned, showing sharp white teeth, and stretched, kneading the counterpane over her chest with its tiny claws. He minced toward her, and she began to sneeze. After the eighth time, she managed to bring herself under control. The kitten was nowhere to be found. But her chest still felt constricted.

  “You see the problem, Lord Wenworth,” someone said in the distance. “It’s small wonder the woman is ill.”

  Lord Wenworth? Her heart plummeted at the very thought of Justinian seeing her like this. She had some pride, after all. She turned on her side and drew the bed covers over her head, hoping they would all go away and leave her alone.

  Justinian fought down his frustration. Did none of the estate staff have a brain? Must he do everything? However much he had adored school, he had always wondered why his father had sent him away so often. Now he knew – with such a staff, the poor man could hardly have slept, let alone spent time with a child!

  “Faringil,” he snapped, and didn’t wait for the man to answer. “Fetch a footman and have him carry Miss Brigid to the family wing.”

  Faringil turned as white as his hair. “But, my lord, the disease! The countess!”

  “I wager there isn’t a thing wrong with the woman that a clean room and good food won’t fix,” Dr. Praxton put in.

  Faringil seemed to relax on such reassurances. “Very good, then. If you will be so kind
as to wait for an hour or so while the maids make up the room and get a fire lit. And I will have to reassure the rest of the staff that the woman isn’t infectious.”

  Justinian glared at him, and Faringil quailed. “If none of the many footmen I’ve seen wandering about this place is brave enough to rescue an ill woman, I will carry Miss Brigid to the family wing myself.”

  “My lord, no!” Faringil gasped.

  “Mr. Faringil, yes,” Justinian assured him. “And unless you’d like to see me fetch coal and fluff bed linens as well, you will have a footman and chamber maid meet me in the room. I expect it to be ready by the time I arrive, which will be in precisely five minutes if I am not mistaken. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord. Completely clear.” Faringil hurried down the corridor to comply.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Dr. Praxton said, watching the butler. “I couldn’t seem to get through to him. I know the Darby household has always been large on protocol, but if you really wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Justinian replied. He took a deep breath of the fresh air in the corridor and plunged into the room. Keeping away from the puddles and piles that edged the wall of the little room, he made his way to Eleanor’s bed and bent near her. She was huddled under the covers, with only the top of her disheveled hair showing. Gingerly, he pulled back the bed clothes. Her face was red and blotchy; her breath came in sharp wheezing gasps. Alarmed, he bent closer.

  Eleanor felt someone pull away the counterpane and forced open her eyes. Justinian’s face swam into focus before her. “Oh, no,” she moaned. Her voice came out more like the croak of a frog. She struggled to rise again, anything to escape his concerned gaze, and Justinian slid an arm under her shoulders and another under her thighs.

  “Good morning, Miss Brigid,” he said in what he hoped was a calm, reasonable voice. “You seem to have gotten worse because of our hospitality. I’m trying to rectify that. Dr. Praxton is here. He’s a physician.”

  She should have been alarmed to find that they all thought her so ill that she needed a physician. But Justinian’s voice was as warm and as comforting as rose hip tea with honey, or hot chocolate on a cold morning. “I know Dr. Praxton,” she replied. “He’s visited the school.” The words sounded a little clearer now that she was partially upright. His reassuring smile told her he had understood her.

  “Excellent. I’m just going to move you to another room where you’ll be more comfortable. You won’t mind if I pick you up?”

  Mind? Her head spun at the very thought, and she was certain it wasn’t her mysterious illness. She felt his muscles tense under her, and then she was rising. A moment more and she was up against his chest. Her face flushed with heat, but somehow she didn’t think she had a fever. How many nights had she dreamed of what it would be like to be held in his arms? Between them lay nothing but the sleeve of his coat and the worn flannel of her nightgown. If she wasn’t already too ill to walk, she would have gone weak at the knees.

  Justinian wondered that he didn’t flush himself under her steady regard. There were two bright spots of pink on her high cheekbones, and the color was rapidly spreading down her long, elegant neck below the collar of her nightgown. This was the first time he’d really gotten a good look at her, and even with her face swollen, he felt again that he should know her. Trying to remember when he had met her before, he kept a reassuring smile on his face as he maneuvered his way out of the room. When they reached the narrow stairs, however, and he had to hitch her closer to start down, her chest brushed his and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how tightly he held her. Only one woman had ever made him feel so self-conscious. He stumbled and caught himself immediately.

  “Narrow stairway,” he mumbled in excuse. Could it be? He shot a quick glance at her face again. Ten years and the illness could not completely erase the girl he had known. As red-rimmed as her eyes were, he would know that blue anywhere, so deep it was nearly violet. He still dreamed of those eyes, and the smile that lit them when he had the courage to flirt with her. But if it was really Norrie Pritchett he held, why was she pretending to be someone else? The possibilities troubled him. He was quite glad when they reached the main corridor on the second floor and a maid guided him to a room not far from his mother’s.

  The fire was just starting to glow in the grate as he lay Eleanor on the clean flannel sheets. She trembled as he pulled away, as if suddenly chilled. A maid hurried forward to tuck her under the bed covers. Justinian drew back.

  Disappointment shot through her. “Thank you,” she called.

  Dr. Praxton clapped Justinian on the shoulder. “And I thank you too, my lord. I’ll let you know my diagnosis before I go.”

  Dismissed, Justinian nodded and wandered from the room. He should confront her, demand an explanation, he supposed. He’d certainly wanted one ten years ago.

  “She can’t have just returned to the school,” Justinian remembered protesting. “We had an understanding.”

  His father had put a hand on his shoulder. “My dear boy, one cannot form an understanding with someone like Miss Pritchett. She most likely won’t remember you beyond tomorrow.”

  Justinian had shrugged off the touch. “I don’t believe you.” Even in his memory the words sounded like those of a petulant four-year-old denied his favorite candy. “She has more character than that.”

  “Justinian,” his father had sighed, “you have been among your books too long. A young lady bills and coos with every charming young man who comes along. I daresay she ran off when she realized you were taking her far too seriously. You’ve worn your heart on your sleeve; even your mother has remarked on it. The poor girl was likely frightened out of her wits by your obsessive devotions.”

  He had recoiled, stung. He had never had the courage to do more than press her hand fervently and recite the most passionate of love poems. Surely this would not have been enough to scare his brave Norrie. Yet there were times when her blue-violet eyes were troubled when she looked at him, and his words would fire her cheek in a blush. “If what you say is true,” he had mused aloud, “then I have done her a disservice. I should at least apologize.”

  “You will only embarrass the girl further,” his father had assured him. “You are young, Justinian. Your heart will mend. Return to your work at the university. That is far more important than this momentary infatuation with Miss Pritchett.”

  Remembering now, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been young all right, far too young to realize what a mistake he was making. He had graduated, then gone on to additional studies, then teaching. One month had piled onto the next and before he knew it, ten years had passed. Looking back, he knew them for the empty years they had been.

  But had anything changed? Would she be any more receptive to his suit now? Ill as she was, now was obviously not the time to ask. He should return to his papers, but the idea was depressing. Even his precious novel didn’t suit him at the moment. Instead, he found himself at his mother’s door.

  The countess looked up as he entered. Small and fine-boned, she made him feel like a gawking giant of late. She lay down the book she had been reading and smiled at him, patting the satin covers beside her. “Justinian, how delightful. Have a seat and tell me how you go on.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek but found himself too restless to sit. “Good morning, Mother. I’m doing well. How are you?”

  She frowned at him. “My liver is peevish, and I have indigestion. You never ask about those things. It isn’t like you to discuss banalities. What’s wrong?”

  He smiled at her. “You read me too well.” Even though she did, he could hardly confide his suspicions about their guest. It would only trouble his mother. He resorted instead to something that might be of more interest to her. “Dottie has adopted a kitten, which the school sent home to us. Unfortunately, the messenger who brought it appears to have come down ill.”

  “Poor man,” his mother murmured. “Nothing serio
us, I hope.”

  “I hope so as well. But it isn’t a gentleman. It’s one of the teachers.” He could not bring himself to name her.

  “Not Dottie’s Miss Eleanor?” his mother asked hopefully. “I have so wanted to meet her after your stories of your visits to Dottie.”

  Justinian sat at last beside his mother. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “the very same. But meeting her is out of the question until we know that she is well. All I need is for you to come down ill too.”

  His mother cocked her head. “You’re taking on too much again, Justinian. No one has asked you to single-handedly save England, you know.”

  He rose. “No, just an estate that covers a considerable portion as well as the livelihood of everyone who dwells on it. And now a small black kitten too.”

  “A kitten is hardly a chore, my love,” her mother said with a smile, gaze thoughtful. “All a kitten needs to be happy is a place by the fire. And perhaps a nice ball of string. Ask my Mary for one if you’d like. And bring her to meet me when you can.”

  He didn’t have to ask to know she wasn’t referring to her abigail. Perhaps that might be a solution after all. His mother studied people as he studied literature. If she confirmed that the woman really was Norrie Pritchett, then he might have the courage to question their guest. If not, it was one less thing he would have to trouble himself about.

  He offered her a smile. “Very well, Mother. When the redoubtable Miss Eleanor is better, you will get a chance to meet her.” And, he added silently, the sooner the better for all concerned.

  Chapter Four

  Justinian waited until the following morning to inquire after his guest. The day was the longest of his life. Dr. Praxton has assured him that Miss Eleanor had inflamed mucous membranes that were making her breathing difficult; however, he felt it was neither croup nor pleurisy. He prescribed cold compresses on the face and chest and laudanum to help her sleep. Mary, his mother’s abigail, had been pressed into service. Faringil had reported before retiring that Miss Eleanor appeared to be sleeping easier. And Justinian made sure that the kitten was properly cared for before it went to sleep in a basket in the corner of their guest’s room.