Landry caught her gaze almost immediately, the guarded expression her first clue that he was not necessarily anticipating her acceptance. William trotted down the stairs ahead of her.
“Gentlemen! I trust you would not be averse to joining me for brandy on the back terrace after your morning of sport?”
A collective round of approbations erupted from the group, which he expertly diverted around the side of the house and away from Eliza and Landry, who stood facing each other at the bottom of the steps. He tipped his chin down to survey the gravel beneath his boots and shoved his hands into his pockets. She supposed it was the most casually he had ever addressed her.
“My lady.”
Eliza descended two more steps to face him more fully. “Sir James.”
“I assume you have considered my offer?”
She wrapped her fingers tightly around her reticule, wishing she were anywhere else at this very moment. “I have, and while any woman would be fortunate to have you, I find I cannot agree to such an arrangement.”
He grimaced at her reply, his eyes shifting to the side. “Does Lord Evanston have anything to do with your decision?”
“No,” she stated emphatically, a little surprised that he would even mention the viscount. “I am refusing you based solely on my perception of our incompatibility.”
“I suspect a proposal will be forthcoming from him, nonetheless,” he retorted sharply. “Unless he merely wishes to amuse himself at your expense.”
Eliza evaluated him with compassion, knowing her rejection had stung. Still, he was making this considerably easier than it had been at the start.
“With all due respect, Sir James, I don’t believe you know him.”
I certainly don’t believe you know me.
She curtsied in polite farewell. “I wish you the best. Truly.”
“Likewise,” he said grudgingly with a bow, then stalked past her up the front stairs of the house, apparently not in the mood to join the others for brandy.
The days had become noticeably shorter even with the russet leaves still clinging to the trees, so Eliza did not wish to waste one minute of time. Once she had made a brief stop by the Dower House to inform Rosa of her plans—which had been greeted with such excitement as to leave no doubt she had chosen correctly for her daughter—she’d packed a small trunk and left directly for Hawthorne Manor. In the time between her residence and Evanston’s, she’d worked through every potential outcome in her head. Failure, success, outrage, rapture . . . every scenario was experienced thoroughly in her mind’s eye to prepare her for any possibility.
So it had come as a shock to find Hawthorne Manor absent its owner. The housekeeper had answered her knock and informed her that Evanston had departed for his London residence, and she was unsure when he would be returning. With a tight smile, she thanked the woman and climbed back into her carriage, weighed down beneath an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
Now she rode through dark of night to seek him in London, her head resting against the unforgiving lacquered wood of the vehicle’s interior to survey the shadows as they sped by. The previous night had been filled with sleepless recollections of Thomas. This night would undoubtedly be occupied by bleak memories of carriage accidents and lost and injured loved ones. Of carriages bent and twisted beyond repair, utterly incapable of protecting their inhabitants.
Since the night of the accident, she’d lost the ability to sleep while traveling, so it was unsurprising that she found no respite now. Eliza’s head jostled against the panel and she blinked wearily, attempting to discern the shapes outside. Then she finally tugged the curtains closed with an irritated sigh. She tried to work through the proposal scenarios in her head, as she had earlier in the day, but now there was only one situation that reappeared with stubborn insistence.
It was success. Success, at any cost.
Anything else was just not acceptable. The notion that she had rejected his love, squandered it ungratefully when he had offered it, ruined things between them beyond repair . . . these were ideas that could not be borne. And yet, she feared it was all true. Every last part of it.
Her eyes burned and she closed them. She tried to think of something else . . . anything else. Eliza listened closely to the pattern of the hoofbeats upon the hardened dirt road. She tried to distinguish whether the different horses produced beats at different rates. But regardless of how many hoofbeats she counted, she could not escape the anticipation of her failure.
Hours passed, long after she’d reached the point of exhaustion, leaving her slumped against the seat cushions, staring idly into space. The sun rose to hover in the sky, gazing down upon the world with cosmic indifference. At last the roads beneath her changed, and the familiar noisy echo of cobblestone roused her from her wearied stupor. Before long, her driver pulled the carriage to a stop before Evanston’s London residence, and Eliza rushed to refasten her falling hair with its pins. She wiped at her eyes, then pinched her cheeks, hoping to revive some of their color.
Her arrival at Evanston’s home renewed her sense of steadfast determination. She had allowed herself to wallow during the black vacuum of night, but no more. He was inside this building, so close, and she was going to do whatever it took to win back his heart. Eliza needed him to trust that the love he’d been brave enough to extend to her would never again be slapped away. It would be reciprocated in abundance, and reinforced by the veneration of a little girl who had indisputably chosen him for her father.
Shedding her mantle of defeat, she gathered the tiered layers of her rose muslin skirts and stepped down from her vehicle to ascend the front stairs of his town house. After seizing the brass knocker in her gloved fingertips, she rapped sharply three times, then waited, her heart thundering in her ears. The last time she’d come knocking at his doorstep, he had carried her inside like a bride. The memory of his closeness sent searing trails of fire chasing over her skin.
Burton, the butler, answered the door, as she expected. What she had not expected, however, were the surprising expressions of worry and concern that were so plainly etched on the man’s face. He reached forwards abruptly to take her hand, the strict rules of servants’ etiquette cast aside in his urgency.
“Lady Eliza, thank God,” he exclaimed, pulling her hastily into the dwelling. Eliza found herself acquiescing before having a chance to contemplate the strangeness of it all.
She gazed up at him in increasing alarm. “Burton, what has happened?”
He continued to guide her towards the staircase. “It’s Lord Evanston, my lady—” The butler trailed off in the midst of his distress, and it was only when Eliza yanked her hand from his grasp that he blinked and assessed her with anything remotely resembling clarity.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated slowly, with forced patience.
“I beg your forgiveness. We have all been rather distraught since the viscount was found outside Putnam’s in the street. He’d been attacked—”
Eliza reached out to grip his sleeve, her panic rising. “Is he in his bedchamber?”
The servant nodded mutely and she pushed past him to bolt up the stairs. Unsure of the precise location of his bedchamber, she had already decided to try every door. As it was, she found him on her first try.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, which thudded loudly against the wall, she discovered his chambers in darkened disarray. A housemaid yelped in surprise and dropped the stack of fresh sheets she’d been carrying, nearly knocking over a candle in the process.
“Begging your pardon, my lady—”
Eliza did not care. The only thing she did care about in that moment was seeing Evanston. She had to tell him, needed to tell him, how much he meant to her . . . that there was no other man she would marry . . .
The steel-blue curtains on his grand four-post bed had been tied aside. She approached, desperately forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light and finally discerned his shape, half covered by sheets and head turned away as if sleeping.
Her initial reaction was one of surprised admiration, and she swallowed at the sight of his broad chest, the unreliable light playing against the hard contours of his muscles and the appealing dark hair that covered it.
Given the circumstances, it wasn’t the appropriate reaction, so she suppressed it quickly and scanned him for injuries. She observed the blackened perimeter of his eye, acquired at the hands of her enraged brother, and a heavy sadness washed through her. But she moved on to the cloth bandage tied tightly against his midsection. The maid stepped closer.
“It’s on the far side, my lady, where he was stabbed.”
Cool fingers of dread clutched at Eliza’s heart and her breathing paused in her throat. She stared numbly at the woman, then returned her attention to Thomas who lay in the bed, still as a marble statue, and just as pale. Leaning across him, she slid her hands gently around his rib cage, her fingertips encountering the edge of a poultice. That was good. Reassuring, even. He had been receiving some sort of care.
He stirred beneath her touch, and she shifted up the bed to slide a hand along the strong column of his neck. His skin was warm. Too warm.
“Thomas, can you hear me?” she asked softly.
His head swiveled slowly at the sound of her voice, eyelids languidly opening to reveal impossibly fever-bright eyes. Evanston recoiled in what appeared to be disgust.
“Get away from me,” he growled, before turning his head and falling insensible against the pillow once more.
“It’s the laudanum,” Dr. Brown reassured her an hour later in the hallway. The physician closed the viscount’s door quietly behind him. “Small pupils, rapid heart rate, profuse sweating, hallucinations. I’m quite certain he believed you were somebody else.”
Eliza was not as certain. According to Burton, in the past day he had only revived once, and it had been to the sound of her voice. The fact that his reaction had not been agreeable gave her cause for concern on a personal level, but as long as he continued to heal, that would always be the priority, regardless of whether or not he had decided he was finished with her.
Her chest clenched at the thought. She cleared her throat and folded her arms around her waist. “What can I do to help?” she asked. “I will stay for however long it takes.” Burton’s sigh of relief was audible from his position behind her.
“That will certainly be a boon for his lordship,” replied the elderly physician with a nod of approval. “Well, then. His sheets will need changing regularly. The poultice must be refreshed and his wound examined every few hours. I stitched it closed yesterday, but there is a good chance it will fester.” The man’s faded eyes glanced towards the ceiling, as if marking boxes on a mental checklist. “Do not expose him to night air, but do try to air out the room once a day, at a minimum.”
Eliza frowned. “With the factories and the smell of the Thames, isn’t daytime air just as dangerous, if not more so?”
The physician shrugged. “I’ll admit, London air is not ideal, but you must do your best. In his current state, transporting him to the country would be problematic, and the journey might end him altogether. Try draping a wet sheet over the open window to catch the worst of the pollutants.”
She tipped him a nod of uneasy assent. “What of medicines?” she inquired. “Is it necessary for him to be on such a heavy dose of laudanum?”
“At this time, I would like to keep him sedated enough to prevent the reopening of his wound. Lord Evanston was fortunate that the blade missed his internal organs, but I do not wish to impede healing by allowing him to thrash about.” The man began to shuffle his way towards the staircase, black leather satchel in hand. “I have left you a plentiful quantity of herbs for the poultices. Only be certain to apply it over a layer of lard or oil to prevent adhesion to the wound.”
Eliza followed the snowy-haired man down to the foyer. “And if the wound should fester?” she asked worriedly.
Dr. Brown donned his black hat, then turned to regard her seriously. “Let us hope it does not. Leeches, though, if it does.”
An icy chill tripped up her spine. She thanked the man, and Burton closed the door behind him. Then she glanced sadly at Thomas before burying her face in her hands. Hot tears blazed against her palms, and the butler stepped closer to clasp her shoulders. Wearily, Eliza dropped her hands to stare up at him.
“I know not what occurred between Lord Evanston and yourself this past week. What I do know is that you are here now, ready to help him.” He shook his head, glints of gray hair amongst the black catching the last light of dusk that fought its way through the windows. “This could have happened to Lord Evanston on any number of days, any number of ways, and for no reason at all. I’ve watched him for years, and I’m only shocked it wasn’t sooner.”
Eliza sighed hopelessly. “He doesn’t even want me near him. How am I supposed to help when he does nothing but snarl at my presence?”
“By insisting upon it, my lady. Frankly, at this point in time, he simply doesn’t have a choice.” Burton slid her a confident gaze. “And I can assure you, he most certainly wants you near him. Right now, you are the thing he needs most—” he paused, remembering his position, “—in my own humble opinion.”
She stared at him, registering both his sincerity and kindness. Eliza pulled away, wiped at her eyes, then smiled sadly.
“Thank you, Burton.”
Burton’s eyes crinkled with warmth only a moment before bending forwards into a polite bow. “I am at your service, my lady.”
Eliza nodded succinctly. “Then let’s get to it.”
Thomas drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep that did not really seem like sleep at all. The black abyss that had engulfed him on that stinking London street had only grown stronger, the current tugging him down whenever he flailed nearer to the surface. It was frustrating, but at least it was painless in these cool depths. For that, he was thankful. The blazing agony in his side had abated, for the time being.
A quiet cadence of voices drifted around him, receded, came again. None of it mattered. He was content to drift in the void.
“Thomas. Can you hear me?”
The current tugged him upward. It was Eliza, and yet, it couldn’t be. He had felt the weight of her gaze on his back as he’d strode from the library on that fateful day, whenever it had been. Time had very little meaning in this place—he couldn’t remember if it had been two days ago or two years ago. It didn’t matter.
Still, he swam towards the voice. He couldn’t resist, he knew that by now. Any chance to glimpse her again, to touch her, to hear her laugh. Wrestling through the dark, it took every ounce of fortitude he possessed to pry open his eyelids and turn his head.
Victoria Varnham reclined lazily beside him on the bed.
Mrs. Varnham sends her regards.
Her ebony curls coiled around her shoulders like the hissing snakes of Medusa. In her hand, she held a knife, the silver blade flashing in the gloom.
“Get away from me,” he ground out in horror.
The bleak waves overtook him, and he gratefully sank down into their lightless protection once more.
Hours passed. Perhaps days? Years? There was no way to be sure, but the voices returned often. Sometimes, he was aware of a bitter trickle of liquid streaming down his throat, which drove away the voices and everything else for a short while.
It was lonely here in the abyss, but it was safe. He surrendered to its pull, to its absence of everything.
“Surely we can ease off on the laudanum now? See how he does?”
She was here again. His dream-Eliza. Had she ever left? Was she even here to begin with? Thomas struggled upward again, could feel his eyes rolling uselessly in his head.
“—Liza,” he muttered. He thought he felt his right hand flop to the side.
Soft hands graced either side of his face, their cool slide prompting the stubborn current to guide him upward.
“Darling. I am here.”
Anger bloomed in his chest, and he turned h
is face away to slide back down deep. This could not be her. His Eliza did not love him—she had let him leave. She had broken his heart. This dream-Eliza was a pretender. Where she truly was, he didn’t know, but it was not here. Thomas would not submit to this siren’s call . . . he’d had enough of crashing upon the rocks. He would pay the pretender no mind.
The abyss became stifling, his swirling black sanctuary transforming into a muggy pit of discomfort. Thomas lashed out against it, but the searing pain in his side had returned. Slowly, at first, then swiftly, strongly. The depths grew warmer. Hotter. They were not the cool respite he’d found them to be earlier. He heard a man cry out hollowly in the silence, then realized from afar that the man could have been him.
“No, Thomas. Be calm.” The light stroke of a woman’s hand passed over his head, and he couldn’t help but turn his face to the caress.
She sounded like Eliza . . . she even smelled like her.
Now that he hovered closer to the surface, this all seemed rather humorous. Unable to win her in life, now to be tormented by her in death, or in whatever hellish purgatory this was. He could have her voice, her touch, but never her. Never her.
He wanted to scream with either laughter or tears. Either would suffice, but he could do nothing. He could hardly even breathe with this molten vise around his ribs. If only it would . . . just . . . let up . . . so he could take a breath . . .
Eliza watched over him, observing in terror as Thomas’s relative restful ease changed into a state of pained agitation. She rose hurriedly, tugged on the bellpull, then crossed to the door and threw it open.
“Burton, call for the doctor,” she yelled into the hallway, abhorring the panic in her voice. “Something is wrong!”
She detected reciprocal anxiety in the butler’s shouted reply. “Yes, my lady!”
Returning to Evanston’s side, she leaned over the edge of the bed to clasp his fingers tightly with her own. She couldn’t bear to look at him, but listening to his rapid breathing was almost just as difficult. The minutes passed by, and finally Burton came upstairs to join her, his heavy tread marking the butler’s rushed journey up the staircase and final entry into the bedchamber. He stared at his master, wide-eyed, then focused on Eliza.
Viscount Can Wait, The EPB Page 25
