A Gentleman's Guide to Save a Lady: Misadventures of the Heart

by Wilde, Tanya

  Black spots dimmed her vision and she shut her eyes tightly before urging her horse forward. The ride home was short and nerve-racking and seemed to take forever. Charles, to her dismay, left her on top of her horse in his rush to get help.

  Belle cursed, sliding down from her horse, only to fall flat on her behind. With a giggle she rose to her feet, pausing when she swayed.

  Oh, botheration.

  As if on cue, her maid came rushing through the front door, Charles by her side. They came down the steps to where Belle stood, rocking on her heels.

  “My Lady, come, we must get you inside and see to your wound.”

  Together they snuck her into the house, heedful to remain unseen. Once inside, her maid ushered her up the staircase. They barely reached the top when a loud banging on the front door gave them pause.

  “Simon,” Belle whispered in horror. “Quick Mary, wrap my arm and get me a clean jacket.”

  “But My Lady, surely you can’t mean to—”

  Belle held up her hand to silence her maid. “Do this for me, Mary.” She flicked her gaze to Charles. “Ring for some lemon cakes and do not let him upstairs.”

  Exactly ten minutes later, Belle sauntered into the receiving room, giddy and on a cloudy haze. She presumed it was from the loss of blood, but she did not much suffer in the way of pain. Lucky for her, the bullet had only grazed her and the ache had now receded into a dull throb.

  She stopped, however, at the empty room. Simon was nowhere in sight.

  How odd.

  Had it not been him banging on the front door? With a small shrug, she continued into the room. He’d receive word of the shooting soon enough. How foolish it had been to believe a short ride in the park would be safe.

  Then it occurred to her: she was remarkably calm for someone who’d been shot. How curious. She giggled again. For a spy, one would imagine that Mister Stink Breath would be a better shot!

  Wretched man.

  She’d just about reached the soft lure of the chase when one of the other maids, Helen, rushed into the room. “Oh, my lady, there you are. We’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  Belle pulled a face. “I took a stroll in the garden, you must have missed me,” the lie slipped from her tongue. “What is so urgent?”

  “Lord Westfield, my lady, but he has left.”

  Left?

  “Did he say whether he’d be back?”

  The maid hesitated.

  Belle raised a brow, her eyes narrowing on the young girl.

  “He didn’t say, ma’am, stormed right out again. Apparently, there was a shooting in the park.”

  Blast!

  But he would not find her in the park, so he would most certainly return. Lord. She needed something stiff if she was going to play the part of innocence. Better for her that he did not learn that she’d been shot at because of her own stupidity.

  “Thank you, Helen. You can go about your duties.”

  She waited until the maid left before she quickly made her way to her brother’s study, where she proceeded to pour a generous amount of brandy for her nerves. She hardly ever overindulged, finding the effects of it abhorrent. But since the return of De Roux, she’d emptied a fair share of brother’s liquor cabinet.

  Belle threw the contents down the back of her throat in one big gulp. Her eyes watered as the substance set all her senses aflame. There was no other word it. Almost immediately the effects settled over her, creating a comfortable mask of repose. It occurred to her in an afterthought that this might not have been the brightest idea, considering the loss of blood had already made her woozy.

  However, the airy carefree clouds beneath her feet made it worth the while. The baffled urge to dance through a pasture of flowers caught her off guard, more so than the sudden desire to float on her back in a pond.

  Mary entered the room at that moment, her eyes widening at the empty glass clutched in her mistress’s hand. Of course, Mary most likely knew what a foolish ninny Belle had been to imbibe after her encounter in the park.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon, my lady! But the Earl has returned and is asking for you. He seems quite disturbed.”

  Belle blinked, swaying ever so slightly on her heels.

  And blinked again.

  “Oh dear.”

  Simon paced up and down the front hall, a caged tiger ready to pounce. He’d nearly aged ten years when a missive arrived to inform him there’d been reported shots fired in the park. Of course, he’d imagined the worst. And since no one in this bloody residence could tell him where the lady of the house was, he had been certain she’d snuck out for a ride.

  No sense of relief came when he hadn’t found her there, only an urgent need to see for himself she was unharmed. Until he verified with his own eyes that she was indeed whole and hearty, he’d be restless and on edge. He’d give the servants three more minutes and if they did not produce her whereabouts, he’d climb up the damn walls.

  “Damn it all,” he muttered and marched to the drawing room. His legs refused to remain in one place, while his heart sat anchored in his throat.

  He had half a mind to smash something for the sole purpose of appeasing his anger. Anger that she may have put herself in danger. Anger at her damn brothers. Anger at the servants and their inability to produce her. Anger at himself for not keeping a closer watch on her.

  The only thing keeping him from breaking down every door in this house was that no one seemed to have seen Lady Belle in the park.

  His legs stopped abruptly when she appeared in the doorway, face flushed and happy.

  “Belle.”

  Her name was a ragged whisper on his lips and in two strides he was by her side. “You look pale, why are you so pale? Are you all right?”

  She touched her cheeks, her eyes widening at his remark as a giggle escaped her sweet lips. “Am I paled?”

  She frowned. “Pallored?”

  She shook her head. “No, palled?”

  Simon took a step away from her, his hawkish eyes narrowing.

  Blue eyes blinked up at him, her brows drawing together. “I am above reproach and not jumbling my words in a horrid fashion.”

  “What is the matter with you?” Simon asked, skepticism sharp in his voice.

  “I am fine, Simon, truly.” She offered him a small smile. “I just took something for the pain.”

  His eyes narrowed even more. “What pain?”

  “The pain in my…head. But it’s more of a dull ache than a pain.”

  Simon stared at her, certain he was overlooking something. “What exactly did you take?”

  She giggled. “Do you know that ever since we have become friends, for lack of a better word, your hair is always ruffled? I rather love that about you.”

  She loved that about him?

  Without meaning to he ran his hand through his blond hair. It was not quite the color of her softer blond, but a darker version of it, thicker. “Your hair is quite nice, too.”

  Why had he just said that? He cleared this throat, straightening. “What I meant to say is that you look lovely, as always.”

  She erupted in giggles. “How lovely of you to say.”

  A scowl formed on his brow. Suspicion dawned. “Are you foxed?”

  “I have not shot a fox, no.”

  He blinked.

  Her maid chose that moment to arrive with cake, while a footman trailing behind her with tea. Both eyed their mistress from the corner of their eyes.

  What in the blazes?

  It was as though he’d stepped into a bad Shakespearian play.

  “Oh, cakes!” Belle exclaimed happily, grabbing two lemon cakes from the tray.

  Simon’s jaw dropped when she began stuffing—there was no other word for it—her mouth with cake, uncaring of her audience. He swiveled to the servants, “What the devil is wrong with her?”

  They both hesitated, sparing a quick glance at their mistress. “Nothing is amiss, my lord,” the maid finally answered.

&n
bsp; Simon’s temper sparked, but he refrained from taking it out on the servants. It was clear Belle was unharmed, but something about this entire situation was wrong.

  “Has she been drinking?”

  From beside him, Belle giggled at his question, snatching another lemon cake. The servants glanced away and he took that as confirmation. He cursed, waving them away.

  “This is soooo delicious. You should try some,” Belle murmured with a mouth full of lemon cake.

  Simon could only stare. Never in his life had he seen anything like it. Crumbs and cream coated the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were closed while she savored the cakes with a delighted smile.

  “Do you not just love them?” she continued, snatching yet another lemon cake.

  “I love you, not the damn lemon cakes,” Simon growled before he could think better of it. But once the words left him he refused to take them back.

  Damnation.

  “Beg pardon?” Belle croaked, her hand filled with lemon cake halting mid-air, her eyes wide in wonder.

  Simon’s heart hammered in his chest as he waited for her reply.

  “How could you not love lemon cake?”

  Her lower lip quivered.

  Bloody hell.

  “Woman, you are foxed.” And too engrossed in those damn cakes to even comprehend my declaration. “How much did you drink?”

  She rocked back on her heels, her brow scrunching in thought. “This much,” she said, indicating with her cake-smeared thumb and her pointer finger what would have been a tiny amount.

  Simon snorted. “How about you just tell me what you had to drink?”

  She giggled again, so out of character for her. “Why, tea of course, silly.”

  His jaw clenched and muscles tightened in his neck. She was determined to be difficult then, or she just foxed. For all he knew, she’d consumed the entire distillery of London.

  “Tea, why of course.”

  She blinked at the sarcasm he did not attempt to hide. “Why are you here? Do you not have lordy business to attend to?”

  “Must have been some tea,” he muttered with a shake of his head. He touched a hand to her cheek, not liking her pallor but deciding not to press the matter. “You are too beautiful for your own good.”

  She leaned into his hand and he suddenly recalled his revelation, the reason she refused to marry. “Ah, Belle, what am I to do with you?”

  “Order more lemon cakes?”

  On a sigh, he took hold of her arm and led her to the sofa. This, whatever this was, could not happen again.

  She was a lady.

  And she was being hunted by a madman.

  Hell, though, if she wanted a drink, who was he to argue?

  Simon watched as her mouth opened for yet another treat.

  He sighed.

  He’d just told the woman that he was madly in love with he loved her. Bells should be ringing, the heavens should be opening and they should be entwined in a passionate embrace, kissing.

  She should have confessed she loved him back.

  But no, instead she was stuffing her beautiful face with lemon cake.

  Chapter 18

  The following morning Belle woke up with a sour taste in her mouth and nauseating feeling in her stomach. To say she felt horrid would be quite the understatement. Her muscles ached with even the slightest bit of movement. Worse, her arm burned like the devil scorched it with his fork. With a groan, she lifted her head to squint at her surroundings and noted she’d at least made to her bedchamber without incident.

  She seemed to be setting a new trend for herself.

  Gah!

  She did not wish to rise from the bed today. She wasn’t even sure she was able to, for that matter.

  An unbidden vision of Simon filled her mind and her head snapped to the pillow beside her, noting with bafflement that the telltale indents of his head were unmistakably missing. Had he not stayed in her room during the night?

  Her recollections were a bit hazy but she recalled that they’d exchanged words. Again an image shimmered in her mind, words of love echoing from her lips. A sudden fluttering leaped in her heart. Another image came to mind, one of Simon standing in front her and saying that he loved her.

  She shook the image away. She must have dreamt it, for there was no way he would confess he loved her. Oh, he may care for her, perhaps even a great deal, but that did not mean love. It must be her heart, playing tricks on her.

  Without conscious thought, her hand brushed her wound, and she stilled. Her head whipped to her arm, her fingers coming away wet and red-stained.

  “Drat,” she muttered as her back shot upward, pulling away the covers to be greeted by blood stained sheets. She’d forgotten they’d only patched the wound—rather sloppily, it would appear. Then later she’d forgotten tend to it because she had been a bit dizzy from drink. Was it any wonder she felt so groggy and her limbs so heavy? She’d been steadily losing blood during the night. Being no expert, she still knew that this was unlikely to be a good thing.

  With a sigh, Belle threw the covers from her person, exposing her nightgown and the aftermath of her rebellion. To the eye, it might look as though she’d been butchered, but alas she was still very much alive.

  Well, unless she had already perished and now haunted the halls of her home.

  Oh, stop being so dramatic.

  She attempted to sit but found her limbs reluctant to move, dizziness overtaking her. The loss of blood, no doubt. Needless to say, she needed to rid of this damning evidence before—

  A curse whipped through the room.

  —it was too late.

  “What the bloody hell did you do?” Simon exclaimed, reaching her in three strides. “Damnation, where are you bleeding?” He asked as he kneeled at her side, his face white as snow.

  “It’s nothing, just a harmless scrape,” she managed to whisper.

  He ignored her, inspecting the wound with care before shooting a glare her way. With unusual speed he lifted himself to his feet and stormed from her room, only to return a few moments later with a cloth that he proceeded to bind her wound with. The tick in his jaw was a telling sign of his anger.

  “I’ve summoned the doctor.” He paused and Belle watched him visibly try and calm himself. “What happened?”

  She stared helplessly back at him. “Where did you sleep last night?”

  He shot her a look with a raised brow. “Do not change the subject.”

  Belle cringed at the steel in his voice. His eyes were bloodshot and still she saw the calculation there, trying to map out when she could have been hurt. “Likewise,” she shot back.

  He regarded her for a single moment that felt as if it spanned across lifetimes before he finally said, “I was here,” he motioned to the chair a few feet away, “I couldn’t sleep, so I plied myself with liquor.”

  Again, an unbidden image arose but it disappeared before she managed to grab hold of it.

  “Where did you hurt yourself?” he asked again.

  She wanted to lie, but only sighed in resignation. “Yesterday, in the park.”

  At his expression, she almost took the words back. He looked appalled by her words, and then his wide eyes hardened. “You were shot and you did not deem it fit to tell me? Were you even foxed? Did someone give you something for the pain?”

  She shook her head. “I had brandy to calm my nerves.”

  He inhaled sharply. “You had brandy while you were bleeding to death?”

  “I’m hardly dead, now am I?”

  Her attempt at humor did not remove the betrayal from his wounded eyes. Belle let out a ragged breath. “I feel trapped, Simon, like I’m imprisoned in my own home by the people I care about. I only wanted to some space, even if only for an hour.”

  “I cannot believe you’d put your life in danger for a ride in the park. Damnation!”

  “The park is public, I hadn’t foreseen any trouble,” Belle confessed.

  He carefully began to put pressur
e on her wound. “You shall have all the freedom you desire once we’ve dealt with this madman.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon.”

  Simon’s heart sank to the bottom of his feet, her apology ringing hollow in his ears. She had hidden the truth from him, risked her life rather than inform him she had been hurt.

  Did she not trust him? No, he did not believe that, but he did believe that she found him suffocating. The notion horrified him. But could he blame her? The woman had been through much more than anyone else her age.

  Christ.

  He’d become stifling. And to such an extent that she’d tried to break away. No wonder she found him such a bore. The thought settled heavy on his mind. How was he to win her if she’d rather bleed to death than confide in him? Where had things gone so wrong?

  It appeared he’d failed at the two things men were supposed to revel at: courtship and guardianship. In his defense, most courtships did not have vengeful spies hovering in the shadows. But at least they were both still alive. That counted for something, did it not? He had done the best with what he’d been given. And he’d been given horse dung.

  “I’m sorry that you feel imprisoned,” he murmured, defeated, but still managed to give her a small peck on the forehead.

  Her fathomless eyes turned curious. “Why are you apologizing? I am the one in the wrong.”

  He shook his head and covered her hand with his, most of his anger gone. “None of this would have happened if we’d given you more space to breathe.”

  “That is kind of you, Simon, but I’m the one to blame. I’ve have been from the very beginning.”

  The look that entered her eyes gave him pause. It was sad, haunted even. With sudden clarity, he realized he’d never hear the words he so desperately wanted from her.

  Lady Belle Middleton was never going to marry him.

  He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. Panic reared its ill-favoured head and he had to remind himself that it was not because of him, but because of something that happened in her past. Something deep and dark. Something painful.