“So violated,” a voice said from the doorway.
She tensed at the sound of that deep rumble. Much to her consternation, a great deal of the worry which had driven her back and forth on her jaunt before the fire dissipated. How could he do that? With two words? How could he somehow wrap her up in the safety of his voice and presence?
Even from across the room, she knew without a doubt the man was in his element. “Yes,” she finally said. “That is as good a word as I can think on.”
Wyndham strode into the room, his cravat lopsided and his russet hair tumbling over his forehead. “Someone has entered your bedroom without your permission and left an unpleasant missive. I would imagine such a thing would make you feel as if you had been attacked.”
“It is not so bad as that,” she rushed. After all, she’d been attacked before. In her own home. In a different bedroom of this very house. By her husband. “But I had felt safe here.”
The Duke of Fairleigh stood, his broad shoulders straight under his black coat. “Unfortunately, you are not. Did the servants know anything, Wyndham?”
Wyndham shook his head. “No, they seem baffled. I’m inclined to believe them. At present, we do not know how our intruder gained admittance, though someone who knew how wouldn’t find it particularly difficult to remain unseen in such a large house. My real concern is this . . . ” Wyndham paused. “How did the intruder know which room was the duchess’s?”
The silence which followed Wyndham’s last sentence drove home her uncle’s harsh visit this morning. Soames, though deeply unpleasant, had made clear that she wasn’t taking the threat of physical danger seriously enough. Did someone truly wish her dead? But worse, if the author of the notes knew where she slept . . . “Whoever this is knows where I am throughout the day, don’t they?” she whispered.
Wyndham locked glances with her, no sympathy this time. Only hard truth. “I would deem that likely. Until we know who is behind all this, you cannot stay here, Your Grace. I recommend—”
“She will come stay us with,” Mary cut in, her face unusually pale in the candlelight.
Wyndham lifted a hand, staying her. “That sounds like it would be ideal, but it mightn’t be in all actuality. I’d like to take the duchess to an undisclosed location and guard her personally.”
Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line at this declaration before she said, “You think we cannot keep her safe?”
“No. Whoever is doing this will know that you are close and that she would go to you for assistance,” Wyndham said simply. “So, you cannot know where the duchess is. Not for the next few days.”
Clare shook her head, hardly believing this could be happening. “That is not possible. I have my work. And if it were to ever be known that I stayed with you—”
“Trust me, it will never be known,” Wyndham soothed, but in that soothing there was determination. “Your Grace, you cannot do your work if you are dead.”
Clare swallowed. It wasn’t fair. She’d only just obtained her freedom a little over a year ago, and now she was to hide? The unfortunate answer was a resounding yes. She did have to hide if she wished to save her work and herself. Good Lord, how she hated that someone was once again trying to control her through violence and threats. “Can you at least tell me where we are going?” Wyndham shook his head.
“I see.” Clare swallowed. “Then I must say goodbye to Mary and Edward right now?”
“Yes,” Wyndham replied.
For a man who had spoken so verbosely this afternoon, his short, matter of fact answers conveyed exactly how serious he thought her situation was, and so she was even more inclined to do as he bid. If he had over spoken or tried to convince her, she might have resisted. But that calm, clear intent of his? How could she falter under that?
She looked to Mary’s drawn face and Edward’s taut stance. “They will worry for me.”
“I have people that will be able to get word to your friends, Your Grace,” Wyndham assured. “And I do not think it will take too long to discover who is at this.”
“What convinces you of this, Wyndham?” Edward asked, his usually sure, deep voice wary.
Wyndham leveled his gaze on Clare, regret turning those amber depths nearly black. “Because . . . I think it is someone she knows.”
• • •
If someone, anyone, had asked him a few hours earlier if he’d be in the company of a beautiful woman this night, he’d have laughed in their face. He wanted a wife, a true wife, one like Ian had with Eva or Edward with Mary. Or his father and mother.
Men who frequented ladies of the night were not likely to find such a thing and long ago, he’d learned that he was not a man to enter into a dalliance lightly. Unlike most of the men of his acquaintance, his dratted feelings always managed to become entangled in his brief amours.
Giving liaisons up had not been overly difficult. A war had kept him distracted, but in the last months, the desire to have a lady of his own, one he could care for, hopefully love, and have children with had grown from a long held dream to something he dared hope accomplish.
He eyed Clare carefully, a ridiculous yet insistent voice humming, She could be the one.There was something about her as she sat across from him in the nondescript hackney that stirred feelings he’d only ever hoped he could have.
The quiet strength about her seemed to overcome any fear she had. Those eyes, much older than her young years, stared out the fogged windowpane into the dark night. There was no hint of hysteria about her, just a calm sort of acceptance. All he could do was marvel.
“You do stare a great deal, my lord,” she said suddenly, her gaze still fixed on the passing outskirts of London.
He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at being caught out. “I do apologize, except . . . ”
She turned her face to him. Blue-tinged moonlight spilled into the carriage, bathing her face in an otherworldly glow. The soft blond locks falling about her face appeared as spun silver, turning her into a mystical goddess, not just a woman. “Except?”
Even that voice.
He held his breath. Her soft yet deep womanly voice filled the space around them, caressing his skin, making him wish to hear nothing but her voice for hours. It was the stuff of timeless waters and restless wind.
“My lord?”
“You are captivating,” he finally said, accepting that admitting his preoccupation was the only thing to do.
She narrowed her eyes, and in the moonlight, those orbs sparked like vengeful stars. “Are you about to be foolish?”
“It depends. What would make a fool in your eyes?”
“You sound as if you are a man who is about to make love to a woman.”
“Have you been made love to, then?” he asked, doubting it very much.
“Given that I have put myself into your keeping, this does not seem a wise or encouraging tack for you to take.”
“Your safety is essential. The only reason why we are alone is because it is necessary, but nor will I lie to you. You evoke something in me which I have no wish to hide from view.”
“Find the wish,” she clipped.
“I’m not attempting to seduce you, if that’s what concerns you.”
“No?” she challenged.
“No,” he confirmed. And he wasn’t. A mere statement of truth was no seduction.
She shifted on the seat, her hands folding tightly on her lap. “There have been men in the last few months, despite my late mourning, that have attempted to press an advantage. Who have spoken of my beauty because I am a wealthy widow.”
“Ah.” His lips twitched at the image of her bombarded by poncing idiots. “No doubt, you have had odes composed to your earlobes.”
She hesitated but then laughed. “Why must you do that?”
“What?”
She rolled her eyes. “Infuse everything with a sense of lightness?”
“The world is dark enough as it is, madam,” he said gently. “I needn’t add to it, need I?”
“No.” She eyed him carefully as though he was sporting a second head or something similarly strange. “I suppose not.”
“This world would be a far better place if we all turned from darkness, and sadness, and let ourselves be merry.” It was a lesson he’d learned when he’d returned from war. He’d found himself at a crossroads. He’d chosen to let the poison of the past drift away, choosing life instead.
“But I think you try to hide something with all your merry turns of words, do you not?”
He leaned forward, determined that he should be as open with her as possible. Doubtlessly, she’d known enough lies from men to fill a lifetime. “I’m not trying to hide how I feel about you.”
“You feel something for me?” she drawled.
“Is it so difficult to believe?”
“You have known me less than twelve hours,” she exclaimed. “So, yes. It is.”
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?” he quipped, though he couldn’t help feeling that once again he had suddenly tripped upon something. He would never go so far as to say he loved Clare. He didn’t know her, but he was compelled to know her. To give himself over to their meeting as if fate had thrown that rock through her window.
And the longer he spent in her company, that woman he’d dreamed of as his companion began to look more and more like the duchess sitting across from him.
She frowned. “I think we can leave Shakespeare out of this.”
“Shakespeare shouldn’t be left out of anything,” he replied. “He understands the hearts and souls of all men and women.”
Clare’s mouth opened and a look of pure astonishment softened her features. “You are a romantic, sir.”
“I am a man of facts. You are with me now because you need protection. But I am also a man who will not laugh at what life contrives to put before us.”
“Are you saying our meeting is fate?” she scoffed.
“I am saying that there are things more wondrous in this world, more full of magic than we could ever imagine. And I, for one, despite the terrible things I have seen or perhaps because of them, choose to believe in them. If my thinking means I can have feelings for you after twelve hours of acquaintance, then yes, I am a romantic, Clare, and I am not afraid to admit it.”
Chapter 6
Clare couldn’t stop the feeling of simmering anger inside her. How could Lord Wyndham be doing such a thing at such a time? And yet, he didn’t seem like a cad.
But if he wasn’t a cad, where was this absolute idiocy coming from?
“Clare, forgive me if I have offended you.”
“I have not given you permission to call me Clare,” she said tightly. Even as she spoke, she hated how she sounded, like a cold, old bitter woman.
Just as he was about to speak, the hackney rolled to a stop.
Wyndham’s face shuttered, whatever boyish light about it fading. He grabbed the door handle, gave it a quick twist, then jumped down onto the graveled path below. His hand suddenly reappeared back inside the carriage.
She had to take it.
It was absolutely ridiculous, but there seemed something more powerful in taking that hand than just the simple acceptance of a courtesy.
Every part of her that found men threatening and unkind demanded she gather her skirts and descend on her own sail. But another part of her, a quieter, deeper part of her urged, take it.
That strong, quiet, calm voice was one she had never heard before, but it seemed to be coming right from her very core. So, with trepidation in her heart, she slipped her fingers into his firm grasp and let him guide her down out of the vehicle.
She couldn’t even focus on her surroundings. That strong, warm hand of his enveloped hers. It would be so easy for his hand to crush hers. She’d been crushed before in a strong man’s grip, but this one was gentle, assured, and just the very touch of his palm sent a jolt of that strange feeling through her limbs.
She pulled her hand slowly from his, once again shocked by the feel of his slightly roughened, ungloved skin, and she took a step away, requiring distance.
After a quick, muffled conversation and the clink of several coins, the hackney was off into the night, leaving the two of them standing near a hedgerow.
She glanced left to right, taking in the long, rutted road and the ever-stretching stone fences covered with barren shrubbery. London was but a half an hour away and yet it was as though she was in an entirely different world.
The scent of damp earth surrounded her, a strange contrast to the coal-tinged air she’d been breathing just a few hours ago. “Where are we?”
“This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea—”
“Wyndham,” she cut in, consternation threatening to take her over in her already agitated state.
Despite her attempts to end his recitation, he was not done. He dropped a knee to the frozen earth, stretched out his arms, and proclaimed,
“Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”
He finished, gave her a cheeky grin, then sprung to his feet.
She scowled. “I am aware that we are in England. One needn’t go into the raptures of more Shakespeare, Richard II no less, a mediocre play—”
Wyndham gasped and clasped his hand to his heart in mock horror. “Mediocre? Madam, have you no soul?”
“What I have is little patience. It’s been a very long day and you are trying me to my very core.”
“You look like you need to be tried. You look like you need someone to shake you up and make you laugh—”
“Someone may be trying to kill me.”
“All the better to laugh, unless you wish we sit beside the road and weep?”
She opened her mouth to let out a good set down when his words hit her.
“Your Grace, I overstepped my bounds in the carriage. I made you uncomfortable. But I like you. It’s as simple as that. Either you like me too or you don’t. It really needn’t be more complicated. You have enough complications as it is. But I will tell you this: I will not help you feed the seeds of sadness inside you. In that way lies misery. I have seen too many men walk down misery’s road. I will not be one of them.”
“So, you will act the part of the fool?” she whispered.
“Why not? The fool is often the wisest man around.”
“You confuse me, sir.”
“I am not surprised.” He hesitated then said, “I think you have known too many broken men.”
With that he started off down the road.
There was little else she could do but follow. Gathering her cloak about her, she picked her way over the hard, grooved ground. What exactly had he meant by broken men? Edward was not a broken man. She’d spent goodly time with him.
And frankly, Wyndham seemed a bit mad. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was sad. The only thing that gave her a modicum of joy was her work, and even that came with a tinge of tragedy. Her daily work with those who lived with one foot in the grave weighed heavily on her mind.
Once, she’d had girlish dreams of love, family, and merriment. A brief time out of the school room had taught her that those dreams of hers were hollow and unattainable. Life was hard, cruel, and marriage was the end of a girl’s fanciful nature. Unless .
. . She thought of the happiness that Mary and Edward shared. Dare she hope for such a thing again?
She shoved aside the thought.
Right now, she was in hiding, for goodness’ sake. And the man leading her to God knew where kept spouting Shakespeare and making inappropriate remarks.
Hadn’t she suffered enough?
Then again, she didn’t exactly feel as though she were suffering. Quite the contrary, she felt shockingly light, given the day’s events. She focused on his broad back and strong stride. How much of the world’s care had fallen on his shoulders?
From his conversation, one would think he’d never known a day of misfortune in his life, but she knew differently. She’d seen the glimpses of hardship masked by laughter.
She was tempted to ask again where they were, but she doubted he would answer. In the end, she didn’t truly need to know, but it was somewhat irksome not knowing if he was leading her to a cow field or a bed.
A bed.
Good Lord, she hoped there would be more than one. Or perhaps he planned to gallantly sleep at her feet. The very idea seemed laughable, but she was not afraid of him. Lord Wyndham wouldn’t force his way into her bed. Edward would never have let her come if he’d been that kind of man, and frankly, she would have sensed that kind of cruelty in his person.
Marriage to the Duke of Duncliffe had taught her how to recognize brutality in a man.
After what had to have been a mile in silence, Lord Wyndham made a sudden left without glancing over his shoulder.
She followed, finding his silence disconcerting. After his ramblings, the deafening country quiet was quite shocking. Thankfully, the clear moonlight made his path easy to discern. But even so, she kept a wary eye on the ground. She had no desire to make close acquaintance with the earth.
“Here we are,” he chimed.
She glanced around him and drew in a shocked gasp.
A small cottage stood not one hundred feet away, hiding in the shadows of a hill’s protection.
A Lady Undone: A Mad Passions Novella (A Penguin Special from Signet Eclipse) Page 4
