by Claudia Dain
There. He spotted a girl on her knees near a grove of trees. She was grubbing under the leaves, looking for something. It seemed entirely appropriate for a child of Freddy’s. He started toward her and she looked up.
Moving quickly, she climbed to her feet. She wore a somber grey dress that someone had lightened with touches of pink and white. She clutched some sort of small box close.
“Miss Moreton?” she called.
His stomach plummeted. His pulse ratcheted. The girl was watching him with a white, strained face. She called again.
Someone answered. After a moment Lisbeth stepped from behind the line of trees, out of the shaded darkness and into the clearing. Her hair was mussed, her color high. As James stared in horror and fascination, she greeted the child, then self-consciously touched her finger to her lips.
Thirty seconds later, Cotwell emerged from the shaded grove at the same spot.
James reeled. God. He’d given Lisbeth her first kiss. It had been outside too, somewhere on the estate that she cared so much for. Their flirtation had been light, a distraction from the boredom of forced rustication, but he knew she’d felt something for him. Perhaps he’d held on to that, somewhere deep, when he’d gone.
And he had gone. Left her behind with scarcely a moment’s hesitation. Yet when she’d asked for his help, he’d offered it right away. And then failed to follow up. She’d come to London on his word and now she was kissing someone else in a wooded grove. Her employer, it would seem. Cotwell.
James had no claim on the girl, and yet poisoned darts of shock, fury, shame and despair hit him hard and stung deep. A huge weight of responsibility crushed him, opened him up and flooded him with darkness, leaving him pale, trembling and wildly out of control.
He stalked forward. His head felt as if it might explode with each step. “What in blazes is going on here?”
Lisbeth looked up. For the briefest span of time, her eyes lit up. Then reality struck and drained all of her high color away. “James?” she whispered.
Multitudes of questions and worlds of hurt, all in one syllable. The weight on him grew heavier still.
The little girl ducked behind her skirts.
Cotwell moved to stand between him and the two females. Damn, how had he forgotten his size?
“Move on, Vickers,” he growled. “There’s nothing to be said here. You’ve done the girl enough damage.”
He nearly sputtered in indignation. It might have been humorous, did he not feel so wretchedly to blame—and outraged by the pious Cotwell’s misbehavior. “I? I have done damage?” He flung a pointed finger toward the trees. “That is a girl of good family you had in there! I’m not blind, you hypocritical ass! I can see what is happening here.”
“Don’t let him take me.” The girl clutched at Lisbeth, but raised her chin in defiance.
“There’s no need to worry,” Cotwell answered her soothingly.
“I don’t want to go with him,” she insisted.
Lisbeth knelt beside her. “Aurelia, of course you are not going anywhere. This is only the old friend I mentioned to you.” She cut a glance at him. It nearly breathed disappointment, something he was far too familiar with, but had never seen in her. “A former friend.”
Thunder gathered in Cotwell’s frown. “Wait a moment. You know Vickers?” he asked Lisbeth.
She flushed once more, but refused to look at James again. “Yes, of course. But how do you . . .” Her voice trailed off. She looked at the girl and then at him. Sudden tears welled. “Oh, no. No. It was you?” She clutched the girl tight.
“It was he,” Cotwell affirmed. “He who shut his door in Aurelia’s face, without even checking to see if I was in Town. He who left her with a man he didn’t know, who might have done any damned thing with her.”
Cotwell’s righteous anger was a sight to behold, but James knew how to scuttle it. “Please,” he scoffed. “I knew you were in Town. I’d heard the rumors, the laughter, the complaints that your neighbors feared you would blow them all to pieces in their beds.”
But Cotwell ignored him. He stared at Lisbeth now. “Friend, you said? Friend? Do you mean to say that he was also the one who abandoned you? Who left you alone and waiting at the museum?”
Lisbeth bit her lip, but she didn’t need to answer. Silent communication flew between them, thickening the air. The sight of it hurt—and fired James’s own fury to another level.
“And just how did you get word of that?” he demanded. “Have you been keeping tabs on me, Cotwell?” He eyed the man with the kind of derision that he knew would infuriate him. “You surprise me, Sparsebrow. I recall you being too proud and fastidious to partake of my leavings.” He raised a brow. “Changed your mind about that, have you?”
This was all moving so fast—but no one could have predicted the speed with which Cotwell launched at him. James flew backward before he even registered the attack, his jaw erupting in pain. He knew the full measure of true fear too, when he shook his head, sat up, and saw the baron advancing on him with hurt, fury and hate in his eye.
Lisbeth disentangled herself from the girl—and dealt James another blow when she rushed to press herself against Cotwell’s chest. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Leave him.” She didn’t even turn to look at him. “He’s not worth it.”
Cotwell looked down at her—and calmed. “Damn him,” he answered. “It’s you and Aurelia I don’t want to hurt. Take her home now. I’ll be along shortly.”
Lisbeth stayed a moment, staring into the baron’s eyes, then moved to gather up the girl. One last look she cast in James’s direction—and it was utterly devoid of any emotion at all.
He felt broken all over as he watched her go. He only fingered his jaw, though, as he rose to his feet and contemplated the man who’d been one of his closest friends.
“She deserves better than you,” Cotwell said quietly.
James nodded. “I failed her. God knows I’m sorry for it.” He fixed the baron with a glare. “Don’t dally with her, Cotwell. She might be different, but she’s also . . .”
“A treasure,” Cotwell finished softly.
“Precisely.” He stared off in the direction she’d taken. “I hate to say it, but she deserves better than either of the likes of us.”
“I know.”
It was said so quietly, James almost missed it. There was nothing to say in response, in any case. Picking up his hat, he turned away and started for home.
Lisbeth couldn’t stop looking out of windows. She’d been distracted and in mental disarray since all of yesterday’s revelations in the park, but it had just got worse with the delivery of the post. From the small, high window in her bedroom, to the schoolroom, to the nursery playroom she wandered, staring blankly out while her mind whirled and her fingers crushed the letter just delivered.
It came from Mrs. Hollandale. She’d written with what she obviously considered unexpected good news: she’d found Lisbeth a position.
The house in Shropshire is massive—an old castle with multiple additions. The housekeeper there means to retire. She wants an apprentice to learn the job, but she does not wish to hire from within the household. I’ve put you forward and she likes the sound of you. I admit I did not think to find something to suit you so easily. Just bring your recommendations by the office and I’ll forward copies and finalize the arrangements.
Likely she was ruining the note, so tight did she hold it with her moist, relentless grip, but she couldn’t seem to set it down. It was perfect. It was exactly what she’d hoped for.
Except, perhaps it wasn’t.
There could be no recommendation from James, no help from him or his mother. Not for a hundred perfect positions would she ask him now. She wondered that she wasn’t more disappointed—in him and for herself. There still did exist the possibility of going to Mr. Thorpe, but the chances of an offer of help were slim—and there were so many other things occupying her mind just now.
That kiss. She could still feel the pr
ess of the baron’s thighs, recall the hard expanse of his chest and the warm sweep of his tongue. Such a simple, everyday thing, a kiss. Yet it held the power to shift destinies and change lives. When she put it together with his words—You are the lady that she is not—and with his compliments—Those girls do not have your grace or generosity—then it allowed her to think of possibilities she would never have contemplated before.
She’d arrived at this house with gratitude, but with one eye on the door. She’d convinced herself it was best for her, best for Aurelia. But Aurelia and her guardian, they had burrowed inside of her and begun to change her. She’d learned to trust a little, and she’d learned to see herself in a new light. Here she was more than just a drudge, a family joke, good only for maintaining the comfort of those around her. Here she felt appreciated as much as her work. For the first time, someone listened to her.
More than that, for the first time, she’d begun to imagine more for herself. She realized how much weight she’d leant her stepfather’s judgment that she would never fit into society, never appeal to any man who did not labor from dusk to dawn. She flushed. That kiss, those words—they made her question that certainty.
A knock sounded behind her. Startled, she crushed the letter further. Turning her head, she found Lord Cotwell hovering in the doorway.
He stomach flopped. “Good afternoon, my lord.” With short, nervous moves she folded the letter away. “Have you brought Aurelia back to me?”
“No, she left me a bit ago, at Cook’s invitation. It seems she’s to learn how to make muffins for tea. By now she’s likely covered in flour and pounding dough.”
“Good. She’ll enjoy that. She’s been a little out of sorts.” Since yesterday. She didn’t say the words but yesterday hung between them all the same.
He crossed the room to glance out the window she’d been staring out of. “I thought we might talk.”
“Of course.” There were no adult sized chairs here save for the one at the desk. She should ask him to retire to the playroom where a pair flanked the hearth. But she couldn’t seem to speak, or move. Only her gaze wandered, taking in his calm expression, the casual way he leaned against the sill.
“I was thinking of all that you said yesterday.”
She nodded breathlessly. She’d done little else herself.
“I think it’s clear that you should abandon the plan of hiring yourself out as a housekeeper.”
He heart pounded. She gave him a quick smile. “I was just thinking the very same thing.”
He didn’t respond right away. Her heart lifted as she realized his gaze had locked onto her mouth. She hated to think she was the only one affected by the memory of what they’d done together. But he appeared to be caught, intent, and she felt . . . strange. Empowered. As if she could, at last, ask for what she truly wanted.
“I was thinking,” she began.
“As was I.”
Heart light, she surged ahead. “I thought perhaps I might stay on.”
“We’ll have to step up the search for a new governess,” he said at the same time.
She froze. Prayed he could not hear the sound of her heart shattering into pieces. “Oh.”
He blinked. “I meant only that it’s clear that you don’t belong in this position.”
Grief and embarrassment held her locked in place. She fought the horrid rise of tears.
He huffed out a breath. “I’m expressing myself badly. What I mean to say is that clearly you are entitled to a Season of your own.”
Her muscles unlocked. She drew herself up and stepped away. “That is no longer possible.” It had been ruled out the moment she entered his house as a servant.
“Perhaps if I spoke to your stepfather—”
“No!” Her eyes widened, but before she could panic at the thought of what mischief such a thing would bring, one of the maids knocked at the door.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord, but Cook sends her regards and asks if she should continue on with the muffins without Miss Aurelia? If they are not in the oven right soon, they won’t be ready for tea.”
Lisbeth spoke sharply. “Without Miss Aurelia? Do you mean to say she’s not in the kitchens?”
“No, Miss. Cook’s been waitin’ on her.”
She looked to Lord Cotwell. “How long ago did she leave you?”
He looked grim. “An hour ago, perhaps less.” They shared a glance.
“I think we know where she’s gone.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
They found her in one of the natural history rooms. One of the big glass cabinets had been shifted to make room for a pair of stuffed antelopes. Aurelia sat on the floor beneath the belly of the male. She spotted Lisbeth and the baron as they walked in, opened her mouth, then closed it and promptly burst into tears.
Lisbeth flew to her. Kneeling down she took her hands and cradled them to her middle. “Oh, my darling,” she crooned.
Aurelia tried to speak, but the force of her sobs prevented it. Lisbeth let her go for several minutes, but when she showed no signs of stopping, she tugged her out and gathered her close.
Gradually the storm lessened. “I’m sorry, sorry,” Aurelia gasped.
“Don’t be sorry,” Lisbeth whispered. “Let it out.”
The baron crouched in front of them, awkward but well meaning. “But I don’t understand. What is wrong?”
His question brought forth a fresh spate of sobs. “Wrong? Nothing is right! Everything is all mixed up.”
“In what way?” he asked simply.
“In every way,” she blurted wildly. I am afraid.”
“Why, dear?” Lisbeth held her tight.
“Because I’m always angry. Or sometimes I’m not—and I’m afraid that is wrong. Sometimes I am happy—helping you in the attics or exploring in the laboratory or sketching insects—and then I am afraid and angry at once. For how can I be happy? My mama is dead! My papa is dead!” She began to sob again, as if her heart would break.
“There is more, is there not?” Lisbeth asked.
Aurelia nodded, wiping at her eyes.
“Tell us. All of it.”
The little girl sniffed. “I hate that man. I never want to go and live with him.”
“You’ll never have to,” Lord Cotwell assured her.
“Never?”
“Never. Not if I have to go to the highest Chancery court in the land.” He regarded her solemnly for a moment. “Aurelia, there is a bench in the next room.” He began to climb to his feet. “Let’s go in there and sit.”
He helped his ward to her feet and held a hand out to Lisbeth, but she acted as if she did not see it. She stood on her own. As she must, from here on out. She followed as the baron led Aurelia to the bench and took up a position behind it.
The sight of them—the broad shouldered man taking up most of the bench, his head tilted toward the little girl who, for perhaps the first time, leaned trustingly into him—nearly broke her heart.
“There’s something that I think it will help you, if you understand,” Lord Cotwell said to his ward. “There are some people who come and go in our lives, and there are some who will always be with us.”
Aurelia looked up at him, frowning. “How do you know which is which?” she asked.
“Love,” he said simply. “Love is a . . . connection, Aurelia. One that can never break. Wherever your parents are, they still love you. You are still connected to them. Your love for each other will bind you forever.”
Aurelia nodded. “Miss Moreton told me.”
“Do you recall when you first came to my home?”
Cautiously, she nodded again.
“I told you then that I loved your papa. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“ I knew then that I would love you, because of him.” He ran a finger along her tear-stained face. “Even if you were a horrid child.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not!”
“Thank goodness, you are not,” he
agreed. “And even though we have not been together for long, still, I’ve grown to love you. So we are connected. And we always will be. Things will change, with time. But that will not. Not ever.”
And Lisbeth ached, because she’d poked and prodded the man and he was responding, opening up—but only far enough to let Aurelia in. An accomplishment she could take the greatest pride and relief in, to be sure, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted in, too.
Aurelia glanced at Lisbeth. “What will change?” Tears welled again. “Miss Moreton is leaving, isn’t she? I don’t want you to leave!”
“Miss Moreton will leave,” Lord Cotwell said baldly.
So easily said. As if it meant nothing to him. As if the words did not rip a jagged hole in Lisbeth’s heart. Ruthlessly, she shut an internal door on the pain. Later she would suffer. Now she must reassure Aurelia. “But we are connected as well, Aurelia. Even if I cannot stay on as your governess, I will always be your friend.” She reached down and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We will write, and visit when we can, if Lord Cotwell permits.”
“There will be other changes to our household,” the baron continued. “I will marry eventually.”
“When?” Aurelia interrupted.
“When I find the right lady.” Lisbeth felt the weight of his gaze on her, but she could not acknowledge it or shift her own. “Miss Moreton assures me she is out there somewhere.”
Blow after blow he destroyed her with light words and casual disregard. He waited a moment, as if inviting her to comment. Perhaps he suffered a twinge of conscience after that kiss. Well, she’d be damned before she eased it.
“In any case, I will marry and likely will have children. They will be new connections for me, but they won’t change the one I share with you. And you will make new connections too, but I will feel safe, knowing you will still feel the same for me.” He held up a finger. “And another thing. Anyone who has this sort of connection with you wants only what is best for you. They want you to be happy. Imagine your parents. You have mourned them, as is right and proper. We will continue to do so and we will continue talk about and remember them. But do you think that they want you to be forever sad and full of despair?
