Discovering Miss Dalrymple (Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Book 6)

by Emily Larkin

  A brief burst of excited laughter came from the old cellar. “Hurry up,” a boy’s voice said urgently. “I wanna see.”

  Alexander’s paralysis broke. He groped his way hastily to the door. Only two people were left in the cellar: a serving maid with a lantern, and the scullery boy. As he watched, the serving maid stepped into the tunnel. Crowding eagerly on her heels was the scullery boy.

  When the servants vanished into that dark, gaping mouth, so, too, did the last of the lantern light.

  The next minute was the most awful one of Alexander’s adult life. Somehow he made his way back to the scullery stairs, stumbling blindly, a soundless scream in his chest. He climbed the stairs frantically and fell to hands and knees on the scullery floor, shaking, wheezing, bile burning in his throat.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the cold flagstones, and tried to catch his breath, almost sobbing.

  It took nearly ten minutes for his jerky, gasping breathing to calm down to something slow and regular. Alexander lifted his head and looked around. There was no one in the scullery, no one in the kitchen, and that was the only good thing that had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours: that no one had witnessed his disintegration.

  It was in that moment, kneeling on the floor, that he knew he couldn’t marry Georgiana. It had nothing to do with whether he was a duke’s son or a farmer’s son. It had to do with him. With this. With the fact that he was twenty-nine years old and yet his fear of the dark still conquered him.

  If Georgiana could see him right now, if Lord Dalrymple could see him . . .

  It was easy to imagine their pity.

  Alexander wiped his face. His hands were still shaking slightly. His hair, when he touched it, was almost sodden with sweat. So was his neckcloth. He climbed to his feet stiffly, wearily, and emerged from the scullery, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door to the corridor. The corridor was thick with shadows, dimly lit, but not so dimly lit that he couldn’t force himself to step into it.

  He walked with the slow gait of an old man. Everything inside him ached—his limbs, his joints, his head, his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but he was close to crying right now.

  The corridor branched. He had a choice: upstairs to his bedchamber, where his valet waited; to the private parlor, where Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple would almost certainly return; or to the noisy taproom.

  He didn’t feel up to any of those options. There was no way he could face Georgiana or her father again tonight. Even Fletcher’s quiet professionalism was too much right now.

  Alexander leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes and wished that everything was different, that he was different, that he wasn’t ruled by his childhood terror of the dark.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  He heard the muted din from the taproom, and beneath that, barely audible, a woman’s voice. “No. Let me go.” The words were low and choked. “Please.”

  Alexander’s eyes snapped open. He pushed away from the wall and headed in the direction of that faint voice.

  He found the voice’s owner half-hidden in the shadows. Or rather, he found two people. One was a man, the other a serving maid. The maid was a tiny thing. She looked barely fifteen years old. The man was a hulking brute wearing a laborer’s rough clothing. Alexander couldn’t see his face—the man’s back was to him—but he could see the serving maid’s face, could see her desperation, her terror.

  Alexander reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder. He had to tap quite forcefully to get his attention. After several seconds the man turned his head. “Wha’?”

  Alexander punched him hard, full in the face.

  The man released the serving maid, staggered against the wall, then caught his balance and surged at Alexander, fists upraised.

  Alexander punched him again, even harder.

  The man’s head snapped back. He staggered into the wall again. This time he didn’t catch his balance; his legs buckled and he slid to the floor.

  Alexander stepped closer and sank into a crouch. The man’s smell came to him: sweat, ale, blood.

  Slowly those bleary eyes focused on him. When Alexander was certain he had the man’s attention, he said, “She asked you to let her go.”

  “Fuck orf,” the man said. He spat, a mix of blood and saliva that landed on the flagstones.

  Alexander ignored it. “No means no,” he said. “No always means no. Do you understand that, or do I need to beat it into you?”

  This time the man stayed silent.

  Alexander stood. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him along the corridor, past the door to the taproom, past the private parlor, to the inn’s main entrance, with its thick oak door.

  Alexander opened the door and shoved the man outside. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

  The man staggered several steps, caught his balance, and turned, his fists balling. Alexander balled his own fists and felt a fierce surge of exhilaration.

  There was a taut moment of expectancy, and then the man spat and turned away.

  Alexander lowered his fists and watched him out of sight, disappointed. He wasn’t a brawler, but right at this moment he wanted to fight. He wanted blood. He wanted violence. He wanted victory.

  He closed the door, and turned to find the serving maid standing behind him, sobbing into her apron.

  His belligerence extinguished instantly. “It’s all right,” Alexander said, and steered her to the settle by the door.

  They sat together for five minutes, the maid sobbing, he soothingly patting her shoulder. The poor little thing was shaking as badly as he’d been after his flight from the cellar. Gradually her choked sobs died away. She sniffed, and wiped her face with her apron. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Alexander said. “Does he come here often?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll have a word with Mr. Norris about it,” Alexander said firmly. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. What’s his name?”

  “Lundy,” the maid said. “But Mr. Norris knows what he’s like, sir. We all does. Ned allus keeps an eye on him.”

  “Ned?”

  “The tapster.” The maid tried to smooth the wrinkles from her damp apron. “Only Ned wanted to see that tunnel, and he tole me to mind the tap, said he’d only be five minutes, and . . . and . . .”

  “You’re minding the taproom?”

  The maid nodded. “But ole Mr. Gibbons, he wanted a pickled egg with ’is ale, so I went to fetch it, and . . .” Her fingers twisted in the damp apron.

  “And Lundy followed you?”

  She nodded again, and climbed to her feet. “Thank you, sir. I’d best be getting back. Mr. Norris won’t be ’appy if he finds I ain’t there.”

  Alexander wasn’t happy, either. In his opinion the maid was far too young to be in charge of a taproom.

  “I’ll come with,” he said. “Help you mind the tap until Ned gets back.”

  The maid’s face lit up. “Oh, would you, sir?”

  “Yes. Now, run and fetch that pickled egg. Old Mr. Gibbons is waiting.”

  Chapter Seven

  September 14th, 1814

  Portwrinkle, Cornwall

  From Eype to Torquay had been a grueling sixty miles. Today, they went only fifty miles, passing through the busy naval port of Plymouth to end their day’s journey at Portwrinkle. Portwrinkle was the merest speck of a fishing village, but it possessed something that Plymouth, with all its bustle, didn’t: a cliff with fossils.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Lord Dalrymple asked. “I know the inn’s rustic, but—”

  “It’s a charming inn,” Georgiana said firmly. “I’m glad to be staying here.” Her eyes sought Alexander’s.

  He responded to that silent plea. “It’s a hundred times better than Plymouth, so I beg you don’t make us go back there,
sir.”

  Alexander didn’t care how rustic the inn was. He didn’t even care if he had to sleep on the floor; what he cared about were Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple, and right now Dalrymple was alight with excitement.

  He left his valet unpacking in the small chamber they’d been assigned—the narrow pallet with the horsehair mattress was his bed for the night, the even narrower truckle was Fletcher’s—and accompanied Dalrymple and Georgiana to the shore. The landlord’s young son, a freckled urchin missing his front teeth, trotted ahead of them, promised a penny if he could show them where the fossils were found.

  It was a pure pleasure to be out of the rattling, lurching box of the carriage, a pure pleasure to be stretching his legs, to see the glittering ocean spread out before him, to have a brisk breeze on his face. The horizon was almost impossible to see, the ocean blending into the sky, and his problems dwindled before that wide silver-blue vista. Alexander inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. He felt a little lighter, as if he’d shed several pounds.

  They walked along the clifftop for half a mile, then took a steep path down to the beach. The sand was finer than Alexander was used to at Eype, the vegetation greener, but the cliffs and the long stretches of pale beach reminded him of Dorsetshire.

  Whitsand Bay, the boy called it.

  “Where’s the best spot for fossils?” Lord Dalrymple asked. He had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Alexander had seen that satchel many times during his life. He was intimately familiar with its contents: the little brushes, the hammer and chisel, the awl, the tweezers, the magnifying glass.

  The boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Over there, sir.”

  Lord Dalrymple glanced at Georgiana, who nodded.

  Dalrymple produced a penny from his pocket. “This is for guiding us. There are more for you if you help me find some fossils.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “How much more?”

  “A penny for every fossil.”

  “Deal,” the boy said, spitting on his palm and holding his hand out.

  Lord Dalrymple gravely shook it.

  The boy scampered across the sand, keen to earn his pennies.

  “Why don’t the pair of you go for a walk?” Dalrymple said. “Take your time. I imagine I’ll be a couple of hours.” He gave them one of his sweet smiles, and headed for the cliff, his strides long and loping.

  Georgiana tucked her hand into the crook of Alexander’s arm. “Thank you for not minding about the inn.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Alexander said.

  They strolled silently for several minutes, the sand crunching beneath their feet, the waves sighing softly, the breeze fresh and clean and pure. It was a perfect moment, their footsteps matching, Georgiana’s hand tucked into his arm. The sense of quiet harmony between them was strong, the feeling that they understood each other perfectly, that more than just their footsteps matched, they matched.

  A wild urge grew in him—to halt right here on the sand and say, Georgie, marry me.

  But he didn’t, because of last night.

  At Thornycombe, in London, at any of his estates, surrounded by a blaze of candles, he could pretend that he controlled his fear. But last night he’d had to face the truth: he didn’t control it; it controlled him. More than that, it conquered him, so that when confronted by darkness he ended up on the floor of a scullery, wheezing and shaking and trying not to vomit.

  Alexander felt a hot rush of shame—and a stomach-clenching surge of relief that no one had witnessed his ignominy.

  “What’s wrong, Vic?” Georgiana asked quietly.

  He glanced at her.

  “It’s the diaries, isn’t it?”

  It was a lot more than that, but he couldn’t tell her about last night.

  Georgiana halted. “You’re still exactly the same person you’ve always been. It doesn’t matter who your parents were. You’re still you.”

  She was correct: he was the same person he had always been. And that was the problem, because the person he was wasn’t the person Georgiana deserved to marry.

  He looked down at her face, shaded by the brim of her bonnet, and felt a painful mix of emotions: tenderness, longing, love, regret.

  “I should have lied to you, shouldn’t I?”

  If she hadn’t told him, he’d have proposed by now. They’d be betrothed.

  Alexander shook his head. “No. It was best that you didn’t.” He managed a smile.

  Georgiana didn’t smile back. She looked solemn, almost sad.

  Alexander wished they were betrothed, so that he could take her in his arms and hug her tightly, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t, so instead he said heartily, “Come, now, that’s a long face for such a beautiful day. Let’s see if we can find some rock pools. That looks like the perfect spot.”

  Ahead, a crumbling headland interrupted the beach. At its foot a shelf of rock pushed out into the sea. Alexander clambered up on that rocky shelf. It was damp, but not slippery, and riddled with rock pools.

  “Here.” He crouched and held out a hand to Georgiana. “Up you come.”

  Georgiana took his hand and scrambled up onto the rocks.

  They explored. Georgiana didn’t let go of his hand. Alexander knew how nimble she was, knew that she didn’t really need to hold onto him to keep her balance, but it felt so good to be holding hands, so right, that he didn’t protest.

  They found anemones with waving red tentacles, and tiny, transparent shrimps, yellow starfish and red starfish, limpets and crabs, spiny urchins and darting little fish.

  At the very apex of the rock shelf, with the sea lapping on both sides like the prow of a ship, was the largest and deepest of the rock pools. “Oh!” Georgiana said, releasing his hand and kneeling. “Look, Vic!”

  Alexander knelt, too, but he didn’t look at the rock pool, he looked at Georgiana. She was absorbed by the miniature world contained in the pool, taking it in silently, her eyes wide, her lips parted, spellbound.

  At that moment, his love for her was so strong that it hurt.

  Alexander looked away, at the silvery horizon. He heard the soft slap of waves against the rocks, heard the gentle heave and sigh of the sea, the far-off cries of seabirds—and the voices in his head.

  One of the voices said, I am not Alexander St. Clare, but it wasn’t the loudest or the most important; it was like the background swell of the sea, low and persistent. The voice that said, I am afraid of the dark was louder. It was like the waves, slap, slap, slapping. And, like the waves, if he didn’t pay attention to it, if he wasn’t careful, it would sweep him away. But the loudest and most important voice of all was the one that said: I can’t marry Georgiana.

  Alexander stared at that distant horizon and felt despair.

  “Vic . . .” Georgiana said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

  He turned his head and looked at her.

  Georgiana wasn’t staring at the rock pool, she was looking at him, and she was so lovely, with her clear, keen eyes and her thoughtful brow, so purely Georgiana, that his heart clenched in his chest. I love you. I can’t marry you.

  She reached out and touched him, laid light fingers on his cheek. “It’s going to be all right,” she said again, and then she rose on her knees, leaned close, and touched her lips to his.

  Alexander froze. He knew he should gently push her away, but he couldn’t make himself do it.

  “Blast this bonnet,” Georgiana said, and she tugged at the ribbons and wrenched it off, and kissed him a second time.

  This time Alexander surrendered to it. He didn’t think about right and wrong, didn’t think about consequences, didn’t think at all. He just crushed her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her with everything he had in him—all his years of longing, all his years of love—kissed her until he was breathless, kissed her long past that point, and Georgiana kissed him back, matching each deep, desperate kiss with one of her own.

  It was a perfect moment. Quite the most perfect moment
of Alexander's life. A moment that he wanted never to end. He wanted to kiss Georgiana forever—but he couldn’t, and so finally, reluctantly, he tore his mouth from hers. He didn’t release her, though. He held her tightly while he dragged air into his lungs, his face pressed into her soft hair. He heard his pulse thunder in his ears, heard his ragged breathing, heard the slap-slap-slap of the waves—and then sanity returned.

  What the devil am I doing?

  His joy snuffed out, a plunge from bliss to shame in the blink of an eyelid. He released Georgiana hurriedly and scrambled back on hands and knees.

  They stared at each other. Georgiana’s cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy, her pupils hugely dilated.

  There was a moment of silence, of expectancy, while the waves slapped and the breeze whispered across his cheek. This was when he should ask Georgiana to marry him. An honorable man would ask now. He knew it. She knew it.

  Alexander remembered the cellar last night. He remembered kneeling on the scullery floor trying not to vomit.

  He looked away and found Georgiana’s bonnet and handed it to her. “Come, we should walk further.”

  Chapter Eight

  September 15th, 1814

  Cornwall

  Georgie had shared kisses with Hubert during the eight months of their betrothal. Those kisses had been tender, playful, shy, thrilling—and absolutely nothing like Vickery’s kiss. There had been nothing tender or shy or playful about Vickery’s kiss. It had been fierce, heated, and intensely passionate.

  She’d been a girl when she’d kissed Hubert, and his kisses had made her feel treasured; she was a woman now, and Vickery’s kiss had made her feel desired. Deeply and desperately desired. The bold play of their tongues, his crushing embrace, the breathless urgency.

  Georgie wasn’t at all ashamed of kissing Vickery, but he was clearly mortified. He hadn’t met her eyes during the rest of their walk, hadn’t met her eyes during dinner, hadn’t met her eyes at breakfast this morning.

  She was hurt, but only a very little, because she thought she understood him quite well. Vickery had kissed her because he wanted her, and not asked her to marry him because he was worried about his parentage.