by Jenn LeBlanc
“I will take supper here, Ferry,” Roxleigh said quietly. “Have a tray sent up.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Do you require further assistance?”
Roxleigh stilled. He knew he was acting peculiar as of late and Ferry was not one to comment, but Roxleigh could see concern in his eyes and heard it in the way he spoke.
He shook his head and finished undressing. “No, Ferry, that will be all.”
The valet bowed and disappeared.
Roxleigh’s suite of rooms was much like the main guest suite, mirrored on the opposite side of the great entrance, but his suite was nearly twice the size of the other. He dropped his clothes where he stood and walked to the tub, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. He sank in, the steaming water washing over his aching muscles as he groaned and leaned back, resting his head on the edge. For the first time in several days, he started to relax as his mind drifted.
The only thing in attendance in his mind was her.
Gideon took himself in hand—and not at all gently. His tension mounted every time he thought on the girl in his manor. Francine. He had done his best to avoid her, and the fact that she was unable to wander from her rooms and the private parlor certainly helped in that endeavor.
Nonetheless, he found himself searching her out in the depths of the first floor balconies whenever he left his study, or walked the stairs, or went to the dining room. She had touched a nerve in him he never knew existed, and he was having a most difficult time in quelling his rampant need.
There was more. Certainly his cock twitched whenever he thought of her, but there was a knot in his chest where she was concerned as well. His position in the peerage, and her status as an unknown, drove him like nothing had in all his years as the Duke of Roxleigh.
He shifted in the bath. Water hit his chest like a waking slap and he released himself. What was he doing?
Bloody hell and damn. He finished the bath and toweled himself off, then wrapped it around his waist. Standing by the fire, he felt the heat singe the hair on his shins, the crackle dissipating his reverie and backing him up against the chaise. He fell into it, the towel falling open as he stretched out long, his ankles hanging from the end. He threw one arm over his eyes.
“Supper, Your Grace,” Ferry said as he entered with a tray. Roxleigh couldn’t even be troubled to grunt a response. Instead he left Ferry to his duty, listening to his footsteps slide across the floor, then become muffled by the rug. The delicate clink of china followed as he arranged the tray in front of the fire before leaving the way he came.
Roxleigh glanced at the tray and saw a missive set by the terrine of soup. He closed his eyes and returned to his thoughts.
Better not to think of her by name. Instead she would be this girl. This unwanted bit of distraction. That was what she was, that was how he had to think of her. No more, no less. She would be gone from his life soon enough, with all of her spit and fire with her.
He thought of the shock of her pulled up against him, neck to knee. Her indecision as her hands drifted between them, unsure whether to touch his chest or curl her fingers in retreat. He remembered the fight in her eyes, stolen by shock when she turned and glimpsed herself in the looking glass. He would have it destroyed. She had been moments from deciding to set him down good and proper, he was sure of it, and nothing in his life had stoked his passion as the anticipation of that set-down.
He felt his grin against his arm. This girl, this girl. God help him with this girl. How was he to survive in his own household? Part of him wanted to catch her somewhere she should not be, only for the chance to reprimand her, to see if he could get her to fight him again.
He growled. Picking fights with a girl? What was he, still in short pants? But she wasn’t a girl; she was a woman, and he a man. One leg slipped off the chaise and he anchored himself, planting his foot on the floor next to him.
The fire warmed and dried his skin from the bath, and he felt it soak in through his inner thighs and up though his groin. He really should move. He really should eat his supper. He really should read the letter. At the very least he should cover himself like a proper gentleman instead of laying here in his glory for all his furnishings to see.
He grunted.
His jaw clenched.
He took himself in hand. This time, a bit gentler. His thumb notched the base of his manhood and he palmed himself in one long stroke. He smoothed his hand down, then back up again, and he spread his legs wider, pushing into the floor as his thighs tensed.
Her hair was the color of toasted butter and cinnamon, her eyes the varied colors of the sky, and her demeanor was just as changing. He’d felt her watching him ride across the valley to the wood, each of his nerves striking the hairs on the back of his neck as it took all of his concentration to stay his course and not turn toward her. The launch into the thick forest was a release as much as it was a disappointment to no longer feel her awareness prickling his skin.
When he returned to the manor to find her on the balcony, her breasts straining the fabric of her nightgown, the garment pulled tight as she leaned into the wind above him, he nearly lost himself on his mount.
He pulled at the favorite memory, his stomach dampening with the early proof of his desire as he shifted and strengthened his grip.
His other hand found the towel half beneath him and tangled in it, pulling and grabbing the soft fabric until the muscles of his arm strained.
“Francine.”
He gasped at the rough gritty edge to his own voice and pushed his head against the cushions, his back bowing out from the seat.
Sweet Francine. Her eyes were like windows to the world, lips as softly tinted as the blush on a rose. Her sweet, terrified face interchanged with that fierce vixen who prodded his chest, demanding to know who he was and how he was going to help set her to rights.
This was not normal. This should not be happening to him. This was something he should easily be able to avoid. His life was beyond controlled, ordered, set, decided, simple.
He felt the knot in his abdomen tighten, a frisson of electricity coursed down his spine, and every muscle stiffened, then release washed over him as his hand stroked feverishly, working to his end.
He collapsed into the spasms, his jaw and fingers flexing as he pulled the towel from beneath him and threw it across his belly.
As he settled before the fire to sup he picked up the note from Dr. Walcott that had been brought with his tray. Roxleigh never liked receiving news that someone in one of the shires was injured, and this one in particular was terrifying. There was no reasonable explanation for the girl’s injuries and no one could account for her whereabouts, leaving them no idea as to what had happened to her. He made a mental note to send a man to Kelso.
Francine’s body was recovering well, even though her voice was not, and she yearned to be active. She couldn’t very well run the halls or staircases as she did at home; she imagined that kind of behavior would be frowned upon. She wanted to explore the beautiful gardens visible from the family’s private parlor, but there was no way she could go outside, either.
She stood in front of the fireplace in her bedchamber. Everything took such a great deal of time here. Sending for the doctor, requesting a dressmaker, visiting a neighbor. She missed e-mail and smart phones.
She started pacing in front of the windows and looked down at the nightdress and robe which were becoming entirely too familiar. It was a beautiful gown, but was so long she had to pull up the skirt in front to keep from tripping on the hem. The matching robe had a full skirt that gathered up to the bodice with a pink ribbon, and it reminded her of something from old Hollywood movies.
Francine paused at one of the windows and looked outside. It was twilight and the western sky was still streaked in yellow and violet. She knew the sky at the back of the house would have most of the remaining light, while the stars above would be glistening brightly like diamonds in velvet. She knew it would be beautiful, and she knew then she had to se
e it.
Everyone would surely be inside. She took a deep breath and turned, then bolted for the door, not stopping to give her mind a second chance. She ran through the entrance to the private parlor and straight to the wall of French doors that overlooked the balcony and gardens to the west. She stopped in front of one of the doors and held her breath as she reached out to try the latch. It opened easily with a quiet but sturdy click and she smiled. She slipped out, then gathered her skirts up in front of her and ran across the balcony.
Meggie woke suddenly. She thought she heard a door. Sitting up rigidly in the small bed, she placed her hand on the wall that joined the servant’s quarters with the guest bedchamber, then swung her legs out of the bed and went straight in without hesitating to knock; it was empty. She wrung her hands in her skirts. Her eyes stung, her lips started to quiver, and her breath caught in her throat. She had only one job to do: to be there. Wherever Francine was, Meggie was to be there, and now she wasn’t. She had fallen asleep and Francine was gone.
Meggie summoned courage from somewhere deep inside and ran to the bell pull to call for Mrs. Weston.
“She’s gone, ma’am, I’m so sorry! I only just closed my eyes, but she’s gone and I do not know where!” Meggie cried when she came to the bedchamber.
“Oh, Meggie, we must find her before His Grace finds out. Go gather the others, go!”
Meggie stared at her.
“Go!” Mrs. Weston yelled, pushing her toward the door.
Francine was a flurry of white. She’d seen stairs at both ends of the long balcony so she knew it didn’t matter which way she went. She placed one hand on the stone balustrade and followed it to the end and down the sweeping staircase that curved its way out from the house, mirroring the other. The stairs surrounded a large terrace like protective arms and she descended the lower steps from the terrace into the gardens.
She suddenly realized how much her body and mind had been starved of movement. She’d made her escape and she was going to enjoy her moment of solitude in the moonlight, consequences be damned. She ducked behind a hedgerow leading to a tunnel blanketed in vine roses. The moonlight made the pale blossoms glow like lanterns, and the surreal landscape propelled her further down the lane.
Dr. Walcott watched the evening light wane through the western window, then turned back to his patient. He dabbed at Lilly’s wounds with fresh linens, methodically pulling debris from the deeper cuts. Then he flushed the wounds with enough water to remove small fragments before putting salve and fresh linen over each one to protect them and keep them from drying out.
He worked half the night on her face, neck, and shoulders. He decided to simply cut her hair, to save the pain of brushing out the horrible tangles. She must have had clothes on at one point because there were no abrasions around her torso, but once he started cleaning her legs he noted that the gashes on her thighs were a great deal worse. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands as he glanced over at her mother. She sat on the opposite side of the bed, her head resting on the pallet next to Lilly, more likely from his laudanum than her exhaustion. He bent back over the girl, picking up right where he left off.
Mrs. Weston watched Roxleigh from a passageway. The others started to move but she held them back with her finger at her mouth. A few minutes later, Roxleigh left the library and ascended the steps going to the door of the private parlor. He opened the door slowly—presumably to make sure his guest was not in there.
She rushed out of the passage as soon as he was safely in the parlor, ushering the other servants with her. “All right then, let’s see to this. Meggie, you go wait in her room and ring if she returns. Davis, you go check the grounds, but don’t go out back because the master will see you if you’re out in the gardens. Ferry, you keep a look out for His Grace. I’m going to the lower north wing. Carole, you take the south.” She paused after hearing a noise in the parlor and then quietly directed the other servants down various hallways, up and below stairs. At last she shooed everyone into action, watching them scatter like mice from the light.
Roxleigh ambled across the parlor to the French doors. The moon was out with the stars, waiting for the sun to take the last streaks of gold below the horizon in the west. The chill of early spring was starting to wane in the evenings, and this night was unseasonably warm, making it a rare one that was more midsummer than spring.
He opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, taking a deep breath. A scent captured his attention and he stilled, scanning the gardens. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and left the book he’d brought from the library on the wide balustrade. He hurried down the stairs toward the hedgerow. Nobody would dare enter his maze at this hour; it wasn’t safe. Only he knew the layout. He heard a quiet laugh carried to him by the breeze, and his eyes widened. It had to be her.
Francine laughed as she ran without consideration, her skirts gathered up almost to her waist, allowing her strong legs their freedom. The breeze through her hair lifted her spirits, the realization that she’d escaped the manor and was doing something reckless more than exhilarating. She felt like she’d shed all of her previous life’s trappings and was free, finally free. She let out an excited cry that sounded more like a chirp through her wounded vocal chords and bolted around another corner, nearly losing her footing on the soft grass. She was ridiculously giddy and didn’t care if she never came out of the gardens or returned to her stuffy old life. She felt drunk and wildly out of control as she ran through tunnels and around corners with no regard for where she was headed.
What would those prim and proper people think of me running willy-nilly through the garden in a nightgown and no shoes? She stopped abruptly. If I get caught, he’ll send me away. Taking a deep breath, she forced the thought from her head before continuing on.
She was gasping hard and felt a stitch in her side, but she kept going: right, left, left, right, until she turned a corner and ran straight into what felt like a fabric-covered brick wall. She bounced off and was thrown back against the hedge wall. In a daze, she let go of the hem of her skirts and tried to catch her breath. Large hands seized her waist.
“No!” she cried as her breath hitched and she twisted in the grip. She tried to get a leg up to kick her attacker but he was too close, looming over her and backing her up against the hedge. She couldn’t see his features, shadowed by the moonlight at his back, and she started to panic. Then he spoke.
“Quiet,” he said. “I came to help.”
She stilled instantly and looked up, straining to see his face as her ears pricked at the voice she knew she’d heard before. “No,” she said gravelly. Why him? Of all people to find me, why him? “I’m fine,” she whispered. “I just needed to get out.” She tried to clear her throat. “I’ve been trapped for so long. I just thought—”
His head tilted toward her as if to hear her better. “You just thought— What?” he asked impatiently, cutting her off. “You just thought you would streak madly through a labyrinth you’ve never seen, in the dead of night, laughing like a madwoman the entire way? Is that what you thought?”
“No, I— You don’t understand.” She tried to wriggle free of his steely grip. “You need to let go of me!” she said as her voice broke, angered by his rigid hold. She tried to clear her throat but it tightened.
He released her and backed away, taking her hand. “This way.” He moved before she was ready and she tripped as she tried to grab her skirts with her other hand. She could hardly keep up with his pace, but his strength pulling her through the turns helped her to regain some of the reckless freedom she’d felt earlier, save the guiding hand on her wrist. She covered her mouth with the edge of her skirts to stifle a heady giggle as he pulled her into a small clearing and let go of her abruptly, then strode a few feet away.
The clearing was circular and had several openings leading back into the hedgerow. In the center was a large white marble fountain with several terraces spilling
water down into a raised pool at the base. She wanted to put her tired feet in, but she looked at the stiff back of the duke and thought better of it. She started to make a mocking face at him, but froze at the sight of tension stiffening his shoulders. He shoved his hair back from his face. She clasped her hands in front of her waist as he turned to face her, standing straight and tall.
“I apologize that we have not been, and now will not be, properly introduced. I am Gideon Alrick Trumbull, tenth Duke of Roxleigh. You have been a guest at my estate since an unfortunate accident. You ran from my wood, into my meadow, startling my horses and causing the death of an unknown foxhound.” He paused, one eyebrow arched. She shook her head after a moment and he continued. “Mrs. Weston has been keeping me apprised of your continued recovery. It appears to me that you are, in fact, well recovered, since you are able to run haphazardly through my hedgerows with no regard for your safety. Now, why don’t you tell me something of yourself?”
He challenged her with his gaze, with his stance—his legs spread slightly, his hands clasped at his back, his spine straight and his shoulders rigid. She exhaled slowly, gawking at the vision before her. But she advanced toward him, carefully attempting to speak.
