“Don’t be silly. I didn’t think you would feel obligated to help an MP with what might be perceived as a pet project.”
“I don’t consider it a pet project. Ambitious, rather. After seeing the conditions of the workers under my father’s iron fist, I have an invested interest. I recognize tenants and laborers working for their livelihood aren’t comparable to slaves stolen and transported, but the treatment is none too different from my viewpoint.”
“In that case, I want to tell you of my work with the tin miners this summer.”
He visibly stiffened. “Tell me you didn’t go into the mines, Lizbeth. You don’t belong there, and it’s entirely unsafe.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t go into the mine,” she reassured, “but I did help the workers in my own small way. I’ve always brought them treats and visited with them, just as my mother did, but after hearing your stories of working alongside the laborers, I wanted to do more. I don’t think it was enough to thin the line between employer and employee, but I tried to join their ranks for a time. If that makes any sense.”
The breeze was light but persistent, freeing some of her hair from the braid. She tucked the disobedient strands behind her ears.
“Doing too much, I think, patronizes their labor,” he replied. “They have their jobs, and we have ours. I’m sure they appreciated your efforts all the same. If more of the gentry were like you, what a different world we would live in.”
He reached into the picnic basket, rummaged, and pulled out a small box. Eyes averted, he slid the box to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
He shrugged, turning to watch the others play their game.
The wooden box was only a few inches long, not much larger than a snuff box. When she opened it, she was rewarded with a palm-sized flower, hand-whittled from wood and painted purple with a green stem.
“Oh, Sebastian,” she breathed, cradling the flower. “But you’ve already given me so much.” She rolled the flower in her hands, studying the craftsmanship, rubbing her fingers along the grains. “How beautiful. What kind of flower is this?”
If a masculine man could look sheepish, Sebastian did. “It’s cranesbill, the flower of Northumberland. It’s plentiful near the castle.” He cleared his throat and fidgeted, inspecting the grass.
“Did you get this in the village? My compliments to the woodworker. It really is beautiful.”
He shook his head. “No, I whittled it myself. You’ll find plenty of blemishes. My first attempt at decorative woodworking, you see. I think some of the stem is purple, so don’t look too closely.”
Her cheeks warmed. She hardly knew what to make of him, this moody man who one day kissed her and the next spurned her. He broke the rules of courting. First with his familiarity at the British Museum, then with the correspondence, and now with gifts, all actions socially accepted only between betrothed couples, of which they certainly were not.
He wasn’t even courting her as far as she knew. Did he want to court her, or were these all gestures of one friend to another? Friends didn’t find opportunities to bump legs in carriages or touch the smalls of backs. Friends certainly didn’t kiss each other. Did he still regret their kiss?
She was sorely tempted to wrap her arms around him and kiss him again, as wantonly as she had in London, to show him exactly what she thought of his so-called friendship. Instead, she tucked the flower back into its box, set it next to her, and reached into her reticule for a bundle of her own.
“It’s a good thing you gave me this first so I don’t appear coy.” She handed him a round object wrapped in a handkerchief.
He unfolded the kerchief to reveal a black rock, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Hmm. Thank you? I’ve always wanted a, uh, rock.”
Lizbeth laughed. “It’s so much more than a rock.”
“Is it?” He held it up to the sunlight, squinting.
“Yes. It’s volcanic rock from a sea cave in Trevena. I wanted you to have something from King Arthur’s birthplace. You could use it as a paperweight, I suppose.”
She watched his confusion metamorphose to surprise and wonderment.
“That beach is special to me,” she explained, “so I wanted to bring a piece of it to you as a thank you for the books you sent. And, you’ll think this part silly, but in the Suite du Merlin, Nineve, or the Lady of the Lake, uses her wiles to trap Merlin in a cave. She tricked him into falling in love with her so she could steal his magic, and then she used it against him. Well, I suppose you already know that. When I read it, I thought of the cave I oft visit at low tide, and I also thought about the inscription you wrote in the book, to the Lady of the Lake. This rock is me giving you my magic, so you trust me never to be false.”
She had never given a man a gift before, and certainly not something so personal. Her hands trembled so much she gripped the edge of her pelisse, wringing the fabric with sweaty palms.
He fixed his eyes on her for what felt like an eternity before he wrapped the rock back in the handkerchief. As he folded the edges, he paused, spotting the initial on the linen. The kerchief was hand-stitched with silk embroidery, an R for Roddam sewn in blue, surrounded by a wreath of meadow flowers that serpentined along the hem.
She chewed her bottom lip as he studied the embroidery. He would think it all silly. Vulnerability sent a bead of sweat down the back of her neck.
Girlish squealing infiltrated the silence. To distract herself from the embarrassment of the gifts, she watched the three ladies chasing each other along the river. When she looked back to Sebastian, she caught him wiping the corner of his eye.
“What’s it like?” he murmured, his words catching in his throat.
“What’s what like?”
“Love.” Sebastian’s eyes glistened when he looked up. “What does it feel like? To love and to be loved by family.” His composure began to crumble, his shoulders rounding, his features lined. “What is it like to love so much you would suffer four hundred miles of bumpy and dangerous roads?”
Lizbeth mulled over his question. Hesitantly, she said, “I’m not sure I can describe love. For me, it feels warm, tickling inside right down to your toes. Not always, though. Sometimes it’s a sensation of longing, as if someone’s tugging at an invisible rope around your midriff, a pull at your belly button. It can even be a cold fear for another’s wellbeing. Mostly, it feels like home, that comfort you have when you’re sitting by the fireplace in winter. I believe it feels differently to everyone and is something you must experience to recognize. That doesn’t help, does it?”
“It does,” he said, his voice husky. “Lizbeth, I—. That is, when I’m with you, I—. Damnation. What I’m trying to say is that you make me feel—.”
Charlotte and Mary ran between them, screeching and flushed with excitement. Aunt Hazel huffed and puffed behind them. Liz held her box protectively from getting trampled, her heart beating frantically at whatever Sebastian was about to say.
“Lizzie! Come dance!” Charlotte squealed, grabbing Liz’s wrist.
“What are you talking about, Charlotte?” Not that Lizbeth begrudged her sister the fun, but she wanted to know what Sebastian might have said.
“Come dance! Auntie can be your partner.”
Aunt Hazel heaved her way to the picnic blanket and sat, leaning against a tree. Breathlessly, Hazel said, “I most certainly will not. You are the silliest girl, duchess or not.”
Sebastian tucked his gifts discreetly into the picnic basket and stood, offering his hand to Lizbeth. She slipped her own gift into her reticule. Taking his hand, they joined Charlotte and Mary.
Chapter 20
In the growing darkness of night, Sebastian could see the child silhouetted against the rising moonlight. A full moon hung low in the sky, filling his world with a bright glow. She waded into the ocean, splashing her hands in the knee-deep water.
“Come swim, ‘Bastian! The water is so cold I have gooseflesh!”
“We need to go home, or he’ll find out,” he called back.
“Come play, ‘Bastian!”
Long, black hair flowed around her, trailing in the water that now lapped at her waist. She slipped in deeper, her hair fanning about her body.
As he turned his back, the night air shattered with the sound of a blood-curdling scream. He looked back to see the child dangling from the mouth of a tentacled beast with flaming eyes.
He ran to fight the beast, but his legs wouldn’t move. Sand sunk around him, pulling him under. He screamed to the child as the sand swallowed him whole.
Sebastian woke to find himself wading in a pool of sweat. His bed sheets were soaked, his body drenched.
Devoid of the transitional confusion between sleep and wakefulness, he knew instantly where he was and that he had been dreaming. This was the first time he had dreamt of a giant squid, he thought wryly, but not the first time of the child he couldn’t save.
He wouldn’t stay in a soggy bed and doubted he could fall back to sleep, so he fumbled for the bedside candle, lit it, and reached for his pocket clock on the nightstand to check if it were a decent hour to wake his butler to arrange for fresh sheets and a bath. He paid his staff well enough to wake them any damn time he pleased, but on principle, he refused to be a grouchy lord of the manor in the wee hours.
The dials read four in the morning. The sheets could wait. The bath could wait. He untangled his legs from the wet mop of bedcovers and escaped his newly sweated in-home swimming pool. It only took his purposeful stride a handful of minutes to bring him downstairs, outside the curtain wall, and down the slope to the beach.
The night air, autumn cool, whirled around him, trying to push him left, then right, back, then forward. It tickled the beads of sweat still clinging to his skin.
He pulled off his nightshirt, letting the wind breeze through his legs and across his stomach. The last thing he needed was his shirt escaping for an airborne adventure through all of Northumberland, so he tucked it under a rock. The grassy dunes met black, basalt rock before the ground transformed into sweeping honeyed sand.
Despite the wind, the sea remained calm, gently lapping at his feet as he stepped, bare as the day he was born, into the frigid waters. His body shivered at the icy touch until he dived into the depths, letting the undertow pull him into the waves before rocking him back to shore.
No sea monsters. He wouldn’t mind pitting his wits against one. He fantastically imagined Scylla the Greek sea monster with her twelve tentacles and six heads surfacing from the water, begging him, posing as Poseidon the god of the sea, to release her from her monstrous curse, to defeat the monster she had become and release her back into a fair sea nymph.
The water cleansed his nightmarish visions. Somewhat ironic, he mused, given his nightmares were of the sea, yet it was the sea that healed him, mind, body, and soul. He swam well past where his feet could touch seabed, clearing his mind of the visions of the young girl who haunted his dreams.
He returned to the castle only after the pre-dawn on the horizon lightened the night sky. It had been a full moon, he noticed. A fool’s moon.
He pulled the bell-cord, waited, then requested fresh sheets and a hot bath. He had estate business to complete today before the dinner party. The doctor he recently hired for the parish of Balan never arrived, and Sebastian discovered the physician had chosen a position in Italy instead without bothering to send notice. Fickle leech. He needed to sort through possible replacements so the parish wasn’t without medical care.
Concentration, he realized, was difficult with the looming evening. With so much work to be done, it amazed him he could be distracted by something as mundane as a dinner, but alas, distracted he was. He felt in over his head and unsure how to proceed. Courting was not a natural behavior for him.
There were strict rules on courting, and he knew he had already broken half of them. He offered her his given name and used hers as though they were family. He had walked arm-in-arm with her in London, a physical touch only socially acceptable between engaged couples. He had corresponded with her. They had exchanged gifts. He had even kissed her. None of these were acceptable unless affianced. It was amazing he hadn’t unintentionally compromised her.
Then, perhaps he had. He was so removed from gossip circles, he wouldn’t know the latest on dit even if his name were at the center. Presumably, her aunt would approach him if there were any gossip. He assumed no one paid much attention to a recluse and a spinster.
But, he humored himself, who cared? So what if tongues wagged and scandal raged? They were both wallflowers in the social scene anyway, he being mostly ostracized socially except by those willing to look past his foul temper for his wealth and titles. What’s the worst they could say—that surly man has scandalized that spinster’s reputation? Not much to scandalize if he planned to marry her, or hoped to marry her at any rate, if she would have him, if he didn’t lose, if he could dredge bravery from the depths of his soul.
Never had he thought it possible to think those words: planned to marry. He spent his life despising the institution of marriage and hiding himself from the world, afraid of rejection and scorn. Yet here he sat, rolling the words over his tongue, tasting them: planned to marry.
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe marriage begot happiness. Non-sequitur, as they say in Latin. It did not follow that infatuation blossomed to love or love to marriage or marriage to happiness. However, at this point, with Lizbeth, he wanted to try to make it work. He feared losing her more than any reason he had not to marry. Knowing what it felt like to lose her after leaving London, that tug at his belly button she described at the picnic, he would be damned if he felt that again. It may destroy them both to marry, but he would not bungle it this time.
He likened his attraction more to an obsession than love because he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop making love to her in his waking dreams, even found himself asking into empty rooms for her opinion as though she sat across from him. If his butler didn’t already think him half mad, he certainly would after witnessing the conversations to empty chairs.
The rest of his day flittered by with little accomplished despite his best efforts to concentrate. He arrived at Lyonn Manor when all in the house were still dressing, all except his aunt. The butler escorted him into the lesser parlor. Aunt Catherine sat in her favorite chair staring up at the new paintings of Drake and Charlotte.
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” were her opening words to him.
“And a lovely evening to you, as well, Aunt Catherine.”
She thumped her gold-handled cane against the floor. “You’ll be sitting with Lady Argot at dinner.”
“No, I will be sitting next to Miss Trethow.” He straddled the floor, feet apart, hands folded behind him, shoulders pulled back.
“Do not defy me in my own house. You will sit with Lady Argot and stop making a fool of yourself.” Although she remained seated while he stood, she managed to look down her nose at him.
“In what way do you perceive I’ve made a fool of myself?”
“Over that girl. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s bad enough Drake married below him to some lowly gentry gel, but to have you gallivanting after that vulgar sister of hers is beyond reproach.” Seeing the conversation as over, she turned back to the paintings.
Sebastian prodded. “Don’t tell me what to do. Because you never knew love doesn’t mean I can’t love, or at least try. Need I remind you you are only in my life because I make it so? If I want to ‘make a fool of myself,’ as you say, then I will. I don’t need or seek your approval.”
She stared at the paintings with deaf ears.
As he turned to leave, she harrumphed. “Do what you will, but while I reside here, you will sit where I tell you or not dine wi
th us a’tall.” She punctuated the sentence with a thump of the cane.
He gave a curt nod, pivoted, and left her to her thoughts.
Stationing himself in the far corner of the Red Drawing Room and hoping to remain unobserved until Lizbeth graced the room with her presence, he waited. Momentarily, he considered going to Drake’s study for a book and solitude, but then he would be too conspicuous when returning.
The last thing he wanted was for the butler to formally announce his arrival and have all eyes turn his way. He already knew everyone on the guest list, his aunt’s usual guests with the addition of a few ladies meant to tempt him, no doubt, but that wouldn’t dissuade any of them from scrutinizing him.
Much to his great pleasure, Hazel was the first to join him in the drawing room, clearly wanting also to station herself, but unlike him, angling to be part of the receiving line for guests.
She was a tad too much like Charlotte for him to keep in company for long, but she proved herself wise in the social arts, a good judge of character, and amiable in all ways. He certainly enjoyed her sense of humor. How different might life have been if his first arrival to Lyonn Manor had been met with Hazel as his aunt instead of Catherine.
He braved removing from his sanctuary to speak to her. Already, several days had passed, nearly a week in total. He was running out of time. Even as he watched the calendar days tick by, he struggled to work up the courage to act on his desire. This was no easy task. The entirety of his future hung in the balance of his actions.
Given this may be his only opportunity to have Hazel to himself, he approached her, his hand reaching for his pocket clock, the feel of the cold metal soothing his nerves.
“Lady Collingwood.”
“Oh, good heavens! You startled the life out of me. Where were you hiding, you sneaky man?” She fanned herself for a moment then gave a robust laugh. “Hazel, please. I thought we were well past formalities. We’re family now.”
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