by Lavinia Kent
Before she’d run away from her brother’s house she’d thought that resting was a waste of time. Now she knew far different. There was nothing as wonderful as closing one’s eyes even for the briefest of moments.
“I’d have taken the baby sooner if I’d known it would please you that much.”
She opened one eye and looked at him. “I must admit that at this exact moment I feel perfect. It’s been rather a long day.”
“Did you start your trip early?”
“No, but the packing required hours of work. Mrs. Wattington is not exactly sure what she’ll need for the events surrounding the coronation and so it seemed her entire wardrobe must be packed. Normally I just stay in the nurseries, but I was pulled into service helping to fill her trunks. Joey does not need much.”
“I’d always heard babies required a pile of belongings.”
“No, not if there’s a ready breast or milk cow.”
He glanced inquiringly at her, his eyes dropping down. “Do you think he’s hungry now?”
“Oh stop it. Mrs. Wattington did have the sense to make sure all the inns we were stopping at had cows. She says that the newest wisdom is that a mixture of cow’s milk and pap will fatten the baby better than anything else. I believe she just didn’t want the added expense of bringing a wet nurse along. Stop looking at me like that.” She pulled her cloak tight over her breasts.
“A man can only dream.”
She closed her eyes again and ignored him—and how strangely safe she felt. At least Joey was quiet. She would be thankful for that and the moment of rest it gave her. It wasn’t like there was any danger of falling asleep. She’d barely slept since she’d first seen the blue-coated man again, and seen the way he stared directly at her.
Mark glanced across at Miss Smith. Her eyes had been closed for a good ten minutes now, and he believed he’d heard a gentle, rumbling snore. He peeked down at the baby. His eyes too were shut tight, and he gave no indication that he’d be opening them again anytime soon.
There was an empty spot on the hay next to her. She surely couldn’t object if he sat for just a moment beside her. Lifting the baby higher, onto his shoulder, he tried to lower himself beside her.
The baby, Joey, she called him, began to squirm.
His nose scrunched. His eyes squeezed tight into slits. His mouth began to open.
Mark could hear the squawk before it even sounded.
He rose quickly and began to pace the yard again.
He should wake her. It was time for him to find his own bed. He would assure her again that the duke would make no complaint should Joey happen to wake.
She might not believe him.
He stopped and stared down at her, shifting from hip to hip to keep the child quiet. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful—so exhausted. If he woke her she might spend the rest of the night walking with the baby. And he doubted Mrs. Wattington would let her sleep in the carriage.
Whereas he could doze the day away riding in his uncle’s fine carriage, as well sprung a vehicle as had ever been created.
He stepped away from her and returned to his pacing. He’d been right about that smile. It lit her whole being and most of her surroundings. A man would do a lot for a smile like that. And for that devilish glint in her eyes. A glint that led a man to wonder. A glint that gave a man plenty to consider as he marched back and forth.
Now he just had to figure how to meet up with her again, how to make her smile again.
Chapter 3
The twisted body lay on the floor before her, the neck bent at an impossible angle, blood pooled about the head. More blood marked the back of her hand.
Isabella bolted upright, the scream caught in her throat. Her eyes remained closed, the image printed across her inner lids.
Should she flee?
It was the first thought that filled her mind every morning. The first thought that had filled her mind for more than three years. She drew air into her lungs until she thought they’d burst and released it slowly.
A soft sound whispered at the edge of her thoughts—and then a louder cry, a scream.
She swallowed once, suddenly afraid of what she might see.
Opening her eyes, she peered through the dim light. The tiny garret. Her own bed.
It was Joey, crying—again.
Another dream-haunted morning, no different from any other.
She turned her head, relieved to see that light was creeping over the horizon. It was early, then, but not too early. Sleep still held at the edge of her consciousness. Despite her dream, it had been weeks, if not longer, since she’d felt so rested, slept so unencumbered by her troubles. She stretched once in the comfort of her bed—and stopped.
Her bed. A moment of fear took her.
It was not simply another morning.
She hadn’t come to bed. The last thing she could remember was leaning against the stable wall, her eyes sliding closed as she watched Mr. Smythe’s long legs pace. It had so felt wonderful to be free of Joey’s weight for however brief a time.
Joey.
She sat upright, her gaze sliding around the room, following his angry cry. A small bootied foot waved above the edge of his cradle. He was there.
She slipped her bare feet onto the warm wood floor. Her own stockings lay draped over her half boots at the foot of the bed. The rest of her was still fully dressed, although her cloak lay piled on the tiny garret’s one chair.
Joey was also clothed. He stopped whining and smiled brightly as she walked toward him, clearly eager to be lifted and held. His small arms reached out to her. He squished as she picked him up, his behind more than a little damp.
Mr. Smythe had carried her up to bed—and carried Joey as well. How he had managed that feat she was not going to question, or question how he’d known where her room was.
It was over and done. She was safe. Joey was safe. She would simply be thankful.
Laying Joey on the bed, she quickly stripped off his wrappings and wiped him down with a damp cloth. He giggled as the cloth ran over him and she couldn’t resist blowing a kiss against his pudgy belly.
When you looked down at a smiling baby the world could be perfect for a moment. How could anything be wrong in the face of such joy and innocence?
Of course it was only for a moment.
She sank down on the bed beside him, wishing she could remember what it was like to care about nothing but the excitement of noticing your toes for the first time. Last night she had said she didn’t worry enough. That was not strictly true—not anymore.
Four years ago, at the age of seventeen, she hadn’t worried about anything—not really. Oh, she’d worried about dresses and bonnets, and smiling at eligible men now that Masters had finally let her come to Town, but none of that was real worry. And then her brother had suggested that she marry Colonel Foxworthy. She still got a shiver down her spine when she considered it. It hadn’t seemed awful at first. Foxworthy was wealthy, with a position in society. He wasn’t even that old or awful to look at—and she knew that women were not tied to their husbands once they’d produced an heir.
Then he had touched her. Just the lightest of strokes, his gloved fingers across her bare arm, hardly a touch at all, but it had sickened her to her core when she’d seen the look in his eyes.
She could never. It was impossible.
She’d tried to tell Masters she couldn’t possibly marry the man and only then had come to understand there was little difference between a suggestion and a command. She had given up protest and formed other plans. If only she had fled right then. Fled when she first knew she couldn’t marry Foxworthy. Instead she had turned to Violet, to her sister, for help—longing for someone else to save her.
Yes, she should have fled that first moment, that first day—then none of the rest of it would have happened.
A clock chimed from some lower floor. There was no time to think about her past. The present was what mattered.
It grew later by th
e moment and soon Mrs. Wattington would come looking for her and Joey. It would not do at all if they were not yet ready.
She glanced down at her own bare feet and reached for her stockings, pulling on one and then the other. She tied the garters tight, trying not to imagine other hands, large, long-fingered hands, engaged in the opposite task—trying not to imagine what it had felt like when he’d touched her, when he’d pulled off her stockings, sliding them down her legs. Her garters tied much higher than she had ever realized. She was glad that there was nobody but Joey here to see her, because she knew her cheeks were the color of a fresh tomato. Hopefully a quick wash would cool them.
She shook her head, trying to clear Mr. Smythe’s image from it. She didn’t have time for such things, no matter how safe he’d made her feel.
Made her feel safe. That was rubbish. She had barely met the man. It was pure coincidence that she’d slept soundly last night. It had nothing to do with him.
Nothing. She’d been tired and he’d been there when she needed somebody to lean on. There was no more to it than that.
She quickly slipped her feet into her half boots and buckled them up. Grabbing fresh clothing for Joey, she bundled him up and headed down to the kitchens to find some milk. It was amazing that he hadn’t started to scream again already. The boy was not patient when it came to his feedings.
“And what were you doing last night?”
Mark turned away from the washstand toward the grizzled voice, pulling on a shirt as he did so. Douglas had been his batman during the war and had been in his employ ever since.
“I was sleeping,” he answered. “What else does one do at night?”
Douglas said nothing but his mouth twitched, the scar that marked his face from lip to cheek curving.
“Well,” Mark tried again. Douglas had known him far too long. “What else does one do at night—here?” He gestured out the window at the small huddle of buildings and the stable yard.
“Sleep would have seemed the obvious answer, but given where I sleep”—Douglas gestured to the pallet set at the foot of Mark’s bed—“I would ask again—what were you about last night?”
“I don’t know why I even try to pretend with you. You could have been sleeping in the cellars and somehow you’d still know. You might have been able to sleep through that brat’s infernal wailing, but it kept me up most of the night.” Now that he’d met Joey he felt bad calling him a brat—but that boy could scream.
“You’ve slept through cannon fire—as have I—and a little crying wakes you?”
Mark sighed. “You know I have not slept well since my uncle’s death and—well—”
“Becoming the duke.” Douglas moved away and started to throw shirts into a bag. “I can’t say I’d want it. Where is that bloody man Divers anyway? Isn’t it time for him to come wiggle you into your jacket for the day?”
“Dukes do not wiggle. We are fitted into our clothing.”
“I see that hint of a grin. You can’t hide it from old Douglas. What did happen last night? You’ve not smiled like that since before this whole blasted business began.”
“You cannot possibly be planning to wear that coat,” Divers said as he moved to select another from the selection laid out on the bed.
Blast. Mark had not even heard the man enter the room. He knew that a good servant was not supposed to be seen or heard, but he’d never taken it literally.
“And”—Divers turned to Douglas—“I’d appreciate your not using such language. We must all remember our positions in this world.”
Douglas looked like he wanted to spit, but he held his tongue and contented himself with glaring at Mark.
Mark tried to slide toward the door. “I was just going to stretch my legs. I will be back before we leave and you can shove me into the coat of your choice then.”
Divers gave him that look that spoke clearer than words that Mark’s desires were unacceptable. He could only wish he hadn’t inherited the valet along with the duchy. Although without Divers he’d have even less idea what he was doing. Douglas’s advice was rarely suitable for his new position.
He tried again. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Nobody will know.”
“And what if you do meet someone? A marriageable lady perhaps, or, even more fitting, her father. You will need to do your duty soon, and it would be a shame if you were to miss your chance because of an improper coat.”
Divers was undoubtedly correct, but Mark was equally sure that a duke should not be cowed by his valet.
“I will be back with time to change before we leave. It is unlikely that I will run into anyone of import at this hour of the morning, not to mention this place.” He stepped through the door, trying not to pay attention to Douglas’s wide grin.
Isabella stopped in the doorway and stared into the stable yard, porcelain feeding bottle in hand, Joey cradled in her opposite arm.
It was a far different place in the bright, early morning sun than it had been the previous night. Still, something was not right. There was a tickle on the back of her neck as if she were being watched—again.
Was Mr. Smythe here? No, she didn’t see him. She glanced quickly about. Nothing seemed out of place.
When she’d first fled from London she had always felt eyes following her. She had become expert at examining her surroundings for anything strange or unfamiliar. It was a lucky thing she had, too. Several times she’d managed to avoid her brother’s man as he sought her—at least she hoped it was her brother’s man. She did not want to think of the alternative. If it was Masters who sought her it would be unpleasant, but she was of age, twenty-one. Her life was her own.
She glanced about the yard again. Everything was as it should be. Her fears were for naught.
As she calmed herself, a fine carriage pulled up to the inn, a very slightly more battered coach behind it. They must be the duke’s. There was some temptation to stay and watch them being loaded, but she forced her feet around the corner and found a seat on a bench under a large apple tree.
The apples were still smallish and green, but they gave a crisp scent to the air.
She leaned back and, setting Joey comfortably on her lap, gave him his bottle, her thumb lifting and lowering over the top hole to release droplets of milk. The small teapot-shaped bottle was remarkably effective for controlling how much milk she dribbled into Joey’s hungry mouth.
She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the light breeze. The day was going to be a hot one and it would seem even hotter enveloped in Mrs. Wattington’s coach, with every window covered to be sure that no sun hit the woman’s ivory complexion. She could hear bees buzzing and the soft gurgle of the baby as he sucked hard on the bottle’s neck; reflexively she lifted her thumb from the hole in the bottle’s top, releasing more of the milk. The usual sound of the inn and stable supplied a busy background.
She was headed back to London. She’d sworn she’d never return, known she could never return without being forced to face the reality of those memories again.
When Mrs. Wattington first told her about the journey to Town she’d almost quit on the spot. But she could no longer afford to be so headstrong—not when the blue-coated man was searching for her and positions were so hard to come by. She could not leave without a reference and she could not get a reference without staying. She was truly caught. As long as she kept her head down and concentrated solely on Joey she should be fine. Nobody noticed the servants.
Still, the impulse remained to flee. She’d changed positions six times since leaving London and could not regret a single time. It was only occasionally that she allowed herself to long for that normal, quiet, steady life that could never be hers, that life of home and hearth.
The girl she’d been would never have longed for anything so simple. She drew in a deep breath remembering the headstrong girl who had fled the city with only a pocket full of coin and a couple of hasty letters of recommendation written by a family friend. Did she consider Lady Smyth
e-Burke a friend? The lady had certainly saved her when Isabella had been certain her goose was cooked—and Isabella had adopted a version of her last name as thanks. Lady Smythe-Burke was a true leader of society and Isabella would never understand what had driven her to seek the lady’s help on that horrible day when everything had gone so wrong.
She pushed the memory away, focused on something else.
Lady Smythe-Burke said Smythe with exactly the same intonation as Mr. Smythe. Perhaps that was why Isabella had picked up on the Y. The thought caused the corners of her mouth to turn up. It was hard to imagine a more unlikely pair than Mr. Smythe and Lady Smythe-Burke. Lady Smythe-Burke was all starch and corsetry. Isabella had sometimes wondered that Lady Smythe-Burke could bend at all.
Now, Mr. Smythe—him she could picture bending in all sorts of interesting ways.
“I didn’t think to see you again.” As if conjured by her thoughts, his rich honey voice sounded a foot before her.
Her eyes popped open and she stared up into deep brown eyes. How had he gotten there? She’d been listening to the surrounding noises and she still hadn’t heard him. Had she been so distracted by her thoughts? She needed to be more careful.
The sun was behind him and it cast his frame in stark silhouette. As he leaned toward her she could almost read his face, but as he stood back, swinging a booted foot onto the bench beside her, only the tips of his curls shone in the sun, the rest was shadow.
For a second she inched away from him, caught by some unexpected air of power and authority, blocked from the sunny fields and bustle of the inn. Inhaling deeply, she told herself that it was only her imagination. He had no bad intent, no desire to separate her from the rest of the world. He was no different now than he had been a second ago when she first opened her eyes, certainly no different than he’d been last night in the stable yard, no different than when he’d carried her to her room, removed her stockings. She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the thought and turned her face away.
