by Jade Lee
All too soon, Gillian gave up trying to make her opinions known. She even stopped paying attention to the myriad fabrics held up to her face or draped across her body. She became a human doll. She closed her eyes and pretended she was in York in her secret place by the old tree.
Nothing else existed. Not even her dreams.
Gillian and the countess returned home after what seemed like years of shopping. The older lady took immediately to her rooms for the night, pleading exhaustion. Gillian took one step into her own room, met the prune-faced stare of her new maid, and fled downstairs. There she ate a solitary dinner, oddly piqued that the earl had not deigned to return.
At nearly midnight, she had passed hours of solitude in thought. Never suppressed for long, her dreams returned hill force, along with a new determination to make them come true. If the real Amanda could not daunt her spirit with constant insults, then how could the earl's absence be anything more than relief? If Reverend Hallowsby could not shame her with entire sermons devoted to the taint of illegitimate blood, then how could the gift of an ugly maid be anything more than a godsend?
She would not cower or be ashamed. She was Amanda Faith Wyndham, she reminded herself, not a self-effacing by-blow surviving on the grace of a bitter girl. And as Amanda, she would truly and totally get her way. But first she needed to have a frank discussion with the earl.
Assuming that he ever returned home.
He did, at nearly one o'clock. And by then Gillian had worked herself into a fair temper.
"Good evening, my lord," she said from her window seat in the salon. "I suppose this is what you mean by town hours." She winced at her own shrewish tongue, but seemed unable to help herself.
"Amanda! I thought everyone would be in bed." Despite his quick recovery, Gillian did not miss his brief flash of chagrin at meeting her.
"Did you perhaps stay away just in that hope?"
Stephen gave her a rueful smile, making her heart beat double time.
"You have found me out." He crossed into the salon and poured himself a brandy. "I have learned in matters of female interest that it is best to hide until the fireworks fade to a dull roar."
"Your mother has tortured other girls before me?" Gillian's surprise softened her tone.
He grinned, and she looked away for fear her anger would fade under the power of his charm. "I have a sister, and believe me, before Catherine became Lady Waterson, this house was a pitched battlefield. They were the most stubborn pair of pugilists I ever met. It's a wonder I survived."
"You are incorrect, my lord."
He raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
"You have now met me."
He grinned. "Yes, but I have not yet survived your struggle. Let us hope we find you a husband soon, thereby shortening the war in my once peaceful household."
Gillian winced at his blunt words, wondering all the while why they should pain her. This was, after all, her intended goal—to find a husband and in one masterful stroke not only save her mother, but also become one of the peerage that had both created and spurned her. Except when Stephen said it aloud—that she was here just to find a husband—it chilled her blood and made her ashamed.
And that, of course, made her all the angrier.
* * *
Watching the emotions play across his ward's beautiful face, Stephen barely restrained a groan. He recognized the martial light in her eyes and knew he was in for a battle.
"My lord," the girl began, "I have some questions for you."
"I tremble with curiosity."
"Do not mock me," she snapped. "I want to know where Tom is. No one will tell me anything. What did you do with him?"
"I did not throw him into Fleet, if that is what you feared."
"Then where is he?"
"Asleep in the mews, dreaming of Cook's blueberry tarts, no doubt."
"The mews!" She practically bristled with outrage.
"I hired him as a stable hand in the mews. Simpton will keep a good eye on him, and at least out there I have less to steal."
"If you think you can hide him away for a few days, then toss him aside when you think I am placated—"
"I hired him as a coach boy," he snapped, feeling his temper rise. "He knows one false step will put him back out on the street. The rest is up to him."
"Oh, really," she said with a sneer. "And how long before something accidentally goes missing or perhaps a tack is damaged? How long before you find some excuse to throw him away?"
Stephen narrowed his eyes. "You have a cynical mind, Miss Wyndham."
"Am I wrong?" she challenged.
"Yes. And were you a man, I would call you out for what you just implied."
"Were I a man, I would not be here in your charge in the first place!"
He stared into her eyes, trying to see deeply within her, trying to guess the secrets driving this volatile woman. "Is that what upsets you, Amanda? That you are under my protection?"
She bit her lip and turned away, her movements impossibly stiff. "I lived under my own care for many years, my lord—"
"Please call me Stephen," he said, startling himself with his own comment. His title preserved some measure of authority with her, something he desperately needed. But already he could see how she chafed under the restrictions of polite society, a sentiment with which he readily sympathized. So he gave her his first name as a token of friendship.
She turned toward him, her eyes drawn wide with surprise at his friendly overture. "Very well," she said slowly. "Stephen."
He smiled, feeling suddenly happy.
"As I was saying, my—Stephen, I cared for myself for years. I do not need a servant constancy hovering about me, nor someone watching my every move. And I certainly do not need a prune-faced maid telling me which slipper to put on which foot."
"Ah!" Stephen leaned against the high table, crystal brandy decanters clinking with the movement. Now he understood some of his ward's frustration. "Has Mother assigned Hawkings to you?"
"She did if that is the name of the sour crone in my bedchamber."
He nodded, reaching again for his glass. "Sad case, that. She was very ill as a child. Obviously she recovered, but the sickness destroyed her looks. Mama brought her in, trained her as a dresser, and now she knows more about fashion than most modistes. Why, even my valet consults her, and in time, one gets used to her looks."
"Apparently not. The countess has assigned her to me."
Stephen shrugged. "Mother does not need the advice of an expert. Clearly she thinks you do."
Amanda spun around, pacing the room, her nimble body moving gracefully past the furniture. "But I do not! That is what I am saying. I have dressed myself since I was a child."
Stephen did not move, but suddenly his senses pricked as his mind spun back over everything he knew about her. "I thought your half-sister maided you."
Amanda slowed, her slippers catching in the carpet. "She maided me until she grew ill. And then I was forced to handle my own affairs."
He could not miss the sudden wariness in her voice. "That must have been very difficult for you," he said.
She shrugged. "I did what I had to."
"Of course. But you said you maided yourself since you were a child. Mr. Oltheten visited you a little over a year ago, and he said you were very ill."
She turned toward him, her eyes wide with surprise. "You have seen Mr. Oltheten?"
He nodded. "Early this afternoon. Unfortunately he himself is very ill, and he could not give me detailed instructions on your estate."
Amanda looked slightly distracted, as though her thoughts turned elsewhere. "I can tell you all you need to know about the Wyndham legacy. Was he very ill? Is it his cough?"
"I believe so. A coughing fit ended our interview."
Amanda nodded, her gaze shifting to the window. "I see," she said softly. "He was a nice man. I am sorry he is so ill."
Stephen fell silent as he studied the woman before him. Two minutes ago she was in
a towering rage. Now all traces of it were gone, lost in her compassion for a dying old man.
Suddenly the mystery became too much for him. He needed to know the secret behind his strange ward. He took a step closer to her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. "Amanda, Mr. Oltheten said you were very ill the last time he visited York. You were sick and encased all in white. And yet I cannot imagine a healthier person than you, and you voiced a strong distaste for white. What happened?"
She winced, but he touched her arm, preventing her from turning away. When she at last spoke, her gaze wandered over his shoulder to the dark night. "I healed," she whispered, "and formed a severe distaste for my sick-clothes. There is nothing unusual in that."
"He also said you were very bitter."
She shrugged and made to draw away, but still he held her, now with two hands resting gently on her shoulders.
"You seem sad for Mr. Oltheten."
"He is a kind man who is dying of a horrible, wasting disease. I have seen many people carried off by such an ailment." Her thoughts were clearly turned inward to sad memories. As a gentleman, he should leave her alone, Stephen thought. But he wanted more information. He needed to understand.
"That is not the reaction of a bitter woman, Amanda," he said. "Was Mr. Oltheten wrong about that?"
She bit her lip, and the sight of her even white teeth distracted him for a moment. "No," she finally said on a soft sigh. "He was not wrong." She took a deep breath. "The Amanda in York was angry and jealous. She wanted..." Her voice trailed away.
"What? A Season? A husband?"
The girl shook her head. "She wanted everything she did not have. Little things would infuriate her. A smile. Laughter." She stepped away from him, putting a single hand on the windowpane as if reaching for something but barred from having it. "I tried to be understanding. I tried compassion, gentleness, even friendship. But always there was anger simmering inside. And jealousy."
"But you changed."
She turned back to him, her eyes hard and challenging. "A new vicar came to our little village. He was responsible."
His eyebrows raised in skepticism. "A religious conversion?" He'd thought as much earlier, but somehow it did not match his image of her.
"Religion is a powerful force, my lord. If it were not for Reverend Hallowsby, I believe I would still be in York, sitting by the fire, counting sins."
Stephen frowned, trying to picture the scene she described. It did not fit.
"Reverend Hallowsby preached, my lord. He preached obsessively, fervently. And if he felt you had sinned, he would punish you."
He stiffened, his senses suddenly wary. "What manner of punishment?"
She stepped backward into the shadows, but he followed her. He did not touch her, but angled himself so he could see her expression reflected in the window.
"He punished in public first, cataloging sins before the entire congregation. And then later he would visit in private, finding me alone so he could suggest ways to redeem my soul."
Her words chilled him, but more than that, it was her face. Her expression was cold and hard, and for the first time he saw the bitterness within her. Then suddenly she spun back toward him, her expression washing away into a blank facade.
"He did not succeed in his intentions, my lord. In fact, I should be grateful to him. If it were not for his actions, I would never have resolved to come to London. I would not now be standing in a warm home about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life."
Her statement should have reassured him. Her words should have rung with optimism and hope, but instead he heard a fierce determination that defied all who opposed her. She should not be this way, he thought. She was too young to have such anger within her.
Instinctively he reached out to comfort her. She was stiff, shying away from his touch. But he persisted, not with firmness, but with a gentleness that seemed to crumple her resolve.
"Whatever our differences, Amanda, know that I am your friend. I will help you." His words were a whisper, and as he spoke, he drew her closer until he could feel the brush of her breath across his face.
"I do not trust you." She said the words, and he believed she meant them. But rather than pulling away from him, her body relaxed, swaying forward as if part of her wanted to trust. Part of her, he knew, needed to believe what he said was true.
"I am your guardian," he responded. "You can trust me with anything."
He thought to comfort her, and truly for a moment he saw a need to confide shimmering in the dark green of her eyes. Now he would know what secrets she guarded so closely. But even as that thought entered his mind, other wholly irresponsible thoughts crowded them out.
She was so near, her lips so close. His body tightened, responding with eager delight to the soft feel of her beneath his fingertips, the heady scent that was uniquely hers. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. He knew it was impossible, but the need burned within him, startling him with its intensity. She looked at him, her eyes growing soft, her pupils dilating as he lowered his head.
"Amanda—" It was half groan, half plea.
"No!" Suddenly she twisted away, her hands clenched at her sides as she whirled out of his reach. "I thought you were different, but now I can see you are all the same! Reverend Hallowsby, you, every man, and I despise you all!"
He pulled back, hearing the accusation in her words, knowing now with a sick horror exactly what punishments the Reverend Hallowsby had tried to mete out.
"No," he said. Then he repeated it more firmly, denying both the thought and the accusation. "No, Amanda, it is not true." And yet, even as he said it, he knew it was true. Had he not just been thinking of kissing her? And when he had first seen her on the coach yesterday, wasn't his first thought a plan for when and how he would bed her? "I am not like that!" he exclaimed, both to himself and to her.
She lifted her chin, her entire stance one of furious defiance. "It is the nature of man to sin, my lord. It is his nature to lust and desire and covet. Isn't that what the church teaches?"
He matched her tone, making his voice as hard as hers, trying to show her he meant what he said. "I do not know of every man, Amanda. I only know that I am your guardian, and I will protect you. Whatever the circumstances, whatever your past sins, whatever you choose to confide, Amanda, I am pledged to protect you."
"Confide, my lord?" Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. "What is there to confide? I am here for the Season to catch myself a rich husband. I will wear my bonnet in public, I will spend your money on ugly clothes chosen for me by a shriveled crone of a maid, and in the end I will be rewarded with some old ogre of a husband so I can spend his money and adorn his arm. Years ago this was beyond my wildest dreams. Now I am living it. Confide, my lord? What could there possibly be to confide except that I am thankful for my opportunity?" Her voice rang with an anger that cut at him, tossing aside his offer of understanding, pricking at his guilt.
He raised an eyebrow. The natural disdain that came with his new tide surged forward. "Very well, Amanda. I concede to your greater understanding. You have nothing to confide. But let me tell you one thing..." His voice lowered with threat. "There is nothing I despise more than a liar. If you are hiding anything—a scandal maybe, no matter how small—you will wish you had never been born."
She lifted her chin, her raised eyebrows the perfect picture of haughty disdain. "I have wished that countless times already, my lord. Such a threat has no meaning to me."
Then with a swirl of her shapeless skirts, she disappeared, leaving him to curse his foolish brother for bequeathing him a defiant ward and a mystery all wrapped up in an enticingly beautiful package.
* * *
She'd almost told him!
Gillian ran up the stairs and dashed into her room, remembering out of long habit not to slam her door. She closed it silently, then sank to the floor, her back pressed into the hard wood.
She'd almost told him!
After months of planning, years of deg
radation and self-effacing humiliation, she had almost told the earl the truth. Here she was on the verge of her whole future, hers and her mother's, and what had she done? Weakened! Her mother's life depended on her success; how could she have just melted?
It was bad enough she'd nearly fallen into his arms. He was so powerful. The urge to let go was so strong, so alluring. She could give over her burden to him.
But that was madness. So she'd reached for her anger, using it to back away from him. Then he, too, had become cold and angry, seeming to tower over her even though he had not moved. And despite his fury, she had still wanted to confess!
How could she be such a fool? Stephen Conley was no different from the other pumped up, arrogant popinjays of the ton. He was kin to the man who had sired her, then threw her to the likes of Reverend Hallowsby.
What would Stephen do if he liked a maid's smile? If that little scene was anything to judge by, he would act just as her father had. Just like the old baron, he would lie with her, creating another bastard, then forgetting her, leaving the child to a life of humiliation and degradation.
To tell Stephen the truth would be like handing him the torch to light the fire by which to burn her at the stake. He would never understand what had brought her to such lengths. He would never even try.
She knew all this, and yet barely one day in his house and already she felt vulnerable around him, susceptible to his charm and mesmerized by his sheer presence.
It was insane!
Gillian let her head drop back against the door, her heart heavy. What did it matter why this was happening? For some reason, she was weak around the earl. For her own sake, as well as her mother's, she must find a way to stop his heinous influence. She must remain strong around the man.
Her only hope was to avoid him. True, he would pursue her. She saw that her past intrigued him. She would have to be very careful. Thank heaven Gillian knew how to fade into the woodwork when necessary. With any luck, the Season would keep both her and the earl so busy she would never see him except in passing.
