Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Texas Ranger's DaughterHaunted by the Earl's TouchThe Last De Burgh

by Jenna Kernan

  Betsy bustled in with some packages. ‘Two gowns arrived from Mrs Wharton and his lordship says you are to join the family at dinner.’

  Mary frowned at the parcels, wishing she could refuse them outright, but she’d been wearing the same dress for three days and it didn’t make any sense to get on her high horse after they’d been altered to fit. The earl had refused to wait for their delivery to the carriage after yesterday’s accident, so Mrs Wharton must have sent them by carter today. ‘I prefer to take a tray in my room.’

  Betsy looked anxious. ‘He said he would come for you in an hour and, dressed or not, he would carry you to the dining room.’

  A little thrill fluttered through her at this masterful statement. A thrill she should not be feeling. Heat crawled up her face. ‘How dare he—?’ She pressed her lips together. One did not shoot the messenger. If she had words to say, she would say them to his lordship.

  Betsy held up the blue muslin, the one with the dreadfully low neckline. ‘This one, miss?’ Betsy asked. ‘Or this. Such a pretty shade of yellow. And silk, too. Much more suitable for dinner. There’s a feather dyed to match for your hair.’ She held up an ostrich plume, then glanced at the clock. ‘We should hurry, miss. His lordship will be here in no time.’

  Ready to carry her to the dining room, dressed or not. He wouldn’t dare. Or would he? She had the distinct impression his lordship would dare anything at all, if it suited him.

  ‘Very well, the yellow.’

  Betsy made short work of getting her into the shift and stays that had accompanied the gowns. They were beautiful garments, much nicer than anything Mary had ever bought for herself. They felt wonderful against her skin.

  ‘And now for the gown,’ Betsy said, gently bunching up the fabric in her arms so she could slip the dress over Mary’s head.

  It went on with a whisper. So light and silky and a perfect length. Betsy fastened it at the back, handed her a pair of lacy gloves and gestured to the chair in front of the mirror. ‘If miss will sit down, I will do your hair.’

  Mary could see from the girl’s face that she was dying to be given free rein. She shook her head with a smile. ‘Do what you can, then.’

  Her hair was too straight and to heavy for anything fancy.

  She sat down and glanced at her reflection. She winced. This gown was worse than the blue one. Never had she felt so exposed. ‘Give me my shawl, please.’

  Betsy looked scandalised. ‘You can’t wear that old thing with such a pretty gown, miss.’

  She could and she would. ‘I will surely freeze otherwise.’

  With a sigh Betsy handed her the shawl and picked up the hairbrush. In minutes the maid had artfully twisted her hair into clusters of braids on each side of her head and anchored the feather on her crown. She stepped back. ‘You look beautiful, miss.’

  Beautiful? The girl had stars in her eyes. She looked like a carthorse dressed up as a thoroughbred. Just as Sally always said she would.

  A firm rap sounded on the door. It opened without giving her a chance to answer. Blast. She should have had Betsy turn the key.

  Lord Beresford stood staring at her for a moment. His hooded gaze ran from her head to her heels and, if she wasn’t mistaken, lingered on her bosom for more seconds that was polite. His gaze met hers and his eyes lit with genuine pleasure. Her stomach gave a funny little hop. ‘Ah, Miss Wilding. I see you are ready and waiting.’

  For a man whose plan to do away with her had failed, he looked remarkably at ease and splendidly handsome. Had her imagination played tricks on her, after all? But as he came towards her, clearly intending to lift her in his arms, it dawned on her that while he might not have succeeded in St Ives, now, unable to walk, she was well and truly at his mercy.

  Cold slid down her spine. She opened her mouth to refuse to go to dinner.

  His gaze sharpened, his expression tightening as if he had guessed her intent. She could almost see him distancing himself and she felt terribly guilty for letting her prejudices show. ‘Yes, I am ready.’

  He looked relieved. Did she really have the power to hurt his feelings? It was hard to believe.

  In the next moment, he swept her up in his arms

  and carried her out of the room. Her mind scrambled to catch up with her body’s pleasure of once more being in his arms.

  He glanced down at her. The earlier gladness had leached from his face, replaced by cool remoteness. ‘I won’t have poor old Manners dashing from one end of this labyrinth to the other when it is so easy for me to bring you to the dining room.’

  So this was all for Manners’s benefit. Well, that put her in her place. He was right about the Abbey being a labyrinth. A labyrinth with secrets in its walls. And she ought to be glad of his thoughtfulness for the ancient butler, but perversely she wished it had been the pleasure of her company that made him come to fetch her.

  Now that really was illogical.

  Just as illogical as the way something in her chest gave a painful squeeze each time she saw him anew. Fear. That was all it could possibly be. They were enemies, fighting over a fortune she had never wanted in the first place.

  And still she could not help her admiration for his male beauty as she stared at his freshly shaved jaw and inhaled the scent of rosemary and lemon of his soap. It was a lovely manly smell that went well with all that strength.

  Strength enough to push a full barrel of beer off a wagon and into her path. Her stomach tensed, as she realised she’d let him lull her into forgetting.

  Why did the man who wanted her death have to cause her heart to flutter? There was obviously something wrong with her. She was turning into one of those desperate spinsters who flung themselves into the arms of any man who showed them the least bit of attention. Good or bad.

  Her throat dried. Her insides quaked with the knowledge that, in his case, the attention was all bad.

  She stiffened. Held herself as aloof as possible in such an awkward position. And was still aware of the steady rhythm of his heart against her ribs and the warmth of his lithe body.

  He glanced down at her briefly, his expression one of regret, heaved a sigh and shifted his grip, holding her a little less close. ‘Better, Miss Wilding?’

  Clearly he’d sensed her discomfort.

  ‘Much,’ she said quietly, because it actually wasn’t better at all. Not really.

  And when his long rapid stride brought them to the drawing room she could not help her pang of disappointment when he gently put her down on the sofa. She fought the insidious longing to be wrapped in this man’s strong arms.

  She had learned that such longings led only to misery.

  Jeffrey handed her a glass of sherry. ‘Feeling better, Miss Wilding?’ he asked with a charming smile.

  Her heart was fluttering, her stomach in knots, yet she managed a small smile. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Mrs Hampton gave her a cool nod. ‘I am glad to hear it, Miss Wilding. You gave us quite a scare.’

  She had given them a scare? What did the woman think, that she had deliberately sat down in front of the barrel?

  ‘Look what I found,’ Gerald crowed, racing into the drawing room. He bowled into the centre of the group surrounding Mary, pushing, of all things, an odd-looking three-wheeled chair. ‘Grandfather’s bath chair. He bought it the year he went to take the waters for his gout. He never used it. It was kicking about at the back of the stables. It will be perfect for wheeling Miss Wilding about. Come on, Miss Wilding, give it a try.’

  Such enthusiasm was hard to squash, Mary thought, warily looking at the contraption.

  ‘She doesn’t want to be pushed about in that,’ Jeffrey said with a grimace. ‘All she needs is one of us fellows to carry her to the table. I can do it.’

  The earl’s gaze narrowed.

  Gerald’s face fel
l, the triumph of moments before dashed down by disappointment. It was almost painful to watch.

  ‘I think it is a fine idea,’ she said. ‘Much better than being carried.’

  The earl gave her a humourless smile. ‘As the one who has so far done the carrying, I suppose I must also express my appreciation.’ Far from sounding please, there was a note of disapproval in his voice. Did he think she could use the wheeled chair to escape him? She looked at it with renewed interest.

  ‘It might work in the main part of the house,’ Mrs Hampton said with her habitual sniff. ‘But many of the passageways are narrow. And who on earth would carry it and Miss Wilding up and down the stairs? That is why my father didn’t use it, you know.’

  The woman had a point. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in my chamber until I can use a cane,’ Mary said. ‘I really don’t want to put people to all of this trouble.’

  ‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ Manners intoned from the doorway.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ the earl said and she was airborne again. ‘You can use the chair when there are no beefy fellows to cart you about.’ He cast a very pointed look at Jeffrey.

  Once more she was deposited on a chair. This time the earl placed her beside him at the head of the table where Mrs Hampton usually sat.

  The other woman eyed her askance for a moment, then took Mary’s usual place.

  Mary did her best to eat her dinner, but her ankle had begun to throb abominably. It must be the way she was sitting. Or because the effects of the willow-bark tea had worn off.

  During the second remove the earl leaned closer. ‘If it is not an insult to say so, Miss Wilding, you are looking quite pulled. You have been moving that piece of fish around on your plate for the past five minutes. Have you had enough?’

  ‘Yes. I find I have eaten my fill.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about food,’ he said. ‘I meant this.’ His glance took in the group around the table. ‘Would you feel more comfortable in the library? Sitting with your feet up on the sofa by the fire and reading your book until it is time to retire?’

  The way he described it, he made it sound heavenly. The thought of putting up her foot was almost too tempting for words. ‘I should probably go to bed.’

  ‘No, I insist.’ He raised his voice. ‘I am sure Gerald would jump at the chance to push you along to the library.’

  Gerald’s enthusiastic expression agreed.

  The earl gave her a conspiratorial smile. Had he guessed she would not hurt the young man’s feelings by refusing? She had the feeling she was somehow playing into the earl’s hands by agreeing to his plan. Nonsense. What could happen to her in the library? Besides, she was tired of the four walls of her chamber. A change of scene would do her good. ‘Very well.’

  Gerald wheeled the chair close. ‘Hop in, Miss Wilding.’

  Hop being a most appropriate word.

  The earl didn’t allow it. He stood and lifted her in. Once more that strange languid sensation weakened her limbs and her heart picked up speed. Oh, the man was attractive all right, but what did that matter when he meant her nothing but harm.

  No matter how alluring he might be, she must remain on her guard.

  * * *

  As promised, the library was cosy, the fire blazing and the candles all lit.

  Gerald came to a halt beside a chaise longue that had not been beside the hearth earlier. If she remembered correctly, it had been near the window. It seemed the earl had indeed planned this. But why? Now she wished she had insisted on going straight to her room.

  ‘You should return to your meal,’ she said to Gerald, manoeuvring out of the chair and on to the sofa.

  He strolled along the bookshelves, his face moody. ‘Such dullness. I was supposed to make my bows at court in the spring. We won’t be going now that we are in mourning again.’ The petulance was back. His moods seemed too volatile for such a young man.

  ‘I know it will seem like for ever, but there is always next season,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice. She did not believe in encouraging the histrionics of young girls and felt the same must apply to boys equally. ‘The year will pass before you know it.’

  He stopped, pulled out a book and rifled absently through the pages. ‘No doubt there will be some other reason not to go. Something concocted by Mama, yet again.’

  ‘Oh, you are in the dumps,’ she said, smiling.

  He put the book back with a sigh. He didn’t look quite so angelic in this mood.

  ‘Do you like to read?’ she asked, thinking to turn the conversation to pleasanter topics.

  ‘I used to. I was quite sickly for a time. It was my only company.’

  The memories seemed less than happy.

  He swung about, his face alight once more. ‘I forgot. I promised Jeff I would play billiards after dinner. You don’t mind, do you? If I go?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She rather thought she’d be glad of it. Keeping up with his mercurial moods wasn’t at all entertaining.

  He grinned charmingly. ‘Miss Wilding, I don’t care what the earl says, you really are a brick.’

  What the earl says? ‘What—?’

  Too late, he was already on his way out of the door.

  What would the earl have said? That she was an antidote of a schoolmistress. Or that she was here on sufferance? Or he wished her to Jericho? While mortifying to think that he might have said any of those things, it wasn’t difficult to imagine him saying them in that biting tone of his. That he would have said them to his cousin, though, that hurt. It hurt behind her ribs in a way she hadn’t felt hurt in a very long time.

  Because no matter how she tried not to, she had the feeling that, had circumstances been different, she might have liked him.

  Oh, now that was pure foolishness. The man was pleasant to look at. He was strong. He was tall. And he was intelligent. He was in all ways...perfect.

  For someone else.

  He didn’t want her any more than she wanted him.

  Nice as it would be to live in a house like this, to have a real family, she didn’t fit. She belonged with her girls. Educating them about things their families would never teach them: geography, mathematics, philosophy. Let someone else teach them deportment and drawing-room accomplishments. She wanted to expand their minds to the world.

  Not that she would ever see much of it. But they might. And she could read about it.

  Oh, bother. She had left her book in her chamber. Now this really was torture. Surrounded by the most magnificent selection of books she had ever seen in her life and nothing to read. Could anything else go wrong?

  Really? Was she just going to sit here and bemoan her fate? She rose, standing on her uninjured foot and grasping the handles of the bath chair, hopped her way across to the shelves. Where there was a will, there was always a way.

  What to choose?

  She ran her eye along the titles in gold leaf on the spines of the books at eye level. Sermons. Well, she didn’t mind a sermon occasionally, but tonight she needed something lighter, something to sweep her into another world. To help her forget the throbbing in her ankle and the fears lurking at the forefront of her mind. The fears that kept getting tangled up with ridiculous hopes.

  The next shelf up held Shakespeare. His tales were wonderful, but difficult to read. Higher up? Novels. Some she had read. Mysteries of Udolpho. Tom Jones. A bit

  risqué to be sure, but fun. A slim volume, and much shorter than the others, jammed between them, caught her eye. ‘A history of Beresford Abbey’. Now surely that was in the wrong place?

  She reached up, but it was beyond her fingertips. She could touch the shelf, but not the book, no matter how she stretched. Ah, here was the answer. A rolling ladder tucked in the corner.

  With a clever bit of work with her rolling s
upport, heretofore known as a bath chair, she managed to get the ladder in place. She only needed to go up one step.

  Tentatively she put her injured foot on the ground, gripping on to the sides of the ladder for support. Just one step up.

  Her ankle gave a protesting throb. Jehosophat, that still hurt, but she was up and the book was within her grasp. It was jammed in tightly. She pulled. The ladder shifted. She grabbed at the shelf.

  ‘Miss Wilding. What in the devil’s name do you think you are doing?’

  She started, then gave a little cry of alarm as the ladder moved sideways.

  The next moment, the earl’s large capable hands were around her waist and he was lifting her down as if she weighed nothing. Again. Making her stomach flutter and her heart bang against her ribs. Again.

  And now he was glaring down at her as he held her at arm’s length, making her feel no bigger than a pea.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I was trying to reach a book.’

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling for a second. A plea for help, or a plea for patience? ‘There are hundreds of books you can reach without climbing a ladder.’

  ‘Not one I wanted.’ Oh dear, she sounded as sullen as Gerald.

  He huffed out a breath. Looked at the shelves. ‘Which one did you want?’

  ‘The one I was just about to take down when you scared me half to death.’ She pointed at the blue leather-bound book jutting outward from its fellows. ‘Stop sneaking up on me.’ Her heart couldn’t stand it.

  ‘I was not sneaking.’ He reached up and took the book down. Before she realised what he was about, he put an arm around her waist. He couldn’t possibly...

  But he had. With one arm. The man had the strength of ten. It left her feeling completely in his power. A good way to let her know she could not win with him. Not a feeling she liked.

  He deposited her on the chaise with a small grunt. So he didn’t find her as quite light as he made out. Showing off, no doubt, though to what purpose she could not imagine. Unless to serve as a warning of his superior strength.