by Laura Landon
Because that’s what would happen if her father discovered her whereabouts. Because forfeiting her future—or Vanessa’s future—to the Duke of Balsam’s cruelty would mean . . . death.
“Here are the changes you suggested,” he said in a deep, soothing voice.
Isobel looked up to see another draft of the letter in his outstretched hand. She took it with trembling hands.
The words shifted and moved beneath her eyesight as she held it beneath the lamp. A roar echoed in her head as she read the words.
What he’d written was perfect. There was nothing to indicate an overt curiosity in his inquiry. Only a mild interest since he’d met someone who knew someone who knew someone who’d heard of the Earl of Gilchrist and one of his daughters. He didn’t know her name, but he thought she might be betrothed to someone in London.
Isobel finished the letter and looked up. “Yes.”
“But you’re still not certain if you want it posted,” he said as if he could read her mind.
She shook her head.
“Then we will wait. Until you’re sure.”
Her eyes misted, but she refused to weep in front of him. It wasn’t that he would think less of her if she did. She knew he would not. But it had been such a long day, and she’d gotten so little sleep the night before. And she was so worried about Vanessa.
And . . .
Isobel focused her gaze on the marquess. He was such a powerful man. So commanding. So magnificent. Yet . . . so tortured.
It was obvious that he suspected she was aware of his nightmares. The way he watched her told her he did. The opportunities he gave her to ask about them told her he was waiting for her to open up to him.
But how could she? How could she ask about something that was none of her business? Something that bothered His Lordship like it did? That had driven the Marquess of Halverston from London at the height of the Season to rusticate in the north of England in order to forget?
“You have time,” he said, pulling her back to the present. “The post doesn’t go out until tomorrow afternoon. Take the letter. Read it over again tonight. Then, in the morning you can decide what you want to do. Your mind will be clearer then.”
She rose with the letter in her hands. “Thank you, my lord.” She turned and walked to the door.
“Lady Isobel,” he said, using her title. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? Something you wish to discuss?”
She stopped and turned back. “No, my lord.” She hesitated to consider if this was the right time for such a conversation. Then decided against it. “Not tonight.”
He gave her a sharp nod. “Good night, then, my lady. Sleep well.”
She forced a limp smile to her lips, then left the room.
When she reached her room, she reread the letter several times. Then read it once more before she turned down the lamp and closed her eyes. But the words swam before her and refused to go away.
She prayed that in the morning she would know what to do. That God would give her the answer she sought.
. . .
Isobel wasn’t sure how long she’d slept before she woke. Or what exactly woke her. She wasn’t aware of his cries for help. Wasn’t sure he’d made any. But when the first agonizing roar slashed through the darkness, she knew this wasn’t his first shout for help.
Without debating if going to him was a wise choice, she threw back the covers and raced down the hall. When she reached his room, Boswick was already there, struggling with the marquess.
“Wake, my lord,” Boswick ordered as forcefully as Isobel had ever heard the valet.
The marquess continued to thrash from side to side. His arms flailed wildly. He arched his back in his struggles.
It was obvious his attempt was to escape some madness. He seemed desperate to evade an action he considered unbearable.
“Wake, my lord,” Boswick repeated, but his demands went unheeded.
Isobel didn’t consider the danger she would be in by rushing to him. She only knew she couldn’t allow him to suffer as he was.
A heavy sheen of perspiration covered his face as if he was in the midst of one of the fiercest battles of his life. His arms battered the air before him, as if it might be possible to connect with one of his assailants. His head thrashed from side to side as if he couldn’t allow himself to face the monster attacking him. And the low, guttural growl emitting from him was the most gut-wrenching snarl Isobel had ever heard.
“My lord.” She leaned as close to him as she could. “You’re safe now. It’s over.”
Isobel reached for his hand and brought it to her. She nestled his fist to her breast, and brushed her fingers across his forehead and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. She leaned closer to speak directly in his ear. “They’re gone! You’re safe!”
“No!”
“It’s over! You’re—”
Before she could protect herself, Lord Halverston’s hands shot upward, and his strong, powerful fingers clamped around her neck.
His grip around her throat was like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter. Isobel felt the air cut off from her lungs. Saw blinding lights flash in the darkness behind her eyes. Heard the buzz inside her head that told her she was about to lose consciousness.
She struggled. But her struggles were useless. His grip clamped tighter, and she was powerless to free herself.
“My lord!” Boswick bellowed.
But His Lordship did not release her. Instead, his hold on her tightened, cutting off every whisper of air from her lungs.
Miraculously, the frantic tone of his valet’s voice reached his master. Lord Halverston’s grip loosened. Then he released her.
Isobel fell to the floor, clutching her throat. She gasped for air as she struggled to breathe.
Time ceased to exist. Fear, terror, helplessness consumed her. In that moment, she knew she’d come closer to dying than she ever thought was possible. And she was terrified.
Not of him. Not of Lord Halverston. But of what had happened to him that caused him to want to kill rather than face it.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Moore? Shall I send for a doctor?”
Isobel looked up to find a frantic Boswick kneeling next to her. Her hand was in his, and he patted her flesh as if she were a helpless kitten.
“No, Boswick. I’m fine.” Except she wasn’t. Her throat felt charred. Her voice was rough and scratchy. Her throat burned, and she knew by morning she’d have bruises where Lord Halverston’s fingers had gripped her neck.
Unable to move, she lay on the floor a few more moments, then attempted to sit. It took several tries, and Boswick’s help, but eventually she moved from a prone position.
She wasn’t yet able to stand. That would take a little more time, but she felt pleased that she’d made at least a little progress.
“Did Lord Halverston wake?” she asked. She prayed he hadn’t. Prayed she could escape without him knowing that she’d been there. Without him knowing what he’d done to her.
“No, Mrs. Moore. He’s calmed now and has gone back to sleep.”
Isobel pulled her legs to her chest and dropped her forehead to her knees. “Does he ever wake after one of his episodes?” she asked. “Or does he always return to his sleep?”
Boswick turned his head to avoid looking at her.
“I need to know, Boswick. I can’t help him unless I know everything there is to know. Please, tell me.”
Boswick nodded, then turned back to her. “He never wakes completely,” he answered. “He always falls back to sleep after his nightmares. At least for a while. Then he wakes. As if his mind tells him he’s battled his demons.”
“Why do you think that is?” she asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
But Isobel knew the answer. Waking would force him to face the reason for his nightmares, and it was emotionally impossible for him to do that.
“Does he fall back to sleep after that?”
“Oh no, Mrs. M
oore. He is usually quite agitated when he eventually wakes. He dresses, then leaves the room. He doesn’t return after that.”
“I see.”
Boswick watched her for several moments. “What are you going to do, Mrs. Moore?”
“Whatever I must, Boswick. Whatever I must.”
Isobel turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “Call me if His Lordship needs my help again tonight, Boswick.”
“But—”
“Call me.”
“Yes, Mrs. Moore.”
. . .
Isobel woke the next morning feeling as if she’d been run over by a delivery cart. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her left arm was stiff and refused to move without pain. She couldn’t remember that His Lordship had struck her there, but there was very little about what had happened to her that she remembered clearly.
None of that mattered, however. Of greater concern were the dark marks on her neck that were turning more obvious by the minute.
She’d placed cool cloths on her flesh as soon as she’d returned to her room, hoping her ministrations would prevent some of the bruising. But they hadn’t. In fact, she wasn’t sure if it was possible for the dark marks on her neck to be any more noticeable. Marks that matched the imprint of someone’s fingers.
Isobel chose a gown with the highest collar, then added a scarf she prayed would hide her bruises from view.
The staff would not question her. They knew their place, and, even though they’d speak amongst themselves in private, none of them would be bold enough to bring up the subject. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t wonder.
His Lordship, however, was another matter. She would have to do whatever she needed in order to avoid him. She couldn’t allow him to see her. Couldn’t let him realize what he’d done.
Isobel pulled the scarf a bit higher, then steeled herself to face her day.
She took the back stairs to the kitchen, in case Lord Halverston was already getting about his day. She took her tea with the staff the same as she did each morning but didn’t stay long. Nor did she expose her neck more than necessary.
“Are you feeling well, Mrs. Moore?” Cook asked when she rose from the table.
Isobel searched for the most believable lie she could come up with but finally decided that staying closer to the truth might benefit her more. “Actually, Cook, I’m a bit under the weather. I went to bed with a sore throat and kept warm cloths on my neck all night, but they didn’t seem to help. Other than turning my neck a blotchy red.”
“Oh, dear. Would you like me to make you a cup of my special tea?”
Isobel tried to smile. “Perhaps later. For now, I think I’ll go to my office and work on the papers I’ve put off far too long.”
“You do that, Mrs. Moore. I’ll see that you’re not bothered.”
“Thank you, Cook.” Isobel turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and would it be possible for you to take Lord Halverston his tea this morning?”
“Of course, Mrs. Moore. Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Relief washed over her as Isobel made her way to her small office at the back of the hall. She only had to stay hidden until her bruises faded.
Which should be in about two weeks.
Chapter 15
Alex woke the next morning certain that he’d had a nightmare the night before. Questioning Boswick had yielded the same evasive lies. This time, however, Alex couldn’t let the subject drop, as he had the past two times. Something was different about the way he felt this morning. And he was afraid he knew what that difference was.
His nightmares were getting worse. So bad, in fact, that Boswick had avoided him as much as possible all morning. As if he were afraid of him.
Boswick finished tying Alex’s cravat, then turned. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“No, Boswick. That will not.”
Boswick came to a halt on his way out the door and slowly turned to face his employer. Terror filled his eyes. Dread was written across every inch of his face.
“Yes, my lord?”
Alex locked his hands behind his back and widened his stance. “How did I sleep last night, Boswick? And this time you will tell me the truth. Or you will find yourself searching for other employment.”
Boswick’s startled gaze would have been hilarious if there were anything remotely humorous concerning this situation.
“The truth, Boswick. How did I sleep last night?”
Boswick’s gaze lowered. “Fitfully, my lord.”
“How fitfully? Did I have another nightmare?”
“Yes, my lord. I’m afraid you did.”
“Did I harm you?”
“Oh no, my lord,” he hastily added. “You did not harm me.”
“Why, then, do I think I did? Why do I have this . . . feeling that I became quite violent last night?”
Boswick’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Alex hesitated, then asked the question he dreaded having Boswick answer. “Did I become violent last night?”
Silence.
“Did I?”
Boswick fidgeted in front of him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. For the first time since he’d become his valet, Boswick took a step backward, as if he wanted to run away from his employer.
“Did I?” Alex repeated.
“Perhaps, my lord.”
Boswick’s answer was barely more than a whisper. An evasive answer that sent warning after warning surging through Alex.
Something was terribly wrong. And Boswick was using every excuse in his arsenal to avoid answering the question Alex was asking.
Alex spun from his valet and paced the room. “Tell me, Boswick. Everything.”
“Oh, my lord. I’m not sure that’s wise. Perhaps it would be best if you put last night out of your mind and concentrated on getting better.”
Alex stopped in front of his valet and slashed his arm through the air. “You don’t know how I’d love to do just that,” he bellowed. “But if the nightmares are getting worse, and I’m becoming more dangerous, I have to consider . . .”
Alex couldn’t finish his thought. He didn’t even want to consider what options were left him if his staff wasn’t safe around him when he was in the throes of one of his nightmares.
“No, my lord. You will never have to consider steps so drastic. Never.”
“Then tell me. What happened last night? How did you get me to calm?”
“I . . . uh. I . . .”
“Answer me, dammit!”
“I didn’t, my lord. Mrs. Moore did.”
A boulder the size of all of England slammed into him with stunning brutality. The blast of Boswick’s words knocked him to the nearest place he could sit, and he dropped onto the edge of the bed.
He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t seem to breathe. He couldn’t do anything except stare at his valet as if he were a two-headed monster that had breathed fiery destruction down on everything Alex held dear.
“What did you say?”
“I said . . . oh my lord. I’m so sorry. I told Mrs. Moore, after the first time she came, to stay away. I told her you wouldn’t take kindly to her knowing about your nightmares. I told her it wasn’t safe. But she wouldn’t listen. She came anyway.”
“She was here last night?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“She’s been here before?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“She was able to calm me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How?”
“She simply held your hand and talked to you. She told you that you were safe.”
“Is that what she did last night?”
Boswick hesitated. “She tried.”
“But I didn’t calm?”
The valet shook his head.
Another tidal wave of terror washed over Alex. He hadn’t calmed last night. With her in the room. With her watching him. With her seeing him in the throes of one o
f his nightmares. He hadn’t calmed.
“Did I hurt Mrs. Moore?”
Alex barely got the words past his lips. He was barely able to ask that one all-important question. Because he dreaded hearing the answer more than any answer he’d ever heard in his life.
“Did. I. Hurt. Mrs. Moore?”
Boswick’s gaze remained riveted on the floor in front of him.
The valet’s refusal to answer roared inside Alex’s head. No words needed to be spoken. No agreement needed to be indicated. No denial. Alex knew.
He wasn’t sure how he managed, but on legs that threatened not to hold him, he raced across the room. He threw open the door and thundered down the hall.
Where was she? Had she gone down to the kitchen yet?
He ran to her room and, without knocking, threw open the door. The room was empty.
Next, he raced down the stairs. He burst into the kitchen, amid the startled looks of the staff remaining at the table. “Is Mrs. Moore here?”
“She was, my lord,” Cook answered. “She wasn’t feeling the best and took her tea to her office.”
Where was her office? He didn’t know where the housekeeper’s office was. He’d never had cause to go there.
“Where is the housekeeper’s bloody office, Cook?”
“Up the stairs at the end of the hallway, in the room off the small dining room. Would you like me to show you?” she asked, but Alex was already gone.
He needed to find her. Needed to make sure she was all right. He’d seen the marks he’d left on Boswick on occasion. And Mrs. Moore wasn’t a man. She wasn’t strong enough to fend him off. She could be suffering a broken bone. Or bruises that did damage inside her skin. Or . . .
He raced up the stairs, then down the hall. When he reached the cubicle hidden behind the small dining room, he turned the knob and threw open the door.
She sat with her teacup to her lips and her head resting in the palm of her hand.
She seemed well. He wanted to cry with relief.
