She thought of speaking with her father but he would only advise her to leave the matter be. That was not an option. So she changed into her calling dress and had a carriage readied. As it rumbled through the streets, rain began to fall. It matched her mood. Whatever was wrong with people? Why had they not celebrated the lords’ return? Why did they view them as questionable? Why did they believe rumors that Sebastian was a coward on the battlefield? Why did they believe that he would force himself on her?
Did they think she would be cowed by such behavior that she wouldn’t report it? She’d have scratched, kicked, and fought. She’d have never succumbed willingly to something she didn’t want.
The carriage came to a halt. The door opened and the footman, holding an umbrella, handed her down. But even his long legs had a time of it keeping up with hers as she hurried to the massive doors at Fitzwilliam’s residence. She didn’t care that rain droplets rolled down her face when she stepped into the foyer.
“Where’s your master?” she demanded as the butler appeared.
“I shall announce your arrival.”
“Just tell me where he is. Do it or relieving you of your duties will be my first act after becoming mistress of this household.”
“The library, m’lady.”
She marched down the hallway with her hands fisted and her shoes beating out a steady cadence that resembled that of militia drummer. She was ready to do battle if need be, but she hoped, dear God, but she did hope that she would discover she was wrong in her suspicions.
With a bow, a footman opened the door at her approach. She charged into the room and staggered to a stop. Fitzwilliam was lounging in a chair by the fire, snifter in hand, swirling the amber liquid within it, apparently lost in thought. He seemed so vulnerable for a moment there, and she imagined they would have many nights of sitting together before a fire. They would read together, and talk quietly, and hopefully laugh about some silly nonsense.
Glancing over, he furrowed his brow and slowly came to his feet as though she’d awoken him or perhaps he simply couldn’t believe the sight of the hoyden standing before him, dripping on his parquet floor. “Lady Mary, whatever’s wrong? What are you doing here?”
Bravely, she took several steps forward along with a deep breath. “Did you start the rumors that Keswick had forced his person on me in the garden?”
Irritation chased away the furrows, but he steadfastly held her gaze. “No.”
One word delivered like the shot from a pistol. She’d offended him, and as much as she’d regretted it, she’d had to ask. That knowledge bothered her, sent a fissure of unease through her, but she wasn’t certain why. She’d have to examine it later.
“It must have been his uncle then, striving to discredit him, to make his entry back into Society that much more difficult. I’m certain he spawned this ludicrous story of Keswick’s cowardice on the battlefield.”
“Why is this a concern to you?”
“Because he’s my friend.”
He set aside his snifter and approached. “So anxious were you to question me that you couldn’t even arrive with an umbrella?”
She watched a raindrop fall from her hat to the floor. “I was upset, not thinking.”
“You do not believe him capable of moral shortcomings and yet you question mine?”
Not only offended, but hurt him as well. “I’m sorry. I know you’re a good man.”
“Apparently you don’t.”
“I do. I’d have not accepted your offer of marriage if I doubted the sort of man you are. I thought perhaps you’d done it in a misguided well-meaning attempt to protect my honor.”
“I assure you that I’m not in the habit of being misguided in any of my actions.”
“Of course you’re not. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive my impertinence.”
“I wish I could say that I would forgive you anything, but I must confess to growing wearisome of constantly finding Keswick in our lives. He will not be there once we are married, I should hope. I’ll have your word on that.”
What was he saying? That she would never see him again?
“I don’t suppose you would do what you could to help quash these rumors that he took unfair advantage of me,” she said quietly.
He turned away. “If I did that, it would be to imply that you kissed him willingly. Do you understand how that would make me appear? Cuckolded before we’re even wed. I believe silence is the better part of valor here. The rumors will die out of their own accord if tinder is not constantly thrown on them.”
He was correct, of course. If the rumors garnered no reaction, people would soon lose interest in them. But what damage to Sebastian’s reputation might be done in the meantime?
Fitzwilliam faced her. “I can’t help but admire your loyalty to the man. I simply wished it extended to me.”
She suddenly felt as though she didn’t deserve this man. “It does. I’ll be such a devoted wife you’ll never have cause to doubt me.”
“I’m counting on that. So shall we put this behind us?”
Not quite yet. “Lady Hermione told me that she overheard you encouraging her father to convince others not to allow Keswick into proper homes.”
“He asked for my opinion and I gave it to him. They’ve caused nothing but trouble since they arrived. I told him they will not be welcomed in mine. What he chooses to do is his business.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“Perhaps in time when they’ve learned to behave with a bit more decorum, when they realize the value of conformity, people will be more at ease with them.”
They would never conform. Of that she was certain. Perhaps she’d been hasty in trying to lure them into Society. Fitzwilliam was correct: they needed to make their own way in their own time.
Reaching out, he touched her damp hair. “You were very naughty to come here without a chaperone.”
She wondered if he might take advantage, might in fact use the opportunity to kiss her. She couldn’t imagine that Sebastian would let such a moment pass if he found himself alone in the presence of a woman he intended to marry. She didn’t like thinking of him as being barbaric. He was simply blatantly sensual, even if he didn’t see himself as such.
Fitzwilliam skimmed his knuckles along her cheek, gave her a look of fondness. “We have a dinner tonight at Lord and Lady Moreland’s. Allow me to escort you to your carriage so that you may return home and begin preparing for it. I shall bring my carriage around at half past seven.”
The moment shouldn’t have ended with her being disappointed that he’d not sought to take advantage. Her reputation was on perilous enough ground as it was. She had no need to have him further doubt her ability to act as a lady.
He extended his arm and she slipped hers through the crook of his elbow. She walked so close that her skirt brushed against his trousers but the nearness didn’t seem at all scandalous. Shouldn’t she want to lean into him, press her entire side against his?
Why was she questioning so much of late? He was good for her. They were well suited.
A footman with an umbrella followed them out to the carriage and Fitzwilliam handed her up. “I shall see you soon. Remember your promise to me. No Keswick. Men’s reputations are hardly as important as ladies’. It’s the reason so many of us excel at being rakes: no one really cares what we do. This nasty business about the kiss will die soon, especially after we are wed.”
She nodded. “Again, I’m sorry that I thought you sought to do him harm.”
He tucked her beneath her chin as though she were a child. “I would not be marrying you if you were any different.”
Slamming the door closed, he instructed the driver to return her home. The carriage bolted up the drive. Glancing back out the window, she saw Fitzwilliam still standing there, watching her. He worried over her.
But who worried over Sebastian? If he heard the rumors, if he thought she were responsible for spreading them—
She could bare
ly tolerate the possibility.
As soon as the carriage turned onto the street and she was certain she was no longer visible to Fitzwilliam, she leaned her head out of the window and ignored the rain pelting her. “Chambers, take me to Easton House.”
“Yes, m’lady!”
Settling back against the bench, she removed a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her face. She knew that Fitzwilliam wouldn’t approve. She simply had to ensure that he never found out.
She could do that easily enough with discretion. She stuck her head back out the window. “Chambers, use the mews not the front entrance.”
If he answered, she didn’t hear it because thunder rumbled. She slipped back inside and hoped it had not been a sign of disapproval from on high. No one would look for her at the servants’ entrance. She would meet quickly with Sebastian, explain that she was not responsible for the ugly rumors and if they all just ignored them they would fade away. She needed no more than five minutes. Then she would return home.
Simple enough. While she was there she would explain in person about the return of the necklace and how they must avoid each other. Surely he understood her betrothed’s jealousy for he would no doubt feel the same toward the woman he intended to marry. He’d not tolerate her seeking solitary moments with another man. Nor should he.
Then an awful thought occurred to her. What if he wouldn’t see her? What if her letter and the awful rumors circulating had torn asunder the last threads of their fragile friendship? By the time the carriage drew to a halt, she’d worked herself up into a worrisome lather. If he weren’t angry with her, if he understood, he’d have at least sent her a missive indicating such.
Instead, she’d had only silence from him since having her own message delivered. The footman opened the door and handed her down. Just as he had at Fitzwilliam’s so he had a devil of a time keeping pace with her as she raced up the path. It suddenly seemed imperative that she see Sebastian, that she make things right between them. Yes, her loyalty was to Fitzwilliam but she couldn’t ignore Sebastian.
The rain slashed at her sideways, each frigid drop as painful as she suspected Sebastian’s icy words to her might be. The puddles splashed, soaking her hems. She reached the back door and pounded on it. A footman opened it, and she burst through as though she’d been invited.
The servants’ eyes widened but no one stopped her progress until the butler caught up to her in the foyer. She was a soggy mess and her hair was falling, but she didn’t care. “Please let His Grace know that Lady Mary Wynne-Jones has come to call.”
“I’m sorry, m’lady, but he is not receiving.”
She thrust up her chin and spoke with the full weight of her father’s rank. “He will receive me.”
He gave a slight bow of acquiescence. “I shall let him know you’re here.”
She expected him to go down a hallway. Instead, he started up the stairs. She wondered if Sebastian were readying himself for the Moreland dinner. It seemed rather early and she’d not considered that he would attend. It would be quite awkward unless he understood everything. Her coming here had been a wise decision on her part, essential in fact, to ensuring that she did not anger Fitzwilliam unduly tonight.
She glanced around, caught sight of a mirror, and moved toward it. As soon as her reflection greeted her, she gasped. She was a fright. Her hat was wilted, her hair drooping from the weight of the wet strands. She looked like a cat that someone had attempted to drown.
Sebastian would no doubt laugh just as he had when they were children and she’d tumbled into the river. He’d rescued her then. How fortunate she’d been that he was near, because she hadn’t a clue how to swim. But he’d taught her. While she’d worn nothing except her undergarments. It hadn’t seemed wrong at all. She’d forgotten about that. Now of course it was unconscionable.
At the sound of heavy footsteps, she gazed upward, surprised to discover that it wasn’t Sebastian making his way down. “Lord Tristan.”
He smiled slightly. “Lady Mary.”
“Forgive the formality. It seems pretentious after everything we shared. I was simply caught unawares by your presence. I’m here to speak with Sebastian.”
“Yes, so Thomas informed me. Unfortunately Sebastian is not up to receiving callers.”
“Callers? Or me?” Without waiting for his reply, she started up the stairs.
He caught up with her easily enough, grabbed her arm, and halted her progress. “Mary, wait.”
“I know he’s upset about the gossip, but I must explain.” Wrenching free, she carried on. This time he didn’t try to stop her, but she was aware of the echo of his footsteps following in the wake of hers.
At the top of the stairs, she took the familiar path that had added to her downfall once before, but this time there were no witnesses other than Tristan, who would certainly hold his tongue. She would have her say and leave. No one would be the wiser. The door was open so she simply swept into the room and stumbled to an ungainly stop.
Sebastian was in the bed, breathing heavily, bathed in dampness as though he had been the one running through the rain instead of her. He was wearing a nightshirt, but it was unbuttoned and soaked, plastered to his skin. She took tentative steps forward until she was near enough to press a hand to his brow. Fevered. Worse than fevered. She’d never felt skin so hot. “He’s burning up.”
“His wound is festering. I’ve sent for the physician.”
She caught scent of the rancid odor now. Then she noticed something clasped in his hand, the gold filigree chain dangling onto the bed. Her necklace. Cautiously she touched his fist.
“I’ve not been able to get him to release it,” Tristan said.
It was silly to think that her returning it had caused the decline. “How could this have happened? He visited with us.”
“I think he got out of bed too soon, exerted himself too much.”
Because of her. Because of suspicions. Because of his uncle.
“You can’t stay, Mary.”
She nodded absently. She knew that.
“I’ll send word once the physician has seen him. Let you know how he fares.”
Once again she nodded, just before sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching into the bowl of water and lifting out the cloth nestled in it. She wrung it out.
“Mary, you can’t stay,” he repeated.
“Yes, I know.” She pressed the cloth to Sebastian’s brow. She had a dinner party to attend. Fitzwilliam was going to arrive at her residence at half past seven. She needed to be ready. She patted the cloth along Sebastian’s neck over the scars. She’d promised Fitzwilliam that she wouldn’t approach Sebastian, that she would never again be alone with him.
Only she wasn’t alone. Tristan was here.
“Mary—”
“If I remain wet, I’ll catch my death. Will you please see if a servant has a dress I might borrow and find one willing to assist me as I change?”
“You don’t always have to save us, Mary.”
But this time, she wondered if she might be saving herself as well.
Chapter 18
He’d abandoned Pembrook. He’d left Rafe at the workhouse. An orphan. They would put him to work but they’d feed and clothe him. He’d sold Tristan to a ship’s captain. He could excuse his actions then because he’d been a boy. Now he was a man and he would not abandon a fellow soldier on the field of battle. He would never again abandon anyone.
The battle raged. The heat consumed. It shouldn’t have been so hot. The Crimea was cold, ghastly cold and miserable. But in the thick of battle he sweated. He had to get to his fallen comrade. He ducked low. Shells landed, exploded. Cannons boomed. Men cried out. Horses screamed. Blood splurged over him, burned. Something sharp pierced his side—
His torturous yell brought him from the depths of hell.
“Shh. Shh.”
Breathing heavily he found himself gazing into familiar green eyes. He wanted to touch the softness of her cheek. Surely
it would be cool. Would cool his fever. But when he reached for her, his arms wouldn’t obey the command. He realized he was bound. He tugged. “No!”
“Shh,” she urged again. “Your wound. It needs to be treated. It won’t be pleasant, Sebastian.”
“Release me.” His voice sounded as though it had been scraped raw.
“We can’t have you thrashing about, Brother.”
Tristan. Dammit. He’d expect this of Rafe, but not Tristan. Rafe would no doubt relish the agony his helplessness brought.
“The doctor’s going to give you ether,” Mary said quietly. “You should sleep through the worst of it.”
He rolled his head from side to side. “No, don’t send me back there.” Not to the nightmares, not to the regrets.
“I’ll hold your hand. I won’t let go.”
“No.” Something obstructed his vision of her, clamped down over his face.
“Breathe, Your Grace,” someone ordered. “Breathe deeply.”
He didn’t want to sleep. He hated to sleep. When he slept he dreamed. All his regrets, all the nightmares welled up—
He fought to keep his eye open, to remain with her, to not succumb …
Mary feared that the physician had given Sebastian too much ether. After he’d cleaned the wound, removed the putrid flesh—a ghastly endeavor—he’d aroused Sebastian only enough to ensure he was still alive and then plied him with laudanum before leaving.
“Best to let him sleep through the worst of it.”
From time to time he would moan or groan. He often said no. Sometimes he cried out with the word.
“What do you suppose he’s fighting?” she asked, gently patting a cool cloth over his neck and chest.
Tristan leaned back in a chair on the other side of the bed, his stockinged feet crossed on its edge. “What we all fight. Demons.”
She supposed she’d have hers to battle in the days to come. Honor had forced her to write a letter to Fitzwilliam. Preservation had forced her to lie. She’d told him that a migraine had sent her to bed and that she’d be unable to attend the dinner. She doubted that her father would check on her. He would no doubt spend the evening at a gentleman’s club.
She Tempts the Duke Page 18
