Lady Wild

by Máire Claremont

  No wonder her mother appeared so invigorated. “Have you indeed?”

  What had the two devils—for her mother could be quite scandalous if given rein—been planning?

  Ophelia sneaked another quick sip of tea before placing a slice of the fruited cake upon a small plate for her mother. The room seemed to buzz about her as she fought a rising sense of alarm.

  Her mother took the cake, made a satisfied sound, then said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “You’re going to London with Viscount Stark.”

  Those words fell upon her ears, rattling her thoughts with their absurdness. Her mouth gaped in her astonishment. Worse still, in her shock, Ophelia’s grip relaxed, and she dropped the plate bearing the last slice of cake on the red and blue woven rug. Their cat, Wellington, darted out from under the settee, crouched over the morsel, and began masticating, a conquering feral beast.

  “Blast,” she cried. She felt as stunned as when she’d slipped in the river, her wits flown.

  “Did you hear?” He reached forward, about to touch her arm, but he stopped himself.

  Growls of pleasure came from Wellington as he quickly chewed the cake.

  “The cake is ruined,” she protested.

  Stark leaned forward. “Never mind the cake.”

  “But it was the last slice,” she replied, trying not to sound like a little girl unable to believe that she’d just been instructed she was going to London.

  “Ophelia, you needn’t worry about cake,” he whispered. “You shall have as much of it as you like in future, and I certainly don’t need any.”

  She blinked, hating that tears stung her eyes over something so foolish as lost confectionary. In truth, it was the strain of the months, his presence in their reduced circumstance, and a general frustration with the world which inspired such silliness. She sniffed. “I don’t understand.”

  He rested his cup and saucer on his knee. “Your mother and I have decided it would be best if you came to London. You will resume your studies with Mr. Ruskin. If he will not have you, I will arrange that you study with Millais, and I shall facilitate your modeling. I shall even bring a pistol so that someone like Rossetti doesn’t have you nude in a trice.”

  Ophelia gaped. How had her mother convinced Lord Stark in the mere time it had taken for her to brew tea?

  “And you are not to worry about your mother, for she shall come with us.”

  Startled, Lady Darlington smoothed her slightly shaking hands over her blanket. “Indeed? How marvelous.”

  Ophelia blinked then stuttered, “S-she is far too ill for us to go. . .”

  “I am not,” her mother cut in. “And I should rather be surrounded by the bustle of London than pass my last days on this settee staring at the same trees turning from autumn to winter day in and day out.”

  It was terribly awkward discussing this in front of him, but it had to be said. “We cannot possibly be beholden to this man, Mama.”

  “Where is your sense of adventure, my darling? Seize life with both hands!”

  “You did, and look what happened,” Ophelia bit out before she could stop herself. Her parents had loved each other, but it had not turned out well for her mother in the end. That couldn’t be ignored.

  “Yes,” her mother said quietly, her soft eyes as peaceful and determined as they had ever been. “And I had fifteen happy years with your father. I also gained a beautiful daughter from my boldness.” She cleared her throat. “Now, I didn’t raise you to be afraid of life, did I?”

  Lord Stark glanced from Lady Darlington to Ophelia, his gaze a trifle unsure. “I think I shall leave you two to discuss this.”

  He swallowed the last of his tea, stood. The room might have been one in a doll’s house, his size positively dominating the room. Bent slightly, lest his head brush the plastered ceiling, he placed the cup and saucer on the narrow mantel. “Thank you for the tea.”

  He scooted between the furniture and headed for the hall.

  Ophelia gave her mother an infuriated look before she jumped to her feet and followed the madman out into the cool air. “What are you doing, taunting my poor mother thusly?”

  He whipped back toward her, his face fierce. “Taunting? She pleaded with me to save you from this dreary life. And as it turns out, I agree with her. You will wither here, Ophelia. As she is doing.”

  Pain hit her in a brutal wave. Would she wither here? Yes, yes, she would. Ophelia opened and closed her mouth, her throat an agonizing vise. At last, she managed, “She is dying.”

  “Yes. She is. And she wishes to go to London. To see you happy.”

  Oh dear God. She knew that was true. Her happiness was all her mother wanted.

  He glanced away for a moment, and when he looked back, those sharp eyes of his blazed with unreadable emotion. “To have a little bit of adventure before she must leave you. Do you wish to deny her this?”

  How she wished to shout, No. That she would deny her mother nothing. But unlike her mama, she had a distrust of lords. After all, the lords in her life, her father and her brother, had failed her. How would this one be different when the novelty of finding her adventuring in the river had worn away? “Why would you help us?”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Because I could not give my own mother the happiness for which she so hungered when she stood at death’s door. I will not turn back from this chance. I hope you will not.”

  “But—”

  “A coach will come in two days to take you to London. Be on it. Do not disappoint your mother.” He paused, then lifted his gloved hand to her cheek, caressing it ever so lightly, his gaze softening. “Do not disappoint me.”

  Then he was off, striding down the road.

  Coatless.

  Ophelia nearly called out to him, but caught herself. The devil was on that road, urging her to throw herself into his chasm of temptation.

  She’d always known that one day it would happen. She’d simply never guessed her temptation would be in the guise of such a beautiful man, bent on saving her mother and herself from misery.

  It could not end well. For surely, putting her future into his hands could end only in tears. No one had a pure enough heart to help so profoundly and ask for nothing in return.

  Especially not when his eyes stared at her with molten hunger. He eyed her as a starving man might. Could a starving man deny himself what he so desired when it was right before him? Would she even wish to deny him when he looked at her thusly?

  What would be the cost of his help? She was fairly certain she knew, even if he himself did not yet. Was she willing to pay it?

  As she studied his retreating form, shivering at the sight of his powerful body eating up the earth, she wondered if she would even resist paying the price, or if she would simply hand over the fee with both hands, arms open, full of foolishness, as all the women in her family seemed to have done.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A friend is an invaluable thing

  until they run amok.

  -Ophelia’s Notebook

  “Damn it, Stark.” The voice of Marcus Trent, Marquis of Vane, boomed off the rococo, carved-wood ceiling, filling up the long hall despite the thick oriental rugs and multitude of medieval wall hangings that should have muffled the sound. “I don’t wish you here right now.”

  Andrew blew out a long breath, eyeing his boyhood friend. Vane had grown more and more absent this past year. “And yet, here I stand.”

  Vane stared at him with eyes harder than the black marble that formed the fireplace mantel. He stood silent, in apparent fury.

  Andrew ignored the stance, hoping still for some kind of friendly greeting.

  Several more awkward moments passed, but he didn’t relent and tiptoe away, as he was sure Vane desired. He was here to make his old friend see reason. Of course, he hadn’t expected a sumptuous welcome for his uninvited descent on the massive medieval, Tudor, and Restoration conglomeration of towering wings that was Larksmoore. Still, he hadn’t
quite expected this frigid lack of civility, which was all the more bleak in contrast to the hospitality he’d received not an hour before in a cottage that wouldn’t do justice to one of this castle’s closets.

  At last, when the silence was shown not to have an effect, Vane demanded, “Why did you come?”

  Andrew came straight to the point. “I was concerned.”

  For a moment, Vane’s black brows lifted, a scowl pulled at his lips, and it appeared he was going to make some disdainful comment. Instead, his shoulders sagged. “Drink?”

  “Yes.” The word came out sounding far more relieved than he would have liked. That relief drove home just how much tension he’d felt in this encounter. What the hell was wrong with Vane?

  His friend’s strong face suddenly seemed worn with exhaustion. “You shouldn’t be here, old man.”

  It was so odd to find himself in this position. Andrew didn’t usually take an interest in the lives of others and in one day, he’d taken an interest in the lives of three people. Whatever was becoming of his sense of ennui?

  “I shouldn’t look in on a friend?” he asked.

  Vane crossed to the carved mahogany sideboard, lifted the sparkling, crystal decanter and poured out too very large brandies. “This house is not a place for friends.” He hesitated over the snifters. “Not anymore.”

  “My, how dramatic,” Andrew said, tempted to cross the green and white intricately woven rug and drop himself in one of the terribly uncomfortable medieval carved benches by the fire. He refrained. “Have you been reading one of the Bells’ novels? Wuthering Heights, or was it Jane Eyre?”

  Vane whipped around, his eyes flashing. “Do be serious.”

  “You’re serious enough for the both of us, I think. Verging on the dramatic, in fact.” Andrew made an exaggerated wave of his hand. “Brooding and all that.”

  Crossing the room and pushing one of the glasses into Andrew’s hand, Vane gave a tight nod. “I’ve left off happier days.”

  Andrew lifted the snifter, the scent of twenty-year brandy suddenly spicing the air. Once, Vane had been the most mischievous, the most boisterous, and the first to laugh of their school set. Now? The man looked as if he might be suited for the position of undertaker. No. Not undertaker. . . executioner. There was a dangerous edge to his old friend that had never been there before. “Vane, I came here—”

  “You’re going to leave here as quickly as you came,” Vane cut in. Any softening he’d shown vanished. His shoulders straightened, and he lifted his squared jaw.

  “Now?” Andrew demanded, incredulous.

  Vane gave a shrug. “As soon as you finish your drink. I’d hate to be a complete ass.”

  So Vane knew he was being a bastard. And that wasn’t changing his behavior.

  Andrew narrowed his gaze, unamused. “You’re my friend.”

  Vane cocked his head, one black brow arching. “And if you wish to remain my friend, you’ll respect my wishes and return to London. We can meet there in a few days’ time.”

  Andrew could hardly believe it. He’d traveled halfway across England to be summarily told to get out. And more, Vane clearly meant what he said. “I—”

  “That is all I will say on the subject. Accept it or leave now and don’t expect to see me again.”

  Andrew bit back a harsh retort. If Vane was indeed so determined that he should leave, what else could he do? He didn’t wish to drive the man off when Vane so clearly needed support. It was a cursed situation. If only he hadn’t grown so close to Vane all those years ago in school. If not for that, he could leave the damn bastard to his own self-destructive devices. “I will go only if you keep your promise and come to London and see me.”

  Vane nodded, capitulating faster than Andrew had expected. In fact, Andrew hadn’t expected Vane to capitulate at all.

  “I need the change of scene, in any case,” Vane said. “I’ve already been down here too long.”

  “You’re acting strangely,” Andrew ventured. “More strangely than some of your tenants, Lady Ophelia and her mother, Lady Darlington.”

  “Ah.” Vane’s face softened for a brief moment. “You’ve met our unfortunate ladies, then.”

  “Yes. After meeting them, I’d been under the belief my day couldn’t grow any more curious.”

  A faint hint of amusement tugged at Vane’s lips. “You were mistaken. And they’re not my tenants. They live on the neighboring estate. If they were on my land, their cottage would be in a damn sight better repair.”

  Thank God. At least Andrew didn’t have to worry that Vane had become a neglectful landlord. It had crossed his mind, and he hadn’t been certain what he was going to say to his friend.

  Andrew glanced again at the uncomfortable benches before the towering fire. “Am I allowed to sit?” Andrew asked.

  It was damned awkward standing in the middle of the massive hall, drink in hand.

  “No,” Vane countered. “You were saying?”

  Andrew ground his teeth, then took a stiff swallow of brandy to relieve his irritation. “Do you know anything of the ladies?”

  “Of Lady Darlington and her daughter?”

  Andrew nodded, trying to check his considerable interest.

  Vane frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. “My mother offered Lady Darlington a house on the estate. She refused but accepted my neighbor’s offer of a cottage. The proud lady insisted on paying a proper rent. Sadly, I had nothing that was quite right. And she refused my mother’s offer to subsidize their rents.”

  Clearing his throat, Andrew asked casually, “What else do you know?”

  Vane shook his head. “Only that they have been forsaken by the relatively new Earl of Darlington. I’ve never met the ladies. They largely keep to the other side of the river and neighboring estate.”

  Lifting his snifter to his lips, Vane pounded back half the contents. “Ashamed of their circumstances, I think.”

  Andrew stared at his brandy, wishing it was gin. He needed the harshness of that liquor over the rich sweetness of his present beverage. “I agree. I want to help them.”

  “You can try, of course. But do be careful involving yourself with a beautiful young woman. Lady Ophelia has the reputation of a red-haired beauty.” Vane sighed as if saddened by the ladies out of his domain. “Given their seclusion, how did you meet them?”

  “This morning, after depositing my luggage and finding you were out, I went for a long walk.”

  “A very long walk, apparently, to the edge of the estate.” Vane crossed to the fire and propped a boot on the brass grate.

  “I had no idea what foul storm of a mood you might be in and wished to fortify myself with fresh air and a bottle of gin.”

  Vane grabbed the poker and thrust it at the burning wood. “Understandable.”

  Andrew gave a tight smile. It was hard to imagine now why he’d set out from London three days ago in search of Vane. Rumors were being tossed about like wicked words at the docks. Rumors that the marquis was involved with a dangerous gambling set. The kind of set that might extract a limb if payment wasn’t received.

  It was true he seldom saw Vane anymore, but once, they’d spent the better part of the late-night hours in each other’s company. There had been more than a few nights on the town, absinthe at hand and a few light-skirts with whom to drink it. They’d shared a common goal. Escape from the demands of disapproving and barely present parents. That long ago closeness made it impossible for Andrew to simply shake his head regretfully at those rumors.

  Fighting back the desire to cut to the quick and ask what the devil Vane was up to, he said, “In any case, I met the daughter wading in your river.”

  Vane snorted. “What in God’s name possessed you to wade—”

  “Not I,” Andrew corrected.

  “The daughter?” Vane was silent, then a dry laugh cracked from his throat.

  Andrew grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. Something about Lady Ophelia made one feel as if the world was full of prom
ise again. She’d even made Vane laugh.

  “Yes,” Andrew acknowledged.

  Vane abandoned the fire, strode back to the sideboard, paused, then glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. “How long is it going to take you to finish that drink?”

  “As long as it takes.” He still had a quarter of a glass.

  Vane gave a tight nod. “And what did you think of Lady Ophelia, then?”

  Andrew took a deep breath, thinking how intimate he’d been with her. Christ, he’d asked her if she’d wished him to ride her. He wanted it, that was for damn certain, and from the flare of interest he’d seen in her gaze, he was fair certain that she did, too. Only a lifetime of propriety had kept her in check. “Why do you ask?”

  Shrugging, Vane kept his attention on the decanter. “Because at the mention of her name, your entire demeanor changes.”

  “Bollocks.” He refused to accept such a ridiculous idea.

  Vane poured himself more brandy, then turned, bracing himself against the sideboard with the drink cradled in his palm.

  Andrew held out his nearly empty glass, which Vane pointedly ignored.

  Keeping the glass outstretched, Andrew challenged, “You don’t actually think I’m leaving when my glass is empty.”

  “I do,” Vane said firmly.

  “But surely I should pay my respects to your sister.”

  Vane tensed. For one brief moment, he looked as if he might shatter. But then those dark eyes of his grew cold. “She’s not here.”

  Andrew frowned. This morning, as he’d started his walk, he’d seen a young woman walking the high battlements of the castle. “I could have sworn I saw—”

  “She’s not here.”

  Andrew balked at the abrupt harshness of Vane’s tone. “But—”

  “Go home, Stark. I’ll see you in London.” And with that, Vane tossed back the contents of his brandy and stalked from the room.

  “I haven’t finished my drink,” Andrew hollered in angry protest.

  The echoes of Vane’s booted footsteps were the marquis’ only reply.

  Staring at the doorway, he couldn’t stop the growing sense that his friend had indeed involved himself in something very dangerous. And somehow, it involved his sister.