Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Uncle Derek. His entire body jerked reflexively. He’d been nothing more than a beast for so long, that all parts of the man he’d been had died and his name ceased to exist. Now, this child should call it forth and with her small, lyrical voice, remind him that he was very much human…and did, in fact, feel. He dusted a hand over his chest; the place his heart apparently did still beat. He preferred a life when he’d felt nothing for anyone…than this. Wide, curious eyes stared at him. Derek cleared his throat of the emotion lodged there. “No doubt you are right,” he said at last when he trusted himself to speak.

  A mischievous sparkle lit her eyes. “Well, you are a little nice,” she whispered loudly. “For if you weren’t, you wouldn’t have cared about the mean things Mr. Davies said about Mrs. Benedict.”

  “You heard that?” A dull flush burned his neck. Christ. What other inappropriate utterances had the girl been secret witness to?

  Flora gave a pleased nod and then stopped abruptly. She twisted a curl about her finger. “What is a whore?”

  Derek choked and raked a hand through his hair. “It…you…” By God, what had his sister been thinking of entrusting an innocent child to his incapable hands? He cast a frantic gaze about. Where in hell was Lily? Or Harris? Or anyone? Wide, expectant eyes met his. “Er, it is not an appropriate word,” he settled for.

  She gave a slow nod. “Yes, I thought as much. Like damn and goddamn and bloody hell.” Then, a wide smile wreathed her face, revealing a gap where two of her teeth should be. That innocent, child’s grin caused an odd tightening in his chest. “Which is why you were very nice to not allow Mr. Davies to speak of Mrs. Benedict so. I rather like her.”

  “Run along,” he said harshly, disquieted by this child’s artlessness and the clear reminder of innocence. “Go to sleep for your outing tomorrow.” And then he could be free of both of the young ladies.

  She hesitated and then sprinted away.

  With Flora gone, her words about Lily echoed about his mind. And terror stuck in his chest, with the realization that he, too, rather liked the bold-mouthed, courageous governess.

  Chapter 13

  “Oh, Mrs. Benedict, I have dearly missed the sun!” In a flourishing manner that hinted at a talent for the theatrics, Flora slapped the back of her forearm to her brow.

  The following day, Lily and Flora with their books and blankets for the day’s lessons, marched through the crowded Hyde Park. “Indeed,” Lily said with a smile pulling at her lips.

  And there was, indeed, truth to her affirmation of the girl’s words. For having been shut away for but a handful of days, she’d longed for the sun on her face. What hell it must be for Derek to be shut away with no visitors, no friends, and not even the sun’s warm rays for company. Thrusting aside the dull ache, she gave her attention to Flora. The girl chatted on, pointing out everything from the passing ladies to the magnificent carriages and horses…

  Her charge stopped abruptly. “Shall we sit here?” She pointed a chubby finger toward the lake at Lily’s back. “I rather like this tree. What kind is it, Mrs. Benedict?”

  Lily furrowed her brow and studied the towering tree. Having grown up in Carlisle, there had been an abundance of trees. Even so, she’d spent more time admiring the nature around her, than studying it. The wind shook the branches overhead and set the green leaves to swaying. Sunlight filtered through the green canopy. “I don’t…”

  “It is an elm.”

  Lily spun about to find the owner of that soft utterance.

  A young woman with warm, blue eyes looked at Flora. “It is an elm,” she repeated. She turned a smile on Lily and under that gentle warmth, Lily burrowed into the folds of her modest cloak.

  She took in the cut of her velvet cloak and the elegantly clad gentleman at the lady’s side. “My lady,” she greeted and dropped a deferential curtsy. Would this woman even be speaking to her now if she were to glean the identity of the person under these very branches? She thought not.

  Flora skipped over and positioned herself between Lily and the smiling couple. Wind pulled at their skirts and plastered the cloak to the woman’s frame, revealing a gently rounded belly. Was the woman expecting? Sharp pain stabbed Lily’s heart, nearly crippling for the unexpectedness of it. Would the heartbreak of that lost dream ever ease? Of knowing she’d never know the gift of a child of her own. She was never more grateful for another person’s presence than Flora’s who commanded that happily wedded couple’s notice.

  “Do you know a good deal about trees? Today we were going to learn about the nature at Hyde Park, isn’t that right, Mrs. Benedict?”

  The trio’s attention swung back to Lily and she warmed. “We were. Are,” she amended lamely. Her inability to identify the tree they stood under even now, hardly recommend her.

  Lily took in the picnic basket in the arms of a servant hovering behind the couple. They were here for an outing. Regret tugged once more; to be on the arm of a loving husband, who looked upon her with adoring eyes. All of that she’d thrown away on a girlish infatuation. “Come along, Flora.” She dipped a curtsy to the adoring pair. “Curtsy to—”

  “Lord and Lady St. Cyr,” the young woman interjected.

  A lord and his lady. What an odd world she, a vicar’s daughter, now moved within. And what she wouldn’t give to trade back every vile, London moment and return to Carlisle, as it had been before one reckless decision. She cleared her throat. “I am Mrs. Benedict, and this is Lady Flora Ross. Let us leave you to your picnic.”

  Shocked recognition flared in the marquess’ eyes. He swung his attention to the little girl before him. With a frown, Lily moved closer to the girl. “Come along, Flora,” she said again. She’d learned long ago that no gentleman was safe. Powerful peers with arresting smiles oftentimes hid black hearts.

  Flora craned her head back and shot a frown at Lily. “But I do not want to leave this spot.” She gesticulated wildly about the landscape. “It has a magnificent view of the lake ahead and there is that wonderful boulder I would dearly love to climb on and…”

  As the girl prattled on, Lily fixed on the Marquess of St. Cyr and a flood of agonized emotions paraded across his face. “Flora,” she said softly. “Make your curtsies and goodbyes to the marquess and marchioness.”

  “Oh, very well,” her charge said on an exaggerated sigh.

  “I knew your mother,” the man said quietly.

  A laugh from some joyous lord echoed in the park. Flora stilled and looked up at the marquess with an almost desperate glimmer in her eyes. That vise of agony squeezed at Lily’s heart, once more. “You knew my mother?” she whispered.

  He dropped to a knee beside her. “I did,” he said in solemn tones. “A very, very long time ago. I am so very sorry she is…” The man’s throat worked.

  “Lost,” Flora supplied. “She is not truly gone. Not forever. She is merely lost.”

  Lily struggled to draw in a breath past the tightness in her chest. For all the ugliness Flora had known, she still retained hope with innocence only a child was capable of. Unable to meet the grief mirrored in the marquess’ eyes, Lily looked away, and her gaze collided with his kind-eyed wife. The woman met her stare with a gentle knowing.

  Flora tugged the marquess’ hand. “How do you know my mother? Do you remember her from when she made her Come Out? My grandmother used to say there was no more magnificent diamond in all the waters than my mama.” At the unwitting child’s reminder of the dark deed that brought Lily here, she dropped her gaze to the tips of her boots.

  “I did remember your mother’s Come Out,” he said quietly. A sad smile creased his lips. “But I remember her from long ago. I was…” He coughed into his hand. “I was a friend of your uncle.”

  Flora gasped. “You are friends with my Uncle Derek? I did not know Uncle Derek had any friends. He is quite miserable, you know.”

  “Flora,” Lily chided, placing a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. With her child’s ears, Flora had very neatly missed t
he telltale word used by the marquess. The desire to protect the duke…Derek, from the world filled her with a staggering intensity. Mayhap he had the right of it? It was far too dangerous living outside; at least closeted away, one could insulate oneself from the peril that was life.

  “I know your Uncle Derek quite well. We used to make a good deal of mischief as children.” The faint grin on the gentleman’s lips gave Lily pause, as with those words he transformed Derek from this cold, terrifying stranger, into a man who’d once been a child Flora’s age with a troublesome grin and a penchant for mischief. The realness in that pulled at her heart.

  Her skin pricked with awareness and she looked up. Lady St. Cyr stared curiously at her. Surely a stranger could not see into her confounded thoughts. Unnerved, Lily cleared her throat. “We should allow the marquess and marchioness to their picnic, Flora.”

  “Must we?”

  “You must stay,” the marchioness said quietly.

  Then, with the ease only a peer could manage, she looked to their servant and, with a slight nod, motioned for him to lay down a blanket he’d taken out of their picnic basket. Flora clapped her hands excitedly. Lily curled her toes within the soles of her serviceable boots. This world was not her world. She could not be farther from it than had she been set into orbit within another galaxy. Casting a desperate glance over the marquess’ shoulder into the lake, she wished herself far, far away.

  “And I gather you are…”

  “She is my governess,” Flora supplied, as the marquess rose to his feet and helped his wife sit.

  Another powerful longing ran through Lily at the sign of that closeness between two people; she would have given her littlest finger to know a fraction of that genuine love. She bit the inside of her cheek. Instead, some women were born to lives of happiness, while others trudged along with the path and way winding less clear. She claimed a seat alongside Flora.

  Lily glanced at the bag of books she’d brought for the girl’s studies, but the manner in which Flora was firing off questions at the marquess, the day’s lesson would, no doubt, prove a good deal less productive. And yet, even with that truth, she carefully attended the marquess’ words, hoping for further mention about the man Lily now called employer.

  “…He was a superior boxer.”

  “Was he?” Flora asked excitedly. “I do believe I can see that. He enjoys fighting with Harris and mean Mr. Davies.” She cast a look at Lady St. Cyr. “His man-of-affairs,” she clarified for the other woman’s benefit.

  “Ah,” Lady St. Cyr replied with a smile dimpling her cheek.

  The marquess waggled his eyebrows. “Mean Mr. Davies is still in the duke’s employ?”

  Flora rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, yes.” Then she scrambled forward. “You know him, too?”

  “Davies? Oh, indeed.” Lord St. Cyr winked, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your uncle was never afraid to go toe-to-toe with the man.”

  “Yes, well Davies does deserve yelling at sometimes,” Flora said ringing a chuckle from the young lord. She pointed to Lily. “Uncle Derek fights with Mrs. Benedict, too.”

  The trio’s attention swung to Lily and heat flamed on her cheeks. She choked. “Flora…”

  The little girl gave a wave of her hand. “They are friends of Uncle Derek. They know. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

  A spark of pain glinted in the man’s eyes, gone so quick Lily wondered if she’d merely imagined it. “Indeed,” he said, his voice rough.

  Flora looked to the book clutched in Lady St. Cyr’s hands. “What is that?” she asked with curiosity seeping from her wide, blue eyes.

  “I enjoy sketching,” the young woman murmured. “Would you care to see?”

  “Oh, yes.” Flora reached for the book with eager fingers and quickly set to turning the pages. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  “I’m really rather a deplorable artist,” the woman said with a wry smile. “But I do very much enjoy it.”

  “Oh, no, my lady,” Flora said emphatically, not taking her gaze from the pages. “You are wonderful. Your pictures are magnificent.”

  “And you are very kind, Flora,” Lady St. Cyr said with a wide smile that climbed all the way to her eyes.

  Odd, she’d never before known a lady could be capable of that unfettered expression.

  The marquess collected his wife’s hand and raised her fingertips to his lips. A look passed between them, the moment so poignant, so beautiful, that Lily carefully averted her gaze, feeling the worst sort of interloper on that intimate exchange. And more hating herself for aching to know a sliver of the love shared between them. She fixed her attention on the book Flora held and squinting, she tried to make out the image that now commanded the girl’s notice. It appeared to be…a…a…

  “Oh, I do love this one,” Flora whispered.

  “Do you?” Lady St. Cyr scooted closer to her.

  “Yes,” the girl breathed. She dropped her chin atop her hand and assessed the same drawing.

  Broad strokes and slashes filled the lower portion of the page with misshapen circles lining the top of the sheet. Lily peered at it; lost in the ambiguous images, and yes, one would never claim the lady was in any way an artist, and yet… She leaned closer, staring intently, and there was a mystery that forced a person to look at what they saw and truly see it, devoid of the perfection expected by Society.

  “What do you see?” Lady St. Cyr urged gently.

  “I see the ocean.” There was a haunting timbre to the girl’s words. Gooseflesh dotted Lily’s arms. “It is a storm and there is a ship, lost.” Another breeze stirred overhead and the leaves danced noisily.

  Oh, God. Pain stabbed at Lily’s heart. This was the loss Flora had known. What blackness existed in Lily’s soul that she’d cursed the entire Winters family?

  “Would you like it?” The marchioness’ quietly spoken question brought Flora’s attention up, away from the artwork.

  She blinked several times. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Lady St. Cyr murmured. She leaned over and effortlessly tugged out the page. “It is yours.”

  Flora accepted the sheet with eager hands and with a wide-beaming smile, returned to her study of the squall she saw captured there. The marquess pointed to the page and said something that roused a laugh from the girl.

  Lily stilled, lost in the poignancy of that exchange. This charming marquess had once been friends with Derek. What would the Duke of Blackthorne have become had life not turned him bitter and he’d not removed himself from the world? Would he even now be the loving uncle pointing at obscure pictures and rousing laughter from a child’s lips?

  “You are a governess, Mrs. Benedict.”

  Those words, more statement than anything else, snapped Lily’s attention back to the marchioness. “Forgive me.” She cleared her throat. “I am.” In a world where she’d known the ugliness of the late Duke of Blackthorne and his mother, who was this woman who spoke to governesses with such ease? Lily felt set adrift at sea in that storm upon the page Flora spoke of.

  Is that how Derek feels each day? Her throat went tight.

  “My sister-in-law was a former governess,” the young woman said gently.

  Lily angled her head. “Beg pardon?” Noblemen did not wed governesses.

  “You’ve heard me correctly.” A lively twinkle glimmered in the lady’s eyes. “She and my brother are very much in love.”

  Unable to meet the probing stare, Lily shifted her gaze over to the lake. Yes, sometimes magical moments happened to people. A pink pelican dipped its head under the surface and fished about for its fare. He came up a moment later with his wide mouth empty. But most times, life was hard, and predictable, and predictably hard. The graceful creature delved his head under the surface once more.

  To give her fingers something to do, Lily picked up the volume of Moral Tales for Young People and fanned the pages. “How very fortunate they are,” she said softly. There was no bitterness in that
. There was a peace in knowing that sometimes those mystical moments did come.

  Lady St. Cyr narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, but Flora called the marchioness’ attention and left Lily to her thoughts once more.

  And just then, fate in its ultimate mockery placed a familiar, detestable figure on the riding path ahead. With his elegant, sapphire coat and fawn-colored breeches, the gentleman may as well have been any other gentleman present. She fisted the book in her hands as their gazes collided. No, this was no meeting of chance. This was a carefully orchestrated reminder of her role, his presence and, more importantly, his reach. Holdsworth gave a slight nod, a hard smile on his lips, and then shifted his attention away.

  As he continued riding past, panic swelled inside Lily’s breast. In embroiling this little girl in that madman’s machinations, she’d not allowed herself to consider the possible jeopardy she placed Flora in. You didn’t think, because all you’d cared about was your own future security. Guilt squeezed like a vise about her lungs. She jumped to her feet. “We should go,” she squeaked.

  Flora looked up, confusion and disappointment warring in her eyes. “Mrs. Benedict?”

  Unable to meet the marquess and marchioness’ eyes, Lily dropped a curtsy. “I thank you for allowing us to join you under the elm. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Holdsworth shot a deliberate look over his shoulder, and with her free fingers, she grabbed for Flora’s hand. “Good day,” she said quickly and fled the park.

  For the truth was, there existed more nightmares than magical moments. Life had taught her that.

  Chapter 14

  Later that evening, Lily paced the floor of her quiet chambers. The white coverlet and dove-white curtains stood as a silent mockery to the woman who now occupied these noble rooms. She wrung her hands together. In the dead of night, when the household slept, it was a good deal harder to escape one’s guilt.

  She stopped abruptly and her nightshift fluttered about her ankles. On numbed legs, she walked over to the dressing table and slid into the Trafalgar chair. From the bevel glass, the face of a woman who appeared far older, far more mature than Lily’s three and twenty years, stared back. She tried to pull her gaze from the creature with wan cheeks and bloodshot eyes, but the moment was much like the day she’d arrived in London. The cacophony of shrieks and cries as a phaeton, driven by a reckless lord, tipped. Her life was that carriage accident. For gone was the girl with blush-pinked cheeks and dreamy, optimistic eyes. That woman had been killed by the ruthlessness of one rake who’d taken her virtue. Tears smarted behind her eyes and she blinked them back.