The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  He saw her blush and turn her head from the corner of his eye, and even that small movement caused her scent to waft toward him. Lavender and rain. By all outward appearances, she was well bred and well learned. She should have had the proper studies in comportment and manner, but she seemed to have misplaced them. He looked down to see her toes at the hem of her robe, and he exhaled.

  She waited so patiently for him. After a time he lowered his arm, attempted to relax his muscles,,and raised his head. He lowered himself to the edge of the fountain and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clenched.

  “You don’t seem to have morals,” he stated bluntly.

  Her jaw dropped and her spine straightened. He shook his head, to ward off her coming protest, then turned toward her. “When I—we found you, your manner of dress was that which would befit a lady. You were—are clean,” he said, with a gesture to her countenance. “Your hair was made properly; your corset was such that you could not have dressed yourself. I should know because I had to remove it to allow you to breathe.”

  This is not a proper conversation for an unmarried gentleman to have with an innocent girl. His speech was entirely too personal, but he couldn’t help it; he had an unwarranted desire to discover more about her.

  She blushed and started to turn her head away, but he clenched his jaw and bid her hold his gaze. She bit at her lower lip, ducking behind her knees. He could see just her clear blue eyes peeking out at him and tried to steer the conversation to a more acceptable subject. “I thought I heard you speak French,” he offered, hoping she would give more in explanation.

  He waited--patiently, he thought—to no response.

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. It must have been the madness. But wasn’t the doctor’s assessment based on the fact that she wasn’t speaking? Or was it the way she spoke that had him more concerned? She was certainly an infuriating paradox.

  He stood, circling the fountain again. He didn’t know much about mental frailty. He only knew that those whose minds were in disrepair were taken from their families, never to return. Maybe he should trust Dr. Walcott; maybe she should be sent to Bedlam. He watched her, sitting peacefully on the other side of the fountain. No, it wasn’t in him to relegate her to that.

  He was restless and wished there was some way he could ease the tension. There is one way—he could throw her down on the grass here in the clearing and have her. He lifted his head, and she smiled at him. Mistake.

  The twilight ended, but the moon and stars were bright enough that he could see her from the far side of the clearing as he paced, the moonlight reflecting into her face from the clear fountain water. She didn’t budge, just watched as he moved toward her again. Perhaps he would slake this desire.

  No—the woman is damaged. He shook his head as he admonished himself.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered forcefully as he approached. She held her throat, hands shaking. When he saw the fear and anger wash across her face he halted in his advance. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me as though I have a broken wing. I don’t know what has come over me, I don’t know what to say to you. I am afraid every moment that I am doing something wrong which will cause me to be sent away from here and I don’t—” Her breath caught. “I don’t have anywhere to go. In all my life, I cannot remember ever feeling as safe as I do right now, in this strange place, and I don’t understand why. Because regardless of your actions”—she turned on him and pointed—“your demeanor has been less than welcoming.” Her voice cracked as she whispered. She took a deep breath and rubbed her throat with her hands.

  He sat down and leaned toward her, trying to hear.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you tonight. I have just been cooped up on the second floor of your—your palace, and I needed to get out,” she pleaded. “I saw you earlier on that black horse, and you looked so free. I just wanted to feel the same. That’s why I came out tonight. That’s all.”

  He stared at her for a long moment as she pulled her knees up again. “I understand that feeling,” he said, with a half grunt. “I hate being holed up in the manor—it is a manor, not a palace, mind you, but the, uh, compliment is well taken.”

  She made no reply.

  “You have been held on the first floor, not the second,” he said a moment later, as an aside. “I never considered that you would see me riding Samson. It scares the hell out of my staff, tears up my hands.” He paused, rubbing his palms together, shocked at his own familiar tone.

  She reached out and grasped one of his hands before he knew what she was doing. They were much larger than hers. Turning his hand palm up in hers, she gently stroked the rough calluses with her thumb.

  He sucked in a breath as he froze, watching. “But—but I cannot help it.” He exhaled strongly, then in a whisper, continued. “It’s that feeling of freedom and peace, and I—I have no right to keep you from yours.” He was breathless now. He was breathless now, his mind reeling from her touch and his disclosure. He reached out with his other hand, gently touching the abrasion on her forehead, then traced his fingertips down the frame of her jaw.

  She smiled and he retracted his hands abruptly, folding his arms across his chest. She hid her face, resting her forehead on her knees.

  “It’s my understanding that Mrs. Weston has made arrangements to have some garments made for you, and that should ease the trouble. It shouldn’t take long, but until then I must insist for your safety and out of common decency that you keep yourself covered as much as possible, and that you remain in the private areas of the manor. I have business associates that visit, not to mention all the servants and others within my purview. If they saw you, your reputation would be ruined, which would be a shame, because you will obviously make a fine wife someday—after we figure out where you belong or, I suppose, once we get you to where you belong or—” He realized he had rambled so far from the point that he finally drifted off into silence with a sigh. Why did he feel so terribly uncertain? He rubbed his fingers across his eyes and sighed again.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For?” he replied, not looking at her.

  “For everything. I don’t expect anything from you, and I very much appreciate what you have done.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I will repay you somehow.”

  “No, you won’t.” He looked directly into her eyes as he spoke, ensuring she understood his intention. “What I give, I give freely and expect nothing in return. The fact is, we don’t know to whom you belong and it wouldn’t be proper to just ignore your needs.”

  “To whom I belong?” Her head cocked to the side and her eyes widened, then she nearly yelled but for the broken voice. “To whom I belong! I belong to no one!” she tried to scream, but no sound came from her throat.

  He panicked and tried to explain. “I meant your father or husband…of course. I already assumed you weren’t a servant, not dressed like—” He stiffened when she reached out, grabbing his arm frantically as the color left her face.

  In one swift move he stood and threw one of her arms over his shoulder, scooping her up to his chest. Already panicked by her pallid skin, the shock of her hand on his bare neck was enough to startle Roxleigh into a dead run. He skidded through the maze, slipping around corners as he held on to her, his boots slick on the lawn. The feel of her fingertips in his hair sent a shiver from his extremities straight to his middle, causing him to shift his grasp, pulling her higher up his chest and tighter to him as he lurched slightly going up the stairs.

  He went all the way to the first floor without pause and burst into the private parlor with a yell. “Weston! Ferry! Meggie! Where the hell are you?” he yelled as he ran to the door, then stood at the crest of the grand staircase looking out over the entry. “Weston!” he bellowed, as loud as his lungs would allow.

  She came up next to him. “Your Grace, you found her!”

  “Yes, and it would have been quite nice to know she needed finding,” he answered
with a scowl.

  Mrs. Weston followed him to the guest suite, running to keep up with his long stride. Roxleigh laid Francine carefully on the bed and she looked up at him with gentle eyes as she reached out, grasping one of his arms before he could move away. She held her right hand straight and flat, the tips of the fingers to her lips, and then moved it forward, but he only stared at her in confusion and worry. Then she mouthed the words thank you, and made the motion again.

  He nodded to her, taking slight comfort in the fact that her pain seemed to have eased, and turned to Mrs. Weston. “We will discuss this on the morrow. Tonight she needs rest, and you will watch her,” he said, emphasizing his potential displeasure should his wishes be disregarded again.

  “Yes, Your Grace, of course. I’ll not leave her side,” Mrs. Weston replied, her voice quivering, and she went to warm a kettle on the fire.

  Roxleigh left Francine propped up on a few pillows, waiting for Mrs. Weston to come back to the bed. When she did, he left and Francine reached for Mrs. Weston’s arm. With her right hand she made a fist and motioned in a circle over her heart, mouthing the words I’m sorry. Mrs. Weston’s expression flushed with confusion as Francine repeated the gesture, then understanding broke across her face.

  “No, dear! No! I am sorry. I should have been close by your side the entire time. I never should’ve left you, and I won’t make the mistake again,” she said.

  Francine knew that Mrs. Weston had no idea what had happened tonight in the garden. All she knew was that Francine had disappeared and been returned in the arms of an angry duke. There was no way for her to know of the time shared in the maze, the amount of care he took with her. Mrs. Weston did not know that it had actually been the best night of her entire life, the first night she’d ever felt truly free.

  She considered Roxleigh’s actions. No man had ever cared for her. She never had time to deal with them, and frankly they all seemed uninterested and a bit scary. But this one was different. He was concerned, not merely for her health but for her well being. He touched her without moving, her body aware of him regardless of proximity. She could feel him everywhere, and just the thought of him sent blood rushing to the surface of her skin.

  She realized his anger was coming from concern and his agitation from some deeply seated emotion that she believed resonated from his gut—because right now, her gut was telling her the same thing.

  Dr. Walcott could see dawn breaking through the small gap in the heavy drapes and he heaved a sigh then stood, rubbing his back with stiff fingers. He turned to the girl that had helped him throughout the night and patted her on the shoulder. “Go rest. Send someone else to watch over her. I will give them instructions before I go. There is nothing more that can be done now, but perhaps to pray,” he said quietly.

  The girl nodded and took an armload of bloody rags with her as she disappeared. A few minutes later, another servant entered with Lilly’s father behind her.

  “Mr. Steele,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I cannot even fathom what it must take for you to look on your daughter like this. I must tell you that in all likelihood she’ll not survive. I’ll stay and see her through as far as I am able, but you should prepare her mother. I’ve never seen injuries as extensive as these, and I don’t know how she’s to survive… Or if she would even want to,” he whispered.

  Francine watched as Mrs. Weston pulled the drapes open on the windows, letting in the fresh morning sun, before stoking the fire in the grate and heating a kettle. The room warmed quickly and Mrs. Weston walked to the giant bed.

  Francine groaned and rubbed her hands over her face, then cocked an eyebrow as she looked around. She was still here, wherever here was. She’d tossed and turned all night, in and out of dreams, her mind replaying the events in the maze. She believed half the images must have been imagined, because she certainly wasn’t aware of the duke being attracted to her before. She decided the excitement had colored her memories, making them more vivid than they actually had been and, in truth, the parts that she knew to be accurate were rather unbecoming and a bit insulting.

  Had he actually said that she had no morals? Yes, he did, she thought. He really said that. Obviously he wasn’t taken with her as much as embarrassed for her sake—or maybe simply for propriety’s sake. Good grief, he was ridiculous. She had never met a man who was so concerned with what others thought.

  Francine sat up, looking for Mrs. Weston again. She spied her behind a footman who was pushing in the slipper tub, and she smiled.

  “The dressmaker should arrive today, so we should get you all cleaned up.”

  Francine watched as Mrs. Weston moved around the room and a parade of housemaids came in through the passage behind the fireplace carrying kettles. Francine sighed as the steam rose, blotting out the countryside as it peeked through the windows. Mrs. Weston added some oils to the bath and then went to help Francine to the tub.

  They were starting to get used to each other, and Mrs. Weston turned away politely as Francine disrobed and stepped into the warm bath, then returned and fussed over her hair, straightening tangles and getting it washed.

  Francine reached up and patted the hand that gently pushed her forward in the tub.

  “Oh dear, sweet. Don’t you worry, miss, we’re going to take good care of you, no matter,” she said.

  Francine smiled, leaning her chin on her knees and letting Mrs. Weston take care of her as her mind drifted back to the garden. She closed her eyes, saw him leaning on the wall in front of her, his breathing labored, his movements determined. And his body—aroused? Is that what I saw? she thought as she flushed. Yes, it was. She could feel the blood tingling close to the surface of her skin, raising goose bumps and tightening her nipples. She leaned back in the tub at Mrs. Weston’s urging, shaking her head under the water to clear her thoughts and rinse the soap from her hair.

  “Oh, miss! You’ve caught a chill,” Mrs. Weston said. Francine blushed harder, sending Mrs. Weston in a flurry, yanking the curtains closed and stoking the fire. Francine sat up, giggling, and Mrs. Weston walked over to her. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.

  Francine nodded as she glanced up at Mrs. Weston and signed thank you.

  “You did that last night, miss. You used your hands to tell me something. What was that?” Mrs. Weston asked.

  Francine was surprised she remembered any sign language since she hadn’t used it in years. But she used it naturally, as though she had never stopped. One of the girls in the foster home where she was taken after her parents died had been profoundly deaf, and she had learned from her. Francine shrugged, unable to tell Mrs. Weston about it, and signed thank you again, this time using both hands for emphasis.

  “Well, miss, how do you say you’re welcome?” Mrs. Weston asked.

  Francine repeated the sign for thank you.

  “‘Tis the same?” Mrs. Weston asked. Francine nodded and Mrs. Weston smiled. The housekeeper handed her the bar of lilac soap and turned to ring for her breakfast tray. Francine rubbed her hands around the bar, squeezing to make it spin. She closed her eyes tightly and chanted to herself, iPod iPod iPod iPod. She opened her eyes and looked down. Soap. She sighed and watched Mrs. Weston as she walked back to the tub.

  “Gideon?” Francine whispered, wondering when she would see him again.

  Mrs. Weston’s eyes widened. “You must not use his Christian name, miss,” she said stoutly. Francine nodded. “My, but I believe you’re taken with His Grace,” she continued quietly. “Understandable, yet to use his given name would be improper. You cannot do that, and besides, you’re not to speak.”

  Francine nodded again and sank into the tub, thinking about the duke, while a broad smile spread across Mrs. Weston’s face.

  “Ferry!” Roxleigh sat on the edge of his bed, not bothering to reach for the pull because he felt like yelling.

  “Should I have Samson readied?” Ferry asked when he entered.

  “No. I’ll be going to London. Pack my things.�
�

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ferry said, turning to the wardrobe. “What of the architect?” he asked.

  “I’ll leave everything he requires on the grand table,” Roxleigh said.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Roxleigh had business to attend to in London that had been waiting for too long, and a few days away from the manor to think seemed more than justified. His ride yesterday had done much to clear his head, but having Francine alone in the maze with him last night had only served to muddle it again. She was so… Magnificent seemed to be the only word he could find to do her justice. He could still feel her pressed against him as he ran back to the manor, her hands clasped around his neck, her fingers teasing the curls at his nape. It had steeled every muscle in his body then and sent a shiver through him now.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could still sense her, the lavender and rain. She was so sweet, succulent. He wanted to taste her, breathe her essence, feel her flesh prickle with awareness as his fingers gently caressed her. He knew from the reactions he’d already witnessed how she would respond to him. How her breath would be nothing more than a sigh. He stood, fighting another rush of blood. This was not good. He couldn’t prowl around the manor like an unsatisfied rake, and he knew if he stayed here that’s exactly what he would end up doing. For Francine’s sake, and his own, he had to leave.

  Three hours later, Francine was surrounded by soft pastel muslins; lush, heavy velvets in burgundy and deep blue; prickly, stiff tulle; dark, serviceable broadcloth; vibrant, slippery satins; heavy patterned brocades; and several other exquisite fabrics covered in pearls, beads, and lace. The volume of the fabrics overwhelmed her, as did the speed with which the dressmaker spun them around her body, making measurements and notes and then moving on to the next. “Laura, that pink is horrible with her complexion. Try the deeper silk,” Madame Basire said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” her assistant replied, dropping the bolt of fabric into a pile and reaching for a deep blue Italian silk and a black corded trim.