She’d raced along behind them, her skirts tangling in her legs, heedless to any danger she might place herself in.
“Go back to your governess,” Aidan had called, rushing ahead with his brother and friend, a snicker in his tone. “You can’t possibly keep up with us. You’re a girl.”
Then they’d kept going on their way, assuming she would do as she was told. They climbed trees and walked along the cliffs, doing those dangerous things that boys were wont to do. And they never looked back.
But Morgan hadn’t returned home. She’d kept following them, until her half-boot slipped out from under her as she tried to leap across a ridge, and she’d fallen down onto a ledge below. There she’d remained until they made their return journey to the manor. She tried desperately to climb up the rocky wall, but she’d broken her leg in the fall and couldn’t manage it.
In the end, Aidan had lowered himself down to lift her out, and Niall and David pulled them both up. As he carried his sister home, he’d promised her he would never doubt her again. Despite her smaller size and the limitations of her skirts, she had kept pace with them far beyond what any of them had ever imagined she could do. She’d proved them wrong.
She’d proved him wrong. That was the most important part. And so Aidan could never again believe less than the best of her. That was what he’d told her—what he’d promised her. What he intended to do. What he wanted to do. It was easy to have good intentions. He was discovering, more so now than ever before, that it was far more difficult to follow through with those good intentions.
Still, he couldn’t possibly blame her for the situation she’d found herself in after Stoneham’s betrayal.
Stoneham, Morgan, himself…Aidan couldn’t blame any of them. That left only Miss Hathaway, since she was the only one involved, in whatever small way. He’d trusted her. He’d placed his already fragile sister in Miss Hathaway’s care and trusted that she could perform the simple task of keeping Morgan from hurting herself again, and she had failed.
These last three years he’d spent countless hours at his easel, trying to ease the rage he felt billowing up from his gut. Even if he couldn’t take the time and effort to sculpt his marble as his heart yearned to do, he’d made the attempt to return to his art in some manner. Yet, instead of creating portraits or landscapes with his pastels, he often found himself creating depictions of his rage. Against Miss Hathaway, more often than not.
These were not pieces of art he could ever share. Not with anyone. Certainly not that first one—the one with the brown-haired, brown-eyed woman. It had been all long limbs and sleek curves, with her hand reaching out past her buttery yellow dress as though to rescue—
No. Not rescue. She wasn’t going to rescue anyone. She couldn’t save anyone, not even herself. She just lured him into thinking she was something other than what she was. Aidan had tossed that first piece into the hearth at the dower house, watching until the last licks of the flames ate the canvas away. Yet he couldn’t burn the image from his mind, no matter how hard he tried to do so.
Most of his artwork since then depicted women, dead beneath the glassy surface of water, burning trapped in buildings…all sorts of awful things that he could never actually do in life. Despite the direction his thoughts had begun to travel, he was not a monster. He would never be a monster.
He was just a man who wanted to protect his sister from all the atrocities in the world.
And none of them eradicated that first one from his mind.
But in art, he could do anything. In art, he could take all the abominable ideas that kept assaulting his mind and act them out, to see if they actually helped. If only Morgan had had something like that—a way to exorcise the demons that had haunted her and led her to hurting herself. What might have changed then?
He’d never shown even a single piece he’d created in these past several years to Niall or Mother. They’d think him mad beyond repair or redemption, deranged even. Surely they’d send him off to Bedlam without batting an eye, though they had never allowed Morgan to suffer such a fate.
She was innocent, after all. He wasn’t always certain about his own innocence. Some nights, he awoke in a sweat, thinking he had actually committed the revenge he so often depicted upon canvas.
He’d crafted so many of them that they filled nearly the entirety of the dower house at Tavistock Manor, where he’d been living since returning to the family estate. With these dark works interspersed so completely through his living quarters, he couldn’t possibly be free of the thoughts which led to their origin.
Even now, as he tried to force a smile for Morgan’s benefit and greet David’s guests as they arrived, the images burned in the back of his mind. They seared him with their intensity, leaving his mind scarred and with open, seething wounds.
Today, his animosity only grew when he saw Miss Hathaway standing off in a corner of the great hall. She wore a lemon-yellow gown far more fashionable than anything he’d seen her in before and had her hair done in a style that could almost be considered pretty. Yet still, her nose remained buried in the crevice of a book.
She hadn’t changed, so why should his hatred of her have diminished, even somewhat?
Yet with her sitting there, looking so fashionable and pretty, and wearing yellow again for Christ’s sake, he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t see her as anything other than the girl he’d tossed into the flames and watched until the last ember had died. The piece of art he couldn’t bear to look at…but why?
He swallowed hard, trying to force the images away. But even after he turned away from her, he could see her reaching out her hand to him from the flames. That hand had been the last bit of her to burn.
Morgan cleared her throat gently at his side, and he refocused on the present. He was here for her. So she could meet the other houseguests. He could do this.
Aidan stood fully across the room from Miss Hathaway, near the hearth with Morgan by his side. His sister’s delicate hand, covered by a kidskin glove in order to hide as many scars as possible despite the warmth inside the grand house, rested just over the back of his hand. She wasn’t holding onto him for dear life, as she’d so often done in the first months after her blinding. Yet he knew she preferred to have some contact, however slight, so she could sense when she might need to move.
In truth, he preferred it too. He worried less when he could see her.
A veritable parade of ladies and gentlemen had been brought over and introduced to them over the last hour—some familiar, others not—and still more continued to arrive. As Lady Burington crossed over to them once more with a gentleman at her side, Aidan leaned down to Morgan’s ear. “Our hostess is bringing another gentleman our way. Do you wish to meet him, or have you tired?”
Part of him hoped she would have grown so tired by now that she’d beg off. Niall had stood with her to begin the day, but now he was off mixing with the other guests, making himself amenable to the lord of the manor.
Aidan would prefer to leave entirely, to escape out of doors, but he wouldn’t leave Morgan if she desired to stay. His needs no longer mattered. That was what he’d told himself all along. He was determined to hold true to that.
“I’m perfectly all right, Aidan,” she said softly, a twinkle lighting her eyes in a way he’d so rarely seen these many years. She wouldn’t be ready to move on until the very last guest had come to her, that much was clear, and he couldn’t bear to take that from her. Morgan had been hidden away at Tavistock Manor for so long now he could practically sense her excitement radiating from her skin.
He patted over the back of her hand. “Of course you are.” He hoped his tone did not betray his lack of confidence in that statement. Not that he didn’t want to believe her. He did wish to, more than he could possibly ever explain. Yet she had been in such a dark place for so long, it was difficult to ever truly believe she’d come back to the light.
“Lady Morgan,” Lady Burington said, her smile melting through to her tone. “
May I introduce Lord Muldaire? Lord Muldaire, this is Lady Morgan Cardiff and her brother, Mr. Cardiff.”
Muldaire. Something niggled at the back of Aidan’s mind with the name, but he brushed it aside as Morgan brightened considerably, her shy smile and blinking eyes making it next to impossible for Aidan to see her flaws.
The man couldn’t be a total degenerate, since he wasn’t looking at Morgan’s scars as though she was a leper. Better than could be said for a few of the others present who’d already had their introductions. Finding appropriate ladies and gentlemen for his sister to interact with would have to become Aidan’s new personal mission, given the scarcity of people who could look upon her without wincing.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Morgan said. With each new person who came to her, her enthusiasm grew. She couldn’t see the disgust on their faces. She couldn’t know better than to think they were all as eager to meet her as she was to meet them. Her naïveté was both a blessing and a curse.
“Hardly as pleasant as making yours, my lady.” The smooth-talking man bent his dark-haired head low, leaning in as though to share a conspiratorial moment. “I can assure you, I’m a far better person to know than my brother.”
She laughed, drawing several scandalized eyes around the room. “And is your brother here? I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction, so I can’t speak to the truth of your claim.”
Slowly but surely, the others who, moments ago, had been so scandalized by her daring to laugh, resumed their own conversations and forgot about Morgan at least for the time being.
For several moments, Aidan stood there watching the two without really hearing them. His participation seemed unnecessary, and he was not one to interject himself where he was not wanted.
Watching her thus felt so odd. Morgan acted as though she’d hardly spent a day outside the influence of society. She was talking with ease, even flirting, however much Aidan hated to be present to witness such a thing. She seemed natural in this setting, despite her disfiguration and blindness and isolation. How natural would she seem if she were aware of the hushed voices and averted gazes that followed her every movement?
Blast, but he had to learn how to trust her again. How to let her go.
Since she was otherwise occupied with Muldaire, Aidan allowed his attention to stray to Miss Hathaway again.
A blond-haired gentleman walked over to her. Who was he again? Aidan remembered meeting him, but he’d already almost banished him from his mind. Sir…something or other. A man with kind eyes and a gentle spirit…one of the few like Muldaire who had not blanched upon realization of Morgan’s disfigurement. Perhaps he was a man Aidan ought to encourage in that regard.
But no. He’d already encouraged Stoneham to take an interest in Morgan, which was more than enough of such a thing for one lifetime, and it had not resulted favorably.
Never again.
He needed to let Morgan make her own choices, do as she wished. She didn’t need his involvement.
Still, he did not like seeing the man with Miss Hathaway, which was quite a bothersome discovery. She set aside her book—something she’d rarely ever done three years ago—and smiled up at the gentleman. They talked, and her face became animated, her eyes alight with enthusiasm which did not appear to be feigned.
Her response left Aidan seething, for whatever inexplicable reason. He hated that she had such an ability to bring out the worst in him—the anger which went so far beyond mere anger as to touch upon rage. He hated that simply her presence here was enough to take such control over him, rendering him a vengeful, loathsome shell of a man. Well, more of one than he already was. It left him feeling inhuman.
At his sides, his fists clenched until his knuckles must have turned white. Then he forced his attention away from Miss Hathaway and back to Morgan and Lord Muldaire. Morgan deserved his attention far more than Miss Hathaway did.
After a few minutes, another man who looked almost the same as Muldaire, though with a certain harshness to his presence that the marquess did not possess—clearly a brother—and a third, with many of the same features but less of the darkness, drew alongside them. Morgan’s head turned to the side, as though she could sense their presence even though she could not see them.
Muldaire glanced over at the intruders with a hint of a scowl, but made a polite introduction. “Lady Morgan, have you met my brother, Lord Jacob Deering? And our cousin, Mr. Charles Deering.”
She smiled again, all lightness and goodness and air—all of the things Aidan was not. “It is a pleasure, gentlemen.”
Aidan thought it anything but a pleasure, particularly with the dark look that had passed between the brothers, yet he held his tongue—almost bit down on it, so as not to say anything untoward. For Morgan’s sake, even if she did seem to no longer need his help as much as she had for so long. He didn’t want to draw any more attention to her than she already drew upon herself.
At least none of these men seemed overly concerned about his sister’s appearance.
Blessedly, a moment later, David interrupted them. “Won’t you all join us in the drawing room? It is time for tea.”
Serena Weston, with her sharp nose and high cheekbones and perfect English rose complexion, smiled kindly down at Emma. “Might I join you?” She spoke softly as though to avoid drawing much notice, yet her voice almost lilted in the crowded drawing room despite her efforts. It rose and fell, like the music of a harp. What was more, everything in her eyes said she was equally as lovely inside as her voice and appearance were on the outside.
Emma could stand to have more kind, lovely people in her life during this house party. She needed their positivity in order to negate the less savory sensations she received from Mr. Cardiff’s stares.
She nodded and moved over, making room upon the silk brocade sofa. Then she set her book on the occasional table beside her, vowing silently to ignore it for the rest of the evening. She’d made a promise to Vanessa, and so she would follow through with it. Besides, if she was going to catch a husband…well, being lost in a story wouldn’t exactly help with that endeavor. As the room had filled with David and Vanessa’s guests, none of the others had come over to sit with her—not until Miss Weston arrived. Emma had been worried that, even with her proper gown and coiffure, and with trying to comport herself as a proper lady ought to do, she still wasn’t coming out successfully with her plans. She needed to be present in the here and now.
But Miss Weston had chosen to sit with her. Perhaps all hope was not already lost. Perhaps Emma could pretend to be a proper young miss who might be interesting to a gentleman for long enough to fool him into a besotted state. She couldn’t allow herself to think about the alternative. If she were to fail so spectacularly as that, much as she’d always done, this would quickly become a very, very long house party.
“I love that shade of yellow on you,” Miss Weston said as she took a seat. “You look as lovely as a daffodil. I can’t wear that particular hue unless I want everyone who sees me to cast up their accounts from the sheer horror of my complexion.”
Emma tried but failed to hold back a smile. “I rather doubt that.”
“Oh, truly.” Miss Weston took Emma’s hand in hers. “I would never lie about such a thing.” She leaned closer and dropped her tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “Father’s forbidden me to ever wear a yellow gown again. He says it turns my skin a sickly shade of green, and he thinks it will mar my chances of obtaining the match he desires. Which will be difficult enough, given that he’s in trade.” Her pert nose wrinkled slightly.
The way she said it, with her very specific facial reactions, one would think Miss Weston felt ashamed of her father’s need to work for his living. But when Emma looked more closely at the girl, she found no self-reproach evident in her eyes. Her lips were downturned, however, and she did try to avert her gaze.
And then it became clear.
Miss Weston was trying to make it appear that she w
as embarrassed, so that she would be accepted by those within this set, but she wasn’t actually ashamed in the slightest.
Nor would Emma be if placed in Miss Weston’s circumstance. Her own father had been a farmer all his life, and had only been knighted upon a chance occurrence on the occasion that the King had needed a place to sleep when the local inn had burned to the ground. If not for that unexpected event, neither Emma nor Vanessa would have had the opportunities they’d been granted. There would be no house parties and peers and social engagements. There would only be the hope of finding some kindly country gentleman to marry or going into service.
Still, it was rather unfashionable amongst this set to have the necessity to work. Money was to be handed down from generation to generation, not earned through one’s labors. Because of the strictures of society, Emma could well understand the reasons for her new companion’s attempts to seem discomfited by her father’s livelihood.
How truly refreshing to discover someone who would reveal such plain truths, whether it was intended or not.
“That may be, Miss Weston,” she murmured. “But I doubt it. With your beauty, you’ll have countless beaux falling at your feet before the end of tomorrow, if not sooner.”
Miss Weston pursed her lips in a very matter-of-fact sort of way. “Well, perhaps with my dowry I might.”
Morgan finally came in on Mr. Cardiff’s arm. He scanned the room, passing his eyes over every person present, as though determining where it might be safe to take his sister. His gaze burned when his eyes locked momentarily with Emma’s, but he quickly moved on. He would never allow Morgan to be in Emma’s presence, if he could avoid it. He’d made that perfectly clear on numerous occasions.
When he guided her toward a group of the other young ladies, those same ladies who’d looked at Emma with disdain before moving on to sit on the opposite side of the room, Miss Weston squeezed Emma’s hand. “Would you mind if Lady Morgan sat with us as well? I think I would like to get to know her. She seems so very nice, and I’m sure she could use a few friends.”
Cardiff Siblings 01 - Seven Minutes in Devon Page 5
