Her breathing was a quiet wheeze as he moved next to her. Then he saw what had previously been hidden from view. Her entire hand and arm, even a part of her neck, looked as if someone had sliced the top layer of skin off, red and angry, mottled and blistering. His stomach pitched into his throat. I will not be sick. I will not be sick. Uncle Robert is fighting Napoleon; he would never be sick, so I will not be sick and scare the little girl.
Her burns were nothing like the giant bruise he had received when his horse threw him. They were like something out of a nightmare. He repeated his mantra. I will not be sick. I will be an adult as my father expects. I will not be sick. But it was easier said than done as he swallowed bile.
“Was it you?” she whispered, breaking into his thoughts. Her eyes, a pretty blue like some of Mama’s flowers, were dazed from the medicine she’d already been given, the dark of her pupils nearly overtaking sapphire. “Did you save me?” she asked, her unscathed hand scratching restlessly at the blanket covering her. Her wrist was the size of a twig; she seemed so tiny and fragile, like the glass figurines his grandmother had once collected. It didn’t make any sense to him, how someone who had not been in the world long enough to do any damage to it, could be so damaged by that same world. Bad things happened over there on the continent because of Napoleon, not here in Pritchford.
“No, I did not save you,” he admitted softly. “But you are safe now.”
She reminded him of one of the kittens born in the horse barn. He had snuck off to cuddle the little gray ball of fur whenever the lectures over how he was to act like a man now became too overwhelming. That was the year Uncle Robert left for the army, and the tiny cat soothed Benjamin as much as he soothed it. He wished it would be as easy to soothe this girl as it was to comfort that kitten. He had never told anyone about the kitten before, finding it embarrassing. But a part of him that he could not explain wanted to tell this girl his secret.
“Are you in pain?” he questioned as he moved nearer to her. He would do anything to make her feel better. For the first time in his very privileged life, this was not a problem his family’s money or position could solve. Someone had cleaned most of the soot from her face, but a few smudges remained.
Beside the bed, he found a wet cloth. He dipped it into the shallow bowl of water and touched it to her cheek. She let out a deep sigh and turned her cheek into his touch and then moaned as the motion pulled at the skin of her neck. “Are you in pain?” he repeated, as he touched the cloth to her pale cheek, wiping a bit of gray off. He could not remember ever touching anyone but a family member with tenderness and not for a very long time. He had certainly never been in the role of a caregiver before, except for that kitten.
He continued to dip the cloth in water and touch it to her face where there were no burns long after the soot was gone, if only because it seemed to soothe her a little. Eventually, she rasped, “No. I am not in any pain.”
Benjamin felt an ache in his throat and pressure behind his eyes. She was pitiful, but he did not want to pity her. He wanted to make it better and knew he could not. Her wounds were no longer what made him want to cry; it was her very bravery in the face of those wounds that brought him to the verge of tears. He was one of the toughest boys in his class, or at least that was how he appeared to his peers, and the possibility of tears should have appalled him. But that was not why he was able to hold them back. He did not want the girl to know just how serious her situation was. The doctor made it sound dire. Moments ago, he had been worrying about being brave to save himself embarrassment or for the sake of his father or Uncle Robert. Now, he wanted to be brave for her. If she was going to perish, he wanted to offer her whatever he could to make her feel better and right now that was a cool cloth.
“Liar,” he accused gently. “You must be in a great deal of pain.”
He was rewarded when one side of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. She blinked at him a few times, like a baby owl, before she asked, “Is it very bad? Do you think I will I recover?”
He wiped her brow. No one seemed to be paying attention to him as Mr. Watson spoke with the doctor and Benjamin’s father searched for medicine. He was not sure that it was proper for him to nurse her, but he did not care. All he could do was place the cool cloth against her forehead. It seemed like such a small, paltry thing, and then he realized there was one other thing to give her. Hope. “I am sure you’ll be just as you were before.”
Her eyes shut, and a lone tear escaped down one cheek. Impulsively, he caught it with his finger. Benjamin gulped even as she opened her eyes and stared at him. When she smiled, his breath hitched. “Who is the liar now?” she wondered aloud in that raspy voice, which he would never forget as long as he lived.
* * *
1
.
.
.
* * *
… She mattered a great deal, and
though he could not completely
explain it to himself …
* * *
.
.
.
CHAPTER ONE
Old Wounds
.
Pritchford, Yorkshire
1819
Ten Years Later
Benjamin Frederickson was home from Oxford, and his family was driving him mad. His father could not stop bleating on about his responsibilities to the estate, growing up, and other senseless, boring things. Somehow news about his reputation for gaming and women reached the countryside, but what was the point of lectures over his behavior when his marks at school had been superior anyway? He had more than lived up to the task set before him, first at Eton and then at Oxford. If he’d had fun along the way, what of it, as long as he met his obligations, which he had more than done?
On the other end of the spectrum, his mother’s affection felt stifling at times as she constantly repeated how very glad she was to have him back home while wearing a ridiculous-looking turban she claimed was the height of fashion the last time she was in London.
He could vaguely remember the day he left for Eton just a few weeks before his thirteenth birthday. She had told him to be very brave, that she would see him soon, and never to forget that Pritchford Place was his home. But it was difficult to remember such a thing since he only saw it in the summertime on vacation from school. He could never tell her that he thought of Oxford as his home. In fact, he felt quite despondent to know that he would never be there again as a carefree student in his Oxford robes.
He could usually count on his twin sister, Julia, for some type of distraction; whether that distraction was positive or negative usually depended on the day, as her moods could be precarious. She had been sulking for days since he returned. She had written to him that she missed him when he was away at university, and he believed she had, but now that he was back, she kept saying things like: “All anyone ever talks about these days is your return.” Though they looked very much alike with dark eyes and dark curling hair, she had the particular ability to raise one eyebrow, often in skepticism or with an attitude. “I am back to being invisible.”
“You are being ridiculous,” he retorted. Julia was as strong-willed as a person could be. He found the idea that she could be invisible laughable, as she’d been declared the most beautiful girl to come out during her first season in London. Although, it was clear her attitude had been a bit intimidating to some of the men. His friends had even teased him about her looks, but only a little, afraid of Benjamin’s skill when it came to fisticuffs.
Other than the ability to raise her eyebrow, they were also different when it came to their sensibilities. She would always be the first to start an argument or a debate. Benjamin didn’t see any point in starting arguments about a future that had been laid out for him as soon as he was born. Why fight the system that had been in place for hundreds of years?
When they were young, their mother or whatever nanny they had at the time, would often look between them, taking in the matching chocolate eyes and
darkly waving hair, astonished at the easygoing nature of Ben compared to Julia. Their father often said that they were both too far on either of the spectrum, and if only either of them could take a few lessons from the other, it would be most helpful when it came to their futures.
Julia always replied the same. “You mean Ben’s future as the Earl of Wembley and my future of catching a husband?” This also resulted in a pout or argument, so eventually their father abandoned this advice altogether to avoid one of Julia’s moods. That she spoke the truth, and knew it very well, was also part of the problem.
“I think I would be the one to know if I was invisible,” Julia snapped. “Unless they are pushing me off on to some rich, titled suitor, of course. Then, it is as if I am on a pedestal.”
The problem was that although Julia could be cutting, her words biting, she was often right, her observations astute and correct. Still, today she made his head ache.
So he escaped them all, including his sister, by walking to the nearby village of Pritchford. He considered taking his phaeton and his four grays, but he didn’t feel like waiting for the groom to ready everything. He wanted to be out and away, anywhere than where he was, as quickly as possible. He decided to walk between the estate and the town of Pritchford.
It wasn’t too long of a distance, but he also knew he wasn’t walking toward much. It definitely was not London and could not even be compared to Ripon or York. There were a few shops and a decent enough road. Who cared, though? He was desperate for any distraction and to regain even a little bit of the freedom he’d lost upon completing university.
He missed his friends. He even missed his Oxford robes, something he’d never thought he would admit—especially the gold tassel tuft he had to wear on his cap everywhere he went. He missed the independence he enjoyed while away from his family’s eye. He couldn’t drink or play cards anywhere nearby without it being reported to them, which, of course, would result in a scathing lecture on his vices.
His closest friend, Shep, the second son of the Duke of Sermont, would arrive later in the summer, as he had since they were young boys. He rolled his eyes at the thought of the arguments that would take place between Julia and Shep. Although in Shep’s most recent letter, he had talked of meeting a young woman and was therefore delaying his trip to Pritchford for the first time ever. For the life of him, Ben could not imagine Shep seriously settling down with anyone, but his words indicated he was at least considering it.
Without the previous freedom he had known, a dash of guilt, and some harping about his responsibilities as the future earl, the concoction was complete. He felt as if he could not breathe. His cravat, though tied perfectly, felt much too tight.
Was this his life now?
He had broken the promise he’d made to his mother so many years ago. Pritchford Place no longer felt like home.
For now, though, his stomach rumbled a bit, and he wondered if the bakery still made the biscuits he remembered from his childhood.
Just as he was about to enter the shop, he heard a very female, very practical voice come from around the corner. He could not see who it was, but a bit of eavesdropping might be the entertainment he needed to take his mind off of his very shallow problems. “Now, you are my sister, and I love you dearly,” the voice declared. “But I will not take the blame for you again if you ruin yet another dress.”
“I didn’t ruin it, Cat!” another, much younger voice argued. “It was only a bit of mud.”
“A bit of mud?” The sternness in the first voice eased slightly with what Ben recognized as affection. “Oh, Jane. I saw it. Mama despaired over it, and I don’t think she believed me when I claimed it was my fault. There is no way those skirts can be resurrected.”
“Well, then…” the younger voice replied solemnly, with a hint of teasing behind her piety. “May those skirts rest in peace.” Ben grinned at the younger girl’s wit.
Laughter danced in the elder sister’s eyes, who he assumed was Cat, when the pair turned the corner. Those same blue eyes quickly sobered upon seeing Benjamin and realizing he must have heard part of their conversation. She even managed to silence the giggle that had begun to emerge from her mouth moments before, firming her lips into a grimace.
“Pardon me,” he murmured politely as he bowed his head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” But he couldn’t keep from grinning cheekily.
As her humor faded and her cornflower blue eyes grew more serious, some memory began to stir. He could not place her, but he knew her. He took in the rest of her appearance, including her blond hair and rosy cheeks. She wore a dress with a modest bodice, high-waisted cotton muslin, decorated in a pattern of the tiniest of rosebuds. As his gaze lingered in appreciation at her figure and fine eyes, it was impossible to ignore the burn scars that marked part of her neck, snaking down beneath her dress to her arm and hand, which he could see due to her short sleeves.
He was suddenly transported to a room, his hands holding a wet cloth to a tiny girl’s forehead as she bit her lip against the pain, and called him, the future Earl of Wembley, a liar.
After all these years, it was her. He should have known, because he had not forgotten her name or that night. She was Catherine, or as her family called her and Ben secretly thought of her, Cat. She had bravely tried to save the very sister she was with now, and for her efforts, she had been rewarded with scars she would bear the rest of her life. To this day, it remained a mystery how the girl had escaped that horrendous fire. Ben never forgot her for all this and more. She had been the first person he could remember caring about for no other reason than that of human compassion.
She had no soot in her hair now though, and she had certainly grown up into a beautiful woman. Her wounds had been awful, but the scars, though visible, were not so prominent. Suddenly, he realized he had not spoken for quite some time, as he looked at her, remembering the past and all she had meant to him. He had never imagined her grown up, and he had certainly not imagined her as a woman pretty enough to turn his head, even without their history.
When his eyes met hers again, he realized that she had caught him staring at her injuries for an undetermined amount of time. He opened his mouth to apologize, to explain that his brain was cataloging the single most important memory of his childhood. He wanted to ask if she remembered him, the boy with the cloth, and their conversation as well as he did, but the words would not come. As easily as he flirted with other ladies in his life, he could not make his voice work now.
How could he explain exactly how many times he had thought of her over the years and wondered how she was? How would it be possible to put into words how he had carried the memory of the injured little girl in his head for so many years, pulling it out whenever he felt sorry for himself because his entire life was planned out like an army invasion. He had never forgotten how she had borne the pain with a grace beyond her years. But now he was struck dumb by her beauty and dignity as an adult.
“Excuse us, sir.” She looked away from him as she took her sister by the arm, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment. He had stared at her scars for so very long! Though she was used to people looking at them, she was accustomed to them being polite enough to look away and pretend as if she was normal. She knew it was a lie, that even as she held whole conversations with these people, they were thinking of her mottled flesh on her arm. But that was preferable to this man’s open assessment.
She could not believe the nerve of him and determined to take Jane’s hand and pass him swiftly. She wanted to quit his company as quickly as possible. His handsomeness only made her lack of beauty more painful than usual. She was not a vain person, but she had never seen a man as handsome as this one. Still, she did not like him for the way he looked so openly at the scars she wished she could hide.
“Catherine! Jane!” Her father, Mr. Watson, turned the corner. The last time Benjamin had seen the man, he’d been covered in soot; the only clean part of him had been the whites of his terrified eyes. “Oh, I was
afraid you’d gone. I have the carriage.” This surprised Benjamin, because carriages were a great expense, and his understanding had been that the family had never quite recovered their wealth after the fire. They had been upper-middle class and maintained the illusion well enough, according to his father.
Catherine noticed this as well. She couldn’t believe this man would judge not only her scars but her family’s position also within only a few minutes of coming upon them.
“Well, normally I would beg you to let us walk, Papa,” Jane said. “But Cat has made me very afraid of mud.”
“Well, you know that Cat needs the carriage anyway…” His voice dwindled off as he sighted Benjamin. “Lord Benjamin?” he asked. “It has been quite some time since we last met.” Benjamin was sure he had seen Mr. Watson once or twice after the night of the fire, but he couldn’t recall any image of the man with any specificity except that of a terrified father covered head to toe in a thick, gray ash.
“I remember, Mr. Watson,” Benjamin replied kindly. “May I ask how you and your family are on this slightly rainy day?”
Jane opened her mouth to speak, but Catherine placed a light hand on her shoulder to stop her. Jane could be precocious, and besides, it wouldn’t be polite to converse with this man until they were formally introduced. She hoped the introductions would go quickly. Cat was aware that Lord Benjamin was the earl’s son and had heard the stories about him and his adventures, to put it mildly, at school. A sick feeling started to creep up her body. She had no name for it, but she knew that the man in front of her was the cause. and though he was in such a high position, she wanted nothing but to be away from him.
Regency Romance: The Earl’s Unforgettable Flame (CLEAN Historical Romance) (Fire and Smoke) Page 2
