by Regina Scott
With muscles that protested, he shaved with the soap and razor Lord Hazeltine had thoughtfully provided and put on his great coat, even though it was much the worse for wear after last night’s adventure. With a purposeful stride, he located the breakfast room, empty except for his host, who was thankfully an early riser. Lord Hazeltine was a large, paunchy, jovial fellow who reminded Chas of Bert Gresham, although he doubted the rough country manner was an act for his host. He explained himself to Lord Hazeltine, who clapped him on the shoulder and proclaimed him a “good lad,” then, feeling strangely ill-at-ease, he went to bid goodbye to Anne.
He was halfway down the corridor that led to her bechamber when a sharp hiss brought him up short. He turned, thinking perhaps Hazeltine had other words for him, and was shocked to find Elizabeth Scanton slinking out of a room to his left.
“I knew you’d show up sooner or later, the moment I heard dear Leslie had been invited,” she purred. “It was rather easy to convince Garvey to have me added to the guest list. Pity I didn’t get a chance to welcome you last night.” She opened her arms as if to pull him close. One look at his face and her arms dropped to her sides. She grit her teeth in chagrin. “Well, you needn’t make your feelings so obvious. I remember when you had more polish, sir.”
Chas looked at his once paramour with annoyance. Her form and face were as delectable as ever, especially revealed as they were by her filmy morning robe of white lace over gauze. Her pert mouth was drawn up in a pretty pout; her titian hair fell to her bared shoulders in charming dishabille. The heightened color in her cheeks and the flash in her eyes would have once, combined with her other charms, caused him to pull her hungrily into his arms. Now all he wanted to do was turn his back and walk away.
“What, no reposte?” she challenged. “Have your wits gone begging as well?” All at once, the anger faded, and her lower lip trembled pathetically. “Oh, my love, please forgive me! I’ve missed you so, it’s made me a veritable shrew!”
Chas gave her an ironic smile. “You give me too much credit, Liza. You were always a shrew.”
The color blazed anew in her cheeks, and she pulled back her arm to slap him. He caught it easily before it struck and realized belatedly that that was exactly the reaction for which she had hoped. She fell into his open arms.
“We always did strike sparks,” she murmured before pressing her lips against his. Even as he hastened to disengage, there came the sound of a door closing farther down the corridor. One of Hazeltine’s guests had been given grist for the gossip mill. She pulled herself away.
“Let’s go somewhere where we won’t be interrupted so I can show you how very much I’ve missed you.”
“No.” The single word brought a frown to her face, but Chas had had enough. “This nonsense stops now, Liza.” He could feel only distaste for her, and for once he let the social mask slip entirely so she could see it. She gasped.
“If you know how I came to be here, then you know that I must offer for Miss Fairchild. God knows, I don’t deserve her, but this unfortunate situation guarantees that she will accept me. I will not compromise my marriage. Do I make myself clear?”
“She cannot make you happy,” Liza predicted vengefully. “You cannot possibly love her.”
“You are wrong,on both counts,” Chas replied. “Now, excuse me, for I need to take my leave of my soon-to-be fiancée.” He gave her the shortest of bows and started to turn away.
“Give her my regards,” Liza said with deceptive sweetness. “And tell her I do so hope she enjoyed watching us kiss a moment ago.”
Chas felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He whirled. “What! Are you saying she was here?”
Liza’s smile deepened. “Oh, my yes. That door shutting, my dear Chas, was the sound of your dreams shattering. Oh, and don’t bother crawling back to me when you find she won’t have you. If you can be satisfied with a dreary dormouse like Miss Fairchild, you simply aren’t the man I took you for.” Her laughter floated behind her as she strutted past him down the corridor.
Chapter Twenty
Anne leaned against the door to the bedchamber Lord Hazeltine had given her, trembling with anger. He had been kissing her! In the corridor! In her nightclothes! Perhaps they’d even spent the night together, less than three doors from her own. Her mind offered up torrid image after torrid image of the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms until she flung her hands over her eyes with a sob. How could he have done it? Had her declaration last night meant nothing?”
She threw herself down on the four-poster bed and pounded the goose feather pillows in frustration. What was she supposed to go now? Should she confront him? Pretend she knew nothing? But how could she pretend when the very thought of that odious creature in his arms drove her mad? It was all very well and good for the ladies of the ton to cast a blind eye to their husbands’ indiscretions. Many of them had marriages for convenience sake only. There was no love involved. She, loving Chas and believing he had begun to return her love, felt betrayed.
How glorious it had all seemed this morning when she woke, and how far away that moment seemed now. She’d been disoriented wakening in a strange room, and her body ached, particularly her leg. Glancing about the cheery room, hung in blues and yellows from the diaphanous drapes on the windows to the velvet hangings on the four-poster bed, she had tried to piece everything together. And then the adventures of the night before had come streaming back, and she had hugged herself with glee.
She was going to marry Chas Prestwick, and she was going to make him so happy that never once would he bemoan the fact that he had been forced to offer for her. She knew he wanted her and cared about her, even though he had never said he loved her. Surely those two emotions would grow into love.
She’d been so excited that she’d badgered the maid who had sat up with her into helping her dress. Someone had brought her things from the ruined coach, and she thankfully managed to don her plum kerseymere. Then she had sent the maid to find help in getting her out of the bedchamber on her sprained leg.
After the maid had gone, she’d chafed so at the delay that she’d managed to hobble to the door and into the corridor.
Only to see Chas and that woman brazenly embrace.
She hurled one of the pillows across the room and raised the second to follow it. A knock at the door startled her, and she froze.
“Who is it?” she called, hoping her voice sounded normal.
“It’s Chas, Anne. May I come in?”
She stared at the door, her emotions churning. She couldn’t face him, not now, not so soon. “I’m not dressed,” she lied. “Perhaps later.”
“I’m afraid I can’t wait. I’m on my way to Prestwick Park.”
Anne blinked in confusion. He was leaving? She had assumed they’d leave together in a few days and go to Bath to face Agatha and Millicent. Was she to face that ordeal alone?
“Please, Anne. I really must speak to you before I go.”
She made up her mind quickly and scrambled under the bedclothes, pulling the coverlet up to her chin. “Very well. Come in.”
He did so hesitantly, moving to the side of the bed as if he were afraid she might bite. He took the chair recently vacated by the maid and gave her a wan smile. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
So he was going to play the innocent. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Sore,” she answered truthfully. “I expect I’ll hurt for some time.”
“You were up a few minutes ago, I believe. In the corridor?”
Had he seen her? She scanned his face for signs, but he had his social mask firmly in place and she could sense nothing. “Yes,” she allowed.
“You deserve an explanation for my behavior,” he said quietly. “I imagine it must have been a bit of a surprise to find me with another woman in my arms.”
“Surprise! Why you arrogant . . .” the words were out before she knew it. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to hold the rest in. “Oh, I’m sorry . . . no, I
’m not sorry. Damnation! You have me so confused, I don’t know who I am anymore!”
He caught both her hands and held them tight. “Anne, please. Listen to me. I know the evidence is damning, but can’t you believe I might be innocent?”
The mask was slipping now, and even in her pain she could see that he was afraid. She forced herself to calm. “Are you innocent, Chas?”
“Of carrying on behind your back, yes. Of living my life in a way that would prevent what just happened, no.” He let go of her and rose to pace the room. “I was on my way to see you when Liza intercepted me. I’d heard she’d taken up with a new swain, some rabbit-faced baronet with more money than brains, but I suspect he didn’t move in fast enough circles. For whatever reason, she hoped to win me back. I left her with no illusions on that score. What you saw was her kissing me. I assure you, I was not giving the least encouragement or cooperation.”
He seemed so agitated, especially for the suave Chas Prestwick she was so used to seeing, that it was difficult not to believe him. He stopped at the foot of the bed and looked into her eyes.
“My way of life has been that of a self-centered pleasure seeker. No more. This final break with Liza is the first step. Making peace with Malcolm is the next.”
She felt as if she should encourage him. “I’m very glad. I doubt he likes the hostility anymore than you do.”
He looked like he wasn’t sure whether he believed her but shrugged before continuing. “I can’t say what I want to say to you. I haven’t earned the right. Give me a week to put my affairs in order, and I swear to you, I’ll come to Bath and speak my mind.” He grinned at her. “Aunts or no aunts. Will you wait for me?”
Would she wait? Did she believe him? Was she strong enough to make it to Bath and withstand the censorship she would surely receive from Agatha and likely half the town? She gazed at him there at the foot of the bed, his golden hair falling about his shoulders, his face set in determination. He was trying so hard not to let her see how very much her answer meant to him. The love in her heart seemed to burn through any doubts she had about him or her own abilities.
“Yes, Chas,” she said softly, “I’ll wait.”
The joy leapt into his eyes like sunshine on a meadow, and he strode around the bed to her side. He hesitated only a moment before gingerly seating himself beside her facing her. It seemed obvious to Anne that he intended to kiss her, and her heart began to beat faster at the prospect.
Yet he hesitated again. With great tenderness, he reached out and smoothed the hair back from her forehead. She turned her head and boldly pressed a kiss into the palm of hand. He breathed her name, leaning over her. Looking into her eyes, and seeing the answer to his unspoken question, he bent to caress her lips with a kiss.
His touch was like a spark that started a fire in her very essence until the warmth spread throughout her body. Her arms slid up over the rough wool of his caped greatcoat until her hands could caress his neck and muscular shoulders.
He broke off the kiss suddenly and rose, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. “I must go. Another moment and I’ll lose my resolve. Hazeltine assures me he will see you safely to Bath as soon as you feel up to traveling. I’ll meet you there in one week’s time.”
He strode to the door and paused. “And by the way, before we wed, I hope you plan to buy proper nightclothes. That is a most interesting dress for a woman who isn’t dressed.”
Anne gasped, belatedly remembering her earlier falsehood, then, seeing the grin on his face, reached for the pillow she had almost thrown earlier. The door was safely closed behind him before it struck.
Chapter Twenty-One
Chas reached Prestwick Park just as the sun was setting. Lord Hazeltine had been kind enough to loan him a gig and a horse to pull it, both of which had seen better days. They had, however, gotten him to Bath, where he eaten quickly, and on through the winding valleys of Somerset. When the country road he was following began to wander past vineyards, the long rows of grape vines dry and dusty brown in their winter dormancy, he knew he was almost home. The urgency he had felt all day made him snap the whip over the head of Hazeltine’s plodding grey horse, so that the animal kicked up its heels and practically galloped through the arched wrought-iron gateway over the drive that led to Prestwick Park.
The drive was lined with oak; he could hear the clatter of their bare branches in the breeze as the horse’s gallop slowed to a canter. Through the trees he could see the outbuildings of the estate, many made of dark stone quarried in the Mendip Hills, which rose like guardians beyond the house. Even for a late afternoon in late winter, things seemed strangely quiet. He snapped the reins and clucked to the horse again.
The oaks ended as the drive widened before the great house. The golden light of the setting sun deepened the color of the red brick and made the eight windows facing the drive glow with fire. Even the four white columns supporting the semi-circular porch and the white stone steps leading up to it were tinted a rosy red. He realized suddenly that his mother had been right: for all the times Malcolm had sent him away, this would always be the one place he would call home.
His few visits teemed with memories: Malcolm putting him up on his first real horse, his mother hosting Boxing Day for the children of the estate workers and clapping her hands as excitedly as the children at each toy that was opened, even coming home after being expelled from Eton to find that Malcolm had moved his room out of the family wing. He was so lost in reverie that he mechanically handed the reins to the groom who stood ready to receive them as if he had been expected at that exact moment. He didn’t even notice that the front door was draped in black until he was halfway up the steps.
Then he took the last four two at a time.
His heart seemed to be pounding in his throat as he wrenched open the front door and dashed into the rotunda of the entryway. Silence greeted him, only reinforcing the prevailing feeling of death. An unreasoning panic seized him.
“Mother!”
His cry echoed to the domed roof two stories above him, and he felt suddenly like a small child who had lost his way. Fighting the fear that seemed to be welling up inside him, his weariness, and his first childlike reaction, he forced himself to calm. From the corridor to his right, the family butler, Jenkins, appeared, and in appearing, brought a bit of normalcy with him.
“Master Charles,” he said with a nod, moving to take Chas’ great coat as if everything were as usual. Chas had always been impressed with the man’s ability to keep an impassive demeanor as befitted his position in the great house. Now he wanted nothing so much as to wring the man’s neck as Jenkins intoned, “Her ladyship is in the forward salon,” and shuffled back down the corridor without another word.
Frowning, Chas strode across the hall and opened the first door. Although she had visited the great house only occasionally, the forward salon had always been his mother’s favorite, with its twin large windows facing the curving drive and reflecting the setting sun. She’d always called them her eyes on the world. The windows were draped now, shut fast as if to shut out something she didn’t want to see. No candles were lit in the sconces that lined the walls. A desultory fire cast the only glow. By its light, he could just make out the silhouette of someone sitting beside it in a winged-back chair.
“Mother?” Even here, his voice seemed to echo. His muffled footsteps across the oriental carpet seemed a desecration of noise. The figure in the chair didn’t stir, and it took him a moment to realize that the person swathed in black was indeed his mother. She looked up at him, but her glazed eyes seemed to see right through him.
“You’re late,” she said in a tone devoid of emotion. Then, worse still to Chas’ tired mind, she began to laugh. “But then again, so is Malcolm. The late Malcolm Prestwick.”
Chas knelt beside her, emotions raw. The whole world seemed to have gone askew. Instead of a new beginning, he had found an ending. Malcolm was dead, and his mother was obviously beside herself with grie
f. He would have to think about how he felt later. “It’s all right, Mother. I’m here now. Can I get you anything?”
She gave that strange hollow laugh again that chilled him. “They all want to get me things. Food, the physician, spirits, laudanum. I don’t want them. I want Malcolm.”
“I know, Mother,” he said in what he hoped was a calm voice. As she continued to stare into the fire, he struggled to understand what she had meant. She had said food; did that mean she hadn’t been eating? His mind worked feverishly to determine how many days had gone by since he had left her. Was it only yesterday morning? When had Malcolm died?
He rose to find Jenkins and some answers, but her hand snapped out to stop him. The eyes that bored into his were wild. “No! Don’t go! Don’t leave me! Everyone is leaving me. The earl, Mrs. Mead, Malcolm.” She trailed off, a tear running down her gaunt face, her eyes beseeching.
He fought down his own panic and settled himself on a footstool at her feet. “It’s all right, Mother. I won’t leave. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Would it help to talk about it?” He knew she wouldn’t be able to give him any real answers, but he had to do something to release her obvious burden.
“He died,” she said simply. She was quiet for a time, returning her gaze to the fire, then she spoke again, her tone returning to the frantic, her eyes widening in her peaked face. “He died. And you weren’t here to tell him you loved him. He needed so to hear that. I never could, you know. He would never let me. But you could have. Only you never did. And now it’s too late.”
Watching her shred the end of a black silk shawl with her long fingers, Chas felt hopelessly out of his element. He had been a lad of five when the old earl had died; his memories of mourning were all jumbled up with the feelings of abandonment from being sent off to a boarding school. He supposed she was feeling what so many felt when a family member died--the wish that you could say or do something you had always delayed doing or the desire to take back a hurtful word. Certainly, he was feeling that way. Forcing himself to focus on his mother’s needs, he squared his shoulders.
