by Lucy Adams
“Cousin.”
Her skin prickled at once and she half turned her head, already aware of who it was that had stepped into the room. Her cousin had not been seen in the house since she had gone to see him and she had not had a modicum of desire to go to him in order to keep him company.
“I had not expected to see you here this afternoon,” Stayton continued, moving slowly. “I had heard you were going for a ride.”
“I changed my mind, Mr. Stayton,” she murmured, her whole body going cold as he put his hand on her shoulder, which perhaps was meant as a friendly gesture but made her skin crawl. “You are recovered, then?” She waited until he had lifted his hand before looking up at him, aware of the slight limp that jarred his frame as he moved. A sense of satisfaction ran through her but she did not chide herself for it, rather allowing it to fill her as she watched him ease himself into a chair. His features tightened, his hands whitening on the arms of the chair as he lowered himself in, resting his leg on a small stool. Clearly, it pained him still.
“I am recovering,” he corrected, no warmth in his eyes as he looked at her. “The doctor feared there might be an infection in my leg but I am glad to say that it seems I have been spared that. Knowles has been most dedicated in changing the dressing and the like and I shall have no lasting ill-effects.”
A myriad of dark thoughts clouded her mind at this but Augusta pushed them away at once, refusing to let them penetrate her mind. “I am glad,” she told him, although this was said without true sincerity. “You will be joining us for dinner then?” She rose and made for the bell. “I will have to inform her at once.”
Stayton said nothing but watched her through narrowed eyes, as sharp as flint. Augusta swallowed hard, finding her cousin just as changeable as ever. When he had apologized to her, she had been completely astonished but now that he watched her with those hard eyes, she felt that same sense of unease swell up within her, just as it always did when it came to being in close proximity to Mr. Stayton.
“I must wonder whether or not you have accepted my apology.”
A slight tremor ran through Augusta’s frame and she turned around to face him, refusing to put a calming smile on her face as she cooed that, yes, of course, she forgave him. “Whilst I am grateful for your apology,” she said, as firmly as she could, “and whilst I do not withhold my forgiveness from you, I must hope that what occurred will not happen again.” Despite her fears, despite her upset, she watched him steadily, knowing that she had to remain strong in face of his evident irritation, for his brows had begun to knot together and his eyes now narrowed slits. His lips were pulled tight and his cheeks a little flushed, making her fully aware that she had not given him the answer he desired.
“Cousin Augusta,” Stayton replied, through what appeared to be clenched teeth, “you have such little faith in me.”
She swallowed hard but kept herself just as she was, standing tall and looking down upon him, realizing that, with his painful leg, he would not be able to rise up from his seat and reach for her with any ease. “I give my trust carefully,” she told him, seeing how he looked away, his jaw working furiously as though he were trying to grasp a hold of his own irritation and anger, to keep it under control. “You did frighten me, Stayton.”
“That was not my intention.” His head snapped back towards her, his eyes blazing as one hand curled into a fist. “My purpose is quite the opposite, Lady Augusta.”
Her breath hitched as she looked down into his face, her lungs refusing to take in air as she saw the color begin to drain from his face. Her hands found the back of a chair and tightened on it, struggling to keep control of all that suddenly swamped her. Did he mean to suggest that he wanted to be more to her than merely her cousin? With a swiftness that stole yet another breath from her, she recalled how her father had spoken of Stayton with consideration in his eyes, making her fear that he also had been considering a match between herself and her cousin. Was there more to this than she knew? Was Stayton speaking to her father without her being aware of it?
“What I mean to say,” Stayton said, slowly, all anger now dissolving from his features as he looked up at her, his expression now rather grave instead of furious. “I wish to be your friend, Augusta, rather than your enemy.” He sighed and raked one hand through his hair. “I am not at all used to speaking of how I feel, and certainly do very poorly when it comes to containing my temper.” Again, he sighed and shook his head, expressing a regret for his own actions which Augusta was still not quite sure she could believe. “You know that I feel a great deal of loneliness, Augusta. I do not want to have you hurrying away from me, even though I have not allied myself with you in any way.” His gaze lifted to hers and he tried to smile at her, although his eyes, she noted, remained as hard as ever before. Her stomach began to churn and Augusta began to silently pray that the maid would soon arrive to see what reason she had to ring the bell.
You must be strong.
Remembering how she had been afraid to stand in front of him when they had been alone in the woods together. That strength was severely lacking now but Augusta forced herself to find a little courage with which to bolster herself. To be weak and soft would allow her cousin to do as he pleased—which might, she realized, lead to their marriage, given that her father would be very easily swayed. It was this thought that had her lifting her chin, her gaze becoming a little sharper.
“I find you quite unpredictable, Stayton,” she found herself saying, the truth emerging from her lips before she could even attempt to stop it. “One moment you are filled with anger, the next you are talking of your loneliness and expressing a sadness that surprises me.” She saw his brows knot together again but did not stop. “As I have said, I will not give my trust easily, especially when the minute amount that was there at the first has been both shattered and stamped upon with such force.” She let her voice ring around the room, ignoring the churning in her stomach. “Do not press me, Stayton. If there is to be any change in our rapport as it stands at present, it will take a good deal of time.”
Stayton let out an audible breath and then groaned aloud, setting his head back against his chair and his hand over his eyes. Augusta did not know what to think at this display and so was mightily relieved when the maid scratched on the door so that she might call her to enter.
“Ah, good,” Augusta murmured, as Mr. Stayton dropped his hand and looked away. “Mr. Stayton will, I think, require a little refreshment at this present time. Do bring him whatever he needs.” With a quick, tight smile in Stayton’s direction, Augusta made her way swiftly to the door. “I must go and speak to the cook. Do excuse me.”
She did not wait for Stayton to reply but hurried from the room, her heart beating rather more quickly than she would have liked. With hurried steps, she did not, in fact, make her way to the servants staircase but rather towards her own rooms, feeling the need to consider at length all that had just occurred, greatly confused by her cousin’s demeanor. He was very changeable indeed and she found herself very uncertain when it came to him. With a heavy sigh, she continued along the passageway, glad that he could not easily follow her. As she walked, Augusta found her thoughts returning to Lord Farrell, the gentleman who did not know who he was but who seemed to be glad of her company. A slow sense of contentment began to rise up within her as her thoughts removed themselves from Stayton and then fixed to Lord Farrell instead. A smile captured the corner of her mouth as her steps slowed until she was meandering along the hallway, climbing the staircase without any particular urgency. Whilst she was very glad indeed that he appeared to be making a good recovery, she was already beginning to wonder about what would happen to him thereafter. If he did not know his own name nor where he had come from or how he had come to be near her father’s estate, then what was she to do? He could not simply leave, for he would not know where to go and yet she was becoming a little afraid that if he lingered here, either her cousin or her father would discover him. Her father would be g
reatly distressed and, whilst there was no particular reason for Stayton not to be told of Lord Farrell’s presence, Augusta felt a sense of warning about doing so.
“At least he enjoys my conversation,” she murmured to herself, happiness lifting her heart for a moment as she thought of the discussions they had shared over the last few days. In fact, she had felt her heart turn over in her chest as she had entered his rooms, seeing the glad smile on his face as she had stepped inside. She had always been careful to keep it just as proper as she ought, of course, with a maid or two lingering in the rooms as they had conversed. He was a handsome gentleman, she thought, aware of a heat climbing into her cheeks, with dark blue eyes that swirled mysteriously whenever she looked into them. If only he could remember his name! Then they might be able to decide as to what to do next.
But then he would be gone, said a quiet voice, making her eyes widen with a sudden awareness of the sense of loss that would overcome her, should he depart from the house. And you would be left here with Stayton and your father. What would happen then?
A sound suddenly caught her ears and she looked up sharply, wondering where it had come from. The passageway was quiet, with Lord Farrell’s rooms to her left and, a little further along, the door to her own room. She moved quickly, passing Lord Farrell’s quarters and making towards her own. Her father and Stayton never once ventured here, for this was her own private domain and they both knew well enough that she needed her privacy.
Which was why it was all the more strange to have heard such a noise. The maids would have completed the cleaning of her rooms by now, which unsettled her all the more. Biting her lip, Augusta narrowed her eyes and moved forward slowly, her slippered feet making no sound on the floor. Then she heard it again—a sudden thump. And thereafter, the sound of a slight groan.
Her heart was in her throat as she reached the door, painfully aware that there was someone within her room. It might very well be a footman or a maid, she told herself sternly, thinking to herself that she was, perhaps, being a little foolish. With a deep breath, she turned the door handle and stepped inside.
Lord Farrell looked up from where he stood bending over her writing desk. In one hand, he held a quill and the other was flat on the desk, holding a piece of parchment. Augusta stared at him, her heart pounding as a sheen of sweat broke across her forehead.
“Forgive me, Lady Augusta,” Lord Farrell stammered, lifting his hands up, palms outwards, in a gesture of innocence. “My own parchment has come to an end and I thought to seek out more.”
She swallowed hard, aware of just how painfully her heart was beating. “You are writing to someone?”
“I am,” he said, without a moment of hesitation. “That is…..” He began to stammer, perhaps realizing what he had said and what she must now think. “That is to say, I am not writing to anyone in particular, but rather am writing down my own thoughts and flashes of memory for fear that I will forget them again.”
There was such a confidence in his voice that for a moment, Augusta instantly wanted to believe him. But then she saw him take a small sidestep in front of the writing desk, and her assurance disappeared in flash. He was hiding what he had been writing from her view, she realized, a cold hand grasping her heart. Lord Farrell was hiding something from her—perhaps more than one thing—and she had simply believed every word he had said to her.
“Then,” she said, hoarsely, holding out one hand towards him. “You will not mind me reading what you have written, Lord Farrell.” Her eyes searched his expectantly and again, she saw him hesitate, her stomach tightening into a knot of fear.
“I am afraid I cannot allow you to do so,” Lord Farrell said, his eyes now fixed on her own and a sternness in his gaze that frightened her. “I beg your forgiveness for intruding into your private chambers.” His lips quirked but she did not smile in response. “I had heard you were gone for a ride.”
Trying to find as much courage from within herself as she could, Augusta moved back slowly towards the cord that hung in her room. The cord that she would pull that would alert her staff that she required assistance or some sort of sustenance. She held it tightly but did not pull it, forcing air into her lungs as she swung back around to face Lord Farrell.
“I suggest, Lord Farrell, that you show me what you were writing at once,” she said, quietly, pulling the cord tightly. “I shall have my household staff here within minutes, and I shall instruct them to detain you. You shall receive no more support, kindness or aid from me any longer. You will be kept in your room with naught but yourself for company until I discover the truth.” Her breathing grew ragged, a spell of dizziness overtaking her as she saw him beginning to advance. “The bell is rung,” she cried, letting it go and backing away. “You have hidden the truth about yourself and, like a fool, I have believed you!”
Lord Farrell stopped his approach and held two hands up, palms forward. His eyes were searching her face, his jaw working furiously. “Please,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “Please, do not do such a thing. I must be permitted to continue.”
“Continue with what?” she asked, as a scratch on the door sounded the arrival of the maid or footman. “Tell me the truth, Lord Farrell, else I shall have you led from this room at once.” She forced her eyes to remain on his, focusing on her breathing and praying that she would not topple to the floor in her fright. Lord Farrell said nothing, his eyes dark and filled with emotions she could not quite read.
“Very well, very well!” he exclaimed, as the scratch came to the door again, just as Augusta opened her mouth to call out to them. “I will tell you all, Lady Augusta, in the hope that you are not the one who is the perpetrator.”
Her mouth fell open, her hands reaching behind her so that she might grasp something to lean on, something to help her remain standing. The scratch at the door came again but she did not answer it, her eyes fixed on the gentleman standing before her. “The perpetrator?” she whispered, as Lord Farrell nodded slowly. “What is it you speak of?”
Lord Farrell sighed and gestured towards the door, one eyebrow lifted. Augusta called out that she required a tea tray—something that was a little ridiculous to ask for given the hour—and the maid or footman retreated without another word.
“I will tell you everything, Lady Augusta,” Lord Farrell said again, as though it would help her to believe him. “There is a good deal of danger around me, which I have been attempting to protect you from.” He shook his head and slowly lowered himself into a seat, his stiff movements betraying his lingering pain. “And it seems that, in my eagerness to write to my companions, I acted rashly and now have thrown myself into the very situation I wished to avoid.” His smile was rueful as he glanced up at her but she did not respond to it. “Forgive me. Allow me to explain.” With a long exhalation, he spread his hands wide. “I am not Lord Farrell. I am the Earl of Rushton and I have come to seek out a great and monstrous enemy.”
Chapter Seven
Marcus could tell from the way that Lady Augusta sucked in air, her mouth open but no sound emerging from it, that she was in a great deal of shock. He could not blame her for it of course, for it was quite understandable that she feel such a way, especially given that it was obvious now that he had not, in fact, lost his memory. He had not liked lying to her these last ten days, had not enjoyed pretending and keeping the truth from her, but he had been required to do so. She could not know that he knew everything that had gone on and was, at present, occurring to him, for fear that she might speak to her father or to her cousin, both of whom Marcus had suspicions about.
“Lady Augusta,” he said, quietly, when she did not say a single word. “I have kept the truth from you in order to protect you. That is something I will not lie about.”
“But how can I trust you?” she squeaked, her hands now held together tightly in her lap, her eyes huge. “I do not know anything about you.”
He sighed inwardly, knowing that this was a fair and reasonable reaction but yet feeli
ng the irritation of it bite down at him hard. “Lady Augusta,” he said again, keeping his tone measured and steady. “Everything that I have spoken to you of, everything I have promised, I fully intend to keep.” He saw her brows begin to lower, perhaps searching her thoughts for what they had discussed previously. Marcus waited, seeing her eyes flare again as she remembered what he had promised her—that he would ensure she had a London Season once he had fully recovered. He had meant every word, having been upset on her behalf for how she had been left to linger on here in this house as nothing more than a nursemaid and guardian for her father. Her own desires for a Season, her hopes of finding a future of her own, were quite dashed for as long as she remained here. There had been a jolt of surprise within his own heart at his eagerness to help the lady, but he had accepted it, nonetheless, knowing that it came from a place of compassion and consideration. A lady who had shown him such kindness surely deserved a little in return?
“I have never hidden my true self from you,” he told her, firmly, seeing how she shook her head, one hand trembling as it ran over her bow. “Whenever we have talked, Lady Augusta, I have been just as I am now. My conversation, my words, my promises—they have all come from my heart.” He shrugged and looked away, a little frustrated. “It is quite understandable that you should not easily accept what I am saying, Lady Augusta, but I would like to express that I have had no other choice but to keep the truth of my identity from you.”
“For my safety?” Her voice was laced with irony. “So that I would not be injured by the truth?”
“Yes, for your safety!” He threw himself from his chair, exasperation pushing him as he ignored the lingering aches that tugged at his muscles. “Lady Augusta, there is a good deal more here than you know.” Sighing inwardly, Marcus grasped his anger and frustration and pushed it down, hard. There was no need for him to speak to her in such a manner, not when she had only just been given the truth and, in that, a great and terrible shock. He had to speak to her with all consideration, all gentleness, all understanding.
