‘I know what I am doing, Mother,’ Gerald huffed. He bowed. ‘I will see you in the morning. No doubt you will be abed from boredom ere long.’
Jeffrey made a more elegant departure, kissing each lady’s hand in turn as he bid them goodnight, then he followed his cousin from the room.
The earl watched him go with narrowed eyes. Mary could not quite tell if he disliked his cousin or merely did not understand him. The two men were very different. It certainly did not appear as if they shared any blood, which might be the reason for their apparent mutual dislike. Perhaps Jeffrey really had hoped that somehow his claim to the title would be recognised.
Mary waited for the earl to sit down, but he did not. Instead he disposed himself with one arm resting along the mantel and his gaze fixed on the fire.
‘Begin, child,’ Mrs Hampton said. She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
Mary focused on the words and began reading. Hard as she tried to imbue the words with sense and meaning, the perorations and lengthy admonitions remained dreary and uninspiring. By the time she was done Mary could only pity the members of the archdeacon’s congregation.
After only one paragraph a snore emanated from Mrs Hampton’s end of the sofa. ‘What?’ she said, looking around her. Then her eyes cleared. ‘Very nice. Wonderful, don’t you think, my lord?’
He inclined his head. ‘Entirely enlightening, ma’am.’
‘Well, yes,’ she muttered. ‘Of course it would sound so much better in church. He has a wonderful baritone, my brother the archdeacon.’
So much for Mary doing her best.
‘Would you like me to read more?’ she asked with her heart sinking to her feet at the very thought.
‘I think we have more than enough to reflect upon,’ his lordship drawled. ‘Is that your opinion also, Miss Wilding?’
Now that was really unfair, putting her in such a position, but there was a challenge in his eyes that she could not quite resist. ‘I would dare to say one must take sufficient time to absorb such profoundness or it will lose its impact.’
The earl shot her a glance that just might have been tinged with admiration. She felt herself warm in the heat of that gaze.
He took a quick breath and once more his expression was guarded, his eyes cool. Once more he had distanced himself. So confusing and frustrating. Really? Why would she care?
Mrs Hampton beamed at her. ‘Quite. Indeed. I shall be sure to relay your sentiments to my brother when next I write.’
‘You are too kind, ma’am.’
Mrs Hampton made a great show of tidying up her embroidery, tucking it into the drawer in the table beside her. ‘I believe it is time to retire, Miss Wilding.’ She rose to her feet and the earl straightened.
Mary held out the book to her. ‘Thank you for sharing this fine work with us.’
‘Keep it. I am sure you will find it most edifying.’ She darted a glance at the earl. ‘Shall I write for another copy for you, your lordship? It has a great deal to offer a man in your position.’
Was that an insult? Mary felt a flash of heat on his behalf.
The earl gazed at the widow without expression. ‘No need, ma’am. I am sure Miss Wilding will be more than happy to lend me her copy. Indeed, I am sure I shall enjoy the pleasure of listening to her read on future evenings.’
Mary’s jaw dropped.
‘Very well, then,’ Mrs Hampton said. ‘I will say this. I do not as a general rule approve of blue-stockings, or young ladies earning a living, but the pupils at your school were fortunate to have you.’ She gave Mary a tight smile.
Mary darted a glance at the earl, who raised a brow. She decided to accept the compliment. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Hampton headed for the door. ‘Are you coming, Miss Wilding?’
Mary started to rise.
‘Stay,’ the earl commanded. An expression of surprise flickered across his face, as if he had not planned his request.
Startled, she stared at him blankly.
‘It is early,’ he added by way of an afterthought. ‘Perhaps you would indulge me in a game of chess, Miss Wilding?’
It sounded like an excuse to get her alone. She swallowed, wondering what she should say.
‘I am retiring.’ Mrs Hampton gave the earl a pointed glance. ‘While Miss Wilding is your ward, my lord, and while in most instances no one should think anything untoward of it, I do think she should follow my example.’
The earl’s mouth tightened at what was clearly a suggestion he did not know how to behave like a gentleman—a cruel blow to any man’s honour. And a petty triumph for the widow if Mary followed her lead.
He awaited her decision impassively. Clearly his pride would not let him argue his case. Not that he had much of a case after his attempted seductions. She really should go.
‘I will stay for a while,’ she said impulsively and flushed. Oh why would she care if she hurt his feelings? If, indeed, he had any feelings.
‘Then I bid you both goodnight.’ The widow swept out of the room.
Wondering if she had quite lost her senses, Mary watched her go.
‘You do play chess, do you not?’ the earl asked.
‘Indifferently, I am afraid,’ she said as calmly as her racing heart would allow. She and Sally had played occasionally, but Mary had the feeling that Sally made up the rules as she went along. Fortunately, it was not something they had been required to teach their pupils. ‘I really should retire and leave you to your port.’
‘Afraid, Miss Wilding?’
Of course she was afraid. She’d be out of her mind not to be. But it would be a mistake to let him see it. ‘I just do not think you will find my chess game much of a challenge.’
He tilted his head. ‘Then let us take up where we left off. Will you read for me?’
She glanced down at the book of sermons. ‘I’d really rather not.’
The earl pulled a small book from the inside breast pocket of his coat. ‘This may be more to your taste.’ He held out a small volume bound in worn brown leather and lettered in gold.
She read the cover. ‘Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Not an easy read.’
‘But not beyond you, I think.’
There was something in his tone that made her try to read his expression, but as usual his thoughts were shuttered, as he took up his previous stance at the hearth. Once more she was reminded of a dark fallen angel. Or a god cast out from the heavens, much as it seemed he had been cast out by his family. Not unlike her. Something in her chest squeezed. A pang of empathy.
She knew what it felt like to be abandoned.
She lowered her gaze and opened the cover to read: To Laura, for ever in my heart, LBB. The B could stand for Bane. If so, it was odd to realise she did not know his first name. And if he had given it to Laura, why was it returned? She glanced up, but he simply nodded encouragement for her to continue. She opened the pages at the beginning. The vellum pages were worn and well-thumbed. ‘An oft-read story,’ she murmured.
‘Yes.’
She coloured at the cold indifference in his voice. He clearly wasn’t going to give her any information. And she had too much pride to press him.
She scanned the first few lines, getting a feeling of the flow and the rhythm.
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to change mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralise my song.
Hesitant at first, she struggled with the rhythm and the ancient spelling. But her difficulties were not entirely the fault of the text. She could not help but be aware of the earl’s overwhelming presence. The very
essence of him pulled at her mind. The intensity of his regard on her face made her tremble inside.
After a time, she lost herself in the lyrical words and the world of warriors. Stanza after stanza rolled off her tongue. Her heartbeat provided the rhythm and her indrawn breath the pauses.
Slowly, she became aware of the low male voice joining hers, at first a murmur and then increasing in volume, until they read together, but he was not reading, he spoke from memory.
She let her voice subside to a whisper, and then die away altogether, watching his face, his gaze fixed on a time and space not of this room. There was sorrow and bleakness in his expression, as if the words did not recall happy memories.
And there was a shade of anger, too, mirroring that of the Knight whose words he spoke.
When he reached the end of the first Canto, he seemed to come to himself and realised she had ceased reading. A faint colour stained his cheekbones.
‘You read very well,’ he said.
‘And you know it by rote.’ She let her question go unspoken, but it hung in the small distance between them.
‘I heard it read so often I think it is engraved on my brain.’
He reached for the book and tucked it back in a small pocket in the breast of his coat.
She felt a pang in her chest with respect to this Laura, whose book he carried close to his heart. Not jealousy, surely?
‘It was my mother’s.’ His usual rough-edged voice was more raspy than usual, as if it cost him something to speak of it. ‘It was the only thing she brought from this house, apart from me.’
She could not quite believe her feeling of relief that it was not something he had given a lover. ‘And the giver?’ she dared to ask.
‘Her husband.’
She noticed that he did not call him his father.
‘She read this book over and over,’ he continued. ‘Long after we heard he had died.’ He looked away, clearly not wanting to share his emotions. ‘It reminds me of her. Thank you for indulging me.’
There was no sentimentality in his voice and she had the sense the reminder was uncomfortable. She wanted to say more, even to offer comfort, but she had the sense he had said far more than he wished.
‘Thank you. I have not read that work in an age.’
‘It was not part of the school’s curriculum?’ he said, his voice sounding normal again.
She sighed. ‘There is only so much time in the day and there are other subjects which must be covered.’
‘Like chasing off footpads with parasols?’
She glanced just in time to see the faintest quirk to his lips. Was he teasing? Or mocking? She preferred not to know.
‘The things people deem it important for women to know,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Needlework, French—with which I agree, by the way—drawing, deportment.’
‘All useful attributes, surely?’
‘Useful for those seeking a husband, no doubt.’ She got up. He rose with her.
‘You must excuse me, my lord, I am ready to retire.’
‘I notice your ankle is considerably better.’
It was. She had healed far more quickly than the doctor expected. In a day or two she would be walking normally. But she had not intended for him to realise how well she progressed. ‘It is well rested. No doubt by the time I reach my room, it will be aching again.’
‘Then you must permit me to help you.’
Oh, she had fallen very neatly into that trap, hadn’t she? ‘Thank you, but I manage fine with my cane.’ She bent down and retrieved it from the floor beside her chair.
His mouth was tight when she stood up and the faint warmth of earlier had gone from his eyes. They were as cold as granite. Was he somehow hurt that she had refused his aid?
‘It is good for me to walk,’ she said, in a feeble attempt to lessen the blow, if indeed she was interpreting his expression correctly. ‘I have been sitting too long.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He bowed. ‘As you wish.’
‘Then I bid you goodnight, my lord. Thank you for a pleasant evening.’
‘I see good manners were also a part of the curriculum,’ he said drily as she passed out of the room.
As she limped back to her chamber, she had the strangest sensation of being followed. A sort of prickling at the back of her neck, but each time she turned around to look, there was no one there. She shivered, thinking of Gerald’s tales of hauntings.
Or was it something much simpler—was his lordship following her to make sure she did not stray? Somehow she felt much more comfortable with the first idea.
Chapter Nine
A wisp of light floated above the uneven floor. The nearby rocks lining the tunnel wall and ceiling were shown in glistening relief, the darkness beyond impenetrable. The ground sloped downwards beneath Mary’s feet. Steep. Rough. And Mary could hear the sea, a roaring grumbling vibration through the rocks.
The figure ahead beckoned. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it whispered softly.
Sometimes it was right in front of her, sometimes it disappeared around a corner, leaving only a faint glow in its wake, but as long as Mary kept moving forwards, it was always there, just ahead. The White Lady. It could be no one else.
The chill was unearthly. Mary rubbed her bare arms and realised she was dressed only in her nightrail. Her bare feet were numb. She glanced back down the tunnel. She should get her shawl and slippers. Behind her there was only blackness. How far had she come? It seemed better to go on.
A long low moan echoed around her.
Rattling chains.
The glowing figure headed towards her, twisting like smoke. Fear caught at her heart. She turned and ran. Into the black. Ahead she could see a small wedge of light. Her chamber. Her stomach dropped away. She was falling. Into the dark.
A shriek split the air.
Mary jolted. Sat up, shaking.
Where was she? The last of the embers in her fire swam into focus. She shivered and looked around.
She was on her bed, her bedclothes on the floor. The only light in the room was a low red glow from the fire. Shadows clung to the walls. The air was freezing. Was that wretched door to the tunnel open? She shot out of bed. Rummaged for the poker among the sheets.
There. The comforting shape of iron. She grabbed it and held it high above her head. ‘Who is there?’ she quavered.
Her door burst open.
She screamed, backing away, grasping the poker in two hands, staring at the shadowy figure menacing her from the doorway.
‘Get out,’ she warned, her voice full of panic.
The man, for it was a man and not a ghost, plucked a candle from the sconce outside her door and stepped boldly into the room. The light revealed the earl, dressed in naught but his shirt and breeches.
‘You!’ she said.
‘Miss Wilding. Mary. I heard you scream.’ He drew closer, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Give me that.’
He could not possibly have heard her from his room in the south tower. She gripped her weapon tighter. ‘Stay away.’
In one swift movement he wrested the poker from her hand and flung it aside.
She pressed her back against the wall.
He stared at her as if shocked, then stepped back, hand held away from his side. ‘Take it easy, Miss Wilding.’ He replaced the unlit stub in the candlestick on her dressing table with the lit one in his hand.
Her body was shaking. Her heart racing. She put a hand on the bedside table for balance. ‘What do you want?’
He recoiled, as if startled by her vehemence, but as he looked at her, his eyes widened, and a sensual longing filled his expression as his gaze drifted down her body. Her insides tightened at the heat of the hunger in his eyes.
She gasped and, glancing down, realised how little she was wearing. She shielded herself with her hands. ‘Please. Leave.’
‘I think not.’ He strode for the chest at the end of her bed and picked up her robe that Betsy had left there, ready f
or the morning. He threw it at her. ‘Put this on.’
She caught it against her, but couldn’t seem to move. He huffed out an impatient sigh, came around the bed and threw it around her shoulders, wrapping it around her. ‘‘What the devil is going on here?’
He sounded genuinely perplexed. And perhaps even worried.
He had come through the door. Not from the tunnel. She had locked her door. She stared at the fire irons sitting neatly on the hearth. No longer her alarm, but simply fire irons. Someone had moved them since she had fallen asleep. Betsy? The light of the candle also showed the wall was exactly where it should be. How could she explain her fear without giving away her knowledge of what lay behind the wall?
Her breathing slowed. And although her body continued to tremble, she managed to catch her breath. If only she could think. She shuddered.
‘Was it a nightmare?’ he asked.
A nightmare. That would explain the vision of the ghost. The sensation of falling and yet awaking to find herself on her bed. It didn’t explain the freezing temperature.
His eyes shifted to the window, then shot back to her face. His jaw hardened. He crossed the room, closed the casement and spun around to face her. ‘What is going on here, Miss Wilding? A midnight visitor?’
She stared at him in astonishment and then at the window. ‘Certainly not. Fresh air is healthy.’ So healthy her teeth were aching with the urge to chatter—but she did not remember opening it.
‘Not in the middle of winter,’ he growled. ‘Why do I have the sense you are not telling me the truth?’
‘What reason do I have to lie?’
‘Because you answer a question with a question.’
He was lying, too. There was no earthly way he could have heard her cry out and arrived so quickly unless he was in the tunnel behind the wall.
She tried to keep her gaze away from the chimney. He must not know she was aware of it. He must have entered her room from there, closed it and gone out by the door. That would explain how he had entered when the door was locked. It did not explain the window.
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