by Allison Lane
Then there was her vivid coloring, which was quite out of fashion, as it denoted a passionate nature that could not be trusted. How often had Catherine blamed the duchess’s red hair for her madness? And Faith had no dowry. Her inheritance didn’t count, for invested, it paid only twenty pounds a year.
Catherine had made sure Faith understood the truth when she’d arrived at Westcourt fifteen years earlier. She had been kind about it, but society set the rules, and neither of them could change them. Chester had been blunt to the point of pain four years later when he called after the duke first failed to appear. Faith was unmarriageable. Period. An object of pity who – outside of Westcourt – could expect no better than a position as a lady’s companion. And she could only keep that if she learned to control her temper and remain demure.
Which was why working with Mr. Lascar was so special. She couldn’t hope for friendship – men did not make friends of ladies – but he respected her intelligence. Memories of their conversations would warm her barren future.
* * * *
John’s hand trembled when Miss Harper entered the state bedchamber, but he swiftly controlled it. He’d become an expert at hiding how she affected him.
He ought to avoid her. Even glimpsing her in the distance triggered waves of lust that nearly brought him to his knees. An intelligent man would stay as far away as possible.
But conversing with her was too enjoyable. He’d not spoken this easily with anyone in his life, certainly not with a female. Indulging the novelty was stupid. It interfered with his work and endangered his reputation, but he couldn’t help himself. Their friendship was too precious.
To her, too. It had taken less than a day to discover that the family used her shamelessly. Lady Catherine insulted her at every turn, though Miss Harper’s manners were better than anyone else’s. He watched her cringe during the daily fights at dinner, then endure barb after barb aimed at imaginary faults in her own behavior.
There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make her position worse, but he could offer her a respite. So every morning he wracked his brains for questions that only she could answer, pointedly ignoring that the meetings served him more than her.
This need to keep her close made him a hopeless case, he admitted, smiling down from his perch on a ladder. It was disconcerting to discover this crack in his discipline, for he’d always put his career and reputation before personal pleasure. His associates would be shocked that he would exchange that career in a trice for touching her, exploring her softness, diving into—
No more.
Letting his mind wander was dangerous. Yes, he loved her. Madly. Deeply. Probably forever. Each meeting made it worse. But no one had ever promised that life would be fair. He could not aspire to a wife with her breeding, so he must cling to honor. Giving in could only disgust her, which would hurt far more than keeping his hands to himself.
“Another problem?” she asked, frowning up at him.
“Must the state apartments remain in this location?” It was a senseless question, for only Chester could answer it, but he could think of no other.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“What isn’t? Not only is the damage more extensive than I first thought, but they are tucked away on the top floor. That was common four hundred years ago, but it is not done today. To reach them one must either weave around the nursery and three attics or wander through the servants’ wing, hardly suitable for important guests.”
“But moving the state apartments would be very expensive. And there are few places they could go. They are too opulent for ordinary guests, so they cannot be positioned near the main stairs. If Chester doesn’t officially have a title…”
“Of course. But he must consider it. This chimney stack is cracked and has been for some time if the rot is any indication. He must either move the state apartments or tear the walls out and start over. Moving them will cost less.”
“Maybe he should tear the house down. There isn’t a sound section left.”
“The wages of neglect. But Westcourt is not yet derelict. How often are these rooms used?”
“These are actually the second set. The first duke replaced the earl’s fortified manor in 1555, keeping only the Tudor wing. This was one of the new sections. Elizabeth stayed here twice, then James once and Charles once. The rooms were refurbished for Charles II after the Restoration – he and the fifth duke were quite close, so he visited often. But he was the last monarch to see Westcourt. Many courtiers fell out of favor after George I took the throne, including the fifth duke. He was a staunch Tory with a Catholic wife – both anathema to the new Whig government. The sixth duke was his four-year-old grandson. Though the boy lived to adulthood, he never took his seat in Parliament so never drew the king’s eye. The seventh duke followed his lead. The eighth was very active in government, but George III did not often travel.”
“If Lord Chester wins the title, will he entertain royalty?”
“I doubt it. He has no interest in Parliament and does not approve of the Regent’s set. Not that his own is any better. He consorts mostly with fribbles and libertines. He also dislikes Princess Charlotte, so there will be no monarch in his lifetime who would visit him. While he wants the power and respect of the title – and the fortune, of course – I cannot see him shouldering responsibilities.”
“What about his heirs?”
“That’s a question no one can answer. I’ve never met his current heir, so I’ve no idea what will happen if Westcourt goes to him. That branch of the family is too remote for the archives to contain more than a few letters.”
“I thought Chester was betrothed.”
“Not yet. And he may never be if he doesn’t gain the title.”
“That would sway his choice?”
“Of course. Chester wants only the best, but the high-ranking lady he would demand would never accept a younger son with uncertain prospects who is older than her father.” She frowned. “What does this have to do with the restoration?”
“After being unused for more than a century, these rooms are in abysmal condition even without the leaks. But there is no reason to refurbish until they are needed. Tastes might well change by then.”
“True.” She stared at the hole in the ceiling. “That’s new. How did the plaster come down?”
“It fell when I was inspecting the chimney. Stay by the door, for the whole place is rotten.” He jabbed his penknife into a beam, shaking his head. “The water spread from chimney to wall, then across the ceiling. You didn’t notice it because the stains blend so well with the painting.” Verrio’s riot of angels and goddesses remained bright, hiding stains unless one looked closely. “The substrate has separated from this beam”—he leaned to point—
The ladder tipped.
Miss Harper screamed.
Pain knifed up his leg as he landed, the ladder atop him.
Cursing under his breath, he shoved it aside and tried to rise, but his ankle collapsed. His head smashed against the hearth.
“How badly are you hurt?” she demanded.
Before he could gather his wits, new pain knifed up his leg. “Don’t.”
She tugged harder on his boot. “If we don’t pull it off immediately, we’ll have to cut it. This is already swelling.”
“Right,” he managed through gritted teeth. He didn’t know which was worse – the pain or the heat as her hands prodded his ankle.
“I don’t think it’s broken. But the sprain is bad. I’ll call Ned to help you back to your room.”
“No.” He forced the leg out of reach before her touch shattered his control. “It’s fine. The pain is receding. It will be right as rain in an hour or two.”
“You can’t mean to walk on it!”
“Of course. I’ve sprained it before, and likely will again.” Determination kept his voice steady, for the pain still rolled through him in waves. He wasn’t sure the bone was intact.
To keep her from touching him, he
sat up – and immediately slumped sideways, overwhelmed by dizziness.
“You hit your head.” She pulled it down to examine his scalp.
“No,” he lied. “The fall knocked my breath out for a moment.”
“Nonsense. Let me see.” She moved closer, peering into his eyes from inches away.
“I’m fine.” He tried to push her away, but his hands wouldn’t work. Her scent engulfed him, weakening his resolve. She was practically in his lap, green eyes glowing, her forehead creased with anxiety.
He closed that last tiny gap and kissed her.
She smelled of spring, of freshness, of everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t have. And her taste…
Awareness coursed from head to toe, awakening every fiber of his being. This, this was what he needed to fill his soul and banish the loneliness that had stalked him for twenty years.
His hands stroked up her back, over her shoulders, and along her throat to frame her face, gently fingering the hair tumbling from its knot, savoring its silkiness against his skin. He kept his lips light, brushing softly lest he scare her away.
But she showed no fear. Passion stirred in her eyes, darkening the green to winter pine. Her hands clutched him, drawing him closer…
Control slipped, flashing heat into the kiss. His tongue plunged deep, drinking her sweetness. Her mouth was a fever. The ache of it throbbed in his groin. Her heat scorched until he expected to burst into flames.
More. He needed more. Never had a kiss so excited his senses. Heat and light and sizzling fire—
Stop!
Reality blasted desire, jolting him back to awareness, though the room continued to swing in fast, dizzy circles. Her face reflected shock and the beginnings of fear.
What was he doing? This was not an accommodating widow serving up a night of passion. Miss Harper was a lady. An innocent lady. She did not deserve to be mauled about like a courtesan or terrified into—
She scrambled out of reach. “I never meant—“
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” roared Reginald from the door.
Miss Harper jumped as if shot, then whirled to stand between them as Reginald charged. “Thank heaven you’re here,” she stammered. “I fear he broke a foot when the ladder fell. Help him to his room while I send for the surgeon.”
“It doesn’t feel broken,” insisted John, trying to stand.
“It will be if you touch her again,” snapped Reginald, grabbing Miss Harper’s arm. He dragged her toward the door.
“Take your hands off me!” She twisted away and slapped his face. “Either help Mr. Lascar to his room, or leave. I’ve no time for your megrims.”
“I wouldn’t touch him if he were dying.”
“Then get out. I’ll find Ned.”
“No need,” repeated John. “I’ll manage.”
Miss Harper seemed torn by indecision, but she made no further protest when Reginald shoved her into the hall. Her lips formed forgive me. Then she was gone.
Forgive her? He clenched his fists until he steadied his breathing. The fault was his, from first to last. Whisking her into compromising positions. Kissing her. Jeopardizing her place at Westcourt…
Never would he blame another for his own misdeeds. The mark of a gentleman is his willingness to accept responsibility for his own actions, his mother had warned him whenever he’d tried to avoid punishment. Reminding her that he was no gentleman had only made her worse. That doesn’t give you leave to lie! she’d snapped. If you ever hope to pursue your dreams, you must behave like a gentleman.
So he’d learned to think carefully and respect others, regardless of their breeding.
Until Miss Harper. If today didn’t prove his stupidity, nothing would. He’d known that keeping her close tempted fate. Now his control lay in shreds, and her reputation was in danger.
Worse, she would never trust him again.
He hauled himself to his feet and limped to the window, using the pain to dampen desire. The only atonement was to avoid her entirely.
* * * *
Faith raced away, hoping to escape, but Reginald caught up with her at the stairs. When he again grabbed her arm, she stomped on his foot.
“How dare—”
“Leave me alone! Go write something.”
“I can’t without you.”
“Then you’re stupid.” When he backed a pace in shock, she whirled and fled.
There was no point in returning to the still room, she decided, ducking onto a servant stair – Reginald would never lower himself to use it. She needed time to settle before she dared face anyone else. If Lady Catherine saw her, she would accuse Mr. Lascar of making advances, especially if Reginald…
Never could Faith allow his reputation to suffer from her own silliness.
How could she have been stupid enough to kiss him, to sway forward as if she were a damned cobra mesmerized by his tune? He would think her utterly depraved. Surely she could control her urges, no matter what the provocation. And there had been no provocation.
True, she’d been terrified that he’d broken a bone, which was why she’d forgot to stay away from him. But that should not have affected her sense. Not even a concussion should have precipitated that folly. Yet the moment she’d stared into his brilliant blue eyes – looking for signs of confusion – she’d succumbed to the touch she’d craved since the day he’d arrived.
It had been glorious. Far better than her most wanton dreams. Her body still tingled, thrumming with heat. Her knees remained so weak she could barely walk. It had been the most exciting experience of her life, leaving her breathless, heart pounding, fingers curled as if they again drew him close. How had a simple kiss made her feel as if she were drowning, sliding down where the air was too thick to breathe?
Her cheeks blazed hotter than ever as she recalled stroking his tongue—
His tongue? Dear lord, it was worse than she’d thought. Bad enough to kiss the man when he barely had the strength to move. But to employ a technique she’d only read about once and considered disgusting…
Not that it was, now that she thought about it. Actually—
Enough!
What must he think of her? He was clearly shocked, and who could blame him? For all she knew, he had a wife waiting for him in London.
Her face burned.
How could she face him after abusing him so badly? He was here to work, not dally, especially with her. Yet she’d brazenly thrown herself at him. If Chester found out, he would toss Mr. Lascar out and destroy his reputation so thoroughly that he would never win another commission. All her fault. If this was an indication of her character…
She slammed the door of her room, then closed the shutters so no one could see in from the courtyard. It was far from the best room in the house, being on the ground floor by the housekeeper’s room, but today she was glad to be away from the family. Splashing water on cheeks that still burned with mortification, she fought her emotions under control.
Reading Venette’s Tableau de l’amour Conjugal had been a terrible mistake – her eyes shifted to where the seemingly innocuous volume lay on her dressing table. It was bad enough that she’d looked at it at age sixteen, but to have opened it last night…
She shoved it into her wardrobe.
The dukes had collected several such volumes, all lavishly illustrated. Curiosity had driven her to learn French and Latin and even some German so she could read them. And the contents had figured heavily in her dreams since Mr. Lascar’s arrival.
Now she knew just how dangerous fantasies could be.
It was time to remember that she was a lady who must avoid Mr. Lascar. Truly avoid him. For now, it would be easy, for he would not wish to see her, either. And Reginald would watch every move even if he’d not seen that kiss – she prayed she’d pulled away in time. But Mr. Lascar would return to Westcourt often as the work progressed. The only way to keep her weakness from creating a scandal was to leave.
Despite her insist
ence that she was prepared, she was as guilty as the others of ignoring the future. Yes, she’d mentally planned to assume a post as a paid companion. But she’d relied on fate to prevent Chester from winning the title. That way she could stay here and protect her friends.
Such dreaming was as bad as doing nothing. Expecting Chester to write her a character reference was worse. He would throw her out rather than lift a finger to help her, but her heart didn’t want to admit it. It still hoped that the duke would return, pension off the staff, then let her run the house as she’d done for so long.
That would not happen.
It was time to face facts. There was nothing she could do for the staff. She had no money. She could not support even one servant, let alone the half dozen who had raised her. So she must save herself. Which meant asking the vicar to find her a post.
The renovations made it urgent. Sooner or later, someone would note her infatuation. The last thing she wanted was to dwindle into a laughingstock like Miss Jones from the village. The poor lady spent all her time panting after the schoolmaster despite that he hardly knew she existed and couldn’t support a wife if he did.
Hiding at Westcourt was cowardly, shaming her parents. Dreaming of a better tomorrow was a waste of time. If she had accepted facts when the duke failed to appear, she would not now be mooning after an architect.
* * * *
John debated eating in his room, but it would place an unnecessary burden on the staff. Even the prospect of facing Reginald couldn’t justify it. John had hobbled into the next room the moment Miss Harper was gone – which had been a lucky choice. Reginald had returned, then ranted when he discovered his quarry gone. When Reginald smashed the ladder into the wall, John had prudently slipped under the bed. He’d been in too much pain to manage calming an angry gentlemen. The only saving grace was that Reginald’s diatribe did not include that kiss, so Miss Harper’s reputation should survive.
