Devilish Lord, Mysterious Miss

by Annie Burrows

  With a weary shrug of his shoulder, Lord Matthison sat on the edge of the bed, tugged off his boots, then disappeared into the damasked folds of its hangings. To fall instantly asleep, she expected, curling up in the nest she had made for herself.

  She did not think it would take her long to fall asleep tonight either. The shocks of the previous day had receded from the forefront of her mind. She had felt herself relaxing in Lord Matthison’s company more and more as the day had progressed. He had been a perfect travelling companion, kind and attentive, and always treating her with the utmost propriety. She was really glad he would be staying in the room with her, though naturally, she would never admit as much to him!

  Even so, when she closed her eyes, for a while she had the peculiar impression that she was still bouncing along in the post-chaise. Her muscles had got so used to clenching and straining to compensate for the vehicle’s lurching motion that it seemed to take them a while to accept they could all just let go.

  But gradually, as exhaustion claimed her, her mind translated the bouncing movement of the coach that her body was still experiencing, into a dream of rocking, on a gentle swell, in a rowing boat, out on the open loch. She could hear seagulls keening as they wheeled overhead. And, of course, Lord Matthison was there. She felt his strong arms wrap her in a blanket of pure contentment. She nestled closer to him, laying her head on his chest, so that she could listen to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart as the waves lapped against the hull of their boat.

  And woke with a jolt, to find herself curled up on the bed, cradled against Lord Matthison’s chest.

  He must have waited until she fell asleep, then carried her to the bed, intending to…She gulped. He had intended to swap places with her, of course! He must have succumbed to the temptation of holding her for a while, and fallen asleep again.

  Well, it would not do.

  Slowly, stealthily, so as not to disturb him, Mary tried to disentangle herself from the quilt in which she was wrapped like a swaddled baby.

  ‘No…’ he moaned, clutching her more tightly, and rolling over so that his leg now pinned hers down.

  Without even opening his eyes.

  Mary’s heart melted. The poor man needed to keep her close. She knew just how he felt. Had she not missed the company of her bedmates the night before?

  Did she really want to escape his hold badly enough to wake him? Where was the harm in staying exactly where she was? He was not going to do anything but hold her while he slept.

  They would both get more rest, if she just closed her eyes again and shifted into a more comfortable position.

  And she did feel warm and comfortable. And happier than she could ever remember feeling. The girls she slept with might have provided company, and warmth on a winter night, but they did not cling to her as though she was a rare treasure.

  As though she mattered.

  When she awoke in the morning, she was alone in the bed, with the curtains drawn closed. But she did not feel in the least lonely or scared, because she could hear Lord Matthison moving about the room. He splashed about at the washstand, and then she heard him huffing slightly as he dried himself, and then the rustle of fabric that told her he was putting on his clothes.

  It felt peculiarly intimate, to hear him going about such everyday tasks, after spending the night held in his arms. When he approached the bed, and cleared his throat, before drawing back the hangings on one side, her whole body blushed with awareness. Every single one of her pores felt sensitive to his intense, dark gaze as he stood over her, for what felt like an eternity, while she drank in every detail of his appearance.

  The look in her eyes reached right down into him, stirring feelings that he had thought were beyond recall.

  She must be Cora! Surely, no other woman could affect him this way?

  And yet, would the Cora he knew have been able to share a room with a man she barely knew? And wake up looking so calm?

  This woman appeared to have a core of inner strength that Cora had lacked. Oh, there were times when she was unsure of herself. But then, she had no memory. Of course she experienced anxiety.

  But despite that handicap, she had bravely forged a new life for herself in unfamiliar surroundings.

  And look how she had stood up to him!

  It must have been frightening to fall into the clutches of a devil like him. And the way he had behaved in Bath, falling to his knees and begging her to love him, must have convinced her he was as mad as a March hare.

  Yet all she had done was hold him. Though she was clearly afraid, she had generously offered what comfort she could, when he had been at his lowest ebb. Without compromising her beliefs. She had stood firm on that point, insisting he treat her as though she was a lady.

  She was a lady! Every inch of her. From the crown of those tangled curls, to the tips of her blistered toes. With as big a heart as Cora had ever had. Last night, seeing how weary he was, she had put his needs before her own, insisting he took the bed.

  Until last night, Cora had been the only person who had ever seen what he needed, without having to be told. He did not want to lose that again.

  He did not want to lose her.

  If she was not Cora…

  He recoiled from the alarming prospect.

  ‘I shall wait for you in the parlour while you get dressed,’ he said gruffly, breaking whatever spell it was that had rendered her powerless to do anything but gaze back at him with utter fascination. ‘Will you be ready to breakfast in half an hour?’

  Mary nodded, dimly aware of a vague sense of disquiet. It was not until she had finished her wash, and was stepping into her increasingly disreputable-looking gown, that she realised what had disturbed her. Lord Matthison might have phrased it as a request, but in effect, he had ordered her to bestir herself, and be downstairs within half an hour.

  He had decided they were going back to London.

  He had decided that they needed to unearth the secrets of her past that she would just as soon leave buried.

  He had given her no say.

  He had taken over her life.

  And there was not a thing she could do about it.

  By the time the post-chaise lurched to a halt before some buildings she recognised as being bachelor chambers in Albany, Mary was feeling more than a little resentful. He had promised to treat her exactly as he would have treated Cora, but she was certain he would never have brought her here.

  He would have escorted her to a hotel…

  The mere thought of being stuck in one of those rooms, all on her own, to lie all night in a great expanse of empty bed, with all those suffocating swathes of fabric round her, brought her out in a cold sweat. Thank heavens he was only paying lip service to the notion of treating her like a lady! She reached out and clung on to his arm as he steadily mounted the steps.

  He looked down at her sharply.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said gently. ‘I will never hurt you. I just mean to see you settled in comfortably, before I go to deal with Madame Pichot—’

  ‘No!’ The prospect of being abandoned, the minute they had set foot in London, was almost as dreadful as the thought of being banished to a hotel.

  ‘D-don’t leave me on my own!’

  She gazed up imploringly into his eyes, feeling profoundly relieved when she could not detect any hint of annoyance creeping into them. A man with a less even temper would be exceedingly put out by her contrariness. One minute she was complaining she did not wish to see Madame Pichot, the next she was refusing to let him go without her!

  But he just laid his hand over her fingers where they curled into the material of his jacket like claws.

  ‘I won’t leave you alone,’ he vowed. ‘Never.’

  For a moment or two, they stood there, gazes locked.

  At what precise moment had Lord Matthison become indispensable to her peace of mind? During the journey, when he had demonstrated how kind he could be? Or during the night spent blissfully wrapp
ed in his arms? However it had happened, she only knew that he had become a bulwark against life’s alarms. She felt as though she would fall to pieces if she let him out of her sight for a minute.

  And he just stood there, letting her search his eyes for as long as it took her to realise he understood, and even welcomed her dawning need of him.

  ‘Come,’ he said gently, ‘let us go inside, and wash away the dust of travel. Would you care for something to eat before we go to beard the Gorgon in her den?’

  She darted him an uncertain look as he led her inexorably up the stairs.

  ‘Together,’he reassured her. ‘Ephraims,’he said when a short stocky man with curly brown hair opened the door on which he had just knocked. ‘We have a guest. She will be staying with us for the foreseeable future.’

  While Lord Matthison issued a string of instructions, Mary surreptitiously took stock of the servant’s reactions. She was pleased to note his swiftly concealed look of surprise when he had seen her clinging to his master’s arm. And positively heartened by the way his eyes grew round when Lord Matthison instructed him to prepare the guest room for her use. It meant that he was not in the habit of bringing women up to these rooms. Whatever was happening between them was as extraordinary for him as it was for her.

  ‘My name is Mary,’ she told the servant over her shoulder, as Lord Matthison ushered her into a sitting room. She was glad he had not introduced her as Cora. It would feel like living a lie if he went round telling other people that was who she was, when she knew full well she was not.

  She subsided into the chair he indicated he wished her to sit in, chewing on her lower lip. The truth was, she was only here at all because of his erroneous belief. But once they had visited Madame Pichot, and he found out who she was, and what she had done, all this concern would be snuffed out like a guttering candle.

  She gazed up at him, her heart plunging at the thought that he would soon cease treating her as though she was a person that mattered.

  ‘You have noted,’he said in a rather defensive manner, as soon as the servant had left the room, ‘that I have ordered Ephraims to prepare the guest room for your use while we are staying here.’ He paced across to the fireplace and turned to face her, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I know I promised to treat you as though we had already established you really are Cora…and it is true that as you were, when I last saw you…seventeen, and untouched…’ A look of anguish flitted across his face. He turned, staring into the empty grate for a while, and when he turned back to her it was like looking at a stranger. There was no trace of compassion in those world-weary eyes. She was, she realised, looking at the hardened gambler who had made his fortune ruining anyone who showed the slightest trace of weakness in his presence.

  ‘Back then,’ he drawled, ‘yes, I admit it would have been outrageous for you to spend a night in a single gentleman’s rooms. Or to travel with me, unchaperoned, as we have done. But things are different now. For the past seven years you have been out of society, living in a way that is bound to raise eyebrows…and I do not see that sticking to a set of restrictive regulations at this point will do anything to quell the gossip that will erupt once we marry.’

  Mary plucked at the folds of her skirts. ‘I dare say Cora would have objected to being brought here.’ She scanned the room with inquisitive eyes, taking in the heavy, masculine furniture, gentlemen’s magazines piled neatly on a side table, several decks of cards stacked on a felt-topped table under the window. ‘But I do not.’ She hung her head briefly, remembering her feeling of resentment that although he was paying lip service to the idea of treating her like a lady, he was not quite managing it.

  ‘You—’ she tried a tentative smile ‘—you are trying to treat me with respect. Far more respect than most gentlemen would accord a simple dressmaker.’

  ‘But I am not quite treating you as though you were a lady born, though am I?’ He grimaced. ‘Dammit, this is so complicated. The sooner we have established who and what you are, the better!’

  Though Mary could not agree with his statement, she kept that thought to herself. They barely spoke again while they shared the collection of cold cuts and bread and butter that Ephraims brought in. But his comment kept going round and round her mind while she freshened up in the room to which Ephraims later escorted her.

  A room that Lord Matthison had promised was for her use alone. Now that he had her in his own territory, he did not seem to think it was necessary to keep such a close watch on her. And it was a nice room, she noted. It had carpeting on the floor beside the bed and by the washstand, lovely, leafy-green damasked hangings around the bed and at the window, and all the furniture was made of the same dark, heavy wood, with matching patterns inlaid in a lighter colour.

  She wished she could stay here indefinitely. With Lord Matthison always close at hand to keep her feeling safe, and a servant to do all the cooking and cleaning, fetching and carrying. It would be lovely not to have to work until she dropped from exhaustion every night.

  But once he discovered she was not Cora…She splashed her face with water, trying to wash away the creeping worries that kept on besetting her. He had promised he would look after her, no matter who she was, she reminded herself, patting her face dry on the softest towel she had ever held against her skin. She could trust him to keep his word. He was a gentleman.

  She picked up a silver-backed hairbrush, and began to work it through her tangles, meditatively. Two weeks ago, she would have sworn she would never, ever, have considered becoming a man’s mistress. But if that was the only way she could stay in his life…

  And she did want to stay near him. She had never met anyone who made her feel like he did. So safe, and cherished. He even understood her confusion. He did not mock her, or pity her, or make her feel she lacked anything at all.

  It was strange to think that a man others whispered was in league with the devil should rouse such feelings of trust in her, when she was apt to be scared of her own shadow. She tilted her head to one side, to work through the curls over her left ear.

  Well, the rumours about him were quite ridiculous, that was why they did not bother her! For a start, he would not be so sure she was Cora, if he had done away with that woman all those years ago. And since his pact with the devil was supposed to have been sealed in that girl’s blood, it was blatantly a piece of malicious gossip, made up by someone who…Angrily she set the brush down on the highly polished dressing table top. One of those people he had beaten at cards, she expected. And, no, she had no idea how he managed to be so amazingly successful at the gaming tables, when it was impossible to imagine him cheating. A man who was honourable enough to feel guilty for not keeping strictly to his promise to treat a dressmaker like a real lady, no, that was not a man who could cheat at cards! Or murder anyone. Or have any truck with anything unholy at all!

  Most of the class who called themselves gentlemen would not have turned a hair at taking advantage of her in either of the inns they had stayed in. They would not have taken a chair, or just held her in their arms. Nor left her bed early, so that she should not even be troubled by the knowledge he had held her!

  She was not sorry, she decided, lifting her chin defiantly, that he had taken over her life. The only thing she was sorry for was the hurt he would feel when he found out who she really was.

  He would be so disappointed she was not the woman he had sought for so long. How would he feel about her then? What if he found it too painful to have her near, a constant reminder of all he had lost? She had no doubt he would set her up in a shop, if she asked him, but…

  The prospect that he might send her away made her feel quite ill. She leapt to her feet, the brush dropping unheeded to the floor as she dashed back to the sitting room, suddenly fearful that he might have gone out without her.

  He was leaning against the mantelpiece, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on the door.

  Waiting for her.

  She paused in th
e doorway, her heart beating wildly as she castigated herself for her lack of faith.

  He had told her, over and over again, that he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight.And suddenly, for the first time, she knew he really meant it. That spike of panic that had just pierced her was the exact same feeling that had put that haunted look in his eyes, the one that had dissipated the moment she walked into the room.

  For a moment or two she felt such an inexpressible sense of joy she scarcely knew how to contain it. But then he said, ‘We should leave now. The sooner we get this visit to Madame Pichot over with, the better.’

  And Mary’s bubble burst. She was not really the person that mattered to him. It was Cora who had this effect on him. She had to turn away, lest he detect the jealousy that ripped through her. If she ever came face to face with the woman who had reduced such an honourable man to this state of chronic need, she would be hard pressed not to slap her face.

  He unfolded his arms, and came across to where she stood in the doorway, a frown still creasing his brows.

  ‘We shall have to get you some new clothes,’ he said, eyeing the sadly soiled garments she’d had to put back on.

  He was looking magnificent, in a fresh suit of exquisitely tailored clothing. He might have dressed completely in black, but the cloth was of the finest quality, and cut by an expert hand, to set off his leanly muscular figure. The splendour of his tailoring made her more aware than ever of the discrepancy in their stations. With her mud-encrusted, crumpled dress, singed coat, and boots stiffened from their soaking, she knew she looked exactly like the penniless nobody she really was.

  ‘I have my own things,’ she heard herself say defiantly. ‘I want to wear my own things.’ She had slid far enough down the slippery slope of temptation where he was concerned. It was bad enough that he was demolishing her principles one by one. Once she started letting him buy her clothing, he would own her completely.

  He raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Molly packed them all up for me the day Madame sent me to Bath. She was going to send them…’ She paused, shaking her head. ‘The trunk must still be in one of the store rooms…unless she has already taken it to a dealer in second-hand clothes.’ She bit down on her lower lip to stop the incipient tremor. She felt as though part of her identity had been packed away in that trunk. If she did not get her own things back, she would have to let Lord Matthison clothe her. And she would become entirely his creation.