She smiled tentatively, expecting a full-scale attack from Lord Somerset. But he just stared at her.
Then, his brow creased and his mouth opened, but before he could speak, Bentley Smythe maneuvered around him. “Ah, there you are, Miss Lark.” He urged her forward with the ripple of his fingers. “Come, come. Do not be afraid. Lord Somerset here won’t hurt you.”
Lark wasn’t so sure of that. As she stepped forward, her gaze never left the new lord. His eyes captivated her, all emotion hidden from his countenance. Still, from his outburst earlier, she knew he must be furious. Hesitantly, she came to stand before him then curtsied in respect.
Smythe was the one to break the silence that consumed the room. “Jonathon, Lord Somerset, may I present Miss Lark Blackwell.”
~*∞*~
Ethereal. The word invaded Jonathon’s mind the moment he laid eyes on Lark Blackwell. She seemed to float across the room, her white muslin gown flowing around her, caressing her legs as a cool breeze touches the cheek on a hot summer’s day. Her hair, adorned with a ring of fresh flowers, shone the colour of the sun at its hottest white, her skin the palest alabaster.
No wonder she had been redubbed the Somerset Ghost. She was otherworldly. But angel would have been a more appropriate moniker. She was beautiful, not frightening. Drinking in the sight of her awakened feelings he hadn’t realized he possessed—chivalrous, protective desires…and something more base, more passionate. The yen to reach out, lift her into his arms, and carry her off to a private a rendezvous began to melt his anger, and he immediately knew he needed to be wary of this bewitching creature.
He stiffened his spine and schooled his countenance. “You have been hiding in the shadows like a rat, Miss Blackwell. What say you of this? Did you know of my father’s plans to saddle us together? Did you have act in them?”
As he fired questions at her, she shook her head adamantly, her face strained with evident worry. He ignored it, refusing to be swayed by feminine wiles.
“Why do you not speak, vixen? Do you not realize you will never prevail? Answer my queries.” He quieted for a moment and studied her teary-eyed mien.
She looked like a chastised child, and for an instant, he felt a twinge of guilt at crucifying her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Smythe touched his arm, drew his attention. He scarcely had time to comprehend what was happening before Lark picked up her skirt and fled the room.
Stunned, Jonathon stared at the solicitor. He raised an inquiring eyebrow, and Smythe referred to the sealed letter. “Read the missive, my lord. I trust it will explain everything better than I.”
Jonathon settled into the gilt-edged chair and stared at his father’s handwriting. The letters were strong and steady—not as one would expect from an ailing man. The ink began to blur as Jonathon scrutinized the page without focus of eye or mind. What could his father have meant in saddling him with a bride he had never met?
He scanned the paper, first for key words such as “marriage” and “Blackwell”; then more closely. As nothing made sense, Jonathon’s icy rage began to melt away.
My dearest Jonathon,
I have been quite secretive since the passing of your mother, and you have been the utmost best son. I do realize how difficult it has been for you to have an insane father. However, as I explain, I hope you will see it was all for the best.
As you already know, Drew Blackwell and I were the closest of friends. He saved my life in that abominable war with the traitorous Americas. What I did, and what I ask you to do, is for his memory and that of your beloved mother.
It is with a leadened heart I reveal to you the fire that consumed your mother was not merely the accident of a careless servant. It was a deliberate act, a heinous plot.
I quite understand that it will be at best difficult for you to understand why I ask of you what I am about to ask. Realize these are not the ramblings of an old insane fool on his deathbed, but rather that of a strong-minded man who divulges this to you with free-will, knowing one day my life will end and you must carry out my wishes…
Jonathon raised his eyes to Smythe. “Just how long ago did Papa pen this?”
The solicitor glanced down at the paper, then back at Jonathon. “I assure you, my lord, it was before he became quite ill.”
“You know what this says, then?”
Smythe’s balding head lowered in a slight nod. “I have not read the missive word for word, my lord, but Lord Somerset did explain the situation to me—in the strictest of confidences, assuredly,” he quickly added.
“Of course, of course,” Jonathon muttered, moving his attention back to his father’s written explanation…
I have kept the secret close to my heart, and now I must ask you to do the same. There was a small girl in the house that night. You remember her; she was as a sister to you in days past—an eager child wanting to stay out of her bedchamber because her favourite “aunt” was visiting. Lark’s disobedience kept harm at bay. I have kept her safe since, and now I must ask the same of you. Marry her, Jonathon, and she will become Lady Somerset. No one need know of her past. A marriage to keep her safe, Jonathon. Not a true marriage, just one to keep her safe. In memory of me. In memory of your mother. I implore you. Marry her and let no one know of her true identity.
~*∞*~
Outside the library, Lark searched the great room for her abigail, frantic for some comfort from the woman who had been with her since birth. Fury and fear bubbled their way to her throat as she ran above stairs into her suite of rooms in the unused wing of Somerset Hall. There, her maid attended to straightening the clothes in the wardrobe.
Rebekka turned to face her mistress. “There you are, dear miss,” the plump woman said. “You look a fright. ‘Tis an awful thing to have to endure, what?”
Lark frowned, ignoring the woman’s comment. “You must come with me now, Rebekka,” she said with hand gestures. “You must make him understand. Oh, Lord Peter said all would work out for the best, but he was wrong. He thinks I am the devil’s spawn. I see it in his eyes. The accusation. The contempt.”
Rebekka took Lark’s hands in her own, silencing the younger woman’s words. “There, there, miss. I don’t know what you’re on about, but I can see you are quite overset. Lead me where you will, and together we will see. Have we not been seeing to things together since you were a little one?”
Rebekka trailed behind as Lark raced down the staircase.
She stopped with her fingers on the handle of the closed library doors, her breath coming in short ineffective bursts. Rebekka touched Lark’s muslin sleeve, drawing her attention.
“I do not think you have anything to worry about, m’lady. Lord Peter would never marry you to an ogre.” The abigail stepped back and motioned with an incline of the head for Lark to open the door.
Lark glanced from Rebekka’s hand to the ornate door handle. She had always trusted Lord Peter and could not think of a valid reason why she should not in this, but what if he’d been mistaken? Perhaps—
The handle ripped out of her hand, and the door flew open.
“Chauncy,” Jonathon bellowed.
Lark’s gaze moved upwards from the unstarched silk cravat to the hard face of Jonathon Rexley. Instinctively, she stepped back.
Off balance, she bumped into Rebekka. The older woman let out a tiny squeal.
Quick as lightning, Lord Somerset caught Lark’s arm and kept her from falling. For an instant, time seemed to stand still as momentum sent Lark crashing into his chest. She inhaled the scent of him, consciously imbibed the heat of his gentle, steadying touch. She closed her eyes.
Then she was free and almost staggering once again from the abruptness of his release.
“Miss Blackwell. What is the meaning of your constant eavesdropping? If you are to be my wife you must gather some manners.”
His words hadn’t the time to sink into her mind before Lady Wescotte’s shrill gasp echoed through the great room.
“Wife? You are taking
a wife, Jonathon-eh-L-lord Somerset?” Lady Wescotte’s surprise registered on her elevated eyebrows.
“Must I reprimand two females today for listening when their ears should have been tightly closed?” Lord Somerset tilted his face to the landing of the stairs where Lady Wescotte stood, one hand on the carved banister, the other planted firmly on her bulging hip.
A disgusted groan escaped Lady Wescotte’s mouth. “I merely came to see what all the disturbance was about. Heavens, it sounded as if there were an army of soldiers bounding above and below stairs.”
“’Twas nothing, save the Somerset Ghost,” Jonathon replied.
“Nonsense,” Lady Wescotte remarked, obviously offended by his patronizing comment.
He looked pointedly at Lark. “Am I not correct?”
Her cheeks burned. Never before had she wanted so much to strike at someone. Jonathon Rexley was heartless. She knew the rumors. He knew the rumors. How she had looked forward to hiding no longer, only to be ridiculed and dared by his laughing, obsidian eyes. Rage forced its way from her stomach to her throat, but then his eyes softened. He slightly inclined his head and Lark found her anger softening with his countenance.
He turned back to Lady Wescotte. “All right Aunt Harriet, if you must know what all the commotion is about, I shall tell you.” He took up Lark’s hand in his own. She stared at where they were joined, amazed at how dwarfed his strong hand made hers appear. She swallowed a lump of emotion and looked up into his face. “Miss Lark Black—”
At that moment, Smythe emerged in the doorway of the library. “Blackburn,” he said over Jonathon’s tongue. “Miss Lark Blackburn.” The lawyer bowed to the lovely miss. “It is nice to see you once again.”
Lark endowed the bald man with a crooked smile. She had made his acquaintance not ten minutes past, what was his game, and why had he referred to her with a fictitious surname?
~*∞*~
Jonathon inclined his head slightly, in thanks for the solicitor’s fortuitous interruption. He was a fool. After reading his father’s letter, He should have known better than to use the chit’s real name, even though only family were present. He directed his gaze back to his awaiting aunt, training his voice to be steady and true, and showing no hint that Blackburn was not what he had intended to utter all along. “Miss Blackburn here, was so taken by my proffer of marriage, that she bounded up the staircase like an excited child to tell her closest friend,”—he frowned passively as he glanced at the older woman— “and abigail,”—he gazed back up the stairs—“that the honorable Lord Somerset had extended the invitation.”
He smiled down at Lark. “Is that not the case, my sweet?” He hoped to heaven and beyond, Harriet did not ask why the abigail was above stairs—or why Lark was in attendance, for that matter.
Lark’s eyes were as vast as the blue oceans. Slowly, her head bobbed an affirmative answer, and he gave her hand, now ensconced in both of his, a little squeeze.
“There you have it, Aunt Harriet.”
The plump woman hastened down the stairs. Her oversized skirts rustled and the jewelry about her body jingled with the quickness of her step. “But you have never mentioned this woman before. Who is she? From whence did she come? When did you court her? What did you say her name was? Well, never mind.”
As she reached the bottom of the staircase, Lady Wescotte stopped, an almost satisfied expression settling over her face. Then she smiled and clapped her hands together.
“Miss, I am so relieved that a woman as lovely as you has finally brought my Jonathon to his senses.”
“‘My Jonathon’ is it?” All eyes turned to Cyril, who was now draped across the banister. “I am quite taken aback by all the events of the day.” He put a dramatic hand to his forehead then acted as if he might swoon. “By Jove, Jon has gone from beloved nephew to respected lord and back. And, I must say, if I had wagered against his ever finding a wife, I would be registering to take the King’s shilling this very moment.”
“Ninnyhammer,” Lady Wescotte rebuked. “Stop acting the fool and welcome Miss Blackburn into the family.”
“You have certainly turned congenial of a sudden, Aunt Harriet. I would think this turn of events weakens your position, not strengthens it.” Cyril started down the stairs.
“Cyril, you go too far.”
He met Jonathon’s censure with a resigned smile. “No doubt, brother mine. But give me credit for being quite consistent.” He turned to Lark and bowed politely. “Cyril Rexley, at your service.” He raised his gaze to hers. “Forgive my ill manners. I am not used to being in the company of such a lovely, refined woman. Jonathon is but a lucky man.”
Colour reddened Lark’s cheeks and Jonathon thought that perhaps marrying such a lovely creature would not be such drudgery after all.
Chapter Three
“You bellowed, my lord?” Chauncy’s bland countenance belied the sarcasm of his words.
“Yes, Chauncy, that I did. Bring us crystal flutes and the best champagne in the cellar. We have a betrothal to celebrate.” Jonathon’s gaze lowered and settled upon Lark’s face. She wondered what thoughts roamed the rooms of his mind. His eyes glowed of pleasantries. She smiled at him—a smile she hoped conveyed her desire to please him. He blinked rapidly then tore his gaze from her. Dropping her hand, he turned and started back into the library.
Lady Wescotte was quick off her mark, coming within an ames ace of crushing Lark’s toes. Lark stepped back and let the Lady waddle after Jonathon. To be sure, Lark was still fuzzy from the stolen warmth of his hand. He had bestowed on her such a caring gaze, and then dropped her hand as if it were riddled with disease. Bemused by his performance, she wondered if this was how all lords behaved. Certainly, Lord Peter had never treated her with such contradiction.
The touch of Rebekka’s hand to Lark’s elbow brought her out of her musings.
The abigail nodded. “Go in, Miss. This is what it’s all about. Do not be afeared, I am right behind you.”
With that assurance, Lark was comforted only a little. No other person had been with her all her life. Only Rebekka understood Lark’s hand-language—and only in that woman did Lark have complete and utter trust. In fact, had it not been for the abigail’s quick-wittedness and lack of regard for her own safety, Lark might have suffered the same fate as that of the rest of her family. She felt a bond to the woman that exceeded mere gratitude. Still, she wasn’t sure anyone could shield her from the seesaw emotions induced in her by Jonathon Rexley. One moment, hope filled her; the next, vexation.
She took a steadying breath and, with Rebekka close behind, entered the library that would never greet her with the same contentment it had before the developments of this eve.
Lord Somerset—Jonathon—the name strolled through Lark’s mind with ease. She liked his name, Jonathon Rexley, and wished she had the ability to utter it. Perhaps then, this entire situation would be easier.
Lord Somerset had situated himself in the very spot she had first witnessed him—in front of the fireplace. Mr. Cyril Rexley had taken the seat formerly occupied by Lady Wescotte, and the woman stood over him, trilling something about not liking the settee by the hearth.
Cyril murmured unintelligibly and lifted himself out of the chair to cross the room. “Miss Blackburn, do come sit by the fireplace on the settee. I daresay it’s the most comfortable in the place.” He shot a saucy look to Lady Wescotte.
“Do try to behave, Cyril, if not for my sake then for that of my lovely betrothed,” Jonathon rebuffed.
“My apologies indeed, Miss Blackburn. I assure you once again, I am unaccustomed to such refinery in a woman.”
Lark’s cheeks grew warm, and she avoided Cyril’s gaze. She heard the breath expel from Lord Somerset, and from under lowered lashes, witnessed the exasperated look with which he seared his brother. She had no idea how to take it all.
She raised her head and showed Rebekka a pleading countenance. The abigail turned up the corners of her mouth, and signed, “As
I have said, not to worry. Sit and be welcomed.”
“What is that you do?” Harriet, Lady Wescotte inquired of the lady’s maid.
Rebekka slightly dipped one knee. “Nothing ill m’lady, I assure you. I was just speaking with my charge. She lives a quiet life.”
Lady Wescotte turned questioning eyes to her eldest nephew. “She speaks in riddles,” she trilled, her voice squeaky with exasperation. “What does the woman mean?”
~*∞*~
A sliver of anxiety wound its way round Jonathon’s heart as he glanced at Rebekka and then turned his attention to his fiancée. She was perched on the settee in the most ladylike of poses, a paragon of beauty. Innocence exuded from her with the ease of rain from a plump cloud. Her sky blue eyes bespoke every thought that rambled through her pretty head. Apprehension dulled their brightness, and after gaining the knowledge that she had been locked in this old house since she was a tot, he could fully understand her uncertainty.
He supposed it was his responsibility to come up with a plausible response to Aunt Harriet’s inquiry, but he could not very well come out and say, not to worry, Auntie, Papa had this young sprite locked away with him these years past and thus the gel has led a quiet life, now could he? Besides, something dreadful and unspoken told him that wasn’t to what the abigail referred.
He groaned inwardly, opened his mouth then clamped it shut. He had not an appropriate thought in his head. He opened his mouth a second time, but Rebekka took a step forward and spoke. “It is quite unfortunate I must inform you, that Miss Lark is unable to speak.”
“What?” The word sprung forth from Jonathon’s lips like a jack out of the box. It gave fright even to himself.
Cyril laughed. “Surprise to all, I see.”
Jonathon found he couldn’t move. His ribs felt as if they might collapse at any moment. In truth, he wasn’t sure they hadn’t already collapsed. He shifted his gaze to Smythe who had the decency to look sheepish, and then he glared at Lark. Innocent! He had actually thought her innocent? She was part of a scheme, no doubt. A wily, deficient gel that had convinced his papa to marry her off. By Jove! He’d been henpecked even without his knowledge. He would have to find a way out of this mess. He couldn’t wed a deficient gel, no matter how pretty she might be. He had worked too hard to earn respectability after his papa had gone off his rocker. He could not risk all he had worked for—not even to save the family fortune from his irresponsible brother.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 3
