The Resurrection of Lady Somerset

by Nicola Beaumont

  Lark sighed and drew her gaze from the fire and back to Cyril. “Allow him entry,” she signed to Rebekka.

  “Do come in,” she said resignedly to Cyril.

  “This is not quite the thing, is it, Mr. Rexley?” Lark ventured.

  “Do you still have your writing tablet?”

  Lark nodded wondering why she should need her tablet.

  “Do let us converse in private. I have much to discuss,” Cyril told her.

  Rebekka stepped forward before Lark even had the chance to speak. “I must strongly object, Master Cyril. It is highly wayward for the young miss to be alone with a gentleman.”

  Cyril chuckled at Rebekka’s verve. “I must say, Miss Lark, you certainly have an avid abigail. Why, it would almost seem as if I had asked you to—well, never mind,” he stopped himself. “I must remember my tongue. May I get comfortable?” He turned to Rebekka. “Is it all right with you, dear dragon, if I remove my coat and add a log or two to the fire or do you want to fetch Chauncy?”

  “You lack manners,” Rebekka said, unrepentant.

  Cyril laughed outright and gave Lark a look full of mirth. “She says that as if it is a revelation from God.” He unbuttoned his overcoat and shrugged out of it.

  “Should I ask you to hang it, or would you prefer to hang me instead.” He held out the coat for Rebekka to take.

  She grunted. “Like night and day,” she muttered, taking the coat and finding a place for it.

  “Very well,” Cyril said to Lark. “Keep your chaperon to translate for us.” Then he moved closer and leaned into her ear. “She is a trustworthy dragon is not she?”

  “Miss Lark, I must insist you instruct him not to refer to me by such offensive names.”

  “My deepest apology,” he said, although it was obvious to Lark he was far from remorseful.

  He added two healthy sized logs to the fire and extended a hand to the chair opposite him in an offering for Lark to be seated.

  Nervously, she looked to Rebekka before taking a seat.

  Cyril sat opposite her, tilted his body towards the fire and vigorously buffed his hands together. “So,” he said, looking into the fire. “How came you to live here? This could not have been my brother’s doing. He is much too proper for such a thing.” He glanced her way.

  “You will not reveal it, Mister Rexley?” Lark asked cautiously through Rebekka’s interpretation.

  Cyril shrugged. “Why should I?”

  His answer was not as comforting to Lark as she had hoped. But she could not think that he would wish to disgrace his own brother.

  “How came you to live here?” he asked again.

  This time it was Lark’s turn to raise her shoulders. Rebekka, standing between them like a barrage of guard dogs, translated her answer. “Lord Peter brought me.”

  Cyril opened his mouth but it was not his voice that next met Lark’s ears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lord Somerset’s words split the air like a cleaver.

  Lark spun to meet his awesome frame in the open doorway. His face was ruddy from cold and emotion, his closed fists held immovable.

  Cyril stood. “There you are. Come in. Join us,” he said to his brother, seemingly not the least bit disturbed at being discovered in Lark’s chambers.

  A muscle worked in Jonathon’s jaw. “I repeat,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “what is the meaning of this?”

  Cyril waved him away. “For goodness’ sake, Jon, calm yourself, and come in. It’s no shame to have your secret found out by me. I am not one to blather it to the whole of society.”

  “How did you get into the house?” Jonathon closed the distance between them, and Rebekka jumped out of the way, to keep from being trampled beneath Jonathon’s heedless steps.

  Cyril cocked his head to one side. “Well,” he drawled. “I came in through the kitchen.”

  “And Penelope? Chauncy? Did they allow you admittance? I shall dismiss them both.”

  “Oh, do not be so pompous! Of course, they did not allow me admittance. This is my childhood home, and I daresay I have as much right to be here as do you, brother.”

  Jonathon heaved in a breath and turned to Lark. After their barely-amicable meal of last evening, she wondered if he would berate her further, but instead, he seemed to take a silent moment to compose himself. “Did you not think it unwise for Cyril to be within your chambers?”

  He spoke calmly, so she responded in kind, and she signed her reply slowly.

  “No harm!” Jonathon repeated incredulously. “Don’t you realize the delicacy of our situation? I thought I had made myself all the clear on that point.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she told him with her hands. “But Mister Rexley arrived at my chamber door completely unannounced. I could but give him entrance to converse with me.”

  “That is not surprising in the least,” Jonathon replied, casting his brother a scathing look.

  “What is not surprising,” Cyril asked indignantly. “What did she tell you?” He moved his accusing gaze to her. “What did you tell him?”

  “Do not speak to her in that tone,” Jonathon admonished blackly. “You show her the respect you would show our mother if she were standing at your side. All the better, you bestow more respect on my fiancée.”

  Lark’s brows arched. It was incredulous just how much Jonathon could appear to hold her in high regard, when all the while he secretly despised her. What a heart less cad.

  A heartless cad who held her own heart in captivity. She stared at him until Cyril’s chuckling drew her attention in his direction.

  “I think it is best…”

  “It is all my fault…”

  Cyril and Rebekka began to speak in unison then both hushed. Cyril nodded in deference to the abigail. “Dragons first,” he whittled playfully.

  She turned to Jonathon. “It is all my doing. I foolishly allowed him entrance when I knew I should not. Please do not think ill of Miss Lark. She knows no better.”

  “’Tis me he thinks ill of, not she,” Cyril cut in blandly. “I think it’s best if I take my leave.” He turned an inquiring eye to Lark. “Do you think it would be proper for me to leave you unattended in your chambers with a gentleman of my brother’s character?”

  When she did not reply, he shrugged and carried himself to the door. He turned to Jonathon. “I have secured Almack’s for a fortnight hence when we shall all be out of black gloves.” He waved offhandedly. “A party to celebrate the betrothal of my brother to the lovely Miss Lark Black—burn.”

  “You did no such thing!” Jonathon took steps towards his meddling brother. “Why, there are rumors circulating and you…why…you are the cause of all the prattle.”

  “Am I not always the cause of all the prattle?” Cyril sighed. “Not to worry, old chap, Lark’s beauty will still the wagging tongues. Of that I have no doubt.” He cast her a final look before disappearing down the corridor.

  Jonathon turned back to Lark. “I apologize deeply for the waywardness of my brother. He means no harm at all.”

  “No harm done, my lord,” she answered nobly. “He is but charming in his own incorrigible way.”

  “Mmm,” Lord Somerset said, glancing off into nothing. “Charming indeed.” He focused on her once more. “Not to worry, Miss Lark. I shall do all in my power to cancel these ridiculous proceedings Cyril has devised.”

  “Were you not planning such the thing?” she asked.

  “Precisely, but I was not to do it so soon after mourning. I wished to wait a respectable period—to enhance the look of authenticity of our supposed blossoming love,” he added.

  “I see,” she signed. “Perhaps now it would look more respectable were you not to cancel a thing.”

  Jonathon thought for a moment. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “I wish for your presence in the library. Do you think you could accommodate my request presently?”

  Lark curtsied, but Rebekka was the one who
replied.

  “Aye, my lord. She’ll be there posthaste.”

  ~*∞*~

  From the doorway, Lark watched Jonathon stalk back and forth across the library floor, intermittently looking to the portrait of his mother. His thought seemed so deeply imbedded that she hated to interrupt him.

  Silently, she stepped into the room and padded across the large embellished carpet. His back was to her as he paced in the opposite direction. She approached him carefully, not wanting to disturb him, yet not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping again.

  He twirled around and stopped abruptly. “You really do need to learn how to make some noise, Miss Lark,” he said forcefully, his ragged breathing evidence to the start she had given him.

  She took a step in retreat. “I apologize, my lord,” she told him with her hands. “I wanted to get your attention so you would not think ill of me once again.”

  “Rap on a door or some such thing. Do not sneak up on a person with cat’s paws.”

  She cast her gaze quickly downward, embarrassed heat washing over her.

  He sighed. With a step towards her, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I am forever apologizing to you, it seems. I can’t remember having the need to so often humble myself.”

  Her eyes moved to the tender hand on her shoulder, and he quickly snatched it away. Her gaze darted to his face.

  He was looking at her coolly, and she wondered not for the first time if her physical appearance repulsed him as much as her handicap.

  “There is no need to apologize for my deficiency. It is through no fault of yours you have been saddled with me.”

  Jonathon’s eyebrows drew together. “Saddled with you?” He sighed and took a retreating step. “I realize I bore that attitude for a time, Miss Lark, but no longer. Never fear. I may not understand fully as yet, but I do fulfill my father’s wishes with agreement. It is the least I can do.”

  So, he was now pleased to marry her—but his assent was tainted by duty, the fulfillment of a dead man’s request. It was better than nothing she supposed, but not nearly enough. She wasn’t sure she could survive spending the rest of her life knowing that her marriage ranked with that of the silver and china—an inherited burden.

  “I am suddenly weary,” she signed. “Would you object to my sitting?”

  “I seem to effectively tire you, do I not? A fact I shall have to remedy before too long. I shouldn’t want you growing old before your time.”

  She cast him a puzzled glance, and he offhandedly indicated any chair.

  “Do sit. My manners fail me this day.”

  She made her way into the corner, her favourite chair, sat, and smoothed her skirts quite efficiently before raising her gaze to him once more.

  He watched her significantly. “Do you sit in the shadows by default or by design?” He asked.

  Lark signed her reply and he sighed impatiently. “There, you see. I cannot read your speech if I cannot see your hands.” He tromped over to the mantel and picked up a heavy silver candelabrum. With determined steps, he trod the floor between them and removed some books on the case at her side in order to make room for the light.

  She peered up at him nervously. He towered over her in the most eerie manner under the glow of the candelabra’s flickering light. She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath. This was only Jonathon.

  Jonathon whom she cared for.

  Jonathon who would never care for her in return.

  She lifted her hands and repeated her former reply. “This is my favourite chair. Since I was but a child.”

  He moved away from her and changed the subject. “I must discuss a matter of great importance with you.” He turned to face her once again, the width of the room a canyon between them. “Do understand that I am not seeking permission or approval, merely understanding. As my future wife, I am sure you will see fit to abide my wishes and keep this conversation in the strictest confidence.”

  She nodded and he began.

  “I have some business to attend and may be gone several days.” He glanced at her. “This is not a problem, but my return may be difficult for you to accept.”

  “I do not understand,” she signed.

  He removed his gaze from her face and stared at his boots as he paced the floor. “If things do not go as planned, upon my return I will have a house guest—well, much more than a guest, in truth, he would be a permanent fixture.”

  He stopped directly in front of the fireplace and drew his hands about himself, rubbing his arms. “It grows chilly,” he said. Making his way to the door, he jerked the bell pull.

  Chauncy appeared promptly, sliding the doors open just enough to peer in. “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Set a fire in the hearth and bring us some tea.” He glanced to Lark. “Do you prefer something besides tea?”

  She shook her head, and he turned back to Chauncy.

  “Yes, m’lord,” Chauncy said and gently slid the doors closed behind him.

  Jonathon smiled at Lark. “You know, you had been sitting in that very place the first time I saw you.”

  She cast abashed eyes downward. She did not like to think much of that day. He had accused her of eavesdropping, of deliberately hiding in the shadows.

  “You emerged out of the shadows like a ghost.” An airy quality to his voice made Lark take greater notice.

  “The sconce light flickered on your face, defining the exquisite—” His eyes focused on her and he snapped closed his mouth. He cleared an obstruction in his throat. “Excuse me.” He began to draw nearer the fireplace again as Chauncy came in and went about starting a fire.

  It rent her heart that he found it so difficult to converse with her. Each time it seemed he would finally speak to her as an equal, share something of consequence, he checked himself.

  She wanted to be a true partner to him, but she so repulsed him, he couldn’t even bring himself to properly converse with her. Yes, he had said he now accepted their betrothal, but not because he held her in high regard, but because it was the least he could do.

  Duty. Honor. Were not these the qualities she liked about him? Oh, how she wished responsibility would bow to love.

  Jonathon did not address her again until they once again had privacy. “Better,” he mumbled, holding his palms out to the strengthening kindling. “Where was I? Oh yes, I may have to bring my nephew here to reside. There have been some recent difficulties, which I am not at liberty to discuss with you, that need my immediate attention. Geoffry shall be in need of a male to guide him to majority.”

  She wanted to ask questions, but he merely continued to show her his back. She sighed audibly, but he seemed too ensconced in his thoughts to notice.

  “I realize you are but young to suddenly become mother to a young man of Geoffry’s years, but if I cannot avoid the outcome, which I must confess, I hope does not come to pass—not because I don’t love my cousin, you understand, but because I hope he is loved enough to prevent the eventuality of such turn of events—but if I cannot avoid the outcome, you must remain at my side in judgment as a loyal wife would.” He finally found the time to breathe and halted his concourse of words.

  Lark was so confused she was sure her mind would not stop spinning for a month of Sundays.

  She feared he would begin again without looking to her. Thus, out of desperation, she began to beat sufficiently on the arm of the gilt chair.

  At first, she didn’t think even that was going to draw his attention, but as she applied more force to her plight, he turned and queried her silently.

  She expelled a relieved breath and then looked at him. She was surprised by the haggard countenance expressed on his usually unaffected features. She didn’t understand it, but he was truly engaged in a troublesome dilemma.

  A sudden urge to comfort him enveloped her, and she quelled the impulse to close the distance between them. “Why do you tell me this? You must know I will forever be loyal to you. As you voiced, I could do no less than honor Lo
rd Peter’s wishes after all he has done for me,” she signed.

  He showed her a wan smile. “It’s not having Geoffry here after we are wed that distresses me.” He locked gazes with her. “It is the fact that if I must bring him to Somerset Hall, he will arrive a considerable time before we are actually married. You would have to once again become the Somerset Ghost to avoid disgrace.”

  With full clarity, she understood the weight of the situation. Oh, she could not remain locked in chambers again. She just couldn’t. She would not have a wit remaining.

  “I understand the difficulty, and perhaps it shall not come to such a drastic measure. I merely wished for you to be prepared rather than surprise you with such dreadful news in the event it should become necessity.”

  “I cannot,” she signed simply. “It was—”

  She was interrupted by the arrival of Penelope and a cart of tea and tarts. “I thought ye might like a light bite with your tea, my lord,” she said cheerily as she poured milk into both cups before scalding it with the freshly steeped, golden liquid.

  Lark sat rigidly in the chair until the housemaid had completed her task, the words she had been about to express, still tingling her fingertips. As Penelope took her leave, Lark turned her attention to her fiancé.

  “Before, when Lord Peter’s will was pronounced, I found it best difficult to remain in my chambers for a fortnight. Please understand, my lord,” she quickly explained, as his look grew black. “While Lord Peter lived, he kept visitors at bay on the whole, and during those rare occasions he did entertain, I could stand to be discreet for a few hours.” She hoped he understood; she just could not do that again.

  She studied him, and watched as his black expression softened. He closed the distance between them, bent one knee, and knelt at her side. He took her hand in both of his and gazed solemnly into her face. His hands, encasing hers, were warm from the fire and heated her through and through. She smiled at him.

  “I understand the difficulty. I would not ask of you anything so harsh if there were another alternative.”

  He gazed directly into her eyes, silently imploring her to understand, and it melted every objection she had in her head. How could she refuse him, he looked so needy…and charming…and handsome.