Книга - Regency Secrets: My Lady’s Trust

Regency Secrets: My Lady's Trust
Julia Justiss


A terrifying secretSeeking safety among strangers, Laura Martin finds the Earl of Beaulieu her greatest threat! His gentleness to her breaks down the barriers she’s raised around her heart and her desire for him betrays her into shocking danger.Gambling on the rake’s heartTeagan Fitzwilliams was nothing more than a wastrel with the devil’s own luck at cards — so why was he so drawn to the virtuous Lady Valeria? One stolen, sensual moment with Valeria sets Teagan on a course to change his life and claim her as his own — forever! Two classic and delightful Regency tales!












About the Author


As a child, JULIA JUSTISS found her Nancy Drew books inspired her to create stories of her own. She has been writing ever since. After university she served stints as a business journalist for an insurance company and editor of the American Embassy newsletter in Tunisia. She now teaches French at a school in Texas, where she lives with her husband, three children and two dogs.




Other Books By


Don’t miss these other Regency delights from Mills & Boon® Historical romance’s bestselling authors!

REGENCY PLEASURES

Louise Allen

REGENCY SECRETS

Julia Justiss

REGENCY RUMOURS

Juliet Landon

REGENCY REDEMPTION

Christine Merrill

REGENCY DEBUTANTES

Margaret McPhee

REGENCY IMPROPRIETIES

Diane Gaston

REGENCY MISTRESSES

Mary Brendan

REGENCY REBELS

Deb Marlowe

REGENCY SCANDALS

Sophia James

REGENCY MARRIAGES

Elizabeth Rolls

REGENCY INNOCENTS

Annie Burrows

REGENCY SINS

Bronwyn Scott




REGENCY

Secrets


My Lady’s Trust

My Lady’s Pleasure

Julia Justice






















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


In memory of fellow writer

Nancy Richards-Akers

Shot to death by her estranged husband

June 1999

And to all women caught in domestic abuse.

Get help. Get out.

Your children need you.



My Lady’s Trust




Prologue







Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants’ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.

Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.

She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby’s gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh.

I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do.

Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she’d practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.

Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.




Chapter One







The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martin’s ear the faint sound of barking interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her cottage earlier this morning, the squire’s son throwing her a jaunty wave as they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.

Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave the herb bed. Misfit, the squire’s failure of a rabbit hound who’d refused to leave her after she healed the leg he’d caught in a poacher’s trap, bumped his head against her hand, demanding attention.

“Shameless beggar,” she said, smiling as she scratched behind his ears.

The dog flapped his tail and leaned into her stroking fingers. A moment later, however, he stiffened and looked up, uttering a soft whine.

“What is it?” Almost before the words left her lips she heard the rapid staccato of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later one of the squire’s grooms, mounted on a lathered horse and leading another, flashed into view.

Foreboding tightening her chest, she strode to the garden fence.

“What’s wrong, Peters?” she called to the young man bringing his mount to a plunging halt.

“Your pardon, Mrs. Martin, but I beg you come at once! There were an accident—a gun gone off …” The groom stopped and swallowed hard. “Please, ma’am!” “How badly was the person injured?”

“I don’t rightly know. The young gentleman took a shot to the shoulder and there be blood everywhere. He done swooned off immediate, and—”

Her foreboding deepened. “You’d best find Dr. Winthrop. I fear gunshots are beyond—”

“I already been by the doctor’s, ma’am, and he—he can’t help.”

“I see.” Their local physician’s unfortunate obsession with strong spirits all too frequently left him incapable of caring for himself or anyone else. ‘Twas how she’d gained much of her limited experience, stepping in when the doctor was incapacitated. But gunshot wounds? The stark knowledge of her own inadequacy chilled her.

Truly there was no one else. “I’ll come at once.”

“Young master said as how I was to bring you immediate, but I don’t have no lady’s saddle. ‘Twill take half an hour ‘n more to fetch the gig.”

“No matter, Peters. I can manage astride. Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine anyone will notice my dispensing with proprieties. Help me fetch my bag.”

She tried to set worry aside and concentrate on gathering any extra supplies she might need to augment the store already in her traveling bag. The groom carried the heavy satchel to the waiting horses and gave her a hand up. Settling her skirts as decorously as possible, she waited for him to vault into the saddle, then turned her restive horse to follow his. Spurring their mounts, they galloped back in the direction of the marsh.

As they rode, she mentally reviewed the remedies she brought. During her year-long recovery from the illness that nearly killed her, she’d observed Aunt Mary treat a variety of agues, fevers and stomach complaints—but never a gunshot. To the assortment of medicaments she always carried she’d added a powder to slow bleeding, brandy to cleanse the wound and basilica powder. Had she thought of everything?

She had no further time to worry, for around the next bend the woods gave way to marsh. A knot of men gathered at the water’s edge. As she slid from the saddle, she saw at their center a still, prone figure, the pallor of his face contrasting sharply with the scarlet of the blood soaking his coat. His clothing was drenched, his boots half submerged in water whose icy bite she could already feel through the thin leather of her half-boots. The squire’s son Tom held a wadded-up cloth pressed against the boy’s upper chest. A cloth whose pristine whiteness was rapidly staining red.

Her nervousness coalesced in firm purpose. She must first stop the bleeding, then get the young man back to Everett Hall.

“Peters, bring more bandages from my bag, please.”

At her quiet command, Tom looked up. “Thank God you’re here!” His face white beneath its sprinkling of freckles, he scooted over to let her kneel beside the victim. “He’s bled so badly—and … and he won’t answer me. I … s he going to die?”

“Help me,” she evaded. “Lean your full weight against him, hard. Keep that cloth in place while I bind it to his shoulder. Did the shot pass straight through?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I—I didn’t think to look.” Tom’s eyes were huge in his pale face. “It’s my fault—I wanted to hunt. If he dies—”

“Easy, now—keep the pressure firm.” To steady Tom—and herself—she said, “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not sure. The dogs raised a covey, and we both fired. The next moment Kit clutched his chest, blood pouring out between his fingers. Maybe—perhaps one of our shots hit that bluff and ricocheted. He fell in the water, as you see, and we dragged him to land but feared to move him any further until help arrived.”

Listening with half an ear, she worked as quickly as she could, her worried eye on the unconscious victim’s gray face and blue-tinged lips. If the shot was still lodged in his body, it must be removed, but at the moment she didn’t dare explore the wound. Fortunately, the chill that numbed him also slowed the bleeding. She only hoped the effect would last through the jolting necessary to take him to shelter. And that his dousing in frigid water wouldn’t result in an inflammation of the lungs.

“Is he … tell me he’ll be all right!” The desperate note in Tom’s voice recalled her attention. Avoiding a direct answer, she looked up to give him a brief smile. “We must get him out of the cold. Have you sent to the hall?”

“Yes. My father should be along any moment.”

Indeed, as Tom spoke they heard the welcome sound of a coach approaching. Riding ahead was the squire, a short, rotund man on a piebald gray. He took one long look at the scene before him and blew out a gusty breath.

“God have mercy! What’s to be done, Mrs. Martin?”

“If you would help me bind this tightly, we can move him into the carriage and back to the hall.”

After securing the bandage, she directed the grooms to carry the victim to the coach, the unconscious man groaning as they eased him against the padded squabs.

“Tom, ride on ahead and alert Mrs. Jenkins. We’ll need boiling water and hot bricks and such.” The squire shook his head, his nose red with cold and his eyes worried. “Go on, I’ll settle with you later. There’ll be a reckoning to pay for this day’s work, make no mistake!”

Wordlessly his son nodded, then sprinted to his mount. After assisting Laura into the carriage beside her patient, the squire hesitated. “You’ll tend him back at the hall?”

“Until more experienced help arrives, of course. But I recommend you send someone with strong coffee to sober up Dr. Winthrop, or over to the next county for their physician. I’ve no experience with gunshots, and to tell the truth, the young man looks very badly.”

To her surprise, the squire seized her hands. “You must stay, Mrs. Martin, and do all you can! ‘Tis no country doctor we’ll be having! I’ve sent word to the lad’s brother to come at once and bring his own physician. Please say you’ll stay with the boy until he arrives!”

An instinctive prickle of fear skittered up from her toes and lodged at her throat. She glanced at the still figure beside her. Was there something familiar about that profile? “He is from a prominent family?” she ventured, already dreading the response.

“Younger brother of the Earl of Beaulieu.”

For a moment her heart nearly stopped. “The Puzzlebreaker?” she asked weakly. “Friend to the prime minister, one of the wealthiest men in the realm?”

“Aye, he founded that daft Puzzlemaker’s Club, but he’s a sharp ‘un, for all that. It’s said Lord Riverton don’t make a move without consulting him. Been visiting friends up north, with this cub set to join him next week.” The squire sighed heavily. “When I consider what Lord Beaulieu may think should his brother Kit die in my care … I do swear, I rue the day my Tom met him at Oxford.”

“Surely the earl could not hold you responsible.”

The squire shrugged, then raised pleading eyes to hers. “I beg you to stay, Mrs. Martin. With any luck, my messenger will reach the earl within hours and bring his physician back, mayhap by nightfall. I’d not have the worthless Winthrop near him, drunk or sober, and Lord knows, my sister will be no help. Mistress Mary thought so highly of your skill—none better in the county, she swore. Will you not keep the lad alive until his kin arrive?”

And thereby encounter the Earl of Beaulieu? All her protective instincts screamed danger as the metallic taste of fear filled her mouth, seeming stronger than ever after its near two-year hiatus. Though her first impulse was to jump from the carriage, mount the borrowed horse and race back to the safe haven of her little cottage, she struggled to squelch her irrational panic.

She must fashion a measured reply. The squire would be expecting from her nothing more extreme than worry.

While she fumbled for appropriate words, the squire sat straighter. “You cannot fear I’d allow the earl to take you to task should … the worst happen. My good madam, surely you realize your well-being is of great import to me!” He leaned closer and kissed her hand awkwardly. “I only seek to do all we can for the poor lad until his brother arrives.”

“I know you would ever safeguard me,” she replied, and managed a smile. You’re being a nodcock, the rational part of her brain argued. The great earl was hardly likely to recognize her as one of the unremarkable chits making her bow he’d met but twice a handful of Seasons ago. Though this task was clearly beyond her skill, she had more expertise than any other person within a day’s ride, and the boy needed help now.

As she vacillated, torn between the safety of refusal and the peril of acceptance, she heard again Aunt Mary’s last words God spared you for a purpose, missy. He’s given you skill—use it wisely.

She glanced again at the boy, motionless and bloody beside her. Did not that innocent lad deserve the best possible chance to survive? Even if caring for him placed her in some risk.

But a risk much less serious than the young man’s chances of dying if left untended.

“Have the coachman drive slowly. He must be jostled as little as possible,” she said at last. “If the wound begins bleeding again, there will be nothing I can do.”

The squire released a grateful sigh. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll keep pace by the coach. Call if you need me.”

He stepped down and closed the door, leaving her in the shuttered semidarkness with a barely breathing boy whose powerful brother, Lord Beaulieu, would be upon her within hours, perhaps this very day.

What had she gotten herself into?

Hugh Mannington “Beau” Bradsleigh, Earl of Beaulieu, leaped from the saddle and tossed the reins of his spent steed to the servant who materialized out of the darkness. His bootsteps ringing out on the stone steps, he approached the flickering torches flanking the entry of Squire Everett’s manor house. Before he reached the front portal, however, a tall, freckled lad he recognized as Kit’s Oxford friend rushed out.

“Lord Beaulieu, thank God you’re come. I’m so sorry—”

“Where is he?” At the stricken look coming over the young man’s face, Beau briefly regretted his abruptness, but after a message designed to convince him Kit could die at any moment and the most exhausting gallop he’d endured in years, he had no patience for an exchange of courtesies.

A shorter, rotund man with a balding head darted into view. “This way, my lord. Squire Everett here, but we’ll not stand on formality. Cook has a platter of victuals and strong ale waiting. I’ll have them sent up at once.”

Beau spared a brief smile for the older man who, though obviously anxious, made no attempt to delay him with excuses or explanations he at the moment had no interest in hearing. “You, sir, are both kind and perceptive.” Taking a deep breath, as he followed the squire to the stairs he voiced the anxiety that had eaten at him every second of the arduous ride. “How goes it with Kit?”

The squire gave him a sidelong glance as they started up. “Not well, I’m afraid. We very nearly lost him this afternoon. When do you expect your physician?”

The tension in his chest tightened. Kit—laughing, sunny-tempered Kit, so full of the joy of life. He could not die—Beau would simply not permit it. “Morning at the earliest. Who tends him now? Have you a doctor here?”

“Only a jug-bitten fool I’d not trust with a lame dog. Mrs. Martin keeps vigil, a neighbor lady skilled with herbs who is often consulted by the local folk.”

The image of an old crone mixing love potions for the gullible flew into his head. “An herb woman!” he said, aghast. “‘Od’s blood, man, that’s the best you could do?”

The squire paused at the landing and looked back in dignified reproach. “‘Tis not in London we be, my lord. Mrs. Martin is widow to a military man and has much experience tending the sick. She, at least, I was confident could do young Kit no harm. Indeed, she’s kept him from death several times already. In here, my lord.”

He should apologize to the squire later, Beau noted numbly as he paced into the chamber. But for now all his attention focused on the figure lying in the big canopied bed, his still, pale face illumined by the single candle on the bedside table.

Still and pale as a death mask. Fear like a rifle shot ricocheted through him as he half ran to his brother’s side. “Kit! Kit, it’s Hugh. I’m here now.”

The boy on the bed made no response as Beau took his hand, rubbed it. The skin felt dry—and warm.

“He’s turning feverish, I fear.”

The quiet, feminine voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed. Beau looked over at a nondescript woman in a shapeless brown dress, her head covered by a large mobcap that shadowed her face. This was what passed for medical aid here? Fear flashed anew—and anger. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“Keep him sponged down and spoon in willow bark tea. He was so chilled initially, I did not think it wise to begin cooling him from the first. I’m afraid the shot is still lodged in his chest, but I dared not remove it. When does your physician arrive?”

“Not before morning,” he repeated, anxiety filling him at the echo. This kindly old biddy might do well for possets and potions, but was she to be all that stood between Kit and death until MacDonovan came?

No, he thought, setting his jaw. He was here, and he’d be damned if he’d let his brother die before his eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

“You have ridden all day, my lord?”

“Since afternoon,” he replied impatiently. “‘Tis no matter.”

The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

Before he could utter a set-down, she said, “You should rest. You’ll do the young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you’re bleary with fatigue.”

He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however, simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, “My good madam, the boy on that bed is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I could do whatever is necessary.”

After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. “Very well. I’ve just mixed more willow bark tea. If you’ll raise him—only slightly now, heed the shot in his chest—I’ll spoon some in.”

For the rest of what seemed an endless night, he followed the soft-spoken orders of the brown-garbed lady. She seemed competent enough, he supposed, ordering broths up from the kitchen, strewing acrid herbs into the water in which she had him wring out the cloths they placed on Kit’s neck and brow, directing him to turn Kit periodically to keep fluid from settling in his lungs.

Certainly she was tireless. Although he’d never have admitted it, after a blur of hours his own back ached and his hands were raw from wringing cloths. Mrs. Martin, however, gave no sign of fatigue at all.

Their only altercation occurred early on, when he demanded she unwrap the bandages so he might inspect Kit’s wound. The nurse adamantly refused. Such a course would engender so much movement his brother might begin bleeding again, a risk she did not wish to take. Unless his lordship had experience enough to remove the shot once the wound was bared—a highly delicate task she herself did not intend to attempt—she recommended the bindings be left intact until the physician arrived. So anxious was he to assess the damage, however, only her threat to wash her hands of all responsibility for her patient, should he insist on disturbing Kit, induced him, grudgingly, to refrain.

Despite their efforts, as the long night lightened to dawn, Kit grew increasingly restless, his dry skin hotter. When, just after sunrise, the squire ushered in Beau’s physician, both he and Mrs. Martin sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Mac, for answering my call so quickly.”

“Ach, and more a command than a call it was.” His old schoolmate Dr. MacDonovan smiled at him. “But we’ll frash over that later. Let me to the lad. The squire’s told me what happened, and the sooner we get the shot out, the better. Mrs. Martin, is it? You’ll assist, please.”

The nurse murmured assent, and Beau found himself shouldered aside. “Go on with ye, ye great lown,” his friend chided. “Fetch yerself a wee dram—ye’ve the look of needin’ one.”

“I’m staying, Mac. Let me help.”

His friend spared him a glance, then sighed. “Open the drapes, laddie, and give us more light. Then bring my bag. I may be wanting it.”

By the time the gruesome procedures were over Beau was almost sorry he’d insisted on remaining. First came the shock of the jagged entry wound, the flesh angry red and swollen. Then he had to endure the torment of holding down his struggling, semiconscious brother while the physician probed the wound with long forceps to locate and remove the shot. His back was wet with sweat and his knees shaking when finally Dr. MacDonovan finished his ministrations and began to rebind his patient.

It wasn’t until after that was complete, when the physician complimented Mrs. Martin on the efficacy of her previous treatment, that he remembered the woman who had silently assisted during the procedure. With the cap shadowing her lowered face, he couldn’t read her expression, but her hands had remained steady, her occasional replies to the physician calm and quiet throughout. He had to appreciate her fortitude.

Having lowered his once-again mercifully unconscious brother back against the pillows, he followed as the physician led them all out of the room.

The squire waited in the hallway. “Well, Sir Doctor, how does the patient fare?” he asked anxiously.

“The shot was all of a piece, best I could tell, which is a blessing. If I’ve not missed a bit, and if this lady’s kind offices in tending the lad until I arrived stand us in good stead, my hopes are high of his making a full recovery. But mind ye, ‘tis early days yet. He mustn’t be moved, and the fever’s like to get much worse afor it’s agleaning. It’s careful tending he’ll be needing. Have ye a good nurse aboot?”

The squire glanced from the doctor to Mrs. Martin and back. “Well, there’s my sister, but I’m afraid her nerves are rather delicate—”

“I shall be happy to assist until his lordship can find someone,” Mrs. Martin inserted, her face downcast.

“Excellent. I recommend you accept the lady’s offer, Beau. At least until ye can secure the services of another such reliable nurse.”

“I’ve already sent a message to Ellen. That is, if it will not be an inconvenience for you to house my sister and her daughter, squire?”

“An honor, my lord,” the squire replied with a bow. “And yourself, as well, for as long as you wish to remain.”

“Then I should be most grateful to accept your help until my sister arrives, Mrs. Martin.”

After she murmured an assent, the squire turned to the physician. “If you tell me what I must do, Doctor, I’ll sit with the lad while Mrs. Martin takes her rest. She’s been at his side since morning yesterday and all night, too.” The squire directed a pointed look at Beau, a reminder he owed the man an apology—and a humble thanks to the quiet woman who’d so skillfully nursed his brother. “Lord Beaulieu, you must be needing your rest, as well. I’ll just see the lady on her way and then return to show you to your chamber.”

He bowed. With a nod and a curtsey, Mrs. Martin turned to follow the squire.

Delaying his apologies to pursue a more pressing matter, Beau lingered behind. “Was that report accurate, or are you merely trying to ease the squire’s anxiety?” Beau demanded as soon as the pair were out of earshot.

Dr. MacDonovan smiled and patted his arm. “God’s truth, Beau. ‘Tis hard on you, I know, but there’s little we can do now but give him good nursing. He’s strong, though—and I do my job well. I canna promise there won’t be worrisome times yet, but I believe he’ll pull through.”

Beau released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thanks, Mac. For coming so quickly and—” he managed a grin “—being so good. Now, I’d best give the redoubtable Mrs. Martin a word of thanks. Probably should toss in an apology, as well—I’ve not been as … courteous as I suppose I might.”

The doctor laughed. “Frash with her, did ye? And lost, I’ll wager! A lady of much skill, Mrs. Martin. ‘Tis she more than me you’d best be thanking for keeping yon Master Kit on this earth. Lay in the icy water of the marsh nigh on an hour, I’m told. The chill alone might have killed him, had he not been carefully watched.” The doctor frowned. “Aye, and may catch him yet. We must have a care for those lungs. But away with ye. I can keep these weary eyes open a bit longer.”

Beau gave his friend’s hand a shake and started down the hall. Now that Kit was safe in Mac’s care, he noticed anew the ache in his back and a bone-deep weariness dragged his steps.

He saw Mrs. Martin by the front door as he descended the last flight of stairs, apparently in some dispute with the squire, for she was shaking her head.

“Thank you, sir, but ‘tis only a short walk. There’s no need for a carriage.”

Beau waited for the little courtesies to be observed, his eyes nearly drooping shut until he noticed the squire make Mrs. Martin an elegant leg, quite in the manner of the last century.

“No indeed, dear ma’am, you mustn’t walk. I’m fair astonished such a gentle lady as yourself has not collapsed from fatigue ere now. What fortitude and skill you possess! Qualities, I might add, which nearly equal your beauty.”

After that pretty speech, the squire took Mrs. Martin’s hand and kissed it.

Surprise chased away his drowsiness until he remembered the squire had called Mrs. Martin a “lady,” widow to a military man. An officer, apparently, since his host would hardly extend such marked gallantries to an inferior. Beau smiled, amused to discover the middle-aged squire apparently courting the nondescript nurse, and curious to watch her response.

“You honor me,” said the lady in question as she gently but firmly drew back her hand.

Coy? Beau wondered. Or just not interested?

Then the nurse glanced up. Illumined as she was by the sunshine spilling into the hall, for the first time he got a clear look at her face—her young, pretty face.

In the same instant she saw him watching her. An expression almost of—alarm crossed her lovely features and she swiftly lowered her head, once again concealing her countenance behind a curtain of cap lace. What remark she made to the squire and whether or not she availed herself of the carriage, he did not hear. Before he could move his stunned lips into the speech of gratitude he’d intended to deliver, she curtsied once more and slipped out.

By the time the squire joined him on the landing his foggy brain had resumed functioning. Mumbling something resembling an apology as the man escorted him to his chamber, he let his mind play over the interesting discovery that the skillful Mrs. Martin was not only a lady, but a rather young one at that.

He recalled the brevity of her speech, even with the squire, whom she apparently knew well, and the way she skittered off when she found him watching her. More curious still. Why, he wondered as he sank thankfully into the soft feather bed, would such an eminently marriageable widow be so very retiring?

Having the widow tend his brother would give Beau the opportunity to observe this odd conundrum more closely. Which would be a blessing, for as his brother’s recovery—and Kit simply must recover—was likely to be lengthy, Beau would need something to distract him from worry. Luckily, nothing intrigued him as much as a riddle.




Chapter Two







A few hours later Laura pulled herself reluctantly from bed and walked to the kitchen. A bright sun sparkled on the scrubbed table and Maggie, the maid of all work the squire sent over every morning to do her cleaning, had left her nuncheon and a pot of water simmering on the stove.

She’d remain just long enough for tea and to wash up before returning to her patient. The kindly Scots physician had ridden straight through, he’d told her, and would be needing relief.

She frowned as she poured water into the washbasin. It wasn’t fatigue that caused the vague disquiet that nagged at her. She’d learned to survive on very little sleep while she cared for her dying “aunt Mary.”

No, it was the lingering effects of working for so many hours in such close proximity to the Earl of Beaulieu—a man who exuded an almost palpable aura of power—that left her so uneasy.

He’d not recognized her, she was sure. Even when he looked her full in the face this morning, she’d read only surprise in his eyes—surprise, she assumed, that she was not the aged crone he had evidently taken her to be. An impression she, of course, had done her best to instill and one he might harbor yet if she’d not stupidly looked up.

A flash of irritation stabbed her. She’d grown too complacent of late, forgotten to keep her head demurely lowered whenever there might be strangers about.

‘Twas too late to repair that lapse. However, despite discovering her to be younger than he’d expected, there was still no reason he should not, as everyone else around Merriville had done, accept her as exactly what she claimed to be, the widowed cousin of the retired governess whose cottage she had inherited.

She felt again a wave of grief for the woman who had been nurse, friend and savior. That gentle lady, sister of Laura’s own governess, who had taken in a gravely ill fugitive and given her back not just life, but a new identity and the possibility of a future. Who’d become her mentor, training Laura to a skill which enabled her to support herself. And finally, the benefactor who’d willed her this cottage, safe haven in which to begin over again.

A safe haven still, she told herself firmly, squelching the swirl of unease in her stomach. She need only continue to act the woman everyone believed her to be. Young or not, a simple country gentlewoman could be of no more interest to the great earl than a pebble.

As long as she stayed in her role—no more jerking away in alarm if his eye chanced to fall upon her. She grimaced as she recalled that second blunder, more serious than the first. “The Puzzlebreaker,” as the ton had dubbed him after he’d founded a gentleman’s club devoted to witty repartee and clever aphorisms, was a gifted mathematician and intimate of the Prince’s counselors. But as long as she said or did nothing to engage that keen intellect or pique his curiosity, she would be perfectly safe.

Be plain and dull, she told herself—dull as the dirtbrown hue she always wore, plain as the oversize and shapeless gowns she’d inherited from her benefactress.

And avoid the earl as much as possible.

Dull, dull, dull as the ache in her head from the pins that had contained her long braided locks for too many hours. With a sigh of relief, she loosed them and, tying on a long frayed apron, set about washing her hair.

Beau smiled as he surveyed the modest gig and the even more modest chestnut pulling it. How London’s Four Horse Club would laugh to see him tooling such a rig.

But after a few hours’ sleep took the edge off his fatigue, a deep-seated worry over Kit roused him irretrievably from slumber. A check on his brother, whose color had gone from unnatural pale to ominously flushed and whose rapid, shallow breathing was doubtless responsible for the frown now residing on Mac’s tired face, had been enough to refuel his anxiety.

His physician friend looked exhausted after a ride doubtless as arduous as his own. Humbly acknowledging, at least to himself, that he’d feel better sending Mac off to bed with Mrs. Martin present to direct Kit’s care, he’d offered to fetch the nurse. At least the drive in the pleasant early fall sunshine gave him something to distract himself from his gnawing anxiety.

As the squire’s son promised, her cottage was easily located. He pulled the gig to a halt before it and waited, but as no one appeared to assist him, he clambered down and hunted for a post to which he could tie the chestnut. Finding none, he set off around the walled garden. Surely behind the cottage there would be some sort of barn.

Having found a shed, by its look of disuse no longer home to horse and tackle but still sturdy, he secured the rig and headed back to the cottage. A gate to the garden stood open, from which, as he started by, a black and white spotted dog trotted out, spied him, and stiffened.

Kneeling, he held out a hand. After a watchful moment, apparently deciding Beau posed no threat, the dog relaxed and ambled over. Beau scratched the canine behind his large ears, earning himself an enthusiastic lick in the process, after which the dog collapsed in a disgraceful heap and rolled over, offering his belly.

“Some watchdog. Where’s your mistress, boy?”

The dog inclined his head. When the rubbing did not resume, with an air of resignation he hopped up and loped off into the garden. Amused, Beau followed.

Behind the walls he found cultivated beds, herbs interspersed with a charming array of asters and Michelmas daisies and alternating with chevrons of turnips, onions and cabbages. Inhaling the spicy air approvingly, he was halfway across the expanse of tilled ground when a slight movement near the cottage drew his attention and he halted.

Halted, caught his breath, and then ceased to breathe.

A young woman leaned back against a bench, eyes closed, her head tilted up to a gentle sun that painted a straight nose, arched brows, high cheekbones and full lips with golden highlights. The collar of her gown lay unfastened, revealing an alluring triangle of warm skin from her arched neck downward to the top of an old worn apron, whose blockage of the view that might otherwise have been revealed below he would have fiercely resented had not the garment redeemed itself by clinging snugly to its wearer’s generous curves.

The lady’s hair, which she was drying in the sun, swirled over the back of the bench and cascaded down beside her in a thick fall of burnished auburn curls.

Just then she reached up to comb her fingers through one long section, fluffing it as she progressed. The movement stretched the threadbare apron taut against her body, its thin white cloth silhouetting her breast against the dark bench, full rounded side to sun-kissed tip.

Beau’s mouth grew dry, then dryer still as one curl tumbled from her shoulder, caught on the apron’s edge and came to rest cupped, like a lover’s hand, around the outline of that perfect breast.

She sighed, a slight exhale that parted her lips and made her look like a woman rousing to passion’s whisper. His body tensed in automatic response, his mouth tingling to trace the outline of that arched throat, taste the honey promised by those lips, his fingers itching to tangle themselves in that cloud of copper silk and pull this arresting vision closer.

A vision that was, he realized with a shock that rippled all the way to his toes, the woman he’d hitherto identified as the mousy, nondescript Mrs. Martin.

He tingled in other places, as well. And had not yet regathered wits enough to decide what to do about it when the dog, whose presence he had totally forgotten, had the deplorable ill timing to seek out his mistress.

At a lick to her hand, Mrs. Martin sat up and opened eyes as piercingly blue as the clear autumn sky. Eyes that went in an instant from sleepy to shocked. With a small shriek, she leaped up and backed away.

Conscious of a sharp sense of loss, he nonetheless endeavored to set her at ease. “Please, don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin. It’s Hugh Bradsleigh—Kit’s brother. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

As big a plumper as he’d ever told, he knew, realizing he’d never have been treated to this glimpse of heaven had the reclusive Mrs. Martin sensed his presence earlier. He still couldn’t quite believe the silent woman who had toiled at his side all night and this enchanting siren were indeed one and the same.

“L-lord Beaulieu! You—you startled me. Misfit,” she scolded the dog, who hung his head, tail drooping, “why did you not warn me we had visitors?”

Misfit. Beau grinned. Now there was an apt name. If he’d had the foresight to bring a bone, the wretched animal probably would have given him the run of the cottage.

Nonetheless, the pooch had led him to The Vision and thus Beau felt compelled to defend him. “He did inspect me rather thoroughly before he let me in.”

He watched regretfully as with one hand Mrs. Martin fumbled to fasten the buttons at her collar and with the other gathered her glorious, sun-burnished hair into a knot. Though he was somewhat guilty at having startled her, he wasn’t so conscience-stricken that he felt compelled to point out the dowager’s cap for which, with sidelong glances as if she expected he might at any moment attack, she was quite obviously searching.

Instead he picked it up. “Your cap, Mrs. Martin.” With a slow smile, he held it out, just far enough to be polite but not so close that she could reach it without approaching him.

And, ah, how he wanted her to approach. After a moment, skittish as a startled doe, she did. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll take it now, if you please.”

Come get it, he almost said. Biting back the words lest he frighten her off, he simply stood, waiting.

She took the few steps that separated them, then snatched at the cap. Her hand grazed his palm as she grabbed, and for a moment, their fingers caught.

He felt the flame of contact in every nerve. And so, he realized exultantly as he watched her, did she.

Her blue eyes widened in shock, her lips once again parting slightly in surprise—an unconscious invitation. She even forgot, for a moment, to take the bonnet.

All too soon she remembered. Murmuring a disjointed thanks, she jerked it away and jammed it down on her head.

“I’ll … just gather a few supplies.” With that, she swiftly retreated into the interior of the cottage.

Leaving Beau gazing after her, amazed.

He sat down on the bench she’d just vacated to pull together his disordered thoughts. The young Mrs. Martin—she could not be more than five-and-twenty—possessed not just a pretty face, but an alluring figure. Indeed, the rush of attraction to that lush body still thrummed in his blood. An attraction that, based on her reaction to their unexpected touch, experience told him was mutual.

With his typical methodical precision, he pondered the implications of these new discoveries.

The first question posed by his now-fully-piqued curiosity was why so lovely a lady would choose to mask her beauty beneath dowager caps and ill-fitting gowns.

His second thought was of Kit—reviving a burden of worry heavy enough to extinguish the lingering embers of lust. For the immediate future all he had need of was a skillful nurse. Attraction or no, until Kit was out of danger there’d be no time to pursue other matters.

Still, that the intriguing Mrs. Martin had twice managed to distract him from his pressing anxiety was mute testament to the power of that attraction.

As he stirred restlessly, wondering how much longer it would take for her to “gather supplies,” it suddenly occurred to him that having the most capable nurse in the neighborhood take up residence at the squire’s manor would be much more convenient. Having that nurse be a lovely and discreet young widow with whom a mutual attraction had flared might, once his brother’s condition improved, afford enticing possibilities.

Despite his worry, a ghost of desire stirred at the thought and he grinned, more cheered than he’d been since he received the dire message of his brother’s injury. Kit would survive—he was in Beau’s care and he must survive—but after this present crisis he would doubtless require a long convalescence. Beau had detailed his men to wrap up the investigation in the north, and must shortly return to London to assemble his report. The imperative to resolve his present case would not permit him to linger here, but he would certainly visit frequently to check on Kit.

Beau took another deep breath of herb-scented air. Now this was a charming bower to which he’d happily return.

But first, he’d have to win over the shy Mrs. Martin, which would probably also require penetrating the puzzle of why she seemed to take such pains to remain invisible.

How fortuitous, he thought, his grin widening. He did so love solving puzzles.

He reconsidered the alarm that had crossed her face when she’d seen him watching her in the squire’s entry. Since his name and title were rather well known, she’d likely recognized who he was from the first, but in the sickroom she’d displayed no awe of his position or inclination to toady; indeed, rather the opposite. He smiled again at the memory of her stubbornness regarding Kit’s treatment and her total lack of deference as she ordered him about.

So why the mistrustful look? Perhaps she’d been raised on warnings about the subtle seducing ways of the high nobility, and saw him as such. Though he was by no means a saint, he could recall no escapades scurrilous enough to have penetrated this deep into the hinterlands. Not in recent years, at any rate, he amended.

He must demonstrate that though the wealthy Earl of Beaulieu might sit at the councils of government and move in a society many country folk deemed immoral, he was also Hugh Bradsleigh, a man like any other, who would never lead farther than a lady would willingly follow. Somewhat to his surprise, he found the notion that the lovely Mrs. Martin might be that rare individual who could appreciate him for himself alone immensely appealing.

Disarming her wariness would be quite a challenge—the one thing, he thought, spirits rising in anticipation, he loved almost as much as solving puzzles.




Chapter Three







A few moments later Mrs. Martin returned with a large satchel. The care she took that their hands not touch as he relieved her of it reinforced his conviction that she was not indifferent to him—an encouraging sign.

Once the lady realized he meant her no harm, she would doubtless be less wary. And begin allowing herself to respond to the pull he felt crackling between them.

He paused to savor the small delight of taking Mrs. Martin’s hand as he assisted her into the gig. Availing himself of this unexceptional excuse to lean close, he caught a whiff of soft perfume. Rose with a hint of lavender? Lovely, and it suited her.

How to set her at ease? he mused as he settled the satchel to one side of the seat and walked over to untie the chestnut. Questions about home and family, interspersed with teasing compliments, had usually relieved anxiety in the shier or more tongue-tied young ladies with whom he’d had occasion to converse, he recalled.

By the time he’d rounded the gig and hopped in, Mrs. Martin had repositioned the satchel between them and moved to the edge of the seat—as far from him as possible.

Suppressing a grin, he set the gig in motion. “Did you grow up in this area, Mrs. Martin?”

She slid him a sidelong glance. “No, my lord.” “It is home to your late husband’s family?” There was a minute pause. “No, my lord.” “Do you enjoy the country? Your garden is certainly lovely.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I must thank you, for your devoted care of my brother. We are both much in your debt.” “Not at all, my lord.”

“I must apologize, as well,” Beau persevered. “I fear I’ve not been entirely courteous. Kit and my sister are all the family I possess, and I’m very protective of them. It’s distressing to know Kit was—still is—in danger.”

“Naturally, my lord.”

Beau stifled a rising exasperation. Could the woman not string together more than three words at a time? Even the most stuttering of young females managed better. Was she really as dull as she seemed?

He felt an irrational disappointment. Idiot, he chastised himself. Just because a woman possesses a certain skill—and a voluptuous body—does not mean she owns a mind of equal caliber. Besides, discretion is a more useful quality in a bedmate than conversation.

If he managed to persuade her there—an intention this one-sided conversation was doing little to strengthen. Until he recalled that sinuous fall of mahogany silk spilling about her sides and shoulders, one copper curl resting where he would wish to touch, to taste.

Interest stirred anew. Doubtless the effort would be worth the prize. Experience taught him women valued baubles, time, attention—and marriage. All he need do is discover which combination of the first three this little brown sparrow desired, and the attraction to him she was taking such pains to suppress would win out.

For a moment he allowed himself to contemplate the gloriously satisfying interludes that might thereafter ensue. And when his brother was fully healed, when he left Merriville for good, he would, as usual, be most generous.

He frowned slightly. A generosity, it occurred to him as he recalled the necessity of tying up his own horse and the total absence of servants, of which she seemed to stand in definite need. Did she truly—she a lady of gentle birth—live entirely alone in the cottage with only that unreliable mutt to safeguard her?

A well-honed protective instinct sprang up to overlay a more base desire. He glanced at her silent figure, as far away from him on the narrow bench as she could manage without falling out of the gig altogether, and smiled, a stirring of fondness in his chest.

A mutually satisfying interlude would benefit them both. He need only persevere, gently but persuasively, until Mrs. Martin realized the truth of that herself.

Would this interminable drive never end? Laura’s neck ached from keeping her head angled to the side, as if in rapt contemplation of the country scenery through which she walked nearly every day. Would such action not have looked extremely peculiar, she’d have been tempted to jump from the gig and finish the journey on foot.

At last it seemed Lord Beaulieu had, mercifully, abandoned his attempt to engage her in conversation. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her monosyllabic answers to a nerve-racking series of personal questions had left an impression of such dullness that he would not choose to pursue her acquaintance any further.

She needn’t find his queries alarming. Most likely the earl was merely attempting to make sure that the person he’d asked to care for his brother was entirely respectable. At least she hoped so, not daring to sneak a glance at his expression to verify that theory.

Her heart still beat a rapid tattoo, but that was to be expected after Lord Beaulieu had nearly scared her witless, suddenly appearing as if conjured out of air. Whatever had possessed Misfit to allow him to enter the garden unannounced? The animal was too shy of gunfire to make a hunting dog, for which reason the genial squire allowed the hound to stay with her, but he was usually an excellent watchman, greeting any approaching interloper, man or beast, with a volley of agitated barking.

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment as she recalled how disheveled she must have appeared to him. She’d caught a speculative gleam in his eye at first, but sprawling like a wanton as she’d been, her hair all unpinned, she supposed she’d deserved that. Fortunately she’d also been wearing one of the oldest of Aunt Mary’s gowns, possessed of no style whatever and overlarge to boot.

By the time she’d buttoned up properly and tidied her hair, that unnerving look had vanished, though she’d remained so rattled, she’d forgotten where she’d left her cap. He’d had to hand it to her, which he did politely but pointedly, as if to subtly underscore how unladylike her behavior had been.

Charleton would have been much less kind.

Then there’d been that odd rush of … fear?—when her fingers chanced to entangle his. So jolting had that touch been, she’d made sure to avoid it happening again.

To her enormous relief she spied the gateposts to Squire Everett’s manor. A few more moments and she’d be delivered from his lordship’s excruciating proximity.

They were nearly at the manor when Tom rode toward them. A single glance at his face, tears tracking down the dust of his cheeks, was enough to drive the discomfort of the earl’s hovering presence from her mind.

“Oh, Tom! He’s not—” she began.

“No. Not yet. But the doctor was sending me for you, Lord Beaulieu. He said you should s-see Kit n-now before …” Swallowing hard, Tom left the sentence unfinished.

With a muffled curse the earl pulled up the chestnut, tossed the reins to her and sprang from the gig. By the time she’d controlled the startled horse and guided him to a halt before the front entrance, the earl had vanished.

The squire’s son was weeping openly as he helped her down from the gig. “I … I’m so sorry, ma’am. I should never … How can I ever forgive myself if—”

She patted his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself! If the shot that wounded him was a ricochet, it might just as well have been his own bullet that struck him as yours.”

Shaking his head against her reassurance, Tom took the chestnut’s reins and led both animals toward the barn. For a moment Laura just stood there before the entry.

Should she go in and offer what help she could? But the earl’s physician was there, and much more knowledgeable than she. If the boy were truly dying, his family and friends would not want an outsider hanging about. Perhaps she should just quietly return to her cottage.

She considered the tempting notion for a moment before rejecting it. As long as the boy lived, she must at least offer her help. Only if the earl refused that offer might she in good conscience return home.

When she entered the sickroom a few moments later she found Lord Beaulieu bending over the boy, lips moving as if in conversation with his brother, hands clasping Kit’s limp arm. Though the earl seemed oblivious to her arrival, the doctor spied her immediately and walked over.

“There’s an infection beginning in his lungs, just as we feared. I’ve given him syrup of poppy, but weak as he is, I daren’t bleed him. If you’ve aught of remedies to try, I should be grateful of them.”

Laura scanned her memory for the treatments Aunt Mary had used when one of the squire’s tenants had contracted an inflammation of the lungs the winter previous. “We might set a pot of mint steeped in boiling water by his bedside,” she whispered. “The vapor seems to make breathing easier. And wrap his neck with flannel soaked in camphor.”

The doctor considered a moment. “It canna hurt. An herbalist had the teaching of you, the squire said? There’s much they use that works, though we’re not knowing the whys and wherefores. Let’s try it, for God’s truth, I’ve done all I can for the laddie.”

After that she lost track of time. When she finally slipped from the room to find the necessary, night had fallen. On her way back the squire intercepted her, begging her to let him send Maggie to the cottage for her things so that she might remain at the hall to tend the patient. Taken aback, she fumbled for an answer.

“Both Lord Beaulieu and Dr. MacDonovan asked that I add their requests to my own,” he said. “The doctor admires your skill, and his lordship wishes every experienced hand available be put to his brother’s care.”

Though logically she knew if she were to be of continuing assistance it made much more sense for her to stay at the hall, still she resisted the notion of quitting even briefly the cottage that meant safety and comfort. A stirring at the depths of her being still whispered danger.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself crossly. The earl was fully occupied with his brother, whose survival remained in grave doubt. He had neither time nor interest to waste on his brother’s nurse.

“You will stay, won’t you, Mrs. Martin?”

Since refusing so sensible a request would appear both uncharitable and extremely odd, despite her forebodings Laura had little choice. “Of course, it would be much more convenient for me to remain. If my being here will not be an imposition on you or Lady Winters?”

“It will be a blessing,” the squire returned with a sigh. “My sister is in a state, what with sickness and more noble visitors about, and I’ve all I can do to keep the house running. ‘Twould be a great comfort to me to know you were watching over the boy.”

“I must stay, then.” She made herself smile. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He nodded and pressed her hand before releasing it. And so she returned to the sickroom, her concern over her patient’s condition underlined by the disquieting knowledge that for the indefinite future she would be residing under the same roof as the unsettling Earl of Beaulieu.

Just after dawn a week later Laura roused herself from a light doze. She glanced up quickly and was reassured to find her patient still sleeping deeply, brow free of perspiration and color pale but natural.

Another quick glance confirmed that the earl also slept, his tall form curled on a pallet beside his brother’s bed where he’d had a cot installed at the start of the crisis.

Though Lord Beaulieu had helped as much as possible, the responsibility for Kit’s care had still fallen primarily on Dr. MacDonovan and herself. She’d endured an exhausting and anxiety-ridden blur of time while Kit Bradsleigh teetered on the edge between living and dying, too preoccupied with nursing him to worry about the elder brother who seldom stirred from the boy’s side.

Last evening, the lad’s temperature had spiked and then, for the first time since the inflammation began, dropped to normal. After having hovered for days in a restless, semiconscious haze of pain and fever, Kit woke up clear-eyed, keen-witted—and ravenous.

Laura sent for as much chicken broth as she gauged her patient could tolerate, and Dr. MacDonovan. The physician, who’d been eating a late dinner with the earl, came at once, Kit’s brother on his heels. After a swift examination, to everyone’s great relief the doctor declared that, though Kit was still very weak and would need a long period of rest to fully recover, his lungs were clearing and he was probably out of danger.

The squire went off immediately to fetch a bottle of his best claret while Dr. MacDonovan laughingly admonished Kit, who demanded a glass of his own. As thrilled and relieved as the others, Laura uttered a quick prayer of thanks. And then shooed the men out, telling them that since her patient needed rest and their well-deserved celebration would likely be lengthy, they should take their bottle in the salon and she would keep watch alone. Abjuring her as a downy, kindhearted lass, Dr. MacDonovan shook her hand heartily and ushered the earl out.

She heard Lord Beaulieu come back in after midnight and gave him a nod of reassurance as he silently approached his brother’s bed. He took Kit’s fingers and held them a moment, as if to verify that the fever had really left, then looked back at her with a tired smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, and took up his post on the cot.

The earl’s valet would see to Kit’s needs when he woke, and both the doctor and Lord Beaulieu would keep the boy occupied during the day. Her work here would soon be done—perhaps for good, as Lady Elspeth, sister to Kit and his lordship, was expected soon.

She could return to the safety of her cottage before the household reverted to a normal routine—and the earl had leisure to become curious about his brother’s nurse.

She paused a moment by the doorway. In the hazy pastel light of dawn, the earl’s stern features were relaxed, his handsome face more approachable. She felt again that inexplicable pull, as if his commanding personality called out to her even in sleep. A tiny sigh escaped her.

If events had not transpired as they had, she might risk lingering here, responding to the wordless, urgent imperative that somehow drew her to this man. And then shook her head at her own foolishness.

If events had not transpired as they had, she would never have landed in this remote rural corner of England.

Fatigue must be making her whimsical. Straightening her weary shoulders, Laura slipped from the room.

Two paces down the hallway, a touch to her back made her jump.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin!”

She turned to see the earl behind her. “My lord?”

“I’ve not had the opportunity before, with you so occupied tending Kit, but I didn’t want another day to go by without thanking you for your efforts. Though at times I may have appeared … less than appreciative—” he gave her a rueful grin “—I want you to know mere words cannot convey the depth of my gratitude.”

She felt a flush of pleasure at his praise even as she set about denying it. “Not at all, my lord. I did only what any person trained in the healing arts would have.”

“You’ve done a great deal more, as we both know. Left the familiar comfort of your own home, devoted nearly every waking hour and worked yourself nigh to exhaustion in Kit’s care. Indeed, the squire’s since told me were it not for your prompt and skillful action immediately after his wounding, Kit would never have survived the journey back to the hall. And before you deny it, that assessment was confirmed by Dr. MacDonovan himself.”

Since she had, as he predicted, already opened her lips to demur, she was left with nothing to say.

“I owe you debt I can never repay. I won’t insult you by offering money, but were it in my power, I’d go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart’s desire.”

The quiet conviction of those words somehow compelled her to raise her downcast eyes. She found his gaze fixed on her with such intensity, her heart gave an odd lurch.

He smiled, his face lightening. “Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?”

Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. She struggled to stem it, to summon up a reply blithe enough to match his teasing question. “M-my needs are few, my lord. I’m quite content.”

The earl chuckled. “A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!”

“Not at all. Alas, I’m entirely ordinary.”

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. While she stood motionless, breath suspended, his expression once again turned so fiercely intent she could not make herself look away.

“No, my lady,” he said after a long moment. “Though you may be many things, ‘ordinary’ is certainly not one of them. But you’ll be needing your rest.” He stepped back, breaking the invisible hold. “Suffice it to say you have my eternal friendship and support. If I can ever be of service to you in any way, you have but to ask.”

He made her a bow. When she continued to stand motionless, he gave her shoulder a gentle shove. “Go on now. If you expire from fatigue in the squire’s hallway, Kit will never forgive me.”

The unexpected contact sizzled through her. “My lord,” she said faintly, and curtsied. All the way down the hall she felt his lingering gaze on her back, while the imprint of his fingers smoldered on her shoulder.

Leaving Kit Bradsleigh in the physician’s charge, the next day at first light, Laura slipped from her patient’s room. She turned toward the stairs to her chamber, then hesitated.

Though she was tired after her long night, a vague restlessness haunted her. Accustomed to daily exercise tending her garden, walking out to gather supplies of wild herbs or to let Misfit ramble, she felt stifled after having been confined to the squire’s manor for nearly a week.

She considered taking the air in the garden, but unsure of the earl’s schedule, reluctantly dismissed that notion. The intricate arrangement of alleys and shrubshrouded pathways would make it difficult to spot someone far enough away to avoid them, and should she chance to encounter the earl, he would doubtless feel compelled to invite her to stroll with him. Though she might simply refuse, with brutal honesty she had to admit the draw of Lord Beaulieu’s stimulating presence and the beauty of the fall flowers would likely prove a combination beyond her power to resist.

Why not visit the library instead? She’d become acquainted with its rich treasures two years ago when the squire had offered her a book to beguile the tedium of her long recovery. Given free rein thereafter, she’d been delighted to explore the excellent collection it contained. That decided, she headed for the front stairway.

Though Kit Bradsleigh was out of immediate danger, he remained seriously ill, and Dr. MacDonovan thought it prudent he still have care both night and day. Quite cleverly, she thought with a touch of smugness as she descended, she’d arranged with the physician to take the night watch while the doctor and Lord Beaulieu provided medical treatment and diversion during the day. She had further requested, since she would be eating at odd hours, that her meals be served in her room.

Yesterday when she’d returned to her patient, she’d discovered that Lord Beaulieu’s cot had been removed from the sickroom. Naturally, with his brother on the road to recovery, the earl would resume sleeping in his own chamber. So it appeared she would not see him again during his stay, since she’d neither meet him at mealtime nor encounter him in the sickroom during her night vigil.

Her relief at avoiding his too-perceptive eye mingled with a touch of what might almost be … regret. He affected her so strangely, setting her skin tingling with a sort of prickly awareness, as if some vital essence about him telegraphed itself to her whenever he was near. She found that entirely involuntary reaction both exhilarating and frightening.

Like that touch to her shoulder, the morning he thanked her for saving his brother’s life. Close her eyes, and she could almost feel it still, his fingers’ imprint branded into the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

How … peculiar. And a warning to her to be doubly on her guard.

After peeping ahead to ascertain no one was in the front hallway, she scurried to the library. Safely over the threshold, she paused to breathe in the comforting, familiar scents of beeswax and leather bindings before walking to the bookcase that shelved the complete Milan set of the Iliad and Odyssey. Her self-imposed confinement would seem much more tolerable if, after her rest, she could look forward to an afternoon among the heroic cadences of Homer’s poetry.

Impatient to inspect the treasure, she selected a volume and carefully smoothed open the manuscript. Just a few pages, she promised herself, and she would slip back to her room.

Within moments she was completely entranced. Eyes avidly scanning the verses, she drifted across the parquet floor, shouldered open the library door—and stepped smack into the tall, solid body of the Earl of Beaulieu.




Chapter Four







Beau was striding briskly down the hall, invigorated by his dawn ride, when a figure popped out the library door and slammed into him. The slight form rebounded backward, a book spinning from her hands.

Swiftly recovering his balance, he grabbed the maid’s shoulders to keep her from falling. His automatic irritation over the girl’s inattention evaporated instantly as first his fingers, then his brain registered the identity of the lady in his grip.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Martin! Are you all right?” Delighted with this excuse to touch her, he let his hands linger longer than absolutely necessary to steady her, reveling in the rose scent of her perfume.

As soon as she regained her footing, she pulled away. “Fine, thank you, my lord. And ‘tis I who must apologize, for not watching where I was walking.”

With regret he let her go. “Are you sure you’re uninjured? I’m a rather large obstacle to collide with.”

“Quite all right.”

“Let me restore your book to you.” As she murmured some inarticulate protest, he bent to scoop up the volume.

And froze for another instant when he read the title. The first volume of Homer’s Illiad. In Greek.

Slowly he straightened. “You are reading this book?”

Something like consternation flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him. She opened her lips, then hesitated, as if she found it difficult to frame an answer to that simple question. “Y-yes, my lord,” she admitted finally, and held out her hands for the volume.

He returned it. “You must be quite a scholar.”

For a moment she was silent. “My father was,” she said at last.

He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he continued, “And you, also, to be reading it in Greek. As I asserted earlier, not at all an ordinary lady.”

“But a tired one, so if you will excuse me—”

“Another moment, please, Mrs. Martin.” He couldn’t let her go, not yet, not when the only communication they’d shared for days previous or were likely, given her nursing schedule, to have in the days ahead were terse directives uttered in the sickroom. “You are looking pale. I fear you’ve been too long cooped up in the house. Do you ride?”

She shot him a glance before quickly lowering her gaze. “N-no, my lord.”

“You must stroll in the garden this afternoon, then. The day promises to be fair and warm. No excuses, now! I shall call for you myself after your rest to ensure it. We can’t have you endangering your own health.”

Again, that darting glance of alarm. “That … that is exceedingly kind, my lord, but I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

How could he ever disarm the wary caution so evident in those glances if she persisted in avoiding him? Determined not to let her wriggle away, he continued, “Walking with a lovely lady an ‘inconvenience?’ Nonsense! ‘Twould be my pleasure.”

“Your offer is most kind, but I—I really should return and tend my garden. Weeds grow alarmingly in a week, and I must restock my supplies.”

“I should be delighted to drive you there. Perhaps you can explain something of your treatments. Dr. MacDonovan tells me Kit is likely to have a weakness in his lungs for some time, and may have continuing need of them.”

“Possibly, but I could not allow you to abandon your work for so tedious an errand.”

“I have no pressing business at the moment,” Beau replied, dismissing without a qualm the two satchels of dispatches his secretary had sent from London by courier just last evening. “What time should you like to go?”

She tightened her grip on the book and inhaled sharply. His concentration faltered as he watched her dart the tip of her tongue over the pouting plumpness of her lower lip. A unexpected bolt of lust exploded deep in his gut, recalling in sharp focus that vision of her in the garden that lingered always at the edges of his consciousness—arched white throat and pebbled breasts and wild tresses calling for his touch.

Heart hammering, he wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Mrs. Martin stood a handspan away, gaze lowered, cheeks pinking, her breathing as erratic as his own. She felt it, too, this primal beat pulsing between them in the deserted hallway. And as surely as he knew his own name he knew eventually she must succumb to it. To him. Already he could sense in her the fluttering anxiety between acceptance and flight.

“N-no, really, I … To be frank, my lord, I should be most uncomfortable to receive such marked attention from one so far above my station.”

She was trembling. He could feel the delicious vibrations thrum through him. How long and hard would she fight their attraction?

He did not wish to push her—too much—but he’d eagerly meet her, could she but persuade herself to advance a part of the way.

Would she? Caution said ‘twas too early to rush his fences, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Your service to my brother makes us equals, Mrs. Martin. But given your obvious reluctance to bear me company, I fear I must have alarmed or offended you in some way. If so, I most sincerely apologize. I stand already so deeply in your debt, surely you know I would never do anything to injure you.”

She looked up then, as he’d hoped. For a fraught moment she studied him, her puzzled, questing gaze meeting his while he stayed silent, scarcely able to breathe, knowing the whole matter might be decided here and now.

Slowly she nodded. “Yes, I do know it.”

Elation filled him, urged him to press the advantage. “What time shall I bring the gig ‘round, then?”

Energy seemed to drain from her and she sighed, as if too weary to withstand his persistence any longer. “Four of the clock?”

“I shall be there.” He reached toward her cheek. She stood her ground, permitting the slight glancing touch of his fingers. “Sleep, Mrs. Martin. Until four, then.”

She nodded again and, holding the volume to her chest like a shield, turned and walked swiftly to the stairs.

Beau stood staring after her, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He’d been attracted to her from the first, but this … compulsion—he couldn’t think what in truth to call it—to claim the fair Mrs. Martin far exceeded anything he’d anticipated or previously experienced.

He shook his head, still amazed by it. Until a few days ago he’d believed that his current mistress, a lovely dancer as skilled as she was avaricious, had been more than meeting his physical needs.

Mrs. Martin roused in him a similarly intense response that was at the same time entirely different. Oh, he wanted her as he’d seen her in the garden—warm, eager, ardent—but he wanted just as fiercely to discover the story behind those skilled hands, the quiet voice that soothed his delirious brother’s agitation, to penetrate within the lowered head and engage the questing mind that read Homer.

He laughed out loud. Greek, no less! How could he have thought her intellect dull, even for a moment?

Maybe it was the shock of Kit’s close brush with death that heightened all his senses to so keen an edge. Normally he was the most analytical of men—the successful performance of his job depended upon it—but the power of whatever arced between them this morning defied analysis. This was alchemy, elemental substances bonding through some force buried deep within their respective natures, a force not to analyze, but to experience.

He intended to do so. Once Kit was out of danger, he wanted to experience every thrilling facet the unprecedented power of this mutual attraction promised.

That decided, he switched directions and headed for the breakfast room. The more he knew of Mrs. Martin, the more tools he’d possess to lure her to him—and turn his molten imaginings into reality.

Time to prime the voluble squire’s conversational pump.

He was pleased to find Squire Everett already at breakfast. “Come in, come in, my lord. Fine morning for a ride, eh?”

“A wonderful morning indeed.”

“M’sister won’t be down this morning—female palpitations or some such, so don’t stand on ceremony. Please, fill your plate. Marsden will pour your tea.”

“Have you had a dish sent up to Mrs. Martin yet?” he asked casually.

“Cook will take care of that. Must see that she gets her nourishment. Thin as a wraith anyway—can’t have her going into a decline.”

“Indeed not. What an invaluable member of the community! Has she resided here all her life?”

“No, the last few years only. Her late aunt, Mrs. Hastings—a most genteel lady, God rest her soul—owned the cottage first. Mrs. Hastings helped her husband, a botanist he was, in his studies of herbal plants, and became something of an expert herself.” The squire paused to take a bite of kidney pie and waved a finger at Beau. “So you see, my lord, ‘tis no crone of a medicine woman who had the teaching of Mrs. Martin, but the wife of an Oxford don! Anyways, once the folk hereabouts learned of Mrs. Hastings’s skill, they took to consulting her. And when Mrs. Martin contracted a puerile fever, her family sent her to her aunt. Nearly died, Mrs. Martin did, and took the better part of a year to recover.”

“I’m sure her neighbors are most grateful she did.”

“God’s truth, that!” The squire motioned the footman to pour him another cup. “Given the, ah, weakness of the local sawbones, there’s a number of folk who’d be in bad frame indeed, were it not for Mrs. Martin.”

“My own brother included.” The squire nodded. “Glad to know you realize that!” “Her husband was a military man, you said. In what regiment?”

The squire stopped buttering his toast and looked up. “Can’t say as I know. Does it matter?”

Back off, Beau. “Not really. I’m trying to ascertain how I might best reimburse her for the time and skill she’s expended for my family. She would not accept payment in coin, I expect, but I should like to offer some gesture of appreciation. Is she perchance a reader?”

The squire chuckled. “My, yes! Quite a little bluestocking. Why, when she was laid up recuperating from her illness, I swear she must have read every musty tome in my library twice through. Not that I grudged her the loan of them, of course. Nay, I was glad to see them off the shelf for better reason than to make way for Hattie’s feather duster.” The squire put down his fork, suddenly serious. “Mustn’t think she’s one of them annoying, opinionated females who are always trying to tell a body what to do. Not a bit of it! Our Mrs. Martin’s quiet and deferential, a real lady.”

“So she has shown herself, under the most trying circumstances,” Beau agreed, noting the squire’s slight stress on the possessive “our.” “The rest of her family is not from this county?”

“No. Now that I think on it, I’m not sure where her parents live—nor her husband’s people.” The squire shrugged. “Never seemed important. She’s quality, as one can tell by looking at her, and that’s all that matters.”

“Of course.” Beau paused, choosing his words with care. “It does seem to me somewhat—odd, though, that she should be living alone, without any relations to accompany her. I must confess I was shocked when I went to fetch her and found not a single servant. I cannot help but think she stands in need of better protection.”

“Protection?” The squire stiffened and threw him a suspicious glance. “She’s well protected now, sir. I’d have a servant at the cottage full-time, if that’s what you’re hinting, but she’ll not hear of it. And my grooms have standing orders to keep a close eye on the place.”

Beau returned a bland smile. “That’s not the same as having her safe within one’s household. Perhaps I should speak to my sister—”

“No need for that!” the squire interrupted, his glance turning frostier. “She’d not stir from Merriville—likes to feel useful, she tells me. In any event, I’ve plans for her eventual protection—quite legitimate plans! No need to disturb your lady sister—Mrs. Martin will be well cared for, I assure you.” Pushing his chair back, the squire rose. “I’ll just go check on that breakfast plate.”

Giving Beau another sharp look, the squire paced out. Beau savored the rich scent of his tea and smiled. So, as he’d suspected, the squire had “legitimate” plans in regard to Mrs. Martin. But though a match of such unequal age would not be unusual, often resulting in affection on both sides, he was certain the lady did not in any way reciprocate the squire’s tender regard.

Thanks be to God.

To his eye, Mrs. Martin’s reaction to the squire’s gallantry indicated disinterest cloaked in polite avoidance rather than coquetry. Nor, given the care she took to mask her beauty, did it appear she sought to attract any of the eligible gentlemen hereabouts.

Twofold thanks to heaven.

Why a vulnerable lady in such a precarious financial position would not wish to ensnare the affections of a potential suitor puzzled him. Solving that mystery was the key, he suspected, to unfettering the attraction between himself and Mrs. Martin.

Fortunately, uncovering people’s emotions and intent was a skill he’d perfected when still a lad, fascinated by puzzles of all sorts. While mastering chess, he’d discovered to his amusement that he could often learn as much about his adversary’s strategy from watching the reactions of face and body as by following the play. A sudden widening of the eyes, a quick indrawn breath, the alerting of the body and tensing of shoulders might indicate an opportunity discovered, or a check about to be set. Intrigued, Beau began to actively track such reactions. By the time he left Eton for Oxford he was able to pick up much more subtle signs.

Which allowed him to enjoy a quite profitable career at cards while at university. In addition, his ability to sense out which of two boxers would triumph, which jockey would bring home the winning horse, or which of two gentlemen would win a bet had led friends—and opponents—to wait on his choices and seldom wager against him.

And later led him to the secret career he now pursued, assisting Lord Riverton, an older Oxford classmate and now a cabinet member, in rooting out governmental corruption.

Given the strength of his need to disarm the wariness of Mrs. Martin, he gave thanks both for his skill and the invaluable contacts he’d accumulated over the years.

The news of Kit’s accident had pulled Beau from a house party, where the number of congenial friends present had sweetened the business of observing a highranking government official suspected of embezzlement. His agents were at work amassing invoices and shipping figures—hence the satchels arriving daily by courier. The accumulating evidence, observation and instinct all told him the suspect he’d been watching was indeed the architect of the scheme.

Though he’d put all thought of miscreants aside while Kit’s life hung in the balance, once he was assured his brother was truly out of danger and Ellie arrived to oversee Kit’s care, duty compelled him to return to London and finish his assignment. Still, he could spare a few more days to recover from the shock of nearly losing a sibling—and to figure out how best to win the trust of the cautious Mrs. Martin. For when he returned to check on his convalescing brother, he intended for her to welcome him back with all the fire he knew she possessed.

As he drained his cup and took the stairs to Kit’s room, Beau considered various explanations for Mrs. Martin’s atypical behavior. Perhaps the lady avoided gentlemen and garbed herself in gowns that camouflaged her beauty because her heart still belonged to her late husband. If she didn’t avoid men out of heartache, she might do so from distaste, though he’d not noticed in her interactions with Mac, the squire, or his brother anything to indicate a dislike for men in general. Or perhaps she brooded over some disappointment in love.

The powerful physical connection that flared between them did not support any of those theories. Besides, he sensed in her not aversion, disdain, or the despair of lingering grief, but … a wary watchfulness.

The hallmark of someone with secrets to hide.

He stopped dead, arrested by the conclusion. He might be wrong—occasionally he was—but he didn’t think so.

He continued his analysis, excitement accelerating the pace. Mrs. Martin apparently moved easily among—indeed, was sought out by—the community in and around Merriville, so she didn’t avoid all society.

Mrs. Martin the widowed healer met society, he amended. Mrs. Martin the woman hid behind shapeless gowns and voluminous caps. What could a lovely lady of gentle birth feel so obliged to conceal that she tried to make her person virtually invisible?

Beau couldn’t imagine. But with urgency thrumming in his blood and the goad of an imminent departure, he intended to bend every effort to find out.




Chapter Five







Her palms damp with nervousness on the wicker basket she carried, at precisely four o’clock Laura Martin walked into the entrance hallway to meet the Earl of Beaulieu.

Despite her exhaustion this morning, she’d lain awake wondering if there might have been some way she could have avoided this excursion. Before falling into a leaden sleep, she’d concluded there was none, save a blunt refusal that would have been as ungracious, given the concern the earl expressed about her well-being, as it was insulting.

She’d blundered badly again, being caught with that volume of Homer. No chance now of Lord Beaulieu believing her to be dull-witted. But a scholarly lady could still be a recluse of little social skill—indeed, before her marriage had she not been just such a girl? As long as she kept conversation to minimum and behaved with an awkwardness that, given the state of her nerves, she would not have to feign, the outing might pass off well enough.

But as she stepped out under the entry archway to await the approaching gig, Laura couldn’t help but feel a surge of gladness. The afternoon was as fair as the earl had promised, gilded with the special light that only occurs in late autumn when balmy breezes, teasing reminders of the summer just past, seduce the mind into forgetting the cold threat of winter to come. The sunwarmed herbs in her garden would greet her with a bouquet of piquant scents, the beds of mums and asters with a painter’s palette of russets, oranges, golds, lavenders and pinks.

After having been trapped indoors for nearly a week, she simply would not let the exasperating, unnerving seesaw of reaction the earl seemed always to evoke in her spoil her enjoyment of this perfect afternoon.

Given the paucity of her experience with men, it had taken her time to realize, with some chagrin, that at least part of the uneasy mix was an entirely carnal attraction. Once long ago, when young Lord Andrew Harper took her walking in her mother’s garden, she’d experienced the same quivery awareness and agitation. Acutely conscious of the muscled masculine form beneath Lord Andrew’s tight-fitting coat and buff breeches, she’d both longed for and been terrified that he might kiss her.

He hadn’t, though he’d looked into her eyes with the same searing intensity as the earl. Soon after that walk, her father informed her he’d accepted the distinguished and much older Lord Charleton’s offer for her hand, putting an end to titillating interludes in the garden.

Could the earl desire her, too? A flattering thought, though ludicrous. If the Earl of Beaulieu did find his brother’s dowdy nurse attractive, it would only be because gentlemen, as she knew well, were not particularly discriminating in their passions. Any minimally satisfactory female would do until a more appealing prospect happened along, and there were surely few prospects in Merriville.

She was still smiling at the notion of the Lord Beaulieu ogling the village baker’s buxom daughter when the earl pulled up in the gig.

Sunlight glistened in the burnished ebony of his dark hair and warmed the brown eyes to amber flame. Apollo cast in bronze, she thought, as a now-familiar slash of awareness stabbed her belly and quivered down her legs. She didn’t realize she was standing motionless, simply staring at him, until the earl addressed her.

“Should I call someone to assist you up? I’m afraid the horse is so fresh, I cannot leave him.”

“No, I can manage,” she replied, cheeks warming. The cat looking at the king, pathetic as the old nursery rhyme.

Transferring the reins to one hand but keeping his eyes on the restive chestnut, Lord Beaulieu leaned over to steady her elbow as she climbed in, his touch light and impersonal. Nonetheless, tension simmered between them as she took her seat.

“Is the day not truly as splendid as I promised?” he asked, and turned to give her a brilliant smile so full of comradely enjoyment she had to smile back.

“Indeed it is. Thank you for offering to drive me.”

“Let’s be off, then. Do you need to gather wild herbs as we go, or just those in your garden?”

“I need only garden-grown medicinals.”

“Nonetheless, if you spy anything on the way that you can use, let me know. This fine animal isn’t capable of blazing speed, so it will be no trouble to bring him to a halt. Squire Everett told me your uncle was a botanist, and you came to Merriville to be treated by your aunt. Had you worked with herbs before then?”

Laura tensed. “No.”

But his tone was easy, almost teasing as he continued. “I understand you were quite ill. A lady whose mind is active enough to acquire Greek must have found the forced inactivity of convalescence irksome. Learning about herbs would have blunted the frustration, I should guess.”

She glanced at him, surprised at his perspicacity. “Yes, it did.”

“A fascinating art, the business of healing. From time immemorial men have attempted to understand it, sometimes with appalling results. Imagine, recommending the ingestion of black powder and lead to relieve stomach distress!”

She laughed. “Barbarous indeed.”

“Did your aunt start treating illness at your uncle’s behest? Or out of her own concern?”

Laura paused, uncertain how to frame a monosyllabic answer—or whether, in truth, she needed to do so. Unlike the unnervingly probing inquiry he’d subjected her about her family the last time he drove her, these questions were less personal.

Perhaps, given his brother’s illness, Lord Beaulieu had developed a genuine interest in the practical use of herbs. What harm if she replied at more length on this relatively safe topic?

Cautiously, tracking his reaction with quick, cautious glances, she began, “My uncle studied the makeup of plants and how the elements in them affect healing. He believed, and my aunt practiced, that only natural materials, especially such long-utilized botanicals as willow bark, foxglove, rosemary, and the like be used to treat the sick, and then in small doses. ‘Tis best to intervene as little as possible, let the body’s natural strength heal itself.”

“That sounds wise. Do we pass any beneficial wild herbs on our route?”

“Several, though they are not at the peak moment for harvesting now.”

“Point them out, if you would.”

And so during the remainder of the drive, she indicated stands of willow and horehound, pockets of tansy, goldenseal and echinacea. At his prompting, she added details of the teas, infusions and poultices one could make from them.

Having the earl’s intense, probing mind focused on treatments rather than the individual describing them was an immense relief. Though a strong awareness of him as a man still bubbled at the edges of consciousness, by the time they reached her cottage Laura had relaxed to a degree she wouldn’t previously have believed possible in his lordship’s company.

As soon as Lord Beaulieu handed her down from the gig, which he did with business-like efficiency that further reassured her, Misfit bounded up. Whining with joy, tail wagging at manic speed, he blocked her path and insinuated his head under her fingers. Perforce halted, Laura laughed and scratched hard along the knobby bones at his tail while the dog groaned with delight.

The earl laughed, as well. “I believe he missed you.”

“He becomes distressed if I’m away for long.”

“Don’t like being left alone, do you, old boy?” Lord Beaulieu reached over to rub his long fingers behind the dog’s ears. “Misses his fellows, too, I’ll wager. Why doesn’t the squire take him out with his pack?”

“Having been caught in a poacher’s trap as a pup, he shies so at the sound of gunfire he’s useless as a hunting dog. After I healed him, the squire let me keep him.”

“As your guardian?” the earl guessed.

She shrugged. “Something like, I suppose. Please, do go in. I’m afraid I haven’t much to offer, but there will be cool water in the kitchen.”

“Knowing you’d likely not have anything in the house, I had the squire’s cook prepare us a basket of refreshments. I’ll fetch it when you’re ready.”

That so wealthy a gentleman, who doubtless had his every need anticipated by a small army of servants at every one of his numerous establishments, should have noted and planned for that small detail impressed her. “Thank you. Should you like to wait in the parlor while I tend the garden? I have a set of the studies my uncle published. You might find them interesting.”

“I’m sure I should, but I can’t imagine remaining indoors on so glorious a day. Let me help you.”

The idea of the impeccable earl down on his knees pulling weeds was too ludicrous to resist. Stifling a grin, she recommended that if he preferred to stay outside, he might seat himself on the old willow bench on the porch.

The same one, she recalled with a jolting flash of memory, on which he’d discovered her drying her hair that afternoon.

If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined his long form on the bench and sat watching her.

At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar, satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping the leaves, stems and branches she needed.

A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.

After she’d finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.

Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back, waiting at Laura’s feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.

The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.

“All right, but only for a few moments,” Laura told him. With a joyful bark, Misfit dropped the limb and danced on his paws, awaiting her throw.

She lobbed it to the far wall, watching with a smile as the dog raced after, a dark streak of motion in the fading daylight. He bounded back, did a little pirouette before her, and dropped the stick once more.

Lord Beaulieu snatched it before she could, and after a grimace at its condition, threw it again, clear over the fence and into the brush beyond. The hound rushed to the wooden barrier and then out the gate.

“He’ll love that,” Laura said. “‘Tis a shame he cannot hunt, for he dearly loves to retrieve. Keeps my vegetables safe, and provides hares for the stew pot several times a week.”

The earl gave his slimy hands a rueful glance. “He makes a rather messy business of it.”

“So he does. Thank heavens you were not wearing your gloves—they’d be ruined!” Laura rummaged in her basket for a rag. “Here, let me wipe them.”

He held out his hands. Without thinking, Laura grasped his wrist. Which, she immediately realized, was a mistake.

The warm touch of his skin sent a shock through her, while below the cuff of his shirt she felt his pulse beat strongly against her fingertips. Without conscious volition she raised her eyes to his.

He stared back. The air seemed suddenly sucked out of the afternoon sky, and she had trouble breathing.

She should look down, wipe his hands, step away. But she didn’t seem able to move, her body invaded by a heated connectedness that seem to bind her to him by far more than the simple grasp of his wrist.

Finally, with a ragged intake of breath she tore her gaze free and wiped his dog-slobbered hands with quick jerky motions. After achieving the barest minimum of cleanliness, she released his wrist and shoved it away.

Still shaky, she stepped back—and tripped over Misfit, who chose that moment to bound up to her, stick in mouth. Not wanting to step on the dog, she hopped sideways and lost her balance altogether.

An instant later she hit the ground in an undignified tangle of skirt and limbs, face up to the startled earl and the star-dusted sky. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation, but before she could speak, Misfit, delighted she’d apparently decided to join him at his level, put both paws on her chest and leaned over to lick her face.

“Stop … Misfit … down!” she attempted to command between swipes by his long pink tongue, all the while trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from under his weight. After a moment the absurdity of her position overwhelmed embarrassment. Leaning her head back under a continuing assault of doggy kisses, she dissolved into laughter.

He ought to shoo the dog away, help her up. Instead Beau stood frozen, watching the arched column of long white throat, the chest quivering with amusement. All afternoon he’d been haunted by memories of her on the bench where he’d surprised her sun-drying her hair, where today she’d invited him to linger, where, separated only by a picnic basket, they’d eaten the cold meat and cheese and bread, sipped the wine the squire’s cook had packed. Which he’d eaten and drunk without tasting anything because it was her slender body, her wine-sweet lips he wanted to devour.

And now, while that ungrateful mutt dribbled slobber on her face, all he could think of was brushing the dog aside so he might kiss that throat, cup his hands over the breasts now prisoned by muddy paws, move over her and into her. It required another full minute and all the strength of mind he could muster to beat back the pulsing desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the cottage.

But he was master of his appetites, and she was not ready for that. He called once more on the iron selfdiscipline upon which he prided himself, under whose guiding check he’d operated all afternoon, keeping the conversation carefully neutral, masking the desire she aroused in him with every small movement—the way she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip when in contemplation, the subtle sway of her hips as she walked, even the tilt of her head as she gazed up at him inquiringly, like a little brown sparrow.

How unobservant people were, he marveled as he watched her tussle with her dog. How could any man look at Mrs. Martin, really look at her, and see only the drab exterior, miss the translucence of skin, the smoky fire of her hair beneath the ubiquitous cap, the sparkling brilliance of mind so evident once he finally got her into conversation. Dismissing the sparrow as dull and familiar without noting the intricacy and subtle shadings of color and pattern. Even the squire, though he’d not been totally blind, had perceived but little of her subtle allure, else she’d not still be a widow.

He was fiercely glad of that blindness, however. For she was his sparrow—his. The strength of that sudden conviction startled him, but it emanated from somewhere so deep within him he didn’t bother to question it.

It would be a novel experience, using his skills to entice a lady. He’d not previously done so, being too circumspect to dally with married women of his own class and too protective of his bachelor state to pay singular attention to a maiden. The strength of his wealth and title alone, he considered cynically, had always been more than enough to garner him the favor of any lesser-born female who caught his eye.

But he would use them now, his vaunted skills, to lure this little brown sparrow and tame her to his hand.

Mrs. Martin, with her long white throat and deliciously heaving chest and frothy petticoats thrown back to reveal shapely ankles, represented temptation strong enough to break the resolve of a saint. Not being one, he’d best bring to an end the torturous pleasure of watching her. Thank heavens she was too modest to let her glances stray below his waistcoat, else she’d have clearly defined evidence of his desire the sternest of will could not conceal.

Ruthlessly he disciplined his thoughts, reassuring himself of the intimacy to come by recalling that timeless, breathless interval when she captured his wrist and his gaze. So strong was the sense of connection that he knew, he knew, she sensed and reciprocated the same powerful emotions that were roiling through him. However, though her agitation immediately after spoke of the depth of her attraction, her care to quickly move away told him she wasn’t ready quite yet to succumb to the force that sparked so readily between them.

But she would be. Soon. And having made such progress today in setting her at ease, he’d not jeopardize her willing acquiescence by rushing his fences now, like an untried schoolboy.

“Misfit, heel!” he commanded. When, with a droop of tail, the dog reluctantly complied, Beau held out a hand. “Mrs. Martin, shall we retrieve you from Misfit’s pack?”

At his teasing comment, she froze. The unselfconscious delight drained from her face and, ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled to her feet, brushing at the mud the dog had left on her apron.

“L-lord Beaulieu, excuse me! That was undignified.”

“What need has one of dignity on so lovely a day?”

Her glance shot to his face and probed it, as if looking for evidence of mockery or disapproval. He held her gaze, his amusement fading.

Abruptly she lowered her chin, took a step away and grabbed her basket. “We’ve lingered far too long. ‘Twill take but a moment to pack up the herbs. If you would be so kind, my lord, would you make sure the gig is ready?”

Somehow in an instant, the easy mood that had gilded the golden afternoon had shattered, leaving in its place a chill that had nothing to do with the evening’s approach. Beau was at a loss to explain why it happened, or to figure out how to recapture their warm intimacy. Dismay and anger and heated frustration seized him.

He knew instinctively that pressing her to stay, teasing her further, would only deepen her wariness.

After a moment in which, his mind still a swirl of protest, he could summon no logical reason to stall their departure, he replied, “Of course, madam.” And bowed, though she’d already turned away, retreated to her workbench, putting even more distance between them.

After watching her for another moment, Beau headed for the shed. Analyze, analyze, he told himself as, teeth gritted, he stalked over to prepare the gig. He hadn’t even touched her hand to help her up, so it couldn’t have been his barely repressed desire that frightened her off. What was it she had apologized for—a loss of dignity?

Dignity—a stifling word, that. Had some repressive individual—a stern governess, a cold mama, a disapproving father—or husband—stolen from her the ability to express joy openly? So that the keen zest for life, the unfettered laughter he’d just witnessed, emerged only in unguarded moments and was viewed as a lapse of propriety to be immediately regretted?

His anger shifted, redirecting itself against whomever had required his Sparrow to restrain her innocent delight in life. He’d like to teach the fellow the propriety to be found at the end of a clenched fist.

He felt again that surge of fierce protectiveness. Mrs. Martin had an enchanting laugh, and he meant to hear it, often. He’d have her indulging—and sharing with him—all the passionate responses she so diligently suppressed.

I’ll make it so good for you, for us, he vowed as he speedily checked over the chestnut. I’ll give you freedom from want and restraint, cherish your body, revel in that questing, active mind. You need only let me.

But his frustration revived on the drive back, which mirrored in unwelcome parallel the first time he’d driven her from the cottage to the hall. Mrs. Martin perched on the edge of the seat, as far from him as possible, replying to his every conversational opening an unvarying series of “yeses,” “nos” or “I don’t know, my lords.”

How could she sit there so composed and distant, virtually ignoring him, when his body hummed with suppressed desire, his mind with the fervent need to probe her thoughts, know and explore and nurture her?

By the time he drew rein before the squire’s entry hall, irritation at the unexpected setback drove him to be just a bit less cautious.

And so, after a groom came to the chestnut’s head and Mrs. Martin turned to climb down from the carriage, he stayed her with a touch to the shoulder. Enough of impersonal, nonthreatening courtesy.

Beau took her hand and slowly, deliberately, raised it. “I enjoyed this afternoon very much, Mrs. Martin.”

He moved his mouth across her knuckles, the barest touch of lip and warm breath. Then, while her eyes flared open and her gaze jerked up, he turned her hand over and applied the glancing, shock-spitting caress of his lips down her slender fingers to her callused palm. He had to call once again on his famous self-control to stifle the near-overwhelming impulse to sink his teeth into the tempting plumpness beneath her thumb where the palm narrowed to the soft, rose-scented skin of her wrist.

He released her then, pulses hammering, astounded that a simple brush with his lips could instantly rekindle desire to urgent fever pitch. He glanced down at her.

Lips slightly parted, eyes locked on him, she stood motionless, oblivious of the footman waiting to hand her down, looking awestruck as if she, too, could not credit the strength of what just passed between them. Her hand was still outstretched where he’d released it, fingers splayed and trembling.

Oh, yes, she felt that. Satisfaction surged through him, his only compensation for being forced to restrain himself from claiming her on the spot.

No, Mrs. Martin, he told her silently as he bowed in farewell. This unnameable force between us cannot be ignored, try you ever so coolly to deny it. Sooner or later, all the secrets and passion you are at such pains to hide will be mine.




Chapter Six







Her body and mind still spellbound by the earl’s simple gesture, not until the squire offered a bluff greeting did Laura notice her host striding out.

“Come in, come in, my lord, Mrs. Martin! We’ve guests for you to meet. Lady Elspeth and her daughter, Lady Catherine, have just arrived.”

Another stranger. Rattled as she felt at the moment, Laura was tempted to avoid the introduction. However, she swiftly realized that if she excused herself now, she might be pressed to join the party in the drawing room later. Better to brush through this quickly and avoid a more protracted conversation over biscuits and tea.

The arrival of his lordship’s sister, however, meant she would soon be able to return home. An unexpected ambivalence dampened the surge of relief she’d anticipated at that reprieve.

Swallowing her protests over windblown hair and grubby gown, she followed the squire to the south parlor.

She refused to glance at Lord Beaulieu during the short walk. Drat, how the man unsettled her! Just when she’d thought they’d developed a comfortable rapport, nurse to patient’s elder brother, he had to intrude again upon her senses with his tantalizing, dangerous appeal.

That so small a gesture as his lips brushing her palm could evoke so agitated a response only underscored she was a fool to believe she could remain a detached acquaintance. His very presence stirred both memories she’d rather suppress and longings she could scarcely put a name to.

She’d do better to follow her original plan of avoiding him.

By the time she reached that conclusion, the squire had ushered them into the parlor. A beautiful, ravenhaired lady with the earl’s dark eyes rose as they entered.

“Beau!” She held out her arms.

The earl strode over to envelop his sister in a hug. “How glad I am to see you, Ellie! But you’re so pale. A difficult journey? Or did this scamp worry you to death?”

He turned to catch a child who hurtled into the room at him. “Uncle Beau! Do not tease Mama! She’s been sick, so I’ve been ever so good. Did Uncle Kit really get his arm—eeh!” The rest of her sentence ended in a squeal as Beau tossed her into the air.

Laura looked at the small face, rosy-cheeked with excitement, the plump arms clasped about Lord Beaulieu’s neck, and a painful contraction squeezed her chest. My Jennie, she thought, helpless to stop the wave of grief that swept over her.

By the time Lord Beaulieu deposited the girl on the sofa, she’d managed to form her lips into a smile.

“Stay still, imp!” his lordship ordered, and turned to the ladies. “Ellie, I have the honor to present Mrs. Martin, the lady whose skillful hands kept our graceless brother from a premature demise. Mrs. Martin, this is my sister, Lady Elspeth, and her daughter, Lady Catherine.”

Laura rose from her curtsey to find his lordship’s sister gesturing to her. “Come, Mrs. Martin, sit beside me. How can I ever thank you for saving Kit?”

“His lordship’s physician deserves the credit, my lady. I merely kept watch,” Laura said, reluctantly taking the seat indicated.

“‘Twas much more than that, I’m told! But I must apologize for taking so long to arrive. As Catherine mentioned, I haven’t been … well, and was forced to take the journey in much shorter stages than I should have liked.”

The earl’s face clouded. “What is it, Ellie?”

She patted his hand. “Nothing alarming, so you may lose that worried look! Though I fear I shall not be as much help to you as I’d hoped. I’m … I’m breeding again, you see.” A smile of rapturous delight lit her face.

Lord Beaulieu leaned over to kiss her. “I know how happy that makes you. But after the difficulties you’ve had since Catherine’s birth, was it wise to travel? I’m delighted to see you, of course, but I’m also astounded, given your condition, that Wentworth allowed you to come.”

Lady Elspeth’s smile turned impish. “He didn’t. He was in London preparing for another tiresome diplomatic mission when your message arrived. I expect he’ll be furious when he gets my note, but … oh, Beau, useless as I may be, I couldn’t bear to remain away with Kit so ill!”

She turned appealing eyes to Laura. “We’re hopelessly clannish, Mrs. Martin. And so, having barely met you, I must beg a favor. I’ve suffered two … disappointments since Catherine, and much as I want to care for Kit I know I must rest and conserve my strength. Can I prevail upon you to remain until Dr. Mac feels he no longer needs constant nursing?”

A whirlwind of surprise, consternation, fear—and a guilty gladness disordered Laura’s thoughts. From the confusion, only one conclusion surfaced clearly. As a healer, she could not abandon her patient until her services were no longer needed. She would not be leaving.

She curtsied once more. “My hearty congratulations at your good news, my lady. Of course, if Dr. MacDonovan, his lordship, and you all think it best, I shall remain.”

“I’m sure the doctor will add his pleas to Ellie’s,” Lord Beaulieu said. “You know how much I myself value your skill, Mrs. Martin.”

The warmth of his tone, the compelling gaze he focused briefly on her before turning to the child pulling impatiently at his coat sleeve, left her stomach churning even as the protective part of her brain warned that remaining was a very bad idea.

“I want to see Uncle Kit! I want to see his shotted arm. You have the bullet?”

“Catherine, please!” the child’s mother protested, but Lord Beaulieu merely laughed. “Bloodthirsty chit. If the doctor says Kit is up to the visit, you may see him. But no probing his wounds! It will hurt him too much, poppet.”

The girl’s bright eyes dimmed briefly, but she nodded. “I won’t hurt Uncle Kit. Take me now?”

“If you’ll permit, I should withdraw and rest,” Laura inserted quickly and rose to her feet. “Lady Elspeth, Lady Catherine, a pleasure to meet you. My lord.” She curtsied, eager to quit the room before he could protest.

“I must rest, as well,” Lady Elspeth said. “Indeed, I only returned to the parlor after our arrival because I wished to meet you, Mrs. Martin, at the first possible instant. Shall you be down for tea? I should very much like to become better acquainted.”

Not if I can help it, Laura thought. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. I must rest if I am to watch through the night.” “Of course. Perhaps you can visit with me tomorrow? I have not yet begun to thank you! And as my brothers will warn you, once I determine upon something, I’m most horribly persistent.” The engaging smile which accompanied those dire words belied their threat.

“As you wish, my lady. Good day. And thank you again, my lord, for driving me to the garden.”

That summary of their afternoon together should put the interlude in proper perspective, Laura thought as she escaped from the salon.

“Beau, escort me to my chamber, please?”

“Ride me on your shoulder, Uncle Beau!”

Grinning, Beau bowed. “As my ladies command.” After inducing a series of giggles by throwing Catherine up to her post, he offered Ellie an arm. “Are you truly ‘fine’? Wentworth would never forgive me were something to happen to you while under my care. Nor should I forgive myself.”

“You know I want this too badly to take any risks. It nearly drove me mad to progress so slowly, but I forced myself to call a halt as soon as I tired or,” she added with a rueful grimace, “when the motion of the carriage overcame me.”

“Mama casts up her accounts,” Catherine informed him. “Mostly every day. It’s nasty.” She wrinkled her small straight nose.

“Nasty indeed,” her mama agreed with a sigh. “I shall be just as comfortable here as at home, and easier of mind, since I can see myself how Kit progresses. So if … something should happen, you cannot be blaming yourself.”

Beau grimaced. “Is it so obvious?”

Lady Elspeth squeezed the arm she held. “Mac told me you had a cot placed so near Kit’s bed, his every restless breath woke you. And that you scarcely slept or left his side the whole first week, as if you would hold him to life by strength of will alone.” She paused, then added softly, “You cannot keep us from all harm, Beau.”

The sound of a horse’s scream, the smash of impact and shriek of shattering wood echoed out of memory. Forcefully he shut them out. “You are my charge, Ellie.”

“I pray daily that all will go well, but what happens is in other hands. You might do well to remember that.”

Beau nodded at the rebuke. “I shall, Madam Confessor. Now, scamp—” he eased his niece down “—here’s Mary to take you to the nursery.”

The girl clung to his arm. “Please, don’t make me go! I want to ride with you!”

“It’s too late today for a ride, poppet. But if you’re a good girl and go without teasing your mama, I’ll come up later and have tea with you.”

The small hands at his shirt cuff stilled. “With rasp’ry jam and macaroons?”

He nodded solemnly. “Devon cream, too.”

Lady Catherine sighed deeply. “And a ride tomorrow?”

“If the weather is fine.”

“And I get to see Uncle Kit?”

“If the doctor says you may.”

The pointed chin nodded agreement. With quaint dignity she dipped him a perfect curtsey, back straight, skirts spread gracefully. “As you wish, Uncle Beau. Good day, Mama. I shall go with you now, Mary.”

Hiding a smile, the maid took the hand Lady Catherine offered. “Very good, miss.”

Her mother stood looking after her, affection and despair mingled in her face. “She’s such a scamp! One moment she’s climbing trees, her petticoats in tatters, and the next she makes a curtsey that would not cause a blush at the queen’s drawing room.”

“Ah, the hearts she will break,” Beau said with a chuckle. “I shall have to have all my unmarried friends transported the year she debuts.”

“Thank heavens that won’t be for a decade! Now, come sit with me a moment.”

“Should you not better rest?”

Elspeth slanted him a knowing look. “As the lady managed to slip away, you must come in yourself and tell me all about Mrs. Martin.”

Since his sister possessed an intuition superior to his own and powers of observation only scarcely less acute, Beau knew he’d not be able to avoid her questions without raising suspicion. Better to answer directly—but with care. He wanted no well-meaning “assistance” in the delicate matter of Mrs. Martin.

“She’s been a godsend,” he admitted as they took their seats. “Her quick action saved Kit’s life the day he was wounded, as I’m sure Mac’s informed you. She’s been the mainstay of caring for him through this difficult first week. Her remedies were most effective with fever, and the infusions seemed to calm Kit’s restlessness.”

“She’s a widow, the squire told me.”

“Yes.”

“And lives here alone, without other family?”

“Her aunt, who bequeathed her their cottage, died only recently, I understand.”

“She’s not nearly the old crone I was imagining.”

Beau smiled. “No.”

“In her mid-twenties, I would say. Hideous gown, which totally disguises her form, but her complexion is lovely and that auburn hair, what little I could see beneath that awful cap, is striking.” She paused.

Grinning inwardly, Beau schooled his face to polite interest. “Yes, I agree. She is rather younger than I’d expected and quite attractive. As you’ll doubtless see, our host has strong proclivities in that direction.” “Indeed!”

“It would not be so unusual a match.”

Elspeth studied him a long moment. He maintained a face of bland innocence. “Perhaps he would do, if there are no younger contenders to hand. Or perhaps—she is of gentle birth, the squire said—I shall take her to London with me next season. So young and lovely a widow should have more choice in settling her future than is available in this country outpost.”

“Is it so essential that she remarry?”

Elspeth gave him an exasperated look. “Certainly! What else is a woman to do? If what you say is true, she has no family to assist her. Who is to protect her if she falls ill or someone threatens her? Besides, she has no children, and she’s certainly young enough to hope for some. No woman would wish to be deprived of that joy.”

The bittersweetness in her voice made his chest ache. Poor Ellie had suffered much for her babes. To lighten her mood he replied, “Does Mrs. Martin have any say in this?”

Elspeth blushed. “Of course. But our family owes her an enormous debt, you must allow. I’m merely considering how we might best go about repaying it.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Martin has plans of her own which will obviate your needing to intervene on her behalf.” Or mayhap someone else does, he added mentally.

“Perhaps. But if not … I shall certainly do my possible. Now I really must rest. Don’t let my minx of a daughter tire you out. She can be exhausting!”

Beau leaned to kiss his sister’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Ellie. I’ve missed you.”

She gave him a quick hug. “And I you, big brother.”

Beau’s smile faded as soon as he exited his sister’s chamber. Having the determined Elspeth play matchmaker for Mrs. Martin was a complication he certainly didn’t need. The mere idea of that lady giving herself to any other man, even in marriage, roused in him immediate and violent objections, though he would hardly voice them to Ellie.

For one, Mrs. Martin responded to him as she did to no other man in Merriville. True, he was hardly a disinterested observer any longer, but in his most professional assessment she’d displayed no such attraction to the squire, nor had her behavior indicated she harbored marital intentions.

Remarriage was certainly one remedy to her current insecurity, the most conventional remedy, but not the only one. He had the power and resources to make her permanently safer and more comfortable than any prospective husband Ellie could bring up to snuff, particularly the aging and only modestly well-to-do squire.

And Beau would make her happier. As lovers, partners and friends, they would please each other. He would stake his last shilling on it.

When—if—eventually they parted, Mrs. Martin would still have the option of remarriage. Only by then, their liaison would have left her socially and financially secure enough to take such a step out of desire, not necessity.

The vague discomfort occasioned by the very idea of Ellie marrying off Mrs. Martin faded, and Beau’s mood brightened. He was delighted to have his sister here—he much preferred having all his family about. Especially since—a double blessing—Ellie’s condition meant that her arrival no longer signaled the departure of Mrs. Martin.

Ellie would certainly attempt to befriend the widow, who was more likely to confide in his sister than in him. Through cautious questioning of his sibling, he’d probably discover more of Mrs. Martin’s circumstances. Even better, Ellie might be able to coax her to join them at dinner or for tea. His spirits quickened at the thought of spending more time with her, even in company.

Of course, if Ellie did get her matrimonial plans in train, it would be the lady’s choice whether she preferred a discrete and long-term liaison with Beau, or marriage to some beau of Ellie’s choosing.

He’d just have to make sure her choice fell on him.

Later that evening another caller joined them. The vicar, Reverend Eric Blackthorne, had stopped by daily with prayers and encouragement during the crisis. Upon learning Lady Elspeth had arrived, he felt obliged to come by at once and pay his regards, he informed Beau’s sister as they sipped tea, his own mama having been a good friend of her mother, the late Lady Beaulieu.

In virtually the next breath, Mr. Blackthorne requested that Mrs. Martin be bid to join them. Perhaps prompted by his recent conversation with Ellie, Beau was suddenly struck by suspicions he had not previously entertained concerning the reverend.

Beau’s initial satisfaction when the footman returned to report Mrs. Martin begged their pardon for declining the invitation, as she was already on her way to relieve Dr. MacDonovan, turned to irritation when the reverend announced he would visit them both in Kit’s chamber.

Best to determine the nature of this unexpected complication immediately, Beau decided. With brisk efficiency he eluded the squire and Ellie in the salon and insinuated himself into the sickroom call.

“Your mother, Mrs. Blackthorne, was a friend of my mama’s?” Beau asked as the two men took the stairs.

“My mother, Lady Islington, was her friend,” the vicar corrected. “My father is Viscount Islington.”

Blackthorne of Islington. Of course. Annoyed with himself for not picking up the family connection upon their first introduction, Beau continued, “Richard, Baron Islington, is your brother? We were college mates.”

The reverend slanted him a glance. “My eldest brother, yes.”

Netted at that dig about his age, Beau nodded. So the vicar wasn’t a country nobody, but scion of an important family. A detail that would surely be noted by his scheming sister.

“Do you intend to stay much longer, my lord?” the vicar asked. “I understand Kit is quite improved.”

Beau’s instinctive wariness deepened. Wanted him out of the way, did the vicar?

“That depends on Kit. Of course, I have pressing business in London, but I cannot depart until I am sure my brother is well and truly out of danger.”

The vicar nodded in turn and the two men continued to the sickroom without further conversation, frosty awareness settling between them. During their previous meetings Beau had been too preoccupied by worry over Kit to take much notice of the vicar. It now appeared the man cherished as little enthusiasm for his presence here as Beau felt at this moment for the clergyman. An unsettling realization.

The frostiness, on Beau’s part, grew chillier as he analyzed the vicar’s behavior toward Mrs. Martin. The reverend was too well bred to single her out, instead conversing easily with Mac, encouraging Kit, and exchanging no more than a few polite sentences with Mrs. Martin.

Even so, Beau had no trouble determining from the warmth of the vicar’s tone toward her, the glances that periodically strayed to the lady’s downcast face even as he conversed with the doctor and Kit, that the reverend held Mrs. Martin in more than a pastoral regard.

Mac left to seek his dinner, the other two men walking with him. But when the vicar halted at the doorway, Beau stopped, as well. With Kit having dozed off again, Beau would be damned if he’d give the insolent fellow the opportunity for a private chat with Mrs. Martin.

Clearly as irritated by Beau’s persistent presence as Beau was by his, the vicar said, “You’ll wish to dine with the doctor. Please, my lord, feel free to do so. There is no impropriety in my remaining here with Mrs. Martin.”

Was that a subtle rebuke? Beau’s temper stirred. “I know you would never overstep the bounds of your calling,” he replied. “But having lived for a week in constant anxiety over Kit, it still soothes me to be near him.”

Counter that, he thought, watching the vicar struggle for another argument to urge Beau’s departure. Obviously failing, Mr. Blackthorne replied, “As you wish, my lord.” Walking to the chair where the widow sat beside her dozing patient, he said in low tones, “How are you, Mrs. Martin? I trust you are watching after your own health.”

She did not look up, nor was there a shade of flirtatiousness in her tone. “I am well, thank you, sir.”

“In any case, with Lady Elspeth here, you should now be able to return home.”

Before she could reply, Beau intruded into the conversation. “My sister is in a delicate condition and must conserve her strength. Mrs. Martin has consented to remain here and continue to nurse Kit in her stead.”

Barely concealed annoyance colored the brief glance the vicar shot to the earl. “Indeed.”

“A true compassionate, Christian lady is our Mrs. Martin,” Beau said, nodding to her. “All of us at Everett Hall value her highly, Reverend Blackthorne.”

“So I should hope. Though I must confess, having you remain under such … crowded conditions does trouble me, Mrs. Martin. Should you choose to return to your cottage, I would be happy to insure that you are escorted to the hall as required.”

“A kind offer, Mr. Blackthorne, but unnecessary,” Beau again answered. “Mrs. Martin would never slight the squire by inferring that his hospitality is less than adequate. And it is more convenient having her close.”

The vicar looked him full in the face. “I’m sure it is—for you. ‘Tis the lady’s well-being that concerns me.”

“The squire’s accommodations are quite satisfactory, Mr. Blackthorne, though you are kind to be concerned,” Mrs. Martin broke in at last, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “If I require assistance, I shall certainly let you know. But now, gentlemen, your discussion seems to be disturbing Mr. Bradsleigh. Why don’t you continue it elsewhere and visit him again later.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Martin,” Beau replied, amused and impressed. She’d just managed to banish the vicar—and himself, as well, unfortunately—with both tact and dispatch. “Mr. Blackthorne, I believe we’ve been dismissed.”

His only consolation was that the lady seemed no more encouraging of the vicar than she was of the squire.

After the obligatory exchange of compliments, the two men left. Falling into step beside the vicar, Beau said, “You need not worry about Mrs. Martin. I shall personally insure she takes proper care of herself.”

“That is precisely what worries me, my lord.”

Beau halted and pinned the vicar with an icy glare that had daunted many a subordinate. “You will explain that remark, please.”

The vicar, to Beau’s grudgingly accorded credit, did not flinch. “I am concerned with the welfare of all my parishioners, Lord Beaulieu. You are a stranger, and may not understand the … harm you could do Mrs. Martin, however unintentionally, if it becomes known she is much in your company. Folk here do not approve of loose London ways.”

By gad, was the vicar maligning his honor by suggesting he’d give Mrs. Martin a slip on the shoulder under the very nose of the injured brother whose life she’d just saved? Had it been anyone other than a man of the cloth, Beau would have called him out on the spot.

Instead, controlling his outrage with an effort, Beau replied, “You overstep yourself, sir. I am fully conscious of the magnitude of the service Mrs. Martin has done my family. I would never cause her harm.”

The vicar held his ground. “I should hope not. But you should be aware, sir, that Mrs. Martin is not as defenseless as she might appear.”

“No, she is not,” Beau shot back. “She has the full protection of the Bradsleigh family. See that you remember that.” Having reached the entry landing, Beau made a stiff bow. “I will rejoin them now. Your servant, sir.”

“My lord.” Face impassive, the vicar nodded and walked back toward the entry.

Beau watched him depart, struggling to master his anger. As if Beau would force his attentions on any lady, much less one to whom he owed such a debt of gratitude! Still, he noted, the vicar could have done nothing more revealing of his feelings toward Mrs. Martin than practically accuse Beau of intending to seduce her.

Given the judgment-impairing effects of such partiality—effects Beau had suffered himself—he would attempt to excuse the vicar’s insulting innuendo.

That Beau entertained hopes of winning the lady’s favor he would not deny. And though those hopes might not veer toward matrimony, Mrs. Martin was not a young virgin whose reputation could be ruined by a discreet affair.

Except … the vicar might be correct in asserting the rural folk of this neighborhood might take a less enlightened view of such a relationship. Perhaps Elspeth’s idea of relocating Mrs. Martin had merit.

A circumspect liaison conducted elsewhere would, if anything, enhance her stature. In addition to the financial protection he was eager to offer, she’d meet prominent individuals whose influence could ease her way the rest of her life, as well as becoming acquainted with all the gentlemen of birth and status Ellie could hope for.

Should they later part company, most of these gentlemen would not consider her relationship with Beau disqualified her as a possible wife. Indeed, though her birth seemed merely respectable and her current position was less than modest, he wouldn’t rule out the possibility of wedding Laura Martin himself. Especially since he found the notion of her going to any other man extremely distasteful.

The spark of an idea caught fire in his heart and head. Beau had already absented himself from his work about as long as he could afford. Returning to visit Mrs. Martin at this remote area on a regular basis might well be difficult. Having her established somewhere close enough for daily visits would be much more satisfactory—so satisfying, in fact, that Beau could almost forgive the vicar his temerity in broaching the issue.

That decided it. As soon as Kit had sufficiently recovered, Beau would have to persuade her to come to London.




Chapter Seven







By the next afternoon Beau was once again out of charity with the vicar. Apparently the reverend had spread word of Ellie’s arrival and Kit’s improvement throughout the county, for beginning that morning they’d had a steady stream of callers. Having been interrupted three times already while trying to assimilate the contents of the satchel his courier had delivered at dawn, Beau nearly told the apologetic footman who’d just appeared once again to convey his regrets.

Then, knowing his kindhearted sister would never be so uncivil as to refuse to receive the local gentry, and realizing the task of entertaining the curious would fall on her delicate shoulders should he shirk a duty he was finding particularly irksome today, he relented.

With a sigh he set his papers aside and followed the footman to the parlor. The striking blonde seated beside his sister surprised him out of his irritation.

The lady rose and followed him to the window where, after bowing a greeting, he’d gone to join the squire. “Lord Beaulieu, what a pleasure to see you again!”

She held out her hand. Compelled by courtesy, he accepted it, his initial appreciation of her striking beauty dimming. Forward baggage.

“You’ll remember me from Lord Greave’s house party last fall at Wimberley. Lady Ardith Asquith.”

As usual, the business reasons behind his attendance at that event had limited his time among the female guests. He scoured his memory, finally coming up with a flashy blonde accompanying an elderly peer.

His eyes narrowed as he swiftly assessed the daringly low-cut gown, the guinea-bright curls, the perfect skin, pouting lips—and bright, hard eyes. A self-absorbed beauty.

“Yes, I remember, Lady Ardith,” he said, bringing her fingers to his lips for the obligatory salute. “And how is your husband, Lord Asquith?”

She flapped long painted lashes and gave him an overly familiar smile whose hint of shared intimacy he immediately resented. “Preoccupied as usual, my lord. Poor me—I so often have to find my own … amusements.”

He knew he wasn’t imagining the barely veiled innuendo, and his assessment of her character dropped lower. So Lady Ardith enjoyed collecting titled lover pelts, did she? He determined on the instant to discourage the connection.

But when he tried to reclaim his hand, she clutched it, causing him to automatically glance at his fingers—straight at the lavish breasts just below them, revealed to any downward-gazing eye all the way to the taunting pink edge of the nipples. A quick sideways glance confirmed the squire’s gaze was riveted on the view.

He looked back up to catch his sister’s amused but sympathetic eye. “Lady Ardith tells me her husband owns property in the neighborhood,” Elspeth said, “and they often spend a few weeks here when not occupied in London.”

“On those occasions when Lady Ardith—and Lord Asquith, of course—choose to honor us, their company is always a valued addition to our society,” the squire said.

Lady Ardith leaned further forward as she squeezed the squire’s hand. “Dear Squire Everett! How could I not attend your gatherings as often as possible when I know such a gallant gentleman awaits me?”

The squire paused, apparently too distracted for speech while he struggled between the propriety of raising his eyes to her face and the titillation of visually fondling the display beneath his nose.

Beau watched a knowing smile curve the corners of Lady Ardith’s lips and his disdain increased. He’d bet the price of her elegant gown that, even bored to flinders in what she no doubt considered a rustic outpost, Lady Ardith would never consider adding the middle-aged, balding squire to her list of indoor sportsmen. Yet she seemed driven, as beautiful females often were, to captivate every male who crossed her path, whether she valued his regard or not.

Attracting a man of Beau’s wealth and rank likely would interest her, he thought cynically. Since he had no desire whatsoever to help Lady Ardith beguile the tedium of her country sojourn, he’d end this game at once.

While she toyed with the squire, Beau crossed the room and usurped her seat beside his sister. Lady Ardith’s self-satisfied smile wavered briefly when she discovered his move, but brightened again after the squire led her by the hand to a chair beside his own.

“Squire Everett, you must give a ball in honor of Lord Beaulieu and Lady Elspeth!” the lady exclaimed. “I should do so myself, but since we open the house here for such short periods, we do not maintain sufficient staff.”

A pinch-penny, as well, Beau thought, disgusted. “With my brother’s health so uncertain, I do not believe we could consider a ball. And at present, Lady Elspeth’s health is too … delicate for dancing,” he replied.

“His lordship’s got the right of it,” the squire agreed. “With young master Kit still so ill, ‘twould not be fitting to disport ourselves at a ball.”

“You are right of course, my lord. A dinner, then,” Lady Ardith persisted. “Something rather more quiet, with just the first families of the neighborhood in attendance. That would not tax Lady Elspeth’s strength, for she could retire early. I should be happy to preside over the tea tray for you, Squire Everett.”

“His sister, Lady Winters, could do so,” Beau said.

His repressive tone didn’t seem to dampen the lady’s pretensions a bit. “Ah, dear Lady Winters? Is she visiting you currently? I thought she’d removed to Bath.”

“No, surely you remember, Lady Ardith, she returned here when her husband died two years ago,” the squire said.

Lady Ardith trilled a laugh. “Oh, yes, how silly of me.” She waved a hand, dismissing Lady Winters. “I fear I have no head at all for dates and figures.”

“A dinner would be lovely,” Elspeth intervened, wary of the growing irritation she no doubt perceived in Beau’s expression. “Assuming Kit continues to improve, Dr. MacDonovan will want to depart by the week’s end. Before he goes, we should like to do something to honor him. And Mrs. Martin, of course.”

“Aye, it could be a tribute to both our angels of mercy,” the squire concurred.

Beau opened his lips to squash the idea. He had no intention of providing both the forum and the target for Lady Ardith’s next hunt.

But then he reconsidered. With a little arranging he could pawn that lady off on Mac and the vicar—and arrange to have himself seated near Mrs. Martin.

Mrs. Martin, her auburn hair freed from the ubiquitous cap, her form garbed in something more becoming than the awful brown sacks she habitually wore. His Sparrow in evening dress.

To savor that vision would be worth fending off a dozen Lady Ardiths.

“A capital idea, Squire Everett,” he said. “The doctor and Mrs. Martin deserve our most warmest gratitude.”

Lady Ardith’s look of triumph faded. “Mrs. Martin? That local—herb woman—was allowed to tend your brother!”

“She saved his life, as the doctor will testify,” Beau said, “and deserves the highest commendation.”

“Your desire to acknowledge her is most kind, my lord, but … at a dinner?” Lady Ardith interjected. “Such a lowly personage would doubtless be most uncomfortable to be seated at a social gathering among her betters.”

“Nonsense,” the squire returned. “Mrs. Martin’s gentry-born—her late husband was an army officer—and has dined with us on several occasions.”

Better and better, Beau thought, his enthusiasm for the dinner party growing. Since Mrs. Martin had apparently already appeared at neighborhood social gatherings, she would not be able to escape with that excuse.

“It’s settled then,” Beau said. “On Friday, shall we say? Dr. MacDonovan told me this morning he hopes by then to declare Kit finally out of danger.”

“Squire Everett, will arranging a dinner party on such short notice be too much for your sister?” Elspeth asked.

“Not a bit,” Squire Everett replied cheerfully, obviously taken with the idea. “If she falls prey to the vapors, Mrs. Martin can help out. She’s assisted Emily before. A lady of many talents, our Mrs. Martin.”

“So it appears,” Beau murmured.

Lady Ardith continued to haggle over the wisdom of including an unattached lady in the gathering, but convinced the squire would go through with the plan whether Lady Ardith chose to attend or not, Beau let the conversation fade to a babble while he set about reviewing the pleasing implications.

This dinner might be just the thing to breach Mrs. Martin’s reserve for good. If she appeared at the party to receive the admiration and respect he knew her loveliness would generate, perhaps that acclaim would cause some of her nervous reticence to fade. Even better, he’d be able to pay her gentle, persistent attention in a forum where such behavior was entirely appropriate, nothing to inspire alarm. Once she grew less wary and more comfortable around him, he’d finally be able to get close enough to demonstrate his genuine respect and concern.

Surely then she would come to trust him—and heed the call that impelled her to come to him.

The next afternoon, in a pretty note begging her pardon for the inconvenience, Lord Beaulieu’s sister asked Laura to join her in the sitting room attached to her chamber, as she found herself too weary after her journey to come downstairs. Bowing to the inevitable, Laura steeled herself for the interview.

As Lady Elspeth was several years older, she had already come out, married, and left London to raise a family by the time Laura made her debut. So there was no chance whatsoever, Laura told herself, trying to squelch her ever-present anxiety, that Lord Beaulieu’s sister might recognize her.

Deliberately garbing herself in the ugliest of Aunt Mary’s gowns and the most voluminous of the lace dowager caps, Laura forced her face into a mask of serenity and knocked at the door of Lady Elspeth’s sitting room.

But as she entered, a small figure bounded up. “Did you nurse Uncle Kit and keep the angels from taking him to heaven?” she demanded.

“Catherine!” her mother protested from her reclining position upon the sofa. “You mustn’t pounce upon people like that. Greet Mrs. Martin properly, if you please.”

With a sigh the girl straightened, then dipped a curtsey. “Good day, Mrs. Martin. I trust you are well?”

The speech was so clearly parroted—and practiced—Laura had to smile. “Good day to you, Lady Catherine. I am quite well, thank you. And you?”

“Very well, but Mama’s not. That’s why she’s so cross. Uncle Beau said you kept the angels from taking Uncle Kit. I’m so glad! He’s ever so much fun, and I’m not finished with him yet.”

The vision of angels tussling over Kit Bradsleigh’s bed tickled Laura’s whimsy, and some of her nervousness fled. She took the hand Lady Catherine held out and walked with her to the sofa.

“Perhaps God wasn’t ready for him yet,” Laura said. Unlike my Jennie. A dull ache permeated her at the unbidden thought, and wearily she suppressed it. “But Dr. MacDonovan did most of the work, you know.”

The little girl looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Angels would surely leave Dr. Mac alone. He talks too loud and he makes you drink nasty medicine.” She gestured to Lady Elspeth. “I think that’s why mama is sick.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Catherine,” her mama reproved with a frown. “If you cannot confine your conversation to more proper subjects I shall send you back to the nursery.”

The small face grew instantly contrite. “I’ll be good, Mama. Please let me stay. Uncle Beau said we can’t ride for hours yet and Mary doesn’t know any games, and the books Uncle Beau left are full of big words.”

Lady Elspeth, looking in truth very pale and weary, sighed and leaned over to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry, pet. Mrs. Martin, I’m afraid Catherine’s nurse came down with a putrid sore throat this morning and has taken to her bed. I can’t seem to summon the energy to go out, which leaves poor Catherine stranded in the nursery with only Mary for company. She’s a kind girl, but not at all used to dealing with children.”

Laura felt an instant sympathy for the spirited, active little girl forced to remain cooped up indoors. “Should you like to take a walk, Lady Catherine? The gardens are still pretty with the late roses blooming. That is, if you would permit, Lady Elspeth.”

Lady Catherine’s face lit. “Oh please, Mama, may I?”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Martin? I wouldn’t like her to tease you, and she can be quite—energetic.”

“I would love to! I used to tend my older sister’s girls when their governess was—” Alarmed, Laura caught herself before she blundered into revealing more details. “Occupied,” she finished, hoping Lady Elspeth hadn’t noticed her sudden dismay. “I do enjoy children.”

“Then I should be grateful. Mind, Catherine, that you let us drink our tea in peace.”

“Yes, Mama.” Lady Catherine looked up to give Laura a beaming smile. “You’re nice, just like Uncle Beau said. I like you, even if you do wear such ugly gowns.”

Lady Elspeth’s eyes widened and she straightened, as if to make a grab for her lamentably plain-spoken child. But as she leaned forward, her face grew paler still. Clutching a handkerchief to her mouth, she struggled from her seat and seized a nearby chamberpot.

“Ugh,” Catherine said over the ensuing sound of her mother’s retching. “I hate Mama being sick. Uncle Beau says soon she’ll be better, but she’s been sick ever so long.” The small chin wavered. “It scares me,” she admitted, tears forming in her eyes.

Laura had intended to keep this meeting as brief as possible. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave a frightened little girl in need of comfort, or depart without attempting to help alleviate the distress of her suffering mother.

She hugged Catherine, who came into her arms with no resistance, her body trembling. “Your uncle Beau is right, Catherine. Your mama won’t be sick for too much longer.” Not knowing what the child had been told, she decided not to explain further. “I’ve nursed lots of people, and I can tell when someone is very ill and when they’re about to get better. Your mama will get better.”

“You’re sure?” The child looked up at her, anxious eyes huge in her troubled face.

“Cross my heart,” Laura promised. The girl sighed. “If you could keep the angels from taking Uncle Kit, I suppose you can keep them from Mama.”

“Why don’t you go back to the nursery and find your cloak and some heavy shoes. Then you’ll be ready to walk when your mama and I finish tea.”

The child nodded. “She won’t drink any, though. She doesn’t drink anything at tea now, and we don’t have the pretty pink cakes anymore ‘cause she says the smell makes her ill.”

“How disappointing,” Laura said. “You know, if we meet Squire Everett on our walk and you ask him nicely, I wager he’d have his cook bake some pretty pink cakes. You could share them with your uncle Beau in the nursery, where the smell wouldn’t bother your mama.”

The small face brightened. “He would? I shall ask today!” The child leaped up and hugged her. “You must have some cakes, too. Oh, I do like you! I’m sorry I said your gown was ugly. Though truly it is.”

Grinning, Laura bent down until her lips were close to the girl’s ear. “I know,” she whispered, and winked.

With a giggle, the little girl skipped out. Laura turned to the mother, who was now wiping her face and trying to gather the remnants of her dignity.

“M-Mrs. Martin, I do apolo—”

“Please, Lady Elspeth, there’s no need! I’m a nurse, you will recall. Come, sit down and try to get comfortable. Has your physician given you any remedies to help alleviate the sickness?”

Wearily Lady Elspeth settled against the cushions. “He said an overheating of the blood causes it, and ordered Nurse to mix up some vile concoction that was supposed to cool the humors, but I couldn’t keep it down. Nor would I let him bleed me, as he urged and Wentworth pleaded. I—I’m already so weak, I cannot see how bleeding would help.”

Laura nodded. “My uncle found, after much study, that bleeding does tend to weaken the patient. He recommended more gentle means—teas blended with chamomile and peppermint to soothe the stomach, and lozenges composed of sugar, ginger root, and lavender to suck on when the queasy feeling strikes. I—I have a stock made up and could obtain some for you, if you should like to try.”

“Just now I’m willing to try anything short of a pistol bullet to the head,” Lady Elspeth replied grimly.

“I shall make up a tea at once. Here, recline with this pillow to your back. A cloth dipped in cooled rosewater applied to your temples may help, as well. I’ll fetch one. Try it while I brew the tea.”

“You truly are an angel of mercy, Mrs. Martin,” Lady Elspeth sighed as she settled back. “But I did so want to chat with you.”

“Later. First, you must rest and rally your strength.” Laura paused. “By the way, does your daughter know the nature of your illness?”

Lady Elspeth opened one eye. “No. I thought it best not to tell her. For years she’s begged me for a baby brother or sister. I feared if … if this ended as the previous two have, she’d be disappointed—and upset. When her dog died last summer, she was distraught for days.”

“She’s upset now, worrying about her mama,” Laura said gently. “‘Tis your choice, my lady, but if it were me I’d tell her what afflicts you is normal and shall soon pass. Children that young do not understand how babies arrive. If you tell her only that a new sibling is a happy possibility, she would probably be no more than mildly disappointed should your hopes … not be realized.”

“She worries?” Lady Elspeth said. “Ah, my poor babe. I suppose I’ve been too ill and cross to notice. Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Martin.” She forced a tired smile. “A wise angel as well as a guardian one.”

“Rest now and I’ll fetch your tea. We’ll talk later.” Much later, if I have any say in it, Laura thought.

She’d brushed through that well enough, and the idea of walking in the garden with Lady Catherine—someone with whom she needn’t be always on her guard—was enormously appealing. Perhaps she’d slip invisibly through the last few days of tending Kit Bradsleigh and reach home safely after all.




Chapter Eight







Feet clothed in sturdy walking boots and hands encumbered by a linen cloth filled with jam tarts fresh from the oven, two days later Laura entered the garden.

Though she still spent much of her time alone, keeping vigil over Kit Bradsleigh at night and dining in her room, she now had these afternoon outings with Lady Catherine to look forward to. Dr. MacDonovan had informed her this morning that, unless their patient took a sudden turn for the worse, he expected to leave at week’s end. By then, Kit Bradsleigh would no longer need round-the-clock care.

Which meant surely Kit’s older brother would be leaving soon, as well. A departure which she viewed with increasingly mixed feelings.

Removed from his too perceptive scrutiny, she’d be safe once more. And if life without the surge of mingled elation and alarm he sparked in her whenever he appeared would be less energizing, she’d do well to remember why she’d previously rejoiced at a life of dull monotony.

She’d also be able to return home, though she’d still spend much time at Everett Hall tending the recuperating invalid. And visiting her new friend Lady Elspeth.

Laura shook her head ruefully. Lady Elspeth insisted Laura called her “Ellie,” claiming she could not remain on formal terms with the woman who’d saved her brother’s life and the practitioner whose treatments had considerably eased her own misery. She treated Laura with such beguiling warmth that, having been so long deprived of the companionship of a woman her own age, Laura had great trouble maintaining any reserve.

Catching sight of Lady Catherine, whose nurse, though recovered from her ailment, was happy to let Laura walk her energetic charge about the garden, Laura waved.

She loved spending time with Catherine, despite the ever-present ache of regret for what might have been and now would never be. She’d grown up the youngest child of a large family. When her elder siblings returned to visit with their offspring, it was only natural that the aunt, hardly older than her nieces and nephews, should join them in the nursery. Only natural, as well, that with only adult companions most of her days, she reveled in their company.

Better even than the warm memories Catherine’s chatty escort revived, or Laura’s freedom when with the child to relax the constant guard she otherwise maintained, was the precious ability to wander the grounds as long as she liked, protected by Catherine’s small hand in hers from having to worry about encountering the earl alone.

In fact, Laura and her charge had met “Uncle Beau” every single afternoon. Always delighted to see the earl—who seemed to take equal delight in his niece, Laura noted with approval—Catherine had no qualms about monopolizing Lord Beaulieu’s time and attention. Laura was able to observe him and indulge in the heady thrill of his company, freed of the stomach-clenching anxiety that normally afflicted her in his presence.

Since Catherine had confided her uncle planned to meet her after their walk to take her riding, Laura was not surprised when, soon after she and Catherine seated themselves on their favorite bench beside a fragrant hedge of late-blooming damask roses, Lord Beaulieu approached.

Awareness of him flashed over her nerves like a wind-driven ripple across a lake’s calm surface.

“I saved you a tart!” Catherine cried, running over to offer him the crumbling remains of a pastry.

Ignoring the grubbiness of the jam-stained fingers, the earl accepted the treat. “Kind of you, princess. And I must thank the little wizard who coaxes the squire’s cook to come up with these delicacies for tea every day.”

“Not me,” Catherine pointed out with scrupulous fairness, munching the last bit of her tart. “Laura does. Cook likes her. I do, too. Don’t you, Uncle Beau?”

The earl turned his smiling face toward Laura—and caught her staring. She felt the warmth of embarrassment flood her cheeks and tried to look away, but his smile fading to something deeper, more intimate, he held her gaze … one minute, two. “Very much indeed,” he said softly before turning his attention back to his niece.

While her cheeks burned hotter and fluttery wings beat within her stomach, Catherine continued, “Uncle Beau, I have a secret! Only Mama said I could tell you and Laura, so it’s all right to share, isn’t it?”

“If she said you could, poppet.” The earl flashed Laura a brief but oddly intense look. “I love secrets, and I never tell anyone.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she grabbed her uncle’s coat sleeves. “It’s wonderful, and you’ll never guess. Mama said next Easter, I might get a new brother or sister!”

So Lady Elspeth had confessed, Laura thought, pleased.

“That’s indeed wonderful news,” Lord Beaulieu said. “Which should you prefer—a sister or a brother?”

“I don’t suppose it matters. I’m ever so much older, it shall have to mind me. Mama says getting a baby is a curious sort of game. Playing it makes her sick sometimes, but if she wins, she gets to keep a baby. But not everyone wins, so I should not be disappointed if we don’t get a baby after all.” Lady Catherine wrinkled her brow. “It’s a very odd sort of game, don’t you think?”

Lord Beaulieu laughed. “I wonder what your papa would say to that?”

“Well, I much prefer ball and spillikins, but Mama says I can’t play the game anyway until I’m a lady, and married. If we should get a boy, he can ride and play catch with me. And if it’s a girl, I shall give her my old dolls and my dresses when I outgrow them. But only pretty ones. Not ugly ones like Laura’s aunt Mary gave her.”

Laura stifled a gasp, and Lord Beaulieu caught his breath. “That was very rude, brat!” he said after a moment. “Apologize to Mrs. Martin at once!”

A little daunted, Catherine raised pleading eyes to her uncle. “It’s all right, Uncle Beau. Laura knows they’re ugly—she told me so herself, didn’t you, Laura?”

Her cheeks pinking, Laura merely nodded, carefully avoiding the earl’s gaze.

“See?” Catherine turned back to her uncle. “Laura told me she wears the dresses even though they’re ugly because her aunt Mary gave them to her, and she loved Aunt Mary. But I shall give my sister only pretty ones, so she’ll love me even better.”

“How could she resist?” Lord Beaulieu said, with a rueful glance at Laura.

Focusing her attention on Lady Catherine, Laura said, “I expect your uncle came to tell you the horses are ready. Since we’ve finished our snack, you’d best be off before it’s too late to ride.”

“Can you not ride with us?” the child asked.

Laura hesitated. “I—I have no horse.”

“Uncle Beau can get you one. He knows all about horses. He brought me the wonderfulest pony.”

“Another time, perhaps. You mustn’t keep your mounts waiting, so off with you now.”

“Go to the stables, and make sure Manson had your pony ready,” Lord Beaulieu said. “I’ll be right along.”

“Can we race today?”

The earl rolled his eyes. “Perhaps—it depends on how wet the fields are. I make no promises!”

Lady Catherine angled her chin up and grinned at him, a mixture of precocious coquette and childish charm. “Bet I’ll beat you.” Evading the earl’s mock punch with a giggle, she scurried off down the path.

The earl sighed and turned to Laura. Knowing their chaperone was even this moment racing out of sight, all her nerves alerted.

“I must apologize once again for my niece. She has a deplorable tendency to say exactly what she thinks.”

“I’m not offended, truly.” She attempted a smile, a difficult matter when her lips wanted to tremble and her heart was beating so hard she felt dizzy. “Children usually do speak the truth as they see it, even when it might be better sugar-coated.”

At that he turned his face to once again snare her with a searing gaze that would not allow her to look away. “‘Tis always wise to tell the truth. Especially when those who hear it are friends who seek only our good.”

Laura’s breath caught in her throat and her lips went dry. He was speaking of much more than hand-me-down gowns, and they both knew it.

Trust him, a small voice deep within her whispered. He will be that sort of friend.

But the legacy of fear and a now-ingrained compulsion for concealment drowned out the voice. “No, my lord,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “‘Tis not always wise. Enjoy your ride.”

Pivoting on her heel, she made herself walk back to the house, calm and unhurried. Feeling with every step the weight of his thoughtful gaze heavy upon her back.

Chest tight and mind seething with frustration, Beau watched Mrs. Martin escape to the house. In her expressive face, her guileless eyes, he’d read how very close he’d come to breaking through that wall of silent reserve. So close he could feel the acquiescence trembling on her lips, and now tasted the bitter sense of loss.

Still, the very fact that he had come so close was cause to hope that very soon the remnants of her reserve would crumble.

He could assemble all the small clues she’d let drop, add them to the information he’d extracted from the squire, set his team to work on it, and probably within a fortnight be able to reconstruct the whole of her life up to now. He could, but he didn’t want to.

With a determination that grew daily more intense, he wanted Mrs. Martin to come to him, confide in him, trust him of her own free will.

He really ought to be making plans to leave. The information in the latest dispatches confirmed the careful theories he’d previously constructed, and if events continued in the same manner, he’d soon have enough evidence to complete the dossier and turn it over to Lord Riverton. Perhaps he ought to do that immediately and then return, free to devote as much time as necessary to finish winning over his Sparrow. He could then leave Merriville for good—with Laura Martin.

Still, the dinner party Friday night might allow him close enough to finally gain her trust. Tonight before Mrs. Martin went in to tend Kit, the squire would tender the invitation. Beau had primed both his sister and his brother Kit to press her to accept. He wasn’t above enlisting Catherine, as well, if necessary.

He already had his niece to thank for one piece of information that, if handled correctly—and he was a master of handling information—should insure Mrs. Martin appeared at the party garbed in evening attire far more attractive than the hideous gowns she normally wore.

Yes, his niece—who was doubtless at this moment bedeviling the grooms while she waited impatiently for her uncle to arrive.

Beau took one more look at the door through which Mrs. Martin, with a calm belied by the agitation he’d read in those stark blue eyes, had just disappeared. Soon we will be together, he promised himself and her. Soon.

* * *

“Dinner on Friday?” Laura echoed the words in dismay. “That’s very kind of you, Squire Everett, but I thought we agreed my uncertain schedule made it wiser that I not dine in company.” With a nervous glance she surveyed the group who’d greeted her in the small salon when she returned from her walk with Lady Catherine.

“But ‘tis my farewell party, ma’am,” Dr. MacDonovan argued. “Sure, and you’d not be sending me off with a wave of a bandage roll across our sleeping Kit’s bed?”

“You’re to leave Saturday?”

“Aye. I’ve just examined the lad’s lungs again, and it’s clearer still they be. Under your competent care, I’ve little doubt of his eventual recovery, and it’s needed I am back home.”

“Yes, you must attend, Laura,” Lady Elspeth urged. “I’ve felt so much better the last two days, I can finally envision dining without revulsion. Since I owe that improvement solely to you, you must help me celebrate.”

“At the risk of putting you off entirely, I confess the party is as much in your honor as the good doctor’s, ma’am,” the squire said. “We owe both of you a great debt, and would like to publicly acknowledge it.”

“Publicly?” Laura repeated in automatic anxiety.

“We’ve had the whole neighborhood asking after young Kit and praying with us for his recovery. ‘Tis only fitting that all have the chance to help our distinguished visitors celebrate the good news before their departure.”

“If ‘tis to be a large party, then you’ll surely not need me. It will make the numbers wrong,” Laura offered.

“Pish-tosh, Mrs. Martin.” The squire waved away the suggestion. “‘Tis not some fancy London party, all standing on precedence. And you need not feel shy. Excepting the earl, Lady Elspeth and the good doctor, ‘twill be only neighbors you’ve dined with on several occasions. Oh, and Lady Ardith and Lord Asquith.”

Laura looked at the smiling faces—the squire, the doctor, Lady Elspeth. Some inner imperative told her to accept would be dangerous, possibly the most dangerous thing she’d done since coming to the aid of the earl’s wounded brother. But as she had no reason to fear any of her neighbors—even the conceited London beauty Lady Ardith, who scarcely acknowledged her existence—Laura could dredge up no excuse to avoid the party that would not either cause offense or give rise to speculation.

Surely the earl would be present, too. The thought shimmered through her, adding to both her longing and dismay. Still, she didn’t see how she could avoid this. “You are vastly kind. I shall accept with pleasure.”

“Oh—m’sister may call upon you to write out the invitations. Her failing eyesight, you know. If that won’t be too much of an imposition?”

Laura had to smile. Lady Winters, an indolent damsel of some seventy summers, had previously called on Laura to assist her after suffering palpitations at the mere prospect of the work entailed by an evening party. “You may assure your sister I shall be happy to assist her.”

“Good, good.” The squire patted her hand. “Knew we could count on you. Want to send the doctor off with a good proper party, and with you overseeing the arrangements, I know ‘twill be top of the trees.”

Though Lady Elspeth, bless her, objected it was not quite right that Laura toil on a party given partly in her own honor, she desisted when Laura assured her that she didn’t mind in the least. Thanking the group again, Laura returned to her room.

It was only ingrained caution that made her so uneasy. All the guests would be well known to her. Besides, if she handled the arrangements for Lady Winters, she could arrange the dinner partners to suit herself, make a brief appearance in the parlor after the meal, then excuse herself before tea.

Thinking of the guest list again, she had to laugh at her apprehensions. With Lady Ardith promised to appear, no one would give the dowdy Mrs. Martin a second glance.

Late the following afternoon, Laura was returning to her room after going over the party lists with Lady Emily when Lady Elspeth hailed her in the hallway. “Please, could you join me for some tea in my sitting room before you rest for tonight? Being reduced to the company of the squire, Lady Winters and my brother at dinner, I sorely miss the conversation of a rational lady.”

Having on occasion been constrained to be the rambling Lady Emily’s dinner partner, Laura could sympathize. And after a few day’s acquaintance, Laura had largely lost her reserve around Lady Elspeth. Here was a friend in truth, one who, even should she learn of Laura’s deception—not that she ever intended to reveal it—would not, Laura felt sure, betray her. And she sincerely enjoyed the company of the earl’s charming, cheerful sister.

“I should be delighted.”

Laura entered to take the seat indicated on the brocade flowered sofa while Lady Elspeth poured tea. After handing her a cup, her friend gave her a measuring glance.

“I happened to notice that, though you agreed to help Lady Winters, you didn’t seem particularly pleased to accept the squire’s invitation to dine.”

Laura sighed. “I’m afraid I’m painfully shy in company, a fault I’ve never managed to overcome.”

“Please don’t be offended, but do you hesitate for fear that, with the very fashionable Lady Ardith attending, you feel you do not possess a suitable gown?”

Laura laughed. “I certainly possess nothing cut up—or should we say ‘down’—to Lady Ardith’s standards.” “I should hope not,” Lady Elspeth agreed with a chuckle. “But I wanted to ask a favor. I brought with me a new dinner gown just received from the mantuamaker that I’ve never worn, and now I find I cannot. If God wills, and I carry this child, by the time I visit London again fashions will have changed. Though I hope I’m not as vain as Lady Ardith, I doubt I’d wear it then. The color is a lovely green, and would suit you. Would you accept it?

“Please, now—” she held up a hand to forestall Laura’s protest “—don’t refuse outright. You know I won’t insult you by offering payment for the care you gave Kit. Indeed, were I the richest woman in the universe, how could I ever pay you the worth of my baby brother’s life? Beside that, a gown is the merest trifle. Still, it is too lovely to waste, and it would please me to have you wear it.”

Though she didn’t doubt Lady Elspeth’s sincerity or kindness, Laura wasn’t naive enough to believe this offer a coincidence. With a rueful grimace, she wondered who had whispered in her friend’s ear. Lady Catherine, wanting “beautiful dresses” for her friend? Or Lord Beaulieu?

As she hesitated, Lady Elspeth misinterpreted her silence. “What a widget! Of course you can’t decide until you see the gown. I’ll have Jane bring it immediately!” Laura tried to protest, but Lady Elspeth had already rung for her maid. Instructions were given, and by the time they finished their tea, the maid reappeared, bearing the dress. The demurral Laura intended to voice died in an inarticulate cry of wonder.

It was simply the most delicate, wondrous, lovely gown she’d ever beheld, a simple sheath of pale green silk whose wispy sleeves and long train were covered with a fairy’s cobweb of fine lace. Not even in her debut season had she, limited to the whites and pastels prescribed for unmarried maidens, possessed such a dress.

Before she could muster her scattered thoughts to protest, Lady Elspeth had her on her feet, the maid holding the dress up to her as her friend gave instructions on where to pin, tuck or adjust.

“Ah, Ellie—it’s marvelous! But I simply couldn’t!”

“Since it’s rather obvious you like the gown—” Elspeth paused in her instructions to grin at Laura “—and it becomes you wonderfully, I shall be most hurt if you refuse it.”

The sober, responsible, cautious side of her urged that she do just that. But the woman in her slid the sensuous length of silk through her fingers, felt the sigh of lace against her arms, and knew she could never bring herself to turn this down. For one evening, like Cinderella in the fairy tale, plain, dowdy, shy little Laura Martin would be dressed like a princess.

And her Prince Charming, whom she might covertly watch and desire but never possess, would see her in it.

Even in a small gathering, wearing such a beautifully made gown would be sure to draw to her the universal attention of every lady present, and probably that of the gentlemen, as well. Inviting precisely the sort of widespread scrutiny she’d spent nearly three years carefully avoiding. Attending in that gown would be foolish, vain and most unwise.

And she would do it. If her benefactress were present, of course.

“You’re sure you will be feeling well enough to attend the party?” Laura asked, grasping at straws.

Lady Elspeth’s smile widened. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”




Chapter Nine







“Thank you, Jane. I can manage from here.”

“Aye, ma’am. A right treasure you look, and so I’ll tell her ladyship!” With a nod of professional approval, Lady Elspeth’s maid curtsied and left the chamber.

Lips curving into a smile of pleasure, Laura closed her eyes, enjoying the pure sensual caress of the silk gown against her skin. Not until this moment, the smoky-green fabric swirling about her, did she realize just how much she’d missed what Lady Catherine would call “pretty dresses.” After the door shut behind the departing maid, with a giddy laugh, Laura lifted her arms and waltzed around her narrow chamber, dipping and turning in the embrace of her invisible partner.

Cinderella in truth, for the dress was no more substantial than moondust and starlight. After months of wearing the stiff, heavy brown bombazine favored by Aunt Mary, so sheer and weightless did the garment feel Laura could scarcely believe she was clothed at all.

She stopped dancing and cast a worried glance down at her chest. Though fashioned with a délletage nowhere near as deep as the style favored by Lady Ardith, the dress was still much lower cut than any she’d worn during her brief Season. Perhaps she should have protested more strongly when Lady Elspeth absolutely forbade Jane to sew a lace tucker into the bodice.

Nonsense, she reassured herself. With Lady Ardith present in all her scandalous finery, who would spare a look for little Laura Martin?

Nonetheless, her disquiet increased after she left the secure cocoon of her chamber. Since her near-miraculous recovery from the fever that had almost killed her, she’d worn naught but the mud-brown camouflage of her new identity. Daring to appear in public without it made her feel even more unclothed than the gossamer gown.

Still, if she meant to put off for an evening garments guaranteeing obscurity, nowhere in England could she do so in more safety than in Squire Everett’s drawing room. The only guests present would be neighbors who’d long ago accepted Laura Martin, or relatives of the boy whose life she’d help to preserve. None of those, she believed, would consciously seek to do her harm.

Honesty forced her to admit that her unease at descending to the drawing room was directly related to the tall, commanding earl about to gather there with the assembling dinner party. A man who inspired in her this perilous swing of emotion from attraction to avoidance, the man she’d felt impelled to give, for one brief evening, a glimpse of the woman behind the mask.

A man who, should he decide to tempt her out of sanity into temporary dalliance, would tryst with her and forget her the moment his carriage passed beyond the gateposts of Everett Hall. In truth, no matter how glorious such an interlude would prove—and every inexperienced but acutely sensitive nerve shouted that it would be glorious indeed—she could not afford for him to remember her longer.

Laura Martin, you’re an idiot, she concluded as she reached the floor on which the main bedchambers were located. As she started past the door to her patient’s room, she paused. Perhaps she should check on Kit.

Glad to have a responsible reason to indulge her cowardly desire to dawdle, she knocked on the door. When Kit’s valet, Peters, answered it, instead of standing aside to let her enter, he simply stood for a moment, jaw dropped, staring. “Cor, ma’am,” he breathed, finally remembering to step back, “but you do look fine.”

“T-thank you,” she stuttered, not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered.

“Who is it, Peters?”

“Mrs. Martin, master—I think.”

Kit Bradsleigh lay propped against his pillows, face pale and drawn. Only in the past two days had her patient been conscious and coherent enough to converse, though his lung ailment perforce limited speech. Still, she’d already come to appreciate the young man’s unpretentious charm.

As she approached, his pain-shadowed eyes brightened with interest. “Fine indeed! Excuse my bad manners … not rising … to kiss the hand … of a lovely lady.”

She smiled. “After all the hours Dr. MacDonovan and I have expended the last week to bring you to this evening, should you attempt so reckless a feat I’d be more tempted to bash you with the hand than let you kiss it.”

“Then I am safe.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Already attempted it … when Ellie stopped by. Found movement … most unwise. Must lie here … and admire from afar.”

“It is a lovely gown and I do thank her for it. Shall you fare well here? I feel somewhat guilty going down to join the company, leaving you alone but for Peter’s care.”

He waved a hand. “If anyone deserves … an evening off … ‘tis you, ma’am! Afraid I’ve not … been in right frame … to express appreciation … but I want—”

“None of that,” she interrupted. “Just praise heaven, as I do, that Dr. MacDonovan’s skill and your own strong constitution were sufficient to bring you through.”

He nodded, his thin face serious. “No more, then. But an evening … of Peter’s company … is small recompense … for my debt …” His words trailed off, lost in a fit of coughing. Concerned, Laura leaned to press firmly against his bandaged shoulder, trying to immobilize the wound until the coughing subsided.

“Hush, now,” she said when at last he took a gasping, cough-free breath. “Enough pretty speeches, though I do thank you for them. Peters, make sure he finishes the broth I send up, and no more conversation! You will call me on the instant if you feel I’m needed?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Good. I’ll bring up an herbal tea later.” She squeezed Kit’s hand. “‘Twill ease your breathing and help you sleep.” After he nodded acknowledgment, she looked with reluctance to the door. “I suppose I must go down.”

She’d moved several steps away when his voice halted her. “Mustn’t … be afraid.”

Startled, she stopped short and turned back to him.

He managed an encouraging smile. “Beau intimidating … but kind. Never … hurt anyone good.” He paused to put a hand to his chest, grimacing through another short cough. “Smile. You have … a lovely smile.” He fluttered his fingers at her in a gesture of farewell and then closed his eyes, slumping back against his pillows.

Laura descended the stairs, more pensive still. Was her agitation when around Lord Beaulieu so obvious? Or had Kit, knowing the reaction normally evoked in underlings by his lofty brother, merely been trying to encourage her?

Too late now to debate the wisdom of coming tonight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the parlor door.

A din of massed voices rolled over her. Startled by the noise after years of self-imposed social isolation, Laura halted, alarm skittering across her nerves. Forestalling the butler from announcing her arrival with a short, negative shake of her head, she slipped in, her eyes scanning the room to identify the company.

Lady Winters sat in her customary spot, several neighborhood ladies gathered around her, Lady Elspeth and another guest on the sofa opposite. The squire and his son held forth by the sideboard, glasses of spirits in hand. By the window, surrounded by most of the men of the company, Lady Ardith sparkled in low-cut golden splendor.

A shiver passed through her as she recognized the tall figure toward which Lady Ardith was leaning her impressively bared bosom. The shiver magnified to a tremor as Lord Beaulieu, as if cued by some invisible prompter, turned toward the doorway and saw her.

His look of mild annoyance vanished and his body tensed. While she waited, unable to breathe, his gaze swiftly inspected her—his frankly admiring gaze. And then he smiled, a warm, intimate message of welcome, as if she were the one person for whom all evening he’d been waiting.

He thought she looked pretty. She tried to stifle her guilty pleasure at the realization and swiftly bent her head before he could see the answering smile that automatically sprang to her lips. Both gratified and alarmed, she hurried to Lady Elspeth’s comforting presence.

Beau shifted restlessly, a polite smile in place while he tuned out the drone of Lady Ardith’s speech as effectively as he blocked out the quite attractive but entirely untempting display of cleavage she insisted on continually thrusting beneath his nose. Blast, did the woman think him blind?

Had this whole evening been for naught? Despite his sister’s assurances and Kit’s offer to help if necessary, would Laura Martin fail to appear?

Just as, reining in his raveling temper with an effort, he was about to come to that conclusion, he felt a change in the room, a rush of cool air.

He turned toward the door—and saw her. For a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe.

Her thick auburn hair, twisted at the top of her head into a mass of ringlets, was obscured from his awed glance by only the smallest of lace caps. And to his enthralled eyes, Ellie’s luscious green gown revealed with vivid clarity every curve and even more of the glorious ivory skin he recalled from lovingly tended memory of the Vision.

Her restive glance finally collided with his in a connection that was almost palpable. For a timeless moment they simply stared at each other, oblivious to the other occupants of the room.

He wanted her at his side, where she belonged. At the last moment sanity returned and he stopped himself from calling out to her. Instead he smiled, trying to imbue in that silent gesture all his unspoken urgency. Come to me.

But though her eyes widened and her lips responded with a smile she quickly bent to hide, she turned to walk not to him, but to his sister.

Beau gritted his teeth to keep from gnashing them in frustration. Go easy, he cautioned himself. He must not crowd her in front of this crowd of people. Not make her nervous by singling her out, or conspicuous by drawing down on her the rancor Lady Ardith would surely display if that calculating lightskirt decided the richest potential lover present was taking undue notice of some other lady.

He must wait, in short. And so he would. But sometime, somehow, he vowed, before this evening ended he would find a way to steal her to himself. After the other guests had departed, for a walk in the garden, perhaps. Just the two of them, alone under an embrace of moonlight.

Mollified by that pleasant thought, he was able to tear his eyes from the fetching silhouette of her slender form before Lady Ardith, presently toying with a portly knight who was Sir Everett’s nearest neighbor, noticed his lapse in attention. Fortunately, that lady had so monopolized the other male guests that it seemed none but himself had noticed Mrs. Martin enter.

Just as well. Let them gape at the high flyer—and leave the refined elegance of Mrs. Martin to him.

The dinner gong sounded. Despite her change of attire, Beau noted with an inner smile, Mrs. Martin still managed to remain reclusive, slipping away from his sister as the guests rose from their seats, retreating toward the Squire and Tom before Beau reached her.

As they caught sight of Mrs. Martin, both men uttered exclamations of surprise and delight. Beau gritted his teeth once more as the squire’s tone abruptly changed from bluff to coyly gallant. Squire Everett and Tom would not be the only gentlemen captivated tonight by the widow’s swanlike transformation, he realized with irritated resignation. However, he promised himself again, regardless of how many gentlemen fell under the spell of her charm throughout dinner, the widow would end her evening in his company alone.

He was less pleased once they arrived in the dining chamber to discover that Mrs. Martin, whom he’d instructed the butler to seat near him at the head of the table, was instead positioned at its foot. He turned to his hostess.

“Lady Winters, this will not do! We’re gathered here to honor Dr. MacDonovan and Mrs. Martin, the two individuals responsible for saving my brother’s life. We cannot have one of them banished to the end of the table.”

His hostess gave him a startled look, but before she could stutter an answer, Mrs. Martin said, “Marsden told me you’d requested that, my lord, but not considering it fitting that I be seated above the more distinguished guests, I had him change the cards, as I knew Lady Winters would wish.” She fixed her gaze carefully on the fluttering figure beside him. “Though I am, of course, much flattered by his lordship’s kindness.”

Her reply attracted to her for the first time the general notice of the entire party. Beau watched with ironic amusement as the faces around the table reflected, first interest in the newcomer in their midst, then puzzlement, then varying decrees of shock, astonishment—and admiration as they finally identified the speaker.

By the time she finished her explanation, all other conversation had ceased and the attention of everyone present was riveted on Mrs. Martin. Finding herself suddenly the focus of every eye, the lady swiftly dropped her gaze to her lap, her cheeks pinking.

A gasp sounded in the silence, followed by a “By Jove!” The vicar, across the table from Mrs. Martin, sat with mouth agape, while the knight seated next to her exclaimed, “Mrs. Martin, what a capital rig. Capital!”

Lady Ardith stared at the widow with a look of shocked indignation, as if one of the stone spaniels that flanked Squire Everett’s drive had just turned and bitten her. Nonetheless, she was first of the ladies to recover.

“What an … interesting gown, Mrs. Martin. A hand-me-down from the family of a grateful patient, no doubt. When one is forced to earn one’s crust, I suppose one must accept all manner of payments.”

Ellie gasped, indignation flashing in her eyes, and though a matching anger flared in Beau, he reached out swiftly to put a warning hand on her elbow.

The high color in Mrs. Martin’s face paled. Before Beau could intervene, she raised her gaze to Lady Ardith. Her coolly amused gaze. “Indeed, my lady.”

Bravo, Beau thought.

“I hope,” Ardith continued, sublimely oblivious, “you’ve expressed your humble thanks to the squire and his lordship for permitting you to be included in this gathering. I daresay you’ve never dined in quite this sort of company before.”

Did he observe an instant’s quiver in her lip? Before he could decide, Mrs. Martin, her expression blandly meek, replied, “You’re quite right, my lady.” Her eyes dipped briefly to Lady Ardith’s jutting bosom before she continued, “I’ve never dined in such company before.”

Beau choked back a laugh, then shot a glance at Ellie. His sister gave him a tiny nod, her eyes full of mirth.

“I do thank his lordship, Squire Everett and Lady Winters for including me tonight,” Mrs. Martin concluded.

The vicar gave Lady Ardith a sharp look. “‘Tis not so unusual for us to dine with Mrs. Martin. We have on several occasions been blessed with her excellent company.”

“Country parties, of course,” Lady Ardith replied. “Given the unfortunate lack of numbers often obtaining in country society, ‘tis quite amazing the odd parties one is occasionally forced to make up.” Noting the vicar still frowning, Lady Ardith leaned toward him, gifting the reverend with a full view of her generous endowments. “Though you, of course, Mr. Blackthorne, would be welcome at any party. And how is your mama, the viscountess?”

Being human, the vicar did gaze for a moment at the display beneath his eyes, but to Beau’s grudgingly accorded credit, almost immediately raised his glance back to the lady’s face. His closed expression hinted he’d already assessed Lady Ardith’s character and found it, unlike her chest, to be somewhat lacking. “Quite well, Lady Ardith,” he said shortly, refraining from adding a comment that might prolong the conversation.

Lady Ardith eyed the vicar for a moment, then shrugged at the subtle rebuff. Apparently considering the man not worth the effort—or perhaps writing him off as unattachable—Lady Ardith turned once more to the squire, and conversation became general again.

Beau was too far away to be able to overhear Mrs. Martin’s comments to her dinner partners, but as she was seated on the opposite side of the table, at least he could turn occasionally and gaze at her. She sat quietly, speaking little, her head inclined in smiling deference.

Unlike Lady Ardith, who seemed unable to let her neighbors dine in peace. Scarcely had he taken a mouthful before, in a minor breach of etiquette, she waved across the table at him.

“Do you find the fish agreeable, Lord Beaulieu?” To reply, he was forced to dispense with the bite in one swallow. “Very.”

“Alphonse, our London chef, prepares a similar dish—much more elaborate, of course, as one would expect of a French artiste. You must stop by and try pot luck with us some evening when you are in town, mustn’t he, Asquith?”

Her husband, mouth full and focus fixed on the wine glass the footman was refilling, uttered a grunt that might be taken as assent. Scarcely waiting for her spouse’s reply, the lady turned to the squire with a flirtatious sweep of lashes. “How clever of you to procure so excellent a cook here in the country.” She leaned forward and stroked one finger slowly down his hand. “I so enjoy a clever gentleman.”

Having reduced the squire to goggling incoherence, Lady Ardith took another small bite and turned to Dr. MacDonovan. “Ah, delicious!” She slowly ran the tip of her tongue over her lips before saying in a husky voice, “Dr. MacDonovan, do they enjoy such delights in Edinburgh?”

After a sympathetic wink at Beau, Mac grinned at the lady. “To be sure, Lady Ardith. Such treats should be devoured wherever they are offered.”

She arched a brow at Mac and gave a soft, throaty laugh. “Naughty man! Though I believe you are correct, Doctor. Lady Elspeth, is he always such a rogue?”

“Always.”

“You must excuse me for neglecting you, Lady Elspeth,” Ardith continued. “I know the mama of so lovely and clever a daughter as Lady Catherine must want to be speaking of nothing but her offspring and alas, I fear I know little of children, his lordship and I not being so blessed. I try to console myself with the reflection that infants are quite ruinous to the figure. But then I am a silly, frivolous creature, as my lord is ever telling me. Ah, Lord Beaulieu, how do you like the shrimp velouté?”

And so, effectively shutting out the vacant Lady Winters, who seldom exerted herself to converse, and Elspeth, who was too polite to wrench the conversation back in her own direction, Lady Ardith continued to chatter through the meal, punctuating her running commentary with flirtatious glances and suggestive touches to the hands of the gentlemen closest to her, as if to keep them ever mindful of her physical allure.

Beau glanced from Lord Asquith, food-stained cravat askew, to where Lady Ardith was preening coquettishly before Mac, the knight Sir Ramsdale and his bedazzled son. He felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for the lady.

With her glittering blond beauty and siren’s body, she’d doubtless been the diamond of her come-out Season, accustomed to being the focus of masculine attention since the day she left the schoolroom. Shackled now to a prominent, wealthy peer who apparently no longer indulged appetites beyond the table, with no children to occupy her time, it was small wonder she felt compelled to practice her wiles on any reasonably attractive male within reach.

Especially since, he had to acknowledge, the majority of his sex would encourage her efforts. Given the lady’s alluring assets, few men would deny themselves the pleasure of seizing the several hours of harmless, mindless, full-body amusement her enticing glances promised. Brutal honesty compelled him to admit he might have been tempted to respond himself, had he not first encountered the more intelligent, complex and subtly attractive Mrs. Martin.

Certainly the gentlemen at table with Lady Ardith now were competing to claim that prize. Although her husband persisted in ignoring her, occupying himself solely with the replenishment and emptying of his plate and wineglass, the other men vied for Lady Ardith’s attention, responding eagerly to her suggestive banter. The knight’s adolescent son, to the neglect of his dinner partners, chewed his meal while staring at Lady Ardith in cow-eyed adoration.

In contrast, Mrs. Martin ate sparingly and spoke but little, though her soft-voiced replies to her neighbors’ statements seemed to foster a continuous and lively discussion at her end of the table. Not was she entirely lacking in admirers, Beau noted.

Despite the distracting presence of Lady Ardith at his elbow, the squire nonetheless occasionally sent an appreciative glance toward the lady at the far end of his table. And, Beau realized with an unpleasant shock, the vicar, who sat in privileged proximity just opposite Mrs. Martin, seldom took his eyes off her.

A man of the cloth, Beau thought with an immediate surge of indignation, should not be entertaining thoughts that, to judge by the heated intensity of the vicar’s expression, were obviously both covetous and carnal.

Beau turned to find Lady Ardith staring in the direction of his gaze, her eyes frosty as they rested on Mrs. Martin. With a glittering smile, she abruptly angled her head toward the squire’s sister, who sat absently picking at her food.

“Lady Winters, you had Mrs. Martin write out your invitation cards, didn’t you? Kind of you to offer her employment, which she badly needs, I imagine.”

Belatedly realizing she’d been addressed, Lady Winters focused out of her haze. “Employed?” she repeated, looking confused. “No, I don’t pay Mrs. Martin.”

“Nay, of course not, ‘tis as a friend of the family she does it,” the squire clarified.

“Well, I knew the moment I received the invitation that someone other than dear Lady Winters had copied out the cards. I vow, one can always distinguish the hand of a true lady. My own écriture is so precise, I cannot address more than a handful of cards at a sitting. Before a ball, I must spend the veriest week at it.”

That speech evaporated whatever tepid sympathy Beau had previously summoned for the acidic blond beauty. Squelching a strong desire to deal Lady Ardith a sharp set-down, Beau forced himself to remain discreetly silent.

“Quite a pretty hand she has, we think,” the squire said with a nod toward Mrs. Martin.

“Indeed?” Lady Ardith raised penciled brows. “Mrs. Martin is fortunate you and Lady Winters are so obliging. I was quite shocked when first I heard that a woman, of supposedly gentle birth, chose to live alone without even the vestige of a chaperone. Did you not, in your good nature, continue to recognize her, I daresay she might not be received by any good family in the neighborhood.”

While Beau choked back his outraged response, Lady Ardith leaned confidentially closer to the squire. “Though you might warn her to be more discreet. Appearing in such a—well, coming—gown, and living alone as she does, who knows what sort of thoughts she might inspire in some of the local men? Even the vicar looks quite … taken. Though perhaps that’s her intent.” Lady Ardith smiled slyly. “Still, she’d best take care. Exposed as she is, a very little gossip deeming her ‘fast’ would be enough to ruin her reputation. Where would she be if the common folk no longer sought her out for their pills and potions?”

Her “confidential” advice, uttered in a tone that must have carried halfway down the table, if not all the way to the ears of the lady it derided, was the final straw. Deciding to end the conversation before he lost control and strangled Lady Ardith, Beau abruptly turned to his hostess. “Lady Winters, is it not time for you to withdraw?”

Again looking startled, Lady Winters goggled at him. After fussing to find her handkerchief and reticule, she rose. “Brother, gentlemen, if you will excuse us?”

Looking forward to the freedom of the drawing room where at last he could approach his lady, and knowing she would probably seek an excuse to leave the party early, Beau maneuvered the gentlemen out of the dining room after a single glass of brandy. Though Lord Asquith grumbled about being separated from his cigars, the rest of the men, doubtless relishing thoughts of a closer view down the bodice of his wife’s dress, greeted Beau’s suggestion with approval.

As he followed his host to the drawing room, Beau rapidly developed a plan that, with a little help from Mac, would ensure Mrs. Martin wasn’t allowed to flee before the other guests departed. Short of storming her bedchamber—and he wasn’t completely sure he’d not resort to that extremity if pressed—he was prepared to do whatever it took to get her alone.




Chapter Ten







It was, Laura decided, the nicest dinner party she’d ever attended. Despite the sparkling gown that had initially drawn her to the attention of the company, the far-moreglittering presence of Lady Ardith guaranteed that she was soon able to return to her preferred role as a quiet observer. And so, wearing a dress that made her feel like a princess, being treated with kindness and even a touch of deference by her neighbors, she could relax and with perfect propriety let her gaze stray down the table to Lord Beaulieu.

Who was without question the most impressive gentleman in the room. The midnight-black of evening dress suited his raven hair and dark eyes, and the stark simplicity of the color and cut of his garments merely emphasized his breadth of shoulder, litheness of body and aura of power. Though she could not make out his words, even at a distance she could tell how, despite the impediment of Lady Ardith, whose rapid, laughter-punctuated banter scarcely paused long enough to allow her to draw breath or consume a morsel, he skillfully handled his end of the table, managing to coax even the normally silent Lady Winters into the conversation.

Occasionally he glanced in her direction. When he caught her eye, his mouth would curve in that compelling, intimate smile, and she would again be seized with the absurd notion that despite being surrounded by a tableful of people, one of whom was an accredited beauty, he was interested in her alone.

Absurd, but on this magical night when like Cinderella she’d appeared in borrowed finery and caught the eye of a prince, she’d ignore the prosaic voice of common sense.

Giddy delight, like champagne bubbles rising, swelled in her breast, and she could not help smiling. How different this evening was from the mostly wretched dinner parties she’d attended as a shy and nervous debutante, then as an inexperienced young bride.

The smile faded. She’d come to hate social functions, knowing her hawk-eyed husband would observe her every gesture and remark, and after the guests departed subject her to a scathing critique. She was too forward or too timid; she spoke too little or too much, played cards badly, danced too frequently or too seldom.

Even after she’d stopped caring about his good opinion, realizing it impossible to obtain, she so dreaded those post-party diatribes she could scarcely eat during dinner. Especially since as Charleton seemed to sense her will to please him diminishing, over the passing months he became increasingly angry, demeaning—and violent.

An involuntary shudder passed through her. With an effort, she shook her thoughts free. She mustn’t spoil a moment of this perfectly lovely gathering—the only occasion she would ever appear outside her dull brown persona—fretting over demons who were, she reassured herself again, safely consigned to the past.

“Is something the matter? You look … disturbed.”

The vicar’s question startled her. “N-nothing!” she replied, damping down an automatic alarm. “I was woolgathering, which was terribly rude. Please excuse me.”

“No forgiveness necessary. I must simply redouble my efforts to entertain you. ‘Twould be a crushing blow to my self-esteem to know the loveliest lady in the room found my dinner conversation dull.”

She dutifully smiled at the compliment, though in truth the only mild distress she’d experienced since coming to the table was generated by rather too solicitous attention of Reverend Mr. Blackthorne. It seemed, as the courses were brought and removed in turn, that every time she glanced in his direction, she found his admiring and uncomfortably intense gaze resting on her.

“It is the excellence of your address, I fear, that condemned you to this end of the table, so far away from the belle of the evening,” she replied, gesturing toward Lady Ardith. “For that I must truly apologize. Knowing how skillfully you converse with every member of society—” with a nod she indicated the querulous dowager to one side of him and the shy spinster on the other “—I’m afraid ‘tis I who placed you here.”

Mr. Blackthorne glanced at Lady Ardith, currently laughing as she plied her lashes at Dr. MacDonovan. “It cannot be lost on any gentleman present—” he leaned forward to murmur in a voice pitched for her ears alone “—who the true belle of the evening is. A lady whose beauty of countenance is matched by gentility of manner.”

Unsure how to politely discourage his ardency, Laura blessed Lady Winters, who rose at that moment, signaling the ladies to withdraw. “You will excuse me, sir?”

“If I must,” he said. “Until later, then.”

I certainly hope not, Laura thought as she followed her hostess from the room.

‘Twas time for Cinderella to depart, and not just to evade the attentions of the unexpectedly solicitous Mr. Blackthorne. Protected by the length of a dinner table, she’d been able to indulge her frivolous fantasies about Lord Beaulieu. But once the gentleman returned, there would be no barrier to his approaching her. Better to leave now, before Lord Beaulieu brushed away the fragile cobweb of her silly dream by ignoring her completely.

Or worse, made it all too real by approaching her.

In the parlor, the ladies took seats by age and inclination, save for Lady Ardith who, denied any other masculine attention, stood by the door dazzling a young footman. After the lad sprang away to fetch the wine she commanded, the lady drifted over to the window and stared out over the moonlit garden, one slippered foot tapping rhythmically against the floor.

Laura approached Lady Winters, intending to present her compliments and withdraw. But before she could utter a word, Lady Elspeth called to her.

“Please, Mrs. Martin, come sit by me.” Lord Beaulieu’s sister indicated the place beside her. “I’ve not had a chance to speak with you all evening.”

Much as Laura would prefer to leave forthwith, she could not do so without being rude to the lady who’d befriended her. Forcing a smile, she walked to the sofa.

“How fortunate you are, Lady Winters, to have such a charming, intelligent neighbor as Mrs. Martin. No, my dear, you must not blush!” Lady Elspeth patted Laura’s hand. “Dr. MacDonovan has sung your praises since the moment I arrived, and he is not a man to offer idle compliments. Indeed, have I not witnessed your skill for myself? I’m breeding, you see,” she informed the others, “and have been most horridly ill. Mrs. Martin prescribed a tea that has eased the discomfort.”

The neighborhood ladies all nodded. “‘Tis a rare blessing she is to the whole county, just like her dear aunt, Mrs. Hastings,” the knight’s wife said. “Especially since one never knows whether or not Dr. Winthrop will be … available.”

“All the more rare to find such skill in a lady of gentle birth,” Lady Elspeth continued. “How comforting it is to be able to discuss intimate matters with an equal.” She cast a glance toward Lady Ardith as she emphasized the word.

As if pricked by the remark, that lady looked back toward the company, her disdainful gaze coming to rest on Laura. It seemed she would speak, but apparently deciding that without a masculine audience to exploit she’d not bother, she turned back once again to the window.

“With me feeling so peevish, Mrs. Martin has kindly stepped in to take my daughter for her walks,” Lady Elspeth continued. “What a champion you have there, Mrs. Martin! Catherine can scarcely be contained until it is time for her outing, and comes back chattering of the clever things you’ve shown or said or read to her.”

“Ah, children,” said Lady Ardith from her window. “Charming creatures! So inexperienced, they possess no discrimination whatsoever.”

“The intelligent ones do, from quite an early age,” Lady Elspeth replied. “A shame you’ve apparently never encountered the like among your own family and friends.”

Lady Ardith pivoted to face Lord Beaulieu’s sister, a martial light sparking in her cold blue eyes. Fortunately for Laura’s peace of mind, at that moment the parlor door opened. In a rush of conversation flavored with the lingering odor of cigar, the gentlemen entered.

With a smile as glittering as her gown, Lady Ardith at once made for Lord Beaulieu. “Ah, my lord, thank you for joining us so speedily!” she cried, latching onto his arm. “Deprived of your company, we women are such dull creatures. Babies and potions … I declare—” she swept a dagger glance at Lady Elspeth “—Squire Everett’s winter garden is more interesting than the conversation we summon up.”

Dr. MacDonovan halted beside them. Was it Laura’s imagination, or did a subtle glance pass between the two men? “Ah, lass, I canna believe the lips of such an exquisite creature could pass on anything less than … delicious. Come,” he urged, taking the hand the lady had pressed on Lord Beaulieu’s arm, “let us find some wine. Then ye must speak to me and prove the yea or nay of it.”

It appeared that the lady might refuse, until the doctor leaned closer and murmured something that brought a satisfied smile to her face even as she laughed and batted his arm. “La, but you’re wicked,” she reproved, allowing Dr. MacDonovan to lead her to the sideboard.

Before Laura could look away, Lord Beaulieu’s gaze met hers. He rolled his eyes briefly, a gesture so indicative of relief she almost laughed out loud. Then he smiled again, a slight curve of lip and fire of glance that once again ignited every nerve and set the champagne bubbles dancing through her veins. His eyes holding hers, she sensed more than saw him approach.

“Thank you, brother, for the rescue,” Lady Elspeth murmured. “I was in dire danger of becoming … unladylike.”

Lord Beaulieu bent to kiss his sister’s cheek. “That, I could never believe,” he said with a grin.

With Lord Beaulieu a mere forearm’s length away, Laura could feel the heat emanating from his body, catch the faint scent of shaving soap and brandy. Almost, she could feel his hand once more resting on her shoulder, those lips dipping to brush her cheek. A shiver swept over her skin.

He turned to her, his grin fading as his imperious eyes found and commanded hers. Scraps of conversation, the popping of the fire, the clink of glasses faded, until she heard only the rapid beat of her pulse. While they both remained motionless, staring, she forgot even to breathe.

“Mrs. Martin,” he said at last. “How very beautiful you look tonight.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.”

“I had hoped we might—”

“Excuse me, my lord,” Squire Everett’s hearty voice startled her. “The card tables are set, and Lady Ardith is demanding we choose partners now and begin play.”

“Play,” the earl repeated, and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Yes, of course. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He made them a quick bow.

Almost dizzy with happiness, Laura watched him walk away. He thought her beautiful. As she’d dreamed all evening, he’d come to her, stood by her, gifted her with that special smile that transported her to a magical realm where nothing existed but the two of them alone.

Better to leave now, before anything occurred to mar the perfection of an evening she would recall with wonder the rest of her days. Cinderella, mirrored in the eyes of her prince as “beautiful.”

In a daze, she murmured thanks to Lady Winters and Lady Elspeth and floated toward the door.

Before she reached it, Lord Beaulieu called out, “No, Mrs. Martin, we cannot have you departing so early! Squire Everett needs a fourth at his table.”

“Aye, madam, ye’ve had evenings enough of sick lads and laudanum,” Dr. MacDonovan said. “Having kept vigil late these past days, ye canna be weary yet.” “You must stay, Mrs. Martin,” Squire Everett said. “My sister declares she will not play unless you join us.”

Desperately as she wished to break free, to tuck away this fragile gem of an evening in a protective tissue wrap of memory so she might preserve it forever, once again civility dictated she remain.

And so she let the squire lead her to the table, knowing in truth that the reticent Lady Winters, an indifferent card player, would be wretchedly uncomfortable unless matched with a forgiving partner.

And besides, depending on where Lady Ardith maneuvered Lord Beaulieu, she might be able to observe the earl a bit longer, add a few more gilded treasures to the trove that must warm her through the long lonely days after he departed. As soon he must.

A surprisingly bitter regret spiraled through her. Damping it down, she took her place.

Laura gamely played through several rubbers, though her modest skill was not sufficient to outweigh some of Lady Winters’s disastrous discards. Their team ended by being solidly trounced, much to the delight of the squire and his partner Sir Ramsdale.

Naturally, Lady Ardith had snared the earl and Dr. MacDonovan for her table, with Lady Elspeth making up the fourth. The beauty seated the gentlemen—deliberately?—so that Laura could view only the back of his lordship’s head, but from the frequency of Dr. MacDonovan’s hearty laugh and the coos and squeals emanating from Lady Ardith, Laura surmised their table was enjoying a rousing good game.

The other tables were finishing up. Repressing the desire to linger, Laura turned to the squire.

“Thank you and Lady Winters both for such a delightful evening. I must go check on our patient now.”

“Nonsense,” Lord Beaulieu said, surprising her by appearing behind her chair. “Kit’s valet will summon help if the need arises. Lady Winters, shall we not have some dancing? This handsome chamber seems designed for it.”

“D-dancing?” Lady Winters repeated faintly.

“Capital idea!” Squire Everett said. “We’ve numbers enough for a respectable set. You can play for us, Emily.”

Lady Ardith walked over then to put an entreating hand on the earl’s arm. “Oh, yes, you must dance with me! Do say you will play for us, dear Lady Winters.”

“Nay,” Lord Beaulieu said, slipping his arm from under Lady Ardith’s grasping fingers in one smooth movement. “I insist on leading my charming hostess into the first set. I’ve heard, Lady Winters, you were such a belle at your debut Season the gentlemen called each other out over the privilege of escorting you.”

“Aye, a regular diamond our Emily was,” the squire confirmed proudly. “Winters was smitten the moment he saw her. Weren’t the only one, neither—even the old Duke of Clarendon came calling on her.”

“I’ll wager she can outdance us all still,” Lord Beaulieu said. “If you would do me the honor, my lady?” He made her the exaggerated leg of a Georgian courtier.

“Oh, la,” Lady Winters said, her face pinking with a mingling of pleasure and alarm. “I—I …”

“Excellent,” the earl said. “Squire, Dr. MacDonovan approaches, so you’d best be quick if you wish to capture Lady Ardith for the first set.” Ignoring the dagger glance that lady shot him, he turned to the rest of the company. “Ladies, gentlemen, choose your partners.”

He turned back to Laura. “You will play for us, Mrs. Martin? I understand you are quite skilled.” Without awaiting a reply, he offered his arm to the blushing Lady Winters and led her to where the couples were assembling.

Laura made her way to the piano, trying not to feel so … deflated. What had she expected—that the earl would ask lowly Mrs. Martin to dance? A woman who, whatever her origins, now occupied a position less elevated than a governess. A woman who, as Lady Ardith had cogently reminded the company earlier, had to earn her own bread.

She should focus on that fact and forget the seductive magic so briefly evoked by a borrowed gown.

“Let me help you find some music.”

Mr. Blackthorne stood beside the piano, distracting her out of her dispiriting reflections.

“A country dance, perhaps?” he suggested.

She nodded, as perversely comforted now by his attention as she had been unsettled by it earlier. After selecting a piece, she began to play.

Within a few moments, joy at the mellow chords produced by the squire’s fine instrument succeeded in dissipating her melancholy. She glanced up to the dancers—and found the reverend’s eyes focused on her with alarming warmth. A smile leaped to his face as their eyes met and he winked. Then, as he bent to turn the page of music, he placed a hand on her bared shoulder.

She jumped, missing the next chord. The earl whipped a glance over to them and frowned. Removing his hand, Mr. Blackthorne stepped back, but she had to struggle to recapture the beat, her quiet enjoyment shattered. Though he did not touch her again for the remainder of the piece, Laura remained uncomfortably conscious of his presence beside her.

After the music ended, Laura looked up to find the earl regarding them frostily. “Mr. Blackthorne, we have ladies in need of partners. I’m sure Mrs. Martin can keep her place in the music without assistance. Lady Ramsdale, did you not request the reverend’s escort?”

“If you please, sir,” the knight’s wife said. “You’re ever so fine a dancer.”

Laura thought for a moment Reverend Blackthorne would refuse. Then with a sigh, he murmured, “You will excuse me?” and walked to the dancers.

Waiting for a cue to begin the next piece, Laura watched the earl bow over the hand of Lady Winters who, flushed and laughing, shook her head in demurral. Whatever he said in those deep, even tones must have been persuasive, for after a moment, still shaking her head, she let him lead her once again into place beside him.

To her horror, Laura felt a shaft of bitter envy pierce her.

If she were reduced to resenting the gentle, silly Lady Winters, it was long past time to depart. The minute the dancers tired of their sport, she would take her leave.

Laura tried, but was unable to recapture her previous delight in the music itself. After the current dance ended and the earl, insisting Lady Winters dance now with Dr. MacDonovan, turned to claim a waiting Lady Ardith, what tepid enthusiasm she had mustered dissipated completely.

She tried to ignore the girlish giggles and arch tones that disrupted her concentration whenever the movements of the dance brought the earl and Lady Ardith nearby. When, after the last chord faded, the beauty immediately implored Lord Beaulieu to partner her again, Laura had to fight to keep from grinding her teeth.

She should have escaped earlier. Now her lovely memories of the party would be soured by the sound of Lady Ardith’s breathy voice and high-pitched titters.

Which is exactly what she ought to recall, argued the wiser, more cautious part of her. She’d been given a lovely gown and treated with deference by the company, which was everything and more than a woman in her position could expect or desire. She should banish once and for all every other moonstruck fancy.

“Yes, my lord, one more dance,” Lady Ardith cooed. “And we simply must make it a waltz!” She looked over at Laura, her expression a mixture of triumph and disdain. How dare you try to garner any attention at my party, it said. “You do know how to play a waltz, Mrs. Martin?”

Ignoble but instinctive fury shook Laura. But before she could mendaciously deny she knew anything about the waltz, Lord Beaulieu intervened. “A treat we shall have to postpone, my lady. Our hostess is looking fatigued.”

Lady Ardith’s smile faded to a moue of annoyance, but the earl had already relinquished her hand to stride toward the small group gathered around Lady Winters. Their hostess did in fact look ill, swaying on her feet as her brother supported her and Lady Ramsdale fanned her rapidly.

“Lady Winters, are you all right?” the earl demanded.

“A bit overcome by the heat,” the squire replied. “I think I’d best take her up to bed. I’ve instructed the staff to bring in the tea tray. Mrs. Martin, would you kindly pour for us?”

With a flare of irritation, Laura nearly refused performing this additional service. If she did so, however, she knew the hostess’s task would fall to Lady Elspeth, who ought to be delivered a cup and allowed to rest. “Of course, Squire Everett.”

“She’ll be as right as a trivet once her woman gets her tucked up in bed,” the squire assured the rest of the company. “Come, my dear, and wave your goodbyes to our guests. I’ll have you upstairs in a hound pup’s lick.”

“Please allow me to assist,” the earl said, “and selfishly steal a few minutes longer with the most graceful dancer of the evening.” Having received a weak smile from Lady Winters, he motioned in the servants who stood at the doorway, heavily loaded trays in hand. “Mrs. Martin will serve.” Taking Lady Winter’s other arm, he helped the squire lead her from the room.

My lord of Beaulieu was certainly good at ordering people about, Laura thought resentfully as she took her place behind the tea tray. But the small civilities of serving tea and the friendliness of Lady Elspeth, who insisted on installing herself at Laura’s elbow, gradually soothed her irritation. By the time the squire and the earl returned to the parlor, Laura was able to prepare their cups with a fair measure of her usual calm.

Don’t meet his eye. Don’t listen for his voice. Pour the tea, smile politely, leave. Now that, at long last, she was finally about to depart, she felt an irrational sadness that the evening was truly going to end. Cinderella, returning to sackcloth and ashes.

“Another round of cards?” Reverend Blackthorne suggested. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of partnering Mrs. Martin.”

“Not for me, I’m afraid,” Lady Elspeth said, smothering a yawn. “My daughter has me up betimes. My warmest regards to all, but I shall have to retire.”

“I expect we should leave, as well,” Sir Ramsdale said. “A capital party, though, squire! Be sure to convey our warmest thanks to Lady Winters.”

Amid murmurs of agreement among the other guests, the squire motioned the butler to summon the carriages.

“I’m past needing to check on our patient. Please excuse me,” Laura said with a curtsey to the company.

“I should like to look on him, as well,” the earl said. “Squire, my lords and ladies, a delightful evening. If I might escort you, Mrs. Martin?”

Beau climbed the stairs beside Mrs. Martin in a silence that was both edgy with awareness and paradoxically, companionable. After Peters answered their soft knock, Mrs. Martin walked to the side of his sleeping brother’s bed. “Has he been resting comfortably?” she asked the valet.

“Aye, ma’am. He argufied some, but I got ‘em to drink all his broth.”

“Good.” She reached out to touch Kit’s forehead, ran her fingers down to his temple, then moved them to the pulse at the base of his jaw and let them rest there. Beau felt a sharp, involuntary pang of envy.

“Fever is not much elevated, and his pulse is quiet,” she observed. “Has he been coughing?”

“A bit. But not what’s you might call excessive.”

She nodded, then carefully laid her head against his brother’s chest. Beau sucked in a breath, thinking it might be worth getting shot to be in Kit’s place. Especially with a tad fewer witnesses and a lot fewer garments.

“Just a bit of a whistle in his lungs, and his breathing is easier,” she said. “I expect he should do fine tonight, although perhaps it would be best if I—”

“There’s no need, Mrs. Martin,” Beau interrupted hastily. “Dr. MacDonovan would not have turned Kit over to Peters if he had any doubts about his well-being.”

“You get some rest, ma’am,” Peters said. “Young master will be fine.”

Kit murmured and stirred. Beau took that opportunity to place a hand under Mrs. Martin’s elbow. “Come, we don’t wish to disturb his slumber.”

She hesitated a moment before nodding. “Very well. Good night, Peters.”

“Good night, ma’am, your lordship.”

His hand still at her elbow, Beau urged her toward the door. He paused at the threshold to glance back—and caught Kit watching them. His brother flashed him a wink before snapping his eyes shut. Suppressing a chuckle, Beau led Mrs. Martin from the room.

At last he would have her to himself. Anticipation surged through his veins.

“You missed your walk with Lady Catherine this afternoon,” he said, willing his voice to calm. “Or so she informed me during our ride, with no little indignation. You mustn’t neglect your exercise, though, and so unless you are fatigued, I suggest you take that walk now. The evening is clear with no trace of wind, the garden near bright as day under a full moon, and with a wool wrap you should be perfectly warm.”

“What an appealing thought! I believe I will.” She smiled. “I’ve always wondered if roses smell as sweetly at night.”

“Shall we find out?”

Her smile dissolved, her eyes widening. “W-we?” “I can hardly allow you to walk about the grounds after dark without an escort. And since ‘tis I who urged you to it, ‘tis only fitting that I do the honors.”

“Oh, but my lord, you said you had work … I could not—”

“My papers will wait. Lady Winters’s white garden was designed to be seen in moonlight, she told me. I should like very much to inspect it with you.” His touch feather-light, he put a finger to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes were forced to meet his. Come with me, his gaze implored. “Please, Mrs. Martin.”

He held his breath, frantic with impatience as he awaited her response. She had no guile; he could read on her face the distress, uncertainty—and longing his invitation evoked. All his energy concentrated in wordless imperative, he willed her to yield to the desire that warred with caution in her eyes.

Each moment she did not flee brought her closer to consent. Acquiescence trembled on her lips, and he sought to help it find voice. “Does a white rose truly smell as sweet at midnight? I, too, should like to know.” His eyes never leaving hers, he offered his arm. “Let us see.”

Say yes, say yes, say yes. The refrain beat so loudly in his head he might have spoken it aloud. If she demurred now he wasn’t at all sure he could make himself leave her.

The briefest flicker of a smile creased her lips. “It would be much wiser if we did not. But …” She uttered a small sigh, as if having won—or lost—some great struggle. “Let me fetch my shawl.”

Relief, excitement and gladness shot through him like an exploding Congreve rocket. Knowing he was grinning like an infatuated schoolboy but unable to help himself, he said, “My cloak is in the library. ‘Twill be warmer.”

Before she could change her mind and bolt, he clasped her arm and led her downstairs, across the deserted entryway where the case clock ticked loudly in the stillness, and into the library. Snatching up the cloak he’d left there after his late ride, he fastened it beneath her chin with care, the deliberate avoidance of contact with the soft skin so tantalizingly near his fingers a delicious game of heightening awareness.

“Come,” he whispered. Taking the gloved hand she offered, he led them out the French doors onto the terrace. As they descended to the garden, Mrs. Martin gave a gasp.

“It is a fairyland!”

Illumined by moonlight, each urn, bench and planting stood in its usual place, yet the silvered light and the odd, amorphous shadows it cast gave everything a strange, otherworldly aspect.

His senses seemed uncommonly acute, as well. He heard the plaintive call of an owl, the scurrying of some small animal in the bushes, the crunch of the gravel under their feet, the silken rustle of her skirts. Her subtle scent carried on the chill night air, teasing his nose with the warmth and fragrance of her. Moonlight painted her dark hair, silhouetted her small straight nose and delicate lips with a crystalline line. Each time she took a step the opaque darkness of his cloak parted to reveal a sparkling flash of gown, as magically luminescent as phosphorus in the wake of a ship.

In awed silence they walked down the center allee, then turned toward the west wing into the white garden.

Ghostly roses glowed against a shadowed trellis on the stone wall opposite them. The silver leaves of artemesia and curry drifted onto the pathway, a splash of stardust at their feet, while tiny white brushheads of asters stood out like dots of exclamation against a dark mass of greenery.

“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Martin whispered.

He lifted her hands to his lips, exulting when she did not pull them away. “You are beautiful,” he said as he kissed them, his voice husky. “Not a lady in the room tonight could compare.”

She laughed, her voice unsteady. “With your sister and Lady Ardith present? Mendacious flattery, my lord.”

“Absolute truth.”

She made a scornful noise. “I am to Lady Ardith as a candle flame to a Yule log’s blaze.”

“You are to her as fine gold to dross. And so I would have told you earlier, but your having endured enough of her spiteful tongue at dinner, I did not wish to single you out and attract more sweetly acid commentary.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/julia-justiss/regency-secrets-my-lady-s-trust/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.