by Lavinia Kent
“I can and I must. You are clearly a danger that cannot be left loose.” He did not sound pleased by his answer.
She turned back from the window and walked to the bed. It looked so warm and cozy compared to the deep chill of the room. The pillows might not be as fine as her own, but they were still inviting. Just curling up in the bed for the rest of the day and ignoring all this seemed wonderful.
She wondered if he’d curl up with her and let his weariness fade. Where had that idea come from? It was preposterous.
Still…
The idea did present possibilities.
She sat on the edge of the bed, allowing her skirts to rise up, revealing her feet and ankles. The bed creaked under her weight. His head lifted toward her. She cocked a hip provocatively. “Really, you can’t.” She let her voice deepen. It was surprisingly easy to do as she met his cool blue gaze. “I realize it’s a mistake to try and tell a man what to do. There’s something innate that makes you all object to orders. I think even my footmen sometimes grimace at my commands. They don’t think I see, of course, but men are also not good at hiding their emotions.
“You for instance are trying to decide if I really have footmen. You’re examining my dress again and comparing it to my speech.” She ran a hand along her waistline, letting her fingers play gently with the fabric. His eyes followed. “Accents can be affected and clothing, of course, can be borrowed or bought from shops specializing in the previously worn. I believe my maid makes a fortune taking my castoffs to such a place. But that’s only my in-town clothes. Here in the country I much prefer the used and comfortable.
“I can see you are still not persuaded. The cloth is good, heavy and tightly woven, but the elbows are worn, the seams frayed, and there is a singular lack of ornament save for the edging of lace, and even that is slim.” Her fingers moved up her body to the rounded neckline of the dress, pausing to press at the thin lace.
It was not her words that held him. It was the low, inviting tone of her voice and the subtle gestures highlighting the curve of her body as she discussed the dress.
Really, men were all the same—give them a peek at a bit of flesh and they were slaves. It had been both humorous and powerful with her husband. Recently, it had been closer to tedious.
Still, there was something in his rigid posture that captured her interest. He might not be able to avoid his baser thoughts, but he was not pleased by them.
“I do not know what the quality of your dress had to do with whether I should call for the authorities. You are a thief; it matters not how fine your dress.” He spoke slowly and with precision.
She held his gaze. It was clear he wanted to look away, to avoid temptation, but he did not.
She ran her tongue across her lower lip, watching his gaze move. “We both know exactly what I mean and that it does matter. I fancy you would not like to live in a world in which it did not. I am sure you are very comfortable with your station. The leather of your boots and the cut of your shirt say it for you, as surely as my dress.”
“I do not care who you are.”
That brought a smile to her face. “Oh, you care a great deal. I have strayed from my point, however. I should not have ordered you. I should have persuaded. Men do so much better with persuasion.”
He started to speak, but she brought her finger up to her lips, silencing him. “All that really matters is who I am. I had sought to avoid this, but before this proceeds I should simply introduce myself.”
“I am Clara Bembridge, the Countess of Westington.”
His face changed at her words, but perhaps not in the way she was expecting. She leaned forward trying to get a better understanding of what she saw in his dark eyes, but they reflected back at her as endless as a puddle at midnight.
“You’re Lady Westington?” he could not keep the disdain and shock from his voice. He had heard all about the adventurous Lady Westington and none of it had been good. It explained so much about her behavior. A lady she might be, but in name only—he wasn’t even sure how many lovers she’d had. She was a close acquaintance of his sister Violet, and that explained more than enough. No wonder she’d been comfortable in the tavern drinking with such a rough crew.
It was probably a tame evening for her. If even half the things he’d heard were true, then—It truly did not bear thought.
“Yes, I am.” She sat up straight on the bed. Her jaw tilted up and it was clear she was ready for a fight. She could see what he was thinking and did not like it.
Raising a hand he massaged the back of his neck. With every word she spoke the muscles were tightening, tension and pain creeping up the back of his skull to his temples.
How had this suddenly become so complicated?
He should have been done with her last night. This was his reward for trying to show mercy. No good would come of this. “Is there not somebody responsible for you? Some man who can come and take you off my hands?”
“Some man?” Her voice was low and he heard the warning in it. A red flush spread across her cheeks. Yes, she would get along well with Violet. He lacked understanding of these women who didn’t comprehend their place in creation. It was not such a complex thought. And, ironically, it was always the women who seemed to have a brain in their heads who were given to such fancy.
“Yes, some man, father, brother, son—it matters not.”
“Son?” Her eyes flashed as she said the word. “Just how young do you think I was delivered? Or how old do you think I am?”
He was too smart to answer that. Last night, he’d thought her his age or older. This morning, asleep, she’d looked years younger, hardly more than first out. Now he couldn’t tell. “A brother or a father then?”
“I am an only child, and my father rests in the churchyard up the hill. I notice you don’t mention a husband?”
“You are known to me, if by reputation only, and I am well aware that you are a widow—if of the merriest kind.”
She shifted so her skirts dropped, covering her bare toes. It wasn’t until they disappeared from view that he realized how taken he’d been by their casual innocence. He’d never noticed a woman’s feet before, but those sweetly curled pink toes had distracted him.
He dropped his head back into his hands. If he didn’t look at her, his thoughts would be safe.
She didn’t speak for a moment, and he sat staring at the scarred tabletop and listening to the jostle of horses below.
“We must determine how I can get out of here without being seen.” She spoke finally. “I don’t fancy the village knowing I spent the night with you. Assuming, of course, we were not seen last night.”
“I don’t believe we were. I hustled you up the stairs once I had decided on a course of action. And we most certainly did not spend the night together. I slept in my carriage.”
“Your carriage?” Her full laugh filled the room. “You actually worried for my reputation.”
“Reputation may seem a matter of ridicule to one such as you, but I can assure you I take it most seriously. And it was not your reputation I was concerned about.”
Her laughter died at his words. “One such as I? I don’t wish to know what you’ve heard of me.” He heard her slide off the bed. “It doesn’t matter in any event. If you’ll tell me where I might find my shoes and my other stocking, I’ll be gone and trouble you no more. You can forget you ever met me.”
If only he could. He couldn’t even pretend that he’d soon forget the way her hair had spread across his pillow as she slept, or the glisten of her lips as she licked the last crumb of bacon from her fingers, or that delicious laugh. He rather imagined that last would float around the edge of his dreams for a lifetime.
“There’s still the matter of my watch. Lady or not, I will not countenance thievery.”
“I can only say again that I did not steal anything. Unless, of course, you added it to the pot and I took the hand.”
“You know that is not what happened. It fell from your cloak
when you prepared to leave.”
She was silent again. He looked up, trying to determine her mood. He was not used to a woman who could maintain a silence. His sisters had never been quiet women. Violet was always too busy trying to take control of a situation she had no business being involved in. And Isabella…well, Isabella simply could not stop talking.
He pushed aside the thought of Isabella. He dreaded the circumstances he might find her in. His own guilt rarely let him rest easy. He curled his fingers into a tight fist. He would finish with this nonsense and be away.
Lady Westington was resting her head against the mantel in a pose reminiscent of his earlier one. She lifted her head and stared at him through weary eyes. “I am not a thief. How many times must I repeat that to make you listen? I certainly have no need of your watch or any proceeds it would bring. I could buy a hundred, I daresay a thousand watches should I need another.”
“I have not found that theft is always based on need.”
“That is true, but nonetheless it was not me.”
“I saw you take it. What other explanation do you offer?”
She rubbed her temple. Perhaps his headache had spread to her. No, more likely it was merely the remainder of her indulgence of the previous night. “I do not feel the need to offer any explanation to you.”
“Then perhaps I should have the local magistrate summoned. Even in a backwater such as this I am sure he is up to the task of demanding an answer.”
At his words he saw a flash of concern.
She massaged the tight lines of her forehead. “Robert would not take kindly to hearing he lived in a backwater. And it really would complicate everything.”
“Robert?”
“My stepson—the current Earl of Westington—and the local magistrate.”
“Ah.” That explained so much.
“Yes, ah. Normally I would not object to his being summoned. He would vouch for my honesty and none here would gainsay him. The situation is, however, complex. I would rather he not be involved at present.”
“I can well understand that. But in truth, my interests are not in what pleases you. I am rather more concerned with justice. And I have only your word that he would speak for you, and I am not inclined to accept that at present.” Again he saw that flash of worry.
“You doubt me, but of course you do.” She lifted her head and stared at him. Her eyes spoke of knowledge beyond her years. She smoothed a hand across her temple once more and then straightened. He could almost see her muster her forces. “If you are going to summon him, then do so. It will be of inconvenience to me and embarrassment to him, but you have already said that my pleasure does not matter.”
There was something in her tone that made him think of other pleasures. She did not speak seductively or with flirtation, but somehow he was left wondering if she doubted him as a lover. He actually opened his mouth to reply to this baseless accusation. He slammed it shut. This was why he hated dealing with women. They confused the issue even when they did not mean to—although it was hard to tell exactly what she meant.
“Well, are you going to summon him?” She sounded suddenly tired. He found he preferred her full of fight and ire. He did not wish to win so easily.
“Jake, the landlord’s son is normally about,” she continued, rubbing her temple again. “He’d know where to find Robert.” Then she changed. Her eyes came up and met his. The fight was not over. She took a step toward him. Daring him on. “Would you like me to call down? Or perhaps I should scream? It isn’t acceptable to abduct a lady, you know. I wonder which Robert would find more persuasive—that you claim I took your watch, or that I was found in your rooms after being tied to your bed?”
“Are you sure he’d find it unusual to find you tied to a bed in a strange man’s room?”
Oh, she didn’t like that one. She spun on her heels away from him. He could hear her pull in each angry breath.
“Then do it. If you do not, I am leaving. And if you try to restrain me I will scream. Based on your words, I no longer have much to lose.” She waited a moment and then marched to the door.
Without even trying the handle, she held out her hand to him. “Key.”
The command was back in her voice, and it was enough to make him hesitate. He did not want to give in to her.
His mind sped. He could see no point in continuing. He was not going to call the authorities; in truth he had never been going to. Doing so would only delay his journey and complicate matters. Explaining the true situation to her stepson would not be easy.
“Key,” she demanded again. “I am weary of this game.”
It was only as she spoke the words that he realized how much he had enjoyed the battle. He resented it. He fought against it, but he could not deny that he relished it.
He reached into his trouser pocket and drew out the key. He held it out to her, not moving toward her.
Another of those heavy breaths passed her lips. She measured the distance between them with her eyes and then moved toward him warily. Her wrist shook as she reached out for the key, and he wondered if she thought he’d grab her. Surely, she must know that if he’d been willing to resort to physical force the game would have been long over.
With extreme care she lifted the key so that only the tips of her fingers brushed his palm. Even so, a shiver of awareness ran through him.
He held his palm flat even after she had lifted the key. He watched her walk to the door. When her hand was on the handle he found himself floundering for something to say. It didn’t seem fitting that their encounter should end on such a note.
But nothing came.
He watched as she opened the door and stepped through. There was a moment when he thought she’d turn back, but with a decisive click the door shut.
He didn’t even hear the tread of her feet as she walked away.
He should be glad that she was gone. That he would be back on the road later this day. He only hoped the rains were delayed.
He stared at the door longer than he should have.
Clara barely resisted the urge to speak. She didn’t know what there was to say, but it seemed there should be something. Her honor had still not been defended. He clearly did not believe that she had not taken his watch. Then there was the matter of her shoes, stocking, and cloak.
Her skirts were long enough that unless she kicked up her heels like a young girl nobody would remark on her feet, and the morning sun was still shining bright, giving hope that she would not look too much a fool walking the mile home without a cloak. Her feet might be sore and she’d probably catch a chill, but she would survive.
Creeping down the stairs step by step, she listened for the sounds of anybody passing by. Fortunately, it was late enough that the first rush of morning was past, and early enough that late sleepers were still slumbering away.
She reached the inn door and eased it open with care. She saw Jake’s shirttails as he disappeared into the stable, but that was all.
A quick dart and she was free. If she was seen walking along the lane it would be considered odd, but not unduly so. There were some advantages to having an unusual reputation.
Now she could only hope that her luck continued as she walked farther and farther from The Dog and toward the Abbey. Perhaps Robert had been out late himself the previous evening and would not even notice that she had been gone. She crossed her fingers tight.
“Lady Westington.” Her name sounded from behind. She turned and looked over her shoulder. Coming toward her, perched high on a massive horse, was the prettiest blond pixie of a girl the world had ever seen.
“Oh, I am so pleased to see you. Robert said you never rose before noon or I would have asked you to ride with me. Or do you prefer to walk? A morning stroll can be quite a wonder. Have you seen any deer or rabbits?” Jennie smiled down at her. Her stepson’s fiancée was full of joy, as always.
Clara forced herself to stop, ignoring the icy rocks beneath her feet. It was imperative she appea
r normal. Jennie, and therefore Jennie’s father, Lord Darnell, must never know that the Countess of Westington had slipped again.
“Don’t you have a groom with you? I thought your father didn’t like you to ride alone?” she asked. Offense was the best defense.
Jennie blushed like a beet. “You won’t tell him, will you? I know that I shouldn’t be unaccompanied, but none of the grooms was free and I didn’t want to wait.”
Clara smiled back. “Don’t worry. We can keep this whole meeting a secret and pretend that it never happened. Or if you prefer, we can say that we were together the whole morning.”
“Oh thank you, Lady Westington. That would be most delightful.”
Chapter 3
The fire danced and jumped, sending a blanket of warmth across the parlor. Morning sun had given way to gray, and the occasional splatter of rain blew against the latticed panes of the windows. Clara curled her toes in the heavy wool socks Molly had found for her. She was lucky she had not been drenched as well as chilled.
That was far away now. She lifted the heavy mug of tea and took a welcome gulp, ignoring her still cold fingers that caused the tea to tremble. Most often she drank from the delicate porcelain cups the house seemed full of, but there were moments that only a mug would do. The heat of the stoneware warmed her lips even before she tilted the cup. An image of other lips placed carefully on the edge of a mug, drinking where hers had been, came to her, but she pushed it back.
Hers were the only lips that would drink from this cup.
Glancing about the room, she tried to decide if there were any items she wished to take back to London upon her return. The house would be Jennie’s home soon, and it was an adjustment that Clara needed to consider with care.
Turning her attention to the task proved difficult. Her thoughts kept turning to the blank spots in the events of the previous evening. Her chest ached with the pain of missing parts of her life. What had happened?
“I hear you had quite an adventure.” Robert’s voice echoed from the doorway as he entered her study, his lanky form disproportionate in this most feminine of rooms.