“If anything, the evening is entertaining. Say whatever you like, Miss Thorne, I’ll back you up completely,” said the Duke of Banfield.
Rachel laid a hand on her heart. “I had no idea that there could be a creature as condescending as Lady Ward.”
Difficult to tamp down the devil in him, Anthony said, “Lady Ward is not at fault.”
Rachel groaned. “Which makes my comment all the worse.”
Anthony observed the pasted tower of Lady Ward’s hair bobbing and weaving through the crowd, a cat whiskers-width away from a candelabra. How many minutes for the confection to blaze from the start of ignition to her scalp? “As a cure-all, Lord Ward shocked her. A curiosity she’s not a smoking crater on the carpet.”
Rachel smiled and her happiness caused an unfamiliar lightness in him. Risky. Dangerous to fall under Rachel’s spell. He began to move away, but she tugged his arm and raised her feathered brow in an aren’t-you-going-to-ask-me-todance question.
“I don’t know how to dance.”
“I doubt that. Sir Jameson was ready to ask me again, and he can sneeze with enough force to put the planets out of alignment.”
“He asked you to dance. Twice.”
“Does that bother you?”
He pulled her onto the dance floor. “How diverting, the odds of being struck by lightning opposed to the odds of being killed by lightning.”
Rachel pealed with hilarity, her laughter was like the first ray of light of God’s creation. “For someone who cannot dance, you surprise me, Lord Anthony, with your fluidity.”
“You do not think a duke’s son would have refinements?”
She lifted her eyelashes. “Admit it, you are having fun, and if you wish to have more enjoyment, I can explain the science of what people are now thinking.”
“Go ahead and divine your prophetic wanderings of the human mind. There’s Lady Ward, tell me what she is thinking.”
“That’s easy. She is ready to roast me on spit.”
“Wrong. She doesn’t think. There is nothing there to think with.”
Rachel giggled. “Her hair, to think it would make a perfect target for an archer’s arrow.”
“Don’t tell me archery is another of your talents?”
“Living with savages and wigwams, one must be prepared. My brother, Ethan, taught me.” She gave Anthony a shy smile, and then angled her head to the sidelines.
“Look at that man in the orange frockcoat. He’s staring off in the distance, dreaming of a long lost lover.”
“He’s dreaming how he can escape his nagging wife and go fishing.”
“That is unfair. You have a history of people that I don’t have.”
Her radiant smile made the millwheel spin. The evening had not been a waste of time and Anthony pondered that notion, for everything he did in life was arranged to eradicate randomness and remove chance. Control was his expertise—anticipating every possibility, foreseeing every response, and molding reality toward the desired outcome. With Miss Thorne, his world was turned upside down and dropped on its head.
Friends? Brother, she had called him. For the first time in his life he was unable to handle that disconnect. Platonic? How tragic. Plato would have an opinion. How about friends delving into a base and carnal nature?
“I suppose you can tell me what I’m thinking.” He hoped not.
“Absolutely.”
“Amazing because I don’t even know my mind.”
“You are thinking about getting back to your laboratory. Look over my shoulder, the man conversing with Lord Banfield…the man with the glass eye. He sends shivers down my spine. He is malevolent. He has a secret. There is anger.”
Anthony snorted. “That is my Uncle Cornelius, Duke of Westbrook. He’s been looking like that ever since your cousin, Captain Thorne captured his ships. Almost bankrupted him.”
Anthony escorted her off the dance floor and Rachel unconsciously leaned into him. He liked her bending into him. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless.”
“You are the student tonight,” she reminded him. “Now tell me what I’m thinking.”
He looked her up and down. Beneath soft brows were eyes a mystifying violet and he imagined, when her moods changed, were endless shades of lavender and blue lilac. “I haven’t a clue.”
Rachel waved her hand over the broodmare competition. “All this and I’ll never marry.”
“Why not?”
Her fingers twisted in his, and he barely caught her muttered words before someone took her for another dance.
“Because I’m not desirable.”
Chapter Six
Gasping, Rachel sat up like a shot, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Would she ever be able to eradicate the nightmares and terrors that haunted her? Abby had been her one true confidante, allowing into the darkness that swallowed Rachel, a glimmering of light. But Abby was an ocean away and she dared not confide her shame to anyone. She did not want what happened to her in Boston, and the humiliation of everyone treating her like an oddity to follow her to England.
The heavy gold drapes were peeled back and the sunshine spilled over her bed, warming her skin. Blinking against the brightness of the morning, she became aware of busy, rustling noises coming from inside her room.
“Good morning, Miss Thorne. I didn’t mean to startle you, but you did tell me to wake you for breakfast,” said Mrs. Noot, her assigned lady’s maid, a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair tucked under her cap, her uniform, neat and crisp, denoting efficiency, yet severe in comparison to her lively and smiling manner.
Rachel fell back into the pillows, trying to slow her breaths, grateful for the brilliant day that chased away the gloom. She clutched and unclutched the gold damask coverlet, forcing the rich smoothness to ease her tremors. No doubt, Sir Bonneville’s provocation triggered the nightmare. Although, she’d put on a strong façade, in truth, she had been terrified, panicking, her limbs useless to move. Thank God, Anthony had rescued her when he did.
A housemaid dusted the marble hearth, and then stoked smoldering embers. A fire flared to life in a gigantic fireplace. Rachel stared at the motifs of roses and cherubs on the ceiling, her sight descending to the walls painted a robin-egg blue and a darker hue of equivalent shades in rich velvet drapes that were secured with gold tassels. Her vanity was skirted with a harmonizing color and a blue brocade stool to match. Across the elegant room and housing a portion of her new gowns stood a massive walnut armoire with inlaid mother of pearl. The housemaid gathered her canvas and copper pot filled with the night’s ashes and left.
“You have nothing to fear, Miss Thorne. You are safe in the Duke’s house.” Soft brown eyes gentled as did the grooves in her cheeks, lending a motherly appearance to Mrs. Noot.
Had she said something in her sleep?
Servants gossiped.
Rachel threw back the covers and planted her feet on the silky-smooth Aubusson rug of pink and sea foam green while Mrs. Noot laid out silk stockings and lacy underthings.
“I cannot possibly wear this gown.” Rachel smoothed her hand over the silver brocade trimmed with silver bobbin lace along the hem, sleeves and bodice. If she spilled something on it in the lab, the gown would be destroyed. Neither could she tell Mrs. Noot she was working alone with Anthony. “I need something more serviceable, less weight, less cumbersome, less expansive…without the panniers. I wish to take a walk today.”
Mrs. Noot produced a simple green linen gown that the seamstress had insisted on, making several for Rachel, informing her the new style was scandalously started by Queen Marie Antoinette in France. The chemise a la reine was incredibly light and simple, consisting of layers of thin muslin with a low-laced bodice, belted around the waist with a sash, fitted sleeves from shoulder to wrist and no panniers. Perfect for Rachel’s work in the laboratory.
After helping Rachel dress, Mrs. Noot guided her to the vanity to do her hair. Gone was the chatty, effervescent, and welcoming maid. In the mirror’
s reflection, Mrs. Noot opened her mouth, and then snapped it shut. Was she on the brink of telling Rachel what she heard? Was she condemning her for an assault that was entirely out of Rachel’s hands?
“Out with it,” Rachel demanded. “What did I say in my sleep?”
Mrs. Noot moved across the room. “I can’t seem to find the hairpins.”
From her vanity, Rachel held up the crystal bottle of hairpins Mrs. Noot thought she had misplaced.
“I’m so happy you found them, Miss Thorne.” She picked up a silver brush and started on Rachel’s hair.
“You are avoiding my question.”
Mrs. Noot stopped, brush midair. “I feel your pain, Miss Thorne…it happened to me.”
Rachel felt the blood drain from her face. To hear the tragedy spoken aloud was even worse.
Mrs. Noot put her trembling hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I will keep your secret in the strictest confidence, my lady.”
Rachel swallowed a hard lump.
Mrs. Noot set the brush on the vanity. “I will share my painful story, and I believe it will help. My husband, Cuthbert, was the Duke’s former manager. How Cuthbert swept me off my feet. I considered myself lucky to be married to such a nice man. Under that layer of kindness was great cruelty. He took pleasure in humiliating, beating and raping me. Cuthbert was merciless with the Duke’s tenants, but they were too afraid to go up against him. I stood up to him one day, told him I was going to report him to Duke Rutland. If Lord Anthony hadn’t happened by…heard my screams…” She shook her head. “Anthony thrashed my husband. I had never known this side of Lord Anthony, always thought of him as a quiet scholar without a hint of violence. He became my young knight in shining armor. I am indebted to him for saving my life.”
Mrs. Noot took a deep breath. “Cuthbert was dismissed and banished from the estate, yet that day is branded on my memory. I lost the child I was carrying, and almost died from hemorrhaging. Lady Lucretia, Lord Anthony’s mother ordered me brought to the house to convalesce. When her lady’s maid retired, I became her replacement.”
Rachel clasped her maid’s hand. Their eyes caught in the mirror, an unspoken acknowledgement that they belonged to a special club…thin fragile strings wound the shame and emotional vulnerability of two women into a thick cord that bound them.
“You said, was—”
“My husband is deceased. When Lady Rutland hired me on the heels of Cuthbert’s dismissal, he flew into a jealous rage, burning down half of the Duke’s stables in retribution. Prosecuted and sent to prison, he picked fights, his anger earning him an early death.”
In a soothing tone, Mrs. Noot said, “To hold it in, Miss Thorne, is to freeze the pain. Know that I am here for you.”
Rachel sat there for a long time, allowing the older woman to fuss over her hair, her lady-maid’s way of offering compassion and mothering. Rachel’s heart melted.
“You are ready, Miss Thorne.”
Rachel rose and hugged her. “Thank you.”
“Off you go, my lady,” said a flustered Mrs. Noot.
Rachel descended the cantilevered stairs, the rich red carpet hushing her footsteps. She stopped midlevel and gazed out a huge leaded window that overlooked the vast estate of Belvoir Castle, catching the rising sun to best advantage. Beautiful Baroque gardens, dormant now, terraces, lawns, and a sleeping fountain of cherubs, announced gaiety to the world. There was so much to discover and explore.
The Rutland’s ancestral home was just short of a palace. When Rachel had first clapped eyes on the magical structure she was beyond words. The façade dominated the landscape, stretching left to right of bulging, stonework, lending the building an air of unyielding authority, further accentuated by a powerful repetition of windows and turrets. The effect was dramatic. By no accident had Anthony’s ancestors built the edifice on high ground so that anyone in the valley had to look uphill, almost compelling them to genuflect.
Her heels tapped a quiet tattoo across polished, opalescent marble floors to the dining hall, another room of rich splendor, accentuating red velvet walls and gold trim. A crystal chandelier, the length of a carriage painted rainbows on the opposing wall from the brilliant morning sun shining through the windows. Would she ever get used to the opulence? A footman seated her next to Anthony.
Coming from Boston, Rachel was used to rising early and she was glad that the Duke and Anthony were not disposed to the indolent lifestyle of their peers.
The Duke sat at the head of the table looking over Lloyd’s List and the London Gazette. She couldn’t get over how father and son radiated waves of regal authority, a trait she presumed, bred from birth, happenstance and experience.
The Duke probed a portion of kidney pie on his plate. “You enjoyed the ball last night.”
It was a statement not a question. “I did, Your Grace.”
“I understand, Miss Thorne, that Lady Ward was less than…I want to apologize for some of my countrymen.”
Rachel blanched, then looked away. How much had he heard? Anthony shook his head. Not from him.
“Lady Ward and I had a misunderstanding—” Rachel made an extensive study of the eggs offered from the sideboard. Had he heard how she compared Lady Ward to a donkey? Would the duke send her packing back to Boston? Rachel buttered her croissant with the intense diligence Michelangelo sculpted the Pieta.
The duke lifted an eyebrow. “Your comparison to a particular equine was appropriate. I could not have phrased it better.”
Rachel choked. But, was that a grin that the normally stoic butler was quick to conceal? She tried to remember his name. Sebastian? He stood next to the door, tall, beak-nosed, silver hair and grey eyes beneath beetle brows that discerned the air around him. He was lean and thoughtful, chest out, shoulders back and he gave the impression if he broke his posture, not only would it be an effrontery to himself but to humankind.
The Duke delved into a plate of bacon, enough to feed a whole army and selected the crispiest piece. “Too bad about Sir Bonneville. Broke his knee. Fell drunk, I suppose. Rather clumsy of him, don’t you think, Anthony?”
Was there anything the Duke did not know?
A servant tonged three quail eggs to Anthony’s plate, three clicks on bone china. He leaned back in his chair, and then winked at Rachel as though they were conspirators. “Bonneville, Lord and Lady Ward, all sail the same ship. What life has taught me is to never argue with idiots. They will grind you down to their level and beat you with experience.”
Rachel was not used to the cloaked nuances of the Duke and Anthony. She was an American and Americans came out and said what they thought. She popped a cream puff in her mouth and closed her eyes. Had she gone to heaven? A servant filled her rose-patterned teacup from a silver gleaming teapot.
“Sugar? Cream?” He solicitously gestured to the foamy fresh cream and lumps of cubed sugar. The dressmaker would have to let out the waists on her gowns.
The Duke of Rutland put down his teacup. “Anthony, did I mention that Lady March has departed and your great Aunt Margaret is coming to visit? She loves your scientific mind and insists on sitting in your laball day.”
Anthony slapped his hands on the arms of his chair. “Impossible. She is the farthest away from any scientific thinking. Never has she set one foot in my lab and never will she. I cannot have the interruption. I must concentrate and cannot afford to babysit Aunt Margaret.”
The Duke cut his smoked salmon in three even pieces, put his knife and fork down, and then looked at his son, his meaning well-communicated. “She would like to meet Miss Thorne.”
This time Rachel understood the doublespeak. To slither beneath the Persian rug had appeal. The Duke knew they had been working alone in the laboratory. He was protecting Rachel’s reputation by making a chaperone available. He was thinking of her.
Anthony protested. “Aunt Margaret has fits of narcolepsy and snores loudly. Very loudly. She doesn’t even know what planet she is on half the time.”
The d
uke smiled. End of discussion. “Perhaps Aunt Margaret can work on your attire.”
Anthony’s blue eyes blazed. “What is wrong with my attire?”
“You have a predilection to be dressed for the day, cravat white, suit impeccable, yet two straight hours in your laboratory, you look like you’ve been through two wars. And get a shave.”
Anthony rubbed the dark stubble on his handsome chin. “No time.”
“It’s a mandate, not a request.”
With the preciseness of a Japanese samurai, Anthony cracked his quail egg. “I’ll get it taken care of.”
Before two volcanoes erupted, Rachel intervened. “I was thinking of the Parthian Battery.”
Anthony tilted his dark head considering, then whipped out his notebook from his coat pocket. “The prehistoric battery using a clay jar that holds an iron rod surrounded by a copper cylinder and then filled with vinegar?”
The Duke interrupted. “About your shaving—”
“What of it?”
His father scowled. “I want it done daily.”
“I’m not talking of shaving. I am responding to Miss Thorne. It is not effective for the type of battery we seek…produces little current.”
Like keeping two badgers apart. She tried again although how much of a deterrent she would be, before father and son ended in a major verbal dispute would be a miracle. “The Babylonians employed a galvanic technique, using grape juice to apply gold plate to stoneware.”
Anthony let out a loud breath. His hair tumbled down his forehead and she had the urge to sweep it up with her fingers. “I do not want gold plated stoneware.”
Oh, the man was so stubborn. Couldn’t he see what she was proposing? Rachel tilted her head back and skewered him with her eyes. “That is not my point. You use saltwater. Perhaps we need to try other solutions to harness a charge like the Babylonians accomplished, using grape juice.”
“Not possible.” Anthony rose and pulled out her chair.
“Do you ever allow your valet to shave you?” The duke’s words were articulated in a short strong sentence but seemed so far away. At this moment, she was bursting with ideas and needed to see them through. Now.
Light of My Heart Page 5