Julian nodded in silent agreement and glanced down at his bloody knuckles. He’d probably broken something, but he couldn’t seem to muster the energy to care.
How could he have been such a fool to let her walk away yesterday?
Deep down, he knew that some part of him hadn’t wanted to see the truth those first few days when it came to Fawkes—Davina (though he suspected she’d always be Fawkes to him). For the truth was that as a man, she’d been safe. Until that night at the inn, at least, he’d seen a future where he could keep Leon Fawkes as a friend—a novel enough thing in itself—without interfering with his plans for the marquess. But as a woman…
Well. She had messed up all his plans, destroyed his resolve. She’d ruined everything. Ruined him for anyone else. And thank hell for that. The little deceiver had made him feel so many things, had thawed the arctic tundra around his heart enough for him to realize that he still had one.
But it had happened so quickly that whatever tentative relationship they’d forged together lay in ruins at his feet before he’d even realized there was one. He’d known, from the yawning pit that had opened up in his gut immediately afterward, that it was a mistake to let Fawkes walk away.
That voice inside of him, the one who was still that frightened, vengeful thirteen-year-old boy, had drowned out everything else, refused to let him acknowledge the truth. That boy had wanted only one thing, and he was prepared to raze the world around him to get it, uncaring if anything was left standing in his wake.
But for the first time in his life, Julian did care. For the first time in his life, his wishes did not align with those of his younger, brokenhearted self. He couldn’t lose Fawkes—he didn’t want to lose her, and that want was stronger than that malignant, howling boy in his chest.
It had taken her walking out of his life for him to realize it, however. He should have run after her, should have stopped her from ever leaving his side. Yet he had remained frozen, impotent with anger and grief. And look where that had led him: kneeling beside her as she bled into the dirt. Because of him.
He’d not be a fool any longer. If he wanted Fawkes in his life, he was going to have to finally put those ghosts to rest once and for all—not just his mother’s and brother’s, but also the ghost of the boy he used to be, before he’d lost everything that mattered.
He asked himself, for the first time in years, what he wanted—what he wanted, not what that thirteen-year-old boy wanted. And it was not this…this solitary, loveless existence with nothing to look forward to but the empty satisfaction of having bested a man who would never admit he’d done anything wrong. He wanted Fawkes, who never quailed at his blustering, who in fact seemed delighted to bicker with him at every opportunity.
How could she be so fearless? This daughter of privilege who’d never known true privation? How had she found the courage to do what she’d done? Run away from all she’d known—step in front of a damned bullet for him, a man who didn’t half deserve such devotion?
How could he find that same sort of fearlessness?
He’d worked hard for years to bring misery to everyone—even to himself. He wondered if it would be just as hard to find happiness.
He dearly hoped not.
One thing was certain: he was never going to let Davina Benwick walk away again.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Emancipation of Miss Benwick
Davina awoke to the sound of pounding on the bedroom door. For a moment, her mind was blissfully blank, basking in the warm heat of the morning sun pouring through the windows. She ignored the thumping at the door as she stretched her body.
Then she wished she hadn’t moved, for a burning pain radiated out from her torso. Suddenly, she remembered everything—her frantic search for Hirst and the confrontation with Mr. Bonnet.
She’d been shot, though judging from the fact she was still alive, it must not have been a very good shot. She gingerly prodded her side, encountering layers of white gauze. Even that gentle action made the wound ache, and she dropped her hand with a sigh.
The knocking started up again, and with it came the voice of Sir Wesley calling her name. She rolled out of the bed and cursed as her stitches pulled. She realized she was naked beneath a loose undershirt and searched around the room for her clothes. She finally found a pair of breeches and carefully pulled them up her legs. It was slow work, and by the time she was done, sweat was beading on her face and the wound in her side was pulsing with pain.
She cracked the door open just enough to see her brother’s worried face staring down at her.
“Davina!” he breathed, falling into the room with panic written all over his face. “You’re awake, thank God!” He paused and surveyed her worriedly. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was shot.”
Wesley blanched at the reminder, looking vaguely guilty.
“What happened, Wesley?”
“Well, you were shot,” Wesley said stupidly. “But the sawbones said it was just a graze and stitched you up…”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently. “What happened to Mr. Bonnet?”
Wesley’s expression grew grim. “Arrested. He won’t be causing any more mischief around here.”
“And Hirst?” she prompted.
“He’s just fine. I half expected him to be in here.” Wesley craned his neck and peered about the room, as if he expected Hirst to jump out of the wardrobe.
“In here? Why would he be in here?”
“He’s hardly left your bedside since you were shot,” he said, giving Davina a significant look.
She thought it best to ignore Wesley’s insinuation. “And just how long have I been out?”
“Two days.”
“Two days!”
Sir Wesley shrugged helplessly. “It may have been just a graze, but you had a bit of a fever for a while. Nothing too serious, though from the way Hirst was carrying on, you might as well have been on your deathbed. I think we may have got him all wrong, Dav. It seems to me he is rather attached to you…”
“Wesley! What is it you wanted? I’m not exactly feeling my best here,” she snapped, nipping her brother’s rambling in the bud. She had no desire to speculate on what Hirst’s behavior these last few days meant. She didn’t want to hope, only to have it be in vain, for as far as she knew, nothing had changed.
Wesley’s shoulders slumped, and he looked very reluctant to continue. “Ah, yes, about that…we’ve got a bit of a problem…”
When he refused to meet her eyes, she knew something was dreadfully wrong. “What is it?” she demanded.
“Now, don’t panic, Davina,” Sir Wesley began in a very panicked voice. It did not bode well. The last time she’d seen Sir Wesley in such a state was after his elopement with Alice when he’d had to face their mother’s wrath.
Their mother.
Her hackles began to rise at the mere thought. She could almost guess what the next words out of her brother’s mouth would be.
“Don’t you dare tell me that…”
“Mother’s here!” Sir Wesley squeaked out.
“…mother’s here,” she finished.
Sir Wesley began to wring his hands. “She’s downstairs, kicking up a great fuss to see you, Davina.”
“Oh God, poor Pilby,” she said, feeling immensely sorry for the butler.
“He’s nowhere to be found,” Sir Wesley said crossly. “Neither is Hirst. A footman had to fetch me to deal with it.”
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a stern look. “What I’m interested to know is how our mother knew to look for me here.”
Sir Wesley looked everywhere but at her, his cheeks stained pink.
“Wesley!” she breathed, clutching her aching wound.
“I may have mentioned you in a letter to Alice,” he murmured at the floor. “I’m sorry, Dav, but I had to tell her what was happening. How was I to know mother would intercept it?”
She gave her brother an incredulous lo
ok. “If the War Office had mother’s skill at espionage at their disposal, we would have defeated Napoleon a decade sooner than we did.”
Sir Wesley couldn’t disagree with this assessment. He sighed. “It gets worse.”
“Oh, for the love of…How could it get any worse?”
He backed up a step—just out of her fist’s reach—before he spoke. “She’s brought Dalrymple with her.”
That was definitely worse. Of course her mother had brought Dalrymple. It made perfect sense to try and salvage an engagement with a man who’d beaten her daughter black and blue. Perfect sense. To Lady Benwick, if no one else.
She clenched her hands into fists and marched down the hall, ignoring the way the stitches throbbed with every step.
“Where are you going?” Sir Wesley cried, scrambling after her.
“I’m going to sort this out once and for all,” she said stonily. A mere week ago, Davina would have quailed at the thought of having to face her mother and former fiancé together. Now, however, all she felt was a seething anger at the utter audacity of the both of them—especially Dalrymple. The nerve of the man, showing his face here, as if she owed him something. That alone was unforgivable, never mind his tendencies to hit women and discount the last century and a half of scientific progress.
“Dressed like that?” Wesley cried.
She stopped and glanced down at her nearly translucent shirt and bare feet, spun around, and stalked back into her room.
Ten minutes later, with her cravat knotted to her chin, jacket buttoned, and her feet jammed into the long-suffering Hobys, she stalked across the castle and into battle. She found her mother enthroned in the old medieval hall, her expression as severe as her high-necked black bombazine gown.
Lord Dalrymple sat beside her, looking much too comfortable and much too smug for Davina’s taste. Davina wanted to cross the room and punch him in the eye so he could see how it felt. She settled for glaring at the pair of them.
The earl stood at her entrance, bewilderment soon replacing his mean little smirk as he took in the sight of her.
“Davina, there you are,” Lady Benwick said impatiently without even looking at her, as if it were any other afternoon when Davina had shown up late for tea. “We’ve been waiting ages. Where ever have you been?”
She wasn’t about to play her mother’s games this time. If the dowager expected Davina to be the same docile daughter she’d bullied for years, she was going to be sorely disappointed. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for the moment her mother finally looked at her. She did not have to wait long.
Lady Benwick turned and gasped, clutching at the neck of her gown. But the shock quickly passed, and she looked as if at any moment she’d start breathing fire. “Davina! What in heaven’s name are you wearing?”
“Never mind what I’m wearing. What are you doing here?”
“To fetch you home, clearly!” Lady Benwick said, as if this should have been obvious. “And how dare you speak to me in such a manner!”
She gritted her teeth. “Oh, I apologize. Mother, what the hell are you doing here? And why the hell is he with you?” she demanded, waving at the earl.
Lady Benwick gasped and worked her mouth wordlessly, too outraged to speak.
“Now see here…” Dalrymple blustered, glancing from mother to daughter with increasing bafflement. He’d clearly expected Davina to be the submissive, miserable debutante of a few days ago. “I don’t know what’s going on…”
“Do you not?” Davina cut in. “I will explain it to you, then, in small enough words that even a cretin like you might understand. I ran away on our wedding day because I didn’t want to marry a man who beats me—or who believes the sun orbits the earth, for that matter.”
“But of course it does!” the earl insisted at this last bit, his face nearly purple with affront.
She shook her head resignedly. Why had she even bothered trying to explain it to him? He was hopeless.
“But that is beside the point,” Lord Dalrymple continued, tugging his waistcoat into place and straightening his posture, all ruffled dignity. “I am willing to forgive your insolent behavior today, since I know how excitable the female sex can be…”
She snorted at this. He certainly knew how to endear himself to womankind.
“…And whatever your…indisposition…Lady Benwick has assured me that you shall be amenable to proceeding with the wedding.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. This just got better and better. “I certainly have no intention of marrying you. I thought that, at least, was perfectly clear by now. But what I don’t understand is why you would still want to marry me. Are you suffering from a head injury, my lord?”
“Davina, you will apologize to the earl this instant!” Lady Benwick exclaimed, rising to her feet with the thunderous look on her face that had always presaged the direst of consequences for Davina.
Now all she wanted to do was laugh in her mother’s face. If Lady Benwick thought she could control her in this matter—in any matter, ever again—she was in for a rude awakening.
But just as Davina opened her mouth to defend herself, she was spared the trouble.
“She will not,” Sir Wesley said sternly, coming up next to Davina. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, mother?”
Lady Benwick’s lips pursed in disapproval at her son’s harsh words. “Setting things right,” she said briskly. “Since you won’t lift a finger to see to it your sister doesn’t disgrace us all.”
Sir Wesley scowled at his mother. “Lord Dalrymple is not welcome anywhere near this family.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Benwick sniffed. “We are fortunate he is still willing to wed your sister after all the inconveniences our family has caused him. Not welcome indeed!”
“Inconveniences!” Sir Wesley scoffed. “You tried to force your daughter to marry a man who would abuse her…”
“Perfectly within my rights to discipline my wife as I see fit,” Dalrymple interjected with a haughty jut of his chin.
Davina’s own jaw dropped at the man’s audacity. Really? Had he really just said that?
Sir Wesley cast the earl a look that chilled even Davina’s blood. “It would be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut, sirrah. Justifying your barbaric behavior by citing the law to me—indeed, implying that should you wed my sister you would continue to abuse her—does not inspire me to rein in my temper.”
The earl clearly had not expected Sir Wesley to bite back any more than he had Davina, his eyes widening, his shoulders slumping. It seemed Dalrymple had no problem bullying women, but the moment another man challenged him, his true, craven nature was revealed.
Lady Benwick was not cowed at all by her son’s frosty manner, however. “It’s a miracle anyone should want to wed Davina, after this little…escapade of hers, much less a man of the earl’s station. Should people discover the truth about the manner in which she has been living here…”
“She won’t care a fig about it,” Davina retorted, tired of being spoken about as if she weren’t standing right there.
Lady Benwick pierced Davina with a look that in the past would have had Davina cringing internally. Now Davina just rolled her eyes and waited to hear what her mother would say next.
“Have you no good sense left, gel? It is in your best interest to fall on your knees for Dalrymple’s pardon.”
Davina stared at Lady Benwick in disbelief. So did Sir Wesley.
It was the final nail through the coffin of her relationship with her mother. Perhaps, in the back of her mind, Davina had held a faint hope that something could be salvaged between them. She’d hoped that perhaps Lady Benwick might come to regret driving away Davina with her abuse and cold-heartedness.
But it seemed Lady Benwick regretted nothing, had learned nothing. The only thing she cared about was Davina’s reputation—and her own—and not Davina herself. But Davina wasn’t surprised in the least. It had only confirmed what she’d known in h
er heart all along.
Davina opened her mouth to respond, but Sir Wesley beat her to it once more, stepping directly in front of his mother, his face incandescent with his rage. It was a heartening sight.
“Davina will always be welcome at Benwick Grange as long as it is mine,” he roared. “You are the one who is fortunate to have a roof over your head—the dower house’s roof, not the grange, by the way, though you are, regrettably, always there. And you have the dower house only because of our father’s generosity in his will, certainly not because of any benevolent feelings I have for you—for I have none.”
Lady Benwick gaped at her son like a dead fish.
Wesley was not through. “You remain in the dower house on sufferance, and only because you gave birth to me—but this is a final courtesy that wears thinner by the day. You’ve driven my younger brother to emigrate and nearly cost me my sister, and, dare I say, my wife, who has been an absolute saint to have endured you for so long. Davina will wed Dalrymple on a cold day in hell, as she has already proven,” Sir Wesley concluded.
At the end of this speech, Lady Benwick sat down with a huff, completely deflated and, for the first time in Davina’s memory, too distressed to fight back.
“Now see here!” the earl exclaimed, his choleric face the color of eggplant. “The contracts have already…”
“Shut up, Dalrymple,” Sir Wesley growled. He turned to Davina. “Have I left out anything?”
Davina tried valiantly to suppress her grin. It was a futile effort. It seemed that for the first time in Davina’s memory, Sir Wesley had everything under control, even their mother. “I don’t think so.”
Wesley gave her a firm nod and turned back to Lady Benwick, apparently not done with his dressing-down, though their mother was already looking suitably chastened. Davina doubted that anyone had ever spoken to her in such a manner.
One thing was clear to Davina: her presence was no longer required, and she had better things to do. She’d let Sir Wesley sort out this final business with the earl—as he should have done days ago.
Davina took the opportunity to sneak away while the dowager and earl were still too stunned at Sir Wesley’s newly revealed backbone, hurrying out the front door and into the warm summer air. She inhaled as deeply as her wound allowed, her lungs working properly for the first time since seeing Dalrymple’s smug face.
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 26