by Regina Scott
He knew if he were a better host he would take a greater part in all these matters, but he couldn’t bring himself to interfere again unless absolutely necessary. He told himself it was because of the papers piling higher every day on the great mahogany desk but he suspected there was another reason. Holding Miss Eleanor in his arms, even sick as she was, had made him painfully aware that he was celibate. He hadn’t looked for female companionship at Oxford. But then, he had never entirely gotten over Norrie.
Now that he was the title holder, he knew it was his duty to marry and continue the line. He would have to choose a woman of impeccable breeding and understanding, such as Dottie’s mother had been. She would have to know how to manage a great house, how to deal with a strong-willed dowager like his mother, and how to host parties for everyone from the tenants to the family to members of Parliament. She would also need to know how to raise children, Dottie and their own. She would surely be one of England’s finest. Nothing less would do for a Darby. However, no matter how hard he tried, whenever he thought of the woman he’d marry, she looked exactly like Norrie Pritchett.
She had come from the school to help him study when he had been sent home mid-term his second year at Oxford with a bad case of pleurisy. Fearful of losing his position as one of the top scholars, he had been only too glad for someone to quiz him on various subjects. Unfortunately, the first woman who had been sent from the Barnsley School had found his course of study incomprehensible. The second was so awed to be in the Great House that she barely spoke above a whisper and jumped every time he questioned her.
“For all the donations we supply that school,” his father had grumbled, “the least they could do is send someone with brains and backbone.”
“You haven’t given them sufficient motivation in this case, my dear,” his mother had countered. “You must give them incentive to send their best, not just those who would improve their social standing. Give all the older students a test, with the most difficult questions Justinian can contrive. Whoever scores the highest shall spend each summer day at Wenworth Place.”
“Capital idea!” his father had proclaimed. Justinian had dashed off one hundred or so fairly challenging questions covering literature, history, science, and the arts, and his father had presided over the test himself.
The winner, an apprentice teacher named Norrie, had arrived on their doorstep of Wenworth Place two days later. Her gaze at the ivy-hung walls of the Great House was no less awed than her predecessor’s, but she soon proved herself an able scholar. In fact, he found himself impressed that she had learned so much with no more training beyond the Barnsley School for Young Ladies.
“And what do you think young ladies learn?” she had replied when he voiced this thought aloud. “We may not be privileged to attend Eton or Harrow, but we are perfectly capable of learning any subject a boy can learn. Besides, what else have I to do but read and learn? Sometimes I think it is a blessing that the nights are so long and I have nothing better to do than read.”
“It is a blessing,” he remembered agreeing with envy, for then the only thing in life that seemed to matter was his studies. “You aren’t expected to entertain hunting guests or dash off to London to attend someone’s debut.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, Mr. Darby,” she had replied with a twinkle in her expressive eyes. “I expect yours was to have been born wealthy. Only think how lucky you were to have been born the second son. If you had been born the eldest you’d have to spend all your time having fun.”
He had laughed with her then, though the words haunted him now. The duty pressed upon him was anything but enjoyable. By mid-day, he knew he had to learn the truth about the woman upstairs or go mad. Mary answered his cautious tap. He entered to find the school teacher sitting up against the elaborately carved headboard, quilt drawn up to her chest, teasing the kitten with a piece of red ribbon.
“Good morning, my lord,” Eleanor replied to his greeting. She hunched a little lower in the bed and bowed her head, hoping that just enough of the illness remained that he still wouldn’t recognize her. If only she could have avoided another meeting. He had, after all, repeatedly claimed to be needed on urgent matters. An ill school teacher hardly ranked high enough to distract a Darby. Another day might give her the strength to walk to Wenwood, where she hoped to find someone who might be going on to Wells. If only he would leave her alone until then!
Justinian eyed her. Now that the illness had passed, her voice was gentle and rather melodious, he noted, deeper than he remembered Norrie’s being. He peered closer. Even with her head bowed, he could see that the swelling and redness were gone from around her eyes and nose as well. In fact, her skin glowed with health restored. He seated himself on the chair Mary had recently vacated beside the bed and cocked his head, trying to get her to meet his gaze.
Jingles must have caught Justinian’s movement, for he leapt to his feet and stalked across the coverlet to investigate. Eleanor quickly dangled the ribbon in front of him to keep him from jumping onto the earl’s lap. She cast a look of appeal at the silver-haired abigail, but little round Mary had busied herself at the wash basin and didn’t seem to notice her.
“You look much better this morning,” Justinian remarked, hoping to get her to raise her eyes. He realized as soon as he said it that it was rather tactless. His mother would have rapped his knuckles for such a statement, and Helena would have stared at him through the lens of her quizzing glass until he dropped his gaze.
Eleanor only nodded, sinking lower until the covers were under her armpits and her head nearly rested on her chest. “Yes, whatever was bothering me seems to have disappeared in the night, just as Dr. Praxton predicted. I’m very relieved it wasn’t infectious after all, as Mr. Faringil suspected. I would never forgive myself if I made you all ill.”
The illness he felt had nothing to do with her sickness and everything to do with the lady herself. “It does indeed seem to be a passing thing,” he replied with assurance. “I take it none of the students at the school were ill.”
At the mention of the school, she started. If she was forced to endure his company, at the very least she could mention Dottie’s predicament. She would have to carefully this time, remembering her place and how the Darbys considered things. She pulled Jingles to her and began petting him to hide the trembling of her hands. “You have been very kind, my lord. I wonder, could you spare another moment?”
“Certainly,” Justinian replied far more pleasantly than he felt. He could not understand why she continually refused to face him. If she was Norrie, surely she knew him well enough to meet his gaze. The unwarranted sensitivity was nearly as annoying as Faringil’s deference. But perhaps she was about to explain. “Is something troubling you?” he prompted hopefully.
Eleanor smoothed her hands over Jingles’ fur. The kitten deigned to suffer her touch. Justinian was regarding her so fixedly, she could see out of the corner of her eye, that she wasn’t certain how to start. She forced herself to remember the tableau in the head mistress’ office. “I am nearly recovered, as you noted,” she replied. “But I am very concerned about Dottie, that is your niece, Lady Dorothea.”
“I’ll visit her soon,” Justinian promised, wanting only to get on to more urgent matters. “I am well aware that I am neglecting her.”
“Neglecting her?” Eleanor blinked in confusion. “Certainly you are not neglecting her! Dottie receives more visits from you in a month than many of the girls receive in a year! You are obviously the most loving of uncles.”
Justinian felt as if he were going to blush and shifted in his seat in embarrassment. “Thank you,” he murmured, unsure of what else to say in the face of her unexpected praise.
“Your behavior does not concern me in the least,” Eleanor assured him. “It’s Dottie’s. The loss of her mother and father is too fresh for her to return to school. She cannot concentrate on her studies. She needs reassurances. I’m sure that’s why she became obsessed with Jingl
es.”
Justinian glanced down at the kitten, who stretched out and relaxed in pleasure under Eleanor’s petting. If Norrie paid him such attentions he’d probably react in exactly the same manner. The thought unnerved him, and he hurriedly rose.
“Is she unhappy then?” he asked, pacing the room and willing his mind to focus on the newest problem that had been handed him and not on the way Eleanor’s long-fingered hands slid across the shiny black fur.
“Dreadfully so,” Eleanor confided, watching him. She was a little surprised by how strongly he reacted to her words. When his father had sent her away, and he had never pursued her or sent a word of encouragement, she had convinced herself that he was not a person of strong feelings after all. Either he had changed or she had been wrong. Both possibilities sent a chill through her. She shook herself and plunged on. “I think she would be much happier here with her family for a time. I don’t wish to be impertinent, but would you consider bringing her home sooner than Christmas?”
It was a reasonable suggestion. Any other time he would have applauded her good sense. However, at the moment, Jingles had rolled onto his back, and Eleanor was tickling his stomach in ways that made Justinian flush. “No impertinence,” he all but panted, backing toward the door. “But it can’t be done. No one to care for her.”
Eleanor looked up in wonder that the usually eloquent Justinian Darby was all but stammering. His tawny hair curled about his damp forehead, and he was swallowing almost convulsively as he attempted to meet her gaze. All thoughts of modesty fled. Eleanor scrambled from the bed, thrusting Jingles at a startled Mary.
“My lord, are you ill?” Her own concerns forgotten, she hurried to his side and raised a hand to his forehead. She could not have brought a disease upon him! She would never forgive herself!
Justinian backed away from her in horror, bumping up against the solid panel of the door. The flannel nightgown draped her body effectively, but his memory conjured up the feel of her curves against his chest.
“I’m fine,” he yelped, ducking to avoid her touch.
She blinked, surprised, and hesitated. His voice seemed unusually husky to her, and his face was certainly reddening. The symptoms were very like her own illness. Could Dr. Praxton have been wrong about the nature of the disease? Determined, she plastered her hand to his sweaty brow.
Justinian groaned at the cool touch. Her nearness, her sweet concern, and his body’s reaction convinced him who he faced. “Norrie, please! I assure you, I’m fine. Return to the bed.”
Eleanor stared at him. She could feel the blood draining from her face, and suddenly the room seemed to dim. Justinian’s alarmed face receded rapidly as her knees buckled. He caught her easily and swung her up into his arms. For the second time in two days, she found herself pressed against his chest.
“It is you, isn’t it?” he murmured.
Knowing it impossible not to meet his gaze, Eleanor nodded. She wavered between misery and embarrassment. “Yes, I used to be known as Norrie Pritchett. The head mistress thought my full name, Eleanor, was more fitting for a teacher. I promise you, I won’t faint. Would you please set me down?”
“Need I remind you that you have been ill?” he replied, relishing the feel of her so close. He remembered how noble he’d felt at twenty to refrain from doing more than pressing her hand fervently. What an idiot he’d been. Life was entirely too short to forego such pleasure. He pulled her closer and tried to smile reassuringly when her eyes widened in obvious alarm. They both knew that in another minute, he would kiss her.
“Put that down,” Mary commanded, and Justinian started. Then he realized she addressed Jingles, who had picked up a piece of fuzz off the counterpane and was attempting to swallow it, nearly crossing his eyes in the process. Eleanor was blushing in his arms. All he needed was servant’s gossip to frighten her away again before they could get reacquainted. Reluctantly, he crossed the room and set her on the bed.
Eleanor lost no time scrambling beneath the covers and snatching Jingles to her, burying her burning face in his soft fur. The tell-tale tickle began in her nose even before Mary bustled forward to tuck the bed clothes more tightly about her. The look she cast Eleanor out of the corner of her eyes made Eleanor redden even more. They will all think I forgotten my place, she thought with shame.
A thousand questions crowded Justinian’s tongue, but none found its way forward. It seemed insipid to ask her whether she was all right when he could see she was greatly distressed by his recognition. He didn’t have the heart to press her with more important questions. “We must speak,” he started and saw her turn from red to white. “About Dottie and about other matters. But I’ll come back when you’re recovered.”
As he strode toward the door, Eleanor thought that he would have a very long wait. She had never recovered from his regard the first time. What made him think this time would be any different?
Chapter Five
Eleanor Pritchett was running away again. She didn’t seem to have any other option. She was entirely recovered from her mysterious illness. The only time even a remnant of it returned was when she held Jingles too close to her face. Then she was sure to sneeze several times in quick succession, and she could feel her eyes tearing. It seemed that the illness was directly related to the little kitten, although that explanation did not account for Justinian’s strange symptoms the day before. He had hardly been holding Jingles at the time. Still, she could be reasonably assured that, as she was leaving the kitten behind, the disease would trouble her no more.
And she must leave. Justinian had indicated that he wanted to talk, but she could think of nothing they could say to each other that she had not told herself a dozen times over. She knew her place. His father had taught it to her, and Miss Martingale had made sure she never forgot the lesson. If she had been an unthinkable mate for a second son, she would never be suitable for the earl. She could never have his love; she would not have his pity. Ten years ago she had slipped away and hidden herself at the Barnsley School. She had been a girl of seventeen then. Now she was a woman of twenty-seven, and the prospect of running away held even less solace, especially when this time she had nowhere to run.
As she dressed in her black bombazine and traveling cloak, now cleaned and pressed, Jingles sat by the fire, licking his fur and eyeing her between flecks of his little pink tongue. For all his nonchalance, she had a feeling he might miss her. Certainly no one else in the household had made much effort to care for him. She had hoped Mr. Faringil would attempt to settle Jingles into his new home. Unfortunately, the butler seemed only too happy to leave the care and feeding to her. She had managed to convince Mary to bring water and kitchen scraps for the kitten and to let him in and out and watch him when he needed to relieve himself. But it was clear to Eleanor that the abigail did so under duress. If only Dottie would come home sooner! Then Eleanor would not have any qualms about leaving Wenworth Place behind.
Before the Tompion clock on the mantle struck eight, she set out. Determined to find someone to take charge of the kitten, she let him scamper about her feet as she started down the corridor. Doors like her own dotted the silk-hung walls on either side in both directions. When she had visited the estate all those years ago, she had never had occasion to rise above the ground floor, so she scarcely knew her way. Farther to her right, she thought she saw a wider archway that must be the main stairway. Clucking to Jingles, she started in that direction.
Part way there, a door opened, and Mary backed into the corridor, a tray of empty serving dishes in her arms. Eleanor paused to keep from bumping into the abigail. Before she could cry out, Jingles stalked around Mary’s legs and into the room beyond. The king was intent on inspecting his holdings. Mary was equally intent on balancing the tray; she obviously did not see the kitten. Before Eleanor could speak, the abigail trotted in the opposite direction, oblivious to her presence.
Eleanor bit her lip. Someone had been in the room or Mary wouldn’t be cleaning afterwards. Bu
t was it the breakfast room or a bedchamber, and if the latter, whose? She hardly wanted to meet up with Justinian in his nightshirt. Just the thought made her blush. But if the room was empty, ought she to leave Jingles alone? They might not find him for days in this huge house!
From inside the room came a thud and a startled mew. No human voice responded. Encouraged, Eleanor opened the door and peered inside.
The room was a bedchamber, considerably larger than the one in which she had stayed. In the center stood a walnut box bed with yellow and gold hangings. A fire blazed in the grate of the walnut-framed fireplace, and the gold velvet drapes were closed against the dawn of a winter day. Nowhere under the long curved legs of the dark dressing table, armoire, or wash stand could Eleanor spy a small black kitten.
“Jingles,” Eleanor hissed, unable to see beyond the hangings of the bed to determine if anyone was still in it. For all she knew, Mary had merely been cleaning away a breakfast long eaten. She tiptoed a little farther into the room. “Jingles? Here, kitty, kitty.”
“He’s here,” a voice called. Eleanor swallowed, not sure whether to be relieved that the voice was not Justinian’s or concerned that the room was indeed inhabited. She peered around the hangings to see a tiny elderly woman nearly lost amongst a mountain of white-lace-covered pillows piled up against the headboard. Her skin was as pure as fine bone china, crinkling around the sharp blue eyes and soft pink mouth. In fact, her eyes and mouth were the only spots of color from the white lawn cap trimmed with lace and dripping ribbon to the white coverlet that was pulled up to her chest. The only color, that was, except the very black kitten who was trying to cross the white counterpane. Every time he minced across the uneven surface, the woman gently seized his hind foot and drew him back. Outraged, he dug his claws into the fine material and pulled it back with him. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile.