Wreck and Ruin (Regency Rendezvous Book 6)

by Amy Corwin

  Hannah’s hands tightened on the armrests. She deliberately released her hold and clasped them gently in her lap. “I do not wish to lead him—or you—on, Lady Blackwold. I appreciate the gown and everything you have done for me, but I have no wish to marry—”

  “No wish to marry!” The dowager’s voice rose. She frowned at Hannah. “You cannot understand what lies ahead of you, if you do not marry.” Her wrinkles smoothed away as a pensive look entered her face. “Marriage is not without its terrors, certainly. So many girls die before their time. Childbirth—it is difficult, as you no doubt know. I can understand and sympathize if you are frightened. But there are worse things. To be old and alone…” A shudder went through her. “You cannot want that. At least I have my family—my sons and grandsons. I am not entirely alone.”

  Hannah nodded, but despite Lady Blackwold’s words, she sensed that the dowager did feel alone, despite her large family. Alone and unwanted, living at Blackrock on sufferance because she had no place else to go.

  While her grandsons were polite and cared for her well-being, they had their own lives and affairs, often leaving the dowager to spend her days without company. Although Hannah had only been there a short time, she’d gotten the impression that Lady Blackwold often ate her meals alone, as well, attended to by silent servants.

  Hannah leaned forward and gave the dowager’s arm a squeeze. “I understand, but there is time, is there not? I am just turned twenty, after all. And you must be prepared if I am unable to prove who I am. You would not want Mr. Hodges to marry a nobody—a virtual stranger from a foreign country.”

  “A colony—not so foreign,” the dowager answered with a sad smile. Her hands twisted together before she winced and placed them gently in her lap.

  “A former colony and quite foreign in all the ways that matter, I assure you.”

  Lady Blackwold smiled and patted Hannah’s knee. “You are a kind girl—when you wish to be. So, we will be patient and see what transpires. We are all going to London in a week. Just as soon as my son can spare Georgina.” A mischievous gleam lit her eyes. “And perhaps my Henry will find a titled heiress from the latest crop of girls at Almack’s.”

  “Perhaps he will, and I wish him all the best if he does.”

  The dowager laughed. “We shall see if you sing the same song when that happens, Miss Cowles. You would not be the first woman to discover too late that she now wants what another possesses.”

  Rubbing the spot between her brows, Hannah took a deep breath. The heat from the fire had made her drowsy and eased some of the bruises and aches she still felt from the storm’s buffeting. She smiled tiredly at the dowager and changed the subject, encouraging her to talk about her own past when she went to London herself for her first Season.

  The dowager reminisced happily enough for the next twenty minutes, while Hannah’s limbs grew heavier and heavier. Her chin drooped, and she jerked in her chair when one of the logs in the fire crumbled on the fireirons, sending up a shower of gold and red sparks just visible above the top edge of the embroidered fire screen.

  If she was to stay awake any longer, she needed a breath of bracing fresh air.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment, Lady Blackwold? It is so warm in here that I feel the need for a breath of air.”

  “Certainly, my dear. You may go out on the terrace—you should be safe enough there, and I will be able to see you through the doors.” Leaning forward, she shrugged out of her warm, cashmere shawl and held it out. “Take my shawl. The wind from the sea never lets up, I’m afraid, so you will need it.”

  “I have a shawl—”

  “Pshaw,” the dowager said, interrupting her. “You will need more than that flimsy thing. It may be becoming, but that shawl is more appropriate for May than February.”

  Hannah clamped her mouth shut and took the shawl, avoiding the obvious rejoinder that the dowager herself had given Mary the clothing Hannah was wearing this evening, so she could hardly complain that it was inappropriate for the season.

  However, Hannah’s exasperation with Lady Blackwold was tempered by a strong urge to laugh. The dowager’s mood was nothing if not mercurial.

  “I will only be outside for a minute,” Hannah replied. “Thank you for the shawl.”

  The dowager waved her away and transferred her gaze to the crackling fire painting dancing patterns of light and dark on the embroidered fire screen.

  Just as the dowager predicted, a chilly wind blew toward the house from the cliffs. Shivering, Hannah wrapped the extra shawl around her shoulders, grateful for the additional warmth. The soft folds retained the fragrance of violets that Lady Blackwold made liberal use of, and Hannah smiled as the scent tickled her nose.

  She’d been extraordinarily fortunate to have escaped drowning and have the dowager’s carriage stop for her. She couldn’t imagine what might have happened to her if Beamish had simply driven past her, or if she’d taken just a few minutes longer to climb the cliff and had missed them altogether.

  One of the wreckers had already been on the cliff—near enough to see her.

  A sudden movement caught her attention. She peered into the darkness and pulled her shawls more tightly around her shoulders, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the darkness, even though she could clearly see the dowager sitting in her wing chair in front of the fire through the terrace doors.

  Her mind whirled to the men who had been working on the beach all day, and from them to the wreckers.

  No, they wouldn’t come this close to Blackrock Manor, would they? She tried to shake off the feeling, but she couldn’t. The golden glow from the room behind her illuminated her back, making her clearly visible to anyone who happened to be roaming through the winter garden.

  “Is anyone there?” she called with a quick glance over her shoulder.

  The dowager didn’t move. Hannah’s nervous voice hadn’t disturbed her, at least.

  “Miss Cowles?” Blackwold stepped up the shallow steps onto the terrace. The darkness clung to him, smudging his dark hair and blending into the dark fabric of his evening jacket.

  “Is that you, Lord Blackwold?” She smiled in relief and moved back into the pool of light by the doors, hoping he would join her so that she could see him more clearly.

  “Yes. What are you doing out here? A bit cool, is it not?”

  “I wanted a breath of fresh air. I hadn’t realized anyone else was out here.”

  As she hoped, he strode forward, stopping a bare yard from her. The flickering light coming through the doors showed that his carefully brushed hair had escaped the imposed order and with wild abandon curled in shaggy tufts over his ears. One thick lock hung over his brow, nearly obscuring his left eye. She longed to reach out and push the hair back in place and run her hands through the soft, brown waves. Helpless to control it, she took a step closer and felt her smile widen tenderly, her breath catching oddly as her heart thudded within her chest.

  The starched, white neckcloth had come undone and hung down on either side of his open collar, exposing the strong column of his throat. His jacket was completely unbuttoned and only the two lowest buttons on his waistcoat remained chastely closed. He was so rumpled… And so dear because of it.

  She leaned closer, unable to resist drinking in the fresh scent of the sea air combined with the heady, warm fragrance of his skin and the bay scent of the hair tonic his valet had used to attempt to bring order to his hair.

  His eyes, though lost in shadows, seemed to gaze first into hers before dropping to her mouth.

  She caught her breath and pulled her lower lip between her teeth, staring at his bare neck and broad shoulders. She moved another inch, wanting to feel the warmth and strength of him.

  Reaching out one hand, he brushed his warm fingertips over her cheek and flicked aside one of her curls. His gaze intensified, focused on her mouth before his lips curved into a grin.

  He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Your nose is red, Miss Cowles. It’s
cold out here.”

  “Too cold,” she said abruptly, stepping back. What had she been thinking?

  Hands holding the edges of her shawl tightly, she strode to the terrace door, threw it open, and stepped into the warmth without glancing back to see if Blackwold was following her. She rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand before she realized that she was most likely only making it a darker crimson.

  He was laughing at her, she just knew it. And she was furious with herself for her previous, unaccountable desire to melt into his arms.

  Red nose, indeed! Despite her irritation, though, she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing as she handed Lady Blackwold her borrowed cashmere shawl.

  If Lady Blackwold had known what lay in Hannah’s heart, she’d throw her out of the manor forthwith.

  Chapter Seven

  Grinning, Blackwold watched an indignant Miss Cowles return to the house.

  She confused him, and he didn’t particularly care for the feeling, having rarely felt it before.

  On the one hand, he was suspicious of her and her motives in attaching herself to his grandmother. Another woman had done that two years ago, and before he’d realized what was happening and could take action, the dowager had unwisely invested most of her money in some scheme, only to see both her funds and the woman disappear into the night.

  He was not going to see that happen again. While his grandmother rarely complained, it was obvious to the most lack-witted observer that she sorely missed her independence. The allowance he granted her, while generous, was clearly insufficient from her perspective and prevented her from spending money on any frippery that caught her attention. It galled her, particularly when he noticed and tried to make up for any deficit by purchasing whatever had caught her eye and presenting it to her.

  She didn’t want gifts—she wanted her independence.

  He sighed and stared out at the darkness shrouding the garden, for the thousandth time going over what he knew about Miss Cowles.

  There were a great many entries on the minus side of the ledger, to be sure. First was her arrival with a wealth of jewels in a plain linen pocket. Wealthy women didn’t keep their precious baubles in pockets; they kept them safely locked away in velvet-lined boxes. Pockets were for bottles of smelling salts, handkerchiefs, small sewing kits, and other ridiculous items that ladies felt were important enough to carry around with them in a pocket tied around their waist under their skirts. And the pocket itself was not one of the extravagantly embroidered ones women like his grandmother carried. Miss Cowles’s pocket was plain linen; the sort a less well-to-do woman might carry.

  If the ship were sinking, tossed by the high winds and waves of a storm, one would think that Miss Cowles would be more concerned about her own life than her jewels. Even so, why would she not just grab the wooden box in which they surely belonged? Why take the time to put them in a pocket, unless she were actually hiding them under her skirts, hoping to steal them while the real Miss Cowles was distracted by the gale?

  Which made him think of the companion of whom Miss Cowles spoke. Mrs. Lawrence. He hadn’t missed her emotional response to the keepsake box they’d found on the beach, one which apparently belonged to Mrs. Lawrence. Would Miss Cowles really want a handful of letters written to another woman? Even if she were excessively attached to Mrs. Lawrence, the correspondence would surely have no meaning for her, no sentiment attached to them.

  So was Miss Cowles actually Mrs. Lawrence, pretending to be a wealthy heiress in hopes of gaining Miss Cowles’s fortune? She seemed a trifle young for that, but one never knew.

  Lastly, he remembered seeing a worried frown on Miss Cowles face, that often darkened her blue eyes with dread when she glanced at him. She had no reason to fear him if she were Miss Cowles, as she claimed. However, she knew that he mistrusted her claims, and as a result, she appeared to be frightened. Irritation he could understand. It would annoy him if those around him claimed he wasn’t Lord Blackwold, but he wouldn’t be afraid.

  No. Fear indicated something else. Most likely, her anxiety rested upon the possibility that he might prove that she was not who, or what, she claimed to be.

  Pacing across the terrace, he raked a hand through his hair. Despite the list of minuses, he liked her. She wasn’t some shy, retiring female who was afraid to lift her gaze from the dusty floor, and she had a lively sense of humor. She clearly liked his grandmother, despite the dowager’s often trenchant remarks, and was kind to her.

  A smile flickered over his mouth. Miss Cowles was the first woman in a long time—actually, the first woman, ever—to grasp his odd sense of humor, and that was definitely something to go into the plus column. In fact, over the course of the day, he’d found himself seeking her out and making small jokes—very small ones—just to see the answering gleam of amusement in her blue eyes. Every time a small snort escaped her as she bent over her sewing, trying to suppress her laughter, he felt his mood soar like a gull on an ocean breeze.

  Even after only knowing her for less than two days, he found himself glancing around when he entered a room, searching for the soft gleam of her fair hair and dancing eyes.

  She seemed so honest, so open—even trusting. How could such a woman be an adventuress? She had none of the secretiveness he’d noticed in the woman who’d hurt his grandmother.

  Except there was that fear he’d seen a few times in her eyes.

  There were no easy answers, although he did wonder what she had in her trunk that could prove her claims so completely. Regardless, his main purpose now had to be to protect his grandmother. Miss Cowles—or Mrs. Lawrence—was really no concern of his, and he would soon be too busy to worry overmuch about her.

  A cold knot settled in his stomach. He frowned and then moved toward the terrace doors. The night air was damp and getting colder by the minute, and he couldn’t stay in the garden forever.

  Standing outside was simply a moment of freedom, one of the few he could still enjoy. Such moments would become increasingly rare, all too soon. The trip to London would mark the end to his bachelor days, if everything went as planned, and why should it not?

  The lawyers were already working on the legal documents that would tie Blackwold to a woman he’d met fewer than a half-dozen times. The arrangement had been planned by his father before he died—it was a good match for both of them.

  Lady Alice was the daughter of an earl and would bring with her a dowry of fifty-thousand pounds. She was young and pretty, and he frankly didn’t find her the least bit interesting. She’d seemed a cheerless sort the few times he’d met her, but perhaps that was simply politeness and a certain shyness.

  Curious, though. He realized she had blonde hair and blue eyes very similar to Miss Cowles, but Lady Alice seemed almost colorless in comparison. Her gaze was a pale, chilly blue that seemed unable to grasp a great deal of what she observed, vastly unlike the deep rich blue of Miss Cowles’s laughing eyes that were pleased and extremely observant a great deal of the time.

  The metal doorknob felt icy under his palm, and he yanked the door open quickly. A rush of warm air brushed over him as he stepped inside.

  The women were seated in front of the fire, Miss Cowles leaning toward his grandmother. Her long neck and the curve of her shoulders glowed golden from the firelight, and her silken gown shimmered pink with soft yellow highlights.

  Laughing, the dowager shook her head at some comment made by Miss Cowles. She reached forward to give Miss Cowles’s wrist a playful slap. Miss Cowles murmured something he couldn’t hear and sat back. Although her back was to him, he could imagine a warm smile on her mouth.

  He shook his head, brushing away such thoughts.

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but wonder, would his grandmother get along with Lady Alice so well? They seemed so unalike, at least on the surface. His grandmother was outspoken and quick to open her heart, covering her softness with the sharp thrusts of the verbal duels she enjoyed. Her moods were mer
curial and had grown more so as she aged.

  Lady Alice had struck him as a woman who had been petted and cosseted, and as a result, was woefully incapable of engaging in the type of witty conversation his grandmother adored. He could not imagine the two rubbing along together in one house.

  His long fingers played with one of the buttons on his waistcoat, unconsciously unbuttoning it. He took a deep breath. Lady Alice was not the sort of woman who attracted him, but his father had wanted the match. It would serve both families well, and Blackwold had been well tutored to do his duty.

  Marriage was a duty and a necessary evil that had nothing to do with emotions. While Lady Alice seemed a trifle insipid, he’d been reminded enough times to hear the words in his sleep: she would reflect well upon him. She would never create a scene, never do anything a lady should not do. The perfect wife.

  Lady Alice would also never have fought wind and wave to survive a storm, or climb up to the road in a tattered evening dress with a plain linen pocket full of jewelry. Her pockets would undoubtedly be embroidered with silk, and would never contain anything except a small sewing kit, smelling salts, and a lace-edged handkerchief. His mouth quirked, his gaze resting on Miss Cowles’s long, elegant neck.

  Lady Alice would undoubtedly have done the right thing and died like a proper English lady.

  Chuckling to himself, he stepped into the pool of light, watching Miss Cowles. She lifted her head immediately and straightened, her gaze fluttering from his grandmother to his face.

  The wavering light cast sharp shadows around her eyes and under her cheekbones. She shivered and covered the involuntary movement by drawing her light shawl closer. The lamp on a small, square table at her elbow highlighted the fairness of her skin. His grin slowly changed into a frown.

  She was more than fair—she was pallid, and the shadows under her eyes weren’t just the effect of the uneven glow from the fire. The rigid set of her body and face spoke of someone who was desperately holding herself together, trying not to be ill.