Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  It sounded almost like a gibe. Flushing, she said a bit stiffly, “I try to be.”

  “And bossy Aurelia too. I hadn’t expected that of you. Your sister, perhaps, but not you.”

  “Perhaps I have hidden depths,” she retorted, matching him stare for stare. “You didn’t think Amy always called the tune, did you? You’d be sadly mistaken in that case.”

  Trevenan sighed, shutting both letters away in their drawer. “I suspect I’ve been mistaken about a great many things lately.”

  “Including not taking Amy into your confidence?”

  His brows drew together, a dark slash of annoyance. “This again?”

  There was a hint of temper in his voice as well as his eyes, but Aurelia wasn’t about to let it intimidate her. “Yes, this again. I can’t understand why you haven’t told her the whole of what you’re facing.”

  “Perhaps because one Newbold sister plaguing me about this is more than enough!”

  The words stung like a slap; she could almost feel the color leaving her face. Her own fault for prying, she supposed. Summoning what dignity she could, she drew herself up to her full height and strove for enough cool composure to mask the hurt. “I see.” To her relief, her voice emerged without a quaver. “My apologies, Lord Trevenan, for intruding upon your private affairs. I wish you good night.”

  She turned to go, trying to carry herself with the poise expected of an American princess.

  “Aurelia!” Trevenan surged to his feet and closed the distance between them in a few short strides. “Forgive me,” he said with what appeared to be genuine contrition. “That was boorish. I spoke in haste—or perhaps it was the brandy speaking.” He reached for her hand, then paused, with his own hand hovering between them.

  Aurelia eyed his hand warily, as if it might bite. “Maybe you and the brandy should say good night as well, before you both say something else that you’ll regret in the morning.”

  She spoke tartly, keeping her defenses well up, but she could already feel herself starting to soften. Only a saint could remain tranquil and unaffected by all that he was facing, and Trevenan was no saint—just a good man beset by problems not of his making. Little wonder, then, that he was impatient and short-tempered now. And she had been awfully persistent about him telling Amy, she acknowledged with a pang of guilt.

  “I already regret what I’ve said,” Trevenan assured her. “And no doubt you’re right about the brandy. I’ll stop at once.”

  Aurelia swallowed. “I do not mean to—to plague you. About Amy or the brandy. It’s just that you don’t seem the sort, to seek comfort in a bottle.”

  “I’m not, usually. Call it a momentary lapse, born of circumstance. And as for plaguing me…” He shook his head, offered her a tentative smile. “I have far more cause to thank you than to criticize you. So thank you I will—your loyalty and discretion are deeply appreciated.”

  “They are no trouble to give, in your case.” Aurelia hesitated, then resumed with greater urgency, “Trevenan…James.” His name felt strangely right on her tongue; she rushed on rather than let herself think how right. “You are not alone. You have family and friends—and a fiancée, who all care for you. Let them in, give them a chance to help you with this.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “I will tell Amy. You are right; this concerns her too.”

  “Good.” Aurelia smiled at him. “You won’t regret it. Amy’s the most loyal person I know. She never stops fighting for the people she cares for.”

  He looked at her without speaking, his dark eyes intent on her face. Looked so long, in fact, that Aurelia began to feel self-conscious again. Lowering her gaze, she glimpsed the triangle of bare skin exposed by his open shirt collar, and below that, the outlines of a lean, hard torso, just visible beneath smooth linen. Heat flooded through her at the sight, and she inwardly cursed herself for being so susceptible to his physical presence. Still. Always. Just as she’d been a few days ago, in the folly.

  Pushing the thought away, she made herself look up again, only to find him still gazing at her. Self-consciousness quickly yielded to concern. “Trevenan—are you all right?”

  He started, visibly coming back to himself. “I’m fine.” He paused to clear his throat. “Perhaps—more affected by the brandy than I thought.”

  “Do you need someone to help you upstairs?” she asked at once.

  His brows quirked up. “Good Lord, no.” He sounded almost amused now. “I’m not in that bad a case. But I’ll say good night now and leave you to your search for bedtime reading. I’d avoid the Gothic romances, if I were you,” he added. “They’ll give you nightmares.”

  Aurelia smiled at that, as he’d no doubt expected her to, but she couldn’t help eying him with solicitude. “Good night, Trevenan. Pleasant dreams.”

  He nodded. “And to you as well, my dear.”

  He strode from the library, leaving Aurelia to stare after him in bemusement. Shaking her head, she turned to face the room again. He’d left his coat behind, thrown over the back of a chair. Idly, she fingered the heavy black broadcloth. It held none of his warmth, not after all this time, but she found herself wondering if it retained any of his scent the way his riding coat had, in the folly. The memory brought a scalding rush of blood to her cheeks, and she snatched her hand back from the coat as if it had been woven of nettles rather than wool.

  A book, Aurelia reminded herself. She had come downstairs for a book. With grim determination, she began her search, even as she suspected that sleep might be a lost cause tonight, whatever title she chose.

  ***

  James stood at his chamber window, staring out at the night sky. Black on black, a nearly moonless night—and all too appropriate to his mood. He’d locked the letters away downstairs, but their poisonous accusations still gnawed at him.

  Spite and malice, from a coward’s pen. Did this faceless stranger, this invisible enemy who employed such vicious slanders, have any idea just how much James hadn’t wanted the earldom? God, if he could undo whatever had happened to Gerald that night…

  The back of his neck prickled, as if in warning; he turned at once from the window and caught his breath.

  His love stood on the threshold, smiling, gazing at him with the tender sympathy he cherished in her. Unbound, her hair spilled over her shoulders like a flood of molten gold, gleaming against the chaste white of her nightgown.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her, but she only glided forward, soft-footed as a shadow, to slip her arms about his neck.

  “My dear,” James began, then all reason fled as she leaned into him, the soft curves of her body warm and yielding against his own. The scent of her filled his nostrils, made all his senses swim, and sent heat coiling through his lower belly. With a groan, he surrendered to the longing that consumed him, wrapping his arms about her and lifting her off her feet.

  Together they sank onto the bed, which received their combined weight without even a creak of springs. She lay beneath him, eyes shining, lips parted for his kiss. The thin muslin of her nightgown fell away beneath his touch like a discarded skin. Marveling, James skimmed his fingers over the plush softness of her lips, the warm satin of her skin, even the line of her scar. Her scar…

  He jerked awake, breathless, perspiring—and alone. His bedclothes were a tangle about his body. He fought his way free of them and stumbled toward the window. Opening the casement as far as it would go, he leaned on the sill and let the night air cool his heated face, while he breathed deeply, in and out. His heart pounded in his chest, a hammer raining blows on an anvil, and his loins still ached with arousal.

  A dream, nothing more. But a dream so vivid, so real, he could scarce believe it hadn’t happened—not even when he looked back at the empty bed.

  The bed…fresh linens had been put on it just today, he remembered. Linens fragrant with orris—and lavender, the scent she loved so much. The scent of lavender, weaving through his dreams like a silken ribbon, or a strain of music impo
ssible to forget. And scents could be powerfully evocative things. Perhaps if the linens had smelled of roses and jasmine, he would have dreamed of Amy instead.

  He grimaced, recognizing that the argument carried more hope than conviction. It hadn’t been Amy beside him that day in the folly, when his body had first betrayed him—though at least he’d managed to conceal it. It hadn’t been Amy he’d wanted to kiss as though his next breath depended on it. High time he stopped pretending, if only to himself. He stared at the bed a moment longer, still seeing her there in his mind’s eye, and then looked away. Shun the demon brandy, he thought with black humor, remembering her earlier remonstrations to him in the library. Except that he suspected the brandy had had little to do with what had just occurred.

  Leaving the window, he dropped onto a chair and leaned his forehead against his braced hands. Two women he cared for, one to whom he had actively pledged his word. But it was the other who haunted his dreams, however determined he was to keep her at arm’s length during his waking hours. How the devil was he supposed to do that now?

  He sat up long into the night, pondering that question, and did not return to bed until he was too weary to dream.

  Twenty-Three

  What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:

  The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.

  —Robert Herrick, “A Kiss”

  “Dublin?” James echoed, incredulous.

  Mrs. Permewan, the Trelawneys’ middle-aged housekeeper, nodded vigorously. “Three weeks and more, my lord, and they’re not returning for some time yet. Miss Susan and her husband are expecting their first next month. Mistress wanted to be there for her lying-in.”

  James could sense Harry’s barely concealed disappointment. To come so close to answers, only to find them out of reach across the Irish Sea. “Did the rest of the family go too?”

  “Why, no. Mr. Frank—that’s their oldest—secured a living in Veryan three months ago,” Mrs. Permewan said proudly. “Mr. Oliver’s chosen to stay with him while the master and mistress are away. Well, no doubt it’s dull for him with everyone gone. Likes company, he does.”

  James felt his hopes revive. “Ah, perhaps I might call upon Cousin Frank, then,” he suggested with his most affable smile. “Given our change in circumstances, I should like to improve the connection between our families.”

  Mrs. Permewan was only too glad to furnish him with Frank Trelawney’s direction. James thanked her and subsequently took his leave.

  “What do you think then, James?” Harry inquired, once they were mounted and riding back toward Pentreath. “A wasted journey?”

  “Not necessarily.” James urged Camborne into a trot, Harry doing the same with his own horse. “If Horatio’s been in Ireland for that long, he probably didn’t write those letters. Unless he wrote them ahead of time and gave them to someone else to post, but that seems unlikely.”

  “It does,” Harry agreed with some reluctance. “Although it might be advisable to call upon his sons and take their measure.”

  “I intend to, but not today. It’s too long a journey on horseback. We’ll go by carriage.”

  “Good idea. I’m as eager to get to the bottom of this as you are, James.” He paused, frowning slightly. “They don’t appear to be destitute, or living in straitened circumstances.”

  James thought back to the house they’d just left: mellow, Georgian, comfortable rather than luxurious, but there had been no noticeable lack of comfort. “No,” he agreed. “Their home was well-kept, and they can clearly afford servants.”

  “And to travel to Ireland for a good two months or so,” Harry observed. “As for your cousin Frank, I know that parish he’s been assigned to. Not the richest in the county, but not the poorest by any means. I’d say he was doing fairly well for himself.”

  “So would I.” James rode in silence for a while, thinking. On the surface of it, Horatio Trelawney and his family sounded perfectly amiable, not to mention content with their lives. Not the sort of people who’d write poisonous anonymous letters or, more luridly, conspire to murder one earl and slander another. But then, how could one profess to know another person’s true character before meeting him face to face?

  Harry said abruptly, “I wired Robin Pendarvis this morning. Just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you,” James said after a moment. “I appreciate your telling me.”

  “I kept out the specific details, as you requested. But I told him an urgent matter required his attention here.”

  “Good. I’m looking forward to speaking with him,” James replied as diplomatically as he could. “Perhaps we can clear some things up to our satisfaction.”

  “Any chance we can keep Gerald’s sister from getting wind of this? She’s already figured out I’m one of the men named in that damned letter. If she finds out about Robin—”

  “She won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” James permitted himself a grim smile. “By the way, you’ll be relieved to hear that Helena’s kept to her chamber all day. Suffering from the effects of last night’s indulgences, according to my aunt. I doubt she’ll emerge before evening, if then.”

  Harry gave a short laugh. “Thank God for small mercies!”

  “Just so.” All the same, James wondered uneasily how much longer he and his aunt could contain Helena’s malice. And more disturbingly, when the next letter would turn up—and where.

  ***

  “Here, have a pasty.” Reaching into the hamper, Sophie pulled out a crusty golden pie shaped like a half-moon and held it out to Aurelia. “Our cook made them fresh this morning.”

  Aurelia took the pie, still warm to the touch, and bit into it, tasting flaky crust and savory filling: beef, potato, a hint of onion. “Delicious,” she managed, when she could speak again.

  Sophie smiled, handing another pasty to Amy. “Our cook makes the best pasties in the county, or so my family likes to claim.”

  “Well, they’re perfect for a picnic on the beach,” Amy declared.

  “Here’s something else that’s perfect too.” Sophie held up a large jug. “Our homemade cider, pressed and bottled last autumn.” She took out cups and poured a moderate amount for each of them. “Not too much at once. It can make you quite tiddly if you’re not careful.”

  Heeding the warning, Aurelia sipped cautiously at her cider—crisp, redolent of apples, and tangy with fermentation. She limited herself to one cup, sufficient to wash down the pasty, and feasted her eyes on the tumbling sea before them.

  A perfect day for a picnic. The morning had dawned fair and clear, and by the time they had descended the stairs to the beach, the sun was almost at its peak, the sea a brilliant blue-green. A delighted Sophie had declared the prospect the equal to what she saw near St. Perran, while Amy had conceded that this beach might well be superior to Newport’s. They’d chosen a spot for their picnic just above the water’s edge, settling down on a blanket and talking of many pleasant things, including Sophie’s upcoming birthday celebration, as they unpacked the hamper.

  Slightly to their surprise, they discovered they were not alone on the beach. Mr. Sheridan had come down before them, settling with his sketchbook on a large rock some distance away. Hearing their voices, he’d looked up and waved, before immersing himself in his work again.

  Amy polished off her lunch, glanced in Sheridan’s direction. “Have we any more pasties? I was thinking we could offer one to the mad artist. Even genius requires sustenance.”

  Aurelia shot her sister a warning look, but despite the mocking words, Amy’s tone had sounded almost affectionate.

  “Oh, we have plenty—and an extra cup for the cider,” Sophie replied, rummaging through the hamper again. She unstopped the jug again, poured cider into the cup, and wrapped a pasty in a napkin. “He can have this with our compliments.”

  “I’ll take it over to him,” Amy volunteered, getting to her feet. “I have something I need to discuss with Mr. Sheridan in any case.”

  “Mr
. Sheridan is very attractive,” Sophie observed to Aurelia, as they watched Amy make her way toward the artist.

  “He is. And talented too.”

  “Do you—admire him, by any chance?”

  “Yes, very much,” Aurelia said absently, then, as the significance of Sophie’s question sank in, she amended, “that is, I admire his work. And he’s one of Trevenan’s closest friends.”

  “I couldn’t help wondering. He hardly took his eyes off you or your sister last night.”

  “That’s probably because he wants us to sit for him. Do you admire him, Sophie?” That could be problematic, Aurelia reflected. While she liked Mr. Sheridan and found Sophie a delight, the girl was far younger and more innocent than the sophisticated artist.

  “Oh, no—at least, not in that way!” Sophie assured her. “The truth is,” she colored slightly, “there’s someone else I have a fancy for.”

  “You have a beau?”

  Sophie’s color deepened. “Perhaps not a beau, exactly. Nothing has been officially decided, but I care for—this gentleman, and I believe he cares for me as well.”

  “Does your family know about this?” Aurelia asked.

  The girl fretted her lower lip, nodded. “Mother is not opposed, though she thinks we should not rush into anything. Harry, though—Harry is less pleased about it. He thinks we are too far apart in age and experience, and that I should consider the attentions of younger suitors.”

  Aurelia’s thoughts went at once to Sir Lucas Nankivell, inquiring after Sophie with that telltale warmth in his eyes and voice. “So this gentleman is quite a bit older than you?”

  “Not that much older!” Sophie asserted. “Besides, that’s one of the things that attracts me to him—he’s a man, not a boy.” Her chin lifted stubbornly. “In fact, he makes so many of my younger suitors look callow and, well, boring.”

  Aurelia thought back to her first meeting with James. Had not that been one of the things that she had found appealing about him? That he’d seemed older and more mature than the London beaux swarming about Amy. Even then, he’d had a direction and a focus—adult responsibilities that had come to him from his mother’s family and, to some extent, even his father’s. And, she remembered with an aching sweetness, the chivalry to reach out to a scarred, crippled girl and make her feel, for a few precious minutes, that she was beautiful.