by Anita Mills
"Then you are a fool, my dear." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt the greater fool for saying them. After all she'd done for him, she deserved better than that. "Your pardon—my unruly tongue."
"I daresay I have heard worse from you, my lord, so I shall not refine too much upon anything." She smiled faintly. "You forget—it was I as heard you rave and rant. You'd best have a care, you know, for I am possessed of your secrets."
"In truth, I don't think you a fool, Lady Kingsley."
"There is no need to dissemble with me, my lord."
Her smile broadened, dimpling her cheek at one corner. "Indeed, after London, I have had a surfeit of that." Impulsively, she held out her hand. "May there always be truth among friends, Lord Longford."
Even in her plain black mourning dress, with her hair combed about her shoulders as though she were a schoolgirl, she was incredibly lovely. He could almost curse Arthur Kingsley for insinuating that he could have more than friendship of her. Despite his best intentions to the contrary, it was beginning to affect his manner toward her.
When he did not take her hand, she dropped it awkwardly. She ought to have known better. Now that he was nearly recovered, she had no reason, no justification for touching him. Indeed, but he must think her quite forward. She felt a pang of regret, for she'd quite come to treasure the intimacy of sharing her thoughts once again with another human being, of being able to talk to him about Charley. In some ways, it was almost as though Charles had come home with him—and in some ways it was quite different. Where Charley had viewed the world expectantly, Longford seemed to expect nothing from it.
Damn Arthur Kingsley, Lucien reflected bitterly. He genuinely liked Elinor—in fact, she was the only woman of his memory he could say that about—and the old man had ruined it, making every word, every touch, every gesture seem to take on a different meaning in his own mind. If he'd done nothing else, the baron had given him thoughts that made him no better than Bell. Seeing her disappointment, he tried to retrieve the situation.
"Sorry. I guess Bell wears on my temper. Somehow having him nursemaid me leaves something to be desired."
"Oh, I suspect he means well enough," she conceded. "It's the rain that blue-devils us, I daresay." She started to retreat back into her chamber. "Perhaps we shall both feel more the thing before supper."
He did not want to let her go with the strain between them. "Well, if you are feeling low, I do not mind listening," he found himself offering.
She could no longer go to his sickroom with impunity, and she certainly could not invite him into her bedchamber. "I should not ask you to go back down."
"I don't mind—there's not much else to do."
Despite the nearly healed abscess, he was still weak from the lingering effects of the lung inflammation. As he started down the stairs, he experienced a momentary dizziness, and he stopped to hold the rail. She caught at his elbow, thrusting her slight body beneath his good shoulder to steady him.
"Perhaps you ought to be abed, after all."
"No." His good arm encircled her shoulder. "I am all right now."
"You are quite certain?"
"Yes." The faint smell of lavender wafted up from her hair, enticing him with the cleanness of it.
She felt his arm tighten, and she thought he feared to fall. "You can lean on me," she murmured, slipping an arm about his waist.
In all the days of his illness, after all the times she'd held him, lifted him, and tended him, it seemed to be the first time he'd noted how very slender she was. And then he recalled the feel of her body against his as she'd raised him to drink, and his mouth went dry. "I can manage," he told her curtly, drawing away. "I am too heavy for you."
The saloon where he and Bell had played chess was as gloomy as when he'd left it. She looked down, seeing pieces on the floor, then stooped to pick them up. "I collect he lost again?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Because you once told me you never play what you do not win. On the other hand, I suspect he is like Papa, and will play at anything."
"Not chess willingly."
"A pity."
"Do you play?"
"With Arthur. Though I cannot account myself very good at it," she admitted ruefully. Despite the grayness of the room, her amber eyes seemed to dance mischievously. "I much prefer whist, you see. When we were in London and Arthur was out, I played often with Jeremy, the lower footman."
"And won, no doubt."
"Well, I could have—but he had no money, so I pretended to lose often enough to let him win whatever he lost back." She looked out into the steady rain, then sighed. "I daresay it will even rain on my birthday this year."
"Arthur said it was this month."
"Next week—the seventeenth, to be precise." She turned back. "I shall be twenty. It's odd, but I feel ever so much older than that. Come December I shall have been wed five years."
"It cannot have been much of a life for you."
"You are the first to note it." She smiled and shook her head. "The rest of the world seems to think I ought to be grateful for what he gives me."
"There is a price to be paid for everything."
"Oh, I have come to accept what I cannot change, my lord. I have learned what Arthur will and will not stand, what pleases him, what does not, what to wear, whom to acknowledge—"
"You acknowledged me," he reminded her.
"And he was not precisely pleased," she recalled. "It's odd, but he seems inclined to tolerate you now. I suppose you must be coming back into fashion."
"I would doubt that." He crossed the room to where the brandy decanter sat on a sideboard. "Would you care for a glass?"
"Arthur does not approve of ladies partaking of much of anything beyond a light punch." Even as she said it, she felt a wellspring of rebellion within. "He cannot abide a sotted female, he says," she continued impishly, "so I think I might."
"Good girl." He poured two glasses and held out one to her. Looking over the rim of his, he repeated her earlier words, "May there always be truth among friends, Lady Kingsley."
She sipped hers and nodded. "It's strange, isn't it? You and Charley are the only friends I have had since— since I wed."
He did not miss that she'd called Charles a friend. "Surely not. What of Sally Jersey? Or Emily Cowper? My dear Lady Kingsley, even I have heard of your triumphs."
"Fiddle. As if they care a fig for anything beyond their own consequence."
"And their lovers," he reminded her.
"It's the way of polite society, is it not?" she countered acidly. "They promise devotion, then practice license."
She moved to take a chair in front of the empty fireplace. He carried the decanter with him and dropped into the chair opposite. "Poor Lady Kingsley—so very unfashionable in that respect, at least," he chided.
"Well, I cannot say I have truly had an offer—besides yourself, of course. And that does not count for I had not the least notion of what you were suggesting." Her amber eyes met his again over her glass. "And you did apologize for your mistake."
"There is always Bell," he said softly.
"Lord Townsend? No. Even if I were so inclined, I should not want a gentleman who could compare me with everyone " Then, realizing what she'd said, she colored, '""hat is—well, we were but speaking in theory, you understand. I'm afraid I'm not really suited to flirtation. I should probably hope for more than was there, you see." She finished her glass and stared for a moment into the empty fireplace. "No, if anything should happen to Arthur, I'm afraid I should be rather difficult to please. Silly of me, I suppose, but I still would wish for love."
He studied the dark liquid in the bottom of his glass. "I am not at all certain that there is any such thing."
The rain hit the windowpane like a spray of pebbles, sending a shudder through her. "Were it not so early in the month, I should wish for a fire to lighten the room. No doubt it's the gloom as makes for melancholia."
He shrugged.
"As mistress of the house, I should suppose you can have what you like."
"Mrs. Peake would—" She stopped, then giggled like a conspiratorial schoolgirl. "No, you are quite right. We shall cook, no doubt, but at least we shall do so brightly." Reaching for the bellpull, she directed him, "Do pour me another glass, my lord—it's quite good."
Two more glasses of the brandy before a roaring fire, and she was feeling quite mellow. Kicking off her slippers, she drew her legs up beneath her into the chair. When she leaned forward, her hair fell over her forehead, and she had to push it out of the way.
"To friends," she declared, drinking what amounted to her fourth one down.
"And truth," he reminded her.
"And truth." She held out her glass again. "A pox on Arthur for his lack of compassion."
As weak as he was from his illness, he was beginning to feel the effects also. Nonetheless, he emptied the decanter, dividing the last of the brandy between them. "My dear Lady Kingsley, we are fast becoming foxed," he decided.
"Don't care. Hate being Lady Kingsley, you know," she confided. "Was always Nell, but he—he won't let anybody call me that."
"Nell." He stared at her for perhaps a minute, thinking what a lovely, appealing creature she was. Finally, he lifted his glass again. "To Nell." The word seemed to spill from his tongue easily. "It fits you."
"To Longford," she countered.
"Lucien."
"Sh—sounds French."
"It was. I think there was a Hugenot in the family somewhere."
Her manner changed abruptly. "Charley died fighting the French, you know."
"I know." Thinking to console her, he covered her hand with his. "He cared for you."
She pulled away and rose, going to stare out into the gray rain, saying nothing. He managed to pull himself up from his chair and moved to stand behind her. "He did care, you know," he said softly. "You have but to read his words to know it."
At that she burst into tears. "Charley loved me!" she choked out. "And I—I—"
"Nell—don't—"
"You—you don't undershtand! You don't understand!" She leaned forward, pressing her head against the cold panes. "I couldn't—couldn't tell him—"
As foxed as he was, he hurt for her. "Here now—" he whispered. "It's not—" His hands touched her shaking shoulders, stroking them lightly. "Nell, don't—"
She turned her face against his wound and sobbed as though a dam of tears had broken. Despite the physical pain in his own shoulder, he tried to comfort her. His hand smoothed her copper hair over her back, and his body tried to deny the feel of her breasts pressed against it.
"Shhhh—don't. Make yourself sick—" he mumbled thickly. "Nell, the boy loved you." He felt odd saying it, for he'd always believed love was nothing more than a myth. "It's all right, Nell—it's all right."
"No—" She shook her head against his shoulder, sending a sharp stab through it. "No—don't you see?— he loved me!"
"Make no sense." He tried to shift her to his other side, but she straightened up, raising brimming eyes. "Don't you see?" she whispered brokenly. "I couldn't tell him—I couldn't tell him! I couldn't let him know that I—"
"He knew—he knew. Sweeting, you have but to read—"
"What I did wasn't right—didn't want him to feel bad—" She stopped and tried to catch her breath. "I—I loved him—but—but not like he wanted!"
He caught both her arms, holding her back. "You cannot be blamed, Nell—it was not your fault."
She gulped. "I—I loved him like—like a brother! And—and he died for me! Lucien, he died for me!"
"It was a French bullet—you cannot be held accountable for that."
"No."
Flushing, Lucien half-turned to face Arthur Kingsley. "It isn't what you think," he growled.
But the old man was looking at Nell. Very carefully, as though he feared to fall, he walked slowly to face her, then stopped to lean, both hands on his cane. "No," he repeated. His gaze fell to the empty decanter. "Elinor," he said finally, "the blame is mine—and I have paid for it. If any sent him to his death, it was I." Looking to Longford, he exhaled heavily, as though admitting his own guilt had taken everything from him. "I'd ask you to help her upstairs, but you are in no case either."
Aware that she'd disgraced herself, that he must surely be displeased with her, she tried to compose herself. "I— I-"
"You are merely foxed," he said mildly. His bony hand touched her shoulder. "Do you want me to call Mrs. Peake?"
"No." Her nose was running and her face was wet. Heedless of either of them, she sniffed, then wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. Trying to regain what dignity she could, she turned unsteadily, caught the arm of the chair for a moment, then walked in a decidedly irregular path toward the door. There she turned back. "I—I shall not be down to sup, I think."
Arthur Kingsley turned to Longford. "Somehow I had expected you to have a bit more style in the matter, my lord."
"I told you—it wasn't what you thought."
The old man ignored that. "And I told you I shall expect discretion. Disguising her with my brandy in my own house seems a bit indiscreet, don't you think?"
"Go to hell." Lucien towered over the baron, his hands clenched. "Go to hell," he repeated evenly. Then, with an effort, he walked carefully from the room.
Kingsley watched him go, then sank into one of the chairs before the fire. Nothing he could do would bring Charles back—nothing. For a long time, he sat there, staring into the red-orange flames. A litany of sins seemed to parade past him, the greatest of which had been his inability to know his son and grandson, and now in his old age, he was feeling the lack. It was as though he had known no one, and now there was none to care.
But if Elinor could be got with child, he'd have another chance. He'd know it had not been all for naught, that the wealth and power he'd gained would pass on, that there would be another Baron Kingsley at Stoneleigh. And this babe would be his in mind if not in blood. This child would be truly to the manor born, not some distant relation utterly unworthy of it.
His mind turned to the scene he'd just witnessed, and he felt a pang of regret for what he was doing, then consoled himself with the notion it would be worth it. One thing he knew—unless Elinor proved barren, the earl would provide the heir he wanted. For despite all Longford's protests to the contrary, Arthur did not doubt that he wanted her.
CHAPTER 25
She'd not been down to eat, but then Lucien did not doubt she was sick from the brandy. He ought not have given her so much, he supposed, but there had been a shared, almost conspiratorial intimacy between them that he'd been loath to break. He lay there, staring through the darkness at a ceiling he could not see, wondering if she slept. He hoped so, for only sleep seemed to heal such pain as she'd betrayed earlier.
The rain had ceased, making the stillness almost oppressive. Willing his thoughts from her, Lucien forced himself to recall his father. There was scarce a breathing female on two continents Jack had not taken a run at, be she whore, serving girl, or lady, and he'd been damned proud of it. "Plucked roses from here to Philadelphia and back to Calcutta," he'd bragged. "That's what they're for, my boy." But there had been a cost—for all the admiration of his fellows, Jack had neither the love nor the respect of his wife and son.
Lucien closed his eyes, hearing again the whispers from his childhood. "She couldn't live with his roving eye, poor soul—it was laudanum, ye know." And Jack had not even had the decency to mourn her.
But were the women any better? For every "rose" he'd plucked, there'd been a willing female all too ready to yield it, all too ready to betray someone for the lies he told them. Like Diana. But Diana's betrayal had been before, and if he hated her for it, it was because she'd claimed she carried Jack's child. She'd wanted the title, the wealth, the name more than she'd wanted either of them, he supposed. And because she was supposed to be a "lady," he'd been forced to wed her when Jack could not.
; Diana was as different from Elinor Kingsley as night was to day. Tied to a cold, manipulative old man, living a sterile, empty life that held little joy for her, Elinor nonetheless clung to decency, using it as her shield.
But for all that he'd denied to Kingsley, Lucien knew he ought to be damned for his thoughts of her. Despite what he'd done when she'd come to his house in London, she'd fought for his life, she'd tended him as carefully as if he'd been a babe, asking nothing for it. It was for Charley, she said.
His mind relived those brief moments earlier, those moments when brandy had allowed her to give him a glimpse into the pain of her soul, and even now he hurt for her. He knew the pain of feeling responsible for what he could not feel.
Yet again he tried to force her from his consciousness and could not. He'd always been aware of her, but since the old man had offered her as though she were no more than chattel, Lucien's body tried to lead his mind. He could close his eyes and smell the lavender in her hair. He could lie there feeling her hands moving over his bare skin. He could feel her bright hair spilling onto his shoulder as she bent over him. And having held her, he could feel the softness of her woman's body, the press of her breasts against his chest.
If he did not leave Stoneleigh, he was going to be no better than Jack. The girl was fragile, nearly to the breaking point already, and he was the last thing she needed to complicate her misery. He owed her more than that.
If he'd not had so much brandy, he'd have taken enough laudanum to put himself beyond these thoughts that plagued him, but he dared not. Opium and distilled wine made poor partners, each seeming to intensify the effect of the other. Instead, he threw back his covers and rose to pour himself another brandy. If he had to, he'd drink himself insensate.
Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked and someone slipped softly over the carpet past his chamber. Then in the silence, there were light, almost muted footsteps on the stairs. He poured his brandy and carried it to the window. When he looked down, the lanterns on the portico were but haloed balls of yellow in the fog that had settled in after the rain. To his surprise, he heard the front door open, and he stared more intently, seeing a cloaked figure pass outside.