by Meara Platt
Eloise was quick to accommodate, as Dahlia knew the kindly dowager would. Besides being related by marriage to the Farthingales - her grandsons were married to Laurel and Daisy, two of Sophie and John’s daughters - she was also intelligent, pleasant company, and capable of discretion.
The Duke of Stoke’s Belgravia house was a magnificent work of architecture. Large, stately. Imposing. Dahlia could not imagine actually decorating the place. But what a prize it would be to have the assignment.
They were shown in by the Stoke butler, who led them to the receiving parlor, a grand room in muted shades of yellow and green with an Aubusson carpet of similar colors to pull it all together. She’d also noticed two Aubusson tapestries on the entryway walls and several statues of white alabaster. “The things I could do with this place.”
Eloise laughed. “I can see how eager you are.”
The butler rolled in a tea cart, and shortly thereafter, the duke and his daughter hurried in. The duke had a genuinely warm smile for Eloise. “Lady Dayne, a pleasure to see you.”
“I hope you don’t mind my accompanying Miss Farthingale. Of course, she could not ride over on her own.”
“Not at all, I’m delighted you are here. Would you care to join us in a tour of the house? We’ve promised to show Miss Farthingale around, and I’d rather it were done before our other guests arrive.”
“Dear me, no. My knees are quite creaky today. I shall sit here and enjoy my cup of tea. Do not mind me. I am perfectly fine waiting right here.”
The duke frowned. “No, that won’t do at all.” He turned to his butler. “Reems, summon Mr. Dawson. He shall keep you company in our absence.”
Dahlia tried not to show her curiosity. Dawson. This was the man Lady Melinda loved. He hurried in soon after and greeted them politely. “Lady Dayne. Miss Farthingale.”
She had no time to engage him in conversation. They were given only a brief introduction before the duke and his daughter led her away.
Still, it was enough for Dahlia to form a first impression. He was not at all what she’d expected. He was tall and slender, had a swarthy complexion, and wore spectacles. He walked with a pronounced limp. He had dark hair, light green eyes that were jarring against his otherwise dark complexion, and a serious air. A nice-looking man, but he did not have a commanding presence. If anything, he was shy and retiring, not at all the sort who would have a bevy of young ladies fluttering around him or ever feel comfortable having a bevy flutter around him.
“Dawson,” the duke said in a commanding but respectful tone as they walked out, “keep Lady Eloise company. We won’t be long.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He did not look at Lady Melinda.
Nor did she look at him.
They were good at hiding their feelings.
Dahlia thought it very sad. Indeed, truly a shame. She did not believe the duke would ever permit his daughter to marry his estate manager. But she kept her opinions to herself. There was always hope where love was involved. Perhaps Mr. Dawson was somehow distantly related to a nobleman. She would do a little digging and see what she could turn up.
Unfortunately, it was more than likely he was the by-blow of a nobleman and a young beauty from one of the islands. Perhaps Jamaica, or somewhere else exotic on the other side of the world.
“The house is stunning,” Dahlia said when the tour came to an end.
The duke nodded. “It is in desperate need of rejuvenation.”
His daughter did not look at all pleased. “What would you have Miss Farthingale change, Father?”
He studied his daughter for a long moment. “I’ll leave the decision to you, my dear. You and Miss Farthingale can decide what to do.”
Lady Melinda looked so stiff it was a wonder her back had not cracked in two. “And if I wish to leave everything as it is?”
“I think it will be a mistake, Melinda.” Her father spoke kindly, but Dahlia sensed the determination behind his words. His daughter would not win this standoff.
“Lady Melinda, might I suggest we take one room to start. Any room you’d like. Your mother’s touch is everywhere in this house. I think what your father is saying is that he’d also like to have a little of you here as well. Even if you decide to do nothing more than the one room, it is still something that he can look upon as a thing of pride as he thinks of you.”
Lady Melinda cast her a wry smile. “Very well, Miss Farthingale. You have convinced me. One room.” She put a finger to her lips as though seriously contemplating her options. “If I am to choose, then it must be my father’s study.”
The duke arched an eyebrow, not at all pleased. “Melinda, this is where Dawson and I conduct our work. Can you not choose another? It will be very disruptive.”
“No, Father. This is where you spend most of your time. I want you to think of me whenever you look up from your ledgers. You were the one who pushed for this. Will you not honor it now?”
He clenched his jaw in obvious displeasure. “No. My study it is. When do you plan to start? Dawson and I will have to move to another room while you are tearing this one apart.”
“Not at all,” Dahlia said. “In the first stages, we will only be sketching out a plan. Then it is a matter of choosing colors and patterns. There will be perhaps a week of upheaval as we paint and have the floors refreshed. But it does not have to be done immediately. We can take care of it whenever you are out of town.”
“Since Mr. Dawson practically lives in here, I shall ask for his opinion as well,” Melinda added. “We’ll show both of you the design and take your comments. However, the decision will ultimately be mine. Is that agreeable to you, Father?”
She was smiling at him, and Dahlia sensed that Lady Melinda had not smiled in a long time. Her father, as fierce and powerful a duke as he was, melted. “Yes, my dear. It is agreeable. Come, give your father a hug.”
Dahlia looked away a moment in order to lend them privacy. This was a special moment between father and daughter, and she did not wish to appear to be gawking at them. In truth, she was unsettled. Would these two remember their love for each other when the truth came out about Lady Melinda’s feelings for Mr. Dawson?
Not likely.
All hell would break loose.
And if the duke found out she had guessed the identity of Lady Melinda’s love and hadn’t told him?
The punishment would not fall on her so much as on Ronan.
Indeed, the duke would be a one-man destruction force in the House of Lords, ranting, shouting, condemning, as he pounded on his lectern. He would not stop until there was nothing left of the Royal Navy budget. And then he’d make it his life’s ambition to destroy Ronan.
She would not allow this to happen. There was only one thing to do, and that was to stall.
Yes, she had to come up with an excuse to delay the start of their project until after the vote. This way, if the duke went on a rampage, they’d have a year before the next budget came up to calm him down.
She was not married to Ronan. He had not asked her, merely hinted at it. And yet, they were already embroiled in problems that could tear them apart as a couple.
A sinking ship.
A secret love affair carried on under the duke’s nose that could very well turn into a current day tragedy to put the likes of Romeo and Juliet to shame.
Not to mention, Wainscott was still in London, creating problems.
What a jolly Yuletide season this was turning out to be.
The duke and his daughter had ended their sentimental moment. “Miss Farthingale, you seem to be contemplative. Is something amiss?”
“No, Your Grace. All is perfect. What could possibly be amiss?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dahlia had put off commencing work on the duke’s study for the week, stalling him by making up excuses about having to remain with Holly. It was not far from the truth. Although Holly was putting on a brave face to the world, she was dying inside. Joshua was still with Ronan in Tilbury, and
all sorts of wild accounts were circulating in the newspapers, mostly gossip rags.
“Put down that paper,” Dahlia said, stealing it out of her hands and tossing it over to Heather. “Throw it into the fire.”
“No!” Holly shot out of her chair and tried to grab it back from their younger sister. But she was too late and could only watch in despair as the paper caught flame and quickly burned. “Why did you do that? You are being very cruel, Dahlia.”
“You shouldn’t be reading that rag. How can you believe their ridiculous rumors of sea monsters smashing up the ship and eating sailors?”
Holly sank back in her chair. “Because it is preferable to reading true accounts. All the legitimate newspapers are reporting there is an angry mob growing more restless and frustrated the longer The Invinctus remains run aground. It has been five days now, and I’ve received not a word from Joshua.”
“You know he and Ronan are busy,” Heather said, coming to her side. “Robbie’s come by every day to give us a report. He wouldn’t lie to us.”
Dahlia poured her sister a cup of hot cocoa. “Indeed, he’s done his best to keep us apprised. He’s probably revealed information that he wasn’t authorized to give out. No military secrets, of course. Just news that could be politically damaging to Lord Liverpool and his cabinet, especially Lord Peckham and his idiot brother, Viscount Hawley.”
She handed Holly the cup. “Heather, would you like some?”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
She poured two more, deciding to have one as well. “A four-year-old child would have known better than to sail that ship up the Thames. Surely, Hawley’s officers must have been pleading with him not to do it.”
“I will personally eviscerate Peckham and Hawley if any harm befalls Joshua.” Having said that, Holly then whipped out her handkerchief and began to cry into it.
Dahlia exchanged an exasperated glance with Heather. But they had no chance to distract their sister, for they suddenly heard a heavy pounding at the front door. Although Holly’s butler was there to answer, Heather immediately started for the door. “Let me see what this is about.”
Her young sister, too curious to contain herself, hurried out before Dahlia could stop her.
Dahlia considered following her, but Holly now appeared about to faint, and she dared not leave her. Dahlia grabbed her hand, trying not to show her own exasperation. “It is not a dangerous mission. There is no uprising. Just a group of jeering onlookers. Ronan is–”
Heather burst into the room with Robbie right behind her. “They’re back,” he said, looking remarkably glum for bearing such good news. Unless...
Dahlia rose, now clutching a hand over her heart. “What is it?”
Holly had turned ashen. “Joshua?”
“Och, no. Yer husband’s fine, Holly. He’s no more than a few minutes behind me.” He turned to stare at Dahlia.
The blood drained from her face. “What’s happened to Ronan?”
“He’s been hurt. Joshua is bringing him here to recover. I stopped by yer uncle’s infirmary and asked him to meet us here.”
“Uncle George?” Dahlia’s head was spinning. Ronan hurt and in need of her uncle’s medical care? “How badly?”
Robbie came to her side and guided her back into her chair before she fainted. She was no meek flower, but it was shocking how quickly one’s body could fall apart when dealt bad news. “He was caught in the tow ropes when the ship suddenly lurched forward. Ye know he was no’ going to let anyone but himself take on the most dangerous assignment. I dinna know just how badly he was injured. But I saw him, Dahlia. He’s breathing and conscious. He insisted on riding back to London.”
“He was able to ride?” Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Oh, the fool! Why would he do this? He ought to have stayed in Tilbury to recover.”
Robbie now glanced at Heather, who had been standing beside him all the while, absently gripping his arm as he relayed the news to the three of them. She’d stuck to him like a barnacle to a ship even as he’d helped Dahlia to her chair. “Och, men do foolish things when they’re in love.”
Holly was now on her feet and ready to jump into action. “Heather, ask Cook to prepare a hearty soup and send one of her scullery maids out for fresh bread. I know it is early yet, but they’ll be hungry after their long ride. Yet, I dare not give Ronan anything too difficult to digest. Oh, where shall I put him?”
Dahlia realized she and Heather were taking up the only furnished guest chambers. “Put him in my room. I’ll move in with Heather.” It would take her less than five minutes to carry her belongings out with the help of her assigned maid. She had only packed enough to stay with her sister for a few days.
Dahlia had just hurried out of the dining room when the front door opened again, and Joshua and his soldiers began to fill the entry hall. Robbie rushed past her. “I’ll help carry him up, Josh. Holly’s sisters have been staying here while ye were away. But he’s to have Dahlia’s room. She’ll lead us up. Yer wife’s in the dining room. Go give her a kiss to let her know ye’re all right.”
Joshua laughed. “Since when have you become so considerate of a woman’s feelings?”
“Shut up, ye arse. Another smart word, and I’ll give ye a set of broken ribs to match yer brother’s.”
Broken ribs?
Dahlia was determined to have a better look at Ronan once they got him into bed. Right now, he was surrounded by soldiers, and she could not see past them. “Right up this way.” Too late to move her things out now. She’d manage it later, once everything had quieted down.
She scampered up the stairs and heard the thunderous clomp of boots behind her. Or was it her heart beating that hard and fast? “Over here.” She led them down the hall to her bedchamber and opened the door to allow them in.
Her maid had already been in here to tidy up, but that was earlier, and before they’d realized Joshua and Ronan were coming home. These were the sheets she’d been sleeping on. They were still on the bed that was now neatly made up.
Well, it wouldn’t matter for now. There was no time to change them. In any event, he was dusty from the road and possibly bleeding because he’d been too stubborn to remain in Tilbury. How badly had he damaged himself on the ride back?
She remained in the room but stepped back to allow Robbie and the soldiers to settle him atop the bed. Although she wanted to help make him comfortable, she knew it was inappropriate for her to even be in here. The less she did to make herself noticed, the better.
Robbie handed her Ronan’s cloak.
She held onto it a moment, wanting to breathe in his scent and not caring that it would likely smell of his sweat and possibly of dried blood. Worse, what if his blood was still fresh? She inhaled, the scent not quite as bad as she expected. Mixed in with the dust and travel grime was the subtly fragrant sandalwood soap Ronan liked to use and the rugged, male heat of him.
She set the cloak aside with care and then hurried to gather his boots as they hit the floor with a thud. Ronan had emitted a wrenching groan as Robbie pulled off each one. Tears formed in Dahlia’s eyes. But she held them back.
Robbie knew what he was doing, and Joshua’s soldiers obeyed him without hesitation as he quietly issued orders. Only when the soldiers had cleared out did Dahlia dare approach Ronan. He was stretched out on the counterpane, his clothes stripped off save for his breeches.
Dahlia shuddered upon catching sight of his body. There was an ugly red welt resembling a vicious burn running along the entire width of his chest. The skin had been scraped off in spots, leaving caked-on blood and remnants of raw skin. “Ronan...”
Her heart was aching so badly, she could barely speak.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Queen Pea, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
She reached out and took light hold of his hand. “Oh, even your hands are badly scraped.” She meant to draw hers away, but he would not let her go.
“Your touch doesn’t hurt me.”
Robbie cleared his throat. “Let me stoke the fire in the hearth. I’ll add a log or two and then go down to check on the others. Dahlia, will ye stay with the lunkhead and see that he does no’ do anything foolish?”
She gave a laugh, one of relief that was badly needed to break her tension. “Yes, Robbie. I will.”
She returned her gaze to Ronan. A mistake, she realized at once. Her body immediately responded to the sight of him. There was something magnificently raw and masculine about his unkempt appearance.
He wasn’t unkempt so much as wounded and in obvious pain, looking very much like a magnificent medieval warrior returned from battle. Big and muscled and not a whit of softness to be found on him.
She did not know what to do to ease his agony. If only Uncle George would arrive. He would make him better.
All she seemed capable of doing was gawking. She had seen statues in museums, of course. But she hadn’t realized men were actually built like this. Ronan’s arms seemed sculpted out of granite. His shoulders were broad, and his body exquisitely hard and lean. She noted the dusting of dark curls across his chest and itched to touch it.
She was also fascinated by the way his muscles rippled whenever he moved, and she wanted to run her fingers along those ripples. But she was too much of a coward to touch him boldly, so she merely placed a hand on his shoulder.
His skin was hot. He tried to shift his position but winced in pain.
“I think you may be running a fever.”
“No, I’m just hot for you.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Lie still. I’m sure you’re feverish. Don’t you dare move. I’ll get you whatever you need. Is there anything in particular you want?”
“A kiss from you. Why else do you think I rode back to London, risking a punctured lung? I may have also cracked three ribs between Tilbury and here.”
She gasped. “Are you jesting? You are a lunkhead! How can you be so reckless? What good will you be to me dead?”
“I’m not going to die. Although I feel like death right now. Bollocks. Everything hurts. But I had to see you.”