by Sara Lindsey
Olivia imagined that the boy’s panic over the attack was contributing to it, feeding it in a vicious cycle. She needed to distract him. She saw that the boy was looking at her curiously. If he was focused on her, he would think less about being scared. She also imagined he would not be so frightened if he was not alone.
Livvy was also a firm believer in the healing power of touch. Whenever she fell ill, her mother’s touch seemed to alleviate some of her misery. She wasn’t Edward’s mother, but perhaps any nurturing presence would do.
“Shall I climb in beside you and tell you a story, Edward? Would you like that?”
“I really don’t think—” the marquess began, but he stopped when Edward nodded and scooted over in the bed. The rasp of the boy’s labored breathing filled the room.
Olivia hoisted herself into the enormous bed and drew Edward to her side. He nestled trustingly into her body as she pulled the quilts up over them. The marquess stalked over to a chair by the fireplace, seated himself, and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression inscrutable. She ignored him and focused on Edward.
“Once upon a time,” she began, stroking the boy’s silky hair, “there was a young prince—Prince Edward was his name—with a very special talent. He could talk to dragons. . . .”
Jason didn’t know what to think as he listened to Miss Weston’s nonsensical tale. He couldn’t approve of the way she had barged in and taken charge of the situation. She had ignored his concerns, which were well-founded, and in doing so might have made Edward a great deal worse.
On the other hand, the chit clearly had a way with children. Her silly story was just the thing to distract Edward, and already his breathing sounded a bit better. The tension in Jason’s shoulders lifted a little. Unexpected tears of relief sprang into his eyes, and he braced his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
Sometimes he wondered if having to stand by helplessly and watch his son suffer was a sort of penance for his wife’s death. Laura’s accident could have been prevented.
If only he had been more strict . . .
If only he hadn’t let his pride get in the way . . .
If only he had insisted . . .
If, if, if, if, if . . .
“If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there would be no need for tinkers’ hands,” he muttered to himself, quoting one of his father’s favorite sayings.
He didn’t want to think of the dead any more tonight. He focused, instead, on Miss Weston’s voice. By degrees he felt himself relax. His last thought, before he drifted off to sleep, was that perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing her storytelling skills.
“My lord?”
Jason ignored the voice. Surely whomever it belonged to could see he was resting.
“My lord.”
The voice came again, a bit louder and firmer this time. Damnation, couldn’t a man even dream undisturbed?
The slight pressure of a hand on his shoulder catapulted Jason awake. He shot to his feet and glanced around in confusion.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Disoriented, Jason blinked several times, finally focusing on the source of the words. At first he was certain he was still dreaming, and that the vision before him was a figment of his imagination, conjured up out of too many lonely, sleepless nights. Then he decided she must be real, for if he was going to fantasize about a woman in his bedchamber, her hair would be loose, not in a long plait, and she would not be dressed in an ugly wrapper that covered every inch of her.
She would be dressed in nothing at all. Or perhaps just in her stockings. There was something about a woman dressed only in stockings and garters that was more titillating than having her fully nude. Somehow it just seemed a little more . . . wicked.
He wondered if the woman before him—the woman who was likely real and not a dream—was wearing stockings under that bulky flannel monstrosity.
The woman folded her arms over her chest. “There is nothing wrong with my wrapper,” she growled through clenched teeth. “It keeps me very warm. As for the other, it is absolutely none of your business!”
Jason wasn’t sure if he had spoken aloud or if the woman had somehow divined his thoughts. There was something about her, something about the annoyance radiating from her, that was familiar. In a rush the day’s events came back to him and he shook off his tired daze.
“Miss Weston!” he blurted out.
She put a finger to her lips and jerked her head in the direction of the bed. Before he could respond, she headed for her room, crooking a finger at him to follow.
“He is asleep?” Jason asked, once they were inside her chamber.
She nodded. “As were you. I only meant to wake you so that you might move into the bed. That chair could not have made a very comfortable place to sleep.”
“My thanks, Miss Weston, and my apologies as well, to you and your wrapper. I fear I spoke before I was fully awake.”
“That is all right, my lord. I should probably think this”—she waved a hand down her front—“a hideous monstrosity, too, if I had such a lovely dressing gown as yours.”
He couldn’t help himself. He was a man. And the slight longing in her voice made him imagine her in his banyan, the crimson silk sliding over her pale skin like a lover’s caress. . . . A slight groan escaped him and, despite the distress it was currently causing him, Jason was grateful for the loose-fitting garment.
“Are you all right? Would you like to go to bed now?”
Jason clenched his fist and reminded himself that the girl had no idea what she was innocently offering. He wanted very much to go to bed, but not to sleep. No, his body was wide awake now.
Christ, this was just what he needed—another sleepless night. Soon he would be fit for Bedlam. Then again, given the direction of his thoughts over the course of the evening, perhaps he already belonged there.
“My lord?”
Jason shook his head. “I am perfectly well, just somewhat dismayed to find that the desire for sleep has fled. I’ll leave you to your rest, then.”
“That is probably for the best.”
Was that disappointment he detected in her tone? No, surely not. Whatever her feelings when she entered his home, Jason suspected that by now Miss Weston rued the day she had decided to travel to Arlyss. His feelings had undergone a bit of a reversal as well. She was still a guest, and thereby a nuisance, but he could not regret that she had come.
For Edward’s sake.
Not because the thought of her in his red silk banyan made his pulse race.
He headed for his chamber. “Good night, Miss Weston.”
“Sleep well, my lord.”
Jason closed the door between their rooms and resisted the urge to bang his head against the wood panel.
Sleep well, she’d said.
Right, as if there was any chance in hell of that happening. However good she might be for his son, Jason had a growing suspicion that Miss Weston was going to be very bad for him. He just wished he didn’t find the prospect so bloody exciting.
Chapter 6
“I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.”
Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene 1
Christmas Eve
Jason stumbled into the breakfast parlor the following morning. He acknowledged his stepmother and a bleary-eyed Miss Weston with a nod before dropping himself into the chair at the head of the table.
Katherine looked him over and immediately began to fuss. “You must start taking better care of yourself, Jason. You won’t be any good to Edward if you fall ill. And you will fall ill if you don’t get some rest.”
“Thank you for that astute observation, Katherine. Your ability to state the obvious by means of circuitous logic never ceases to amaze.”
She smiled warmly at him, undeterred by his rudeness. “After all these years, do you really think I will be put off by your foul temper? I only hope you can be persuaded to take a nap this afternoon
along with Edward and Charlotte.”
“Grown men do not nap.”
“You will never stay awake tonight if you don’t get some sleep.”
“As I have no intention of staying up tonight, that should not pose a problem.”
“But we must show Olivia a proper Welsh Christmas.”
Jason glared at his stepmother.
“What makes a Welsh Christmas different from any other Christmas?” Miss Weston wanted to know.
“Everything,” Katherine answered, just as Jason said, “Nothing.”
“Don’t listen to him. There is nothing like Christmas in Wales. Once you have attended Plygain services, you will never be happy celebrating Christmas anywhere else.”
“Plug eye in?” Miss Weston repeated doubtfully. “It sounds most uncomfortable.”
“It is,” Jason quickly agreed.
“Oh, stop. He’s bamming you, my dear. Plygain is the Welsh word for daybreak, which is when the Christmas services are held.”
Her niece frowned. “You wish to go to church that early in the morning?”
Jason bit back a grin, schooling his face into a solemn expression. “As you said, most uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t feel like early morning because you don’t go to bed,” Katherine explained. “Everyone stays up late on Christmas Eve. We decorate the house, and Mrs. Maddoc makes the most delicious toffee.”
“That does sound fun,” Miss Weston conceded.
“And the service isn’t at all like what you are imagining. The sermon is very short and the rest of the time is taken up with carols.”
“They are all in Welsh, though, so I doubt you would enjoy it.” He tried to infuse the proper amount of regret into his voice. Not so much as to make her suspicious, but enough to persuade her that it would be a dreadful bore.
“Stuff and nonsense,” his stepmother insisted. “I don’t speak the language, and it has never hindered my enjoyment in the least. It is simply enchanting,” she assured her niece. She turned and regarded Jason thoughtfully. “I know I have allowed you to mope and sulk and hide yourself away these past years, but there is to be no more of that. Edward and Charlotte are old enough to attend this year, so you cannot use them as an excuse.”
“The cold isn’t good for Edward,” Jason protested.
“Then we shall take great care to ensure he is dressed warmly. There will be hot bricks and fur throws in the carriage, and we can bring them inside with us if need be.”
“I don’t like it,” he muttered.
“I didn’t think you would, but you have the whole day to reconcile yourself to it. By this evening I expect you to put on a good face.”
“Charles should be arriving today. He could escort you instead,” he suggested.
“No, it must be you. Edward will not enjoy himself if you don’t come, and neither will Charlotte.”
Katherine got to her feet. Jason made a move to rise, but she waved him down. She went to the sideboard and heaped food upon a plate, which she then set down, none too gently, in front of him.
“Eat,” she ordered. “Perhaps, if we are lucky, a full stomach will improve your disposition. Clear your plate, too, Olivia. We’ve a long day ahead of us.” She headed for the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Jason strove to look disappointed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back once I’ve seen to the other children.”
After she left the room, Jason was left alone with Miss Weston. They ate in silence for several minutes before he said, “It occurs to me that I never properly thanked you for your help last night.”
She looked up from her plate, her cheeks pink. “It was nothing,” she mumbled.
“On the contrary. You seem to have a gift with children.”
“I have four younger siblings,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Whom you love very much.”
“Of course!”
“My dear Miss Weston, there is no ‘of course’ about it. From what I understand, younger siblings are a great trial. If I had been forced to deal with all that fussing and crying, I don’t think I would ever want to see another child in my life.”
“I cannot believe that,” she protested.
“Like I said, you’ve a way with children. There’s an understanding there and a level of compassion rare these days.”
She squirmed in her seat.
“Does my praise make you so uncomfortable then? I should think you must be accustomed to receiving compliments.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“I see.”
“It is difficult to take pleasure in your compliments, my lord, when I know the other bit is still to come.”
“The other bit?”
“The part where you insult me.”
Jason roared with laughter.
“It was not my intention to amuse you,” she sniffed.
“And yet you did. I find you unintentionally amusing. Could that be construed as an insult?” The thought set him off all over again.
“Edward slept through the night?”
Obviously Miss Weston had decided to change the subject. Fine. Jason was feeling magnanimous. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so hard.
“Very nearly. He woke up thirsty at one point. You should thank me, Miss Weston. He wanted to wake you to hear the rest of your story, but I suggested he would do better to ask for a whole new story in the morning than half a story in the middle of the night. He agreed.”
“Clever,” she said approvingly.
“Yes, well, one does learn how to reason with children.”
“I was referring to Edward,” came the arch reply.
“Brava! And here I thought I was the only purveyor of the compliment-turned-insult.”
She flashed a quick grin. “I am a fast study.” Then her face turned serious. “Edward must have been quite young when you lost your wife.”
“Yes.” Jason turned his attention to his food.
“That must have been difficult for you.”
He made a noncommittal sound, partly because his mouth was full, but mostly because he had no wish to discuss Laura with her.
Miss Weston took the hint. “I have been thinking about Edward’s symptoms. He almost sounds as if he has a bad chest cold.”
“Edward does not suffer from a chest cold,” Jason bit out.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that he did. Clearly his condition is far more serious. But I wonder if some of the treatments for the lesser ailment might not benefit him? Did the doctor who saw Edward try any natural remedies?”
The quacksalver had not, but his housekeeper had thought up any number of cures over the years. Mrs. Maddoc was a good soul and quite devoted to Edward, but her notions of doctoring were unusual, to say the least. She hadn’t harmed anyone—yet—though he had once dumped one of her headache potions out his window, much to the detriment of the rosebush below.
When it came to his housekeeper, killed with kindness took on a whole new meaning. Jason found he was disappointed to learn that Miss Weston, who had seemed sensible—or at least as sensible as one could expect from a female—believed in such nonsense.
“I am not having my son walk thrice round a pig under the full moon, no matter how much it helped someone’s grandmother’s second cousin.”
Miss Weston regarded him quizzically. “ ‘Thrice round a pig’?”
“That’s what Mrs. Maddoc says.”
“I regret to say I have not yet had the pleasure of conversing with your housekeeper about the restorative powers of farm animals during the full moon.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Personally, I wouldn’t set much store in it.”
“I don’t.”
“Then we are in agreement on that score. Now, when I was in Scotland, I remember seeing some herbals and other works on domestic medicines. Might I look for some similar volumes in the library here?”
He nodded. “I don’t imagine you will find anything, but
I will tell Gower it is safe to unlock the room.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “Er, is it your usual practice to lock the library?”
“No,” he admitted.
Her lips pursed in an expression of annoyance. It was a sight he was becoming familiar with. “I see.”
“Miss Weston—”
She shook her head. “I cannot believe it. You actually locked your library against me.” Then suddenly, she began to laugh.
Jason was puzzled. “You’re not angry?”
“I was for a moment, but then I stopped to consider the sheer lunacy of such an action. Locking a room so that one of your guests doesn’t go about the rather menial task of organizing its contents. Why, it’s utter madness!”
“Since meeting you, madness is a condition with which I have become increasingly familiar. One has to wonder which of us is worse—you for taking on such a task or me for trying to stop you from doing it again. Ah, well, as Petrarch said: Libri quosdam ad scientiam, quosdam ad insaniam deduxere.”
She scowled. “An insult in a foreign language is still an insult.”
“Permit me to translate: Books lead some to knowledge, some to madness. Did you gain any particular knowledge while organizing the library, Miss Weston?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then madness it must be. You’ve been driven mad by books, and I have been driven mad by you.”
“Another hit, my lord. You are in fine form this morning. I shall have to tell Aunt Kate her concerns were unfounded.” She rose.
“I didn’t mean—” he began.
“It doesn’t matter. May I look in the library or not?”
“Yes, of course. Come, we’ll go see Gower right now.”
He’d had a lucky escape. He had been about to tell her his words weren’t meant as an insult. She was driving him to madness, but not because she angered him.