He swiveled and bowed. “As well as can be expected.” He wasn’t attractive at the best of times, but with a substantial swelling on his chin, he looked even worse. She wondered about the bruises on his posterior and suppressed a giggle.
“I beg your pardon for emerging without my shoes,” he said, “but my valet stupidly failed to polish the pair I wish to wear.”
“Think nothing of it, my lord,” she said graciously, tempted to roll her eyes.
“I deeply regret the circumstance which forces me to depart today,” he said.
Polite as it sounded, this was actually an insult, seeing as the circumstance was his prejudice against her scandalous family. And yet . . . the warm expression in his eyes startled her. Surely, he wasn’t about to change his mind and propose!
“I too regret it,” she said, “but I cannot turn my back on my family.”
His nostrils curled in disapproval. “Your maid showed me the various antiquities Lord Garrison houses here. If I might ask a favor before I leave?”
“Of course,” she said, determined to remain polite. “What is it?”
“The Book of Hours. I understand it to be thirteenth century, and would be most gratified if you would let me have a look.”
“I should be delighted. I keep it in my bedchamber, as it provides me with great religious comfort.” She wondered if he believed this. She never gave the slightest outward sign that she was a religious woman, when actually she was quite frighteningly so—at least about that sacred vow.
She trod down the passage toward her chamber, and he followed, his footsteps soft on the runner. What a contrast to his usual stomping gait! Generally, he liked to make a lot of noise to demonstrate his importance.
She opened the bedchamber door. “I’ll just be a moment.”
He shoved her into the room and slammed the door behind him. “You’ll be as long as I bloody well like,” he said.
~ ~ ~
A rosy-cheeked maid, perhaps a few years older than Gloriana, opened the door to Phillippe’s knock. They had never met, but he knew by the widening of her eyes that she recognized him. “Good day, Monsooer, er, my lord.”
He smiled at her. English servants often had difficulty settling on a form of address for him. “Sir will do just fine. I spied Miss Warren on her way over here and thought I might take this opportunity to see her antiquities.”
“With pleasure, sir. I showed Lord Hythwick around this morning, all but the Book of Hours, which Miss Warren keeps in her private rooms. That, of course, had to wait for her permission.”
“Perhaps Lord Hythwick and I might view it together.”
“I expect so. Do kindly wait in the drawing room, sir, and I shall see if—”
From above came the slam of a door, followed by a thud.
And a muffled scream.
“What in heaven’s name?” the maid cried.
Dread seized him. “Where is Miss Warren’s bedchamber?” Philippe took the stairs two at a time. He’d stopped short of imagining complete infamy on Hythwick’s part.
She followed. “Second on the left, sir, but surely . . . Miss Gloriana never slams doors. Perhaps the footman dropped something.”
He reached the landing.
Far behind him, the maid muttered, “But the footman is below at the moment . . .”
An indignant cry came from behind the bedroom door. “Get your hands off me, you dastard!”
“Ouch!” grunted Hythwick. “Shut up and stay still, or I’ll knock you senseless.”
“I will kill you for this!” Gloriana shrieked.
Philippe opened the door and stalked in. “No, I’ll kill him,” he said.
~ ~ ~
Thank God, thank God, Gloriana thought in dazed relief.
Philippe de Bellechasse plucked Lord Hythwick by his collar, swung him around, and punched him in the face. She scrambled up, pushing down her skirts. Lord Hythwick had shoved them up and started groping her. How disgusting. She got out of the way, knocking over a chair in her haste.
Hythwick swayed, and Philippe plowed in with another punch, this one to the gut, and then kneed his crotch. The earl squealed in agony and slumped to the carpet.
Elspeth appeared in the doorway, hands clasped to her heaving breast. “Oh, my dear Lord, I never thought to see such a thing.”
“He tried to violate me,” Gloriana cried furiously.
Elspeth took her anger for distress and put her arm around Gloriana. “Are you unhurt, Miss Glow? What a mercy that Monsooer arrived just at this moment.”
“Yes indeed,” Gloriana snarled, “for if Hythwick had succeeded in his foul deed, I would have fetched my pistol and shot him dead.” All Warren women were taught how to handle a gun in case of highwaymen.
“After which you would have been obliged to flee the country and never return,” Elspeth chided.
“For ridding the world of a blackguard?” She wanted to kill him anyway.
Philippe prodded the moaning man with a booted foot. The earl’s nose was bleeding all over the carpet. “Send for Lord Garrison immediately.”
“That’s not necessary,” Gloriana began, but the fury on Philippe’s face struck her dumb.
Elspeth let go of her and curtsied. “Yes, sir, but I can’t leave Miss Gloriana at such a moment.”
“Miss Warren is perfectly safe with me,” Philippe said.
“Truly, I’m fine,” Gloriana said, surprised her voice didn’t shake. Inside, she was a quivering mess. “Do as he says, Elspeth, and ask the earl’s valet to mop him up and send him on his way.”
Elspeth curtsied again and left. Embarrassment and gratitude warred for predominance within Gloriana. She would never have believed smooth, cultured Philippe capable of such violence. Such rage.
Perhaps her plan hadn’t been so foolish after all. Perhaps . . . perhaps he still loved her. At that heady thought, she raised her eyes. “Thank you, Philippe.” She hadn’t addressed him by his Christian name in years. “I was taken by surprise.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said sarcastically. “Thought you could compromise yourself with that rat, eh?”
“What? No, I was merely about to show him—”
“A taste of the delights he might anticipate after the wedding?”
What? “The Book of Hours,” she retorted, indicating it on her bedside table with a sweep of the hand. “He asked to see it. How was I to know he would force his way in and attack me?”
A flicker of doubt appeared in Philippe’s eyes. He strode over to the table, picked up the book, and leafed through it, taking his time. Transfixed with anguished love, she watched him, wishing, wishing . . .
“A truly extraordinary book,” he said at last, and finally turned to her, his eyes cold. “If you’re telling me the truth—which I take leave to doubt—you should have known better than to return to this house without male escort. You should have known better than to let Hythwick near your bedchamber. Did you never notice the heat in his eyes when he gazed at you?”
She felt her cheeks heat with shame, of all stupid emotions. So unfair, because it wasn’t her fault Hythwick was a lecher. She had flirted with many men, hoping to make Philippe jealous, but not with Hythwick. She had never, ever led him on in any way. She hadn’t even invited him to Garrison House, not truly. He’d invited himself—in public, at a ball—so she’d had no choice but to agree to it.
Miserably, she remembered a day when Philippe’s eyes had shone with desire. No longer. So much for her foolish hope that he still cared. All his gaze revealed now was disgust.
“Once, long ago, I thought I loved you, Gloriana, but you have proven yourself the embodiment of everything I despise—intolerance, bigotry, and every kind of folly.”
Ah, he didn’t know her at all�
��and yet she deserved every word of what he said. She’d put on an act for years, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, publicly and vehemently denouncing his principles—the principles she believed in too—to get back at him. To show him . . . what?
She had indeed proven herself a fool—just not the sort he believed her to be.
She realized he was still holding the book, so she took it back. She almost grabbed it, but it was old and precious, so she forced her hands to gentleness.
And her voice to scorn. “You never loved me. And I never loved you, either.”
Revulsion washed over her, this time at herself. So much for her sacred vow! Blindly, tears in her eyes, she stumbled past Hythwick to the bookshelf and hid the beautiful book behind a row of novels. She wouldn’t read it anymore. The very thought of it reproached her. She dashed the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned.
On the floor between them, the Earl of Hythwick had rolled onto his side, facing her. His half-closed eyes gleamed with rage. She glared right back. That was easy to do. Whereas meeting Philippe’s cold gaze? Unbearable.
The earl’s valet bustled in, and she raised her eyes, mistress of herself once more. “Kindly prepare your master for immediate departure,” she ordered in her most imperious voice. “I shall send to the stables to have his coach brought round.”
“Very good, miss.” The valet helped Hythwick to his feet and guided him from the room, more blood dripping onto the carpet. Philippe followed as far as the doorway, where he remained, leaning against the jamb.
“You may leave as well,” she snapped.
“Non.” He folded his arms, a stubborn jut to his chin. “Not until your brother arrives.”
“I’m no longer in danger,” she said. “I don’t need you here.”
He didn’t move.
“Damn you,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”
“Quel dommage.” What a pity. She was used to his sarcasm, the weapon he’d used for years to counter her verbal attacks, but it stung all the same. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow. His eyes were hard, indifferent, and utterly determined.
She considered trying to shut the door in his face but decided against it. As usual, she wouldn’t win. “I hope I never see you again.”
“The feeling is mutual, believe me.”
She marched past him into the passageway, but she couldn’t resist getting the last word. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.”
Strangely, this sneered riposte hardly disturbed her at all, because this time he was wrong.
She turned to go down and spied Elspeth hesitating at the foot of the stairs, carrying a jug of water. Gloriana glanced back, to see Lord Hythwick’s valet hovering in the doorway of his lordship’s bedchamber.
“Come on then, bring up the water,” she said testily. “He has already destroyed one carpet. I’d rather he didn’t ruin another.” She stomped down to the first landing and slipped into the water closet. Philippe couldn’t follow her there.
She shoved the bolt across, locking herself safely inside.
And locking him out of her heart forever.
~ ~ ~
Elspeth fought back tears—not for herself, but for Mr. Turner, Lord Hythwick’s valet. He was such a wonderful man, so big and strong, so polite and good-looking and stoic—stoicism being the prime requirement in a servant of the despicable earl.
It wasn’t enough when one’s master had almost committed rape. After meeting her eyes for a second when she reached the foot of the stairs, he had turned his face away.
Slowly, she mounted the stairs, wondering what to say. I’m so sorry seemed inadequate. How dreadful to be in service to such a man could be seen as either pitying or disapproving, she wasn’t sure which. What she really wanted to say was Mr. Turner, you are a delightful, hard-working, self-sacrificing man, and I shall love you forever.
She wouldn’t dare say any such thing. She’d met him before at a London tavern where she went from time to time with other servants, but they’d never spoken until this horrid house party. Then, he had actually confided in her last night!
This must mean he felt a degree of closeness to her—as she did to him.
It wasn’t just friendship, either. He had walked her back to Garrison House in the warm summer darkness, and as for that kiss goodnight . . .
By the time she’d gone to bed, she knew she’d fallen in love. But even if she were a forward sort of woman, which she wasn’t, this was not the moment for such a declaration. She knew nothing of his prospects, but they probably weren’t much better than hers. And although she hoped she would love him forever, she wasn’t about to make a holy vow or anything of the sort.
Elspeth passed the water closet with her stupidly stubborn Gloriana inside it, and nodded her thanks at the marquis, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, looking exhausted and sad.
At last she reached Mr. Turner. He was frowning down at the runner as if checking for bloodstains.
“Don’t worry about that old runner,” she said. “It needs replacing.”
He nodded but didn’t raise his eyes. Everything she would have liked to say deserted her. “Here’s some water and a couple of rags. I’ve to clean the carpet in my mistress’s bedchamber first, but I’ll come and help shortly.”
He looked up long enough to take the jug, but evaded her gaze. “Thank you kindly, but it’s not necessary, Miss Morrison.”
“Truly, I don’t mind. I’m sure you have enough to do concerning your master, and—”
He interrupted, his voice cold. “I’ll take care of it.”
Was that chagrin in his eyes? She understood all too well being mortified by one’s employer’s behavior. She hurried downstairs, intending to fetch another jug of water and more rags, hoping to encounter him again, but the door to the water closet opened as she passed by. “Forget the carpet,” Gloriana hissed. “I’ll have it burned.” The door slammed shut again.
Such folly, as the carpet in her bedchamber was a pretty little Axminster worth a small fortune. Still, she dared not disobey Gloriana in this mood. She would just have to scrub all the harder later and perhaps never succeed in removing all the blood.
She found she didn’t much care. For a man, Mr. Turner had very speaking eyes. She was certain he found her attractive. More important, he’d seemed to like her very much last night. His appreciative gaze, the warmth in his voice, the earnest way he spoke, that heady goodnight kiss . . .
None of which had prepared her for his stony expression just now.
Before long, Gloriana emerged from the water closet, and the marquis followed her down the stairs, keeping several steps behind. Elspeth accompanied her mistress to the kitchen, where the cook and housekeeper fussed over her and fed her tea with rock sugar. Elspeth served the marquis whisky in the drawing room, and then bustled back and forth, pretending to be busy, longing for a friendly word or a significant glance from the man she loved.
Mr. Turner, on the other hand, truly was busy, tending to his master, packing his belongings, and carrying them downstairs. He didn’t look her way, and he said not a word until he went out the door for the last time. “Farewell, Miss Morrison,” he said with a curt nod. He might as well have added the word forever.
Elspeth wasn’t the sort to cry herself to sleep, but she made an exception that night.
Chapter 3
Gloriana left for London the following day. If everyone, including Philippe de Bellechasse, saw it as a flight, so be it. In London, there was honest work for her, whereas in Lancashire, she would have to be polite until he left, after which she would most likely mope for a bit and then return to London anyway. Much as she loved her family, she preferred to mend her battered heart far from their amused or irritated eyes.
&n
bsp; And also away from the lamentations of the elderly relation who acted as her chaperone in London. She wanted a fresh start on her own. “I’ve decided to dispense with Cousin Maria,” she told her brother. “She fusses and frets me to death. I’m old enough to do without.”
“Unwise,” he said. “People look askance at a single woman living alone.”
“Yes, and I have no patience with it,” she said. “As long as I don’t receive gentleman callers, why should there be any objection?”
“There shouldn’t,” Miles said, “but nevertheless there will be. And although I don’t anticipate any scurrilous gossip on Lord Hythwick’s part—he is not such a fool as that—the very fact that he did not ask you to marry him will give rise to talk.”
He was right, drat the man. She rolled her eyes. “And people just love talking about us. Honestly, the only difference between the Warrens and many other families is that we sow our wild oats in public. If they choose to think he decided against me because I sowed mine elsewhere, so be it.”
He couldn’t disagree. He’d created a huge scandal years earlier, as had Daisy, and their cousin Colin had been quite a rake before his marriage. Their ancestors had been much the same.
“Cousin Maria doesn’t do much chaperoning,” Gloriana went on. “She’s tired or unwell much of the time, so I have to go to balls and other entertainments with friends, such as Alice Stowe. I’ll continue to do so.”
“Nevertheless, it’s the appearance of having a female companion that counts,” he said. “Why not keep Cousin Maria for now but retire her at Christmastide? I daresay she’ll be happy to join her sister in Kent. By then, the talk should have died down, and you can reconsider this decision.”
He was a dear, protective brother and a dratted nuisance. “No, I want to get rid of her now. She’s in Kent for the summer. I shall simply write and tell her to stay there. I’m sure she’ll be relieved.”
Exasperated, he said, “I only want what’s best for you, love. It’s highly unpleasant being shunned, as Daisy and I can both attest.”
The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4) Page 3