by Lara Temple
Alan laughed. ‘Good God, Jem. Talk about getting soft. What’s got into you?’
Jem’s shoulders hitched back.
‘Nothing, my lord. You’re looking a little grey about the gills, that’s all.’
Alan sighed with annoyance but pulled his legs back on to the bed. After all they had been through during the long years of war, worrying about a draught was rather absurd. As was the suggestion that he might be sickening. He couldn’t help the involuntary shiver that struck through him at the thought. It didn’t matter how many years had passed since his parents’ deaths, just being confronted with illness could make his mind dive for cover more effectively than any of the real physical threats he had faced during the wars. Seeing Nicky, flushed and feverish, had choked him, forcing him to adopt his best performance for her and Cat’s sake. Cat understood, but she herself had been too ill during those weeks in Edinburgh to remember much of what had happened. He never, never wanted to be in that position again. He hadn’t been strong enough then and he had only weakened with the years.
In a few moments he would dress, say his goodbyes to Cat and Nicky, grit his teeth and apologise to the vixen, and leave. Then he would do his best not to venture within a dozen miles of Ravenscar for another decade at least. This corner of England was obviously unhealthy for him in all respects.
Chapter Seven
Lily stared at herself in the silver-veined mirror. Her eyes looked huge and murky, a caricature of one of Nicky’s desperate heroines. She was tempted to stick her tongue out at the despondent face before her, but Lady Ravenscar’s sermons were clearly having an effect and she merely turned her back on the distorted image. Such a childish gesture would be in keeping with her rather more serious act of running away.
Or was it considered running away when one had already arranged one’s return and had covered one’s tracks?
She crossed the library to place the ornate wooden box with one of her father’s silver-tooled duelling pistols on the desk within easy reach. She had left the other one in the bedroom which Mr Prosper’s housekeeper had prepared for Lily’s ‘guests’ due to arrive from Jamaica any day now. The housekeeper had tentatively offered to find servants to occupy the house, but she had accepted Lily’s assurance that her guests were arriving with a full complement of their own.
She felt worst about lying to Jackson and Greene, sending them to see their families while she was supposed to go by post-chaise for a flying visit to an old schoolfriend near Bath. Greene particularly had been offended, but the chance to visit her sister after decades abroad won out over professional pride.
So now Lily had three days of absolute solitude in a clean and fully stocked house before the post-chaise she had hired in Bitton returned to collect her and return her to the Hall. The raging wind and threatening clouds outside only made her feel safer. There was no chance anyone would be wandering about the countryside and wondering about the lights peeping out from the curtains in what was supposed to be an empty house. For the next three days she could be alone, utterly alone, in her house.
She spread her arms wide, closing her eyes to encompass the whole of the house in her mind just as she had tried to encompass their little island as a child. Part of her might fear being condemned to loneliness, but she was familiar with it, even comfortable—it was her sanctuary when the noise of life held her back from thinking clearly. Right now she needed that clarity more than ever—she was about to make the most momentous decision of her life. That was why she needed to come to Hollywell—she had a childish conviction that if she could only be utterly alone in a space that was hers and only hers, untainted by memory or disillusion, she would know what she should do about Mr Marston’s proposal.
Well, not quite untainted. Just standing in the library made it very clear it was now distinctly tainted with the image of a very large, handsome and unrepentant rake, blast the man.
She lit a wax candle from the flames of the fireplace and placed the candleholder on the big oak desk, running her fingers along its age-softened edge. Albert Curtis had probably written his sermons here and dreamed of the day he would leave it all behind and travel to the mission in Africa. What a pity he had not done so sooner. Another reminder how important it was to go after one’s dreams while one could. Aside from the recent rake-related dreams, that is. Those would descend all too swiftly into nightmares.
She just didn’t trust the kind of love her mother had abandoned her soul and pride for—in fact, she had developed a serious aversion to her mother’s radiant joy when her father arrived on the island, as well as to her father’s boyish excitement whenever he was newly on the hunt. Love between men and women, from what she had seen of it, was often either embarrassing, debilitating or downright damaging.
She wanted something better around which to construct the rest of her life. Something meaningful. She knew what her answer should be. When Philip Marston returned from Birmingham, she should say yes and start down the path to her dream of a family. She might have abandoned her young hopes of finding love, but she still yearned to have children. There was abundant love in her waiting to be shared and she wanted lots of children so they would have each other if something happened to her, or just so they would have each other to play with, to read to...
She tried to cling to the images that had accompanied her back to England, but with each passing day her fear was growing that in a marriage with Philip she would just exchange one prison for another. Even the promise of children was no longer enough to calm this fear. She knew what had shifted her from her path.
Admit it, Lily, for once, you are like all those other silly misses—fascinated by a handsome face and a sullied reputation, and piqued that a notorious fortune hunter didn’t immediately start chasing you. You have become a thoroughly spoilt brat, just as he said. Well, you have come by your just deserts! He made a fool of you. No, you made a fool of yourself.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories that surged upwards again—of his hands holding hers, peeling back the gloves, touching her, his mouth on hers, warm and demanding, setting her alight...
It was like walking around with a bee sting embedded in her skin, knowing it needed to be removed, but afraid to pick at it for fear it would hurt as much in the removal, and all along it seeped venom into her blood, leaving her as feverish as poor Nicky.
It was just a kiss, for heaven’s sake! She had been kissed before. That was one of the few benefits of being an heiress—she could flirt with relative impunity. He was an impressively handsome man and clearly well-trained, so why not enjoy a little light entertainment while she was immured here? That was all it was. She was confused only because he was so much more skilled than her past flirts. By a long stretch. She should have given credit to the tales indicating the notorious Rakehell Raven was in a different league from the men she had encountered in Kingston. Older, harder, more experienced and much, much more cynical. It was a salutary lesson not to rest on her laurels. Well, she was warned now. If she saw him again, which she doubted, she would avoid him. She had had her kiss. To invite anything else would be to invite trouble indeed. She might be arrogant as he had accused her, but she was no fool.
* * *
A thud echoed through the room and she dropped her book and jumped to her feet. It had been too close for thunder. Someone at the front door? The ghost again? No. She doubted ghosts wore boots. As footsteps approached the library, she wrested the mace from its steely grip and moved towards the desk where her father’s pistol was waiting in its box.
‘Not that again,’ Ravenscar said drily as he opened the door and saw her.
She dropped the mace.
‘Not you again,’ she replied, her heartbeat thudding painfully in her ears. Fear, anger, relief and unwelcome heat were as tangled as the branches outside were by the storm. She could deny wanting to see him again until the stars stopped shining, but she couldn’t lie
about the excitement that lit her from within.
He shook the rain from his hat and placed it on the side table. He was dressed for riding and his caped greatcoat and boots were glistening with rain.
‘I was riding through the field towards the Hall to say goodbye to Cat and Nicky and I saw the light in the library window. I thought your vandal was here. You should return to the Hall before this storm reaches its full potential. I didn’t see a conveyance in the courtyard. Did your pugilistic groom take the horses to the stable? Shall I fetch him?’
His voice was stiff and measured. He was clearly unpleased to see her and against her better judgement it stung. He had also ruined her plans. There was no possible way he would not tell at least Catherine she was at Hollywell.
‘Jackson has gone to visit his family. I will return to the Hall when I am through here.’
She expected incredulity or annoyance, but he merely moved into the room and sat down in the chair closest to the door. With the clouds still low, there wasn’t much light in the room and it took her a moment to focus away from her discomfort and realise that he was behaving quite strangely. He might be a rake, but he was, up to a point, a gentleman. Common courtesy required that he not sit while she remained standing and the insult was pointed. She gritted her teeth.
‘You may continue on your way to the Hall. I shall find my way back. Unless you are angling for another chance to convince me to sell Hollywell.’
He leaned his head back for a moment on the chair.
‘No. I realise trying to convince you is a lost cause. But I still must apologise for my behaviour at the inn. It was unforgivable.’
His tone was at variance with his words. It was rough and dismissive and made a mockery of his apology.
‘Please don’t bother. I’m aware the first offence was mine, but there was no need for you to be so insulting.’
‘Was that what I was? Some women might have considered it a compliment.’
‘Some women might find you attractive,’ she retorted, but she derived no satisfaction from the frown that followed her childish and mendacious dart.
‘You didn’t resist much at the time.’
‘I’m impressed you recall one incident among so many, Lord Ravenscar. As for me, I see nothing wrong in gathering some new experiences here in England. It has been quite flat, isolated as we are at the Hall with only your relations to entertain me. So thank you for alleviating my tedium.’
There, that was a masterly exhibit of insouciance. She was quite proud of herself. Even when he shoved to his feet, a frowning menace, she held her ground and waited. But he just stood there for a moment, his hand on the back of the chair, and both her shame and pique began to fade. He looked different from two days ago. His face was pale and as her eyes ran over him she realised he was wavering slightly and the arm braced on the chair was gripping it too tightly. It reminded her of her father on the mornings after he had been out until the early hours of the morning, she realised with a spurt of outrage and resentment. No doubt he had been enjoying himself thoroughly at some tavern where men of his ilk went gambling and brawling or whatever it was men did with such abandon and which women were supposed to know nothing about. Well, when they showed up like this, how on earth were women not supposed to venture a very good guess?
‘You are looking a little worse for wear, my lord. You might need some coffee.’ Her voice dripped contempt and he directed her a look out of half-closed eyes that was a combination of resentment and disgust.
‘I need you to see reason and agree to sell Hollywell. Trust me, you don’t want to live this close to Old Jezebel. Besides, if you plan to marry Marston, you will live with him and this place will sit idle.’
She stared at him. How could he know that? Had Catherine told him? It wasn’t much of a betrayal, but it hurt. She had begun to feel she had a friend in Catherine, but why should she expect her to be loyal to her above her own brother? They were family, after all, and she was nothing.
‘What if I don’t? What if I decide to live here on my own? What if all I need is Hollywell?’
He didn’t seem to register the childishness of her protest as he rubbed at a point in the centre of his forehead and frowned at her.
‘You would live here alone?’
She turned away to look out at the lawn sloping down towards the swaying trees and she followed his gaze. She could imagine sitting right here with a book and a cup of tea. Would it be so terrible to give up her dreams of a family?
‘No. Probably not. I want children and I am well aware of the cost gossip could have on their future were I to choose to flout convention.’
Why on earth was she telling this man all this? It was none of his business and it was a rather pathetic attempt on her part to prove she wasn’t merely a selfish and pampered heiress as he had accused her. As if someone like him had any right to pass judgement. A more self-indulgent...
If she had expected her honesty would soften him, she was wrong. His face became even stonier.
‘Of course, what woman doesn’t dream of her perfect little home and hearth, surrounded by rosy-cheeked bairns. So we are back to Marston. He has enough houses already. He doesn’t need Hollywell. We do.’
‘Is that how you make ends meet? Help people find things?’
‘No, as a gambler I make ends meet by helping people lose things. I’m surprised Jezebel hasn’t made you a present of all my sins yet.’
‘I must have become bored and stopped paying attention halfway through the list.’
He laughed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes in a strangely childish gesture. He really didn’t look well, she realised. He was in no state to fence with her.
‘You should probably return to Keynsham and sleep it off.’
He didn’t answer immediately, but when he pushed away from the chair, she watched in shock as his face turned an ashy grey under his tan.
‘Damn...’ he muttered and leaned back on the chair.
She moved towards him and instinctively reached out to touch his cheek before she even realised what she was doing.
‘You’re not drunk; you are ill!’
He recoiled from her touch as if she had slapped him.
‘No, I’m not. Just tired.’
Even his voice was turning ragged. He cleared his throat and looked towards the door, his eyes half-closed, as if assessing the distance needing to be covered.
‘We should go.’
For once, she didn’t argue. He walked with the concentration of the very drunk, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed he was indeed tipsy.
‘Is your curricle outside?’ she asked as they reached the library door and he paused, reaching out to lean his hand on the door jamb.
‘No. My groom took it to Bristol. You wait here while I ride to the Hall and have them send a carriage for you.’
She gaped at him. He didn’t look like he would make it from the library to the front door.
‘You can’t ride all the way back, you’re ill. We’ll do the opposite—you wait here and I will send someone from the Hall...’
‘Don’t be silly.’ The word faded and he half-turned, leaning his back against the wall. The remainders of colour drained from his face and he watched her with a strange fascination, as if she was transforming before his very eyes. ‘I might just need...to sit down for a moment...’
He was a great deal heavier than she was prepared for, but she put her shoulder into it and managed to half-coax, half-propel him towards a backless ottoman sofa which was almost long enough for his tall frame.
‘My head...it’s breaking...’ he groaned as he sank down and then slid on to the cushioned armrest.
‘It’s too hard for that,’ she murmured, touching her fingers to his forehead again. If anything, he felt hotter and his dark hair was clinging to the perspiration
that was forming there. She must have been very unperceptive not to have realised immediately something was wrong with him. She had become so defensive around him she was losing her perspective. ‘You have the fever. I will bring a pillow and some blankets.’
His eyes opened, a flickering, intense look that stopped her.
‘No, I don’t!’
The words were slurred, but the denial was very clear.
‘I’m afraid saying it isn’t so won’t make any odds in this case, Lord Ravenscar. You most definitely have the fever. Doctor Scovell told us there have even been several fatalities in the past weeks, and if you don’t want to put a premature end to your hedonistic existence, I suggest you rest here until I find some way of conveying you to the...to town.’
She corrected herself quickly. She was talking too much, she knew, a cover as much to mask her own fear as to forestall any resistance on his part. He should not be riding in this state and in this weather; he would probably fall off his horse and die of exposure if he didn’t drown outright in the rain and mud-filled ditches.
‘No...’ He shifted, trying to lever himself up. ‘I won’t go...’
He was no fool; he had probably guessed her intention. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, holding him down more easily than she had expected.
‘Fine, don’t go. Stay here. I’ll fetch blankets.’
He sank back and she could see he was beginning to shiver. This meant the fever had just begun to climb and she felt a spurt of alarm. He was so hot already, hotter than even Lady Ravenscar and Catherine had been when they had fallen ill.
‘Can’t go alone...’ he mumbled. ‘The ghosts...’
‘They had best not tangle with me right now, I’m in no mood for hauntings. I will return as quickly as I am able, but you must stay right here. If you move, I will be annoyed.’
She couldn’t make out his response, but it didn’t sound complimentary.