Dark Fancy

by York, Sabrina

  She was rather caked in mud. A clean dress would be wonderful. And some steaming soup. And fresh sheets. A bath, perhaps.

  “And you won’t send me back?”

  He blew out a snort. “Not against your will.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  And she believed him.

  James watched as the fey girl uncrossed her legs and stood in one fluid motion. There was something about her that put his teeth on edge. He was sure it wasn’t lust. It couldn’t be.

  She was a child, for Christ’s sake.

  He glanced down at her as he helped her gather her things and his gaze stalled. For as she’d bent forward, her bodice had gaped open and he’d seen…he’d seen…

  Surely not full, round breasts, unbound by a corset.

  He studied her more closely as they made their way up the path toward the house. He fully intended to take her to the mansion and hand her over to Mrs. Miller before informing the constable he’d found a wayward waif. But when she emerged from the moldering shadows of the shed, the sun kissed her hair, caressed her features and he was poleaxed.

  This was no child. This was a woman, and a damn beautiful one.

  He recalled her reaction when he’d suggested taking her home and something roiled in his belly. She’d been frightened, terrified of the prospect, and now he could understand why. Many men viewed women as chattel and treated them as such. Especially in the lower classes. From which she obviously came—judging from her well-worn, ill-fitting dress. The thought of this beauty in such clutches soured his stomach.

  He would much rather have her in his clutches.

  That was to say, he’d much rather keep her here, with him, safe, until he could pry her story from her lips.

  His thoughts drifted from his noble intentions to those lips. Soft and pink and pursed most temptingly.

  Good God, he wanted her.

  But he was an earl now. That complicated things. Thoughts of his impending marriage snaked insistent roots into his mind. If he brought a wench to Darlington the very day he became betrothed, surely there would be talk. Especially if the wench in question was sequestered in the earl’s chambers.

  For several days.

  As he explored her bounty.

  At length.

  Mrs. Miller would have apoplexy. The village girls would probably leave his service. He’d be reduced to making his own dinner and laundering his own smallclothes.

  The staff had suffered quite enough infamy from his depraved—and mercifully departed—uncle.

  And what of her? His bride? She would hear of it. Tongues did wag.

  As much as he disliked the idea of answering to anyone, he didn’t want to begin wedded bondage—um, bliss—with such a thing between them.

  He would probably annoy and disappoint his wife at some point. He just didn’t want to do it right away.

  He sighed. Things would be so much easier if he were a simple gardener.

  At least for a few days.

  So when they came to a fork in the path, he didn’t lead her to the mansion. He headed instead for the gardener’s cottage. Old Babbage was off in Cornwall for a week meeting his newborn grandson. She could stay here—and James with her—while he…contemplated the possibilities.

  It wasn’t quite the adventure he’d had in mind, but it was adventure enough.

  And, as last-gasp escapades went, she wasn’t bad.

  In fact, she was rather magnificent.

  Chapter Two

  The gardener’s cottage was darling, cozy and quaint. There was a rough-hewn table by the hearth and a bed in the corner. Helena let out a gasp when she noticed a wooden tub tucked in an alcove.

  How she would love a soak. She shivered at the thought.

  She glanced up at her host, the large and looming man, and her joy deflated. She would never have the courage to bathe with him here; she could hardly ask him to do all the work of preparing the bath and then demand he leave. It took some effort but she managed to scuttle the anticipation.

  She should count herself lucky to have a hot meal and a bed that was not crawling with bugs. She glanced at the bed. And then froze.

  There was one bed. It was his bed. She could hardly demand it. She sighed, realizing she would most likely be sleeping on the floor. At least it wasn’t muddy. And there would be blankets. And a pillow.

  For a woman in her dire circumstances, it was more than she could expect.

  He bent to start the fire and then fetched several buckets of water and arranged them on the hearth to warm.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. He kept his gaze low, as though the exact placement of the buckets was of extreme importance. Or he didn’t want to look at her.

  “Yes.” She wasn’t. She’d just wolfed down a plate of roast beef and carrots. But she could always eat again. One never knew when the next meal might appear when one was in dire circumstances.

  He nodded. “I’ll go up to the house and fetch some staples and—” He flicked a glance at her dress. “Something for you to wear. Would you like to bathe?”

  She started at the question. Though she’d scuttled the fantasy, visions of that glorious bath skulked in the shadows of her mind, as fantasies are wont to do. “Heavens, yes.”

  He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “When I return I’ll set up the tub. And a curtain, of course.”

  She quivered at the prospect, moved by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you—” It occurred to her she did not know his name. How odd. In her world, she couldn’t so much as look at a man without knowing the minutest detail of his ancestry. She tipped up her chin. “I am…Eloise, by the way.” At the last moment she remembered not to give her first name. She trusted him not to reveal her but it seemed silly to take the chance.

  He bent over her hand in the fashion of a man of quality—which was rather incongruent, given his humble costume. He didn’t kiss her but his breath was warm on her skin. She shouldn’t wish for that beautiful mouth to drop lower, to press against her knuckles. But she did.

  “I’m James. At your service, my lady.”

  Panic flickered through her at his words. She yanked back her hand and clutched her bundle to her chest. “I’m hardly a lady.”

  He stared at her, studying her with too-observant eyes. “Merely an expression.” He shot her a grin and bowed grandly.

  She bit back a smile. He had a sense of humor. She liked that in a man.

  “I’ll be back straightaway.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  She arched a brow. Don’t go anywhere? Where else would she rather be?

  Mrs. Miller gave him an odd look as he called for bread and stew and wine as he blew through the kitchen. He took the stairs two at a time up to the attic to fumble through chests from ages past. It took him a while but he found some more recent items—probably dating from his Uncle’s more dissolute pursuits—a dress that was probably close to her size and a chemise and a nightdress. He tossed these over his shoulder and bounded down the stairs, calling for Baxter.

  His butler met him in the foyer. “You bellowed?”

  James slapped him on the shoulder. “Baxter, I’ll be staying in the gardener’s cottage for a few days.” To his credit, Baxter only gaped a tiny bit at the froth of lace on James’ shoulders. “Don’t ask.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Please see to it I am not disturbed.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Baxter opened his mouth to say more, but spoke to an empty hall. His earl was already sprinting back to the kitchen to collect his repast, the delicate chemise billowing out in his wake.

  While James was gone, Helena busied herself at the hearth, rotating the buckets and washing up a bit. Though he had promised a bath, she couldn’t bear the feel of dried mud on her skin. She also hunted around and found some extra sheets, which she laid out for her curtain. She tried to tug the tub from its alcove—not that she was anxious for her bath—but couldn’t get it to bu
dge.

  Sometimes it was terribly inconvenient, being as small as she was. Helena tried very hard to be brave in spite of it.

  James returned much sooner than she expected. He put the food he’d brought on the table and tossed a pile of dresses onto the bed. Then he hauled the tub out from the alcove as though it were nothing, setting it before the fire. He dumped the steaming water into the tub and went to refill the buckets at the well.

  “Your bath should be ready by the time we finish dinner,” he said when he returned. Something odd flickered across his face but he ducked his head so she couldn’t make it out.

  He arranged the items he’d brought on the table. A cauldron, a loaf of bread, two bottles of wine and two spoons.

  Very beautiful spoons.

  Helena fervently hoped he would not be accused of stealing the silver. When he lifted the cover of the pot, a scintillating aroma filled the room and all thoughts of his larceny fled.

  Though she hadn’t been truly hungry, she knew at once she would be eating that.

  He shot her a conspiratorial grin. “Mrs. Miller’s stew. She’s a wizard in the kitchen.” He filled two bowls with a ladle and sucked a bit of spilled sauce from his thumb. Helena tracked the movement.

  His lips were very…

  She sighed as an unfamiliar heat rose within her.

  Forcing her attention away from that thumb, those lips and the confusing images and emotions they created within her, she examined the items on the bed. There was a simple day dress, a chemise and a nightgown.

  How considerate of him to bring them. How wonderful to know she had something clean to wear—however humble.

  At home she had hundreds of dresses trimmed in velvet and lace and furbelows. Yet none of them moved her as much as these three simple pieces.

  “Thank you for bringing these.”

  He looked up from his task, pouring wine into two tin mugs. “I thought you might like them. I can get more, if they don’t suit.”

  “Thank you.” At his gesture, she crossed to the table and took a seat. It was charming the way he offered her the only chair. “But I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  He dragged a bench over from the other side of the room and sat across from her. “Get in trouble?” He raised a brow as he snapped out his napkin and tucked it in his lap. For a gardener, his table manners were superb. Helena followed suit.

  “Yes. The lord of the manor surely will not like that you are using his things. Or his lady’s.”

  “He has no lady. Yet. The dresses came from the attic. No one will notice they are gone.”

  She picked up a spoon. “And the silver?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t fret, little one. The butler and I have an understanding.”

  They ate in silence, Helena murmuring every now and again as the delightful flavors danced over her tongue. She sipped at the wine and nearly moaned. It was a rich buttery red that flowed warmth into her veins. She’d only ever been offered watered down ratafia before, and then only at Christmas. She liked this much better.

  James ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf and handed it to her, then ripped one off for himself. “So, I’m curious…”

  Helena stiffened, her cup halfway to her mouth. “Yes?” Heavens. What on earth did he want to know?

  “When you said lord of the manor, you almost spat out the words. Is there a reason for such animosity?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “You’re a servant. Surely you know what they can be like.”

  “They?”

  “The ‘Quality’. Lords in particular.”

  “Clearly my experience differs from yours. Can you enlighten me?” When she didn’t respond, he prompted, “For example, why there’s a bitterness in your voice when you speak of them.”

  “Is there?”

  “You know there is.”

  “All right.” She set down her cup and clutched at the napkin in her lap. “First of all, it is a well-known fact that lords are prone to drinking and wenching and, in general, defiling virgins.”

  It was an unfortunate circumstance that James had just taken a drink of his wine when she spoke. For he now sprayed it out. “What?” He dabbed at his chin with his napkin. And then dabbed at the red spots spattering the table. “Where ever did you get a notion like that?”

  “From experts.”

  “Have you experienced this…defiling yourself?”

  “Certainly not,” she snorted. “It’s a well-known fact.”

  “I see.” He hid his smile in his cup.

  “But I’ve had plenty of personal experience with lords and their ilk.”

  “Do tell.”

  “They are very self-centered and grasping. Don’t give a whit about anyone but themselves.”

  “Surely not all of them.”

  “They are born with the expectation they can have anything and everything they want, regardless of the consequences to others.”

  “But not all of them.”

  “I don’t know why you’re defending them. Is your lord selfish and self-absorbed? Does he do what he wants whenever he wants despite the consequences to others? To his staff?”

  James bristled—and then broke out in a laugh. “Yes, I suppose he’s just like that. But he’s not evil.”

  “Selfishness and evil are the same thing.” She tipped up her cup and lapped at the last few remaining drops.

  He refilled both their cups. “I beg to disagree. Most men are selfish. That does not make them evil.”

  “But lords are selfish on a plane that transcends the selfishness of others. They have absolute power.”

  “Surely not absolute.”

  “Absolute. I pity the poor girls who are sold to them.”

  He froze, looked up. “Sold to them? Surely that is a harsh accounting of it.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you were one of the girls being forced to wed a man who horrifies you.”

  He stared at her. “Is that that why you ran away?”

  Helena fixed her gaze on the fire. “Yes,” she whispered. “M-my guardian wants to marry me off.” To a hideous man. She’d overheard her uncle talking with his barrister, plotting the deed. When that name had slipped out, she’d been appalled.

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “He’s a monster.” She shuddered. “The things they say about him are horrid.” As a child, she’d heard endless tales of the depraved lord from her aunts and uncles. “Besides, he’s old.”

  She’d gotten a look at him last summer during a rare holiday in Bath. He’d been portly and dissolute and old. There’d been bags hanging beneath his great glassy eyes and his lips had been fat and wet like a trout. He’d lumbered about on stubby legs while this enormous belly quivered like a pudding. The headmistress of her school had made it a point to warn all the girls to keep their distance, had whispered of his affronts to the polite world.

  And now he was her betrothed.

  What a pity she couldn’t have a man like this one, a tall, noble gardener, a man of the earth. She glanced at him and her pulse fluttered. To calm it, she up-ended her cup. It was empty again.

  A very naughty idea bubbled in her brain. It was probably the effect of the wine. But then—she glanced at him again—perhaps not.

  Her plan was to make it to London and take refuge with her dearest school friend, whose cousin was a duke and could protect her from this vile unwanted marriage. But if they caught her, if they caught her and dragged her back and forced her to marry that repugnant creature, she’d never ever know true passion. She would pass through her life like a wraith, never having loved a man. Not really.

  It seemed the worst possible fate.

  And if she were returned to her betrothed and he should discover she had already been defiled—would he repudiate her?

  Of course he would. What man would want to marry a woman who had been in another man’s bed?

  The idea swirling in her head sounded better and better.
>
  “Why are you looking at me like that?” James smiled, refilled her glass.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Men.”

  “Hmm.” He took a sip. A red droplet clung to his lower lip. He dashed it away with his tongue. “An interesting topic.”

  “Men are very possessive, are they not?”

  He shrugged. “Some are.”

  “But would those men, the ones who are, would they want a bride who was not pure?”

  He licked his lips again although there was no droplet there. “What are you proposing, Eloise?” The low throb of his voice excited her. He knew what she was proposing, and judging from the cant of his head, he liked the idea.

  “I was just thinking, if you spoiled me, maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore.”

  “Spoiled you?” His brow wrinkled. He said the word as though it tasted bad.

  “Deflowered me.”

  He swallowed. “You’re a virgin.” Not a question. He was just clarifying the facts. But the prospect concerned him. His thoughts were plain on his face.

  “I’m a desperate virgin. Please, James. Won’t you consider it?”

  “I’ve been considering it since the instant we met.”

  A shard of heat sliced through her. “You have?” She traced the edge of her cup. “I was wondering if you found me attractive.”

  He snorted. Then took an altogether too deep draw of wine. Coughed. Once he recovered, he said, “Yes, my dear. I do find you attractive. And as much as I ache to…spoil you, I find myself clutched in the claws of conscience.”

  “Haven’t you ever ruined a woman before?”

  His laugh came out in a bark. “Indeed, I hope I have. Ruined her for other men, at least. But no. I’ve never had a virgin.” He sobered. “I am told it can be painful.”

  She threw back her shoulders. “I’m sure I could bear it. If it released me from this abominable betrothal.” She flicked a look at him beneath her lashes. “I should so like to try.”