Dark Fancy

by York, Sabrina

  “Yes. We’ll go to London. Today if you wish. I will buy you a house. Jewels, silks. Anything you desire. Name it and it shall be yours.” It sounded reasonable. It sounded like a wonderful proposition.

  Apparently she did not agree. Tiny lines formed around her mouth, making her look as though she’d sucked on a lemon. “You want to make me your mistress?”

  “Yes.” Ah yes. She understood.

  He had forgotten he was naked.

  He should not have forgotten.

  She stomped on his foot. He released her at once.

  He had the sinking suspicion he was lucky that was all she ravaged.

  He hunted for his pants and found them. They were stiff and caked with dried apples. He slipped them on anyway.

  Ah. Lord.

  The apples were not completely dry.

  Had he really thought that thrilling the night before?

  Yes, he had.

  But then many things had seemed thrilling last night.

  Today, they were dismal.

  Once his loins were properly girded, he faced her. “Eloise—”

  “You want to make me your mistress.” Her voice was disturbingly flat.

  “You don’t like the idea? Darling, we can be together.”

  He flinched as Baxter scratched again at the door. “My lord, they’re waiting.”

  “Blast. I have to go.”

  She nodded, a short, sharp bob. “Of course.”

  “People need to talk to me.”

  “Of course. You’re a very important man.”

  He relaxed. Thank God she understood. He pulled her close. Kissed her on her forehead. “We’ll finish this discussion when I return. I will explain everything, my dear. I promise you will be pleased.” She didn’t answer but her attention was fixed on him as he made his way to the door. He smiled at her. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  She dipped her head. “Of course you will.”

  He should have paid more attention.

  To her posture.

  To her expression.

  To her tone.

  Really, he should have.

  Chapter Nine

  Winston was in a dither. He paced the grand salon, his hair standing up on end. Probably because he kept dragging his fingers through it.

  James leaned against the doorjamb feeling much refreshed after having changed his trousers. He wore a fresh shirt and a neatly tied cravat as well. “You needed to speak with me?”

  The barrister froze, spun. “Oh thank God. My lord. You must come to Trueglove.”

  “Must I?”

  “There’s a problem with your betrothed.”

  “A problem?” He could hardly be bothered. What he wanted, more than anything, was to return to the cottage, to Eloise. And finish what they’d started. Murky lust hummed in his veins.

  He knew he would need to soothe her first. Apologize for his little white lie. Proffer a gift.

  But first, this nonsense.

  “I can say no more, my lord. Lord Trueglove has sworn me to secrecy. Bound me to deliver you to him.”

  James bristled. “I am hardly Trueglove’s minion.”

  “My lord. Please. You must come. I beg of you.” Winston was nearly in tears.

  “I’m in the middle of something important.”

  “Not as important as this, I assure you.”

  Blast. The very last thing he wanted this morning was to make the twenty-mile ride to Trueglove. They were not yet wed and his bride was already impinging on his life. The idea he’d had last night to scuttle the betrothal arose again. It was looking better and better.

  He scowled at Baxter. He didn’t mean to, but he was in a scowling mood. “Please take care of Eloise while I’m gone,” he commanded. “Make sure she has something to eat. Anything she needs.”

  Baxter dipped his head. “My lord.”

  “And have my horse prepared.”

  “Already waiting in the stable yard.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  James strode through the door and down the stone steps, impatient to have this over and done with. Winston skittered in his wake.

  He was going to Trueglove to end this ridiculous betrothal and then he’d return to Darlington, fuck Eloise and entice her to move from the cottage into the mansion.

  And he would keep her.

  Forever.

  * * * * *

  Forever.

  The ride to Trueglove took forever. There had once been a path connecting the two estates, but after generations of acrimony, the forest had overtaken the narrow track. The main road took him around the circumference of his lands and then a great portion of Trueglove’s. To make matters far more miserable, it started to rain halfway round.

  James finally arrived at the manor house, dripping wet and furious. He pounded on the door. The butler blanched at the sight of him. It was, most probably, the ferocious look on his face that made the man tremble, but it could have been the puddles James created on the polished wood floor. The butler hied off to fetch a towel.

  By the time James was dried off, Winston, who’d followed in his gig, had arrived and joined him in the foyer. Winston was soaked to the skin too, so the beleaguered butler had to fetch yet another towel. Once they were both as dry as they were going to get, the butler led them into the drawing room to await Trueglove’s pleasure.

  It infuriated James to be kept waiting. He’d only been an earl for six months or so but he’d known since he was in short pants that an earl outranked a baron. Besides, he’d never been a patient man, even when he’d had no call to be imperious.

  He felt decidedly imperious now. Imperious and outraged.

  By the time Trueglove appeared, James was ready to strangle him—and Winston, who kept sniffling and cringing whenever he glanced in James’ direction.

  As the baron entered the chamber, James set his fists on his hips. “What the hell is so important you had to drag me here in a rainstorm?”

  “My lord.” Trueglove bowed, though not deeply enough to assuage James’ rage. “There is…a problem with your betrothed.”

  James attempted to swallow his growl. He failed. “I gathered as much.”

  At home.

  In his sitting room.

  Dry as a bone.

  “What is so urgent you had need to call me here? Now?”

  Trueglove’s lips flapped as he searched for words. James saw when he scuttled his attempt to soften the blow. Whatever blow that happened to be. He just came out and said it. “Your betrothed has gone missing, my lord.”

  “What?” James ignored the trickle of relief and focused on the annoyance.

  “My lord, we brought her home from school to meet you. Apparently she’s run away.”

  “Run away?” James glanced from Trueglove to Winston and back again. “How long has she been gone?”

  “Nearly a week, my lord.”

  “A week? And you’re just telling me now?”

  “My lord.” Winston quivered. “We’ve been looking for her.”

  Trueglove nodded. “Have men in the woods with hounds. Scouring local towns. There’s been no sign of her.”

  James dragged his fingers through his hair. Hell. He wouldn’t be able to break off the betrothal until they found her. “What do you want from me?”

  “We’re expanding our search to Covington and Exeter, but we need more men.”

  “You want my staff to hunt for her? Can the constable not manage it?”

  “We want to keep this quiet.” Trueglove’s brow rumpled like mating caterpillars. “If it becomes known amongst the ton that she was not under our protection for an entire week, her reputation will be in shreds. And yours.”

  James snorted. If that was an attempt to threaten him, it failed. He shivered. His clothes were still damp. “Do you have any brandy?”

  Trueglove paled. “Of a certainty, my lord. So sorry. Let’s sit in the study by the fire. Bra
nson! Bring some brandy.” They crossed the foyer, stepping around the little maid mopping up the puddles, and into a small, warm library. James shuddered again as cold racked him. His shirt clung to his shoulders.

  Displeasure prickled at him. He’d wanted this over with. He’d wanted it done. He wanted, above all else, to be free of her. That petulant, spoiled, wayward brat. He wanted to return to his love nest.

  To his love.

  And God help him, he loved her.

  Somehow, in the past two days, she’d gotten in his blood.

  He wanted her. Needed her. Loved her.

  He stood before the fire, grappling with this revelation and warming his hands. When Branson offered him a cut crystal glass of brandy, he downed the contents in a gulp. As he tipped his head back, he noticed the portrait over the mantle and his heart gave a sharp lurch.

  For he found himself staring into hauntingly familiar emerald orbs.

  He choked on his brandy then winced as Branson pounded him on the back. “W-who is that?” he sputtered.

  “The baroness. My brother’s wife.”

  A strange suspicion curled in James’ gut. It intrigued and horrified him at the same time. “Does her daughter favor her?”

  Did she have the same honey-gold hair, the heart-shaped countenance, the same moss-green eyes that glowed when she came?

  Trueglove blinked and considered the portrait. “Well, yes. I suppose she does.”

  Fuck. James whirled on the baron. “What is my betrothed’s name again? Her full name?”

  “My lord?” Clearly Trueglove thought him dotty. What man didn’t remember the name of his betrothed, after all?

  A lord. A selfish, manipulative lord who was more interested in the stables that came along with her than in the woman herself.

  “Her name.” He probably should not have snarled. This was hardly Trueglove’s fault.

  “Helena.”

  “Her full name.” His fingers curled into fists. His anxiety notched up.

  Certainty loomed.

  “Helena Eloise Simpson.”

  Eloise. “Fuck.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  James ignored Trueglove’s outrage at his profanity. He shoved the crystal glass at Branson and headed for the door.

  “My lord? Where are you going?”

  He stepped over the little maid and opened the door. “I know where she is.”

  “Where?” Both Trueglove and Winston peered at him like curious rats, their noses twitching.

  “She’s at Darlington. She’s been with me.”

  * * * * *

  Eloise was his betrothed.

  James seethed. He put the crop to his horse on the way home, which he never did. Rain poured down in sheets now, but he didn’t care.

  Oh, she was going to get a spanking. And this one would not be a game.

  How dare she lie to him? Seduce him?

  She thought he was a gardener. What kind of trollop was she?

  His horse stumbled and he forced himself to slow his pace. The poor animal didn’t deserve to taste his fury.

  But she did.

  He thought of the look in her eyes as she coaxed him, begged him to bed her. Deflower her. Ruin her.

  To free her from a revolting lord.

  Ah, hell.

  He was that revolting lord.

  She thought him revolting.

  What had she said? He was a monster.

  He wasn’t a monster.

  He was horrid.

  Not a bit of it.

  He was old.

  Now that just plain wasn’t true.

  James rounded the curve that marked the halfway point in his journey. Eloise—Helena—had been so opposed to marrying him, she had run away, exposed herself to God knew what dangers. Clearly she hadn’t been running away from him. Hell, she’d practically run into his arms.

  Obviously she’d gotten some maggot in her head that all lords were liars, depraved cads and despoilers of virgins—

  His thoughts seized.

  Holy hell.

  He had lied to her. Only about his station, but that had bothered her when she’d discovered it.

  He had definitely despoiled her.

  His pulse thudded in his temple.

  And she should undoubtedly consider him depraved. After the things he’d done to her—things he would never have thrust upon a gentle bride.

  He’d tied her to a tree, for fuck’s sake. Let her suck his cock. Those were things a whore did, a mistress, not a wellborn bride.

  And damnation—

  Had he really offered to make her his mistress?

  He hadn’t, had he?

  Blind panic descended. He’d ridden away this morning of a mind to end his betrothal. Now fear clawed in his gut that she might want the same.

  He wouldn’t allow it. He would not.

  She was his.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  As that thought descended, a plan formed in his head. A way to coax her, seduce her, capture her once and for all.

  And this time the game would be very serious indeed.

  Chapter Ten

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Helena glanced up and tried to smile at Andrew. But her lips wouldn’t cooperate.

  The old man balanced on his cane and, teetering, sat beside her on the bank of the brook. “Why are you crying?”

  She swiped at her cheeks. “I’m not crying.”

  “Fairies aren’t supposed to cry, you know.” He frowned at the sky through a thick plait of branches. “You’ll make it rain.”

  “I’m not a fairy.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m not a fairy, Andrew. I’m just a girl.” A desperate, heartbroken girl.

  He nodded to the bag in her lap. “Are you leaving?”

  She sighed. “I have to.” As soon as James had left the cottage, she’d gathered her things and headed back into the woods toward Cavendish. At least, in the direction she presumed Cavendish to be. She was terrible with directions. She’d only stopped here to have a good cry.

  Why it wasn’t making her feel any better, she hadn’t a clue.

  “Where will you go?”

  She shrugged. She was going to London. But she couldn’t tell him that.

  Could she?

  She flicked a look at him through her lashes. “Would you help me?”

  “Help you?”

  “Get where I’m going? Do you have a horse?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not allowed to ride the horses.” Her heart dipped. “But we do have a carriage.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, my nephew has one.” He puffed out his chest. “I’m allowed to use it.”

  “Could you take me to London?”

  “To London? Why ever would you want to go to London? Fairies hate the city. There are hardly any trees.”

  She leaned closer. “They do hate the city. That’s why I need to go there. To escape the Fairy King.” It wasn’t really a lie, was it? But even if it was, she didn’t care. She had to slip away before James returned.

  She couldn’t bear to see him again. If she did, she doubted she’d have the strength to resist him.

  She hated the knowledge that he’d been playing with her, toying with her affections. When she thought about all the things they’d done—heavens, the things she’d done—she felt ill.

  Lady Satterlee had warned her about the evils of men, and lords in particular. But Helena had been so blinded by his beauty, so beguiled by his charm, so deluded by his kisses, that she’d fallen right into the oldest trap in the history of mankind. She’d been seduced. By a lord.

  And he wanted to make her his mistress.

  Agony clutched at her heart.

  Not because she wouldn’t love to be his mistress but because clearly he didn’t share the feelings she had for him. To him she was just another conquest. And one who had fallen oh so easily.

  She was, in a word, m
ortified.

  She had to escape. “Please, sir. Won’t you help me?”

  “Well, I have been meaning to go to town.” Andrew wrinkled a brow and nudged at a tuft of grass with his booted toe. “Need to do some research at the Tower.”

  “How lovely.” It wasn’t. Not really. But he appeared to need some encouragement.

  “Yes. Yes. I’ve started writing a book. Have I mentioned it?”

  “I don’t believe you have.”

  “A History of Darlington, I think I’ll call it. The first earl asked me to write it.”

  “The first earl?”

  “Oh yes. A niceish chap by the name of Charles. Flits about the old castle.” He leveled her with a serious look. “He’s quite dead.”

  Oh dear. “Hmm. Yes. I imagine he would be.”

  “But very determined, adamant, even, that someone take the time to chronicle the family history. Especially now that everything is about to come to rights again.”

  “That sounds fascinating.” She had no clue what he was talking about. “Could we leave now? You can tell me all about it on the way.”

  Andrew’s eyes sparkled. He hefted himself to his feet and, incongruously, helped her up. “What are we waiting for then? We must leave at once.” A splat of rain landed on his shoulder. He frowned at her. “And you, missy, must stop those tears. I deplore traveling in the rain.”

  * * * * *

  Where was she?

  Immediately upon returning to Darlington, James had ridden to the gardener’s cottage, flung himself from the horse and pushed through the door. He’d known at once she had left. The dresses he’d gifted her and her small bag, along with what remained of the food, was gone. The mess, however, remained.

  He remounted his charger, rode up to the house, flung his reins at a hovering groom and stormed up the steps. “Eloise! Eloise!” he roared. And then he remembered. Bellowed her real name, this time in a far darker tone. “Helena?”

  “My lord?” Baxter appeared in the foyer, as he always did. James did not stop to contemplate his magic.

  “Where is she, Baxter?”

  “Who, my lord?”

  “Eloise. The girl. From the cottage.”

  “My lord, there was no girl in the cottage when I returned there.”

  “Blast.” He smacked his crop against his palm. “She didn’t come here?”