by Cheryl Holt
He could have been an actor, she thought.
He had the ability to blend in with his environment, and here, surrounded by his family and peers, there was no mistaking that he was precisely where he belonged. In bursting in as she had, she had grossly miscalculated.
“I will speak with you outside,” he hissed.
“Where is Thomas? What have you done with him?”
His blue eyes flickered with such rage that sparks seemed to fly around the room.
“Out! Side!” he repeated.
He loomed over her, intimidating her with his size, with his position, with all that he was and she was not.
Her head spun. She was off balance, shaky and disoriented, and she couldn’t catch her breath. There wasn’t a drop of air to be had, and she was so dizzy that she couldn’t tell which way was up or down. Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her that it had been three days since she’d eaten.
She tipped to one side, then the other, and as he reached out to the grab her, she collapsed to the floor with a muted thud.
CHAPTER EIGHT
No one moved, the entire group having been struck dumb by the spectacle of the young girl challenging the imposing duke in front of a crowd of noble guests. It was like something out of a storybook, like something out of a theatrical melodrama. It didn’t seem real.
Phillip Sinclair stood and walked over to where Miss Carrington was lying on the carpet. She’d fallen next to Anne, but Anne hadn’t budged to assist her. Anne was frowning down at the crumpled waif as if she were a dog that had made a mess on the rug.
Michael hadn’t moved either, but continued to stare at Miss Carrington as if she were a ghost.
Phillip shook his head in disgust. Sometimes, he really feared for the two of them. They were so steeped in tradition and rank that they couldn’t see what asses they were being. They represented everything he despised, and if he hadn’t been friends with them for so long, he might have stomped out and never come back.
“I thought you said the family was fine with the transfer,” Phillip muttered to Michael.
“I said the mother was fine with it,” Michael tersely replied. “It was none of the aunt’s affair.”
“Obviously, she would beg to disagree.”
Phillip knelt down and scooped her into his arms, finding her light as a feather, so he figured it had probably been quite awhile since she’d last eaten.
“Lady Anne,” he groused as he rose, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, might you show me to a private room so this poor creature can compose herself?”
“Oh!” Anne was jolted out of her stupor. “Yes, yes, pardon me.”
She rose, too, when the Duke spoke from the other end of the table.
“Anne, I don’t give you permission to leave. Call for the housekeeper.” He snapped his fingers at the nearest footman. “You! Get that miscreant out of here so Mr. Sinclair can finish his supper in peace.”
The Duke smiled thinly, then picked up his fork and commenced dining as if nothing peculiar had transpired. There was a hesitation, some confused dithering, then the guests resumed eating, too.
The footman approached, and Phillip cast a withering glance at him, then at Anne.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I don’t mind having my meal interrupted.”
He departed with Miss Carrington cradled to his chest, and he proceeded down the hall to the foyer, worried about what to do with her. Behind him, he heard Anne in the dining room.
“I’ll be back in a moment.” Her chair scraped across the floor. “If you’ll excuse me...?”
“Anne!” the Duke barked. “You will not attend her.”
“I’ll be back in a moment!” she said again, and there was a firmness in her tone that Phillip hadn’t noted before.
She hurried after Phillip. Michael followed her out, too.
“Is she...dead?” Anne asked.
“No, just starving.”
Michael sucked in a sharp breath. “Starving! That’s not possible.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“But how could it have happened?”
“How would you suppose? She’s poor; she didn’t have any money to buy food. You visited her home. Didn’t it occur to you that she could use a bit of help?”
“She was perfectly fine when I left!” Michael protested.
Phillip scoffed and turned to Anne. “I want to lie her down on a bed. Where should I take her?”
“A bed! Well...”
“You do have a bed available, don’t you, Anne? I believe you once advised me there were thirty-two bedchambers in this accursed house.”
His look was scathing, shaming, and she blushed and recovered herself.
“Yes, yes, of course. Come with me.”
Servants were hovering, and Anne whispered swift comments to several of them, then she led Phillip to the stairs. They began to climb, but Michael stayed where he was, silent, glaring at Miss Carrington as if she’d committed an unforgivable sin.
They meandered down numerous deserted hallways, conveying Miss Carrington to the very rear of the mansion where only the lowliest guests were ever lodged, but Phillip wasn’t concerned about it. The Wainwright’s very worst bedchamber would be better than anything Miss Carrington would ever have observed prior.
They entered a cold, shuttered room that likely hadn’t been occupied in months—or perhaps years. Phillip deposited Miss Carrington on the mattress and wrapped her in a blanket, then he pulled up a chair and sat, patting her hand, trying to rouse her. Maids puttered about, lighting a fire and removing dust covers from the furniture.
In a few minutes, the place was habitable, and Anne shooed the maids out. Before they vanished, Phillip ordered, “Bring a tray for her.”
The maids visually appealed to Anne to see if she approved, and she gave a quick nod.
“Tell Cook I want soup and bread,” Phillip said, “cheese and fruit and brandy. And I want hot water and towels and...some clothes. She needs a nightgown and some slippers; and a clean dress to wear in the morning.”
They curtsied and fled, no doubt eager to get belowstairs and gossip about what they’d witnessed.
“Will she...will she be all right?” Anne inquired.
“Hopefully. I’m sure some food and rest will work wonders.”
“Why did she come here?”
“She wasn’t happy with your family’s meddling.”
“It was all settled about Thomas!”
“Was it?”
“Michael said he took care of everything; he said everyone was in agreement.”
“Not her, apparently.”
“But...but...what should be done with her?”
“What do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
He rolled his eyes. At times, she was thick as a brick. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to rail at her. She was like a beautiful, exasperating child. He took a deep breath, seeking calm, seeking patience.
“She’ll remain here until she’s better, and then you’ll arrange to send her home. Now go away. You annoy me.”
“I can’t leave you alone with her.”
He snorted. “Are you afraid I’ll ravish her?”
“I’ll stay until the maids return,” she insisted, her jaw tight, her temper as blistering as his own.
“Trust me, Lady Anne, no one in the world gives two figs if I’m alone with her. So be gone—before you make me angry with your idle chatter.”
He stared her down, and he could sense that she yearned to retort in a snide way, but she’d spent so many years groveling to her father that Phillip couldn’t fathom how she’d ever muster the temerity to speak frankly to a man.
She stormed out without another word while he tarried with Miss Carrington. She was such a tiny thing, so thin and frail, yet as she’d quietly faced down the Duke, she’d looked so valiant and aggrieved. Phillip had been charmed by her pluck, amazed by her daring, and he struggled to rein in his fury over their t
reatment of her.
After Michael had first met her, he’d wondered if she might be one of Phillip’s sisters. Was she? Could it be possible? Was that why he felt such a strong connection?
He was about to fuss with her dress, to peek up her sleeve to check if her wrist carried the Trent birthmark, but the moment was lost as the maids hauled in the items he’d demanded. They were depositing their wares as Miss Carrington stirred. She peered at the ceiling, her confusion evident, then she gazed at Phillip, her green eyes troubled.
“Where am I?”
“Still in the Duke’s mansion. We’re in one of the bedchambers.”
“What happened?” Her tongue flicked out, licking her dry lips.
“You fainted.”
“Oh...”
She reached up as if she might stroke her aching forehead, but it was too much of an effort, and her hand dropped to her side.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’m Phillip Sinclair. I’m a good friend of Lord Henley’s. I’ve known him since we were boys.”
Her expression was blank, her muddled mind trying to focus. “I came so far, and he didn’t even listen.”
There was such a poignant note of melancholy in her tone that he linked his fingers through hers and gave them a squeeze.
“I realize that.”
“I’m not sure what to do now.”
“You’ll stay here for a few days, to relax and recuperate, then we’ll make some plans for you.”
“I have to find Thomas!” She rose up as if she might march out that very second, but she had no energy to flee, and she sank onto the pillow.
“Thomas is fine, but you are not. You need to regain your health.”
“Not here!” she wailed. “Not with Lord Henley and the Duke. Not with them! I can’t.”
“It’s all arranged,” Phillip advised. “Lady Anne is Lord Henley’s sister. She specifically requested that you remain until you’re feeling better.”
“She did?”
“Yes,” he lied. “So the maids will help you eat and wash, then I want you to sleep the night away. I’ll stop by in the morning to check on you.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I’m your friend.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“You have me,” he gently said.
He couldn’t guess what tragedies had befallen Miss Carrington after Michael had taken her nephew, but obviously, it had been traumatic, and Phillip was intent that she be nursed and tended.
He eased away and went over to the eldest of the maids.
“What is your name?”
“Peggy, sir.”
“I want you to watch over Miss Carrington throughout the night and assist her in any fashion necessary.” As an incentive to obey, he offered her all the coins in his purse, and he was pleased when she huffed in offense.
“It’s my job to serve the Duke’s guests. I need no bribe to do my duty.”
Phillip urged the cash on her again, less stridently, and she selected the smallest coin and pushed the others away.
He grinned, encouraged, and as he slipped out, she was saying, “There now, Miss, the cook sent up a delicious broth. Let’s see if we can get some of it into your empty tummy.”
Satisfied that he’d done what he could for the moment, he started down the hall. As he rounded the corner, Anne was standing there, but he was in no mood to speak with her and he meant to simply walk on by, but she stepped forward and blocked his path.
“Hadn’t you best hurry back to your party, Anne? The Duke will be upset, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
“The Duke can wait.”
“Can he?”
“Yes. I’m a grown woman. I’m fully capable of deciding when I’ll return to the supper table.” She gnawed on her bottom lip, clearly biting down a more caustic reply. “How is Miss Carrington?”
“Awake. Befuddled. Hungry. I’ve asked a maid to sit with her until morning. Don’t you dare countermand my order.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness. How long is she going to be here?”
“Why? Are you afraid she’ll devour too much of your bloody food? That she’ll take up too much space? What?”
“I was just wondering.” She scowled, exasperated by his spurt of temper. “Stop being such a beast. The Duke will want to know what’s happening. I thought I should have an answer.”
“She’ll probably be with you for a week or so. I told her that you want her to stay until she’s sufficiently convalesced. I expect you to be courteous and at least act as if you extended the invitation.”
“I don’t need any lectures from you on how to behave. I’m not a barbarian.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
He tried to continue on, but she laid her hand on his arm, the slight gesture stopping him in his tracks.
He’d known her for two decades, and he could vividly recollect the few occasions she’d actually touched him. Of course he had made frequent childish advances, bumping into her, or helping her as she climbed into a carriage, but she was never so bold as to reciprocate the contact that always thrilled him.
“Why are you so angry with me?” she queried.
“Because I wish you were someone you’re not.”
She looked confused. “Who do you wish I was?”
If he’d had an eternity, he couldn’t have explained his comment. He was sick as a dog with his infatuation for her, but when she didn’t have a clue as to how she tormented him, he couldn’t figure out why his attraction persisted.
Perhaps she merely represented all that he could never have. She was a constant and stark reminder that no matter what he did, or how tremendously he succeeded, he’d never be good enough for her—simply because his father hadn’t wed his mother.
The knowledge was like a tough piece of meat, stuck in his throat. He couldn’t put it aside; he couldn’t move beyond it.
He wanted to shock her, or rage at her, and his expression must have been frightening, because she took a step back, then another, until she was against the wall and could go no farther.
He braced his palms on either side of her, and he leaned in, the front of his body flattened to hers, and the sensation was electrifying.
They shared a strident affinity that was driving him mad with desire. How many more times could he pretend no interest? How many more times could he bear to suffer her cool disdain? Suddenly, he felt that if he didn’t act, he just might explode.
“What are you doing?” She sounded scared and breathless. “Release me at once. You’re crushing me.”
“No.”
She shoved at him, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Are you insane?”
“Very likely.”
He bent down and kissed her, but there was no finesse to it. He wasn’t gentle or affectionate. Nor did he allow an ounce of his joy to show through. He was a drowning man, sinking fast, with no hope of rescue.
Briefly, she tolerated the groping, then she groaned with dismay, pushing with all her might, and he stumbled away. They glared, chests heaving, respirations labored. Her cheeks were bright red, her blue eyes glittering with fury and another emotion he couldn’t identify.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” she seethed, stunning him with her cursing.
She wiped her fingers across her mouth, as if rubbing away his taste, but he refused to let her see his humiliation and hurt.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” he claimed. “I’m just dandy. What about you?”
“How dare you maul me!”
“Somebody ought to. How old are you? Thirty-five? Forty?”
“I’m twenty-five, and you know it.”
“So what are you waiting for? Doomsday?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not a damned thing.” He turned and proceeded toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
she demanded, but he kept on.
“Home.”
“Home! But...but...why?”
“Because I am weary of you and your brother and your father, and I’d like to be somewhere where I don’t have to look at you across the supper table.” He halted and whipped around. “Try to find some backbone, would you?”
“I can’t understand you. You might as well be speaking in a foreign language.”
“If you sit quietly in the corner, and let them harm Miss Carrington more than they already have, you’ll answer to me.”
“Don’t threaten me, you pompous ass.”
She was staring at him as she always did, as if she were the lady of the manor, and he her servant. He’d finally worked up the courage to kiss her, and it had been so disappointing that he felt ill with regret.
Wasn’t that just his luck? For a whole decade, he’d fretted about kissing her, and now that he’d forged ahead, he’d rather poke his eye out than ever attempt it again.
“How could he do this to me! How could he!”
Rebecca Talbot slammed her hand on the seat of her father’s coach.
As usual, he was very drunk, and he dozed against the squab. Her palm smacking the soft leather roused him.
After the drama in the dining room, when Phillip Sinclair had carried the pathetic beggar into the hall, Michael had followed them, and he hadn’t come back. Apparently, attending to a vagrant was more important than making Rebecca happy at her engagement party.
It was to have been the greatest evening of her life, was to have been her glowing triumph, yet Michael had wrecked everything! Why was she still so intent on allying herself with the despicable Wainwright family?
John had betrothed himself to her, then he’d dithered and delayed for three years without setting a wedding date. Now, she’d become engaged to Michael, and he ignored her.
She wasn’t some common girl whom he could embarrass and offend, and she was so furious that steam was practically coming out of her ears. “Stop your fussing,” her father grouched, his words slurred. “I’m not about to suffer your complaints all the way home.”
“If you think I’ll silently accept this outrage, you’re mad.”
“Who was that street urchin, anyway?”
“She’s the aunt of that bastard boy who’s had Michael obsessing.”