by Gaelen Foley
“No, thank you.”
“Spoilsport.”
She stopped and turned to him, her chin coming up a notch. Alec used to call her that on occasion. “Am not.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you there.” A wicked smile crept over his lips—it seemed to suggest if she went to the library to meet him, talking was the last thing they’d be doing.
In any language.
“No, thank you,” she forced out a tad breathlessly. Heart pounding, she spun around and whisked off to carry out her nightly duties.
“I’ll be waiting in the library if you should change your mind,” he called after her, but she dared not look back.
Going through the entrance hall, Lizzie found Lady Strathmore waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase in her Bath chair. She masked her confusion from that rogue’s advances and assisted the frail old woman to her feet, letting her lean on her. Together they began the slow and painstaking nightly journey of climbing the stairs. They had gone up only three of the steps, however, when Devlin ambled into the entrance below.
“May I be of assistance?”
Lizzie glanced back as he sprang up the stairs. In another moment, he swept the dowager off her feet with a jolly grin.
“At your service, my lovely.”
His aunt let out a peal of girlish laughter.
“Oh, Devlin, you rogue, put me down this instant!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Careful!” Lizzie warned him, fearful for the old woman’s frail bones, but she saw that she needn’t have worried.
He was all protective tenderness, conveying the dowager to the upper hallway, where he very gently set her down on her feet. While Lizzie steadied her, he dashed back down and carried up her Bath chair.
“Anything else?” he asked, directing the question to Lizzie.
She shook her head.
“Good night, darling,” his aunt murmured as he bent to kiss her cheek. “However long you stay, I’m glad you came.”
“Me, too,” he said softly, and sent Lizzie a meaningful stare over her shoulder.
Augusta did not miss the look that passed between them. Oh, yes, there was definitely something there.
Heavens, this night had been the best entertainment she’d had in a year, what with her nephew’s jealousy of Dr. Bell, and Lizzie’s sly stunt of pouring wine on herself to escape the table when Dev’s conversation had wandered into dangerous territory. What a lark!
Her heart was light as her young companion helped her into her bedchamber down the hallway and patiently assisted her in changing into her nightclothes. All the while, Augusta mused on how to proceed. Dev and Lizzie were both such cagey creatures when it came to affairs of the heart, she knew that she would have to use caution.
Margaret brought in the hot-water bottles for her bed, then bobbed a curtsy and hurried out, mumbling good night. Before long, Lizzie had helped her into her large, canopied bed.
“There you are, ma’am.” The girl snugged the coverlet around Augusta. “Shall I read you a few verses from your Bible before you nod off?”
“Sit with me for a moment, dear.” Augusta patted the edge of the bed. “There is something I wish to say to you.”
Lizzie sent her a look of guilty alarm, but ever obedient, sat down on the edge of her bed and waited.
Augusta fought the urge to smile and instead gave the girl her most dragonly glower. “Miss Carlisle, am I amiss in my suspicions that my nephew’s presence here tonight is no coincidence?”
She lowered her chin and shook her head. “No, my lady. It is not.” The girl sent her a contrite look from under her lashes. “I wrote to him.”
“And what exactly did you say?”
“I did not lie. I only implied that…if he did not come immediately, he might regret it,” she confessed in dismay.
“You mean you led him to believe I was about to turn up my toes, eh?”
“Oh, I know it was dishonest and very improper, but I’ve been so worried about you, ma’am! It’s not fair, the way he neglects you. If you were my aunt, I would not leave you to sit here alone for months at a time—”
“I am not alone, child,” she interrupted gently. “I have you.”
The girl gave a doe-eyed blink of uncertainty.
“You do count, you know.”
Lizzie searched her face, at a loss.
Augusta smiled and took her companion’s youthful hand between her own in a light, grandmotherly hold. “I have a new tale for you tonight, child. Of all the stories I’ve told you of my nephew’s exploits, there is one chapter about Devlin’s life that I have never shared with you. But something tells me that it’s time you knew.”
Lizzie tilted her head attentively.
“When my dear, departed Jacob died, his brother, Stephen, Devlin’s father, inherited the title. What a lovely man. As the younger son, Stephen would have been quite content to live out his days as plain Mr. Kimball, reading his books, happily peering through his microscope, and walking in the country with his dogs. But the viscountcy fell to him after my husband’s death, and through him, passed to Devlin all too soon. You see, Stephen and his wife, Katherine, perished in a terrible hotel fire when Dev was seventeen.”
“Oh, how horribly awful,” she breathed, lifting her fingers to her mouth in shock.
Augusta nodded. “We also lost his little sister in that fire. Sarah. She was only four years old. Such a beautiful, happy child. Long black ringlets, big blue eyes. They were one of those rarest of finds: a genuinely happy family. His parents wed for love, you see…. ” Her voice trailed off wistfully as she remembered her own marriage, by contrast, to advance her father’s ambitions and to replenish Joshua’s fortunes.
“Devlin was at Oxford when it happened, and I will tell you in confidence that he has never fully recovered. In addition to myself, two of his uncles were also appointed as his legal guardians and trustees, but as the only female, it fell to me to provide what motherly influence I could. He became my ward until his twenty-first birthday. The truth is, I knew nothing of raising a young lad, especially not one faced with a tragedy.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Devlin flunked out of Oxford within a year, ran wild in London for another, and finally, after a stern talking-to, set out to travel the world. Letting him go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but a change of scenery seemed the only way to jar him off his self-destructive path. It seemed to work. He was gone for nearly three years to the West Indies and America, came back only long enough to visit with me, then sailed off again, that time to India.
“I scarcely know where all he went on that second trip,” she continued, “but he said he journeyed north into the Asian deserts and wound up at Moscow in time to see Napoléon’s retreat.” Augusta’s gaze turned faraway. “He has been to the wild and empty places of the world…and has brought them back in his eyes. You see, my dear, he has never let anyone close to him again since his family was destroyed. That’s why he doesn’t come here very often—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and he is so frightened of the fact that I must leave this earth sometime.”
“But, my lady, what you’re telling me—that letter I sent, threatening him with a—a change in your condition—oh, what have I done?” the girl whispered with a stricken stare. “Surely there was nothing I could have done to hurt him worse. I did not know!”
“Now you do.” Augusta smiled fondly at her distress and patted her hand. “Take heart, my dear. You are made of stern stuff, and for that, I like you well. But whatever heartache you came here hiding from, do not take it out on Dev. As you now know, he is not as invulnerable as he seems. In fact, I would ask a favor of you.”
“Of course, ma’am, what is it?” she murmured. Not yet recovered from her attack of conscience, Lizzie looked startled at the request, for Augusta Strathmore was not one to ask a favor of anybody.
The dowager stared shrewdly into the girl’s open, honest face. “Will you look in on him from time to time when I a
m gone? Make sure he’s all right?”
“My lady, you mustn’t talk like that—”
“Will you, yay or nay?”
She cast about helplessly. “But—how can I? It isn’t proper. And with his reputation—? Ma’am, I am sorry—I truly am—but I’m sure I cannot promise any such thing.”
“Does his story not move you?”
“Of course it does—”
“He has no one else.”
“He has you.”
“I will not last long. Surely, Miss Carlisle, you would not deny an old woman her dying wish?”
“Gracious, you are not dying! I forbid it.” She jumped up from Augusta’s bedside, looking shaken. “Of course it pains me to refuse you, my lady. You know how grateful I am for the position you have given me. I’m happier here than I ever expected to feel again, but I will have no more of this grim talk. By my troth, no one around here is dying for a very long time, and that is final!”
Augusta studied the girl intently, but did not press her. “You are a very stubborn creature, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I am not one to make promises I cannot keep. Now, you need your rest, ma’am. I will see you in the morning.” She crossed the bedchamber with an anxious little hurry in her step, but stopped at the door and turned around in guilty hesitation, her drab skirts swirling around her. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just that…he would never listen to someone like me, you do understand? If I were pretty or highborn or rich, he might, but I’m me and he’s him, and there’s an end to it.”
The dowager smiled. Not quite an end, my dear. The scoundrel would listen—given the proper motive. Aye, throw them together and let Nature do the rest.
“Take no thought of it, Miss Carlisle. I understand perfectly.” You’ll change your mind, she thought shrewdly. I know you, my girl. Your conscience will give you no choice.
“Thank you, ma’am. I am sorry,” she added, looking rather cast down.
“Good night, Miss Carlisle.”
“Ma’am.” The girl curtsied and withdrew respectfully from the room.
In the darkened hallway, Lizzie closed her eyes and leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling slightly ill with her transgression and despising herself for violating her own highest value. As a Christian woman and a helper, a nurturer in the world, it was unthinkable that she could have done something so cruel, threatening an inwardly wounded man with his worst fear. No wonder he had come so quickly. No wonder he stayed away.
Yet as terrible as she felt for hurting him, she was glad she had not let her guilt force her to yield to Lady Strathmore’s request. She was a person who took her promises very seriously, and at the moment, she knew that Devil Strathmore was more than she could handle. It would be foolish to agree to take care of him—assuming she could!—when she had only lately broken her habit of fussing over Alec like a mother hen—for all the good it had done her. No, the next time she focused her efforts on a man, it would be someone both willing and able to give to her in return.
There was a time when she would have meekly obeyed the order, but she was stronger now. If nothing else, her break with Alec had taught her to stand up for herself in this life, or else let her heart be continually trampled.
In any case, she had no doubt that if Devil Strathmore knew of the request his aunt had just made of her, his male pride would have been incensed. No man ever thought he needed anyone to take care of him—but of course, they all did. Fortunately, he had the trusty Bennett Freeman to look after his basic needs.
Be that as it may, she still owed him an apology. She opened her eyes slowly and took a deep breath, knowing he was waiting for her in the library, with God-knew-what sort of intentions. It did not matter, she decided. She could hold her own, and he would soon discover the seriousness of her visit.
Pressing heavily away from the wall, she lifted a candle from the wall sconce to light her way, then walked down the hallway, shoulders squared. The night was so still as she glided through the house, the settling winter darkness so deep. As she drifted down the stairs, reflecting back on their fight in the parlor, she marveled at his chivalrous restraint in not throwing it all in her face, as he could easily have done. She had dealt him probably the worst blow possible, but he had remained silent, retreating rather than hurting her the way she had hurt him. She shook her head at herself as she rounded the newel post and walked bravely toward the library. Obviously there was a great deal more to this man than met the eye. Much more substance to be weighed than his mere bills. The candle’s flame danced as she let out a sigh of regret. Her wrath at his expenditures seemed so petty to her now. Just because he gambled on occasion did not make him Alec.
Ahead, the library door stood open. She could see the ruddy glow of the dancing hearth fire. Trembling slightly, she forced herself forward. Her heartbeat quickened. Silent in her soft kid slippers, she padded over to the threshold and cautiously peered inside.
He was there, reclining on the brown leather couch, though he was too long for it. He lay with one knee bent, the other foot sprawled off the side. One arm pillowed his head; the other rested across his flat belly. Pasha snuggled, curled and purring, by his shoulder. As Lizzie took a few cautious paces into the room, the viscount did not stir. That was when she realized he had fallen asleep waiting for her.
At once, her tensed shoulders dropped in mingled disappointment and relief, but in spite of herself, a tender smile spread across her face. The poor thing, she mused, the sight of him tugging at her heartstrings. After his eighteen-hour ride from London through last night’s blizzard, no wonder he was exhausted. For a moment, her gaze lingered over his sleeping male beauty, licked by shadows from the cheerful blaze in the fireplace. Magnificent man. His hard mouth had softened; his lips looked plump and lusciously inviting. His inky lashes fanned across his high-boned cheeks. His lovely chest rose and fell peacefully, his breathing deep and slow.
Her gaze homed in on his throat, a rare and most intriguing sight in a world of starched cravats. The noble curve of his neck was golden-bronzed. He had also removed his tailcoat, affording her a fine view of the way the paper-thin cambric of his elegant white shirt draped his broad shoulders and bulged at the level of his biceps. His waistcoat hung unbuttoned.
Gliding silently across the library, she collected the quilt that sat folded in the window nook and covered him with it. As she spread the blanket lightly over him, Pasha’s whiskers at his cheek tickled him to stir drowsily. Lizzie straightened up to leave, but her heart skipped a beat as his long-lashed eyes swept open.
“Hey,” he murmured, starting to sit up. He swatted the cat away with a shove of his hand, but Lizzie bent down and pressed his shoulder gently.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “You need it.”
“Stay.” He sent her a roguish but sleepy smile, clutching lightly at her skirts with one hand.
Lizzie paused and gazed down at him for a long moment. He tilted his head and stared back at her with a slightly astonished look, perhaps surprised that she had actually come down to meet him. Before he got the wrong idea, she lowered herself to her knees beside the couch and held him in a sober gaze as she searched for words.
“Thanks for the blanket. That was very sweet of you.” When she said nothing, he studied her distraught face and then frowned. “What’s wrong, sweeting?” he murmured, cupping her cheek.
“Oh, Devlin,” she whispered. She wrapped her hands around his forearm and pressed her cheek harder against his palm, squeezing her eyes shut while she cringed with remorse at his tenderness. “I’m so sorry.”
He was silent. When she flicked her eyes open again, there were tears in them. He had sat up on the couch, the blanket still loosely draped over his lower half, but his expression was unreadable, his serious gaze fixed on her with swordlike intensity.
She stared at him, clinging to his hand still cradling her cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly—I swear it. Lady Strathmore just now told
me about your family. If I had known, I would never have written that letter. I would never have done it. Not like that.”
“Hush.” He caught her tear on the pad of his thumb. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not,” she cried. “You didn’t deserve that, nor had I any right to judge you. I acted like a—a self-righteous prig! It’s just that I never thought—I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.” He shook his head, looking mystified by such remorse. “It’s all right, sweeting. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I don’t want you to hate me,” she choked out.
“Hate you?” He gave her a chiding half-smile, trying to coax a smile from her in answer. “I thought you were an expert on ‘my kind,’ but I’m afraid you know nothing about men if you think I could ever hate you. Look at this beautiful face.” He caressed her cheek with one knuckle, smiling wistfully at her. “No, my dear E. Carlisle, I could never be angry at you.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes at his tender words. Without warning, she launched at him, hugging him hard around his neck. A small sob escaped her.
“There, there.” He slid his arms around her with a paternal chuckle, but she shut her eyes tightly, her heart clenching at his manly strength and generosity of spirit.
After all he had been through, she could barely believe how kind and gentle he was. Most people in his place would surely have turned bitter and cold long ago.
“Hush, sweet, no more tears,” he crooned softly in her ear as he held her in a comforting embrace, his large, warm hand stroking her hair. “All’s forgotten. We made a truce. Remember?”
She sniffled. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, you didn’t know. I’m the one who should apologize. It’s my neglect that drove you to this action. The truth is, I’m grateful.”
“Grateful?” she whispered, bringing her tears in check, though she did not release him from her embrace.