by Lara Temple
‘Father!’
‘Let me in, Nell. I want a word with you.’
His voice boomed down the corridor, but she put her foot firmly against the door.
‘Whatever you have to say you can say from there, Father. I’m already undressing,’ she lied.
‘You insolent girl! I can see that what I have just heard from the Welbecks about your conduct this past week is only too true. You had no business coming to Wilton without my express permission and making a fool of yourself over young Welbeck. You are an engaged woman, not a fanciful child, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your antics have given Lord Hunter a disgust of you. Hester was right that you would ruin matters if given half a chance. I should never have agreed to his demand that you remain in that Petheridge woman’s care. We will leave for Tilney Hall in the morning and meanwhile I will speak with Lord Hunter and see if I can yet salvage this debacle.’
Nell felt her cheeks were as red as her father’s. She didn’t know what she had expected of this man after four years. Had she secretly been hoping he would be glad to see her? Might even say he had missed her? His whole handling of the engagement should have reminded her of her father’s limitations. It was ridiculous to be so hurt, to feel the dampness of her palm against the metal knob and the skittering of nerves gathering in preparation for the rising storm. She had a sudden urge to lean her head against the door and cry. No—to slam the door in his face. Several times. Hard. Until it splintered into smithereens.
‘No, Father. I will not go to Tilney Hall. Have you forgotten? I am of age and you are no longer even my trustee. I can go where I wish, with whomever I wish, and if I wished to marry Charles I would and there is nothing you could do about it. What are you worried about? That the Bascombe money might make the Welbeck stables more successful than yours? Are you so petty? Now excuse me because I really must pack.’ She started closing the door in his stunned face, but stopped. ‘Oh, though I might consider inviting you to Bascombe if you could ever bring yourself to apologise to me, you can tell Aunt Hester she will never, ever be welcome in my home. She is a mean, vicious, pathetic b—witch and you can tell her I said so. Goodbye, Father.’
She locked the door before he could respond and leaned her forehead on the door frame, waiting for the shaking to stop. She didn’t move even when Hunter’s hand settled on her shoulder or when there was a tentative knock on the door. She must have scared her father quite seriously for him to knock like that.
‘I meant it! Leave me alone!’ She gritted her teeth and tried to shake off Hunter’s hand.
‘Nell?’
‘Charles?’
Hunter’s hand fell away, flattening against the door by the side of her head. She could feel the heat of his body behind her, anger emanating off him like waves.
‘I must speak with you. May I come in?’ Charles’s voice was muffled by the wood as if he, too, was leaning against the door.
‘You most certainly may not. What do you want? I am packing.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t. Leave, I mean. Please give me another chance. I love you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Nell was burningly aware of Hunter behind her.
‘Yes, I do. I always liked you and I think you’ll be an excellent horse-breeder’s wife and—’
‘Oh, for...! You don’t love me, you are enamoured of my inheritance, and I wish, I really wish, Grandmama had succeeded in convincing Grandpapa not to will Bascombe to me because if ever there was a poisoned chalice this is it. Goodbye, Charles.’
‘Nell...’
This time she didn’t answer and eventually she heard his footsteps recede.
‘Do you think Lord Welbeck might also be coming to throw his hat into the ring, or is that the lot?’ Hunter asked behind her.
Nell felt a sob expand in her throat and she covered her eyes, leaning her forehead on the door.
‘Nell, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean...’
She hadn’t cried for years. Not even when she had ridden out of Tilney for the last time, furious and scared and tentatively triumphant. The last time she remembered really crying had been a month after her mother’s death and her arrival at Mrs Petheridge’s. Then Mrs Petheridge had sat and hugged her on a sagging brocade sofa, her plump arms surprisingly strong.
The strong arms that drew her onto his lap as he sat on the side of the bed were certainly not plump, but Nell leaned into their embrace with the same weary abandon as the long-ago girl had leaned against her headmistress’s pillowy bosom. Mrs Petheridge had patted her back, but Hunter was stroking her hair, which was unravelling again, and his hand was steadier than his voice.
‘Nell, Nell, I’m so sorry. Oh, don’t cry like that, sweetheart. You’re tearing me apart.’
She shook her head and cried harder. Her eyes burned and stung and her shoulders and throat ached. It was splitting her from the inside. She was lost again, and alone again, but this alone was a thousand times worse than before because loving Charles had never ached. It had been wistful and hopeful and embarrassed and a host of other timid things. But loving Hunter when he didn’t love her in return felt like being thrown from a horse, both the moment of shocked protest at having the world snatched out from under her and the jarring, biting pain of impact. It wasn’t her bones that were shattering, but an inner structure that held up who she was, an entity she was only beginning to recognise as herself.
‘Sweetheart, Nell...’ His voice was husky and pleading.
He was probably desperate for this to be over so he could escape and she couldn’t even walk away because her face probably looked as blotchy as if she had been ill for days. She grabbed one of the chemises from the bed and shoved her face into it and tried to stop the way her breath kept catching as the sobs finally subsided.
She resisted when he tried to pull the cloth away, but not when he folded her back against him, his breath on her temple as his lips gently brushed her hair. Trust Hunter to use seduction to stop a sobbing fit, she thought, but she still didn’t move away. Soon it would be over and right now...right now she needed this. Him.
She was drained hollow and so weary she just wanted to stay right there, held just like that. Today he would leave and she might never see him again but as a neighbour and she couldn’t bear it. The agony of that thought shivered through her and his arms tightened, pulling her more securely against him, cocooning her.
‘It’s all right...’ he murmured into her hair, and though it was a ridiculous thing to say when it was clear nothing was all right, it comforted her. She rested against him, thawing into softness, just breathing, the world evening out and slipping away. She no longer felt weary, just tired, very tired, and very safe...
* * *
She jerked awake at the sound and it took her a moment to recover her bearings.
She was lying on her bed, fully dressed, and she wasn’t alone. She opened her eyes. Hunter’s arm was draped over her breasts, holding her against his length, and her foot was pressed between his legs. By the small clock on the dresser it was just past midday, which meant they must have slept less than an hour, but she was marvellously rested. The events of the past days and her sleepless night must have exhausted her more than she had realised but she never would have imagined she would just fall asleep like that... It was so embarrassing! And why hadn’t he just left her? He had also looked exhausted. Perhaps he also had trouble sleeping, or perhaps he had been otherwise occupied that night... She shut her eyes against the snake of jealousy uncurling inside her. It would be better just to soak in the warmth of the moment, how peaceful it felt, how right...
Hunter shifted and she opened her eyes, realising what had woken her. He was dreaming.
‘No! Stop!’
His voice was muffled against her hair and his body twitched, his hand jerking against her, and she picked it up gently, pressing it between hers.
He had been relaxed a moment before, but she could feel tension gathering through his body, his fingers splaying, and she frowned. The next move when it came was so abrupt she was completely unprepared. He pulled away from her, his hands fisting on the sheets, anchoring himself to the bed, his mouth moving, but she could make no sense of the hoarse mutterings. He looked so tortured she raised herself on her elbow and reached out instinctively, but she had hardly run her hand down his cheek when he suddenly grabbed it, pulling her towards him so that she fell across him, his chin striking her forehead. She cried out more in surprise than pain, but it was enough and suddenly she was thrust away from him and he was out of the bed, staring down at her in horror.
‘Nell! I hurt you! What have I done?’
She scrambled to her knees, holding out her hands.
‘You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine!’
But he had covered his face with his hands and she could see he was shaking. She moved towards him, but he stepped away, turning his back on her.
‘I can’t believe I fell asleep. I just didn’t want to wake you, you were so tired, but I never should have...’
He sounded so agonised she shook her head, trying to understand. His reaction was completely out of step with what had happened.
‘Gabriel...’
‘No! I never should have let this happen...’
‘Hunter, calm down...’
He rounded on her, his eyes so fierce she took a step back this time.
‘Calm down? Calm down? I almost... I might have... Just who do you think I am? Do you think you can just use me to play your little seduction games on that pretty boy and then when you find out he has feet of clay you can come cry on my shoulder and expect me to play the comforting protector? Is that my role now? Haven’t you figured it out yet? I am no one’s protector. I can’t even protect you from myself!’
‘I don’t expect anything of you...’
‘Good! At least you learned something useful from me even if it’s only to lower your expectations. Now, get dressed. As for this betrothal, there is no reason we can’t co-ordinate the denouement by means of the post. I think it is preferable if we don’t see each other until this is all over. Goodbye.’
Nell stared at the door that snapped shut behind him, her hand still outstretched towards him and her mind still reeling.
Chapter Fifteen
If Hunter had hoped that escaping back to the familiar territory of London would relieve some of his confusion and pain, he had not taken into account being balked by his own servants. They had not taken kindly to being told, in graphic terms, that their questions about why Miss Nell was staying at Welbeck while he departed precipitately were strictly unwelcome.
Not that they said anything aloud. Their commentary was passive, but very clear. They went about their duties as usual, but the act of being shaved by Biggs had taken on such a menacing cast that Hunter had decided to forgo the experience altogether. Hidgins, for his part, had discovered his ancestors’ Gaelic gloom and on the one time since his return that Hunter had forced himself to take Valiant out to try to gallop out his depression, the only words Hidgins had deigned to address to him had been a very non-subservient ‘You’re a fool’ and, adding insult to injury, ‘My lord’.
Hunter hadn’t even been tempted to land him a facer. He had swung onto Valiant’s back and said nothing because there was nothing to say. He had considered pointing out to the two of them that their punishment was superfluous because he was already sufficiently deep in hell. There were two versions to that hell—it hadn’t taken as far as Potters Bar to realise he wanted to turn back. That the thought of leaving her, even if it was the right thing to do, was...frightening. Instead of turning back he had forced his poor horses to the edge of their ability and probably broken the Wild Hunt Club’s record on the road to London.
Back in London the nightmare had shifted once again—even here she had completely taken over. For the first time neither Tim nor his mother were present, just Nell; there was no blood, no disintegrating bodies, just the inexorable rise of fear as Nell headed towards the cliff, and though he ran as fast as he could, she receded into the distance and then he had woken, not in his bed, but in a casket, the sound of earth striking above, and he realised they were burying him instead of Tim. He had finally woken in earnest, but not before scoring his wrist with bloody scratches as he tried to escape. He had lain there, frozen and panting and ashamed.
There was even relief in having Biggs and Hidgins angry at him. It was certainly more palatable than the solicitous or pitying looks that the truth would likely elicit. He also would have happily avoided his friends, but the evening after his return Biggs knocked once on the library door and announced to the ether, ‘Lord Ravenscar. My lord.’
Ravenscar strode in without waiting to be invited.
‘What has bit Biggs?’
‘What do you want, Ravenscar?’
‘That’s a fine welcome from master and man.’ Ravenscar went over and poured himself a brandy. When Hunter didn’t answer Ravenscar poured him a glass as well.
‘So, how fares your engagement?’
‘It’s over.’
Ravenscar raised a brow.
‘I don’t know whether to offer condolences or congratulations.’
‘You can offer me the sight of your backside as you leave. I’m in no mood for company.’
The knocker sounded again and Hunter surged to his feet to tell Biggs not to let anyone else in. But Biggs was already taking Lord Stanton’s hat and cane.
‘Et tu?’ Hunter said, resigned. ‘Biggs, do me a favour and tell everyone else I’ve gone to the country or to hell or something.’
‘To hell? Most assuredly. My lord.’
Stanton stared in surprise at Biggs’s receding back.
‘What’s wrong with Biggs?’
Hunter shrugged. He was raw and restless, but the thought of being left with his own thoughts was almost worse. No, it was worse. He still hadn’t got thoroughly drunk because he hadn’t taken that path in years. Since Tim’s suicide. But with each passing hour the temptation of revisiting that oblivion grew. He downed the brandy Ravenscar had poured him and walked over to the sideboard to pour a more substantial glass.
Ravenscar answered Stanton’s question.
‘Biggs is sulking and our friend here is in a foul mood. Makes one wonder what happened at the horse fair. Didn’t know losing those water rights would have such an effect on you.’
‘I didn’t. She’s selling me part of the riverfront.’
‘Is she? That’s very generous. So what’s the problem? You don’t actually need the estate itself. By all accounts you should be celebrating.’
Hunter smiled down at the brandy and raised his glass.
‘I am. I got what I wanted. To have my cake and eat it, too. Clever me.’
He drained his glass and Stanton moved towards the fireplace, frowning.
‘Are you guilty about the girl? If you manage it carefully, you might be able to avoid too much scandal, and quite frankly with her inheritance she won’t have a problem finding a husband, so...’
‘I’m well aware of that!’ Hunter snapped. ‘She already had the offer she wanted from her childhood hero, Charles Welbeck.’
Ravenscar’s brows rose, but there was a considering look in his eyes now.
‘That was quick! My hat off to the girl.’
‘That’s enough, Raven,’ Stanton said quietly and Hunter poured himself another measure of brandy. He had been right—solicitude was worse than anger. It was clear they saw through him. What was the point?
‘I can’t stand it.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Stanton came and poured himself a glass as well. Ravenscar went over to the fireplace and crouched down to shove twists of paper between the l
ogs. Hunter forced himself to break the silence.
‘Never mind. It’s for the best.’
Ravenscar lit the fire and stood up, brushing his hands. ‘As little as I want to see you hitched, man, I think you’re an idiot. Why the devil did you just leave the field if you actually wanted her?’
‘What the devil can I offer her? I can’t promise I could even keep her safe from myself, let alone from life. She deserves better.’
‘Damn, I take offence on your account. She won’t find anyone better. If you care for her, go do something about it. Might be a little uncomfortable for you if she marries someone else and settles into Bascombe Hall and you have to watch her crooning over little ones that might have been yours, but you’ll recover eventually.’
‘Very helpful, Raven,’ Stanton said curtly as he watched Hunter.
Hunter took his glass to the armchair by the fire and sat down. His mind had dubbed it ‘her armchair’ since every time he saw it he remembered that first night she had appeared on his doorstep. The thought of going through life at Hunter Hall, just a few miles from her, watching her married, having children, a life... He sank his head into his hands. It hurt. Physically. He never would have believed that. Even his grief over Tim had been more internal and it had been easier to turn it into rage at the world, and into that wilful self-destruction that his friends and their joint commitment to help men damaged by war had finally put an end to. But this—this locked him down, it filled his body with lead and sank him.
She’s better off without you. Remember what you did to her? No wonder she had looked so appalled. If that hadn’t happened he might have even succeeded in convincing himself he could keep her safe. It hadn’t even been night time! He hadn’t even noticed he had fallen asleep. That just showed how dangerous she was. No, how dangerous he was. He hadn’t hurt her badly this time, but what would happen next time? If he ever really hurt her... It was unthinkable. She deserved better.