‘I—I— That is the way I speak.’ She did not know any other way.
Except her tone had changed with her last words. Even she could tell it.
‘Not always.’ Carter and Toller entered and Westleigh stopped talking.
Toller served the soup under Carter’s watchful eye.
When they left again, Westleigh dipped his spoon into the soup and carefully lifted it to his mouth.
Not all of it spilled.
She remained silent, but continued to stare at him. His effort to eat normally was heartbreaking to watch, but he managed to finish most of the soup.
No sooner did he put down his spoon than Carter and Toller re-entered carrying the next course. Toller reached for her soup bowl.
Carter stopped him. ‘Are you finished, ma’am?’
She’d forgotten to taste it.
She waved a hand. ‘Yes. I had no appetite for soup.’
He placed roasted quail on the table, already carved and cut into pieces for Westleigh.
‘Some quail, sir?’ Carter asked.
Westleigh nodded.
Carter also served small roasted potatoes and apricot fritters, explaining each to Westleigh.
The two servants left the room again.
Would it be the height of poor manners to ask Westleigh what was troubling him, or a neglect of manners to pretend one did not notice?
She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Westleigh, what is distressing you?’
He lifted his head as if to look at her. ‘Distressing me?’
She nodded, but realised he could not see. ‘Your mood is much altered from earlier today when we took that pleasant walk.’
He pushed his fork around his plate until he speared a piece of meat and lifted it to his mouth. The muscles of his neck flexed as he chewed. Had her husband’s muscles moved with such suppressed strength? She’d never noticed.
‘I did not mean to make you more uncomfortable,’ he finally said.
More uncomfortable?
‘I am perfectly comfortable, I assure you.’ She kept her voice modulated so the tension shaking her insides did not show.
His mouth twisted with scepticism.
She tightened her grip on the stem of her wine glass.
The door opened again. Carter and Toller stood ready to assist them.
‘Later,’ Westleigh said, so softly she barely heard.
When the dishes and their plates were removed, Daphne turned to Carter. ‘Would you serve Mr Westleigh’s brandy and the fruit and biscuits with my tea in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, m—ma’am.’ He waved Toller off to take care of it.
She stood and Westleigh rose as well, taking his cane in hand and walking over to her to offer his arm again.
‘Is the cane helping you?’ she asked in the most reasonable voice she could muster, because she needed to say something.
His answer was devoid of expression. ‘It is. It gives me confidence, even if it be false confidence.’
‘False confidence is at least confidence of some sort.’ Agreeing with a gentleman was almost a reflex with her. In this case, what she said was certainly true of her, as well. False confidence was all she seemed to possess lately.
One corner of his mouth rose. ‘How very wise of you, Mrs Asher.’ It was a good mimic of her voice.
He led her out of the dining room without banging into a wall.
She lowered her head. ‘Do I truly sound that way?’
His voice softened. ‘I exaggerated.’ He waved a hand. ‘Do not heed me. It is my mood.’
His foul mood, he must mean.
As they crossed the hall she marvelled again—silently—at how well he managed. The drawing-room door was trickier, but she gently guided him and perhaps this time he did not perceive her help.
Toller was just setting down the tea tray. A decanter of brandy and two glasses were already on the table.
‘Thank you, Toller,’ she said.
He bowed and left.
‘Sit, Westleigh,’ she said. ‘I’ll pour your brandy.’
He found the chair he’d sat in before and lowered himself into it. She handed him the glass and eyed the other one for herself.
Why not have some brandy? She’d seen women drink it at the Masquerade Club. She poured herself a generous amount and took a gulp. With much effort she avoided a paroxysm of coughing. His head rose, but he could not possibly know, could he? She made a clatter of pouring tea, just in case.
But it was the brandy she drank.
He inhaled deeply and released his breath slowly. ‘I have been trying to puzzle out why you should keep me from learning the truth.’
She felt herself go pale. Had he discovered who she was—?
He pressed on. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
‘I—I do not know what you mean.’ At least she did not know precisely what he meant; only what she feared he meant.
‘Someone—I will not say who—told me. In all innocence, I might add. This was not a betrayal of your secrets, but someone who did not know the truth was to be withheld from me.’
She took a relieved sip and, this time, savoured the warmth the brandy created in her chest. Only Monette, Carter, and John Coachman knew who she was and if they had told, it would have been a deliberate betrayal of what she’d asked of them.
‘Why, Westleigh—’ she put on her most charming voice ‘—I am at a loss. What truth did I withhold?’
He waved an exasperated hand. ‘That you leased this cottage for three months because of me. You gave me the impression you lived here.’
‘Did I?’ The brandy was making this easier. ‘If I did so, it was most unintentionally done.’
He took a gulp of his brandy. ‘Please, let us speak without pretence. Why have you gone to so much trouble and expense for me? Taking me from Ramsgate. Leasing this cottage for much longer than needed. Hiring servants for me.’
She stared at him, wishing she could see all his face, wishing she could look into his eyes and gauge how much of the truth to tell.
She finished the contents of her glass and gave a little laugh. ‘I assure you, I did not plan to take on so much trouble for you. I thought I would find someone in Ramsgate to take care of you and, failing that, I was certain I would find someone on the road. When that also did not happen, events just seemed to pile on each other.’ She poured more brandy in her glass. ‘Please believe me that the money is a trifle, as I have told you before. And, like you, no one expected me at any particular time.’ There was no one to whom her arrival would matter. ‘A delay of two weeks was of no consequence.’
‘But the hiring of the servants—’ he began.
‘That was not for your benefit,’ she explained. ‘I think we could have done well enough with Monette, Carter and me. And Mr and Mrs Pitts. The others—they seemed to need the work.’
‘You hired them without needing them?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Mary and Ann—the maids—they looked...hungry.’ She lifted a shoulder, even though he could not see the gesture. ‘It—it felt like the right thing to do and very little trouble to me in the doing of it.’ More trouble than she’d bargained for, having to organise everything and make certain they had decent dresses and aprons and caps to wear. ‘Then Mrs Pitts knew a cook and others to hire. It seemed easiest just to hire them. Our meal was quite good tonight, was it not?’
‘Do they know it is for three months?’ The surprise had not left his voice.
‘Oh...’ Telling him about this made her feel foolish. ‘I do not know. We talked in terms of yearly wages, so I suppose that is what I will pay them.’
‘Mrs Asher—’ Now he sounded scolding.
She was certain the abbess would have approved, but she could hardly t
ell him that. ‘It is my money to do with as I wish.’
‘Do you have a man of business? Someone to help you manage such matters as bills and servants?’
She sighed. Dear Mr Everard. She’d written to him that she’d returned to England and would stay a time in Thurnfield. ‘Yes. I have a very capable man. He was my husband’s man of business and he has continued to help me.’
If anyone knew the whole of her folly with Xavier and Phillipa, it was Mr Everard. He’d remained loyal, even so.
Westleigh stood and, using the cane, paced back and forth. ‘Mrs Asher, I do not favour anyone paying for my needs. I do not like that you withheld this information from me. It was one thing for me to accept hospitality at your house, but it is another matter for me to allow you to pay a lease and hire servants.’
‘My hiring the servants had nothing to do with you,’ she protested.
‘You would not have been here to hire them if it had not been for me.’ He made his way back to his chair, tapping with his cane to find precisely where it was. He sat again and groped for his brandy glass. He drank it empty.
She reached over and poured him some more. ‘Here are some biscuits and candied fruit.’ She placed a small plate of the treats next to his glass on the table beside him.
He picked up the glass, but did not sample the other. ‘I will pay all these expenses. The cottage and the servants.’
Ridiculous! He could not possibly have as much money as she, considering what he’d shared about his family’s recent financial woes. She’d wounded his vanity, though, obviously. Perhaps she possessed too much independence, in his opinion. Men did not like women who displayed too much independence, her mother had taught her.
Although the abbess always told her she must think for herself...
She shook her head. ‘Very well, Westleigh. You may pay. We’ll make an accounting and you may pay.’
He took another drink of the brandy. ‘Good.’
She poured herself a little more and sipped it slowly.
After a time he spoke. ‘You need not stay, then.’
She looked at him. ‘You wish me to bid you goodnight?’
‘No, not at all,’ he quickly said. ‘I meant, you and your servants need not stay with me any longer. You may go on your way. If I am paying—’
‘You wish me to leave?’ The brandy made her thinking fuzzy and her emotions raw. The idea he wished to send her away unexpectedly wounded her and she fought back tears.
He frowned and paused before going on. ‘I have no right to keep you here. It is not as if I could pay you for your assistance.’
Pay her? ‘You certainly cannot!’
She’d wanted to do something for somebody, something unselfish. She wanted to do something for him. For restitution—and—and because he needed someone so very much. But here it was, the one time she extended herself for another person, needed to extend herself, and he was sending her away.
* * *
Hugh had made a muddle of this.
She’d been the one acting under false pretences, so why did he feel so rotten? She sounded as if she’d start weeping. How had the situation turned itself around?
He spoke in low tones. ‘Why did you do it, then? Why did you assume care of me in the first place? Me, a stranger. You were not the only one I helped to escape the fire. Someone else would have come to my aid.’
‘I cannot explain it.’ Her voice turned small, sad and defensive. ‘I just could not leave you.’ She sighed. ‘You are correct, though. You can pay Toller, Mary, Ann and the others to take care of you. You do not need me. I will go if you wish it.’
His chest tightened. Wish it? Her leaving was the last thing he wanted. How was he to bear the darkness without her company? His world had shrunk in his sightlessness, but she filled all the space he had left. For her to leave would plunge him into an abyss.
He’d endure what he must, but the two weeks would be deadly without her.
And something was unfinished between them. He did not know what, and if she left him he would never know.
‘I do not wish you to go,’ he murmured. ‘I simply cannot ask you to stay.’
He heard her pouring more brandy into a glass, not his glass. How much was she drinking?
‘Why must this be so complicated?’ Her voice was strained with unhappiness. ‘If we were friends, you would accept my help without question and without all these noble protestations. If we were acquaintances, you would not question my helping you.’
‘If we were friends,’ he repeated.
‘That is what I said.’
He preferred her irritation to her sadness. ‘Then let us be friends. Why should we not be? We have a great basis. I helped you escape a fire and you helped me get care for my wounds.’
‘We could be friends?’ She said this as if she’d never had a friend in the world.
‘Certainly.’ At least he’d cheered her. ‘You can stay and keep me company. As my friend. And you can be my eyes until mine are working again. I confess, I would feel more secure knowing a friend was looking out for me.’
‘Yes...’ Her voice turned dreamlike. ‘I could help you as a friend. Look out for you.’ Her tone changed to one more decided. ‘Very well, Mr Westleigh. Let us act as friends.’
He relaxed and finished his second glass of brandy. ‘How far should we go in being friends?’ he asked. ‘Should we pretend we’ve known each other since childhood and use our given names?’
She giggled, a delightful sound. ‘If you wish it.’
‘Then you shall call me Hugh from now on.’ He smiled. ‘No more Mr Westleigh. Agreed?’
‘Hugh,’ she repeated, making his name sound like a gift. ‘I am Daphne, then.’
‘Daphne,’ he whispered.
Chapter Eight
Hugh heard her rise.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. The chinaware rattled. ‘Goodness! I am unsteady.’
He grabbed his cane and stood and immediately she seized his arm. She swayed into him.
‘Too much brandy, perhaps?’ he said.
She threaded her arm through his. ‘You knew I drank some brandy?’
He gestured to his bandages. ‘Without my sight, I find my other senses vastly improved. I heard you pour the brandy, which sounded nothing like pouring tea, and I smelled its scent.’
She’d poured herself at least three glasses, which seemed out of character for her.
‘I—I did not feel like tea,’ she explained, sounding defensive. She released him, but fell against him and again took his arm to steady herself. ‘Perhaps I should retire. To bed.’
He held on to her. ‘Should I call Carter to assist you?’
‘I would rather not have Carter know. I’ll be fine if I can get to my room.’ She tried to pull away again, but he kept hold of her.
‘I’ll take you then.’ He laughed. ‘It will be the blind leading the...jug bitten.’
‘I am inebriated?’ Her voice rose. ‘How is that possible? I drink as much wine to no ill effect.’
‘Brandy is stronger.’ He walked towards where the door should be. ‘Did you not know that?’
He felt her shake her head, her curls brushing his shoulder. ‘I never drank it before.’
Why tonight, then?
‘Move to the left,’ she said. ‘You are aiming us to the wall.’
‘Blast.’ He needed more practice in this room, obviously. He moved to the left. ‘Are we heading to the door?’
‘Yes.’
He did better crossing the hall with her and finding the stairs. He hooked the cane around his arm and gripped the banister. She gripped him. They made slow and somewhat precarious progress. She leaned on him as if in complete trust of his ability to deliver her safely to her bedchamber door, and he’d
be damned if he would fail her.
But he had not practised the way to her door.
When they reached the top of the stairs, he stopped. ‘Which way?’
‘Mmm.’ Was she asleep?
He shook her gently. ‘Daphne? You must show me the way to your room.’
‘Oh.’ She started and paused as if getting her bearings. ‘This way.’
She took a step and he followed her direction, although definitely not with the complete trust she’d shown him. With his free hand he used the cane to make certain she was not leading him into pieces of furniture.
Finally she stopped. ‘Here it is.’
He felt for the door and found the latch. ‘I will leave you here, then.’
She still clung to his arm and rested her head against him. ‘Feels nice.’
He eased her arm off and now faced her. ‘It does indeed feel nice, Daphne.’
‘To be friends,’ she mumbled. ‘It feels nice to be friends.’
The warmth of her body against his, the scent of roses that always clung to her, her low, brandy-soaked voice all intoxicated him as much as the brandy had intoxicated her. At this moment he did not wish friendship from her, but something more. Something between lovers.
He resisted the impulse, but he did not release her. ‘I will bid you a friendly goodnight, then.’
He placed his cane against the wall and searched for her face. Touching her cheek and cupping it in the palm of his hand, he leaned down until he felt her breath on his face. He lowered his face to hers and touched his lips to hers, slightly off-kilter. He quickly made the correction and kissed her as a man kisses a woman when desire surges within him.
‘Mmm.’ She twined her hands around his neck and gave herself totally to the kiss.
He was acutely aware of her every curve touching his body. His hand could not resist sliding up her side and cupping her breast, her full, high breast. He rubbed his fingers against this treasure and she pressed herself against him, her fingers caressing the back of his neck.
He wanted to take her there in the hallway, plunge himself into her against the door to her bedchamber. She would be willing. Never had a woman seemed more willing.
A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) Page 9