‘Welcome back.’ He made himself sound cheerful. ‘Are you there as well, Monette?’
‘I am, sir,’ the maid answered shyly.
‘Did you ladies find much to look at in the village?’ he asked.
‘We had a delightful time,’ Daphne answered. ‘We had tea in a very nice tea shop and we browsed through all the stores we could find.’
‘Browsed? Do not tell me you did not find something to purchase? I do not believe my mother ever merely browsed in a store in her life.’
‘We purchased some fabric for Monette and a few other things. Some lovely marzipan from a confectioner. We should have that with tea later.’
Marzipan was typically formed into fancy shapes and colours, to appear like fruits and vegetables. It was a confection that was better to see than to eat.
Would he ever see it? ‘That sounds quite nice.’
‘I trust Mr Wynne did not call early?’ Daphne said.
He could hear the handling of packages wrapped in paper. ‘He sent a message that he would arrive late.’ More waiting. At least Daphne would be a distraction.
Hugh reached the bottom step.
‘Pardon, sir.’ Monette passed by him.
He felt Daphne walk near. ‘Were you bound for the drawing room? I will join you shortly. I must change. My skirts are full of dirt from the road.’
He nodded, knowing she could see, even if he could not.
It pleased him to hear the sound of pleasure in her voice from a simple walk to village shops. So often he felt sadness around her, even as they were entertaining themselves at the pianoforte or taking a walk or reading. Maybe he was the reason, if spending a day away from him lightened her spirits.
Blast. He was acting gloomy. The least he could do was avoid inflicting his low mood on her.
He made his way to the drawing room and distracted himself at the pianoforte by playing the scales and chords she’d taught him.
It did help to pass the time. It seemed only a few minutes before she came in the room, saying, ‘Carter will bring us tea. You can taste the marzipan.’ She walked over and stood behind him. ‘You are improving very quickly. I am astonished.’
He made himself laugh. ‘Not as astonished as I am.’
‘Do you wish to keep practising? Do you want another lesson?’ Her scent wafted around him.
‘No.’ He placed his hands in his lap. ‘Why don’t you read to me a little?’
‘Should we continue with The Annual Register?’ she asked.
‘Yes. The Annual Register.’ They’d found an old Annual Register from 1808. Among the usual topics covered in The Annual Register, like politics, finance and notable world and local events, were chronicles of travels, places he’d like to see for himself. See for himself—if he could see.
‘Banks of the Mississippi from Mr Ashe’s Travels in America,’ she began.
‘Mr Ashe?’ he interrupted. ‘A relation of yours?’
She did not answer for a moment. ‘Ashe. Asher. Two different names.’ Her voice was stiff.
‘Of course.’ He’d been trying to make a joke even though he did not feel like joking. ‘Proceed.’
She cleared her throat. ‘“In many respects the Mississippi is far inferior to the Ohio. The Mississippi is one continued scene of terrific grandeur...”’
While she read, Hugh drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and only half listened. It was Wynne he wanted. Let the man finally show up and get the bad news over with.
* * *
Wynne did not arrive until near the dinner hour. ‘So sorry to be late,’ he said as he bustled into the room. ‘Busy day today.’ He paused. ‘It is delightful seeing you again, Mrs Asher. I hope I find you in good health?’
‘I am in excellent health, thank you, sir. I would offer you tea, but Mr Westleigh has been waiting a long time.’ Daphne spoke as if she was the hostess of a London ball, but her voice was edged with impatience. The tea was tepid now in any event.
‘It would be a pleasure to partake of tea in your company, my dear lady, but alas, I am not at liberty today.’ The surgeon sounded mournful. ‘I hope you will renew the invitation at a later time. Today, I fear I must not tarry. I have another patient to see before I shall be free to return home to my dinner.’
‘I do understand, Mr Wynne,’ Daphne responded. ‘You must tend to your patients and your family, of course.’
Hugh heard the sound of a strap being unfastened. ‘How have you fared, Mr Westleigh?’ Had Wynne finally been able to tear his attention away from Daphne so as to tend to his patient? ‘You have kept your eyes closed, I trust.’
‘I opened them today.’ There, it was out. ‘I closed them right away, but I did open them.’
‘Hugh!’ Daphne cried.
‘The bandages came loose when I was riding and my eyes opened before I could think about it.’ He sounded as if he were making excuses.
‘You were riding?’ Wynne sounded incredulous.
‘Not alone,’ Hugh assured him.
‘Hmmph.’ The surgeon clearly disapproved. ‘When you opened your eyes, did you experience pain?’
‘A sharp pain, yes.’ And the ache persisted. There was more he’d noticed. ‘I can feel my eyes move under my lids a great deal when I want to look at something, but they have remained closed except for that one instance.’ Now it hurt every time his eyes moved.
‘Well—’ Wynne sighed as if all was lost ‘—let us take a look.’
His hand cupped the bandages on Hugh’s head and lifted them off rather than unwinding them. Amazing how light-headed Hugh felt with the bandages gone. His lids fluttered.
‘Keep them closed.’ Wynne briefly touched Hugh’s eyelids to still them.
Through his closed lids, Hugh saw nothing.
He felt the warmth of a candle come near. ‘Do you see the light?’ Wynne asked.
Daphne must have had the candle ready.
‘I see light,’ Hugh responded, but no better than during that first examination.
The candle moved away, and Wynne’s fingers touched his eyelids again. ‘Your lids have healed very nicely, Westleigh. I see no signs of infection.’ He felt the man back away and heard him rummage in his bag. ‘I’m going to apply a salve to your eyes and bandage them up again.’
The salve felt cool and the new bandages clean. Wynne wound the cloth tightly around Hugh’s head. ‘I dare say you have re-injured the eyes, though. The pain you felt confirms that. We may hope they heal again, but we will not know until another week goes by.’
He rummaged in his bag again and Hugh heard him rebuckle the straps. ‘I must take my leave.’ Hugh heard Daphne’s skirts and presumed she’d stood, as well. ‘I regret not being able to spend more time, my dear,’ Wynne said.
‘You are a very busy man,’ Daphne replied.
He heard them walking to the door. Wynne had told him nothing encouraging. He’d been too busy making himself pleasing to Daphne.
That was unfair. Wynne had examined him equally as carefully as he had the first time. Hugh had not expected good news. He had no choice but to wait.
And hope he kept his eyes closed. And hope he healed.
* * *
Daphne saw Mr Wynne to the door and hurried back to the drawing room. ‘Hugh!’ She rushed over to him. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
He shrugged. ‘I do not know. I suppose it would have made it seem real.’
She knelt in front of him and took his hands. ‘You must be worried.’
‘I cannot deny it.’
He leaned towards her and she rested her forehead against his. ‘You poor man.’
He inhaled and she leaned back. What was she thinking? Acting so intimately with a man. He was her friend. He was a Westleigh. She must expect nothin
g of him.
Carter knocked on the door. ‘Dinner, ma’am.’
She squeezed Hugh’s hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come. You must be hungry.’
During the meal she tried to cheer him up and she guessed he tried to pretend it was working, but the prospect of his blindness shrouded them.
After dinner, back in the drawing room, she poured him a glass of brandy, and a little for herself, just to warm herself and to calm the emotions she sensed inside him.
‘Shall I continue reading from The Annual Register?’ It was not the book she would have chosen for her own entertainment, but it interested him and might distract him from his worry.
‘Certainly, if you like,’ he responded without enthusiasm.
She refilled his glass, adding more for herself, as well.
Opening the book, she found the place where she’d left off. ‘We were about to begin the part about the price of gold in Abyssinia.’
He made no comment.
‘“Price of gold,”’ she began. ‘“Gold at a medium, sells for ten pataka each wakea, or ten derims, salt...”’ The words meant little to her but they lulled her as she read about the price of gold, about weights and measures, about servants’ wages, about how they made beer and finally about marriage. ‘It sometimes happens that the husband and wife mutually, without any cause of ill will, agree to part. In this case the effects brought by the wife are united with the sum stipulated by the husband, then divided into equal shares of which the parties take each one, and return to their former places of abode.’ She stopped reading. ‘Oh, my.’ Had she read correctly? ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of what I just read.’ She scanned the words again to be certain. ‘In Abyssinia, a husband and wife can end their marriage by mutual agreement. They divide their agreed-upon settlements and that is it.’ She could not believe this. ‘And their church sanctions it.’
He turned to face in her direction. ‘Daphne, why does this interest you?’
She could not answer him. ‘No reason.’
‘You have read of all sorts of odd things,’ he pointed out. ‘Why did this one interest you?’
‘I do not know.’ More truthfully she did not wish to say. ‘I suppose it is because it is such a shameful and difficult thing to get a divorce in England.’
He lowered his voice. ‘Did you wish for a divorce from your husband, Daphne?’
Her stomach flipped. Her response was shrill. ‘No. Of course not.’ She had not wished that, had she?
He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Tell me about your husband, Daphne. About your marriage.’
Tell him? That her husband was good to her, that he indulged her, but even so, she had never been a good wife to him?
She swivelled towards Hugh. ‘I—I—’ She twisted her skirt with her hands. How she felt about her marriage did her no credit at all. ‘Would you still consider me your friend if I told you I did not wish to talk about this?’
‘Of course.’ His spine stiffened and he took another sip of brandy.
As did she. ‘Please understand, Hugh. I cannot talk about my marriage any more than you can talk about your eyes.’
He stood. ‘You are correct. I do not wish to talk about my eyes, although there is not much to talk about. I will either be blind or not.’ He searched for and picked up his cane. ‘I am going to retire. I’m not very good company for you tonight.’
She rose, too, and put a hand on his arm. ‘Please do not be angry with me, Hugh. Please. I want this time between us to be—to be—free of any past. Heedless of any future. I want to enjoy being friends now, while we are here.’
‘I am not angry with you, Daphne.’ He turned to her, but could not see to face her directly. He placed his hand over hers. ‘I hope sometime you will trust me enough to tell me what it is that makes you so sad, but you are correct that tonight is not the night. I need to get myself in order first.’
His fingers, long and strong, wrapped around hers. The gesture brought tears to her eyes. No one touched her any more. No one held her, not since the abbess had once enfolded her in her arms. Daphne, sobbing like a wounded child, had clung to the old woman as if the abbess had been her last hold on forgiveness. She wished she could be held now. She wished Hugh could hold her and comfort her, but she didn’t deserve his embrace, not after wronging his family and deceiving him.
To her surprise, he released her fingers and slid his hands up her arms, to her shoulders, her neck, her face. His palms were warm and gentle against her cheeks, and his touch roused her like no man’s touch had ever done before.
His cane fell to the floor and he cupped her face with both hands. ‘I wish I could see you,’ he murmured.
He’d never touch her if he could see her, she knew. This might be her only chance to receive the comfort for which she yearned. There was no resisting it.
His thumbs stroked the tender skin of her cheeks, and she felt as if the imprint of his touch would remain for ever with her. But she wanted—needed—more. Her body quivered with need. With desire. She wanted something more precious than comfort. She wanted Hugh.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rose on tiptoe and urged his head lower. His lips were so near she tasted the brandy on his breath. She trembled with desire, but feared closing the gap between them. Perhaps he meant only to comfort her. Perhaps he did not want her at all.
He held her face more firmly, and the thrill of it radiated throughout her body. He guided her face still closer until his lips took possession of hers with a need all their own.
Her body ignited with passion, passion for this man. She thought she might perish if she could not feel his bare skin against hers, to join her body with his. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted any man. Even her husband.
Even Xavier.
This was new to her. Irresistible. It would do no harm to make love to him, would it?
He pulled away from her. ‘I had best say goodnight.’ He lowered himself to search for his cane.
Shaken and bereft, she crouched down to retrieve it for him, her head close to his. ‘Hugh?’ She touched his arm.
He found her face again for one more caress, even more gentle than before. ‘Goodnight, Daphne.’
Tears rolled down her cheeks as he straightened and walked away from her. Why had he stopped? He wanted her as well, did he not?
After he left, she sat a long time, thinking, trying to calm herself, trying to talk herself out of needing him.
Chapter Ten
The clock in Hugh’s room chimed the hour. He counted each chime. One...two... Ten...eleven...twelve. Midnight.
Even though Carter had readied him for bed two hours ago, even though the man had left him with a bottle of brandy, Hugh remained awake, drinking and rocking.
At least night evened the odds. In darkness no one could see.
Who was he fooling? He heard the hiss of coal in the grate. The glow from the fireplace would give a person with eyes enough light to make out the furniture in the room. Eyes that worked, that was.
If he wished to be completely honest with himself, he’d admit what was really keeping him awake.
Daphne.
His thoughts were consumed by her. A second kiss with a promise of passion equal to the first had done it. He’d counted how many times she poured herself brandy. Only three times and all had been short, not enough to explain her response to him. No, she’d chosen this kiss with a clear mind.
Had he gone too far? He’d meant only to touch her.
Hadn’t he?
His masculine urges were surging, unleashed by that kiss. She was not far, a few steps away. He could find his way. By God, he believed he could find his way without his cane, without feeling for the walls. She drew him so strongly he did not need the
glow of coals or a lamp in the hallway.
To bed a widow was not a scandalous matter, but all he could think of was that he would risk creating another child she would need to give up. For all her cool manner to him at first, it was now clear she was a passionate woman whose desires could be easily aroused. The responsibility was his to keep in control of his baser needs. How long could he restrain himself? Even if he decided to behave himself now, could he resist trying for another kiss later? Every moment with her would be one of decision.
To bed her or not.
He burned to feel her bare body beneath him. To fill his palms with her breasts and rub her nipples against his skin. He wanted to bury himself inside her and bring her to pleasure at the same moment of his release.
He took a swig of brandy, not bothering with a glass.
What he ought to do was get himself to London, put himself in the suffocating care of his mother and endure it for a week. Or longer, if his eyes could not heal. If his eyes could not heal, what other choice would he have? It had been unfair of him to impose himself on Daphne, especially since he’d prevented her from proceeding on her way. Wherever that may be.
He drank again and let the liquor burn down his throat into his chest.
Carter could make the arrangements for him. Hire a carriage. It was not even a day’s journey.
He heard the door open. Might as well ask the man now before he lost his nerve. ‘Carter?’
The scent of roses reached his nostrils. ‘It is not Carter.’
He stood. ‘Daphne. What are you doing here?’ Good God. He wore nothing but his drawers. ‘I’m not decent.’
She remained near the door. ‘Neither am I.’
‘Why, then—?’ he began.
She stopped him. ‘Don’t speak.’ He felt her move closer to him, felt the heat of her when she came near. ‘I—I felt so unhappy when you left me tonight.’
She was close enough to touch and he wanted to touch her. ‘I had to leave you, Daphne. And you should leave me now.’
‘I was thinking,’ Her scent, her voice, her nearness, intoxicated him. ‘I am a widow and widows have certain licence.’
A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) Page 11