by Ruth Regan
"I can't carry you if you're as stiff as a board, woman!" he growled. She reluctantly relaxed some. "Now, wrap your arm over my shoulder. That's it. You'd think you'd never been carried by a man before!"
"I haven't!" she hissed. "Not since I was small."
"Well," said Eliot, striding easily through maze with Cara in his arms, "that's a damn shame."
Chapter Two
Cara's mind was spinning, her ability to think rationally dulled by the shooting pain in her knee – and the proximity to Quentin Eliot as he rushed towards Hedgeton manor holding her tightly was not helping. She wanted to scream “Put me down!” but she knew it was no good. Her knee was seriously injured – she had felt the awful snapping that foretold something very bad indeed when she'd fallen. Besides, she didn't think that Lord Eliot would take orders from her under any conditions. Stubborn man.
Held close in his arms, Cara could smell the brandy on Eliot's breath – a sweet, musky smell that mingled with his sweat. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly faint again, and let herself drift. When next she opened her eyes, they were ascending the staircase to the front entrance of Hedgeton and Eliot was calling out loudly for his housekeeper and the butler.
"Mrs. Cooper! Sanderson!"
He burst through the front doorway, and as Cara's eyes blinked open, she could see guests spilling out from the drawing room. They crowded into the foyer to see what all the fuss was. Her father's shocked face, alongside Frederick Simms' equally aghast maw appeared in the midst of the chattering press. Then, Mrs. Cooper was closing in on them.
"Oh dear God! What's happened to the girl?" Lord Eliot's plump housekeeper asked.
"Taken a tumble out in the maze."
"The shock's setting in. You don't think-?"
"Yes, Mrs. Cooper – a broken leg, likely. Something in her knee joint," Lord Eliot said solemnly.
"I'll have Sanderson call the doctor," Mrs. Cooper breathed, and then she turned and made a hasty exit in search of the butler.
Guests were crowding them now, pressing in to get a look. The heat from their bodies and the high-pitched, excited talk all around were simply too much for Cara.
"Make them go away," she whispered, praying that the plea would reach Lord Eliot's ears.
"All of you – get the hell out and go home!" Eliot bellowed without a second's hesitation. Several of the guests' faces went white as a sheet. But in another moment, they were turning tail and fleeing, calling for their carriages as they made for the drawing room again. Only Lord Calloway and Frederick Simms remained, and as they stepped forward, Mrs. Cooper reappeared.
"Come, we'll take her upstairs. I've a room all cleaned and aired, with fresh linens. The doctor can see her there. Poor child."
"She's not a child, Mrs. Cooper. She's a merry mad widow," Eliot retorted, following the round, gray-haired housekeeper up the grand staircase. He was still clutching Cara in his arms, and he squeezed her a bit harder. "And she's caused me a lot of trouble today."
"I never asked to come to your party, Lord Eliot," Cara bit out. It was quite a struggle to form the words – her teeth were chattering now and she was very nearly losing consciousness. But she was determined to go out on a high, sour note if she had to faint in front of Lord Eliot. "My attendance was not my own idea."
But in the end, she didn't have the last word. For just as they reached the top of the stairs, Lord Eliot whispered in her ear.
"Oh, I know it wasn't your idea, Lady Boyle. It was all your father's. He's trying to get me to ask for your hand in marriage. Very cunning, your papa."
"You mock him."
"No, I don't. In fact, I think it's quite a brilliant plan. You must admit, we're almost perfectly matched. In fact, I think it would be a damned sin if we didn't tie the knot in the very near future."
"Oh yes, Lord Eliot," Cara managed with bitter sarcasm. "We'd be a perfectly loving pair. I say we marry as soon as possible!"
"Next spring?" Eliot asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Cara couldn't bear to be mocked like this, especially when the damned fool was carrying her like a child and she was too weak to do anything but let him. The whole situation was infuriating and it made her even more determined to beat Eliot at his own ironic little game.
"Next month!" she shot back.
And then, the most shocking thing of all happened. Without waiting for a reply – and utterly without any warning – Lord Eliot stopped at the top of the staircase. He spun about recklessly on his heel. Cara felt sure that he was losing his balance and that they were both about to topple headlong down the stairs. But Eliot stopped with surprising agility, facing Lord Calloway and Frederick Simms who were following him up. Cara had a split second to take in their rather blank, stunned expressions.
"I've just asked Lady Boyle to be my wife!" Lord Quentin Eliot barked out. "And she's set the wedding date for next month!"
Cara just had time to see a very sincere expression of delight flash over her father's sallow face. And then she really did faint.
***
Cara's lids fluttered open, but for a long moment she couldn't seem to make her eyes focus. She felt groggy and dull, and she was dimly aware of a throbbing pain in her right knee. She propped herself up on her elbows and swallowed hard, trying to make the dryness leave her throat and willing her vision to clear at the same time. But as it did, she was struck with a sudden confusion and fear.
Where am I?
She instantly judged that this couldn't be her own bedroom. The chamber she slept in at Boyle Estate was small and cozy, with flowered paper on the walls and thick, dark drapes to match her dark moods. In fact, it was one of the smallest, most modest guest rooms in Lord Boyle's vast estate. But it was the room in which Cara felt the most comfortable. When her father had moved in shortly after Lord Boyle's untimely death, he'd spent fruitless hours begging Cara to occupy the grand master suite to no avail. She enjoyed the tiny niche she'd carved for herself in the unfamiliar manse of her late husband.
This room was its polar opposite. It was huge, light, and airy. With high ceilings and white walls, it was almost palatial. Large windows emitted natural light and fresh air, and paper-thin muslin curtains with tiny flowers embroidered on them billowed at the windows. Cara blinked several times. This most definitely wasn't Boyle Estate. A fire burned merrily in the grate opposite her bed and the mantle above it was adorned with ornate scrollwork covered in gold flake.
"You have a distinctly bovine look of confusion on your face, Lady Boyle."
At the sound of the low voice, Cara's head snapped hard to her left. There, leaning back in a large armchair, was Lord Quentin Eliot. The grin that stretched his handsome, wolfish features was as satisfied as that of the proverbial cat who ate the canary.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice came out in a scratchy, broken croak.
"I like that!" Eliot retorted. "My own house and she asks me what I'm doing here!"
Suddenly, the memories came crashing over Cara like a rogue wave on a rocky beach.
"Where is my father?" she demanded. She tried to sit up fully, but pain stabbed sharply through her right knee and she gasped suddenly. In an instant, Eliot was on his feet and at her side.
"Lay back!" he commanded. "You're not to move suddenly for the next week."
"Do not presume to tell me what to do, Lord Eliot!"
"I shall presume to tell you," he said with sudden, maddening calmness. He was tucking her back in now, and there was nothing Cara could do about it, except to observe how strong and surprisingly gentle his hands were. And warm. "I'm to be your husband soon. And then you'll be taking orders from me for a good, long while, Lady Boyle. Until you die, I should say."
"Or until you do," she bit back. Eliot only chuckled and resettled himself in the chair beside her bed, re-crossing his arms behind his head. Suddenly, Cara felt very close to crying. Everything was simply too overwhelming: the terrible pain in her knee, the foggy condition of her mind. "Where is my father?" she aske
d again, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice.
"He went home yesterday."
"Do you mean to tell me that I've been asleep for a whole day?"
"Two days," Eliot said simply. "I had my doctor give you laudanum so that he could examine you without the flailing."
"I was...f-flailing?" Cara stammered. She remembered everything right up until that dreadful moment on the staircase when Eliot had announced they were engaged. But beyond that, her mind was a dark void. She had no recollection of having been seen by a doctor at all.
"Most dreadfully," Eliot sighed. "Quite a sight you were. I had to have Mrs. Cooper and Sanderson restrain you. I hope you don't plan to behave in such a way after you've become Lady Quentin Eliot of Hedgeton Manor."
Lady Eliot.
The words sent a strange tingle through Cara, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes – her left toes anyway, since her right ones seemed to be somewhat numb. She could feel the blood rush hotly to her cheeks. And of course, Quentin Eliot noticed it, as well.
"You blush so prettily," he said. "In fact, I'd say you're quite the comeliest invalid I've ever seen."
Cara could formulate no reply.
"Come, I paid you a compliment, my ladylove," Eliot pressed after a moment of strained silence.
"Thank you," she whispered through gritted teeth.
"You're welcome," he said pleasantly. Then he stood leisurely and brushed himself off. Her eyes drifted to the form-fitting trousers of fine black velvet he was wearing. His legs were strong and shapely, and the loose white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. She could just see a spray of dark hair peeping up from the neckline. His chin and cheek were lightly-stubbled, as though he hadn't shaved for a day or two. His honey-golden hair was a mess about his head. Again, Cara felt herself blush hotly as she tore her eyes from Quentin Eliot's striking figure.
"I'll send Mrs. Cooper in with your supper shortly," Eliot said with a smile, and then he turned to go.
"Wait, please," Cara stammered. Eliot turned back into the room with an expectant look on his strikingly handsome face. "I should like to return to the Boyle Estate – home – as soon as possible."
"I'm afraid that's impossible. The doctor says that you're not to be moved for the next month."
Cara's jaw fell open in surprise. Eliot only chuckled again – a low and resonant sound that touched her somewhere deep and surprising.
"It does make the break sound worse than it is. The prognosis is good, Lady Boyle. The break is painful, of course, but the doctor has assured me that it's actually quite minor. You should be up and about in time for our wedding."
"Surely you don't expect me to marry you in a month's time!" she sputtered.
"Certainly I do. You set the date, remember?"
Cara's eyebrows worked up and down in an attitude of exquisite confusion. And then she did remember. She had sarcastically said it, right before fainting.
"But that was in jest!"
"I was told that a true Lady never goes back on her word," he said, his expression becoming stern. "You are a true Lady...are you not?"
Cara didn't bother to answer the ridiculous question.
"My father has agreed to it?" she pressed.
"Agreed? He practically waltzed around the room for joy with that friend of his. What's that foppish chap's name?"
"Colonel Frederick Simms," she breathed absently.
"That's right – hard to believe he ever issued a military command in his life, that one!" Eliot rambled on gaily.
But Cara barely heard him. In fact, she was feeling rather light-headed again. Of course, her father had agreed. Of course, he'd been joyous. This was exactly what he'd wanted all along. And, if it took a little breaking of his dear daughter's bones, what did that amount to in the grand scheme of things? Not much. She shook her head, trying to make herself believe this was all a dream. But she knew that was a lie. What was happening was very, very real.
"...does that suit you?"
Her attention suddenly snapped back to Lord Eliot, and she realized that she hadn't been listening to a word he'd said.
"Pardon?"
"Half an hour. Your supper. Mrs. Cooper."
"Oh, yes, yes," she muttered.
"Good!" he exclaimed jovially, and started toward the door. But he turned back into the room at the last moment, his expression serious. She watched him watch her. It was clear that there was something else he wanted to do or say. But for the life of her, she couldn't guess what it was. Then, without another word, he turned quickly and left.
***
Cara cried weakly on and off for the better part of the next half hour. She felt so utterly confused. And to make things worse, she was almost completely immobile. Usually when she was in turmoil, she was at least able to walk out somewhere to clear her head. But now she was completely trapped in this strange, large room. The curtains fluttered pleasantly at the windows and the fire continued to crackle along merrily, but none of these features could soothe her.
Was it really possible that she was to become Lord Quentin Eliot's wife? It seemed so. There was a part of her that had known all along it was going to happen. Her father had done his damnedest to orchestrate the whole business and despite being singularly bumbling in some aspects of life, Lord Leander Calloway was quite competent in others. And, he was exceedingly stubborn. Once his mind was fixed on a goal, it was almost impossible to dissuade him from its attainment. Yes, once Papa had landed upon the idea, it was almost a foregone conclusion. For the good of the family name.
Having wrapped her mind around that truth, there was still the problem of Eliot himself. He had openly acknowledged her father's scheming, and yet he was going right along with it. This she could not understand. Quentin Eliot truly actually had a choice in the matter. He was a Lord, with resources and almost infinite agency. He could have said no to the whole strange business. So, why was he going along with it? It wasn't the promise of money. Lord Eliot was rolling in the stuff already. It couldn't possibly be for want of a woman's company. He was up to his ears in that, as well, if the rumors were to be believed (and Cara knew that they were). And, although both her maiden name of Calloway and her married name of Boyle carried with them much respect and honor, neither could compare with that of Eliot. It wasn't as if he would be marrying up. So why? Why? Why?
Cara tried to shift positions in bed. But even the smallest movement proved too painful. She was panting, clinging to her bedclothes, and soaked in sweat when a soft knock sounded on the door. A second later, Mrs. Cooper's head popped in.
"Oh, you poor dear!" clucked the plump housekeeper. She pushed into the room, and Cara saw that she was carrying a laden tray before her. She hurried to set it down on a side table and come to Cara's aid. "Here, let me help."
After some struggle, Cara was finally able to sit herself upright with the assistance of Mrs. Cooper's surprisingly strong arms. The housekeeper propped a few pillows behind her back and then sat on the edge of the bed as Cara regained control of her breath.
"Thank...you," she panted.
"My pleasure," said Mrs. Cooper pleasantly. "You and me, we'll be spending a lot of time together over the next month. So we best get comfortable with one another! In fact, I hear we'll be spending a lot more than the next month together!"
"That's what I hear, as well," Cara admitted grudgingly.
The housekeeper was fairly beaming now. She patted the Cara's hand and then stood to retrieve the tray. Cara watched her bustle about the room, her skirts swaying. "I've been with Lord Eliot's family since he was a babe in swaddling clothes!"
"Is that so?" Cara managed weakly. She had nothing against this woman. In fact, she felt oddly drawn to her. It had been so long since she'd spent any time in the company of a good-tempered female. The housekeeper at the Boyle Estate, Ms. Randall, was an austere, gaunt person of 45. She'd never married and was dreadfully bitter. Cara avoided her like the plague. Mrs. Cooper, however, appeared to be Ms. R
andall's opposite.
"Oh, yes! He was a funny child. Very solemn."
"I find that surprising," Cara said truthfully. "Lord Eliot seems to be full of mirth in adulthood."
Mrs. Cooper set the tray in front of Cara. It bore several slices of thick brown bread and a steaming broth that smelled wonderful. Suddenly, her appetite flared and she picked up the spoon eagerly. She was just tucking in to her first delicious mouthful when Mrs. Cooper continued thoughtfully.
"There's more beneath Lord Eliot's mirth than you might imagine, Lady Boyle. If he didn't choose mirth with every waking breath, I suspect Lord Eliot might be a very sad, drawn man."
Cara swallowed her soup, pondering what Mrs. Cooper might possibly mean.
"How is that?"
"Well... He was dearly in love with his first wife. Perhaps you've heard stories."
Cara shrugged. She had overheard at least one version of the tale from some gossips in a store in town. But she was interested to see what yarn the devoted housekeeper might spin.
"When Sarah died, Lord Eliot ceased to speak. For a fortnight, he barricaded himself in his room, barely eating a thing and refusing all company. And then one night he stole off – took to the country, he did. We didn't see him for almost a year. We heard tales, though. He was spotted all over – living from the pack on the back of his horse, sleeping rough in the heather. When he finally showed up again on the front steps of Hedgeton, his beard and hair were so long, I practically didn't recognize him. But he embraced me and told me his mourning was over. And since then, he's been the man you see today."
The story moved Cara completely and unexpectedly. It was much different than what she'd heard from the gossip in the store downtown. That chattering lady had mainly spoken of how Lord Eliot took to drink and the constant company of various ladies after his first wife's death. This was something else – something deeper. And looking into the guileless face of the housekeeper, Cara could plainly see that she was telling the truth.
Mrs. Cooper chuckled suddenly, her hands on her hips.