Obviously in the way in that small room, Mary tucked herself into a chair in the corner, with a book, and tried to read while the discussion about sleeves, pleats and waistlines proceeded. Occasionally her sister called her name to ask what she thought of a frill or a flounce, but only to laugh at Mary's vexed expression— not to actually want her opinion.
"You fight a losing battle in dour Mary's case," said Lady Charlotte, waving a limp hand toward her. "She would not know a gigot sleeve from an engageante."
And indeed she did not.
But she was going to marry Ransom Deverell.
If he lived. Oh, let him live, please!
"Poor Mary, look at her expression! She is quite hopeless."
They both laughed smugly together, while pretending to feel pity.
Again she looked at her book, but Mary could not concentrate on the printed words.
After a while, Lady Charlotte said, "You are quieter than ever this afternoon, Mary. Are you ill? Your complexion generally has that common swarthy tint, but today there is a ghostly pallor."
"Oh, no, your ladyship. I am very well."
She loved her sister, but with Ransom's health on her mind it was very difficult to show any interest in something as frivolous as a new frock.
At last she could hold it in no longer, and while Violet was being measured in another room, she said to Lady Charlotte, "Have you had word from your son of late, madam?"
"Ransom? Not since last week. As I told you, he never bothers with me until he has to." Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"
"I wondered, your ladyship...if you had heard...anything. About an accident." Now that she had begun, it was harder than expected, rather than easier.
The woman's eyes were almost black; her eye-lids looked heavy. "To what do you refer?"
"I'm afraid your son had an accident, madam."
"Yes. A few years ago. What about it?"
"No, madam. I meant recently. Very recently. Friday evening to be exact." She took a breath. "I am sorry."
Lady Charlotte raised a hand to her pearl choker. "Sorry?"
"You must forgive me, your ladyship," she exclaimed in a distraught whisper, "but I have struggled with how best to tell you. It has preyed upon me all day and I think that you, as his mother, have a right to know. He was set upon by thugs in the street."
"But I— Friday? And why was I not told until now?"
"I suppose he did not want you to worry." Yes, that sounded tactful enough. "And his father is with him. I have sat here not knowing how to give you this news without alarming you unduly, or over-stepping my bounds, but I would feel dreadful, madam, if you were left in ignorance and... especially later, when you discovered that I had known and kept it from you. Oh, dear." The book almost dropped from her fingers. "I hope I have done right in telling you. That he won't be angry."
"He?"
"Your son." She gripped the book tighter, holding it against her breast.
For several moments, Lady Charlotte simply stared at her, one hand still touching the beads of her necklace, her lips working as if she chewed something that already disagreed with her stomach.
Mary wanted to say so much more, but held it back, unsure how to continue until she had some verbal reaction from the lady.
Finally..."His father is there with him, you say?"
"Yes, madam."
"Then it has been kept from me by him. My wretched husband." Her eyes sparked with anger and then she focused on Mary again. "But would you mind telling me how, exactly, you knew of this accident, Miss Mary Ashford, and I did not?"
The edge of the book cover was digging into her fingers. "I am engaged to be married, Lady Charlotte. To your son."
Again she heard her heart beating, fluttering wildly. It had to be said and at least she had more tact than Ransom who may not even tell his mother. But how odd it sounded on her lips.
"You?" A harsh gasp spat from the lady— almost a laugh, but not quite. "Is this one of Ransom's practical jokes? He talked you into teasing me, did he not?"
She licked her lips. "No, madam. I am quite in earnest. I would not tease you about such a matter."
Lady Charlotte smoothed a hand over the lace ruffle at her shoulder and then inspected the stitching of her calf-skin gloves. "I should have guessed there was something between you. That day when he came back to the suite. You, Miss Mary Ashford, are not nearly so meek as you seem and have been scheming, sneaking about behind my back."
Now she worried that she had spoiled things for Violet, and her sister would never forgive her. "I certainly have not, madam. It only happened this morning."
The lady fluttered her lashes and gave a high, odd laugh that was more of a rattle, like the sharp ring of a bell clapper, snapped off impatiently by the same hand that rang it. "Don't look so distressed, Mary. I didn't think you had it in you to be sly and mercenary. I must admit I'm impressed. I underestimated you, it seems. But this won't last, of course. You're a plaything. Different to most, perhaps, but...ah, wait! I suppose he did this to take you away from Raven. They've always been so competitive. Well, he alters his mind as often as the wind changes direction, so I would advise you to look about before you think to give your heart." She swallowed, blinked, looked as if she might faint. "And I wish someone had warned me the same way, before I—"
The door opened and Violet returned with the dressmaker's assistants. "What happened? What have you both been talking about? Mary looks peculiar."
Silence.
Lady Charlotte stood, recovering her poise with admirable alacrity. She looked down at Mary. "He won't love you, you know. They aren't capable. He's just like his father."
Mary stood too, remembering her Ashford Pride. "Mr. Deverell says that Ransom is just like his mother," she replied in a light, carefree tone.
Rather than meet Mary's eye, the other woman attempted to gain a few inches in height by raising her chin and one elegant eyebrow. "Then he is the worst of both of us. Surely a creature to be pitied, or feared. But not loved."
Violet was still utterly lost, and the dressmaker's assistants were pretending not to hear.
Suddenly feeling quite calm again, Mary said, "Will you come back to the house and see your son?"
"No. I don't believe I shall. Let him send for me, if I am needed. Apparently, for now, I am not." Her lips moved uncertainly, the corners pulling downward. There was something shining in her left eye, but surely it was not a real tear. Mary had heard many complaints and sobbing groans from Lady Charlotte in the past, but she had never seen a genuine, wet tear. It was not the done thing, of course, to show too much emotion. Mary had been raised the same way and struggled often to remind her sister that one's passions should be held out of sight. But Lady Charlotte loved her dramatics, much as "Violette" did. It was simply that her ladyship's were usually empty gestures, extravagant, showy and entirely without depth of feeling. She could change from wailing depression at a rainy day to unbridled, girlish joy at a gift from an admirer, all in the space of two minutes. Often one felt the need to applaud this display and toss flowers at her feet.
The hint of an actual tear, therefore, was new, unexpected. Rare as a blue diamond.
Lady Charlotte swung around to speak with the dressmaker who had just re-entered the room with her book of notes, and the conversation about dresses resumed as if it had never been interrupted. But her expression was fixed, her eyes glassy. Mary had seen that look before on a horse that was about to drop dead in the shafts.
At least it seemed as if Violet would not suffer. Lady Charlotte remained civil to her, graciously extending one hand to her new "protégée" to kiss. "I shall look forward to seeing the dress when it is complete." To Mary she nodded her head slowly and grandly. "I will see you on our usual day, Miss Ashford."
She was back to herself again. As the lady had said, she did not expect her son's engagement to last, so why would anything change?
"You are sure you will not come to your son?" Mary asked her agai
n, hoping the lady would reconsider and avoid any later regret.
But her countenance was a mask now. "Good heavens, Mary, don't whittle at me! What can I do for him? The sick-bed is not my province. Better I see him when he is put together again. I doubt he would want guests while in an unsightly state."
Well, Mary had done her best.
"Then Lady Charlotte did not loan us the carriage?" Violet enquired as Mary helped her into her coat. "I thought you said she did."
"No, sister. I told you a bold-faced lie. The carriage belongs to True Deverell."
Violet's eyes had almost sprung out of her head. "But you never lie." Her ringlets trembled.
"I have done several things today that I never did before." Mary took her arm and hurried her out of the dressmaker's premises. "Prepare yourself, sister, for some news." Violet would have to be told, since Mary planned to spend the evening looking after him and it would not be proper under any other circumstances. "I am engaged to Lady Charlotte's son, Ransom Deverell." It did not sound any more likely this time she said it.
"You? Engaged? But how?" It was too much for poor Violet, who stopped, dug in her heels and could not be steered forward. "When?"
"In actual fact he decided it without me. Because I wasn't there at the time to ask."
Violet gripped the carriage door for balance as Mary prodded her speedily up into the carriage. Finally, when the door was closed and the blind lowered for privacy, the carriage moving forward again, all Violet could find to say was, "But if you married anybody, I thought it would be Dr. Woodley."
Sighing heavily, Mary lifted one corner of the blind to peep out. "Luckily for me, the good doctor's gentlemanly manners and reserve kept him from asking in time. Ransom Deverell had no such issues."
Chapter Twenty
The cool, damp cloth swept softly across his brow, down the side of his face and under his chin. Through his lashes he watched the flickering light as her hand moved back and forth, guiding the cloth slowly, gently, chasing away the sticky sweat and the pain.
A drop of water trickled down his cheek, and she caught it with the cloth at the edge of his jaw. Her hand slipped a little, for her finger touched his face and the prickles on his chin must have tickled her. He heard the catch of her breath, like half a hiccup.
Ransom opened his eyes, just in time to see the tip of her tongue slip back from where it had wet her lower lip in concentration. Her pupils were large, velvety black, darkening her gaze until it could be described as sultry, steamy.
After rinsing the cloth in her bowl of water, she raised it once more, dabbing it lightly down the side of his neck. Her sleeves were unbuttoned at the cuff and turned back to keep them out of the water, which gave Ransom an extra few inches of bare arm to admire. Again her fingertips touched his skin, caressing him accidentally, and he suffered the stirring of an intense hunger that had nothing to do with his stomach's needs.
Here he was, dying to breathe, and all he could think about was holding her in his arms, touching the naked, satiny skin of her back, following the curve downward and rolling her beneath him...kissing that little soft place beneath her ear...licking the sweet, perfumed sheen of perspiration from her skin. Hearing her sigh his name.
Now she wiped the base of his throat, tenderly stroking with that warm, slippery cloth. And he felt her soft, slender wrist moving against the chest hair that curled above the open laces of his nightshirt.
He was having trouble breathing before. If he didn't stop her now, he would forget how to breathe.
Reluctantly he raised a hand to his chest and closed his fingers over hers. "Thank you," he managed, his voice taut as a bow about to release its arrow. "That's better."
Mary put her bowl aside and now applied some ointment to his scars and bruises, before wrapping a fresh bandage around his forehead. All this was done without a word from her, so he had no idea what she was thinking or feeling. He'd never known a woman like her.
"Why do you not want to sleep?" she asked.
"If you had dreams like mine, Mary, you wouldn't want to sleep either."
"Tell me about them, then."
"No."
Lips pursed, hands on her waist, she shook her head.
Afraid she might find another excuse to leave, he asked her to continue reading, so she sat in a chair beside the bed and opened her book. As she read aloud, he closed his eyes. Each time she stopped reading, he opened them again and urged her to continue.
"You ought to sleep," she urged again.
"No, thank you, madam. It is a kind thought, but I prefer to keep my wits about me," he replied, aware that he was being oddly polite, but not able to do anything about it. The laudanum did make him sleepy, but he refused to give in just yet. Defiantly he thought he could fight the medicine, much as he once planned to fight Nanny Bond.
But no, he would not think of that harridan tonight. Or of Sally White. They could not get him while Mary sat by his bed.
"You will stay, won't you?"
She gave a wry smile. "Since you told your father that you wouldn't have anybody else, I'll have to, shan't I? I could hardly leave you alone to suffer."
The pain had eased somewhat. Thankfully. "Good." Finally she took pity on him.
He watched her lips move as she read from the book in her lap. The gaslight cast her face in a warm glow, like that of a peach hanging from a tree, not yet ripe enough to be plucked, but soon to be. How lovely she was in her quiet way. Understated, unassuming, and yet not to be missed. Hers was a face that made a man look twice and then a third time. And then he could not stop looking.
It was not the sort of cream-and-roses beauty, instantly recognizable, and used to sell face tonic to the masses. It was timeless, unique, indefinable. He felt as if it was his alone now.
"Where did you go without me, Mary?"
She looked up from her book again. "To the dressmaker with my sister. I told you."
But he meant forever. Where had she been without him for all this time? Where did she go when he had not been there?
His head felt as if it was swaddled in a very soft fleece, and all manner of thoughts wandered through his mind.
"Tell me about your sister."
"I thought you wanted me to read to you."
"I warned you my attention is easily scattered. Now I want to talk." Actually, he feared the gentle lull of her reading voice would put him to sleep too soon. "You said we would not have anything to talk about, but we do."
Placing a bookmark carefully in the page, she closed her book and set it aside. "Violet is very pretty, very young, and very restless."
"You love her."
"Of course. Will you have some water?" She got up and reached for a glass and the jug. He watched her pour.
"I don't love my sister," he muttered. "She's a bloody pain in the posterior."
Mary smiled and held the glass, while he sipped. Ah, better. "You love your sister, and she loves you, whether you like it or not. It is the drawback of being family, I fear. The love is inevitable, even if they drive you to madness sometimes. One must accept that many of their faults are also yours."
"My father would disagree with you. He says it's just instinct to protect one's family. Not love. We're all just animals. Surviving."
She held the glass up again, and he took another sip. "Is that so?"
"To help a stranger one needs a motive. Usually mercenary. Wanting something for one's own good."
"Yes," she replied briskly, "I suppose that's all it is." And she set the glass firmly back on the small bedside table, her lips pressed tightly together, the smile gone.
Wanting to make her laugh again, he said suddenly, "Do you know, Mary, I believe you must be the only maiden that ever entered this bedchamber."
She threw him a look over her shoulder. "And I'm certain to be the only one who will leave it in the same state as she came in."
More's the pity, he thought, silently cursing his injuries.
A tap at the door announc
ed the arrival of Smith, who brought a letter. "Pardon me, Miss Ashford, but this just arrived here for you."
Ransom scowled. "Who the devil is it from? Who would write to you here?"
His private nurse primly ignored him to accept the letter and thank Smith. She opened the seal and read quickly. Whatever the news was, it cheered her up again.
"Well?" Ransom demanded. "Who is writing to my fiancée?"
"Mr. Thaddeus Speedwell."
"Who?"
Mary refolded the letter. "My business partner at the bookshop. Don't you remember?"
"What the deuce does he want? Does he not know you're busy here with me, damn it? I must have all your attention."
She merely raised her eyes to the ceiling and then shared a quick smile with Smith. The butler, realizing he'd been caught, hastily straightened his lips and then said solemnly, "Sir, I have made up the Chinese bedroom for Mr. Deverell. He informs me that he means to stay."
"It's not necessary. I'm sure he has other things he would rather be doing. Besides, it's Christmas next week, and he should be at Roscarrock with the others."
He heard Mary gasp.
"What?" he demanded, turning his head against the pillow to look at her. "It's only me. No need for the world to stop just because I might die. As long as I have you, I'm content."
She stared in mild disapproval and impatience, just like her portrait on the far wall.
Smith spoke again, "Mr. Deverell is quite certain that he wants to stay, sir. And he says you will need his help overseeing matters at the club while you are indisposed."
"My father must do as he thinks best then. Yes, I suppose he is concerned about the business most of all."
"Very good, sir." Smith hesitated and then added, "When the young Indian lady arrives on Wednesday for your standing appointment, may I take it that she is to be kept separate from your father? And if young Master Rush should call in with one of his letters from the university again?"
Ransom knew Mary was listening, although she pretended to be utterly absorbed in folding a blanket at the foot of the bed.
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