by Jenn LeBlanc
Dr. Walcott stood to Roxleigh’s right, in front of the hearth, his white comb-over floating in disarray. Two housemaids, Meggie and Carole, cowered behind the doctor like mice tracked by a tomcat. Meggie had hold of her apron, which she twisted relentlessly in her hands. Dr. Walcott saw Roxleigh and shook his head, his hair flying in tufts around his ears.
The girl turned on him. “You!” she said, her voice catching on the force of the word as she marched determinedly for Roxleigh. “Are you in charge?”
“Am I— Pardon?” His eyes narrowed. “This is my estate, my land, my manor, the seat of the Roxleigh dukedom. Everything you see from these windows is within my purview, if that is what you ask.” He slid his gaze over her.
She stunned him. She was not a small girl, but rather tall, though not as tall as he. His eyes traveled her womanly curves, remembering the soft feel of her weight in his arms. He could see the gash on her forehead, but she otherwise appeared healthy—angry, but healthy. He shook off his improper gaze and looked at Dr. Walcott questioningly before walking toward the settee.
“Perhaps you should put this on,” he said as he reached for a robe.
The girl walked directly to him, fisting her hands on her hips as she inspected him. He felt her gaze measuring, as if to determine his very soul, and he flinched. From the corner of his vision he saw the doctor drop his hands, which had been suspended in midair as if to ward off some sort of attack.
The strange woman caught up to him, her temper evident. “The fact that I have no clothes on is an issue for both of us, but I’m not doing anything until you tell me what the hell is going on! Where am I?” The words came out on a croak, and she poked him in the chest before continuing. “I don’t know what kind of damn joke this is, but I’ve had enough!”
The doctor and two housemaids gasped at the boldness of her speech, and Roxleigh felt the tension of their reactions weigh heavily. He released the robe and slowly straightened again as the woman went on, apparently heedless of his growing ire.
“I don’t understand the problem. I want to know where I am.” She started ticking off fingers as she spoke. “I want to know how I got here, and these people,” she ground out between her teeth, “won’t explain anything to me. They just insist I cover myself, calm down, and get back in bed. Screw your bed!” she yelled toward Dr. Walcott, who winced in return before her gaze swung back to Roxleigh. “I had a presentation today. I’ve been working on this for months— No! Gah! My whole life!” Her voice broke on the last word and she rubbed her throat gently as she looked down. “I sound like I smoked a pack of reds.” She straightened her spine and looked him square in the eyes. “This crap isn’t funny. Explain how I ended up here in this drafty room, in someone else’s underwear, and how you are going to get me home!” Her voice cut out again and she held her throat as she swayed, drifting closer to him, her other hand flattening against his chest to steady herself.
Roxleigh looked from the woman to the doctor, then back. He watched as she steadied herself, then clasped his large hands together behind his back as he considered her with narrowed eyes. She spoke French, but English as well, although he couldn’t place the dialect. He took a deep breath to gather his frayed nerves. He didn’t much care for surprises, and was having a difficult time reconciling the soft, injured figure he’d carried from the track with the angry young lady who stood before him now. He fancied himself quite a patient man, but this behavior was more than enough to cause his control to slip.
“First of all, miss, you must remove your prodding hand from my waistcoat and gather your wits. I am more than interested in assisting you, as soon as you are able to compose yourself.”
Francine glanced at her hand and suddenly felt the heat of him sinking into her skin. She yanked the appendage back. Compose? Her gaze snapped to his. “Compose this, jackass!” she yelled, ignoring the searing pain that knifed through her throat and head as she flipped him off.
His jaw twitched.
Taking one more step forward, she drew herself up and let her hands fall to her sides. She realized, rather abruptly, that the difference between them was not slight and she wished she had her heels on so as to even it a bit. He must have been more than six feet, and it wasn’t just his height that was overwhelming. He was broad through the shoulders, which was greatly emphasized by his stark white shirt, brocade vest, and well-tailored suit. Was I at a wedding?
She looked back up. His jaw was wide and sharp, his full lips drawn against a set of straight, gleaming teeth, and his dark hair curled at the ends. She met his eyes. They were curious but stern--deep pools of emerald green with a few hints of topaz near the edges. Her mind swirled.
She leaned toward him, inexplicably drawn as a fly to a web, and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. His scent was soap and spice, slightly dusty, with a hint of salty exertion and something else she couldn’t quite place. She gazed into his face, and his tense expression had the most overwhelmingly comforting effect on her.
She took a deep breath and felt her eyelids start to flutter. He seized her by both arms above the elbows and pulled her toward his chest. He held a wide stance and lifted her, her thighs drifting between his as she worked to keep her toes on the ground.
“You will show some semblance of respect when you address me within the boundaries of my estate. Is that understood?” The words rolled from the depth of his cavernous chest as his eyes smoldered, and though it was posed as a question, there was no debating the rhetorical nature with which it was delivered.
Francine glanced to the servants, wondering if they would help or hinder her, but they were frozen in place. She tried to break free of his hold as she looked back to his ferocious countenance. She felt the corded muscles of his thighs surrounding her own, his proximity overwhelming as she tried to figure out what to do with her arms. She alternated pushing her hands against his hard, unforgiving chest, then curling them toward hers. Finally, his heaving breaths accentuating his strength, she began to hyperventilate.
“Calm yourself,” he said fiercely.
She turned her head away from his brutal visage only to catch sight of herself in a tall polished mirror—then forgot him altogether. Her jaw dropped and she quit her struggle as she gazed at a woman standing in her place, half-naked and covered with bruises, her hair tangled with twigs and soil. But what troubled her most was the color and length. The deep brown hair fell like water cascading over rapids, well past her waist, the curling tips gently brushing her backside. “Madeleine,” she said, sotto voce. The eyes in the mirror grew wide as she lost control of her breathing entirely and stared at the reflection of who she wasn’t. She tried to scream, but the sound caught and heat flooded her throat as she fell limply against him.
“Bloody hell!” Roxleigh exclaimed, grasping at the wilted girl’s shoulders as she slid down his front like a sack of bones. He bent one knee between her legs to brace her before she hit the floor. “Doctor, if you please.”
Dr. Walcott smoothed his hair as he approached and grabbed her legs. When he finally had hold of her, Roxleigh marched with him toward the bed and released her as quickly as he was able, dropping her to the mattress.
“Thank you, Dr. Walcott, for your attention.” He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket, partly to straighten his rumpled clothing and partly to erase the tingling that spread like wildfire from where he had touched her.
He turned swiftly, smoothing his disarrayed locks and straightening his waistcoat as he headed for the door. “I shall be in my study should you need me, doctor,” he said as he closed the remaining gap to the exit in three great strides. He avoided the terrified faces of Meggie and Carole as he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I expect to be kept apprised of the situation with the—uh, my…guest.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Dr. Walcott replied. As the doctor leaned over the girl, Roxleigh turned and fled.
Roxleigh strode into his study and poured a fair amount of whiskey from the decanter, then
turned to lean against the sideboard as he drank. He could still feel her softness pressed up against the length of him, and he rubbed his palm down his patterned waistcoat once again to try to dissipate the sensations.
He was furious at losing his composure in front of his staff. He felt so tightly drawn that if anyone came close right now they’d likely be in danger. Though it wasn’t anger he felt for the strange woman—no, it was something else. The feel of her and the way she spoke to him was thoroughly perplexing. How dare she speak to him in so familiar a tone; she was no one to him, but he was a peer. She had no right to address him without permission, much less rail at him the way she had.
He downed the last bit of whiskey and turned back to the sideboard, setting the glass down with a determined thud. He didn’t understand why she affected him in such a manner. Whatever the doctor determined her malady to be, she would soon be sent away, regardless of whether he felt responsible for her injuries—
She could not stay here. He would see to it that she received the best possible care somewhere else. Somewhere far from Eildon Hill Park. Such a violently discomforting feeling had never besieged him, but he was certain once she left he would be set to rights. The Season was beginning soon and he had a wife to find. He could not be distracted with this girl.
“Your Grace, I have news,” Dr. Walcott said from the entry.
“Come.” Roxleigh motioned toward his desk.
The doctor scurried in as Roxleigh turned and leaned against the forward edge. He felt drained and was in no mood for further surprises. “Has she awakened so soon? I expected I would not hear from you for some time.”
“Yes, Your Grace, she awakened momentarily.”
“So she has gathered her wits?”
The doctor gave him a wary glance. “No, Your Grace. That is, she came about, but I gave her laudanum to calm her because she was contrary. I cannot attest to whether or not she has regained her wits, but I am of the opinion that she has not…and she will not,” he said resolutely.
Roxleigh read the man’s face, measuring the tension and judging the veracity of his pronouncement. In matters of the Crown he had the innate ability to precisely cut the chaff and remove the core of any situation, giving him not only a clear advantage but also the ability to complete transactions with lightning speed. He arrived, weighed, measured, decided, and departed, and in general those in his wake were left in awe. “What say you, then?” he asked, watching.
Dr. Walcott returned his gaze carefully. “She should be taken immediately to Bethlem Hospital for further evaluation, most likely for committal.”
Roxleigh stiffened. His breath stilled with disbelief. She’d been irreverent, of course, but she otherwise seemed fit—except for the injuries of the collision. He could not relegate her to the devil’s own crypt, no matter how contrary her nature. “No,” he said harshly. The idea was untenable; he would not subject a person, a woman, to such a fate.
The doctor backed up a pace. “I beg pardon, Your Grace? I do not understand. The woman is quite obvio—”
“No,” Roxleigh repeated, his voice strong and unwavering as he straightened to his full height. “I appreciate your help in this matter, and if you have completed your attentions, your services this evening are no longer required.”
“Yes. Yes, Your Grace.” The doctor appeared stunned. “I should mention that she seems to have damaged her voice. She should not be speaking. Since you choose to tend to her, I will prepare a list of instructions. But if you should need—”
Roxleigh dismissed him with a gesture. “I will send for you, of course.”
Dr. Walcott whirled and left the study.
Roxleigh walked back to the sideboard, leaning over the whiskey decanter, his mind racing. What have I done? If she is that far gone, there is no way for me to help her. I know nothing of this girl; I have no relation to her. Why must I feel obligated to protect her?
But he knew why. After what seemed hours instead of minutes, he straightened once more and rang for Mrs. Weston.
“Your Grace?” she asked warily as she entered the study.
“Mrs. Weston,” he said without turning from the sideboard. “It seems our guest will remain with us for a time. She has the physical mien of a lady, and shall be treated as such. She should be made as comfortable as possible and given every freedom in the manor, save one. She must never be left alone. She is your charge. Make the necessary arrangements.”
“Gid… I… Your Grace?” Mrs. Weston sputtered. “Are you quite sure ‘tis safe?”
He turned on her, seeing her unnerved expression. But it was not her right to question him; while he’d known Mrs. Weston for the entirety of his life, he was at this point her master and expected certain formalities. He cast her a firm sideways glance to remind her of her place. “I will not send her to Bedlam,” he said quietly.
She drew a sharp breath, understanding blossoming across her features. Righting herself quickly, she replied, “Of course, Your Grace, I will see to everything. She will be well cared for here.” Mrs. Weston gave a hasty curtsey and retreated from the room.
Bracing himself, he let out a deep, guttural moan, closing his eyes tightly against their sting. He turned, straightening his waistcoat once again and smoothing his unruly hair. There was no more time he could give to the matter. Yet though he had much work to accomplish, now he was entirely too agitated. He needed to ride.
Francine stirred as a ray of sunlight warmed her face through the window. What day is it? No alarm—must be Sunday. Keeping her eyes closed, she smiled and giggled at the ridiculous dream her unconscious had unleashed on her the night before. She stretched, curving her back like a cat, and reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes, wincing as her fingers grazed the bandage on her forehead. Hesitantly, she looked through her lashes. Seeing the rich brown velvet comforter that covered the bed, she froze.
“No,” she whispered. There was a swift movement from across the room and she sat up suddenly. The pain lanced through her forehead and branched out in delicate webs throughout her body. She clasped her head, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples as she fell sideways into the mound of pillows.
She heard someone approach, but kept her eyes shut tight against the light.
“Miss,” the gentle voice said. “Miss? Is there something I can do?”
Francine groaned into the pillows as she waved one of her hands above her head.
“Is it the light, miss?” the voice asked.
“Mmmuuuh,” was all that she could say, nodding her achy head as she tried to swallow. The maid quickly released the tent from the bedposts and drew the curtains closed around Francine, who relaxed immediately, letting out a desperate sigh as she sank into the mattress.
This is not happening.
Mrs. Weston was preparing a breakfast tray for her new charge when the small chime rang, calling her to the main guest suite. “Ah, Your Grace, I hope this girl is worthy of your kindness,” she said under her breath. She hurried through the kitchen, seeing that dinner was being prepared in a timely manner, and walked out to the entry, pausing only to inspect the new day’s work.
The great entrance of Eildon Manor opened to the morning and Mrs. Weston liked to see it cleaned early so Roxleigh could enjoy the sunrise. Enormous, solid cherry doors graced the front, surrounded by leaded glass windows. The room itself was a rotunda, everything about it meant to set off the large, round table centered in the entry, which would easily seat thirty guests. It had been designed, constructed, and inlaid with more than fifty types of wood that were brought as tributes from around the world to Roxleigh’s great-great grandsire, Marcus Avris Trumbull, the sixth duke, who had designed and built the manor. Above the table, floating below the large, stained-glass dome, hung a crystal chandelier of the same scale.
Across from the entry loomed the grand staircase, which mirrored the shapes of the table and the chandelier. It protruded into the perfect circle of the room at its first step and rose, gently narr
owing to the first floor, where the dark wall panels concealed a private parlor. The only evidence of the parlor was the row of high placed windows that signified a great, airy room which overlooked the whole of the valley at the back of the manor.
The sweeping design of the grand staircase masked the private stairways that led to passages woven throughout the walls. They ensured the servants could carry out their duties as masters required: quickly, quietly, and efficiently.
Nearly every bedchamber—almost thirty of them—consisted of an intricate suite of rooms branching off from winding hallways in awkward patterns. It was an annoyance for guests who came to Eildon, as they often became lost and had to ring the servants’ bells to summon a rescue. The sixth duke, Marcus, had designed the layout in order to skulk around the manor to watch his guests, and all the goings-on, without being noticed. It also allowed him to keep both a mistress and a wife under the same roof.
Mrs. Weston turned from her inspection and shuffled for the first floor guest suite, gathering her skirts. As she turned toward the wall to enter the passage behind the grand staircae, she noted Roxleigh’s curious glare from the door of his study. She nodded. He didn’t move, and she could feel him watching as she ascended the stairs and disappeared into the wall.
Francine could see the maid next to the door through a breach in the curtains. She was wringing her hands as an older woman entered, the one from yesterday.
“Mrs. Weston, ma’am, she only just woke. She hasn’t said anything yet, just groans and such. The light seemed to bother her, so I fell the tent.”
Mrs. Weston nodded and carefully made her way across the room. “Miss,” she said as she pulled the curtain back on one side of the giant bed. “I am Mrs. Weston. I shall be attending you. If there is anything you need, please never hesitate to ask.”