by Farr, Diane
By the time she returned with her plate to the table, Miss Pickens and her hostess had moved on to another subject—one that enthralled Lilah even less than history did. She frowned in irritation as Miss Pickens lavished praise on the absent Lord Drakesley.
“And to think of him helping two strangers!” she gushed. “I never met with such extraordinary consideration. And in a man of his rank, too! He put me forcibly in mind of the Good Samaritan.”
“The extremely reluctant Samaritan,” said Lilah tartly, dropping into her chair with an indignant flounce. “You know you are talking nonsense, Picky. Why, he threatened at one point to put us out on the road—simply because my name is Chadwick! The only extraordinary thing I saw in Lord Drakesley’s conduct was his arrogance. Now that, I will own, is something out of the common way.” She shook out her napkin with an angry snap, then paused. It hit her, all of a sudden, that she was maligning her hostess’s nephew. She felt the color rush into her face and her gaze flew guiltily to Polly Peabody.
Mrs. Peabody looked merely thoughtful. “It’s true that Drake can be high-handed,” she said agreeably. “He means well—most of the time—but I have often told him that his temper will be the death of him.”
Lilah bit her lip, scarlet with shame. “I am so sorry,” she said, in a strangled voice. “I should not have said such things of your nephew. I am afraid I am not myself this morning.”
Mrs. Peabody smiled very kindly. “Never mind, my dear. You had a difficult evening last night, did you not?” She turned to Miss Pickens and confided, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Drake kissed her, you know.”
Lilah gasped. The color burning in her cheeks seemed to drain in a heartbeat. And to think that, two minutes ago, she had thought Polly Peabody’s informality charming!
Miss Pickens, frozen with her teacup halfway to her mouth, looked as if she had been turned to stone. Her goggling expression might have struck Lilah as comical, had she not been too horrified to appreciate it.
Mrs. Peabody appeared oblivious to Lilah’s and Miss Pickens’s reaction to her simple statement. She continued speaking, placidly spooning sugar into her tea. “We did not actually see them kiss, but what we did see was more than sufficient to tell us what had taken place. I wonder why Drake turned round and offered marriage to Eugenia, after demonstrating so conclusively his attraction to someone else? It strikes me as most peculiar. But perhaps I am old-fashioned.” She glanced at the door and her face brightened. “Here is Nat at last.”
Mr. Peabody rolled in, puffing and beaming, and nodded genially at the ladies. “Good morning, good morning everyone. Good morning, my pet.” He bent and planted a loud kiss on his wife’s cheek, then straightened, rubbing his hands together with delight as he looked from Lilah to Miss Pickens. “Ah! This is cozy. How d’ye do? Nathaniel Peabody. Don’t believe we’ve met.”
Miss Pickens half-rose in confusion, murmuring a few disjointed phrases. Mr. Peabody shook her hand heartily and sat down, taking the presence of a complete stranger at his breakfast table entirely in stride. He stole a bit of scone off his wife’s plate and asked, as he popped it in his mouth, “I say, where’s Horace?”
His wife frowned scoldingly at him over the tops of her spectacles. “Behave yourself, Nat, for pity’s sake. What will our guests think? Horace and Eugenia have gone to church.”
“Ah, yes.” He swallowed contentedly. “Sunday. I should have thought they’d give it a miss, after dancing all night—but I suppose they want to be there when the banns are read. Not bad, these scones.” He winked at Lilah. “Scottish cook this morning. French chap resting up after last night. Have you tasted the porridge?”
Lilah stared at him. She had the oddest sensation that time had stopped, leaving her suspended forever in the breakfast room at Wexbridge Abbey. “No,” she said, her voice sounding high and faint. “No, I have not. Excuse me, but did you say…banns? Banns being read?”
“That’s right.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What! Didn’t you know? Horace told me he’d written you. Had a notion that’s why you showed up here last night.”
Lilah pressed a hand to her forehead. “Yes, but—Papa’s letter said nothing of banns. I had the impression that…” Her voice trailed off.
She had had the impression that Papa’s marriage to Eugenia Mayhew was nothing more than a vague possibility, something being talked of, not prepared for. There was a vast gulf between a marriage proposal and the actual reading of banns. Banns were serious. Banns meant that the marriage might actually take place within a few weeks! How could matters have progressed so swiftly?
While Lilah struggled with her emotions, Mr. and Mrs. Peabody continued the conversation. Nat turned to Polly for confirmation. “It’s the second reading of the banns, is it not, my love? Yes, yes, I thought so. Being read in Wiltshire, I daresay, as well as here. And up in the Lake District somewhere as well, Drakesley’s parish. Have to publish ‘em everywhere the parties reside. Or so I believe.”
“Yes, I think that’s right,” said Polly. “Unless the couple marries by special license, of course.”
“No need for that; Horace and Eugenia are a sensible pair. Always thought there was something unseemly about rushing down the aisle, not bothering with banns. Silly stuff! Almost as bad as an elopement, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course, nor ever does.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “At any rate, they’re expensive things, special licenses.”
Miss Pickens chimed in. “I had a cousin who married by special license. So extravagant! But she was ever the impatient sort.”
Lilah sat silent, inwardly seething. Everyone was acting as if Papa’s betrothal to Miss Mayhew was nothing more than an interesting event! Could they not see how outrageous, how unsuitable, the match was? Could they not understand the anguish it was causing Lilah? A strong sense of injury began to swell her bosom. She felt betrayed. Overlooked. Her feelings, her opinions, her concerns, her very dignity, were being ignored. If the Peabodys were correct, and this was the second Sunday the banns were being read, Papa had planned to marry Miss Mayhew without even introducing her to his only child! Was she worth nothing to Papa? Was she a cipher in her own home? Tears of anger and hurt pricked Lilah’s eyelids.
When Miss Pickens began clucking contentedly about how much she looked forward to meeting the future Lady Chadwick, Lilah could stand it no more. She flew up out of her chair, quivering with emotion. “This is intolerable!” she cried, flinging down her napkin. “Does no one have any consideration for my feelings? Am I to be passed over? Will my father marry a total stranger, without so much as a by-your-leave? I seem to have strayed into a nightmare.”
Three pairs of eyes fixed on her with expressions ranging from mild surprise (Nat Peabody) to outright distress (Miss Pickens). Mrs. Peabody tsked sympathetically. “There, there, dearie, it’s not as bad as that,” she said, in the tone one uses to soothe a screaming two year-old. “We know Eugenia so well, and think so highly of her, we never stopped to think how the situation might strike you. Once you have had a chance to become acquainted with her—”
“I don’t wish to become acquainted with her!” Lilah cried. She knew she sounded irrational as well as uncivil, but she was past caring. “I wish to return to Wiltshire with Papa and go on just as we always have!”
She had to stop herself from blurting out, And I want my mother! She pushed a fist into her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, and fled the room.
But this was terrible. She was in a completely strange house. Her breath hitching, she ran into a disused salon across the hall from the breakfast room and slammed the door behind her. It was cold and dark, with no fire lit and the draperies pulled across the window embrasure. She didn’t care. Cold and dark matched her mood beautifully. She vented her feelings by delivering a few savage kicks to a tufted ottoman, then sank onto the closest sofa, buried her face in an embroidered pillow, and wept like a child.
Exactly like a child. Good God, this was appalling. Shameful
.
What on earth was the matter with her? Why had all her emotions boiled up to the surface like this? She was carrying on like a madwoman. A rude madwoman, since she had begun her outburst at the Peabodys’ breakfast table.
She sat up, struggling to scold herself back into control. What would Drake think if he saw her like this?
Now, there was another stupid thought. Why should she care what Drake thought of her? She didn’t care. She didn’t care. He was an ally at the moment, but not a permanent friend.
Somehow that thought made her even more miserable. It did, however, stiffen her spine. She dashed the tears from her cheeks with a resolute hand and took a deep breath. Enough. She would go to find Drake and tell him the latest bit of news. He may be the most irritating man on the face of the planet, but at least he was capable—and, on this subject if no other, sympathetic. If anyone could help her out of the present emergency, it was he.
She rose, shook out her skirts, and walked out of the room with her head high. She would keep a grip on her turbulent emotions, she promised herself. Even if, in order to accomplish this, she had to ignore two uncomfortable facts: that the very notion of going to find Drake had inexplicably lifted her spirits, and that no degree of urgency was sufficient to keep her from washing her face and tucking her hair back into place before she went.
Merely seeing Drake, of course, would neither strengthen nor comfort her. He had no magic power to make her feel better. It was absurd to feel more cheerful at the very thought of him. He might come up with an idea, but she knew perfectly well that he might not. This sense of pleasurable anticipation, this weird bubble of excitement, defied logic. It must be due to some disorder of her nerves.
Chapter 12
Bribing a junior housemaid to tell her which of the bedchambers housed Lord Drakesley was the work of a moment. Lilah marched to the door and raised her hand to knock—then paused. The wondering eyes of the housemaid, fixed on her with a combination of awe and disapproval, reminded Lilah of the awkwardness of her situation. A young lady could hardly visit a single gentleman in his bedchamber. Pounding on his door and entreating him to come out would doubtless be beyond the line as well. She hesitated, then reluctantly let her hand fall.
“Thank you,” she told the housemaid, with a nice air of hauteur. “That will be all.”
The girl looked as if she would like to stay and see what Lilah did, but she obediently ducked a curtsey and scurried away. Alone in the dimly-lit hall outside Drake’s door, Lilah stood, irresolute. Was Drake asleep or awake? There was nothing to give her a clue. And the morning habits of gentlemen were, naturally, beyond her ken.
She leaned cautiously forward and pressed her ear against the door. Nothing. She listened at the keyhole. Nothing. After a swift glance up and down the hall to make sure she was unobserved, she took a deep breath and pressed her eye to the keyhole. She was almost relieved when this maneuver, too, elicited no information.
Lilah stood up, frowning. She tapped her foot against the carpet and thought. If Drake was still asleep, which seemed likely, she must wake him somehow. It was vital that she speak with him before Papa and Miss Mayhew returned from church. Knocking on his door was unacceptable, but there must be some other method, more subtle than knocking, she could employ.
She cleared her throat experimentally, then coughed. She coughed loudly and repeatedly, then produced a false sneeze that was almost a shout: “Ah—tishoo!” Hopeful, she listened for a response, her ears on the prick. Even a rustle or a creak might indicate that she had disturbed his slumbers, but she could discern nothing through the thick planks of oak.
“Drat,” she muttered. Why couldn’t the Peabodys live in a modern house with proper doors? These old abbeys were like fortresses.
She wandered down the hall to the next door, which was slightly ajar, and peeked in. Her eyes brightened. What luck! The room contained a harpsichord, probably moved to this disused room after the Peabodys acquired a newer, more fashionable, pianoforte. A trumpet might have been better for her purpose, but beggars could not be choosers. Besides, Lilah didn’t know how to play a trumpet.
She ran lightly to the window and opened it, hoping to amplify the music’s effect in the room next door, then sat at the keyboard and began to play. There was no music, so Lilah was forced to rely upon memory. This limited her repertoire, but no matter. She played the same two pieces, several times over, with gusto, then ran back and slammed the door to the music room a couple of times for good measure. Now that, she thought triumphantly, would wake a stone.
She tiptoed back to Drake’s door and listened again, holding her breath. Nothing! Incredulous, she rocked back on her heels and stared at the doorknob as if her will alone could make it turn. The man must sleep like the dead. What more could she do?
There was a technique she had read about in a book. It was a work of fiction, but the idea sounded good. Determined to try it, she hurried back down the hall and found her way, by trial and error, to an outside door leading to the back garden. By careful counting, she divined which window belonged to Drake’s bedchamber and trotted along the gravel path until she was beneath it. Then she bent and picked up a handful of gravel.
The window seemed much farther from the ground than she had thought it would be. Never mind. She leaned back, mentally calculated the distance, and threw. The gravel spattered against the plaster wall beneath the window. No good. She picked up another handful and threw harder. This time, the gravel pinged and rattled in a most satisfactory way against the glass.
She waited, hopeful. Surely Drake’s head would appear in the window at any moment. Time passed. More time passed. Nothing! Lilah shook her head in disbelief. Did the man stuff cotton wool in his ears before retiring?
This time, she would wake him for sure. She picked up another, bigger, handful of gravel, and threw it with all her might.
Four things happened almost simultaneously: Lilah realized she had inadvertently included a fair-sized rock among the pebbles; the gravel hit the window; the rock broke the window; and someone grabbed her from behind.
Lilah screamed.
Drake’s arms tightened around her like a vise. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he thundered.
Lilah squirmed frantically, turning in his arms to face him. “Oh! Oh! You odious man,” she panted, shuddering. “Look what you made me do!”
“I made you? I made you vandalize my aunt’s home?” He seemed ready to strangle her. “Good God, what next will you accuse me of?”
Half mad with the horror of what she had done, Lilah beat her fist impotently against Drake’s chest. “What are you doing here?” she cried. “You nearly scared the life out of me. I thought you were abed!”
“Hell’s bells, woman, it’s nearly noon! I was taking a walk. What are you doing here? This had better be good, Lilah—I’m ready to hand you over to a constable!”
Lilah gasped. “I am not a criminal!”
“No? Then what in thunderation are you? Why are you standing out in the garden, breaking windows?”
Tears of mortification pricked Lilah’s eyes, but she blinked them back. She would not cry. Not again! “I am not breaking windows,” she told him hotly. “Not deliberately, at any rate. I am trying to wake you up.”
His amber eyes widened with incredulity. “You’re mad as a hatter.”
“I didn’t know you were already awake!”
“Obviously! But why not send a servant to wake me? Or was that too easy?” He shook his head in disgust. “You always choose the most dramatic means you can think of, to accomplish the simplest of tasks. If a fly landed on your arm, you’d shoot a pistol at it.”
“That’s not true!” cried Lilah, stung. Her innate honesty compelled her to add, “Not entirely true, at any rate. I did try simpler ways, before I threw the gravel. But—” Her face crumpled. “Oh, this is terrible. I have broken the window. What will the Peabodys think of me?” She covered her face with her hands.
�
��Never mind,” said Drake gruffly. He patted her awkwardly. “I’ll tell them I did it. They are never surprised by anything I do.”
Even in her distress, Lilah had to chuckle. She shook her head, however, dropping her hands from her face. “You are not to take the blame for my bad behavior,” she told him staunchly. “Why should you? Although I appreciate the offer, of course.”
She smiled up at him—and suddenly felt a bit shy. With a start, she realized she was gripping the lapels of his morning coat, and that his hands were linked behind her waist. It had felt so natural to be in his arms, she had thought nothing of it until this moment. Now she felt a blush heating her face.
He seemed to read her realization in her face, and obviously sensed that she was about to pull away from him, for his arms tightened behind her. “Don’t go,” he said hoarsely.
Something in his voice made her feel all weak and shivery.
“Drake,” she said, with an effort. “You know we agreed, last night, that we mustn’t be alone together.” She took a deep breath. “We must be careful,” she said unsteadily, addressing his neckcloth. She dared not look higher.
“Yes,” he said. His voice still sounded strained. “You’re right. There’s no telling what might happen.”
He had said the right words, but he hadn’t let her go. Lilah peeped up at his face for half a second, and was caught. His eyes seemed to burn into hers, holding her captive, drowning her will. She stared helplessly at him. His face seemed to grow larger, filling the world, and she realized his head was bending down to hers.
“Damn,” he muttered, in a voice of despair. And kissed her.
Oh, dear.
It was all wrong. But it felt so right. Some secret part of her had been longing for him to kiss her again, had been waiting for this very moment. That neglected corner of her soul somehow overruled her sensible, everyday self. The everyday Lilah was too demoralized to make even a token protest; Drake’s kiss was too important, too necessary, to her secret self. Thoroughly routed, her common sense surrendered without a whimper and clung to Drake with the rest of her, melting instinctively into his embrace as if she belonged there.