by Ava Stone
For the remainder of the evening, she had sat with Edie and discussed all manner of things which were quite inane and banal, but which blessedly allowed her mind to wander to things other than Lord Preston’s piercing hazel eyes. How very odd that he preferred to watch a roaring fire than to look upon her.
Of course it would happen that the first place her mind wandered was back to that room in the blue corridor. Or, to be more specific, to the reliquary itself which was in the room…and to the five thousand pounds Lord Upton Grey seemed certain it would fetch at auction.
She oughtn’t to allow herself to think about it at all. It wasn’t hers. It belonged to her host. Well, now that he’d given it to Lord Preston, she supposed it belonged to the marquess. Nevertheless, it wasn’t hers, or Mama’s, or any of her sisters’, or even Percy’s.
It shouldn’t matter to her in the slightest.
Yet she could think of little else, if anything at all.
Because of that, she quickly grew bored with sitting in the drawing room and whiling away the hours until she could make her escape.
Then an absurd idea struck her and, as with all the Bexley-Smythes, once an idea took root in her mind, it was practically murder to remove it. She wanted to go back to the blue corridor, back to the near-empty room housing the golden reliquary, and take a closer look at it.
She just wanted to determine if it really was a reliquary as she suspected. Or at least that was what she was trying desperately to convince herself of. And if it was one, she wanted to know if it was still holding the relic it had been created to hold. Surely Lord Upton Grey had already checked inside it, but one never knew for certain about these things unless one was willing to perform an investigation.
There were few individuals Freddie knew who would be better suited to investigating anything. She’d spent years trying to sort out all the various lies and half-truths her siblings had told, all in the name of making certain someone other than the person in question was blamed for some nonsense or another. In more recent years, it had fallen upon her to investigate all the pursuits Percy had undertaken so she could discover in advance what their fate might be. Determining exactly what this treasure was could be entrusted to no one else—particularly since no one should know she was aware of its existence.
For all she knew, it could be something else other than a reliquary entirely.
She’d only seen it from a distance, after all, and her glance had been fleeting at best before she’d made her hasty escape. But…well…she just needed to know. It was a particularly bothersome trait…another of those Bexley-Smythe characteristics which so often felt like curses.
Alas, Freddie wasn’t one to typically feign an illness, but that was precisely what she did when, after at least two hours of such ennui-inducing tedium, it seemed the other occupants of the drawing room were no closer to retiring for the evening than they had been immediately after supper.
After what could perhaps have been considered an overly dramatic sigh, she placed a hand to her temple. “Oh, dear.”
Edie was still so caught up in her current conversation with Lady Upton Grey that she didn’t hear her. Either that or she was ignoring her. One of the two.
But Lady Upton Grey turned in her seat and leaned forward. “Are you quite all right, my dear?”
The lady’s concerned query drew the attention of the entire room. It became very quiet all of a sudden, almost eerily so. Even Lord Preston turned his slightly troubled hazel eyes in her direction.
Goodness. She hadn’t intended to draw all eyes in the room to her. It was much easier to make a quiet and subversive retreat if one hasn’t garnered an entire room’s attention. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said in a rush. “It’s just a bit of a megrim, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, how horrid,” Lady Upton Grey said. “I always suffer megrims after spending more than a few hours in a carriage. It’s the constant bumps along the road, I’m sure. Come, you should go up to bed at once.” With that, the lady rose and reached out a hand as though to assist Freddie.
Bother and blast, she wasn’t truly ill. She couldn’t have anyone coming with her—not if she intended to go and get a better look at the silly reliquary. Then she’d have to go all the way to her chamber, likely change into her nightrail and climb into bed until her maid left her alone, and then somehow find a way to sneak back down to the blue corridor without any proper clothes on.
That would prove to be the absolute opposite of coming closer to meeting her end goal.
“Oh, truly,” Freddie said far more hastily than she ought to have done. She pushed herself to her feet and smoothed her skirts, all the while making a pointed effort to avoid looking at Lord Preston, lest he stare at the fire again and befuddle her more than she already was. “There’s no need for you to accompany me. I’ll just go upstairs and Meg will see to getting me settled.”
Slowly returning to her seat, Lady Upton Grey inclined her head just enough for the action to be visible. “If you’re certain…”
“Meg will see to anything she needs,” Mama put in. “We will see you in the morning, Frederica. I’m sure you’ll feel much more the thing then.”
Their hostess smiled graciously up at Freddie. “I do so hope you feel well enough to join us tomorrow.”
“As do I.” Before anyone could say anything else which might deter her, Freddie skirted around the various chairs and tables and out of the drawing room. Once she was alone, however, she didn’t continue on towards the stairs. She looked all around her, making certain no one would see where she was headed, and then turned in the direction of the blue corridor.
Curiosity might have killed the cat, which was an awful thought indeed…but it would undoubtedly kill her, too, if she didn’t appease it.
Since Lady Frederica had already gone up, Preston didn’t feel it would be too terribly rude of him to excuse himself from the after-dinner festivities soon after her departure.
Therefore, he told Upton Grey and his sisters that due to his extensive travel—not to mention the reason for it—he was weary and in need of his bed.
That wasn’t exactly true, though, or at least not entirely.
The truth was that since he’d first come into contact with the two young Bexley-Smythe ladies, his thoughts had been almost entirely consumed with images of them wielding fire pokers and myriad other seemingly harmless objects which could be brandished against him. Every item he looked at suddenly became alarming.
When Lady Frederica had picked up her fork to eat at supper, he imagined her stabbing him with it.
When Lady Edwina had raised her glass to her lips, he imagined her coshing him over the head instead.
Even now Lady Edwina, the smaller and younger of the two, seemed to have a weapon in her hands, though in actuality it was merely a book of poetry. Surely she could use it to slam against his toes and distract him while her mother, Lady Stalbridge, utilized more destructive armaments against him.
Perhaps sleep was called for. It certainly might help to clear his head.
That said, the thought of falling asleep with such thoughts still at the forefront of his mind did not sound appealing in the slightest. Preston could only imagine the path his dreams might take.
So instead of making his way directly to the Wolfe bedroom and seeking solace in his rest, he decided he needed to do something else. Something which could completely redirect his line of focus.
In short order, he found himself walking through the blue wing Upton Grey was remodeling towards the study where the reliquary remained. He wanted to take a closer look at it while no one was looking over his shoulder.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that his brother-in-law was so keen to assist in Preston’s efforts for Darlingshire House—not after what had happened with Rachel. Yet the level of Upton Grey’s generosity was remarkable.
The corridor was empty and rather dark, as expected. A few of the sconces held lit candles, but of course there were not nearly as many as
one would find in the occupied parts of the great house when guests were present.
What did surprise him, however, was the fact that the study’s door was open. Hadn’t they closed it when they left this afternoon? He was certain they had.
Preston slowed his gait as he drew closer to the doorway, listening to determine if someone was still inside. Perhaps a servant was cleaning? No, that seemed unlikely given the late hour. The servants were either still serving the family or had already taken to their beds, so they could be well rested for the upcoming day’s work.
He listened more carefully, but no matter how closely he listened, he heard nothing.
Yet, once he was mere feet away, a faint light was recognizable filtering gently through the open doorway.
He knew without a doubt that they hadn’t left a candle burning when they’d quit the room earlier. More damning still, the efficacy with which Goddard ran the house left no likelihood for a servant to have forgotten such a potentially hazardous detail as leaving a candle unattended in an unoccupied room after cleaning within.
Someone was most assuredly inside, and that someone almost certainly was the same someone who had vocalized the gasp he’d heard from the hallway this afternoon—the very gasp which Upton Grey had sworn must be merely a figment of Preston’s imagination.
On the contrary, his imagination had never been so vocal before. Preston held sincere doubt it would have begun to effect such peculiar behavior at this moment or any other.
No, someone had absolutely, unequivocally gasped.
Not simply someone. It had to be none other than Lady Frederica Bexley-Smythe, given the fact that only she had supposedly retired for the night other than Preston himself. No one else could have arrived here before him without them passing him on their way.
What in God’s name was she doing?
Preston stifled a groan and said a quick prayer for favor, and in particular for the sort of favor which might involve the lack of suitable weapons being held in the lady’s hands, and then he entered the study.
The flickering light from her flame and the faint glow of the moon pouring through the windows illuminated the golden reliquary in the otherwise black-as-pitch room, and then bounced back to shimmer within the silvery and golden hues of her hair. She held the candlestick aloft in one hand, the other caressing the reliquary almost as one would caress a lover, her delicate and elegant fingers trailing along the ridges of its detailed edges.
His heart lurched at the vision, and then it lurched again at the direction his thoughts had taken. Allowing himself to think about any young lady’s touch as a lover’s caress was akin to asking for problems he wasn’t prepared to remedy. Marriage was not to be in his future—not after what had happened to Arrington—and marriageable-aged misses always had marriage upon the mind.
The Bexley-Smythe sisters surely weren’t an exception to the rule, especially when one considered the muck of things Stalbridge had created for them all. Finding a way to secure appropriate matches, and sooner rather than later, had to be at the forefront of each of their minds.
But why was this sister here caressing his reliquary when she ought to be in her chamber nursing an aching head?
Just then, her fingers curled around the top of the cross and lifted it free, exposing the interior to her view. “Blast,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Preston had to stifle the urge to laugh, but hearing her curse was the last thing he would have expected. “Expecting to find a relic still inside?”
She jumped, allowing both the golden piece in her hand and her candlestick to crash to the floor. The drop extinguished the candle, thank the lord, but it left the pair of them in total darkness. He’d caught sight of her huge, brown eyes in that brief moment of surprise, though, wide as cannon balls and as expressive as any he’d ever seen.
Her expression wasn’t nearly as amusing and intriguing as the curse that came from her lips just then. “You ought to give a lady some warning instead of coming upon her unawares like that.”
He imagined her holding her hands upon her hips in an action reminiscent of a willful governess. The image did nothing to quell the sudden lustful urges he’d acquired. Damn, but something would have to be done about that.
Preston gritted his teeth, as though that could somehow put a block on his desire. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time I discover a lady handling something of mine in an unused room where she oughtn’t to be, particularly when the lady in question should be upstairs in her bed.”
Taking cautious steps in the dark, he moved closer to the center of the room. His thigh brushed against the table, and he stooped to retrieve her discarded items. For a long moment, his hand swiped fruitlessly through the air, only making purchase with the legs of the table. He shifted closer and tried again.
She harrumphed at first, but then squeaked in shock when he grabbed what he’d hoped was the warm candlestick but in reality was her warm ankle. As soon as he realized what he’d taken hold of he tried to release her.
He wasn’t fast enough.
She jerked back, pulling the both of them towards her in such an awkward manner he toppled onto her.
In attempting to brace himself in order to prevent crushing her beneath his weight, his hand fell upon the golden top of the reliquary which she’d dropped, which hurt like the dickens. He did manage, at least, to hold most of his body aloft despite the pain.
“If you do not remove yourself from my person right this instant, I’ll scream.”
Based on the unwavering sincerity in her voice, Preston didn’t doubt her threat for a moment. And since the very last thing in the world he wanted to happen was to be trapped into a marriage—any marriage—he rolled away as fast as he could…then bit back a curse, as he’d rolled over the candlestick she’d dropped. The silver lip and handle bit into the small of his back, causing an excruciating new form of torment he would have sooner gone his entire life without knowing.
He tried to catch his breath and roll further to alleviate the pain. The skirts of Lady Frederica’s gown were trapped beneath him. She tugged just as he’d almost come free of the candlestick, which forced him fully back onto it. His intake of breath came as a hiss.
“Off! Get off my gown!” Her voice had risen to a dangerous pitch already. They would hear her if he didn’t silence her.
“God’s teeth, woman, be still.” Somehow amidst all her flailing, Preston managed to extricate himself and move away, taking care to remove both the candlestick and the top of the reliquary as he did so. After placing them both on the table, lest she take it upon herself to use either of them against him, he reached down to assist her. “Give me your hand.”
“I’d sooner plant you a facer.”
Why must the females of the species conspire against him so? He was merely trying to be of assistance, yet she was reacting as though he’d been attempting to ravish her. With a beleaguered sigh, he bent at the waist and bodily lifted her to her feet, setting her well away from him and even further away from the table covered with potentially dangerous items.
“I’m sure if we spend enough time in one another’s company,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “you’ll likely do precisely that. But for now, I’m sure you wouldn’t care to explain to your mother and my brother-in-law just why I might be spouting blood from the nose when we both ought to be in our respective chambers.”
“It would be from the mouth, my lord,” she said primly. “I daresay your great height might prove to be a disadvantage in this circumstance, but I’m sure your lips would heal eventually.”
“Either way—” Preston put another pace between them, trying to scour the room for any other potential weapons by the pale moonlight shining through the windows “—would it not behoove us both to prevent anyone from knowing of our midnight tryst? Or would you prefer to explain to everyone why you are here, in a part of my brother-in-law’s home which is not open for guests? And why you are not upstairs in your bed after seeming
ly feigning illness?”
“A part of his home you’re likewise in, my lord. I’ll be glad to inform them of how you knocked me to the floor and rolled atop me,” she snapped.
“You’re in such a rush to stand before the altar, then?”
She let out a laugh which sent chills racing through Preston’s veins. “Not exactly, no.”
What on earth could possibly be so funny? A protracted silence fell upon them, which only caused his anxiety to reach new heights.
She took in a loud breath as though attempting to calm herself. “I do believe I might be in a hurry to see you at the altar, though.”
The chill which stole through Preston’s veins was liable to freeze him to the spot.
All the next day, Freddie had to fight the urge to sulk. She’d barely had time to look at the reliquary at all before Lord Preston had come upon her and quashed her plans. Granted, the look of sheer terror upon his face when she’d intimated her desire to observe him standing before the marriage altar had been enough to draw out her smile on more than a few occasions.
Even now, seated beside Edie in the drawing room after supper, the memory of how his eyes had widened in shock, not to mention how his lips had gone suddenly taut and white, kept running through her mind.
At least she’d had the time and opportunity to verify that it was, in fact, a reliquary…even if she’d had time for nothing else. She could consider her curiosity assuaged and, if her luck held out, she could set aside all thought of the silly thing.
It was hard not to think about how it had felt when they had fallen to the ground. Her backside had hurt, of course, but then she’d felt Lord Preston’s warmth hovering only inches above her, felt the strength in the arms which had stopped his fall. If she’d allowed him to stay in such a position for even a few seconds longer than she had, Freddie had no doubt she would have forgotten entirely about her purpose for being in that hallway in the first place. Her focus would have surely turned instead to what it might be like to kiss him.