Lord of Secrets

by Alyssa Everett

  Rosalie didn’t know how to answer. She had the disquieting sense Mrs. Howard had been taking advantage of her. After all, Rosalie had nursed her through innumerable ailments, done her mending, read aloud to her and even lent the lady her gloves and jewelry. If not for Mrs. Howard, she might even have been with her father on the night he died. Rosalie gulped. Was she really so anxious to find a place that she was willing to let Mrs. Howard use her so ungratefully?

  But Rosalie also had the depressing sense that she had no one to blame but herself if Mrs. Howard didn’t want her. Charlie had said that the older woman treated her like a servant, but it was worse than that. A maid’s wages were more economical than a companion’s salary—and, lacking any real distinctions or accomplishments of her own, Rosalie had nothing but companionship to offer. It seemed she didn’t fit in anywhere, being too wellborn to work as an actual servant but too ordinary to mix with Mrs. Howard and her friends.

  Dully, she picked up the book and resumed her reading. “‘As thou art born of woman, spare the honor of a helpless maiden—She is the image of my deceased Rachel, she is the last of six pledges of her love—Will you deprive a widowed husband of his sole remaining comfort?’” The words blurred on the page, and Rosalie’s voice cracked. She looked up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howard. I can’t read any more right now.”

  Casting the book aside, Rosalie bolted from the cabin.

  * * *

  David strolled the deck, hoping to walk off a little of his restlessness. The sun was sinking, and the second dog watch, the last shift of crewmen before dark, were setting up the ship’s rigging for the night. As the men worked, tightening the slack lines and adjusting the sails, their distant shouts punctuated the soft lap of the waves.

  David had just passed the companionway when a softer sound—a muffled sob—made him turn. Miss Whitwell was emerging from below. When she caught sight of him, she froze, then made to go back the way she’d come.

  “No, wait.” Why did he call out to her? Was it simple curiosity about the sob he’d heard—or was it the odd lurch his heart had taken the moment he’d spotted her?

  She paused in her retreat but didn’t come any closer.

  “Please, tell me what’s wrong.” What was it she’d said to him on the night she’d urged him to join her at dinner? “I promise I don’t bite, Miss Whitwell.”

  She threw him an uncertain glance but hesitantly came up the remaining steps to join him. Whatever the reason for her tears, she was doing her best to present the appearance of composure. She lifted her chin, blinking rapidly.

  He had a disquieting vision of himself, ten years old and struggling with all his might not to cry in front of his uncle Frederick. “Whatever has you upset, perhaps I can help.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. Besides, it’s nothing so very calamitous. Mrs. Howard informed me she won’t be needing my services as her companion.”

  An hour ago, David would have welcomed the news. Not have to wait hand and foot on that old harridan? Miss Whitwell should have been giddy with relief. But now that David knew more about the girl’s uncle, a chill went through him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She wiped the corner of one eye. “Not that I blame Mrs. Howard. I owe her my gratitude, really. She’s been acting as my chaperone since the night my father died.”

  “Hardly an onerous task. And she did receive a rather larger cabin into the bargain.”

  “I’m sure she would have agreed to help me in any case.” Miss Whitwell looked down. “At any rate, that’s why I was upset. No great tragedy, not this time. But I’d hoped to be able to choose between working for her or living with my uncle, and now it appears the decision has been taken out of my hands. The news left me feeling rather...powerless.”

  Powerless. David’s brows came together. It wasn’t a word people often applied to themselves, at least not aloud. Perhaps that was why it struck a chord with him. Despite his wealth and position, he knew what it meant to feel powerless—against other people, against one’s own inclinations. Just hearing the word brought back unwelcome memories.

  Miss Whitwell looked up with a misty laugh. “What an odd way to express it! I don’t know why I said that. I was going to say alone, but thought better of it, since you seem to prefer being alone.”

  “Yes.” Noting her brimming eyes, he reached into his pocket and handed her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” She sniffled and dried the tears that clung to her long lashes. “I wish I could feel the same way you do—about being alone, I mean.”

  And he wished she weren’t crying. It made him want to reassure her everything would work out for the best, despite knowing now what kind of man her uncle was. Instead he gave her an encouraging half smile. “Being alone does have certain advantages. After all, human beings can be such willful, imprudent creatures.”

  “At times, perhaps, but you make it sound as if there’s no chance of anything but disappointment. Are you never pleasantly surprised by anyone?”

  “Now and then,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face. The warmth in his voice surprised him.

  It must have surprised her, too, for she blushed. “I was being serious.”

  “So was I.” How sweetly vulnerable she looked, flushed with the combination of tears and self-consciousness.

  She gave a weak laugh. “We were speaking of you, Lord Deal. Do you really find people so disappointing? It still troubles me that you keep so much to yourself.”

  Had they been speaking of him? He didn’t remember the conversation shifting from her problems to his. “There’s no need to trouble yourself on my account. I’m quite accustomed to solitude.”

  “Yes, but one can become accustomed to almost anything. That’s not the same as preferring it.”

  “Even if I wished to participate in society, who’s to say I should be welcome?”

  “Well, of course you’d be welcome! You’re the Marquess of Deal.”

  “I assure you, my title makes no difference to the society around my seat in Surrey. For all the land, position and influence I have there, my neighbors have made it abundantly clear they consider me persona non grata.” Gad, was that bitterness creeping into his tone? He hoped Miss Whitwell hadn’t noticed.

  Her forehead crinkled. “You? But why?”

  “Suicide is a criminal act, Miss Whitwell. My father escaped being buried at a crossroads with a stake through his heart only because a jury pronounced him a madman rather than a felon. My neighbors don’t take kindly to self-murder.”

  “But what has that to do with you? Even if they couldn’t find it in their hearts to spare some pity for your father, his death was hardly your fault.”

  David made no reply. None of the gentry around Lyningthorp cared about such technicalities. They’d cut him out of their society, and cut out his uncle Frederick and his aunt Celeste, too. Perhaps they’d sensed what Miss Whitwell apparently hadn’t—that the same dangerous weakness of character that had plagued his father had simply taken a less conspicuous form in him.

  Miss Whitwell moved closer. “I’m sorry certain closed-minded circles made you feel unwelcome, but you mustn’t give up on people entirely.”

  “And why not? Society and I are better off without each other, and it’s no great hardship to be alone. In fact, it can save one a good deal of pain. I had a family—until my father killed himself. And I was in love once, after a fashion. At least, I supposed it was love at the time. That also ended badly.”

  Why was he divulging such intensely personal information to Miss Whitwell? It would have been simple enough to turn the subject, to convey with a fleeting smile or a dismissive shrug that he’d said all he wished to say on the matter. But he had no wish to fob off Miss Whitwell, though he couldn’t think why. Was it because he pitied her, given her tearful reaction to Mrs. Howard’s rejection? Was it the troubling awareness of what might happen to her at her uncle’s hands? Or was it something else entirely—the way s
he was gazing up at him with those wide, trusting eyes?

  “What happened when you were in love?” she asked softly. “She broke your heart?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He strained to sound offhand even as the past came flooding back, dark and distasteful. “There was never any future for us, and we both knew it. We went our separate ways. It was for the best.”

  “Still, it must have been painful for you. Your face changes when you talk about it, even more than when you speak of your father.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Ah. You don’t wish to discuss it.”

  He met her eyes, and found only compassion there. “I’d rather not.”

  “Then I shan’t ask any more about it. I’m sorry if my question brought back unpleasant memories. I was only concerned about you.”

  She reached out and set her hand on his sleeve, and for once he didn’t avoid the contact. If anything, he wanted to lean into her, to breathe in her sweetness—even, if such a thing were possible, to have a little of her goodness rub off on him. Unfortunately, goodness didn’t work that way. It only worked in reverse, with error and experience tarnishing everything they touched.

  “I’m a grown man, Miss Whitwell, and a man of means and influence. I assure you, I’m fully capable of ordering my life to suit my wishes.” Not powerless against his past. Not unless he allowed himself to be.

  “Of course.” She smiled up at him, such kindness in her expression he couldn’t tell whether she was responding to his lofty pronouncement or to his unspoken thoughts.

  In only a few days more, the Neptune’s Fancy would reach port in Liverpool. He would go back to Lyningthorp. And she—she would begin a new life with an uncle her own cousin considered disreputable, an unprincipled drunkard who might pose a real danger to her. David would probably never see her again, unless perhaps their carriages passed on a London street or he spotted her wedding announcement in the papers.

  At the latter notion, a dull sense of loss settled over him. Still, it would be better than imagining her adrift for the rest of her life, or at the mercy of her uncle—assuming, of course, that she married the right sort of gentleman. Then again, what were the odds of that? The new Lady Whitwell had been an actress at Covent Garden. It wasn’t as if such a woman was likely to obtain vouchers to Almack’s, or to be admitted to the best drawing rooms. Miss Whitwell was more likely to encounter men of her uncle’s ilk—rakish, dishonorable sorts.

  He looked down at her face, lit rosily by the setting sun. She was so lovely—was it possible he was worrying for nothing? Surely a young lady like her must already have hopes she hadn’t shared with him, expectations of a future with some worthy suitor. Though the idea should have eased his mind, he rushed to put the question to rest. “And what of you, Miss Whitwell?” He did his best to sound offhand. “What of your plans, beyond joining your uncle? I imagine there’s some young gentleman...?”

  She twisted his handkerchief in her hands. “You’re quizzing me.”

  That blush again. Seeing it, he would gladly scale cliffs and slay dragons, should she ever have need of such eccentric services. “Not at all.”

  “Well, there’s no such gentleman. I never had a Season. Waterloo put an end to the war just as my father planned to bring me out, and suddenly there were so many new places to visit. Papa always intended to see me properly launched, but we were so busy traveling, he never had the chance.”

  The late Lord Whitwell sounded remarkably self-centered, but David could detect no hint of resentment in Miss Whitwell’s reply. “Still, you might have met someone in your travels. A shipboard romance?”

  She glanced in his direction and looked quickly away again. “No, nothing like that.”

  The way she’d darted a look at him—what did it mean, and why did it make him feel so hopeful? He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to turn moonstruck over a mere glance from a pretty girl. He ought to be long past the age of watching her face as she spoke, wondering how it would feel to kiss her.

  How maddening to think she’d been crying over someone like Mrs. Howard—Mrs. Howard, who didn’t deserve her company in the first place. David had thought the woman selfish before, but now that she’d reduced Miss Whitwell to tears, he could cheerfully have strangled her. And Miss Whitwell was worried about him. It seemed backward when she was now every bit as alone in the world as he was, and he was accustomed to solitude. She didn’t even have a proper roof over her head, while he was the privileged owner of several.

  A thought struck from out of the blue, a revelation. He could give her the home and security she needed.

  It was an idiotic notion, sudden, impetuous. But idiotic or not, it seized hold of him with a swiftness that made him brush aside every one of the objections he should have remembered.

  It seemed such a straightforward proposition—she needed a home, and he could provide one. Why had he never seen the problem so clearly before? He could save her from her uncle, from a life of danger and disrepute. He could give her the protection of his name. He stared into the sunset, exhilarated by the possibility.

  “I wonder...” He turned to face her. “How old are you, Miss Whitwell? I don’t believe you’ve ever said.”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I’m thirty-one. In the interests of fairness I should warn you I’m often moody, I have little talent for small talk and, as you already know, I take no part in society. On the credit side of the equation, I’m quite shockingly rich, I don’t gamble or drink to excess, and if I lack an open temperament, at least you may depend upon my truthfulness.” He gave her a fleeting, unsteady smile. “I wonder if you would do me the honor of consenting to become my wife?”

  Chapter Five

  Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

  And thus the native hue of resolution

  Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought...

  — William Shakespeare

  David had never before seen anyone look so astonished as Miss Whitwell did at his proposal. Her eyes went as round as saucers.

  What had made him give in to impulse and offer for her? Whatever the reason, he’d deliberately taken the leap before he could talk himself out of it. “Well, Miss Whitwell?”

  Still staring at him, she opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Pray don’t leave me in suspense, I implore you,” he said as lightly as he could manage.

  Her face fell. “You’re joking.”

  He shook his head. “No, not about my offer. I mean it sincerely. What do you say?”

  “I—I hardly know how to answer.” She twisted his handkerchief in her hands. “Half of me wants very much to say yes. The other half is warning me I don’t know you well enough. Then the first half argues that I never shall get to know you, if I let this voyage end and we go our separate ways—and I do wish to know you better, very much. Then that obstinate second half argues that you’re so difficult to understand sometimes, perhaps I should come to regret accepting you. Then the first half says what does that matter, when I’ll regret it every bit as much if I don’t accept, because—because I do have feelings for you.”

  As her rush of words wound down, David produced a bemused smile. “I’m still not quite sure where that leaves me. Am I to be sent packing or not?”

  “Yes.” He must have blanched, for she added hastily, “I mean—not yes, you’re to be sent packing. Yes, I’ll marry you. Of course it’s yes.”

  “Ah. In that case, you’ve made me the happiest of men.” It was a cliché, and he’d meant it as one, but in that moment it wasn’t far from being true.

  Though she was smiling, beaming, a tear slid down her cheek. “Look at me. I’m crying again.” She gave a flustered laugh, holding up his handkerchief as if it proved her point. “How silly of me!”

  He wished everyone could be so silly. There was something about smiling through tears that had always struck David as the frankest and most touching of all h
uman responses, comprising as it did two such extremes. Her openness was one of the things he liked best about her. There was no artifice, no dissembling, no cause to conceal anything. “May I use your Christian name?”

  She nodded. “It’s Rosalie.”

  “And mine is David.” He could hardly believe the matter was settled and she’d agreed to have him. He reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re still crying.”

  “At least they’re tears of happiness now.” She raised misty eyes to his, her lips slightly parted.

  In all his thirty-one years, no young lady had ever looked at him with an expression of such starry-eyed anticipation. An unfamiliar emotion spread through him, not the fond regard one might feel for a cherished sister, nor the sort of lustful urge occasioned by an especially eye-catching barque of frailty, but an unlooked-for combination of the two. Still a bit off-balance from the unfamiliar experience of proposing, he had no resistance against it. When she swayed toward him, he took her in his arms.

  Two competing shocks assailed him—surprise he was really holding her, and the realization it was one of the most stirring experiences of his life. His lips covered hers, and a strange, soaring feeling took hold of him as they kissed, as if his spirit were attempting to leave his body. Her slender white arms twined about his neck. The sea air picked up, stirring her hair, fanning their embrace. Happiness sang through him, a happiness so dazzlingly bright he suspected it might have blinded him if his eyes hadn’t already been closed.

  And then the physicality of the moment filtered through this unaccustomed happiness. She was kissing him back, her lips warm and yielding under his, her breasts pressed against his chest. Silken curls, thick and soft, spilled over his fingers. She smelled of that same soap scent that still lingered in his cabin, and she was warm and willing and female.

  Though his head told him it was no ordinary kiss, his body responded in the most primitive way possible. He hardened against her.