“What happened to your face?”
A knock at the door prevented Hartwell from answering. He frowned as he watched the doorknob turn. He scrambled to his feet when Mary, clothed in a nightgown and deep red dressing robe, padded into the room barefoot. Her hair was tousled and hastily pulled back with a ribbon. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands trembled a little. But her hazel eyes snapped with lucidity, intelligence, and a bit of ferociousness.
“Mary, what on earth?” Hartwell said. He couldn’t take his eyes off her feet. He never would have guessed she had delicate, pretty toes, but she did. The realization absolutely flabbergasted him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen any woman’s foot free of its stocking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a woman with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted to kiss someone so badly.
“Indeed, Mary, how improper,” Trentwood snapped.
Hartwell paled. Trentwood couldn’t read thoughts, could he? Hartwell cleared his throat.
Mary ran her fingers through her tangled hair impatiently. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get any sleep with the two of you gabbing at all hours of the night!” She shut the door. “Since it’s obvious the two of you are such good friends, I thought I might as well join the conversation and learn a bit in the meantime.”
Hartwell backed away when Mary turned on him.
“So then, Alex, what did happen to your face?”
***
THIRTY-THREE
He hadn’t thought for years about how his eye had come to be warped. He had been too busy dealing with the results and the reactions of the people around him. It had been simple enough, really, quite mundane, in fact. Hartwell was fairly certain Mary and Trentwood would be bored by the narrative, but he shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the bedpost. “It looks far more glamorous than it seems.”
Mary pulled up the skirts of her red robe and nightgown to pad over to the chair at the writing desk.
Hartwell caught a glimpse of her ankle with a small smile. For a woman who seemed so proper all of the time, she was incredibly wanton when sleep-deprived. He couldn’t see any other reason why Mary would have burst into the room hardly dressed just to make herself comfortable for a story about his eye.
“Do tell,” she said, yawning behind her hand. She leaned down to arrange her skirts so he couldn’t see a speck of flesh. Pity. “I don’t see how anything that caused the skin around your eye to be pulled tight could be anything but glamorous.”
“She has a pert mouth when she’s sleepy, doesn’t she?” Hartwell said.
“Her mother was worse,” Trentwood muttered.
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like this, you two talking to one another.”
Hartwell shrugged. “Well, like I said, it isn’t glamorous, just an accident between siblings, one who has a penchant for dramatics.”
“So you did that to yourself?” Mary’s tone was deadpan.
“No, Mary, my sister did it to me five years ago, are you going to let me tell the story or not?” Hartwell snapped. “I was asking for a cup of tea and she was having one of her fits and she threw the entire teapot at my head. It was one of Mother’s favorites, very delicate bone china, absolutely shattered into shards against my thick skull, cutting my face and making me as I am today.”
He glared at Mary and wondered where Trentwood had gone. He waited for her to voice her apologies for being so rude, or for Trentwood to admonish her into doing so. Instead, he watched her study his face, a wrinkle in her brow.
“Yes, what is it?” he said, gruffly.
“Does it still hurt?” Mary asked.
What an odd question. Did it still hurt? It had been years ago; of course it didn’t still hurt. Sometimes, perhaps, it hurt emotionally, not that he would ever admit such a thing.
There was something so appalling about knowing that his sister had thrown glass at his face because he had teased her about, well, who even knows what? To this day, she had never apologized for it. Her husband had entered the parlor and scolded her for hours while the surgeon stitched his face back together, but she never budged.
This was the sister Hartwell fought to protect. It still boggled his mind that he went to such lengths for a woman who only wanted him when she absolutely needed him. But unlike dear Florence, pardon, Lady Kirkham, family meant something to Hartwell, and he was damned if he was going to let his nephew be victim to his mother’s stupidity.
“Sometimes it does, but not in the way you think,” Hartwell said, finally. He stiffened when Mary rose with the obvious intent to cross the room to meet him.
“Might I?” she said.
“Might you what?” He wanted to hear her say it.
She cleared her throat and averted her gaze for a second before her curiosity got the better of her, and she admitted, “Might I touch it? It looks quite painful, but you say otherwise.”
“And your father?”
Waving her hand as she crossed the room, she said in an offhand manner, “He comes and goes when he chooses. He left as soon as you said how you got the scar. His attention span is very short these days.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s here?”
“Not so much anymore,” she mused, raising her fingers near to his face.
She hesitated, and Hartwell could feel how close she was to touching him. He held his breath, noting the way she studied his skin carefully, as if it were a piece of fine embroidery. And perhaps it was, in a way. He, in turn, made note of a little dimple in her chin and a dusting of light freckles across her nose. Her dark hair had highlights of red and blonde, and the white ribbon that held her loose hair from her face was tied in a simple bow.
That was Mary: practical, simple, elegant. She read books that made his head spin and argued logic until he could do nothing but smile, caught in his own game. She was pretty without meaning to be, and inquisitive to the point of annoyance.
And yet she just stood there, not touching his face even though she had said that was what she wanted to do. Hartwell winced. She wasn’t looking at his scarred eye anymore, she was looking at him. Really looking at him. As if she could see straight into his mind. And perhaps she could, with Trentwood’s help.
“Where is your father?” Hartwell said, his voice rasping. That had been dangerously close to an actual crack in his voice, something he hadn’t done since he was in school.
Mary shrugged, redirecting her attention to his scar. She ran her fingers along the smoothed skin with feathering strokes. Hartwell shivered and closed his eyes. “Do you know, I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Touch a man’s face?”
She was quiet for a second too long. Hartwell opened his eyes in time to see her stand on tiptoe and brush her lips against the corner of his mouth. She was warm, and sweet, and he ached to be free of his responsibilities to his sister so he could do as he wanted.
“I’ve decided to marry Jasper.”
Hartwell nodded, even though she wasn’t making sense.
“Father will leave if I marry Jasper. He’s always hated Jasper.”
“Don’t you think it might be better if you were to leave on good terms with, er, a ghost?”
“I don’t know how,” Mary said, throwing her hands in the air. She stepped back from him so she could pace the length of the room. “He keeps telling me I haven’t asked the right questions, that I need to make decisions for myself, and he’s only here to guide me but how am I to know when I need his guidance?”
“When did he appear to you?”
“The day of his funeral. Aunt Durham was with me, but she didn’t see him. No one has seen or heard him until you came.”
“Lucky me.”
Mary spun on her heel. “I wonder if I married you, I wonder if he would leave on good terms then?”
Hartwell’s mouth dropped open. She was teasing him. She had to be.
“But then,” Mary continued, frowning as she resumed pacing, “that would mean you would have to propose, which you haven’t.”
“No, I haven’t.” All right, she wasn’t teasing him, but perhaps she wasn’t entirely serious, either.
“And I’m not the sort to beg.”
“You’ve never seemed the sort.”
“Why haven’t you proposed?” Mary said, stopping again. “If only to spite Jasper? I’ve seen the way the two of you bicker. You don’t like him; you could have countered his offer just to make him angry the way you have before.”
“And use you as a toy in a child’s argument? Thank you, no. I handle my matters differently. You will make your decision without any knowledge of what I think about it. You have one father in your life, you certainly don’t need two.” Hartwell shuddered at the thought. “And the last thing I want is to be likened to your father.”
Mary smiled at that. “You are similar to him, though. My father was always smiling when my mother was alive. Smiling and making her laugh. They laughed a lot together.”
“That sounds like a happy marriage.”
Her smile turned shaky, and Hartwell kicked himself mentally for obviously triggering a painful memory. “Alex, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if Jasper is the man I thought he was a year ago. I don’t know if I’m the same woman I was a year ago.”
“I’d wager to say he isn’t, and you aren’t, by virtue of life happening in the time between.”
“Is my aunt really a blackmailer?”
Hartwell shook his head, trying to keep up with Mary’s disjointed conversation. “There is evidence to suggest it, yes.”
“Does Jasper know?” she whispered.
Hartwell hesitated. He had gone this far, telling her that Mrs. Durham was suspected, and there was evidence to support it. Might as well tell her all and be done with it. He hadn’t liked the squirming feeling that had teased the back of his mind while keeping secrets from her. Hartwell nodded. “Steele found the evidence.”
Mary’s sigh marked the deflation of her spirit. Her shoulders slumped, and her expression crumpled. The woman had withstood the death of both her parents, Hartwell’s invasion of her home, Steele’s insinuations, and oh yes, the presence of her ghostly father. Yet when faced with the idea that her ridiculous aunt was the cause of all her troubles? That was when she decided to fall apart? For that was what it seemed to Hartwell. She hugged herself, trembling.
“Why would she?” Mary said. “You’re lying.”
“Why on earth would I? What can I gain of it?”
“I don’t know, I’ve thought it irregular from the start that you, a well-known London barrister, would come all the way out here to silence some country blackmailer, if that were even the case!”
“Mary, you saw the letters.”
“You could have written them.”
“They were in a woman’s hand.”
“Your sister could have written them.” Mary flailed her hands as she spoke, an indication of her roughshod emotions. “This entire thing could be a ruse to blackmail me!”
Hartwell sighed. “You’re beginning to sound paranoid.”
“My father is haunting me, I don’t think I can get more paranoid than this!”
With his eyes narrowed, Hartwell crossed his arms over his chest. “All right then, why would I want to blackmail you?”
She waved away his question. “Why would my aunt want to blackmail your sister?”
He winced.
“You have no reason?”
“None you would like to hear.”
“Alexander Hartwell, might I remind you, I am being haunted by my father,” Mary ground out. “I think I can handle whatever it is you don’t wish to tell me.”
With a mocking bow, Hartwell said, “A thousand pardons, I simply wished to protect your delicacy, but I see I was mistaken.”
“You were indeed,” she retorted, “do I look as though I’m concerned with delicacies at the moment?”
In truth, she did not. Mary was livid, but looked delightful dressed only in that scandalous red robe and pristine white nightgown. She had no idea what she was doing, what dangers she invited by standing barefoot in his bedroom, her hair tumbling over her shoulder, her eyes snapping at him in annoyance.
Why was it that at the moments she was most displeased with him, he was most pleased with her? Very inopportune.
“I think your uncle had a tendre with my sister.” Hartwell kept his voice flat, mimicking impartiality though he seethed at the idea his sister had brought this upon herself. All that work, all that detection, for what? To discover his sister deserved it?
Suddenly, a chill ran down Hartwell’s back. Who was the father of his nephew?
Both Sir Kirkham and Mr. Durham were towheaded, with bright, laughing eyes. Mr. Durham was rather more thin and scholarly-seeming than Kirkham, but that hadn’t seemed to have stopped his athleticism.
“My poor aunt,” Mary whispered. “To lose her husband in so many ways.” It seemed too much for her. She hid her face in her hands. “And here I’ve been so annoyed by her ridiculous ways. For her to suffer silently!”
“Don’t romanticize her,” Hartwell said, his tone cold. “Mary, she’s a blackmailer, and she’s never silent. About anything. Except this, it seems.”
Mary just stared at Hartwell. Next thing he knew, she was in his arms, crying softly into his shoulder. He gathered her close the way he would his nephew, holding her against his heart. He ran his fingers through her hair, marveling at how soft the strands were even as they tangled. He tightened his hold on her when she slowly lifted her arms to reciprocate the embrace.
“You’ve no idea how sorry I am it is your aunt and my sister doing this to one another,” Hartwell whispered into her hair.
Mary mumbled something against his shoulder. He shifted so he could hear her better.
“Life is difficult enough without us being cruel to one another.” She paused. “Will you give me time to ask my aunt to stop what she is doing? To give her the chance to see the error of her ways?”
Hartwell nodded, glad to hear how even her voice sounded. Soon he would have to let her go, despite how nice it felt to have her in his arms. Soon she would regain her sense of propriety. She would blush and not look him in the eye. Soon they would have to go their separate ways, perhaps never to see one another again.
Mary tried to step away from Hartwell, but his arm stiffened, preventing her from moving. She made the mistake of frowning up at him, of turning her hazel eyes at him.
When she had kissed him, it had been curious, chaste, innocent. When he kissed her, there was of course a hint of curiosity, as there must always be with a first kiss.
Yet it was blended with a touch of sadness, a whisper of goodbye, a breath of passion, a pull of desperation. He cradled her face in his hands gently, giving her the option to leave him. She did not. The kiss deepened into a proper goodbye. Breathless and heady. They fell away from one another gasping.
“That,” he began.
“Was,” she agreed.
“Completely inappropriate!” Trentwood snapped.
Mary leaped away from Hartwell, bashing her elbow against the corner of the washing table.
“Oh, don’t try to play the innocent, Marianne Ryan Trentwood, I saw everything. You’ll have to marry him now. You know that, of course.”
Hartwell rubbed his forehead. The headache, it seemed, was returning. Or perhaps it was simply an indication that Trentwood’s opinion of him was falling, no, plummeting. “With all due respect, it’s impolite to spy, sir.”
A gust of wind that must have been Trentwood shoved Hartwell onto the bed and pinned him there. “It’s impolite to be seducing a man’s daughter before his very eyes!”
“He wasn’t seducing me,” Mary said, though her tone seemed to wonder if that was exactly what Hartwell was doing, and it only took Trentwood’s saying it for her to realize it.
“I wasn’t sedu
cing her,” Hartwell said firmly. He repeated himself for emphasis. “I was saying goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” The Trentwoods said in unison.
“I will take the morning train to London. You asked me, Mary, to give you time to work on Mrs. Durham, so I shall. Think of it as my wedding present to you.” Hartwell refused to look at Mary. He didn’t want to know which emotion held her captive: disappointment, anger, or betrayal.
“So you’d seduce my daughter in your bedroom at an unholy hour of night and then leave her?” If Trentwood had been alive and visible, Hartwell imagined every vein in his body would have stood in relief against the surface of his skin, he sounded so outraged.
“As I said before: I won’t influence your daughter’s decision. She must decide for herself whether Steele is her match. Unlike some people, I don’t play games with the lives of others.”
“You watch your tongue, boy, or I will possess you and walk you right off a cliff!” Trentwood said.
“Father!” Mary breathed, wringing her hands, “You wouldn’t dare! Think of what people would say. They might call me a witch!”
Almost immediately the pressure that kept Hartwell plastered to his bed lifted. With a weak cough, he rolled to his side. “Thank you, sir, for not killing me.”
To Hartwell’s surprise, he heard Trentwood chuckle. “And you call my daughter an odd duck.”
That seemed to wake Mary out of her stupor. “Just how often do you watch us?”
“The more appropriate question, Marianne, would be how often do I not watch you?”
Mary shivered as the clock in the hall struck five.
“So then,” Hartwell said, “what do we do now?”
“Do you intend to press charges against my aunt?” Mary said.
Hartwell nodded, holding her gaze with his own.
“She’s my aunt. She’s the only family I have. If you press charges, I will have no one, Alex.”
Haunting Miss Trentwood Page 17