by Julia Donner
He just didn’t want to quit the peace of this place with its nightingales in the garden and comforting country smells. Here, he didn’t have to play the part of carefree buck about town or make himself the central point of interest in a world of gossip and superficiality. He could merely be here in a comfy bed. No games, pressures or regrets—a place where he could while away the time wondering about the mysterious and oh-so-contained Mrs. St. Clair. She wasn’t elderly, that much he could tell.
He’d never been involved with a much older woman. His preference since boyhood had been matured females of experience. Perhaps someone a bit older would be good for him, someone with wisdom, someone outside of his sphere, without the silliness of self-involvement, someone to help him remember who he used to be.
Chapter 4
Too much sleep during the day and the inability to sleep throughout the night made a man impatient. He’d begun to get a reckoning on the time of day. The chickens let him know when dawn finally arrived. Dishes and pans clattered in the kitchen. Voices sounded in the passages. The mail coach rattled by on the toll road down the lane.
The stitches in his face tormented. It took all of his patience not to shove his fingers under the bandages and scratch.
Bored to the point of screaming and tired of being coddled, he’d gotten up during the night and investigated his prison. He found the window and considered opening it, but the latch, like the doors in the house, made too much noise. As he’d told his hostess, he healed quickly and had only one spell of dizziness. His head ached a bit when he leaned over the portmanteau to feel through its contents. Finding the shaving kit, he sighed. Between the whiskers and the stitches, he felt ready to scratch his face down to the bone.
Dawn came and so did Fanny with poached eggs and toast, which didn’t do much to fill the gaping hole from eating so little for days. It did silence the constant growl in his stomach.
“Fanny, would it be possible to have more toast? Perhaps some jam. And coffee instead of tea?”
“My, sir, you must be feeling more the thing if you can keep down that much food.”
Another voice, one that sent a shiver down his arms, said, “Perhaps after we’ve removed the bandages. Mrs. Hoskins has started a mutton pottage. Fanny will bring up a bowl as soon as it’s ready. First, we must see how your stitches are coming along.”
Sounding hopeful, Fanny asked, “Do you need me to stay and help, Mrs. Olivia?”
“Thank you, no. It’s only a few strips of linen, Fanny. Please take away the tray.”
Harry sat up straighter in bed. Finally, he’d feel air on his face, see the sunlight and the world, the green fields and pastures. Most of all, he’d look on the owner of the low, slow voice—the lady who cared for him against everyone’s wishes.
He covered a flinch when she touched his shoulder. “Please, Sir Harry, stay absolutely still for a moment. I purposely made the bandage knot too tight to unwind and these shears were recently sharpened.”
A few snipping sounds, then came the clunk of metal being set on a side table. It sounded heavy enough to be a pair of sheep shears.
Layer by layer, she unwound the linen strips, leaning close, surrounding him with the scent of roses. The folded pads over his eyes finally tumbled to his lap. Air brushed over his face, and he opened his eyes to a dim room where no lights had been lit for days. He’d never smelled wax, tallow or oil burning.
He scraped his fingernails over his scalp and finger-combed his hair, while Mrs. St. Clair’s shadow went to the window, saying, “You might want to have a care for your eyes. It’s a sunny day.”
He squinted to see her as she pulled back the draperies and opened the squeaky latch. Fresh air rushed into the room. Harry blinked to adjust to sunlight. His eyesight finally cleared. He watched Mrs. St. Clair return to the bedside, then couldn’t remember how to breathe.
Not elderly, certainly not with a figure that hovered at the edge of plump, the sort of body that made him want to cuddle, sink into all that comfort and—
“Sir Harry, is your eyesight unimpaired?”
A burning sensation seared across his chest and spread down his arms when he encountered chocolate-brown eyes. Mrs. St. Clair had the level regard of someone without guile, someone who knew herself and her place in the world. He supposed the world would consider her ordinary, but he only saw a gentle loveliness and a haunting familiarity. He recalled his cynical laugh when his brother confessed that he’d fallen for Lizzie from her expression on a miniature.
Mrs. St. Clair revealed nothing in her expression, except a slight tilt to her head that he supposed was meant to convey concern. She wore an old-fashioned cap, the sort matrons wore thirty years ago, that hid her hair, but a few, naughty, caramel-colored wisps strayed from the edges. Her wide, intelligent brow and strong features were softened by a mouth that incited the impulsive urge to haul her across his lap and have a taste. She banished that thought by raising a single eyebrow. The slight movement brought him back as effectively as a splash of ice water in the face.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, yes, I can see you—I mean, I can see perfectly well.”
She withdrew her hands from deep apron pockets. “That is a relief and a blessing.”
Speechless and feeling broad-sided, he watched her lift the hem of her apron to create a well to hold the strips of linen she began to gather. Her scent wafted over him as she reached across the bed to his lap for the fallen eye pads. When she abruptly withdrew her hand and stepped back, telltale pink tinged her cheeks. Harry snatched the muslin squares off the sheet and dropped them into the well she’d made with the apron. He adjusted his position, sitting up and shifting under the sheet. He was acting like a green boy, gagging on the urge to cover a laugh of embarrassment.
Like an idiot, he mumbled, “You like the sun. You’ve got freckles on your nose.”
She stilled, her gaze fastened on the floor. In a muffled voice, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Harry, I’ll have something substantial….I mean to say, something more substantial than broth brought up.”
Harry watched her go, wondering if she realized why she stumbled over the double entendre. The women he knew favored the game of innuendo.
Then he mentally removed the boot from his mouth. Mrs. St. Clair was not that sort. If only he could give himself a kick on the backside. What a clod. He’d never in all of his life spoken so clumsily to a female. He’d always had the perfect thing to say, ever glib, gay and carefree.
In a moment he’d never forget, he learned what it meant to suffer the humiliation of speaking out of turn to someone he admired on sight.
Chapter 5
With trembling fingers, Olivia watched the linen bandages tumble to the carpeted passageway. Her hands continued to shake as she leaned back against the wall. The wooden ridge of the wainscoting collided with the middle of her back. She pressed into it, welcoming the bite of the wood, the discomfort that would help her focus.
She’d heard it said that a person’s eyes were windows to the soul, and for a moment, she’d seen into Harry’s. Had others seen what she discovered? Did he allow them inside, the way he had allowed her? For a brief moment, he lowered the veil of the mischievous glee he used as a shield.
It had been many years since the first time she’d seen him. Over a decade of dedicated dissipation on his part had passed. She expected to be disappointed when the bandages were removed. Handsome Harry was known from Scotland to Cornwall, throughout all of England and Wales for his style, fast women and hard living. But even whiskered and sprouting prickly stitches, he stunned.
She hadn’t remembered, and not prepared herself, for the color of his eyes—an extraordinary cobalt blue with crystal shards, rimmed in darkest navy—mesmerizing. How could she have forgotten? The brief meeting had become a pivotal point in her life and stayed as fresh in her mind as when it occurred eighteen years ago.
She stared down at the jumble of bandages on the carpet and strove for emotional equilibr
ium. Beauty faded with time and familiarity. It was meant to be appreciated, but in humans, it accounted for little. Her husband had been a fine looking man, and so was her father, but Sir Harry Collyns—for some bizarre reason she might never fathom—covered his inner grace with a veneer of brittle humor. He used his exterior to protect what he hid underneath. Why? What she’d seen for an unexpected instant was a vast store of humanity and intelligence. Why belittle it with a facade?
She pressed her lips into a grim line of resolution. Time to direct the honesty at herself. Her hands still shook and her heart continued to thump against her ribs. At thirty, she could scarcely call herself an innocent. She couldn’t ignore the evidence of Sir Harry’s response to her and hadn’t been able to hide her shock when her fingertips encountered unmistakable proof under the sheet. She could only pray that she had hidden her eagerness.
Some people were more sensually inclined than others. From her husband’s complaints, she knew herself to lean toward the more readily accepting. Percy had made it clear that her appetites were not those of a gently bred lady. He’d directed her to counteract her unseemly urges with charitable activities and reading improving works. She never told Percy that no matter how hard she toiled to be the wife he expected her to be that the yearnings continued to plague. Especially at night, with the dark quiet that made the loneliness worse, and especially when her husband slept the deep sleep of the disinterested.
After years of suppressing those needs and the constant striving to achieve her martyred husband’s expectations, a few minutes ago, she discovered it had all been for nothing. Her good intentions had been blasted to shreds by a visceral response to a man who had no interest in a woman of her age, as he’d described her.
His bedside bell rang. She swiped at tears with the back of her wrist. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She patted her brow with the apron hem while she waited, hoping that Fanny would come clomping up the steps to answer Sir Harry’s call. The bell rang again, a bit more insistent.
Olivia exhaled a shaky breath and pushed away from the wall. She snatched up the bandages from the carpet and deposited them on a hallway table. Steeling her nerves, she tapped on the door before entering.
“Yes, Sir Harry?”
Wrapped in the top sheet, he sat on the padded window seat. He removed an arm from the sheet and pushed the window open wider. “There’s a man talking to Fanny. It’s rather difficult to see them from this angle, but when they passed beneath the window, she didn’t sound pleased that he’s here.”
Olivia swiftly crossed the room and peered over his shoulder. This time, her heart stopped. It roared back into action to pound at a furious pace when she recognized the man taking to Fanny. She wished she were alone so she could spout a few improper words.
What is Quentin doing here?
“Ma’am, is everything all right?”
Startled by his question, she looked down into pools of dark blue swimming with worry. Her lips felt stiff when she forced a smile. “Certainly. It’s only a visitor. Please excuse me.”
Chapter 6
Dreading what Quentin Goodfall’s appearance could mean, Olivia hesitated before opening the front door. She took a fortifying breath and grasped the latch.
He stood on the doorstep—had planted himself more like—and wasn’t the type to be thwarted once he’d gotten a notion in his head.
Fanny stood behind him, a squinty-eyed watchdog with every hair standing on end. Quentin had undoubtedly dosed her with his typical arrogance. He had no way of knowing that the Hoskins were not really servants and more in the line of neighbors who came in to help for a meager stipend.
Stocky, beetle-browed, but not unhandsome, her former suitor scowled at her with faded-blue eyes. She couldn’t stop the comparison to Harry’s startling gaze, his golden beauty in contrast to Quentin, a staid, uncharitable lump.
Dressed with all the panache of a pig farmer, and looking as determined as a boxer taking a stance, Quentin muttered, “I won’t be put off, Olivia. I must come in and speak to you.”
Olivia’s hands curled into fists inside her apron pockets. The wretch would stand there until he got his way, so she silently complied by leaving the door open and going into the nearby receiving room. She felt her brow wrinkle when she noticed the window standing open. Harry’s room was directly overhead. She prayed that he’d gone back to bed and wouldn’t hear the confrontation about to happen. If Quentin discovered that she had a male guest in residence, she didn’t want to imagine the dimensions of the uproar.
When Fanny attempted to scoot inside the parlour door, Quentin shut it in her face. Olivia backed up when he advanced. He came across the room with swift purpose, his bulk looming large and intimidating. She stiffened her back, ready for a fight.
“Now, Olivia, I’ve had enough of your dithering. I’ve waited years. There’s a vacant seat in your family’s borough and I plan to have it.”
Fanny interrupted by shoving the door open. She stood on the threshold, looking ready to argue. Olivia had to stop her and Quentin before the confrontation started.
“I’m all right, Fanny, and won’t be needing your company, but please leave the door ajar.” When Fanny stayed put, Olivia said, “It’s fine. Mr. Goodfall won’t be staying long.”
Not pleased, Fanny shot Quentin with a nasty glare and left. When her stomping footsteps retreated, Olivia turned back to her unwelcome visitor. “You don’t need me to achieve what you want. Grandfather’s support is more than enough influence.”
“I disagree. Marriage to you makes me a part of the district. You know the sort of impression your family name has in both sides of the House. I’ll hear no more of your equivocating. We can have the banns read at the duke’s chapel. Your family will be pleased with our match, as they were before you made a hash of it.”
Chapter 7
By sticking his head out the window, Harry could hear Olivia but not the visitor. He had a bad feeling about this man from the onset and felt some anxiety about the situation. He wasn’t in the best of shape for throwing out an unwanted visitor, but that didn’t stop him from leaving the window seat and bedroom to get closer if Olivia needed assistance.
Careful for floorboard squeaks, he edged along the passageway to the top of the stairs, staying close to the wall should he need support. He didn’t have any dizziness, but was far from top form and continued to feel blurry-headed.
Peering down the staircase, he saw Fanny lurking close to the entrance to a room near the front door. She flicked a glance his way, sending a speaking glare. She pressed a forefinger against her lips. He nodded, tightened the grip on the sheet, and leaned forward to hear. It turned out he hadn’t needed to worry. This close, he could hear every word as if he were in the room with them.
Olivia sounded nothing like the composed picture she usually presented, when she shouted, “You did what!”
“Calm yourself, ma’am. I merely suggested to your father that we’ve cemented our understanding of long duration.”
“You have nourished an understanding, Quentin. I never committed to you in any way.”
“In that, you’re wrong. You led me to believe you were more than interested in a permanent association.”
Olivia replied, her voice sharp and breathless, “That was over a decade ago, before I married.”
“Your father knows that we’ve corresponded.”
“You sent letters, Quentin. I responded once, to tell you that I have no interest in remarrying. What gave you the right to go to Father and tell him otherwise?”
“Your father and I have always hoped for an alliance. He and your grandfather never embraced your unsavory connection to a destitute missionary. What possible good could such an alliance provide the Mainstays?”
Harry’s mind grabbed at the name of Mainstay. Where had he heard that?
Olivia’s reply brought him back to the argument. “I’ve never been interested in my family’s intentions for me. Not then, not now. I married someo
ne I admired.”
Harry’s hackles went up when Quentin mocked, “Not much to admire, if you ask me. I’m sorry to say that it was not altogether unfortunate that his illusions of saving the world sent him to his reward, thus, leaving you free to fulfill a more purposeful arrangement. You were a green girl but no longer have the excuse of making a poor choice due to ignorance or romantic fancy.”
She didn’t say it but Harry could sense her debating whether or not to call Goodfall a pompous, unfeeling ass. At least, he hoped she considered it.
“Leave, Quentin. Immediately. My patience has endured all it can of you for one day.”
“Not without your word you’ll reconsider our arrangement.”
“We’ve never had an arrangement. I never considered your offer of marriage. Unlike you, I had specific plans for throwing away my life in pursuit of helping the unfortunate. Your sort merely seeks to manage the lives of others.”
“Harsh words, ma’am, but think on this and think well. You may dress like a Puritan but I know the sort of woman you are, a woman of robust inclinations. It must be so. I heard that you had to seduce that cold fish of a preacher to take you on.”
“Do not speak of my sainted husband.”
“Sainted? You lured him with a substantial dowry, then seduced him into getting you in an interesting condition, which forced your family to accept your elopement. But not this time. Your grandfather is very much in favor of this match.”
Her silence relayed everything Harry needed to know. He started to move but a wave of dizziness forced him to lean against the wall. A moment later, a strong hand gripped his arm. Fanny stood by him at the top of the steps. She released him when he nodded that he felt well enough to stand on his own, but he continued to lean against the wall. Fanny sped down the steps when Goodfall stomped out, slamming the front door. She hesitated at the bottom step, then crept toward the parlour, but didn’t enter.