Remembrances flashed through her brain, swift images of how he had looked. His battle scars, both old and new, had only added to the rugged appeal of his superbly sculptured form. Granted, Letticia had banished her from the room so that she would not see everything. But what she had seen could have no equal elsewhere.
She felt the solid form of his body pressing lightly against her back, a surprisingly intimate position despite the layers between them. The bedclothes shifted as he moved, then his hand rested upon her upper arm. The pressure of his grip was gentle, but possessive. She could not see them in the dark, but from his grip she could imagine how his long fingers looked curled around her arm. Then he tenderly stroked from her shoulder down to her wrist, and back up again.
"The touch of thee's magic,” he mumbled drowsily.
His hand stayed on her shoulder. Only a short time later his regular breathing indicated he was asleep. That observation was her last conscious thought before sleep claimed her as well.
* * * *
The following morning Daniel, with the assistance of two footmen, was fit enough to leave his bed for a proper bath. The maids took this opportunity to provide his mattress with clean linens and the room with a thorough airing. Gwenllian was on hand to inspect the finished product. With all the windows flung open and the sunlight gushing in, it hardly looked like a sickroom anymore. One would never realize all the desperate hours she had spent in here.
To preserve her modesty, Gwenllian was forced to vacate the room when Daniel was ready to be returned. She was not allowed back in until he was appropriately situated in bed, the bedclothes up to his chin, and Letticia was sitting watchfully in a corner of the room.
"Apparently one of the maids found us sleeping last night and reported us,” Gwenllian told Daniel, aiming a wry grin at their observer. “I am no longer allowed to have unsupervised visits with you. Apparently I cannot be trusted not to fling myself into your bed at a moment's notice."
"No, you cannot be trusted,” her sister replied irritably. “That's the right of it."
"Though if you offer for me...” Gwenllian waited. Daniel did not seem to recognize his cue. “If you offer for me, then any previous indiscretions will be forgiven."
"You think he'll offer for you?” Letticia's contemptuous snort could be heard clear across the chamber. “Men who get free milk don't buy the cow."
"He has not got free milk, er, a free cow. Nevermind! Give us some peace back there.” Gwenllian rolled her eyes. Grabbing a chair, she sat as close to his bed as physically possible. “You invited me into your bed,” she whispered. “I thought perhaps..."
"It was a moment of weakness. I shall not do so again.” The words were quiet, unemotional. But his eyes betrayed him.
"I do not believe you,” she responded, her voice hushed. “You mean to say you still do not wish to marry me?"
"Something like."
"What, exactly, like?” she snapped before realizing she had raised her voice.
"What are you discussing over there?” asked Letticia.
"Nothing!” She looked expectantly at Daniel.
"However much I might wish to marry you, I will not,” he whispered. “I value you too highly to see you brought low."
"Whatever do you mean? I have no title, no noble blood. My family's connections relate only to commerce, which to Society makes us barely legitimate."
"Remember, I am not legitimate at all."
"If anyone was allowed to speak of what you did, if the whole thing were not some national secret, you would be a celebrated hero."
He chuckled, but it was a sound of mirthless derision. “I simply did what must be done."
Gwenllian was hard pressed not to hiss in frustration. “So was I merely your voucher into Primroselea then? Your mission is finished, so now you discard me as you would do any Jezebel you used in the stews."
Daniel propped himself up on his elbows. “'Any Jezebel'? You think..."
"I am certain I do not need to be told what I think."
"Adjust the covers, his chest is showing,” called Letticia.
Daniel swore softly, but held the sheet up with one hand while he leaned toward Gwenllian. “Listen, if you think I am some sort of hero, then you must apprehend that what I am doing is for your own good."
She crossed her arms. “So then, what will you have me be, your mistress?"
"Heaven save me from you, woman.” He laughed. “You are irrepressible."
"What did you say, Gwenllian?” her sister called over, alert and alarmed.
Gwenllian ignored her. “I do not see why I cannot be your mistress,” she whispered at Daniel.
"Because seducing you would be the antithesis of heroic."
"But I thought that was what rakes did."
"I am not actually a rake.” He sounded embarrassed. “That was attributed to me as part of my masquerade. Truthfully, I have little experience of women I did not pay for. But I'm not poxed,” he added defensively.
"I know. Mr. Sanderson proclaimed you an extraordinarily healthy specimen, except for being hacked up like a joint of beef."
"I am certain I heard the word ‘poxed.’ I am coming over there,” Letticia declared.
"'Tis nothing, stay where you are,” ordered Gwenllian. She turned back to Daniel. “So you are determined never to see me again, is that it?"
He lay back and closed his eyes. “I am determined to do what is right. I am determined to see you happy."
"Impossible. The one excludes the other,” she warned him as she stood, knocking back her chair and not caring if her sister heard her words.
Then she stormed out the door. She did not return to Daniel's bedchamber at all that day, nor that night. Let him see what parting would be like. He would miss her. He would ask for her. Eventually he would come around to her point of view.
Wouldn't he?
* * * *
"Mrs. Wood wishes to take leave of you,” Letticia announced as she entered the library.
Gwenllian looked up from her book. “Why?"
"Courtesy does not need logic. Go, so we might be rid of her."
Gwenllian groaned, but she placed the pale ribbon inside her book to mark her place and stood.
"You can walk faster than that,” her sister scolded from the library door where she remained.
"No, for Isabella I cannot."
Though she moved through the house with slow reluctance, it was not long before Gwenllian was descending the grand stone steps to the carriage sweep where Isabella stood beside her fine carriage. Her fine carriage that the Baron most likely bought for her.
Isabella smiled as she approached. “I wanted to give you my compliments on your victory."
"Pardon?"
"Mr. Wyckliff is a handsome man.” Isabella winked.
Gwenllian narrowed her eyes as she fleetingly debated whether to acknowledge Isabella's insinuation. She decided a non-committal answer was best. “He is at that."
"Not many men would prefer you to me."
She gave Isabella an ironic smile. “Absolutely none, I should say."
Isabella ducked her head. “I did not mean that the way it sounded. I meant that he must be exceedingly fond of you."
"Oh.” Gwenllian could not think of a suitable response. Yes, Daniel might like her, but he had refused to even have the keeping of her—and she was certainly not about to inform Isabella of that. She decided to change the subject. “Shall you be leaving the Baron?"
"You know, then.” She shrugged. “Perhaps. I am tiring of all the secrecy Edgar requires. But I shall have to see what is new upon the market in London."
"And the fact that you are using someone else's husband does not trouble you?"
Isabella smiled again. “His choices are no fault of mine. He is free to leave me whenever his conscience obtains the upper hand. Speaking of choices, you might tell your sister to be more circumspect."
Gwenllian drew herself up to her full height and replied frostily, “I am ce
rtain I do not know what you mean."
Isabella laughed. It was a light, musical sound. “I suspect no one will ever know what I mean—and Mariah is most vexed about that. Especially as she was so close to showing the Baron proof."
Gwenllian could feel her stomach icing over. This was not good. “So Mariah shared her preposterous suspicions with you. Will you now share them with the Baron?"
"On what evidence?” Isabella shook her head. “A good mistress knows what gossip not to repeat."
"Even though it might be beneficial to you?"
"How do you mean?"
"He might marry you in Letticia's place."
Isabella sighed and gave her a condescending look. “You think men marry their mistresses?"
"They might do."
Isabella slowly nodded. “So that's the way it stands with Mr. Wyckliff, is it?"
"I said nothing of the sort.” Gwenllian was appalled. Appalled that somehow Isabella had gotten close to the truth.
Isabella was not listening. “I once said you and I were much in sympathy."
"I am not going to be his mistress!"
The rest of her outraged protests had to be cut short as Letticia and the Baron came down the steps to join in the goodbyes. For a group that had so many secrets between them, it was a fairly succinct but frightfully polite leave-taking. Then Isabella's carriage rolled away with a mass of jangling and creaking and a flurry of pebbles.
* * * *
"Scotland?” Gwenllian gasped.
"You haven't seen our house in Scotland yet,” explained Letticia. She sounded serene, but her eyes repeatedly avoided Gwenllian's gaze. “You will find it most agreeable."
"I cannot believe you are sending me to Scotland.” She shook her head. This morning was not starting out at all well.
Letticia clasped her hands together and stared at her bedroom's carpeting as if she had never seen it before. “But you shall enjoy it. Really you shall."
"We both know what this is actually in aid of. You wish to remove me from Mr. Wyckliff's presence."
"Distance will give you better perspective on the matter. Edgar thinks it a superb idea."
"I do not need to mind his ideas,” Gwenllian replied, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “He is not my husband."
Letticia glanced up. “You know our parents would agree."
She crossed her arms. There was so much anger and frustration building within her chest she felt like she might explode.
"Gwenllian.” Her sister started forward, arms outstretched as if intending to hug her, but Gwenllian backed away rapidly until her heels thumped against Letticia's closed bedroom door.
"I know they would agree, of course they would agree,” Gwenllian snapped. “'Tis a good idea, yes, yes, yes. But no one in Society wants to marry me! I know that. You know that. The Baron and our parents know that. Why cannot I have this one bit of happiness? I apprehend full well that the wife takes the status of her husband. I would sink to Daniel's, to Mr. Wyckliff's status. But would it be asking too much for my family to simply ignore me?"
"We want what is best for you.” Letticia sighed. “Will Mr. Wyckliff marry you, then?"
Tears were pooling in Gwenllian's eyes. She tried not to blink. She did not want to cry.
"When do I leave?"
"But..."
"You have hit upon the only flaw in my plan.” She tried to smile. “Mr. Wyckliff has no intention of keeping me. He has not even asked to see me since—"
"Then it is just as well you are to go tomorrow."
Gwenllian could not believe her ears. “Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow morning,” her sister amended. “Patsy will have you all packed, and she will even accompany you. I know it is a long journey. But ‘tis for the best."
Gwenllian nodded. She fumbled for the doorknob. Villainous thing would not open. She managed to maintain her dignity through three attempts before she successfully stepped into the corridor and calmly closed the door behind her.
Then, hot tears blurring her vision, she ran pell-mell to her bed chamber. Oliver looked up at her from the bed as she entered. As she was not carrying any treats, he flopped over and went back to sleep.
"They're sending us to Scotland,” she informed him as she swung the door shut.
Oliver snored.
"Yes, well, I shall remember this the next time you want sympathy.” She crossed to the closest chair, sat and cried. It was several minutes before she could think on the fact that she would never see Daniel again. The man she loved.
Loved.
Gwenllian's trembling fingers rubbed away her tears. What kind of love foists itself where it is not wanted? He had his own exciting life to lead. He was quite right not to want to marry her. And he was being honorable in not wanting to keep her as a mistress. What had she been thinking? Mistress, indeed. The problem was with her. If she genuinely loved him, she would let him go.
Fourteen
Letticia tapped her fingernails on her writing desk, and was amazed at how loud the resultant clicking sounded. The house was so empty. She was going to be so dreadfully bored. Edgar had said she might go visiting, but what fun would that be when she could not speak of all the excitement they'd had?
The General or Major or whatever that nice militiaman called himself—and rather a handsome sort he was, too—had told them that the whole French incident was to be kept quiet. He obviously did not understand the value of a good story at a dinner party. Men were like that.
Men. When would she see Hugh again? To have no set date to look forward to. There was a terrible sadness in her heart, practically a physical pain. Gwenllian was right, as usual, she really should stay away from him for a while. Give meddlesome Mariah a chance to cool down, to find a more interesting target somewhere else.
But it was so difficult not to think of him. He was constantly in her mind. It was like a disease. She had come down with an acute case of Hugh Faircross.
At least that was better than what Gwenllian suffered from. Imagine falling in love with such a plebeian creature. Low-bred, low-born. What sort of provider was that? Why, she'd be practically indigent. Might as well start trolling the dockyards now and be done with it. She must protect her sister from such a fate.
A sudden thump at the doorway startled Letticia from her thoughts. Her head jerked up, eyes darting to the doorway, and she was confronted with the astonishing sight of Mr. Wyckliff, out of bed, fully clothed right down to his boots, and leaning heavily on the doorjamb.
Letticia gasped. “What are you doing? You should be in bed."
Mr. Wyckliff approached her. He moved as if his every joint were rusty. Even from this distance, she could tell he was suffering.
"Where is Miss Lloyd?” he growled.
She moved her desk and stood. “You're not fit to be up yet."
"Where is Miss Lloyd?” Impatience gave his words a sharp edge. He was close now.
"I am sure I do not know."
She started to step away from him, to put a safer distance between them, but Mr. Wyckliff grabbed her by the wrist. His grip was surprisingly harsh. No one handled her this way. How dare he! She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster, but the grim light in his eyes withered her protest before it reached her tongue.
"You shall tell me in the end, so you might as well tell me now."
His ruthless expression reminded her that he had not come by his injuries from a game of whist. For a heartbeat, she felt the cold hand of fear clutch at her insides. But she was not about to let him see it.
She gave a disdainful sniff. “You are no gentleman, sir."
He grinned pleasantly. “Aye, true enough. So tell me where she's gone."
Letticia attempted to yank her wrist free but his grip only tightened. She puffed and tussled for a moment, but Mr. Wyckliff held her fast with ease.
"You'll do yourself a mischief,” he advised.
She scowled at him, but stopped struggling. “Gwenllian is no longer here."
"So I noticed."
"Unhand me and I'll tell you where she is."
Mr. Wyckliff grinned again. “Liar."
Letticia glowered. “Impertinent brute."
She kicked at him but he did not seem to mind. In fact, other than holding her in place, his comportment was surprisingly benign.
"I must find her. You know I must,” he said quietly.
"And what will you do? Take her away to live in a hovel?” she snapped.
Mr. Wyckliff released her wrist. He spun on his heel and stepped away toward the window.
Letticia pressed her unexpected advantage. “You are inferior to her, you know that. Gwenllian deserves to marry—"
"An impotent, old man like yours?"
"An aristocrat,” she corrected. “Or at least a member of the gentry. Someone who can keep her safe. Someone who can keep her in style. You cannot keep her in style, can you?"
"No, my Lady,” he muttered. His hands clenched into fists, but they stayed at his sides.
"Neither can you keep her safe. You're some sort of soldier, correct? So she'd either be spending her days alone, at the mercy of anyone, waiting for word that you're dead, or be risking her life in war zones. What kind of life is that?"
Mr. Wyckliff turned to face her. His eyes blazed, yet there was also a sort of sadness deep behind the anger.
"For what ‘tis worth, I agree with you.” He had more to say, but she noticed him forcibly stop himself and take a deep breath before continuing. “The lass deserves better than me. I simply want her to know that."
"She knows it."
"I want her to know it from my lips, not yours."
Letticia could feel herself weakening. He seemed so earnest. But it was precisely this type of scenario her sister must avoid. If he came to her all sincere like this, Gwenllian would melt faster than ice under boiling water—who in their right mind would not? It was up to her to keep her sister's marriage prospects on course. She must be strong.
Letticia drew herself up to her full height. “I am sorry for you,” she said, trying to sound detached. “But I cannot help."
* * * *
Daniel hobbled toward the door. Lady Berwentford was not going to tell him anything. She had called his bluff. He could hardly beat the information out of her. But there were other ways of finding out what he wanted to know.
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