Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 04]

by Courtesan's Kiss

  He went on talking but Mia had no idea what he said. Fear edged with guilt stole her breath and she sat on the settee, her legs weak, her head light.

  This was her worst fear. If Lord David took ill, he who seemed as healthy and strong as an elephant, then what were the chances the rest of them would be spared? She rocked back and forth, fighting tears and anger.

  “Miss Castellano, do not dissolve into hysterics.” Through her light-headed fog it seemed that Mr. Novins sounded hysterical himself. “It will make me regret telling you.” She felt him sit beside her and wave something under her nose.

  Ugh. A vinaigrette. Mia gasped at the awful smell and coughed herself back to normal. “I hate that smell.”

  “Yes, but it does work.” Mr. Novins slid it back into his pocket. “Are you steady enough to listen now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss, Lord David is not sick, nor do I think he will be.”

  Huge relief overtook her fear.

  “He is upset about the others and worried about you.”

  “Worried about me? No, he is not.” Not because he cared about her or would be devastated if she took ill. “But I will concede that he is worried that my death would upset Elena, my guardian.”

  “Your death?” Mr. Novins took her hand. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “No. Not at all.” The man missed the point completely. “Or Lord David might be worried that he is going to be late for his appointment in Manchester. But he is not worried about Mia Castellano, I assure you of that. Not any more than I worry about him.”

  “I see.” Mr. Novins said the two words as though he were imbued with some sight other than visual.

  “If all you wanted to know is if I am feeling well, the answer is yes. No pain, no aches, no bruises from the carriage ride.” Mia was desperate to see what Elena had sent her. Instead she sacrificed that immediate pleasure to pursue Mr. Novins’s best interest and felt all the more angelic for it.

  “Since we have dispensed with my well-being, do tell me how the people in the village are handling this upset.” Especially Miss Horner. Especially Miss Horner. Mia tried to send the ideas through the air and into his brain.

  “Miss Horner tells me that everyone is concerned and fearful for Mrs. Cantwell.”

  “For Mrs. Cantwell?”

  “Mrs. Cantwell is better known than you and Lord David. Even Miss Horner’s mother went to church today to pray, and it is very difficult for Mrs. Horner to move about. She must use two canes.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Mia winced at how perfunctory that sounded. She wanted to know about Miss Horner, not her mother. “Did Miss Horner come to church as well?”

  “Yes, I spoke to her afterward. Very briefly.” I miss her.

  He did not have to speak those words. Mia could tell by the expression on his face that his loneliness went soul-deep.

  “Why will Miss Horner not consider marriage? You would be willing to take care of her mother and siblings, would you not?” And if he said no then his love was as shallow as a mud puddle and as pure.

  “Of course. Her family would be mine.”

  “Then, please tell me, what is the obstacle?”

  “I have not asked her.”

  “Oh. Why in the world not?”

  Mr. Novins blushed and looked at his hands.

  The solution seemed simple, but men were such prideful creatures. What she needed to do was meet Miss Horner and find out if she returned Mr. Novins’s affection and then reassure him that his suit would be welcome. But that could not happen for a sennight.

  “Mr. Novins,” she began, looking him straight in the eyes. “Here is what you must do.”

  “Novins, need I remind you of all the reading that awaits you?”

  Mia jumped to her feet with a cry. Mr. Novins did the same minus the little screech.

  “You frightened me, Lord David,” Mia scolded.

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  He smiled like a self-satisfied prig. Or a bully. An oaf and a bully. And a prig.

  “Yes, my lord,” Mr. Novins agreed. “I will see you later today, my lord.” Mr. Novins bowed to him, then turned to her, taking her hand and bowing over it with a charming grace. “We can continue our discussion then, Miss Castellano.”

  “I look forward to it.” She flashed a look at Lord David and hoped he could read her mind. Take that, you bully, Mia thought even as she admitted to herself that calling him names made her feel like a child.

  Mia followed Mr. Novins from the salon and closed the front door after another brief farewell. Lord David had followed her into the hallway but she ignored him. She did not care about him at all, even if he did have a headache. He seemed no more ill-tempered than usual.

  She would find her package and most certainly a letter. Where had Mr. Novins said he left them?

  She hurried down the hall and into the kitchen, mostly to avoid Lord David, and was rewarded with her mail. Mia knew exactly what the odd-shaped package was, but still pulled the ties off the cloth covering and exposed the leather case. Inside was the guitar that she had sent to Pennford months ago. She picked it up and hugged it to her. Even before she played a note, the smell of it, the feel of the strings, the way it fit so perfectly in her arms—it was just the thing she needed.

  “A guitar.”

  Lord David did not surprise her this time. She knew he would follow her.

  “I should have been able to figure that out from the shape of the package. But then I did not know you played the guitar, too.”

  “Yes, it is my favorite thing in all the world.”

  “I thought the pianoforte was your favorite thing in all the world.”

  “They both are.” Why did the man bring out the snippy girl in her? She was a woman, completely grown, with a woman’s wants and needs. She could not believe that she had pretended the pillow was him when she had been experimenting with the pose in the book. Not only sinful but stupid.

  “If there is anything you need to discuss with me I will be in the study.” He left the room without waiting for a reply, and Mia told herself she did not feel at all ungracious.

  “Wait, Lord David.”

  He stopped at the door but did not come back into the room.

  “Is there no letter for me? From Elena.”

  “Oh,” he said, and reached into his pocket. “There was this note tucked in with Meryon’s letter. He penned it but it is dictated by the duchess.”

  “Would you have even thought to give it to me if I had not asked?”

  “Eventually.”

  She turned her back to him and read:

  David and Mia,

  Elena asked me to write to you on her behalf. Mia, she hopes that your maid returns to you shortly.

  I told her that the pianoforte at Sandleton has been sent out for repairs, so she asked me to send Mia’s favorite guitar and some new music by Fons so that she can have some distraction from worry.

  Alan Wilson jumped at the chance to ride by the full moon to deliver this mail and the package to you so you could have them as soon as possible.

  Elena reminds you that this incident is no more than an unfortunate accident for which neither of you is responsible.

  Mia read the note through again. It was not precisely impersonal, but there was nothing particularly loving about it. Why would Elena not write herself unless she was beyond angry with her? Or perhaps she was too sick from her pregnancy. Here was something else to worry about.

  This incident is no more than an unfortunate accident for which neither of you is responsible. Couched in terms to spare David her anger, Mia knew it really meant that everyone was relieved that for once Mia Castellano was not the reason for this disaster.

  With the guitar back in the case, Mia counted the months since she had played it. The pianoforte was so much more popular in London. Now she could play what she pleased. The guitar was so much more intimate an instrument, held so close to the heart.

  Carrying the ca
se by the handle, she decided to take it away from the house to tune it and practice so no one could hear her mistakes.

  There were three doors leading from the kitchen and she chose the one on the right first, not sure which one led outside.

  The one she chose opened onto a short narrow room lined on both sides with any and all items an angler might want, need, or wish for. Boots, rain wear, creels, nets, and the even more essential equipment: fishing rods and, on the wall, a padded felt square with at least fifty flies.

  Mia took it all in with pure delight. You could angle with a fly here! This was proof that the river was filled with trout. Her papa would have loved this place.

  Mia found that the door at the end of the room led to a path down toward the river. No fish worth its weight would be caught this time of day, so she headed to the river to play her guitar for them.

  DAVID TOOK HIS second walk of the day after supper, a meal he had eaten alone since Mrs. Cantwell said Mia had sent word she would have something cold later.

  The light remained strong but the sun sat low enough in the sky that the night air held sway. As he moved toward the river he could swear he heard music. He stopped, took two more careful steps, and recognized the sound.

  A guitar. Someone played a guitar. And that someone could only be Mia Castellano.

  David circled around the knoll where he found her sitting on a bench. As his eyes adjusted to the growing dark, what a picture she made. Mostly in shadows and not quite real. Since he could not see her clearly, he listened, gradually caught in the spell of her quiet guitar.

  He moved to a secluded spot, lit a cigarillo, and found a dry patch of ground. David lay down flat, closing his eyes and listening to the musicale with no doubt in his mind that Mia would stop playing if she suspected she had an audience.

  He did not recognize the composer and did not have to. The melancholy sounds coursed through him, leaving him feeling as alone and lonely as she must be. The music was just one more way that Mia Castellano had found to convey her feelings, but the way she plucked the strings of the guitar brought him more insight than her conversation.

  If her words revealed her as a flirt who was only interested in adventure, the music she shared sang of loss and longing, announced it as surely as sobs and tears, an affect he had yet to see her employ.

  Where did the sadness come from? he wondered. The loss of her father, most likely. Leaving Italy. The end of her engagement. Fear of illness.

  He drew on his cigarillo and wondered if music was the only place she allowed her heartache to show. No wonder she had been so pleased to see her guitar. No wonder Elena had sent it as quickly as she could.

  Mia stopped playing abruptly and began something far more cheerful, defiant even, using her hands on the body of the guitar for a stronger bass sound. The music required a speed on the strings that he could not even visualize. David smiled and closed his eyes, and shared her good spirits as he had shared her pain.

  He persisted in thinking of her as indulged and spoiled when those were not the right words at all. She struggled to take care of herself, to be independent. In a man it would be admirable. In a woman it was seen as defiant and selfish.

  The next piece was romantic, charged with a sensibility between lust and love. She played it with force at first and then more quietly and quieter still, ending with a note so soft it blended with the night song of the river and the breeze.

  David stayed where he was, drawing on his cigarillo. Who was she thinking of as she played? He would be a lucky man when she decided to tell him, to share all her music conveyed.

  He heard her put the guitar away and move on up the path. Just as she passed the spot where he lay, she whispered.

  “Good night, Lord David.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  DAVID DREW THE NUMBER THREE on the date in his pocket calendar, the third day of their quarantine. No one else had sickened; the groom was recovering, but John Coachman was worse and David himself woke with a headache for the second day in a row.

  He grabbed some bread and fruit, went out the garden door, and headed for the river. The sun beat down as he crossed the lawn, making the trees along the river a welcome destination.

  He found heat bothersome even without a headache so he hurried, too tired to outright run, hoping that the air would prove cooler in the shade.

  Reaching the trees and blessed shade in five minutes, David surprised a deer nibbling on some green shoots along the trail. The doe scampered off, and he watched her disappear into the woods before voices from the riverbank drew his attention.

  He heard the tone, out of breath and angry, but the words were unintelligible. Surely the villagers knew this was Sandleton land and off limits. He listened more carefully as he approached, and decided two people were bickering and the woman would not stop talking, though her voice rose and fell in strength.

  David wanted a fight badly, so he bounded down the trail as he called out, “You there! You are not allowed on this property!”

  When Mia Castellano jumped, the fish she had been playing took the advantage. The line flew back over her shoulder even as she tried to set it again with a practiced jerk of her wrist.

  The wayward hook whipped toward him and pierced the pad of flesh below David’s thumb as he raised his hand to protect his face.

  Mia turned to see who called to her, and David watched her expression pass from amused to distressed to annoyed in a matter of a second.

  David had never seen anyone, on stage or off, who could express so much with a tilt of the head, a quirk of the lips, or the look in her eye.

  “Until you came, I was enjoying the peace and quiet!”

  “Damn times five,” David swore as he pulled the hook from his hand. The pad of flesh at the base of his thumb bled freely and hurt like hell. He pulled his handkerchief out and wound it around as a bandage. As he tied a knot and looked up he noticed how little she wore.

  Too little.

  Even as he had the thought, she stepped behind a tree that did not completely shield her, and turned her back to him.

  “You can curse all you want, but the fault rests with you entirely. You gave Bruce the advantage and he escaped.”

  “Bruce?”

  “Yes, the fish. I named him. My father insisted that the most worthy fish deserved a name. It is my goal to actually land him before we leave here.”

  She looked over her shoulder. He wanted an artist to capture that moment. Mia Castellano in her stays and diaphanous chemise, standing in the summer-lit woods like some dark-haired fairy playing at being human. Never mind an artist. He did not need a painting to recall this moment.

  “Skirts are an encumbrance when angling with a fly. It requires freedom of movement.” She pulled her dress from a branch and held it against her stays for a moment. “And petticoats are even worse than a dress. So I wear as little as possible.”

  “So I can attest,” he said, his brain buzzing with the vision of her.

  “This is Sandleton property,” she continued, “and I hardly expected company, given that and our quarantine.”

  When it occurred to him that her embarrassment was why she jabbered on, David turned to walk down to the river despite the delightful view of her back, hips, and legs.

  “I love fishing,” she called out in a muffled voice. David imagined her raising her arms, pulling her dress over her head, down the trim length of her body. “And I’ve found something to do, some way to help besides winding the clocks.”

  Would she need help with the fastening of her dress? He hoped not.

  “Please do not turn around yet. I have this on wrong and must take it off again.”

  He heard the sound of low-voiced impatience, then the sound of material, most likely the dress, being shaken with force.

  “You know, Lord David, if I catch Bruce we will have enough for a feast.”

  It flashed through his mind as he studied the water that she considered him another kind of fish. Whether she
intended it or not, unless he took care he would be as well and truly caught as any trout named Bruce.

  David concentrated on the clear clean water, its depth little more than three feet in this spot. He recalled there was a spot a little farther down with stones carefully placed so that crossing was easy. He looked across the river at the steep hillside, covered with brush and weeds. It wasn’t the only reason no one used the crossing.

  Here heaps of rounded rocks lay just below the surface, making for eddies and ripples that could hide the fish from view. After a minute his sight adjusted and he counted eight fish swimming by, all of them too small to name.

  The sound of the stream and the feel of the breeze made the heat of the day a pleasure. He bent down to trail a hand in the water, pleased with the fine distraction.

  A scream destroyed his reverie.

  “Madre di Dio!” The panic in her voice was unfeigned. “Help me. Oh no, please, no!”

  David turned back to find Mia running toward him, holding her dress in one hand, brushing at her stays with the other. “There is a spot on my breast. I think it is a smallpox.”

  “Damn times ten, you scared me.” So much that he barely noticed her dishabille. “I thought a bee had flown down your shift.”

  “I would rather have five bee stings than the smallpox. Bee stings disappear.” She held her dress up in a pretense of modesty. “Look, please look, and tell me it is not the beginning of the smallpox. I cannot see well from this angle.”

  “Miss Castellano, it is not smallpox.” He put his hands behind his back and stepped away.

  “You cannot know until you look!”

  “You have no symptoms. It is a bug bite.”

  “No!” she shouted, as if nature would obey her command. “You don’t know for sure until you look.”

  Fear made her shake and he took her hand. “Come back to the house. Mrs. Cantwell will look. It will be no worse for waiting a few moments.”

  “But I will go mad by then.” She gripped his hand so tightly that he could feel the blood stop flowing. “I would rather die from the smallpox than survive. You know as well as I do that my looks are all that I have. If I am marked for life no man would ever be interested in me.”