The Resurrection of Lady Somerset

by Nicola Beaumont

“But your poor mashed toe,” she signed.

  “Shall we go back to something slower once again? The waltz perhaps?” He suggested with a distinct air of hopefulness in his tone.

  “Are you quite sure that would be all right? After all, I would be all the more closer to your poor feet, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, but then, I would also have a firmer grip on your movements, would I not?”

  The heat rose up Lark’s neck. Trying to ignore her embarrassment, she silently picked up the hem of her peach gown. She so wished she could control her feelings. She was sure they betrayed her, for Jonathon eyed her in a most uncomfortable manner, his dark eyes seemingly piercing her thoughts.

  She averted her gaze and held out her bent arm as she had been instructed. She felt him near as he stepped up to take her hand. Her fingers tingled in anticipation even before she felt his flesh touch her gloved hand. When his warmth kissed her palm, her knees liquefied.

  She stared blankly at his cravat, counting silently as he whirled her around the empty library.

  “That’s it, my dear,” he coaxed her gently. “I am quite positive when we announce our engagement, I will be the envy of all.”

  Her gaze darted to him, then. Could he have meant that? She wished desperately to ask him, to hear the affirmation of his words, but he was holding her hand, and so she could not converse. Her mouth came open, but she closed it again. That was a useless decoration on her face.

  He abruptly stopped waltzing and studied her with a scrutiny that made her breath catch. Silence stretched between them, but she experienced no awkwardness. If anything, she relished the fact that he had not yet let her go. Her gaze locked with his in a hypnotic charge that sizzled through her entire body. Breathing was a labor.

  “You are very beautiful, Miss Lark.”

  Suddenly her lungs filled with air.

  “But I am quite certain you already knew this.”

  She shook her head slowly and attempted to ease her hand from his grasp. She wanted to deny his words. He shouldn’t think he was going to be joined to a simpering, conceited woman who needed false flattery.

  Jonathon tightened his grip on her hand so she could not free it to speak. She pulled once again—although, she admitted not putting much strength into her effort. Still he did not let go.

  He smiled down at her.

  “I will allow no one to ridicule your handicap, and I will allow no one to sully your reputation. You have my word as a gentleman on that,” he said.

  He cocked his head to one side and studied her from a different angle.

  “You are like a delicate butterfly…”

  An odd quiver in the softness of his voice captivated Lark.

  “…hidden away in a cocoon only to be revealed at God’s own choosing. Beautiful and unique yet innocent and dainty…”

  He paused, and she waited, intent on his mouth, the anticipation of his words almost unbearable.

  “Easily captured in a man’s net,” he concluded.

  She swallowed the lump of emotion that snagged in her throat. He sounded so melancholy, yet so arduous, as if he truly ached for her well-being. It caused her to want to speak to him, to tell him verbally all the tumultuous yearnings and doubts inside her.

  But she could not. A chasm yawned inside her. She would never be good enough for him. Tears pricked her eyes, and she quickly studied the floor at her side. With a brute force borne of desperation, she wrenched free of his grasp and fled the room.

  ~*∞*~

  It had been three days since Lark had abandoned him and their dance lesson, and now, as they were finally sharing another meal, he’d bungled what he wanted to say one more time—only this time, it was his hands that refused to work correctly rather than his mouth.

  He’d wanted this evening to be perfect to make up for their previous time together. When she’d fled the room, all the warmth had drained from his hand. He had not felt so empty, so alone since the day he had been forced out of this very house by his father.

  Even three days hence, he did not know what to do about it.

  Lark reached across the dining table and covered his hands with her own. Instantly, his gaze transfixed on the creamy, soft hand that encased his own. The warmth was back. As she absently rubbed the pad of her thumb against the back of his hand, tiny shivers of awareness skittered down his chest. He thought he would lose his sanity. He closed his eyes and willed his unfettered emotion into restraint.

  It was an innocent, comforting movement on her part. She had no idea of the havoc her caress played on his senses, but he feared that if she did not stop, indeed all sense would be banished from him.

  As if in tune with his very thought, her thumb stilled. His eyelids flew open, and their gazes locked as he searched her face for something as unknown as it was needed.

  The sconce light flicked across her face, illuminating her blue eyes. They glimmered like the light, soft and inviting, and the urge to draw her face to his, virtually undid him. He wanted to feel her soft, untouched lips on his, caress the softness of her face.

  But he did not.

  He quickly snatched his gaze and his hand from her.

  “I am but lousy at this,” he grated, refusing to look into her face. “How ever am I to make people believe we have been secretly in love for ages if I do not understand your language fluently before the announcement of our engagement?” He drew in a heavy breath and expelled it with a force borne of frustration.

  He got up and moved around the room. When his eyes settled on her once again, she appeared out of sorts, melancholy and distant.

  “You look quite pale, my dear. Are you all right?”

  She nodded slowly, disjointedly, as if it pained her to move her head. His emotions ran amok. “What is the matter,” He said softly.

  She shook her head. “Nothing,” she signed.

  He took a step towards her.

  She showed him her palm, and he froze. “It’s nothing,” she signed with angry fingers.

  Frustration pound Jonathon’s chest. “Miss Lark, heavens. Do speak your mind. You have me quite at sea. First sitting there all prim and lovely, the next eyeing me as if I had two heads attached at the neck.”

  Of a sudden, the sadness in her eyes transformed to something harder.

  Her hands flew rapidly, her entire upper body flinging about. “Well that is just it, is it not? I cannot speak my mind!”

  Jonathon, startled by her abrupt outburst, had been unable to decipher anything she said, but it was quite obvious in her quick, substantial movements that she was extremely overset. He was a little undone, himself. To be true, he was botching the sign language, but he was trying. Did she not understand that? Her hands were in a frenzy that seemed would never end.

  “Please calm yourself, lady. I daresay I cannot understand what you say when you move so suddenly.”

  ~*∞*~

  A stone had leadened Lark’s heart as she realized the truth in heartless clarity. He did not want to learn sign language for her sake, but for that of appearance. That was the only reason he was trying so hard. She was a fool to have ever hoped he would care for her. She had spent the last three days lamenting over her own deficiencies, over the realization that she would never be good enough for him. She had known the truth then, but no matter how much she reminded herself of reality, of her situation, hope refused to die. She ached for him to love her.

  She cast her eyes to his and found him raptly watching her. Heat crept up her neck, and settled as a huge lump in her throat. She would never be anything to him but a deficient dependent whom he was being forced to marry. What a farce her life had become. Slowly she signed, “I must go.”

  She started to rise, but he grabbed her wrist. “No,” he said evenly. Mutely they studied one another without moving, she bent over the table with her bottom only inches off the chair and he, holding her wrist without sign of ever letting go.

  She felt the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes and willed all her st
rength to evaporate them before they spilled.

  “Is this a battle of the wills or something substantial with which I should concern myself?”

  His flat, emotionless words cut like a broadsword through butter. Lark slowly lowered herself back into the chair, and he released her wrist. Spent and tired, she wished only to escape him for a while.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now what brought on that outburst? Praytell, for it is above me.”

  “I am sorry, my lord,” Lark told him with her hands. “Forgive me.”

  “Your answer circumvents the question.”

  “It is the only answer I can provide at the moment,” Lark told him, sure to keep her movements slow and pronounced.

  “Can or will, I wonder.”

  She lowered her gaze to the empty plate in front of her. “Dinner was lovely, my lord. Thank you for a wonderful meal, but I am tired and wish to take my leave.”

  “What about me frightens you, Miss Lark? Is it merely a case of doubting my ability to care for you in the manner my father did?”

  She did not answer, completely perplexed by his query.

  “For I assure you, I hold my responsibilities in high regard. I have mentioned before, I will not allow harm to befall you, nor will you lack for any need that may arise during our marriage.”

  “I am of a mind that you will fulfill your responsibility in the most honorable manner, my lord,” Lark signed, wishing this interlude were at an end. “Don’t concern yourself over me. I have never doubted your abilities or intentions.”

  He showed her a forced smile. “If you truly tire, I won’t keep you any longer.” He rose and came to stand behind her chair.

  Lark watched him until he was out of her vision, and when she felt his gentle tug on the back of the chair, lifted herself out of the seat. Slowly, she turned to face him.

  She had been dismissed, of that she had no doubt, but there was something odd in his eyes that left her wondering if he bore anger towards her or mere indifference.

  Bowing her head slightly, she thanked him in sign for a lovely meal and turned to leave.

  “Lark.” His voice stopped her. He made almost no sound as he placed a hand on her arm and turned her to face him. She looked into his eyes, and his countenance conveyed unrest. Lark’s heart tore. Would it always be this difficult?

  “Lark,” he said again. He squeezed her arm ever so slightly and then leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes, an explosion of conflicting emotions tearing at her. “I’m sorry,” he said against her skin. He pulled away and looked into her eyes. “Please try to understand, I am doing my utmost to care for you. I know this is difficult for you. It is difficult for me, as well.” His gaze dropped to the carpet. “More difficult than you can imagine.”

  Lark’s heart met his gaze on the floor at their feet, and she left it there as she turned and fled to the sanctuary of her chambers, his words echoing in her head: More difficult than you can imagine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’ve pressed your ivory jaconet,” Rebekka told Lark.

  Lark stood staring out the window. In the distance, she could barely see the church steeple kissing the sky. The fog was still thick. “It looks dreadfully cold outside,” she signed, turning to face her abigail.

  “That is no reason to wear a long face,” Rebekka replied. “Come and let’s get you ready for the day.”

  Lark crossed the room and allowed Rebekka to remove her dressing gown and slip the slender jaconet gown onto her body.

  “When do you suppose it should be appropriate to don the new gowns?” Lark glanced at the wardrobe in the corner, remembering the lovely outing she’d enjoyed while ordering the gowns that Penelope had fetched for her once they were ready. She had been tempted to wear one of them at supper last evening, but when the evening had soured, she was glad Rebekka had seen fit to talk her out of it.

  “As I said last night. When you make your first appearance in society, you will want to look all new. That’s the way it’s done.”

  “Yes, but no one will see if I am to wear the gowns beforehand.” Perhaps if she were to put on one of the new baroque gowns today, her gray mood would lighten. As it was, her mood was as dark as the clouds out of doors.

  Rebekka stepped back and viewed her charge with quiet wisdom. “Lord Somerset would see, my dear, and you want to surprise him as much as any. More so, if you truly wish to capture his heart.”

  “Why do you suppose Lord Peter told us such a story about Jona—Lord Somerset caring for me? Surely he must have known it would be discovered.”

  Rebekka shuffled Lark over to the dressing table and sat her down in front of the looking glass. “Perhaps it was not a lie, miss, perhaps it was the truth.”

  Lark scoffed, but did not say a word with her hands. Rebekka didn’t understand. She hadn’t been present when Jonathon said he was learning sign language only for appearance’s sake, or when he had pushed her away with obvious disdain, or when he had…Lark halted her musings. There was no need to dwell on things. She must be realistic. She had two choices. Marry Jonathon and spend a life in his presence tormented by the fact that he had married her out of obligation only, or leave Somerset Hall and spend a life not in his presence, tormented by the fact that he would have married her out of obligation only.

  Lark scowled at her reflection. Rebekka had brushed Lark’s hair in short order, arranging the fine, shimmering locks and pinning them skillfully on one side of her face. Tiny golden tendrils curled naturally all around her face creating an artful frame. It did not seem to matter the skill or time Rebekka put forth, Lark was still plain.

  She thought of Marie Beauchamps. How pretty Jonathon’s cousin was, a touch of rouge and a hint of lip color to enhance her simple beauty. Lark had no such luxuries to enhance her appearance

  Her gaze moved to Rebekka’s reflection. “Do you think we could add some things to my toilette before I am to come out to the ton?”

  “Be still a minute,” Rebekka requested kindly. “I have but a few more pins to keep your hair in place.”

  Lark stilled her hands and waited while Rebekka put the finishing touches on her hair.

  Still, it didn’t do any good. She was plain as the day was long.

  “I should say we could add whatever pleases God,” Rebekka said. “Your Lord Somerset has seen fit to give you a tidy allowance.”

  Lark was thoughtful for a moment. “He does take his responsibility of me to heart, does he not?”

  Rebekka widened a grin. “I suppose that’s not all he has taken to heart.”

  “You are much too much a romantic,” she signed, a wistful smile on her face.

  Her smile faded at a knock on the door.

  “I thought you said Lord Somerset left word he would be in London for the day’s majority?” Lark signed.

  “I did, my lady. To be sure it is probably Penelope or Chauncy come to see if you are ready to breakfast.” Rebekka moved to the door and opened it with a smile that faded the very moment the portal was fully undone.

  Apprehension seized Lark. She banged a hand on the dressing table to get Rebekka’s attention but the abigail had become a statue. All manner of ghastly possibilities ran through Lark’s head—the most disturbing: what if some injury had come to Jonathon? Her heart constricted. No. She refused to consider that.

  Hesitantly she rose from the ornately padded bench, her slippered feet carrying her silently to stand at the threshold of the door. Her intake of breath was audible in the heavy hush of the darkened, empty morning. Relief and anxiety mingled in her throat. Her eyes darted from Cyril to Rebekka and back several times more before Cyril broke the awkward silence.

  “I did not mean to startle you, Miss Lark.”

  Water stained his overcoat in round droplets that darkened the woolen fabric. His hair was frost dampened and curling at the ends. The reticent look in his eye made him seem like a contrite little boy. She could not help but be amused by his pres
ence at her door. Her mood relaxed a little.

  “Tell him it is most inappropriate for a gentleman to meet a lady in her chambers,” she signed to Rebekka.

  When Rebekka did not answer, but remained as stiff as an icicle on a winter’s day, Lark nudged her none too gently.

  The abigail clutched the spot on her arm where Lark’s elbow had connected hard. “Wh-what, my lady?” Rebekka stammered.

  Lark repeated her request with much patience, and Rebekka obediently turned to Cyril and interpreted Lark’s statement.

  A smile drew across Cyril’s lips, and he regained that knavish countenance Lark already knew was uniquely Cyril’s. His gaze fell on her, his eyes twinkling and utterly puckish. “My lovely Miss Lark, do you not realize it is ever so much more inappropriate for a young lady such as yourself to dwell in the same house with a gentleman outside the benefit of matrimony. Heavens! What were the world to discover it?” He drew a dramatic hand to his cheek and looked all the shocked.

  “Tell him he is strictly incorrigible,” Lark instructed Rebekka.

  Rebekka’s eyes widened. “I will do no such thing,” she gasped. “What bad manners that would be.”

  “As if it is not bad manners for my abigail to reprimand me in front of my future brother-in-law?” Lark countered, not particularly perturbed by Rebekka’s words.

  “If I do not correct your waywardness now, what will you do in but a short time when mourning is finished?”

  “I should fare much better if people think I have a firm hand with my servants.” Lark signed rapidly.

  “Of all the—”

  “Do you suppose I could participate in this conversation,” Cyril cut in.

  Rebekka and Lark looked towards him, and he smiled widely at them. “It is a little discomfiting to hear but one half of a conversation,” he told them. “Besides, I really must get out of this wet coat and near a warm fire before I catch my death.” He craned his neck between the two women and eyed the dying fire across the room. “Looks as if you could do with a strapping man to stoke the fire a tad.”

  A disgruntled sound escaped Rebekka’s lips, but she had the sense and manners to add not anything verbal to it.