A single tear spilled from her eye, and she wrenched free of his tender grasp to hide her face and swipe the traitor from view.
“I’m sorry if I embarrass you,” he declared. “I know I am much your senior, and you think of me in the same regard as you did my father, but I cannot help the way I feel.”
~*∞*~
Jonathon scanned Lark’s face and saw innocence and fright shining in her light eyes. A fist of pain closed around his heart. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms, but he could not. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
He broke the contact between them, clenching his fists at his side. He could touch her no longer. It was too painful, too tempting, too wrong and so right. He was a nodcock to have allowed his feelings for her to grow when it was a love forbidden.
She raised her arms into the light, but he stopped her. “Come,” he said quickly, “Let us join the others.” He attempted to steer her in the direction of the door, but she pulled away in protest. He turned to look at her in question.
She shook her head. “I do not wish to return,” she told him.
“But we must. We have delayed much too long. People will talk.”
“Let them.” She stared at him doe-eyed, yet with a determination burning behind her innocence.
He gave a short laugh. “You are indeed unaware of the repercussions of such a decision. We must return.” He took her arm and again tried to escort her inside.
She pulled away a second time. “I feel we must talk,” she signed when she was free of his grasp.
He looked around, checking for onlookers, but found none. “All right,” he agreed slowly. Anxiety rose in his throat.
A chasm of silence separated them for several moments before she spoke. Her movements were slow and deliberate. He swallowed and consciously felt his skin move with the slide of his Adam’s apple. The trepidation would not digest.
He watched her hands without blinking, without breathing, without a beat of heart.
And she surprised him.
“I…I was…afraid. I was afraid I would always be…a thorn…in your…side. An unwanted burden thrust upon you by Lord…Peter. I did not think…that…you could…love me as I love you. I thought…”
He read no more.
He grabbed her hands in both of his. “Say no more!” Confusion waltzed across her face and her pulse throbbed beneath his fingers. Her eyes pooled with tears, a single, salty droplet spilling over. Jonathon watched the tear make its sad descent down her ivory cheek, and his heart collapsed. He gently squeezed her hands, trying desperately to find words of comfort. None came.
She wrenched free of his grasp.
“Why do I sicken you so,” she signed. “One moment it is as if you care for me, the next it is as if you loathe the very sight of me. I am at a loss.”
He heaved in a breath. “Because, my dear, you may very well be my sister.”
In one quick, fluid motion, Lark stepped up and struck him in the face.
Chapter Twenty
Lark was in full nightdress when Rebekka sat her down that evening. “Do you know why Lord Peter kept you hidden all these years? Why you must assume a false sir name until the wedding vows are spoken?”
Lark did not know until this very moment that she could feel any worse. “No, why? Do you?” she signed slowly.
“I do not know exactly. I am but a servant. It was never my place to question. I knew Lord Peter must have ample reason. He wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect you, also. You were but a child.”
Lark’s impatience heightened. “Be direct,” she signed, her disquiet showing in the trembling of her fingers.
“Did you not recognize any of the members present this evening?”
Lark sighed. “I have seen no one save the Rexley members at Lord Peter’s will reading for more than a decade gone. Who do you suppose I should have been able to recognize? And why, praytell am I to be protected?”
“I didn’t think of it until this very night, and still I do not have proof for you to purchase…” she paused and Lark filled in the silence with an impatient groan.
Rebekka continued. “Blackwell House has been rebuilt. I have known this fact for some time. There is talk even among servants.”
“How can this be? There are but two who survived of that house and we are both in this very room.” Lark lowered her hands to her lap and watched an array of emotions play on her abigail’s face. An uneasy feeling washed over her. She grew very still.
“You have a cousin, my lady. That man inherited the estate when you were presumed to have perished with your parents. The eldest of your Aunt Beril’s son.”
At the name, Lark vaguely remembered Aunt Beril. She was a stately woman who had married a Scotsman—someone of a lower rank.
She turned to Rebekka. “Why was I not sent to live with Aunt Beril?” She signed slowly, not at all sure she actually wanted to hear the answer.
Rebekka shrugged. “I cannot presume to understand. Perhaps Lord Peter thought it best if you remained dead as everyone thought you were. I have my own doubts as to how good a parent your aunt was.” She darted apologetic eyes to Lark. “I am sorry, miss. I spoke out of turn.”
Lark shrugged off the insult to her kin. “Tell me why you say this?”
“Her sons, my lady. Neither was of a good seed.” Rebekka turned her gaze to the floor momentarily then looked up again, a new thought shining in her eyes. “It was a good thing you were not sent to her anyway. Your Aunt Beril got the consumption not long after the fire and was bedridden the rest of her days.”
Lark digested Rebekka’s words about as easily as she had swallowed the stale cakes at Almack’s. She was disturbed by the confession. Confused. Stunned. She had kin. She had kin who had lived—and died—without her knowledge. Until this moment, she had not realized just how isolated she truly had been.
She slapped her hand on the hand-sewn quilt to get Rebekka’s attention. “This cousin, he is the one who rebuilt Blackwell House?”
Rebekka nodded.
“Why did you not tell me? He is family. He cannot be so completely bad, and I should have liked to visit it.”
“Lord Peter instructed me to keep my mouth and my mind at bay.”
“But why?”
Rebekka shrugged. “I don’t know, I do but what I’m told.” She peered into Lark’s eyes as if trying to see into her soul. “You recognized no one?”
“I have already told you.” She looked pointedly at Rebekka. “Now, you tell me.”
Rebekka fidgeted in the gilt chair. “Nigel Aubury—”
Lark’s blood turned to ice, and she chilled all over. She raised a hand to silence her maid. “Do not mention that man to me. He is…frightening. He stared maliciously at me all eve, and I could have sworn he even followed Lord Somerset and me out of doors!”
“He is the youngest of your cousins,” Rebekka confessed quietly.
“Lies.” Lark signed the single word with such vehemence in her motion that it screamed across the distance between them. “He is…”
“This is my deduction as to Lord Peter keeping you to himself. Your Aunt Beril was lacking in her motherly duties. Your father was Lord Peter’s bosom friend. He did not want his friend’s only daughter raised by such personages.”
“But you don’t know this for certain? There could be another reason.”
“That is why I have never voiced such opinions in the past. They are but speculation on a lowly servant’s part. But when he approached and I took to recognizing him, I thought it high time I told you.”
“High time, indeed. Speculation or none, you should have told me before this day.”
Lark’s rebuke sailed past its mark. Rebekka shrugged. “You were but a child. In my eye you are still but a child.”
“Seventeen,” Lark protested silently. She lowered her hands and clutched the quilt to her breast, deep in thought. For several moments neither woman moved. Then Lark released her so her hands could speak. “This still do
es not explain why I am to be protected. Why I am to relinquish my family name.”
“I have no answer to that. I have but always listened to Lord Peter’s instruction knowing full well that he had your interests in mind.”
“That is not a very good answer,” Lark bemoaned with quick fingers and a down-turned mouth. “What of Jonathon?”
“What of Lord Somerset?” Rebekka replied.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lark spent a restless night, her thoughts spinning with the details of Rebekka’s conjecture and Lord Somerset’s shocking remarks regarding her parentage. She was in high dudgeon this new morn and did not look forward to spending the day on a scheduled outing with her betrothed.
She shed her morning frock for an empire dress of an emerald hue. The mantuamaker had convinced Lark that the dress would do her up proud, and the seamstress had not been mistaken. The high waistline accented her bosoms in a way that suddenly pleased her. At least she would look all-the-thing, even if she did not feel so inside.
Rebekka skillfully piled layers of pale blonde hair so that silken ringlets cascaded down to her shoulder blades. Lark was pleased with the reflection she projected from the looking glass as Rebekka topped her hair with a delectable bonnet trimmed with white lace and green ribbon.
As Lark descended the stairs, Jonathon waited at the bottom. Her heart collapsed. It was difficult to remain angry with him when just the site of him stirred her so, but the apprehension and hurt still lingered, and she could not forget his insult. She twitched a tentative smile.
“I thought I was going to have to come above and drag you down,” he said when she appeared on the landing.
She didn’t reply for fear of letting go of the banister.
“The day grows old,” he told her, “but you are as fresh as spring.”
She reached the bottom of the staircase, and he took her hand, holding her at arm’s length while he inspected the dress that was new to him. “That color suits you well, my dear.”
She gently pulled her hand away from his. “How can you be so civil after insulting my mother and Lord Peter thus, last eve?
Jonathon took up both of her hands. “We will speak of this presently—when we are privately together on our outing. I would not for the world bring you distress.”
“Rebekka will be down presently,” she signed, ignoring his remarks. She didn’t know what to make of them, anyway. If he hadn’t wanted to bring her distress, why had he accused her mother and his father of such debauchery? Why had he insinuated she was illegitimate?
He helped her into her mantle and then donned a top hat and overcoat himself. He made a handsome figure. She loved him more than she wanted to; perhaps that were why his accusation lacerated her heart.
“What is running through that head of yours?”
She shook her head in reply. How could she tell him how mortally he had wounded her? How could she tell him it was beyond comprehension for them to be siblings? How could she tell him it would kill her if it were true?
Rebekka arrived, and they were just to leave when the doorknocker sounded. Chauncy came from within the kitchen, but Jonathon waved him away. “We are about to take our leave. I shall see to the door.”
Chauncy disappeared silently.
Jonathon opened the door and the young messenger standing out of doors quickly snatched the cap from his head. “I ’ave a missive ’ere for Jonafin Rexley, Lawd Sumaset.”
“Yes, I am he.” He took the note from the boy’s extended hand and broke the seal. The boy had turned to leave when Jonathon stopped him. “Wait one moment. I must reply.” He turned to the women. “I apologize for the delay. This is quite important business.” He disappeared inside, leaving them standing in the vestibule.
He disappeared into his study for just a moment then returned posthaste and handed a message to the errand boy along with a shiny shilling.
The boy beamed. “Fank ya, Guv,” he said and scurried quickly away.
~*∞*~
Hyde Park entertained a throng of carriages and fine horseflesh. Rebekka and Jonathon had both attempted to describe the bustle of an afternoon ride in Hyde Park, but after seeing it for herself, Lark realized their second-hand descriptions did not do justice to the clamoring liveliness.
The array of colors worn by the ladies, most of whom had plumes atop their heads, had the place looking more like a painting than an out-of-doors park. Horses’ hooves pounded the ground, the staccato sound forming an unbidden melody in Lark’s ear.
Despite wanting to remain aloof, she had a newfound personal confidence as she sat beside Jonathon in his fine carriage drinking in all the stares of couples they passed along the way. She noticed many lean to their partners, but she did not mind the gossip today.
“You attract much attention,” Jonathon told her.
She looked at him most boldly and smiled. “The attention is not as dreadful as I had first anticipated,” she told him honestly, grateful for once for her ability to converse without worry of someone overhearing.
Jonathon’s eyebrows rose. “My, you’ve mustered some confidence, haven’t you? I must say, it’s most becoming.”
~*∞*~
Lark’s skin turned pink.
“Ah, but still an innocent,” Jonathon observed. “And that becomes you just as much.”
“You are incorrigible,” Lark told him. “If I were a speaking lady, you would not address me in such a forward manner.”
“Wouldn’t I? I daresay it has nothing to do with your ability to speak. I have quite mastered your language well enough, I should say.”
“What, then? Is it more, then, that you think I am your sister?” Lark grunted and turned her face away from him.
Jonathon sighed. Her words pierced him, but he deserved no less. He should have held his emotions and kept his mouth closed, but his brain had turned to gruel as she had spoken of love. How much more difficult would it be to hold her at a distance, knowing she returned his feelings?
A carriage pulled up beside them and the gentleman doffed his hat. Lark smiled, and the lady seated beside him looked thoroughly overset. She picked up the closed parasol at her side and slammed it against the carriage floor in the most ungenteel way.
The man’s head snapped away from Jonathon and Lark, his full attention now on the one he had chosen to escort.
Jonathon laughed and waved as his friend nervously glanced their way. “Winston is up to his tricks again.”
Lark patted his arm and his attention returned to her. “You are avoiding the subject,” she told him.
He showed her a blank look. “Subject?”
“Of why you would say we are siblings, yet still maintain this charade of a betrothal. You think that Lord Peter wished to wed brother to sister? ‘Tis utmost disgusting.”
Jonathon sighed. “I cannot tell you all, but I can reason no other explanation for my father ordering me to protect you. And under circumstances of which I am unable to disclose, it is perfectly natural for me to conclude the sibling relation. After all, you are hid away and kept in my father’s house—he obviously cared for you as a father does his child; You share his birth blemish on your arm, and I am distinctly aware at times how your mouth tilts into a smile much the way his did.”
Lark didn’t know how to respond. He had to have lost his mind to make so weighty a conclusion based on such feathery evidence. She raised her hands to say as much but he didn’t give her the chance to speak.
“I didn’t wish to burden you with such information until I became more certain, but you seemed so overset by my reluctance to…to…well, perhaps we should seek a less nocuous subject of conversation.” He glanced to Rebekka.
“I haven’t had much experience with the world, yet even I realize that when people live with one another they develop like characteristics. Mayhap I smile in a similar manner as Lord Peter, but it means nothing. I fear I also have Rebekka’s disposition. Would you conclude that she were my mother?”
Jo
nathon waved away her statement. “And the blemish on your arm?”
“I fear you are shameful,” Lark told him finally.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the first part,” he said.
“She said you are shameful,” Rebekka cut in from her place aside. “And I should agree.”
Jonathon gave Rebekka a surprised look then glanced at Lark. Laughter bubbled inside Lark’s throat until she could contain it no longer. The notion was just so preposterous.
~*∞*~
The sound of Lark’s laughter doused Jonathon like a bucket of cold water on a hot and humid day—at once startling, but not at all unpleasant. Even an operatic diva had never produced so lovely a melody as that which rang in his ears this very first time he experienced Lark’s laughter. His breath caught in his chest.
He grieved anew for the loss of being able to hear spoken words come from her tender mouth—all those beautiful sounds he would never hear her utter.
He swallowed his breath and looked into her face, studying her every feature. He wondered what was dancing around in her pretty head.
At that moment, a baroque pulled up to engage them in conversation. Lark looked over at Nigel Aubury’s smiling face. Her body chilled and stiffened beside Jonathon. Her tightened lips smiled, but it seemed forced. Jonathon hoped Aubury didn’t notice.
“Good afternoon to you,” Aubury said.
Jonathon acknowledged him with a nod.
“Tatt’s later?”
Lark’s body grew more rigid as Aubury lengthened the conversation. She turned her face away from him and towards Jonathon. He became acutely more aware of her anxiety, but couldn’t quell it with Aubury staring him in the face. He gave Lark a faint smile, which he hoped would reassure her somewhat, and then answered Aubury’s question.
From his periphery, he could see Lark fix her gaze on the hem of her dress or the bottom of the carriage or perhaps the tips of her boots poking out from beneath her dress. One thing was certain: Lark didn’t like Nigel Aubury. But why? Did she have memory of him even though she’d denied it?
“Have you seen Wessex’s stallion?” Aubury asked. ’Tis a magnificent specimen for certain.”
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 16