Finding Lord Farlisle

by Cassandra Dean

  He was supposed to be dead. Eleven years ago, he had abruptly left Eton and set sail on one of the Roxwaithe ships, bound for America. She’d been so confused at the time, and he’d refused to tell her why. Six months later, they had received word the ship had been lost at sea. None had survived.

  With startling clarity, she remembered that day. Her father’s face, careworn and concerned, as he’d told her. Her mother’s worried eyes. The pain in her chest, frozen at first, until she’d excused herself, blindly making her way to her chamber only to stand in its centre, confusion filling her until she’d happened to glance upon his cricket ball, the one he’d given her the last time she’d seen him, three days before he’d left when he’d refused to tell her why he was leaving, and once she’d returned home she’d thrown it onto her dressing table, angry beyond belief at him, that he was going away, and then, then a great gaping hole had cracked open inside her and she’d slid to the floor, pain and grief and devastation growing inside her until it had encompassed all, it had encompassed everything and it hadn’t stopped, it hadn’t stopped, it—

  It was eleven years ago. The pain had faded, but had never truly left. She’d thought she’d learned to live with it. But now…now he was here?

  A thunderous scowl on his face, he made a noise of impatience. “I do not have the inclination for this, girl. Tell me why you have come.”

  His voice crashed over her. That, too, had deepened with age, but it was him. It was him.

  “It is you.” Joy filled her, so big it felt her skin couldn’t contain it. Throwing herself at him, she enveloped him in a hug.

  He stiffened.

  Embarrassment coursed through her. What was she thinking? Immediately, she untangled herself from him. “I beg your pardon,” she stammered. Always before they’d been exuberant in their affections. They’d always found ways to touch one another, even though that last summer, the one before he’d gone away, she’d begun to feel...more....

  Clasping her hands before her, she brought herself to the present. Much had changed, now they were grown and he, apparently, had not died.

  Maxim had not died.

  A wave of emotion swept her, a mix of relief, joy, incredulity…. It buckled her knees and burned her eyes. He was alive. Maxim was alive.

  “When did you return? Do your brothers know?” she asked, steadying herself as she swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “The earl is lately in London, but I’m certain he would return should he know. My father will be so pleased to see, as will my mother. George and Harry will be beside themselves, and Lydia and Michael too, though they were so young when—” She cut herself off, barely able to say the word died. “We mourned you, Maxim.”

  He came closer. He’d grown so tall. When last she’d seen him, barely an inch had separated them but now he was at least two hands taller. Faint lines fanned from his eyes, the tanned skin shocking in the cold English weather. Wherever he’d been, it had been sunburned.

  “I ask again,” he said. “Why have you come?”

  Confusion drew her brows. “Maxim? Don’t you remember me?”

  Starting at the blonde hair piled limply on her head thanks to the rain, he ran his gaze over her. He traced her face, her throat, travelled over her chest, her stomach, swept her legs. A tingling began within her, gathering low. She was suddenly aware of how her breasts pushed against the fabric of her chemise with every breath, of a pulse between her legs that beat slow, steady….

  He raised his gaze to hers. Silence filled the space between them before, succinctly, “No.”

  It was like a punch to her belly. “It’s me. Alexandra.”

  No reaction.

  Oh. Oh, this hurt.

  Lifting her chin, she managed, “I am Lady Alexandra Torrence, daughter of your neighbour, the Marquis of Strand. We grew up together.”

  His expression did not change.

  “Your father, the previous earl, and mine were like brothers.”

  He stared at her. “Previous earl?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Your father passed away some years ago. Your eldest brother is now earl.”

  Again, no change in expression. Did he not care his father had died? But what did she know of this new Maxim? Less than an hour ago, she had not known he was alive.

  He continued to stare at her. She fought the urge to shift under that flat gaze. “Why are you here?” he repeated, his tone harsh and impatient.

  “I was—” Her voice cracked. Cursing her nerves, she cleared her throat. “I am investigating. The villagers spoke of a ghostly presence, lights and wails, and I….” She trailed off. Lord, it made her sound so odd. He’d always teased her about that oddness, and always with affection. She didn’t know what this new Maxim would do.

  Finally there was expression on his face. She wished it had remained stony. “Ghosts? You have invaded my home for ghosts?”

  The disgust in his voice made her cringe. “To be fair, I didn’t know you were here. No one did.”

  Expression still disdainful, he didn’t reply.

  Irritation pushed aside devastation. How could he not remember her? “This is not your home.”

  His brows shot up. “That is your argument?”

  He sounded so much like her Maxim. They’d argued often, and the number of times he’d said those exact words, in that exact tone…. She shook herself. “Yes. It is.”

  “A fallacy. You argue a fallacy.”

  “It is not a fallacy. It is objectively true. Waithe Hall is the ancestral seat of the Earls of Roxwaithe. You are not the Earl of Roxwaithe, ergo, it is not your home.” Knowing it was childish, she tossed her hair and glared.

  Crossing his arms, he scowled. “I know you are somewhere you don’t belong.”

  “So are you,” she pointed out.

  “This is my family home.”

  “It’s your brother’s,” she said. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

  “And you’re being obstinate.”

  “I’m being obstinate? Me?” This was such a ridiculous argument, and yet it was familiar. They’d argued like this all the time, and he was reacting exactly as her Maxim would react, and—

  Stepping forward, he deliberately loomed over her. “I come into my library to find a trespasser, poking around in my things.”

  “Waithe Hall is shut. Roxwaithe hasn’t been here in years. No one is supposed to be here. You aren’t even supposed to be alive. How are you even feeding yourself?”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. “Why am I arguing with you? You’re a trespasser I don’t know.”

  Rage, such as she’d never experienced before, exploded. How dare he? How dare he pretend not to know her? Her fingers curled into fists and she told herself she could not punch him. She was a lady, and he was a clodpole. “Don’t be stupid.”

  He stilled, and something flickered in his dark eyes. “You will leave the way you came.”

  “With pleasure,” she snapped. Pushing past him, she stalked from the library, through the entrance hall, and wrenched the door open. Rain pelted her, almost horizontal as the wind howled and lightning crashed across the sky. She plunged into it, anger propelling her even as she was drenched in moments.

  She’d not gotten more than two strides before a large hand grabbed her shoulder and hauled her back to Waithe Hall. Maxim slammed the door shut and shook himself, water falling to the marble floor . “Do you have any brains?” he demanded.

  “You told me to go. I have no desire to say here with you.”

  “You wouldn’t get half a mile before you’d catch your death. You’ll stay here.”

  “It would not be proper,” she said stiffly.

  He laughed harshly. “Hunting a ghost is not proper, either. You will stay here.”

  Mutinously, she glared at him. Damnation. She could not even argue that point. Belatedly, she realised the rain had plastered his shirt to his body, clinging to hard muscle and broad shoulders.

  Mo
uth abruptly dry, her breath locked in her chest.

  He didn’t seem to notice her distraction. “Come,” he said, holding aloft a lamp he’d magically produced, before turning on his heel to stride down the corridor. Hesitantly, she followed.

  They wound through the Hall, climbing the grand stairs and making their way to the family apartments, the corridors she remembered from her—their—childhood. Wrapping her arms about herself, she cursed herself at the soaked fabric. She’d only brought two gowns, and now both were wet.

  He halted before a door. “You may stay here,” he said, pushing it open.

  Passing him, she entered a bedchamber, again with most of the furniture covered. The bed, though, was not, holding a mattress along with pillows and sheets.

  Surprise filled her. “Is this where you sleep?”

  He placed the lamp on the dresser. “Goodnight.”

  “Good—?” He was gone before she finished the word.

  Wrapping her arms about her torso, she stopped herself from rushing after him. She wanted to assure herself she hadn’t imagined him, that he was real, that he was alive…and she needed to get her bag, she had a nightgown and a change of underclothes, and—Maxim was alive.

  She collapsed onto the bed. The bed he had slept in, unmade with the sheets rucked to the foot of the bed. A faint scent wound about her, woodsy and indistinct, but she knew it was his, knew it was Maxim’s. A harsh sob broke from her, and another, eleven years of emotion exploding. Sliding from the bed, she pulled herself into a ball, hot forehead against her updrawn knees, her cheeks wet, her chest hurting.

  The wind howled, rain pelting the window. They’d all thought him dead. She’d thought him dead. Her dearest companion, her best friend. Maxim.

  Slowly, her sobs subsided. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t take his bed from him, and she...she wanted to know. She wanted to know everything. Why was he here? Why hadn’t he gone to his brothers? Why was he lurking in Waithe Hall alone? When had he returned?

  Did he really not remember her?

  Taking a shuddering breath, she wiped at her cheeks. She needed to know and surely he would tell her. Even if he didn’t remember her.

  Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders. Well, she would make him remember her...and then she would make him let her hug him.

  Chapter Three

  ENTERING THE LIBRARY, MAXIM stripped his sodden shirt from his body. His breeches were soaked through, and his hair dripped cold water down his naked back. He crouched before the fireplace. It took seconds to arrange the logs and kindling, and even less to light them. These last days of summer were still warm, but the nights had started to cool, especially when one had chased a fool of a girl into a torrential downpour. Bending his head, he closed his eyes as the warmth from the fire stripped some of the chill from his skin, though his breeches remained uncomfortably damp.

  Rising, he took the blanket that covered him most nights from the armchair before the fire and wound it about himself. There was little he could do about the damp breeches, seeing as the girl occupied the room where he kept his clothing, but he could at least warm himself. Chasing the girl into the storm had been all kinds of idiotic, but he couldn’t in good conscience have allowed her to flit through the wilds of Northumberland in the middle of a lightning storm. Storms were rare in this part of the world, and the combination of unusual weather, uneven ground, the rapidly falling night, and the torrent of rain would have no doubt brought about ruin.

  Sinking into the chair, he stared at the fire as it popped and crackled, throwing light and heat around the room. For five months, he’d made his home here, occupying himself with maintaining the estate, fixing anything he found broken, keeping the grounds from becoming overgrown. If he needed food, he’d walk to the next village over and trade services for supplies. He’d narrowly avoided the steward a time or two, and no doubt the man was somewhat surprised at the continued good condition of the estate.

  Waithe Hall held his strongest memories, and it was where he’d headed as soon as he’d gathered the resolve to return to the life of his youth. His memories were still muddy, and most likely he would never remember all he had lost, but when he’d walked the drive, seen Waithe Hall in the distance, recognition had hit him like a whip. His knees had buckled as a weight of a thousand remembrances almost felled him, and he’d been torn between running toward the house and running far, far away. He’d remembered tussling with his brothers in the nursery rooms, chasing and being chased across the dales, playing cricket on warm, lazy days. He’d remembered summer light glinting off golden hair, a girl’s laugh, the smell of warm grass, the chill of the lake against sun-hot skin. He’d remembered his father’s cold anger that last day, the day he’d arrived home from Eton.

  Unseeingly, he stared into the flames. When he’d discovered Waithe Hall had been shuttered, that his father and brothers were not in attendance, he’d been equal parts disappointed and relieved. He hadn’t magically improved while in America and he’d dreaded confronting his father, seeing again the anger and disappointment in his expression, the failure of having a half-wit for a son. Now, however, it appeared he would never see his father’s face again.

  He pressed the heel of his hands against his burning eyes. He didn’t know why he believed the girl, but he did. His father was dead. Another thing he’d lost. This nightmare would never end, would it? His father had never been a warm man, but he’d been his father. He should feel more than just a distant grief, shouldn’t he?

  The books stacked high on the side table mocked him. His father would laugh if he could see him now. Every evening, he opened one and tried to force the words to make sense. He underlined phrases and made notes, his writing barely legible, and he was certain he transposed letters, wrote them backwards, generally proved his doltishness with each pencil stroke.

  Damn it, who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t bloody read, and he stayed at Waithe Hall because he didn’t have the spine to face what remained of his family. He had no doubt by now his brothers knew what their father and he had fought about, knew their youngest brother was a dunce, and he couldn’t face the brief joy of their reunion fading to chagrin and disappointment when they learned nothing had changed.

  He rubbed his brow. Damn it, he couldn’t relax. The uneasy peace he’d found in this place of his youth had been broken. Besides useless thoughts of his family, he couldn’t forget that upstairs, the girl slept.

  He’d misrepresented when he’d said he didn’t remember her. He hadn’t remembered her name, or that she was the daughter of a marquis, or that her family’s estate bordered his, but he’d looked at her and known she loved lemon cakes and trifle. He’d known her shriek as a frog was slipped down the back of her dress. He’d known how her eyes brightened as she concocted a plan of mischief. He’d known her smell, her laugh, that her yellow hair shone gold in sunlight. He hadn’t know her, but pieces of her were burned into him.

  When first he’d seen her, just visible in the gloom of the library, he’d faltered. After years of ephemeral memory, suddenly she was real. He’d been convinced he’d concocted this girl, that she couldn’t possibly exist in real life, and then she was before him, older but the same.

  After the wreck, it had been months before he’d remembered more than his first name. Everything had been strange and out of order, flashes of memory that seemed real for a moment only to disappear just as quickly. He’d remembered he was Maxim, but not that he was the son of an earl. He’d remembered his brothers, but only that they numbered two and were older. He’d known he wasn’t from the Americas, but only because he spoke differently to those around him. Slowly, his memory had returned, but there was always going to be parts that never did.

  A quiet snick sounded, but he paid it no mind as he leaned his head back against the head of the chair. Unused to the company of others, it took him a moment to realise the sound was the opening of the library door. Turning in his seat, he found the girl—Lady Alexandra—stood hesi
tantly on its threshold.

  He scowled. “What do you want?”

  She lifted her chin. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to surrender your bed to me. I was quite prepared to sleep rough tonight, and just because I was not expecting the Hall to be occupied will not change that.”

  Goddamn, she was annoying. Was she always so annoying? She’d assumed the bedchamber was his and he hadn’t corrected her assumption he made his bed there. It wasn’t wholly incorrect, he supposed, though most nights he slept in the library, whatever book he’d chosen to torture himself with open in his lap. “I will not take the bed.”

  Expression turning mutinous, she said, “Well, neither will I.” She flopped into the covered chair beside him, ignoring the dust that showered her at the move, and proceeded to glare.

  Part of him admired her gall even as the rest of him was wholly annoyed.

  As he settled back in his seat to return her glare, the blanket he wore slipped. Her gaze dropped to his exposed bare chest, her eyes widening. Drawing in a sharp breath, she jerked her gaze back up as her breasts rose faster. Darkened eyes met his briefly before she glanced away, her cheeks red.

  Did this girl…. Had she just regarded him lustfully? An answering heat rose sharply in him, tightening his groin, shortening his breath, and taking him completely unaware. “You shouldn’t be here, girl,” he said, angry at his body’s reaction. “You don’t know what dangers you court.”

  Startled eyes met his and then, unaccountably, she laughed. Genuine joy filled the sound, her expression almost fond.

  Something in his chest loosened. He remember that laughter.

  “For all that you are different, you are still Maxim,” she said.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. I could have changed drastically. I have changed drastically.”

  She shook her head. “You are still Maxim. Dark pronouncements and promises of dire consequence.” Her smile brightened. “Maxim.”

  Something dislodged in his chest, spreading warmth. He scowled.