by Edith Layton
“The truth! If that were all. You’ve left me nothing, Warwick, damn your eyes,” the viscount shouted again, newly enraged, and then growing pale all at once as his loud outcry made him begin to cough.
“Oh, very good,” his host replied from where he stood by the bed, his voice as calm as his friend’s had been enraged, but the pained look in his eyes stopped Susannah before she could make the error of mistaking their mode of friendship again, as he said coldly, “Yes, hold your chest, Julian, that should help, for I understand when there’s a hole in the bellows, you have only to hold your finger over it and you can get enough wind up to stoke up the fire again. It doesn’t matter if you puncture a lung, so long as you let me know your displeasure. Am I right, Miss Logan? You needn’t worry, my dear, Julian’s not having a convulsion,” he added, seeing her white face, “not precisely. He’s only making himself ill telling me how healthy he is.”
“No,” the viscount sighed, looking a bit shamed at how frightened Susannah seemed to be by his actions, “not healthy, not yet, Warwick, as you well know. But I will be soon,” he said more plaintively, his pained grimace giving the lie to his words as he sank back on the pillows, “and you promised me my revenge. Mine.”
Warwick began to answer and then, for once seemingly unsure of himself, looked to Susannah and checked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Julian said weakly, “she lives here with us now, she’s close to me now, she may know.”
Susannah, who’d been busy attempting to straighten the pillows, but had gone to get a washcloth to put on the viscount’s white, perspiration-dotted brow, paused for a moment. At his words, the subtle color left her face, only to return a little brighter; somehow an unforeseen dimple appeared to the side of her softly curving upturned lips, and a look of such translucent joy came into her deep brown eyes that Warwick found himself pausing to watch her in astonished delight. She turned that radiant face to him, not seeing him at all, and then, recollecting herself, composed herself so strictly that when she faced Julian again all that remained of that transcendent moment was her heightened color.
“It wasn’t random mohawks that attacked me in the streets, Susannah,” Julian said wearily, closing his eyes as she laid the cloth on his forehead. “You may as well know that it was two villains hired by Lord Robert Moredon. But it was Lord Moredon himself who gave me this souvenir of his affection,” he went on, tapping his bandaged ribs, “and all because he wishes to make sure I give no more affection to his sister, Lady Marianna.”
“Whom you love,” Warwick said blandly, staring at Susannah.
“No,” his friend said prayerfully, “whom I adore.”
“And wish to marry,” Warwick added, and though no emotion showed on his face, he winced inwardly at how Susannah’s head went almost imperceptibly back at each statement, feeling that once again he was driving someone back and back further, with strong blows, but knowing, once again, that it was necessary. As in any fair fight, she might be hurt, but she’d be better off knowing precisely who her opponent was and what the odds against her winning were. On her own she might have fancied Julian from the beginning, but it might have remained only a gentle dream. He and her brother had placed her into direct competition for him. If she should decide she was still determined to win him, Warwick believed that in all fairness she deserved to make that decision with complete awareness of the situation. That much assistance he owed her, he felt, however painful it might be. Or so he believed, pushing aside the teasing notion that it mightn’t be kindness at all, but some lower, more selfish emotion that caused him to enlighten her just now. But she hadn’t known about her rival, and that he found intolerable.
“And will marry,” Julian swore, “and so you should have let me take my revenge, Warwick. I should have been the one to batter him to the ground, not you. I should have been the one who challenged him and bested him in Gentleman Jackson’s, or didn’t you think I could?” he asked dangerously, his eyes opening wide and glittering like shards of ice.
“Oh, doubtless you could,” Warwick agreed casually, perching on a table’s edge, “and likely more quickly than I did. But certainly not just then, nor for a few more weeks. That’s why I felt it wiser to wait until today to even tell you of it. But by then, you see, when you were recovered, after all that time had passed, you’d only appear to be a hearty, healthy young man paying off a grudge because the noble Lord Moredon rightly wished to keep you, a highly unsuitable suitor, from his sister. Now, my assault was made immediately after the event, with words as well as fists. And soon I’ll allow you to have some gentlemen visitors. When they confirm my allegations as to what happened to you, why then Lord Moredon will find there aren’t many left in the ton who’ll give him the time of day.
“You may kill a man in several interesting ways, my dear,” he went on to explain blandly to Susannah, “but it is socially acceptable only if you do it by yourself. It is one of the few arduous things, aside from hunting, horse-racing, and lovemaking—excuse me, my dear, please don’t mention my slip to your dear brother—that a man is supposed to do for himself,” he mused, “since hiring others to do all one’s work is a way of life among the socially pure. Actually, how little a man does shows his condition better than a bank statement. But engaging help in order to knock an enemy senseless will only net him social exile. And that, Julian, is the revenge I took from you.
“The revenge you can bring for yourself,” he said, looking at his friend while all the while he watched Susannah from the corner of his eyes, “is that when you’re well, and when you’re strong, you’ll win his sister from him. Either that, or at that time, for by then you may have also recouped some of your fortune, you may snap your fingers in both their faces, take another to wive, and there’s a neat revenge, as well.”
“A neat living death, you mean,” Julian sighed, “for there’s no other woman alive I’d want for my wife. But I see. You’re right, Warwick, again,” he laughed weakly. “Don’t you ever grow tired of it? Don’t answer, you’ll only say something outrageous to make me jar these wretched bones again. I almost finished Moredon’s job just then, didn’t I? But thank you, and I promise, you may have the first dance with Marianna at my wedding…no, with your bizzare charm, let’s make that the second one. Do you think me a great fool, Susannah? Ah, I can see the confusion in your eyes, but you’re young yet,” Julian sighed, as though he were decades older. “Wait until you are in love before you condemn me. No, wait until you see her, then you’ll understand.”
“She’s very beautiful?” was all that Susannah asked in a small voice, too glad that he’d mistaken her silence for confusion to say more, too devastated at the look which then came into his eyes to do more than nod and pretend to listen as he began to recite his lady’s virtues. But once he began, she was far too busy watching him to pay close attention to what he actually said. For when he mentioned Lady Moredon’s midnight-black hair, his clear light eyes shone so brightly she was amazed to see she could make out the small black specks in their gray centers, before, when speaking reverently of her grace, he shuttered them with his blunt fringe of dark gold lashes. She watched more openly when he went on to describe his lady’s gentle voice, for he kept his eyes closed then, seeking inspiration to help him convey the charm of it, so she could let her gaze linger, traveling up and around the increasingly defined contours of his classic face. By the time he opened his eyes again to tell her about Lady Marianna’s incredible poise, her secret was again safe from him, for by then she was gazing only at the tendril of gold hair which she yearned to brush back, the one that lay so softly to the side of his neck, just beneath his ear.
And Warwick Jones, who stood silent, apparently only listening as well, noted through his half-closed heavy-lidded gaze the way that Susannah’s long lashes closed over her great brown eyes as if to keep the tears that threatened there from washing her secrets out. As he watched, he discovered himself wondering of what fragrance her shining, clean pale hair might be, an
d appreciating the way the waving abundance of it sat on her well-shaped head, and approving her white neck. Then he remembered his roles as host and friend, and tried to keep from staring downward to admire the rest of the curved and supple form that bent over his friend to remove the washcloth from his forehead.
As Julian went on, dreamily relating other details of his lady’s perfection, Susannah took the washcloth from his brow. In that one moment, after she straightened from bending so close to the viscount, Warwick saw her eyes clearly. Then, on a silent, indrawn breath, he looked away, not willing to see more, hoping his own face would never show such naked yearning as he’d seen there, such painful, completely hopeless longing, as he was amazed and appalled to suddenly recognize himself suffering, watching her.
8
There was a great deal of laughter coming from the small dining room. The sound was so infectious that Mr. Jones noted his butler’s upper lip had the slightest curl to it as he bade his master good morning. Heartened by the evidence of his employee’s high hilarity, Mr. Jones himself wore an appreciative grin even before he entered the room. But for all the sounds of merriment, the sight that met his eyes wiped his smile entirely away.
The two fair heads were bent close together, the dark gold one a breath away from the lemon-pale one, and though both pairs of eyes were closed through the force of their laughter, if they should open, the silvery eyes and the dark brown ones would be but a lash’s breadth away from each other as well. It was entirely proper, it was morning, they sat at a table laden with breakfast foods, and a chaperon nodded pleasure at their sport not a chair’s width from them. But there was nonetheless something in their closeness that had nothing to do with mere physical proximity, something so intimate in the complicity of their humor that their host felt he was watching something entirely private, and it made him feel like intruder, not host. When their laughter died away as they saw him standing, watching them from the doorway, the feeling was so heightened that he lost his appetite, and for one mad moment wondered if he ought to apologize and then simply go away.
But his cold expression made Susannah feel that she’d done something wrong and she looked to Julian at once to see what his reaction would be. Julian knew Warwick well, in all his odd and changing moods. In the few weeks that she’d stayed with him, she’d learned to recognize and appreciate her host’s sense of humor, and so the sense of dislike she’d originally felt he’d emanated toward her had faded away. But there were still times, and often, such as now, when his still and watchful air and expressionless face dismayed her and made her feel that she was not only in his bad graces but also in his way.
But Julian knew what to say, he always did. “Warwick, don’t glower. See? We’ve left you some toast, old man,” he said, and as he grinned, so did his host, and the moment passed as though it had never been as Warwick took his seat at the table, inquired after all his guests, and accepted a cup of morning coffee. It was after a few sips of his coffee, and after Julian’s laughter-punctuated—and therefore entirely failed—complex explanation of the joke he and Susannah had shared that his friend had missed, that Warwick spoke again.
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, in a tone as near to a yawn as was possible, “I suppose one had to be there. But speaking of being there, I understand Charlie Bryant, his crony Harry Fabian, and that young idiot Lord Greyville are coming here to visit your bed of pain this afternoon. You really ought to look more pained, Julian,” he added with a raised eyebrow, glancing over to his friend. “At least put a dressing gown over your clothes. Your ribs may still be broken, but everything else has healed so admirably that I doubt their somewhat limited intellectual capacity will be able to take in the fact of your recent incapacity. And they’re to be the finishing touches to Lord Moredon’s complete shunning by society. They’re the last left to persuade to snub him, and they, I believe, are so indiscriminate that if they won’t talk to a person, then that person must be either several weeks dead or not English.”
Susannah winced at that, looking over to the contessa, who after all was once the wife of someone not at all English and presently several years dead, but that lady only smiled and nodded, proving either that she was amazingly dense, as Julian often held, or that she never listened to what was being said, as Susannah suspected. Seeing nothing but approval in her chaperon’s mild eye, Susannah turned to watch Julian’s animated response. His host was entirely right. The viscount’s evident restored health gave the lie to his recent ordeal. It must be, as he himself often jested, that though he might have the look of a nobleman, he enjoyed the constitution of an ox, for he didn’t have the appearance of an invalid in the least any longer. His face had healed without a scar, some slight discoloration was all that remained to show what he’d endured, he walked upright and with only some rigidity due to the continued use of tight bandages about his ribs. It was good, she thought critically, watching him jest with Warwick, that most of the gentlemen of the ton had seen him when he’d been bedridden a few weeks ago, although then she’d resented having to be apart from him while he’d entertained them.
But that wasn’t only because she’d missed having Julian to talk with during those long afternoons.
Warwick had ruled that chaperoned or not, she’d have been out of her place at his bedside when he was receiving gentlemen friends. She could understand that, since she was neither relation nor fiancée nor even long-standing friend of the family, it would have been awkward explaining her presence. Even if it weren’t, she certainly would have felt odd in the midst of all those gentlemen, if only for being the only female in the room, aside from the contessa. But now, as then, she wondered at whether he’d decreed that because he wished to protect her from gossip, as he’d said, or because he wanted to conceal the fact that she was his houseguest entirely, as she was coming to believe. She’d passed three weeks in this house, and in those weeks she’d come to learn a great many things about Mr. Jones and the viscount. But she’d learned nothing about any other facet of life in London. It was true that she’d turned down her host’s offer of a tour around the city, laughing that she’d delay that pleasure until Julian could join them, when she’d noted and begged her host to note their bedridden patient looking dejected after hearing the offer, obviously sulking at the thought of being left alone.
She had gone out in the afternoons with the contessa, and had gone to dressmakers and milliners and ribbon shops and shoemakers. She had, she thought whenever she surveyed the growing booty bought through boredom that was filling her wardrobe, enough finery now to take Tunbridge Wells by storm. And she’d also begun to believe that was the only town that would ever look upon her new splendor by night.
It was true she needed no finery for doing what she most enjoyed, day or night, and sadder but truer still that what she wore would make no difference for it, either. For although Julian always complimented her on her appearance, it was clear the only female appearance he looked to see was that of Lady Marianna. The lady never visited him during his recuperation, but he never blamed her for it, citing her inability to escape her brother. But she was never far from his mind either. So, for all that Susannah couldn’t think of anything on earth she’d rather do than keep him company, she was beginning to wonder precisely what she was supposed to be doing here in this palatial town house, and starting to worry again about how her brother had foisted her on Warwick Jones.
Warwick had become a better friend to her in the last weeks, often jesting, often entertaining her wonderfully well whenever they met at breakfast or dinner. But those were coming to be infrequent times, and she wondered now if her presence was making the poor man leave his own home more frequently than he wished. After all, she thought on a sigh, Charlie was the soul of persuasion, and for all his cynicism, she’d found Mr. Jones to be extraordinarily polite. And though she’d looked upon Julian as the embodiment of all she’d ever want in a male, however unattainable he might be, Warwick had come to be all she might have asked for in a host.
>
“It doesn’t matter how I look to them, they’ll believe anything I say, Warwick,” Julian said cheerfully. “In fact, I hear they’re mad as fire because they were out of town when I had better bruises, and so they’ll likely invent more hideous ones to talk about just to spite those who thought they saw the worst. They might not be powerfully bright, but they’re mighty competitive.”
“Likely so,” Warwick commented as he pushed his cup away and rose, “and I wish you joy of them. Now I have to get an early start. I’m off to see a man about a horse, Julian, or actually, about two teams of them, just as you requested. And yes, don’t fret, I’ll tell them you’ll take over the job again when you’re able. But that won’t be until you’ve knit up again so tightly that a fractious team on the Thunder won’t wrench your ribs apart again.
“And, oh,” he added as he reached the door, tossing the remark back, “since you’re so nicely upright now, Julian, old love, what do you think of us taking Susannah to the Swansons’ gala ball this Saturday night? They’re launching another one of their unfortunate-looking daughters into the social swim, and they’ve asked my presence, and will be charmed to have yours, no doubt, since I understand everyone,” he said pointedly, “will likely be there as well.”
Susannah held her breath and turned to Julian, but seeing how his eyes widened at Warwick’s last comment, and so understanding its other meaning, her heart fell even as her smile rose and she asked, as she was supposed to do, “Oh yes, Julian, if you think you can manage it, please say yes, for it would do you good, and I,” she went on to lie, knowing very well that she’d likely finally see the fabled Lady Marianna there, in all her glory, “should love to go.”