“You’ll do no such thing,” he said, cutting her off. Heading for the front of the room, he reached past her to open the door, allowing her to exit.
Edwina started. “Why, thank you, Mr. Audley.”
He grinned, and it was a smug, cocksure turn of his lips, and the sheer cynical nature of it certainly shouldn’t be responsible for the butterflies that fluttered in her belly. “Surprised that I’ve got some manners, princess?” It was a taunt that didn’t know whether it wished to jest or jeer, and settled for something in between.
“Not at all,” she lied. “You are, after all, the son of a duke.” Bringing her chin up a notch, she exited the kitchen . . . and found Cailin Audley standing near the front door, as if she’d been debating escape.
And Edwina well knew how the young woman felt.
Rafe’s sister collected Edwina’s cloak, and then rushed over with it.
“Many thanks,” Edwina murmured as she shrugged into the article. Accepting the bonnet next, she drew it on and neatly tied the pink satin bow at her chin.
“I also had a most wonderful time speaking,” Miss Audley said quietly; her gaze caught Edwina’s, and within the younger woman’s eyes was a resolve.
One that Edwina recognized all too well. A kindred partner who well knew this wasn’t their last meeting.
They shared the very briefest of smiles.
“As did I.” Collecting Cailin’s hands, she squeezed lightly. “Until our next meeting,” she whispered.
The young woman’s smile widened. “I look forward to it.”
“What was that?” Rafe snapped.
Edwina stole a peek at the surly gentleman. By the hard glint in his eyes, he knew precisely the nature of Edwina and Cailin’s exchange. “I was merely saying how very much I enjoyed my meeting with your sister.” She dropped a curtsy for the duke’s daughter. “Good evening, Miss Audley.”
Yet again, Rafe held the door open, and folding his arms at his chest, he glared at her.
Hmph. It was hardly his fault he didn’t know how to be a proper gentleman. Silently tacking on additional areas to be worked upon, she favored brother and sister with a smile and one last curtsy, and then took her leave.
Edwina was just making her way down the overgrown pathway from the cottage when she registered the figure falling into step beside her. Slowing her steps, she cast him a wary glance. “Are you . . . following me, Rafe?” This did not bode well. He likely sought to berate her away from his—
“I’m escorting you back.”
Her heart leaped in her breast, and she missed a step.
Rafe instantly caught her by the forearm, steadying her before she fell flat on her shocked face.
“You are escorting me?” She could not suppress the breathless quality of that question.
Color filled his cheeks. “Don’t get to thinking that this makes me some manner of gentleman,” he said gruffly, effectively dousing that warmth in her chest. “I’m not going to allow you to pay anyone else any more visits on your way.”
Of course. That was what he would worry about. It had been nothing but foolish to believe anything else motivated him. Unable to quell the unexpected rush of disappointment, she tossed the strings of her bonnet over her shoulder. “So you think I might glean something of value from the other villagers that might prove helpful . . . ?” She caught the flinty look of those eyes, and immediately stopped. “Either way, I shan’t require their assistance.”
While they walked down the path toward the inn, Edwina adjusted the bag on her arm, and reaching inside, she pulled out her notebook and pencil.
He slanted a look her way. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I think it should be clear,” she said, as she flipped through to find an empty page. “I’m beginning our lesson. Your first lesson, that is.”
“We are doing no such thing,” he told her in his usual taciturn way.
“There is nothing worse than wasted time. Now, if I might suggest we begin by—”
Rafe snorted. “What does that even mean?”
Annoyance lent an increased pace to her step, until she realized what she was doing and slowed her stride once more. “It means that if a person has time, it is to be filled, and to not make the most of every moment of every day is a sad waste of that gift.”
“That’s utter horse shite.”
“And as we’ve begun your lessons, it is essential that I point out that particular choice of language is not at all appropria—”
He stopped abruptly, and she slowed, looking back to where she’d left him. More than half-fearing she’d pushed too hard, too fast, and he’d decided to return home. Until she caught the dark scowl he wore . . . and thought perhaps his retreat home might be the safer, better option for her in this instance. “Let us be clear about several things,” he began in a chilly tone, as he started for her.
No, stalked her. The steps he took were calculated and ominous, and it was all she could do to dig her feet into the ground and remain rooted there to face him.
“First,” he began when he reached her, “your maxim? It is, as I said, horse shite. You speak about making the most of time, and time being a gift.” The sneer on his lips told her even more clearly all she needed to know about his opinion of her maxim. “Most people don’t have time for anything but work, rest, and if they aren’t bone-weary from toiling all day, food.”
It was a world she didn’t know about. Not truly. From everything she’d gleaned, they were both bastard-born, but their lives had been . . . different.
They resumed their walk in silence, their boots grinding and crunching the gravel and rock under their steps as they went, along with the errant chirp of the birds who’d not yet sought their day’s rest. He didn’t want to speak any further. He’d been inordinately clear on that. And she’d likely be wise to leave him to the silence he requested. Rafe Audley was like a skittish colt. It was, better, after all, not to push too hard, too fast.
When they reached the tavern, the raucous din from inside the taproom spilled out into the empty courtyard. The patrons had already gathered for their ales, and by the swell of their laughter and song, they had been at their merriment for some time.
Climbing the lone step, she paused on the little patio, and dropped a curtsy. “I thank you again for your escort.”
Rafe reached past her and opened the door. The cacophony immediately spilled out, near deafening. “To your rooms,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the ruckus.
It took a moment to register not only what he was saying, but what he was suggesting. Why, he thought to escort her to her rooms again? After her lapse the last time she’d allowed him inside her temporary chambers, she’d not be so careless again. Cupping her hands around her mouth, and in a bid to make herself heard over the cacophony, she yelled up at him, “That will not be necessary, Mr. Audley. I am entirely capable of—”
A pair of unsteady patrons stumbled out of the taproom, and square into Edwina’s back. She gasped and went flying into Rafe’s waiting arms. She shot her hands out, curling her fingers in the rough fabric of his cotton shirt. Her palms burned at the heat of him, even through the barrier of his garments and her gloves.
“Caught yourself a pretty bird, did you, Mr. Auuudley?” the taller, grayer fellow slurred.
“Wilson. Brown,” he greeted them, and then winked for the two coalfield miners swaying as they stood. “I’ve caught myself a noisy one.”
That pronouncement was met with roars of laughter.
Setting her back on her feet, at his side, was a clear statement that their perceptions of interest on his part, for Edwina, were nonexistent. And also, unexpectedly a sign of his support and protection. And a mark of his honor, that he was so determined to distance himself from.
Tipping their caps, the men continued on their way.
The moment
they reached the middle of the trail, they broke into song.
“Go,” Rafe said tersely, and this time, when he followed, she allowed him that role he was determined to serve as escort.
“You may rest assured that I’m a grown woman quite capable of looking after myself.” She cast a glance back, and found him directly at her heels. “I’ve stayed in all manner of inns and taverns, and usually on my own.” Her feet touched the landing, and she headed for her door. “I’ve never run into any trouble, and never have I encountered a situation I was incapable of handling.”
“You’ve never found any trouble?” When she reached her rooms, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall, indicating what he thought of her assertion of independence. “Now, that I find hard to believe.”
Hmph.
Edwina tugged off her gloves and stuffed them into her bag. Well, then.
Having never had a father about, or a brother, or any relative who truly looked after her, she’d become all too accustomed to her independence. This . . . hovering presence, though considerate, was also wholly unfamiliar to her. “It is quite true,” she said, letting herself into her rooms. “I am quite adept at avoiding . . . my rooms.” Her breath caught, and shock gave way to horror as she ran her gaze over her temporary chambers.
Her thoroughly destroyed chambers.
All the bed coverings had been ripped off the mattress and strewn about. Her coveted porcelain pieces had been upended. Her portraits and paintings ripped from the wall.
The bag slipped from her fingers and sailed to the floor with a quiet thump. “I have been . . . robbed,” she whispered, venturing into the mess around her. “But . . . I locked my door this time.” She’d taken his advice from the day before, and made sure to not leave her rooms unlocked.
Except . . .
She cocked her head.
“They have not . . . taken anything.” Surely she was wrong. Edwina picked her way over the dresses that had been ripped from the armoire and thrown haphazardly about. Her gaze caught upon the gold locket her father had given her as a girl. Releasing the hold she had on her dresses, she sprinted across the room, and scrabbled to gather up that precious necklace. The moment the cool metal touched her palm, she glanced about in abject confusion. “They’ve just destroyed my rooms. Why would anyone . . . ?” Her question trailed off, and she slowly returned her focus to the figure who’d been silent and stoic. Understanding lit her eyes. “You did this,” she whispered.
* * *
• • •
Had he destroyed her rooms?
The immediate and literal answer was: no. He’d not. Not personally, that is.
Technically, however, he was very much responsible. Though he’d not himself had a hand in the actual destruction, nor had he even given the command that someone do this. But his message had been clear, and the words received by Ward: “I’m not looking for her to be comfortable.”
He’d thought she’d find herself with charred food or loud neighbors. He’d never expected . . . this.
He briefly closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he found her kneeling amid that swath of pastel fabrics, silent as he’d ever known her in their exchanges.
And worse . . . stricken. Her eyes reflecting such hurt, and a wealth of pain and shock, hit Rafe like a fist to the gut.
When he didn’t immediately respond, she pushed slowly to her feet, staring there, amid the clutter of her many garments and gowns. “Did you . . . do this?” she asked again, a pained hesitancy in that question. As if she so desperately wanted his answer to be different than what it was.
Her anger would have been preferred to . . . this.
“I . . .” He scrabbled with his jacket collar. “. . . not intentionally.”
He welcomed the inevitable explosion of her fury and rage. Perhaps even the lecture and lessons she was so often doling out. That would certainly be a fitting punishment.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, there came the faintest little sniffling.
Oh, God.
He blanched.
Tears filled her eyes, leaving them hazel pools of her grief. And what was worse, she whipped away from him, presenting her back, and discreetly wiping at the corners of her eyes. It was a proud attempt from a proud woman to hide her misery.
The ache in his chest, an uncomfortable blend of guilt and pain, sharpened.
And he found he didn’t much like himself in that moment. In fact, he quite regretted who and what he was. And more . . . what he’d done.
The young lady drew in a slow and slightly shaky breath. Then, she faced him, her features perfectly composed, her lips even . . . and for once, unsmiling. He’d been annoyed by her smile. So why did he suddenly find himself craving that sunny smile? “You may leave now.”
That would be the wisest and safest course. She’d ordered him gone and he could steal himself a reprieve from the guilt of watching her in all her heartbrokenness. And yet . . .
With a sigh, Rafe started for the mound of pink and white fabric in the middle of the room and picked up the pair of porcelain shepherds. Carrying the baubles to the upended nightstand, he eyed it a moment. Then, using the tip of his boot, he shoved the oak furniture back up into place.
“What are you doing, Mr. Audley?” she whispered.
He was Mr. Audley again. Given the circumstances, that certainly seemed appropriate. Strangely, he found himself missing the familiarity of his name on her lips.
Unnerved by that inexplicability, Rafe deposited the collection of sheep and shepherds in . . . some attempt at a proper arrangement. “I think it should be clear, Edwina.” He eyed the glassware a moment, and then shifted the little figurines so they were front and center.
“It is not,” she said, following him with a confused gaze as he moved on to the bedding littered about.
“I’m . . . putting it to rights.” As best as he was able. “Your room.” No, he didn’t want any part of her or her intentions for him. But neither was he a bully who’d see her or any person hurt . . . not even in an attempt to have his wishes honored. Bending over, he gathered up the sheets and coverlets and pillowcases and pillows, more bedding than all of his siblings collectively owned. Rafe deposited that armful at the side of the bed, and then sifting through the bedding, he fished out a sheet. Snapping it several times, he let it float onto the lumpy mattress.
The floorboards groaned as Edwina hurried to the opposite side of the bed. And gathering each end, she quickly set to work, tucking the ends under the mattress. She made quick work of her side, perfectly folding and smoothing her edges. She attended that task with an ease he’d have never expected from a fine lady with manners and mannerisms like hers.
When she glanced up, there was a pretty flush upon her cheeks from her work, and several auburn tresses hung over her brow. “You’re surprised that I know how to make my own bed?” That sparkle was back in her eyes, the glimmer having replaced the sadness, restoring their relationship to . . . whatever it had been before this . . . and it left the oddest . . . lightness in his chest. “Who do you think arranged my belongings? Hmm? Decorated my room?”
“I would have expected you’d have enlisted one of Mr. Ward’s daughters.”
She leaned across the mattress and said on a loud, exaggerated whisper, “Then you would have been wrong. I told you. I’m capable of a great many things, Mr. Audley.”
Yes, he would have. And yes, she had. And it also left the question . . . just how much else had he been wrong about where Edwina Dalrymple was concerned? As discomfited as he was with that question niggling at his brain, he was grateful when she came around and retrieved the top sheet. Because he didn’t want to soften toward this woman who was an emissary of the duke. He didn’t want to feel badly about or for, and certainly not any affection toward, one who cared most about the role she served and not wh
at Rafe himself wanted for his life.
She snapped another sheet across the mattress, and Rafe caught the opposite ends. Together, they lay the high-quality fabric over the previous sheet.
“How does a lady who speaks like you and dresses like you also know how to oversee the tasks of a servant?” he asked, despite his resolve not to explore too closely this woman and her life.
“Are you a servant?” she countered.
“We’re not the same.” At all. Either in dress or in speech or in the people they worked for and with.
“We’re also more alike than you think,” she murmured.
That he didn’t believe. Rafe snorted as they finished tucking the corners of the top sheet. “I don’t sleep with Witney blankets.” It didn’t, however, escape his notice that she evaded volunteering any real information about herself, which only further increased the unexplainable intrigue surrounding Miss Edwina Dalrymple. That was the only reason he was interested. Because of her deliberate evasiveness.
As one, they made for the next quality article of her bedding.
Edwina studied him with a thoughtful expression. “You know of Witney blankets, then?”
He immediately shuttered his expression. She, who was hanging on to her secrets more closely than even Rafe, thought nothing of probing him for more. “Aye.” Because after giving birth to her babes, his mother would make her trips to London to resume her role of mistress to a faithless nobleman, and then would return with trunks filled with fine baubles and fripperies. “They aren’t the types of things a servant or person in the working class possesses.”
“But working class is what I am,” she said with a gentle insistence.
He strangled on a laugh.
The lady arched a dark brow. “You find that amusing?”
“That you somehow believe you are ‘of the working class’? Aye, I find it hilarious.” Rafe tossed her pale pink and green satin coverlet onto the bed.
Along Came a Lady Page 13