Elisabeth Fairchild (21 page)

That Valentine Wharton remained the gentleman no one truly believed him to be, of all things, made her long for him more.

Her body became rigid with desire. His every glancing touch enflamed her. Perhaps it was this rigidness made her awkward, perhaps it was the gathering darkness, but Elaine tripped as they neared the bottom of the pathway, tripped with a surprised exclamation and a scrabbling of shoes attempting to find sound purchase.

He stopped.

She careened into him, hands first, as he turned. The heel of her palms caught the bend of his arm, propelling him backward, a step, then two, so uneven in his footing that she was sure he must trip, and both of them end heaped in the grass.

By sheer force of will and muscle, he regained his balance, and hers. They stood a moment, his arms bracing her, breathing hard, their gazes as clinging in the darkness as her fingers about his arm.

“Throwing yourself at me, Miss Deering?” he asked then, with a huff of amusement.

She inhaled abruptly, pulled away at once, and yet he did not immediately step out of her way. They remained standing almost on top of one another.

“No?” he murmured. “A pity. I had a picture in my mind of how it would be.”

She blinked, stepped back, a picture in her own mind that took her breath away. “Life is never quite how we imagined it, is it?”

He framed the night sky with his hands, and her in it. “True,” he said, “And yet, I am reluctant to relinquish the dream.”

She thought of Palmer and stepped away from the frame he would box her in.

“This is not the future you had pictured either, is it?” he asked softly, hands falling, still blocking the path, lingering in the shadow of Tomen Bala.

“No.”

“Do you find the life of a governess satisfying?”

Why would he ask such a question? To remind her of her place? To remind himself? She stared down at her hands, white in the darkness. She ran a finger along the frayed cuff of her poor, inadequate sleeve--grappling with equally inadequate answers.

At last she said. “It is an honorable living. I need not be a burden to my family, which is most important to me, and the work engages my mind, energies, and talents.” Her voice dropped away.

“But not what you had imagined yourself doing?” he asked calmly, sparing her his amusement, his sarcasm.

This seriousness in him intrigued her. She nodded, just as serious.

He shifted weight, and took a slow, careful step backward, as if to lead her onward, away from Tomen Bala, deeper into conversation, “What then?”

It warmed her heart that he should ask, that he should care. But did he really want to know? He did not look away, indeed, he seemed to search the gathering gloom for her features most expectantly.

“Like you, I never pictured my father dying.”

That gave him pause. He looked down, to study his footing, as he took another step backward. “Certainly not.” How heavy his voice. How sad.

“Nor that he would leave us penniless.”

“Ah. He kept secret his gaming debts?”

“Yes.” Step by step he led her toward the village, the main street. Step by step she followed. “I assumed my education would be put to use in teaching my own children not someone else’s.”

He paused once more, head tilted. How disconcerting those searching looks. “I do understand, you know.”

Did he?

His gaze remained steady. “I assumed I would watch my first infant grow, not come home from fighting Napoleon to find . . .”

Felicity.
The truth hung unspoken between them.

She could not look away from his regret and sorrow. His face flooded with memory, open to her, so very open. “There will be other children, my lord.”

He bowed his head, hiding again, walls up again, his mouth a bitter line. It stopped her breathing for a moment, air caught between her teeth.

“And what am I to do with her?” he blurted, and then clapped his mouth shut, as if put out with himself for asking, and turned his back that he might progress along the pathway in a more normal fashion.

“Whatever do you mean?” She followed, slower than he, falling behind.

“I cannot clearly picture her future.”

She could see the dark shape of him against the pinpricks of lamplight from the houses and shops ahead. She heard the weight of concern in his voice, read it in his shoulders.

“She will never be welcomed by polite society, neither will she easily fit into a life below stairs.”

Like me
. “I understand your concern.”

“I do not hold high hopes that she can much better herself in marriage, either. It might happen. Stranger things have, and yet if marriage is not the answer. . .”

He turned, held out his hand, to help her over a rough bit. She wondered if, in looking at her he saw Felicity’s fate. Truth struck painfully to the very core of Elaine’s sense of self.

He set off again, their path meeting up with the street, “I would like to think she could build some sense of purpose and independence in making herself useful. As you do.”

Sops for her self-esteem.

Elaine stumbled after him, a lump in her throat.

S
uch a quiet thing she was, Miss Deering. So peaceful a body to be around. No need to constantly chatter in his ear. No coy glances when she bumped into him. Polite when he offered his hand.
Like the lake
, he thought.
Cool, calmly, and reflectively she meets the world--with hidden depth--with reined in emotion.

And yet she rouses heat in me.

He glimpsed an answering heat in her eyes. Indeed, on occasion, before her long, dark lashes fell and her bonnet shut him out, he believed he saw admiration, affection, even desire in those eyes. It pleased him, warmed him most pleasantly, to think a female of Miss Deering’s caliber found something to admire in him. It stirred hope within him where he had begun to think all hope dead.

“We must each find happiness where we may, my lord,” she said as they passed a window where lamplight shone golden, and the smells of dinner on the hob rose from smoking chimney. “I am sure Felicity will find hers when the time comes.”

“Could you find happiness elsewhere, Miss Deering?”

The question startled her, took her breath away. He heard the sudden intake of air, saw her surprise in the window’s receding circle of light.

“Are you still reluctant to remain in the employ of so disreputable a fellow?” Lamplight behind them, his eyes probed the darkness, her face a pale moon whose expression he could not read as their steps took them past a row of darkened shopfronts, the only light coming from windows above, her bonnet agleam, her eyes thrown into deep shadow. He must study her mood in the length of time it took her to reply, her voice low and steady.

“I cannot imagine myself anywhere else for the moment, my lord.”

Lips pressed tight he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and offered a faint smile to the silvered pinprick of stars. “Good. I would not have you go when I mean to leave myself.”

“Leave, my lord?”

“I ride for Cumbria tomorrow,” he said decisively. “My mother may have need of me.”

“Of course. And Felicity?”

“I would have you and Mrs. Olive take Felicity on to St. David’s. The house awaits. I shall leave direction with the coachman.” He was all business, his mind was made up.

“You will return to us?” In the timber of her voice he detected stress, a modicum of disappointment, perhaps even a trace of melancholy. Odd, how the aching hint of it pleased him. It must be the night, his sorrow, the ending with Penny. His father’s passing. He liked to think his absence would be noted--that he would be missed.

“I should think you would be pleased to see the back of me?”

“Why should you think so, my lord?”

“I do not think you care for me overmuch, Miss Deering.” He tested her with the question. He believed no such thing. He believed she began to like him very much indeed--perhaps, too much. They walked a fine line, he and this governess. He liked her--perhaps too much.

“We shall most certainly feel your absence,” she said, disappointing his need for connection, for a greater certainty as to her feelings.

“You, Miss Deering? Will you feel my absence?”

She met him with silence, considering her answer. “Undoubtedly,” she said at last.

Her honesty pleased him, potential in that single word, her vocal tone and the quick dart of her glance.

“I know I shall feel your absence.” The inn came into view, lamplight gleaming from a half dozen windows.

“Oh?” Her breath caught.

“That surprises you?”

“Yes.”

“I have grown rather fond of your company. I might even go so far as to call you . . . indispensable.”

“My lord! You are most--”

“Kind?” He grew impatient with the word. Was there no other quality she found in him worth mentioning? “Not at all. It is not a kindness to recognize your worth, my dear Deering.”

“I do not think--”

“Do not think.” He stopped suddenly in the darkness, not yet ready for the inn, for sympathetic eyes, and sympathetic conversation. Whatever she had meant to say faded into silence. He found the glint of her eyes in the starlight, his gaze traveling to the dark line of her mouth. The scent of her filled his head. Almonds. Sweet almonds.

“Do
not
think, for the moment, my Deering.” His voice went husky as he kissed her, a breath-taking collision of his lips to that broad expanse of pale marzipan skin--not her lips, not the lips she had expected him to take. A kiss most shocking for its chasteness. A gentle kiss planted in the middle of her forehead. Nothing of Palmer in it, nothing of his past, nothing to make her run.

She stood stock still. He had hoped she would sway toward him, tilt her head, offer some sign of feeling.

He stood very close, waiting for it, looking deep into her eyes, hungry for the warmth, the comfort of her lips, her arms. Hoping. She neither moved away, nor fled, simply stood, her breathing sharp and shallow, a little shiver passing through her. The moment came and passed of his conviction that he must kiss her lips. He refrained, unsure of her or of his own intent--sure only of the rising dragon of desire within.

He held it at bay, simply looked deep and long in the darkness at starlight gleaming in her eyes, and then with cocky sarcasm, he said, “No running away now, on the morrow, for no more reason than a kiss farewell.”

She closed her eyes, lashes dark against her cheek.

“No, my lord. But you must promise me never again to do such a thing.”

“But I cannot promise.” He shook his head, her hair brushing his forehead, his cheek. He wished it might be her lips. A real kiss. A breathtakingly beautiful kiss. Her first. She deserved better memory than Palmer. And yet, what memories did he mean to leave her with?

“My lord!” she sounded shaken. “I must have your promise, or I shall be forced to seek position elsewhere.”

“But, my Deering, I might have to wish you good-bye on another occasion, and would not deprive myself of all pleasure.”

And with that he led the way in silence across the road, and through the yard to the inn’s doorway. He did not look back. Could not. Too tight a rein he kept on his desire for the warmth of this woman to warm his bed-- his daughter’s governess, whom he must not disgrace with such irresponsible desires--as he had disgraced his daughter’s mother--as he had too often disgraced himself in the past. Like Palmer. He had once believed himself far better than the man. And now?

The odor of ale and whiskey met him like a Siren’s call as he passed the parlor. Two guests enjoyed drinks and a hand of cards before the fire. Lord, if ever he needed a drink, it was now!

He thought of what his father might have said to him in such a moment. He thought of Miss Deering’s father, too, of the chaos left in his wake. He would not do that to her. Steeling himself, shoulders thrown back, he passed along the corridor to the stairs.

Time for a fairy story was it not? Something cheerful. He would read of other dragons, rather than think too much of his own.

W
hen Elaine rose in the morning he was gone, as promised. She could not help but think of times her father had ridden away, leaving wife and daughters to fend for themselves.

She wondered what she would do when she saw him again. Her most prudent course lay in leaving. To think of his lips, warm upon her forehead, was to be filled with desire for more, a true kiss, his lips to hers. She wondered if she should pack up her bags and leave at once.

But then she looked at Felicity, and Mrs. Olive, and thought of the two of them proceeding alone half the length of Wales to St. David, and it seemed foolish to leave them at this point, with Valentine Wharton out of the picture--not what either of them had expected--just as they had discussed in the moonlight.

We must each of us find happiness where we may.

She could not picture her happiness, her future, without the child in it--without Valentine Wharton.

She went to St. David’s.

T
wo months later, on a warm day so bright one must squint, even beneath a broad-brimmed hat, Elaine and Felicity went to St. David’s Head to study wildflowers.

Elaine knew it was a special day destined to be extraordinary. She could feel it in her bones. She had heard it in the tone of Mrs. Olive’s, “Halloo!” as she waved something white at them as they set out, a flag of white as she called, “A letter, Miss Deering!”

A letter? Elaine’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment she dared hope, dared imagine, that the letter arrived from Valentine Wharton, some word, or thought to confirm or deny his feelings for her, author of a kiss upon her forehead, the rogue who had claimed he would feel her absence, claimed her indispensable.

“From your sister, Anne,” Mrs. Olive handed over the letter.

Anne. Dear Anne, who acted as elderly Lady Hervey’s companion. Not Valentine Wharton, but Anne, who wrote her at least once a week, sometimes twice. She was good about gleaning gossip, and passing on word concerning their siblings. Anne’s letters were always a welcome treat. Not so welcome as word from Wharton might have proved, but clearly he was not a writer. Not a word had he sent since his return home.