Everything I Ever Wanted (26 page)

"It seems less a promise than ultimatum."

"It matters not what you name it. Do you accept?"

He studied her face, wondering how to gauge her sincerity. She regarded him candidly, but without real hope. A tendril of hair had escaped her topknot and was fluttering against her cheek. She brushed it away in an absent gesture, her concentration entirely on him. "Yes," he said of a sudden. "I accept."

India nodded. Without a word, she stepped around him and began walking on a path that would take her to the front of the cottage.

"India?"

She turned slightly, a single eyebrow raised. "Yes, my lord?"

South indicated her attire with a sideways lift of his open palm and a glint of humor in his eyes. "I can only imagine what conclusions Mrs. Simon will draw if you do not repair your dress." He cocked his head to the side to bring her attention to the sheet unfurling in the wind. "Or remove this bloody flag."

For a moment she stood as if rooted. Slowly her lips parted in a silent O as her glance took in first the state of her rucked-up muslin gown and exposed calves, then the dangling, flapping sheets and the dark smear of her blood on the lower one. "Oh!" She spun on her heels and began running, tearing at the shawl around her waist as she did so.

South watched her disappear around the corner of the cottage and welcomed the sound of his own laughter, even though he knew she would not. He was still smiling to himself as he continued on the path to where the horses were stabled.

India slipped inside the cottage's front door, looking little worse for wear. Her hope that she might manage to reach the upstairs without being seen came to naught. She was immediately confronted by Mr. Darrow, whose hands were balancing a tray laden heavily with a full breakfast. Surprise made him bobble the tray, but he recovered himself quickly enough to maintain his hold. Mrs. Simon's approach from the kitchen saved him the necessity of speaking.

"Ah! You have been for a walk, I see. And all this time I thought you were still abed. At least I thought that's what his lordship said." She wiped her damp hands on her apron.

"No matter. You are feeling more the thing, I suspect. Is that the way of it?"

"Yes," India said, although a trifle more weakly than was her intention. Relief, not ill feeling, was taking its toll.

The widow's cheerful smile faltered a bit as she came closer and gave India a thorough inspection. She noted the glow of perspiration on India's forehead and upper lip, and every strand of hair that was no longer in place. The day dress was possessed of an inordinate amount of wrinkles for having only been taken that morning from the armoire. "Though mayhap not as well as you would have us believe. You lost yourself in the morning and walked too far. You will forgive me if I say you look a trifle overwrought."

India seized the explanation the housekeeper presented her and agreed to it readily. "Just so," she said. "I had thought to improve my health and find myself still in wanting of it."

"I think 'tis likely you were afraid I'd allow Mr. Darrow to serve you the same gruel and broth we served him." She made a tsking sound with her tongue as she indicated the tray Darrow was holding. "This is rather more than you will want, I know, but I would not be stingy."

"And she wanted to rub my nose in it," Darrow muttered.

Mrs. Simon rolled her eyes. "Will you take your meal here or in your room?" she asked India.

"In my room, if you please."

"Oh, it pleases me," the housekeeper said. "Since it's Mr. Darrow who will have to mount the stairs with that great load." Chuckling to herself, she returned to the kitchen.

India avoided Darrow's pointed glance and preceded him up the stairs. Outside the door to her room, she paused while Darrow balanced the tray in one hand and retrieved the key from the top of the door frame with the other. He unlocked the door and pocketed the key.

"You will not lock me in," she said quietly as they entered the bedchamber. "I have it from his lordship that such will not be done again."

Darrow made no reply. He was staring at the chair wedged under the open window, and the sheet knotted to its upper rung. After a moment he turned and fixed his sharp gaze on India. His smile was slow in forming but deeply admiring upon its arrival.

"Never seen the like before," he said, shaking his head, appreciative of not just her effort but of her. Then, as if he thought he'd said too much, Darrow set the tray down quickly and hurried from the room.

India stared at the door he'd closed behind him. Closed but not locked. It made her smile, and she considered what he'd said to her. Never seen the like before . It was high praise indeed from Southerton's man, given the fact his lordship was up to every trickand Darrow had likely witnessed most or seen the aftermath. No doubt there was exaggeration there, but she was nonetheless warmed by it.

As India slowly walked toward the window to retrieve the sheets, she reluctantly acknowledged that had the words come, from South, the warmth would have been much deeper. That same sentiment from his lips would have at last chased the chill from the marrow of her bones.

Southerton rapped twice on India's door and waited for her invitation to enter. When none was issued, he let himself into the room without regard for it. His immediate fear, that she had somehow contrived to leave Ambermede in spite of her promise, was relieved when he saw she was lying on the bed. He approached quietly, standing to one side until he was satisfied that she was indeed sleeping.

She lay curled in the middle of the bed, her back to him, one arm flung outward, the other buried deeply under her pillow. Her breathing was soft and even. She had removed her gown and slept on top of the bedcovers in her soft batiste chemise. The light-blue shawl that he had last seen wrapped around her waist was now lying across her shoulders. South leaned over India and adjusted it so that it covered her to her hip.

He had hoped to have some time alone with her this afternoon, away from the widow's keen hearing and Darrow's disapproving eye. Toward that end he had found errands enough to keep them both occupied in the village for a few hours. Mrs. Simon was happy to take herself off. South could see that she had fashioned some romantic tale for herself, which explained his early absence from Ambermede. Now that he was reunited with India, she thought he wanted to be alone with his mistress for the same reason any gentleman might. The knowing glances South had observed her exchanging with Darrow as they left confirmed this was the bent of her mind.

Mrs. Simon's reasoned thinking, no matter how wrong it was, was at least easy enough to understand. It troubled South not in the least The same could not be said of Darrow's position. What his manservant thought carried some weight with South. They had been long together, and there were times when Darrow had performed the functions of confidant and confessor, advisor and friend. Always careful of overstepping himself, it was rare that Darrow expressed an opinion not asked for, yet he had done so this morning when South informed him that he had locked India in her room. Darrow had offered no less than three full sentences to challenge South's actions and come to India's aid. When South had dismissed them all, Darrow had merely inclined his head and said, "As you wish." The fact that he had proceeded with the rest of his tasks with equally reserved and polite exchanges said far more to South than if he had remained stonily silent.

Whether or not she had intended such a thing, India had found a champion in Darrow.

Loath to wake her from her nap, South turned to go. His toe nudged something on the floor that had been mostly hidden under the bed. Curious, he gave the thing another tap and stepped back to see what he had found. It was a sketchbook. South bent, picked it up, and carried it to the window to view it in a better light.

There were not many illustrations in the book, and all of them were concentrated in the first few pages. It came to him that what he was holding was one of the items he had carried inside last evening. It had been wrapped in brown paper then, slipped between parcels containing fabric and who knew what else. India had mentioned having ideas for a new wardrobe for the shrewish Katherine; here she had begun to realize the vision that had rested in her imagination.

South glanced to the place under the bed where he had found the sketchbook. Now he saw the pencils and charcoals she had used to make her illustrations. As he reviewed the sketches a second time, he realized that India was possessed of no small talent. With surprisingly few lines, she had been able to demonstrate the sweeping drape of a gown, the manner in which it might be shown to great advantage on stage. He recognized what he thought would become the saucy red dress, the one that bonny Kate would be wearing when Petruchio determined he would woo and wed her. India's sketch showed only a faceless woman's form wearing the gown, but South knew the lines of that slender frame were India's own. She was suggested there in the bold curve of a hip thrust forward and arms that were set impudently akimbo. The shoulders were held back, the chin lifted in an all too familiar angle. A hint of lively impatience was conveyed in the foot that peeked out from under the skirt. Raised slightly as it was, it seemed to be caught in mid-tap. As always, it was India's body that spoke for her while the face remained a mask.

"What are you doing?"

Absorbed by his study, South had not glimpsed India's movement on the bed. He did not look up immediately. "I am appreciating another of your talents," he said casually, refusing to be made to feel guilty. He turned the page and examined another illustration. "These are quite good, you know. They suggest that with discipline and study, your gift might indeed be extraordinary."

India pushed herself slowly into a sitting position. It was not so easy to throw off the dregs of sleep. She had meant only to close her eyes briefly and catch up on what she had sorely missed the night before. Now she realized she had missed her mark, and rather than waking refreshed, she felt only a kind of drugged torpor. She let her legs fall over the side of the bed and pushed ineffectually at her shift to cover them.

"I should like to have it," she said. As an afterthought she added, "Please."

"Of course." South closed the book, then the distance between them, and gravely presented it to her.

India did not look at it. Without a word she slipped it under one of her pillows. Her fingers groped for the shawl that had fallen off her shoulders, and found it behind her. She draped it across her back and around her upper arms. "Why are you here?"

"I said last night we were not finished, India. I came to talk."

"To interrogate."

"If you like."

She did not like, but there was no point in telling him so. He knew it well enough. She remained perched on the edge of the bed, making herself very still in the face of his silent regard.

South backed away from the bed and sought Ms seat in the wing chair. "How do you do that?" he asked. "How do you disappear in front of my eyes and become as wanting of features as your own illustrations?"

"You are ridiculous," she said in mild reproof. "I am here." One of her hands was raised, and she touched her nose, the corner of her mouth, and her chins with her fingertips. "My face parts as well."

South shook his head and sought a better word."Detach," he said finally. "It is as though you detach yourself from the present, not drifting away on some flight of thought as I have often been accused of doing, but that you are so thoroughly withdrawn from what is before you that you cease to exist."

"I don't know what you mean."

Perhaps she didn't, South thought. Perhaps it came so naturally to her that it was accomplished without consciousness of it. A hedgehog rolled into a ball and presented its spines when threatened. All things considered, that response was not so different from India's.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

"Was I? I hadn't realized." South's mouth relaxed, his finely drawn features becoming solemn."You haven't asked me about the theatre, India. Either last night or this morning. Are you not in the least curious?" -

"You must allow there hasn't been time."

"Darrow says, in all the hours you cared for him, the subject of the theatre was never broached. Do you not miss it, India?"

She was long in answering."I miss the freedom it afforded me," she said at last.

South considered that but made no comment. "And what of the people? Darrow told me you never evinced any concern for them."

"What could Mr. Darrow have told me about how they fared?" she asked practically. "He was here with me at the outset. You are accusing me of some ill feeling toward them, or perhaps of having no feelings at all. And you say this simply because I did not chatter to Mr. Darrow. That is a poor ruler by which you measure my concern."

"I make no accusation, India. I am only curious."

"Hang your curiosity, then."

In other circumstances he might have smiled at her vehemence. But not now. He would not have India thinking he was laughing at her when he only meant to be appreciative. He waited a few moments to see if she would raise any questions now. She did not. "Is there no one you wish to know about? Mr. Kent? The lad Doobin? Mrs. Garrety?"

"You have seen them?"

"Kent and the boy," he said. "Your dresser has been dismissed in your absence."

India closed her eyes briefly. Her mouth was dry. "Mrs. Garrety could often be difficult. Mr. Kent tolerated her because I insisted. Do you know where she has gone?"

"No. I did not inquire. But she is bound to show herself when you return to London."

"Why do you say that?"

South shrugged. "For no reason save she seems to be devoted to you." India gave him no indication whether he had made a correct assumption. South watched as she contemplated her folded hands for a moment and then smoothed her shift over her knees. The detachment she affected was absolutely maddening. "Doobin fares well," he said.

Now a glimmer of a smile touched her lips. "I should expect nothing less of him."

"Mr. Kent first let it about that you were ill. He has followed that tale with another that you have retired to the country to rest and recover."

"I care nothing at all for what Mr. Kent has made of my absence."

"I mention it only because it strikes me as odd that he has made no private effort to find you. He seems to be satisfied with his own story, though I cannot think that he truly believes it."

"No doubt he is glad to be rid of me. I, too, could be difficult."

"It strains the imagination," he said wryly.

India lifted her head. Her smile complimented the ironic twist South had injected into his tone. "You shall be glad to be rid of me, too, m'lord."

South did not disagree with her, but it was not because she was in the right of it. He continued in a casual, conversational manner. "The wags have it that you fled first to the country estate of your lover and are now quite possibly touring the Continent with him."

This, at least, got some hard reaction from India, South saw. Her complexion paled and her fingers rethreaded themselves into a fist in her lap. He went on as she finally met his eyes with a bleakness she was incapable of containing.

"I do not think I am wrong in supposing this is what Kent truly believes has happened to you. His reluctance to confirm this latest gossip only means that he has no wish to cut off Ms nose to spite his face. He remains hopeful that you will return and that he can continue to promise your favors in exchange for the financial favors of others. I suspect that even now he is denying the rumors in order to squeeze a few more shillings from the hopefuls who will not credit that you are lost to them."

India's heels slid off the bed frame and dropped to the floor. She rose and padded quietly to the window. The curtains were drawn back. She stared out the window, hugging herself. "Do the wags have the name of my lover?" she asked.

"Only that it is Lord M."

She nodded once.

"The one that was mentioned not long ago in the Times," South said. "The list of suspects grows short, I'm afraid. Most Lord M's have been accounted for, much to their regret. They had enjoyed a certain notoriety when their names were attached to yours."

"Then they were quite foolish."

"Mapple. Macquey-Howell. Matthews. Milsop. Embley."

She, twisted and looked at him over her shoulder, frowning. "Embley? Oh, I see. I had not considered that possibility. That is clever of them to think so. Are there those among the ton answering to names like Emmerth, Emerson, and Emlenton?"

"Perhaps," South said. "I have not heard of such. There is also Montrose. Morris. Milbourne. A late entry has been the Earl of Margrave. He has recently returned from the Continent but almost immediately took himself off to his estate at Marlhaven. It must be that sojourn that kept his name well out of it in the beginning. Now, after paying a duty call on his mother, he is back in London and in fine form. He might have been the front runner for the title of your consort if it were not for the fact that he is out and about and you are not."

India turned back to the window. This time she pressed her forehead against a cool pane of glass. "Has society really so little to occupy itself?"

"Apparently so."

"And you, my lord? Is this the personal business that kept you away? I confess I had not considered that your absence was in aid of gathering every loose thread of town gossip. It amused you, perhaps, to know where I was while you listened to all the tales to the contrary."

"None of it amuses me," he said.

She ignored him, straightening slowly. "It is not to be borne."

"And yet you do." South's voice gentled. "Who is he, India? The one who has been your protector but never your lover. The one who has provided for your clothes and shelter and the small things you desire but could have never managed on your own. The one you fear. Milbourne? Montrose?"

"I will not listen to this." She placed her hands flat over her ears.

"You will listen, India." South came up behind her and grasped her wrists. She offered no real resistance as he drew her hands away. He brought them to her sides and held them there. He bent his head. His mouth hovered near her ear. "I would have his name."

A chill tapped her spine, sending a frisson down the length of her that she could not hide from South. "I cannot," she whispered.