Most Eagerly Yours (16 page)

Their arrival here at Fenwick House, perched on a hillside north of Bath, had tossed Lady Fairmont’s household into a veritable uproar. She lay at the center of the oak and wrought iron four-poster that dominated her bedchamber, her disapproval tempered by the tremor of her fingertips against the satin counterpane and a quiver she could not quite clear from her voice. Yet she insisted, “There is not a thing wrong with me that a strong cup of tea won’t remedy.”

Laurel dearly hoped she was right. Had Rousseau’s elixir caused her swoon? Lady Fairmont claimed she had ingested only a small sip. Laurel’s own sample had gone untouched, but no one else in the room had seemed adversely affected.

“Mrs. Prewitt is bringing up tea directly, ma’am,” said a short, stout maid whose red curls reminded Laurel of her sister Holly. The girl bobbed a curtsy and deposited a stack of linens onto the commode beside the brass and porcelain washstand.

Laurel perched on the edge of the bed and took one of Lady Fairmont’s icy hands between her own. “Do allow them to fuss, my lady. However unnecessary their attentions may be, it helps them to feel needed. Believe me, I know. I . . .”

Barely in time, she clamped her mouth shut. She had nearly mentioned having nursed her three sisters through countless illnesses, but not an hour ago at the Pump Room she had professed to having no sisters.

Lady Fairmont laid a sympathetic hand over Laurel’s. “I believe I know what you were about to say, my dear. Did you spend many hours at your husband’s bedside, during his final days?”

Laurel discovered that the ease in lying she had experienced at the Pump Room failed her now, but she was saved from having to spin another tale by the appearance of Mrs. Prewitt, the housekeeper Laurel had met upon arriving at Fenwick House. Younger than most housekeepers, the woman had dark brown hair drawn back into a severe knot and thin, rather plain features that Laurel found nonetheless pleasant.

With quick, efficient movements, Mrs. Prewitt set a tray holding a teapot and covered dishes on the nightstand. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Lady Fairmont thanked her and waved her away. The other servants trailed the housekeeper into the corridor.

“Well, now, something certainly smells heavenly.” Laurel lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of steaming scones and an array of finger sandwiches.

The countess broke a corner off a scone and popped it into her mouth.

“How do you like your tea?” Laurel lifted the teapot.

“Two lumps and a spot of cream, thank you, dear.”

Placing the cup and saucer carefully in Lady Fairmont’s unsteady hands, Laurel found herself holding her breath and hoping the woman didn’t burn herself with the hot liquid. As she looked on, it struck her as immeasurably sad that there was no one better suited to care for the ailing woman than servants and she herself, who had met Lady Fairmont only a few short days ago.

“Have you any family nearby?” Laurel asked gently. “Someone we can send for?”

Lady Fairmont shook her head. “I have two daughters, both presently abroad with their families. My son died a year ago, and my five-year-old grandson, Joseph, has assumed the Fairmont title. Fenwick, however, belongs to me,” she added with emphasis, as if someone might suggest otherwise.

Her teacup clattered as she set it on its saucer. “Of course, I’ve always considered Aidan a second son. He and his mother spent many happy days here with me. I do miss her dreadfully. . . .” Her eyes misting, she stared into the steam rising from her cup. When she looked up again, it was with a resilient grin. “Oh, the stories I could tell you. Such an unruly scamp, that boy was, and such a daredevil, too. You never saw the like. One time, he decided to play tightrope walker on the stone balustrade outside my dressing room. Good heavens, I thought we were going to lose him that day.”

“Oh, what happened?” Laurel was no stranger to childhood accidents. Of all her sisters, Holly had been the daredevil, climbing trees too high, riding her pony too fast. Laurel’s blood chilled as she recalled one of Holly’s more harrowing injuries, a gash across the knee that showed the bone. “Did he fall? Was he terribly hurt?”

“Your concern for my younger self is touching, Mrs. Sanderson.”

Aidan leaned in the doorway, watching them with a smile. He had shed his coat, exposing the charcoal sheen of a waistcoat that emphasized impressive shoulders and the tapering lines of his torso. Beige riding breeches hugged slim hips and powerful thighs. Laurel’s insides fluttered at the sight of him, at the thought of all that hard, barely contained muscle. She tried to look away and found she could not.

His gaze softened in return. “I was not hurt that day,” he said. “My mother very patiently coaxed me down to safety. She then had Lady Fairmont’s groom introduce my backside to the flexible end of a riding crop. I believe I was six at the time.”

“Yes, and very little good that whipping did you, as I recall,” the countess said.

“Oh,” Laurel said a little weakly. She struggled to picture this very large, very solid man as a small, naughty child. She could not manage it, could not see him as anything but the vital, commanding earl he had become.

The notion curled with delicious—and forbidden—warmth inside her.

“I came to tell you that Dr. Bailey has arrived,” he said. “Shall I tell him to come up?”

“Pshaw.” Lady Fairmont scowled. “Who the blazes summoned him?”

“I believe it was Lord Munster,” Laurel told her, “but at our insistence. Just a precaution, of course.”

“Indeed.” Aidan straightened, filling the doorway. “You aren’t going to be a stubborn goat about it, are you?”

The countess heaved a sigh. “Send him up.”

Minutes later, a soft knock at the open door announced Dr. Bailey’s arrival. With his well- tailored suit, thinning hair, and silver spectacles, he brought a sense of reassurance that Lady Fairmont would receive the care she needed.

The countess apparently did not agree. “Humph. I assure you there was no need to disturb your morning on my account. As you can see, I am being perfectly well looked after.”

“Em, Lady Fairmont,” Laurel whispered, “remember what I mentioned about allowing others to feel needed?” From the corner of her eye, she caught Dr. Bailey attempting to hide a grin as he waited to be invited closer to the bed.

The countess released a breath and relaxed deeper against her pillows. “All right, but do not dare prick me with any of your pointy instruments, Doctor. And no leeches. I cannot abide the disgusting creatures.”

“I thoroughly agree.” Laurel stood up from the bed. “With your permission, Lady Fairmont, I shall wait in your drawing room.”

The countess nodded, then snatched Laurel’s hand with a surprising burst of determination. “I should prefer that we not be so dastardly formal. Do call me Melinda, if I may call you Laurel.”

The gesture flooded Laurel with surprising warmth. A vague memory sifted inside her. A gentle hand around her own, the scent of sweet perfume, the reassuring sound of a calm voice. Her mother? An ache in her throat pushed tears into her eyes.

“I would be delighted.” Laurel patted the countess’s hand and promised to return the moment the doctor was finished prodding and poking.

In the heavy silence of the drawing room, she stood before the tall, arched windows overlooking the front park. The weather had worsened and a light rain fell, driven by a restless wind that rattled the oaks marching single file on either side of the drive.

Where the hillsides sank into the wide valley hugged by the River Avon, the rooftops of Bath mirrored the sky. Laurel fingered the fringed swag of window curtain and contemplated the medieval layout of the Lower Town compared with the spacious and modern Upper Town. Without success she tried to pick out the peaked slate roof of her boardinghouse in Abbey Green.

Beneath the window stood a marble-topped table cluttered with an array of cherubic figurines fashioned of jade, alabaster, bronze, and porcelain. Each winged fellow played a flute or tiny mandolin, or aimed a minuscule bow and arrow. She regarded the bland smiles and sightless eyes and wondered if the collection represented a fondness for innocence and whimsy, evidence, perhaps, of a softer vulnerability hidden beneath Melinda’s self-sufficiency.

With a sigh she turned back into the room, wishing she had asked the housekeeper to light a lamp or two. Only a few short minutes ago it hadn’t seemed necessary, but the sky had darkened to a cold iron gray. How quickly things could change.

“How is she?”

With a hand at her throat, Laurel spun about. Down the room’s murky length, Lord Barensforth’s outline took shape as he stood up from a wing chair. Shadows concealed the better part of his face, but even so her pulse leaped at the sight of him, at the thought of being here with him, alone in the storm-induced dusk.

“You startled me.” Her hand slid to press her heart, her palm absorbing the erratic beats. “I thought you were downstairs. Why did you not speak when I entered the room?”

“You seemed lost in thought. I didn’t wish to disturb you.” He came toward her. The dull light from outside deepened the lines of his face, accentuating prominent cheekbones and the high curve of his brow, while turning his eyes and mouth into caverns of mystery. “How is Melinda?”

Laurel didn’t immediately reply. She couldn’t think, couldn’t find her voice. The rain hitting the panes tossed a dappled reflection onto his torso that made him seem less than corporeal, otherworldly. Until now she had seen him only in society—polished, polite, refined. Even last night, despite the seductive nature of their encounter on the terrace, she had still felt a semblance of . . . safety. Refuge.

As well there should be now. They were standing in a countess’s drawing room, in a house full of attentive servants who could at any moment enter the room to inquire after their comfort.

But no footsteps sounded in the corridor and the countess lay in her bed many rooms away. And here,
here
was this man emerging from the shadows with a power hinted at by the bulky sway of his shoulders beneath his linen shirt and silk waistcoat.

He passed the harpsichord with its painted panels depicting satin-clad gentry in pastoral settings. He might be an aristocrat, but he was nothing like
them
, not pretty and well-mannered and . . . tame. He was not a man to be controlled or managed, not by rules or mores or customs. No, beneath his restrained surface, she sensed a dangerous undercurrent, along with a nature as solitary and sensual as the leopard to which Lord Munster had compared him.

A shiver ran hot and cold down her back as she remembered what Lady Devonlea had said about his being on the prowl, and her, Laurel, his coveted prey.

His fingertips tripped lightly over the instrument’s ebony keys, sending a trill through the air. She flinched, her stomach tossing in rhythm with the dissipating notes, her racing heart vibrating the whalebone stays of her corset.

“Is she feeling any better?” he asked, his voice as low and lulling as the rain against the windows.

She groped for control over her spinning thoughts. “I am concerned about her. I do not believe she is at all well.”

“Then you don’t believe a lack of breakfast brought on her weakness?”

No, she did not. She had nursed her sisters through enough illnesses to recognize the signs of infirmity when she saw them. “I can only hope the explanation is that simple,” she said. She hesitated, then asked, “Did you taste the elixir?”

“No. I was about to when Melinda fainted. You?”

“The same. But it could not have been that. No one else seemed out of sorts. Which would mean . . .”

“That Melinda may truly be ill.” His throat twitched and fear entered his eyes. “Dr. Bailey is well respected hereabouts. She will have the very best care.”

He seemed desperate to convince himself. The depth of his concern took her aback, and for the second time today she rediscovered the man who had once defied a squad of policemen to rescue her. Suddenly tempted to go to him, to offer the reassurance of an embrace, she folded her hands at her waist and gripped them tight. “Yes.”

He nodded and gestured at the streaming windows. “It appears you are trapped here for the time being,”

Instead of gazing out at the rain, she focused instead on his hand, not soft and white like an aristocrat’s, but the hand of a man who took action, who commanded . . . who would be neither intimidated nor disconcerted by a woman who led when she should follow.

She tore her eyes away and stared at the watery windowpanes. “I’ve no intention of leaving. Not until I see the color restored to Melinda’s cheeks.”

“First names. You two get on well.”

“She is very kind.”

“No.” He laughed, a baritone note that raised a private little quiver across her shoulders. “Be assured, Melinda is anything but. Ah, she’s the most fair- minded individual I have ever met, but cross her, annoy her, or simply bore her and she will promptly erase you from her social register.”

Laurel couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, I can believe that, and I do think that is one of the qualities I like most about her. No pretensions.”

“None whatsoever. Tell me, Mrs. Sanderson, are you a woman without pretensions?”

The look in his eyes, half conjecture, half amusement, made breathing difficult and sent her to the refuge of the closest settee. Her reprieve proved all too short when he came and sat beside her, his thigh brushing hers, his masculine scent enveloping her.

“I sense a mystery in you, Laurel. Why is that?” His devilish grin suggested how large her eyes must have grown, how plainly the truth must be swimming in them. From this close she could see a light shadow of facial hair his razor could not quite conquer. “I wonder . . .”

“I assure you, my life has been singularly uneventful.” The words came too quickly, too emphatically. Blast her speeding heart; surely he could hear its wild patter. She swallowed, pulling her gaze from his chin and jaw, trying to ignore the contrast they presented to his sumptuous mouth. “There is little about me that warrants wondering.”