Nina Coombs Pykare (26 page)

Her eyes filled with tears as she hurried down the corridor and she dashed them away angrily. How unfair that the man she loved more than life itself—for surely her life was endangered at Holmden Hill—should think she was casting out lures for his cousin.

She shoved open the door to her room, and bit back an exclamation of pain. In her haste she had pricked her finger on the rose the viscount had forced upon her. It was a lovely flower, in full bloom and giving off a rich heady fragrance. But suddenly it seemed ugly to her.

She wasn’t like that rose. She wasn’t blooming at all. She was far more like the white bud the earl had picked—closed up tight until the touch of his hand should unfurl her.

With a cry of pain, she cast the rose aside and threw herself on the bed. He would never love her—never. She didn’t know how she could bear it.

Chapter Twenty-six

When he finally got Leonore peeled off his arm, and persuaded the others that it was time to retire, Charles retreated to his room with a sigh of relief. Why did the woman insist on clinging to him like that? He’d never ever given her an indication that she was more to him than a sister-in-law. He never would. She was entirely too cold, too hard, too brittle to ever appeal to a man who’d known Catherine. Sweet, soft, lovable Catherine. Not the Catherine who haunted him now. She’d been different then, warm and lovable.

He liked a sturdy body and wide green eyes and- He stopped short, halfway across the room. Well, he might as well admit it. He’d wished to have Edwina on his arm tonight. Wished to give her the white rosebud and see her shy smile. Wished Crawford and Leonore both far far away, out of his life, where they could no longer bother him.

He sighed and loosened his cravat. It was most unlikely either of them would leave. Crawford would go back to London in a minute, of course, if he had funds. But he didn’t. And there was nothing to give him.

He took off his jacket and slung it over a chair. Leonore was something else. He didn’t understand why she stayed on here, making his life unpleasant. He smiled grimly. Knowing her, he knew she didn’t see it that way. No doubt she believed that her presence here was indispensable. Of course, she had helped with the girls. Somewhat. But she should go back to London, find herself a husband. He’d never understood why she hadn’t accepted one of the many offers made her. She could make someone as acceptable wife. And, though he really couldn’t see her as a mother, there were nannies and governesses to take over those chores.

Edwina had been right about Leonore’s lack of motherly knowledge. It had been stupid to exile the girls to the nursery, to treat them like some kind of prisoners. But in his grief he had hardly known what he was doing. Until the new governess arrived.

Edwina had jarred him out of his grief. He threw himself into his chair and laughed harshly. She’d jarred him out of a lot, Edwina had. And into a lot.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was Edwina’s face he saw, Edwina’s sweet mouth he longed for, her body he wanted to feel against his own. God help him! What would Catherine do about this?

* * * *

Edwina had no idea how long she lay, reliving the events of the past weeks, re-evaluating each meeting with the earl in the light of her new knowledge about her feelings for him, tracing how those feelings had changed, without her even knowing it—until that momentous kiss had shown her the truth.

That day by the sea—she’d felt something even then. When he offered his hand to help her into the carriage, and even more so when he lifted her down, she’d felt that strained awkwardness toward him. Because she had been seeing him as a man rather than as the father of the girls. She hadn’t realized what was happening to her, that respect and concern for the father were growing into deepest love for the man.

Finally she forced herself to get up from the bed. She couldn’t lay there all night in her gown, even if it was an old one. She must get ready for bed. In spite of the lighted candles, shadows still lurked in the corners of the room and she recalled that she had neglected to lock the door to the hall.

She took up a candle and moved toward the door. The hall was silent, apparently everyone had already gone to bed.

The candle flickered. It had burned so low it wouldn’t last the night. The candelabra in her room had not been refilled. If she wanted light through the entire night—and she most certainly did—she would have to go downstairs herself and get some more candles.

She looked once more at the deserted hall. Would it be better to face the darkness of the night when the candle burnt out or the fright of going through the sleeping castle now to get more candles? She straightened her shoulders. This was ridiculous. She would simply march downstairs and get some candles. That was surely an easy enough thing to do. No need to put herself into a scare about it.

So she stepped off down the hall. Shadows, dark and threatening, loomed in all directions, but in spite of her fears they remained only that—shadows. No shadows materialized into lurking ghosts. No white-robed figures appeared to frighten her—or lure her into the deserted part of the castle. She reached the foot of the great stairs in safety, and, finding she was holding her breath, let it out in a whoosh.

The extra candles were stored in the sideboard exactly where she knew they would be and in relief she put a handful in her pocket. Turning away, she saw it—the white rosebud that the earl had picked earlier in the garden. She could still see it in his hand, see his face when he looked down at it, when he looked up at her. He had apparently discarded the bud on the sideboard when he took up his candle. She stood staring down at it for a long long moment—all her fears forgotten.

The rose had wilted a little, but the castle was cool and the flower still retained much of its pristine beauty. She couldn’t take her gaze from it. She could still see the earl’s fingers holding it, those long lean fingers caressing it so gently.

A tremor raced over her flesh. The earl hadn’t been gentle with her. He had kissed her savagely, the kiss of an angry man, of a man long denied the feel of a woman. Tears sprang to her eyes. Whatever the earl felt for her—whether lust or merely anger because he thought she wanted to snare his cousin—she knew quite well it wasn’t love. How could he love someone so mundane and practical, so sturdy, as she? The man who had been husband to the fragile pansy-eyed Lady Catherine would never be able to forget-

Edwina’s eyes brimmed with tears. Dear God, why had she been so stupid? All these weeks she’d been falling in love. Why hadn’t she seen what was happening to her? Why hadn’t she stopped herself?

But then, how could she? She had never known feelings like this before. Of course, she had been attracted to several men among the rakes who preyed on Papa. In fact, there had been more than one who caused her blood to race and her breath to come faster. Still she had always known them for what they were—predatory animals out to get what they could from her father—and from her. Out to get, and willing to give very little in return.

So, though she had been attracted, she hadn’t let her feelings really become engaged. But now—now it seemed as though she had no choice. She felt she must love the earl, must remain near him. She knew she wasn’t safe in the castle. Not safe at all. Somehow that changed nothing.

She couldn’t leave him. Especially not now, not when he, too, was in danger.

She would follow him anywhere, anywhere on the face of the earth. She would stand beside him through any danger.

A sudden sob broke from her throat. Here she stood, making all the vows of a wife—for a man who would never love her, a man who was in love with a dead woman. And even if he were not-

Another sob broke from her and she turned away from the sideboard. There was little use in torturing herself in this fashion.

Earls, even—or especially—impoverished earls like this one, didn’t make alliances with penniless governesses. She was quite beneath his touch and she knew it. If only she had been more aware of things. Perhaps then she might have stopped herself from caring so much for him.

Right this minute, in fact, she wanted to go back and pick up that rosebud. To hold in her hand the flower that had known his touch. To smell its fragrance and pretend that the man who had picked it had given it to her, had touched her in that same gentle way.

Why shouldn’t she have the rosebud? She turned back to the sideboard. By morning it would be all wilted anyway and Wiggins would just throw it out. Though she knew quite well that the great hall was deserted, she still looked around before she reached out a tentative hand.

Then she was holding the rose close and a single tear fell from her eye and glittered on it. She sniffled. Sentimental fool. But she didn’t relinquish the rose. She moved back toward the great staircase, holding it close to her breast.

When she was once more safe in her room, she laid it carefully between the well-worn pages of her Bible. Then she locked the door and got ready for bed. After she had hung up her gown and slipped into her nightdress, she took the pins from her chignon and paused before the cheval glass.

What did the earl see when he looked at her? She scrutinized herself carefully, but there was no way she could be described as delicate. Her eyes were a plain nondescript brown not at all reminiscent of pansies, and her hair, though dark, wasn’t the rich glossy color that Lady Catherine’s had undoubtedly been. No, there was nothing at all of delicacy about Edwina Pierce. Her body, her limbs themselves, seemed to proclaim her a sturdy example of womanhood. Sturdy! She was beginning to hate the word.

She turned from the glass with an exclamation of disgust. Just because Lady Catherine had been fragile and delicate—and the earl had loved her—was no reason for Edwina Pierce to be dissatisfied with the body that had always served her well. She wasn’t ugly, at least—in fact, she was quite presentable. Keeping that thought firmly in mind, she blew out all the candles but the nearest and settled down to sleep.

But sleep was a long time coming. She tossed and turned in the great bed, finally dozing off into fitful dreams. The earl was there, dressed all in white, and the viscount, all in scarlet. Each of them held roses that they offered to her.

She looked with longing at the earl’s, and even moved toward him. But the viscount stepped in the way, holding the red rose like a weapon, and blocked her path. She cried out, then, cried out to the earl to come to her. He was there, using his white rose to fight the viscount. Red rose and white roses dueled, scattering petals everywhere. Edwina held her breath, her heart threatening to burst, while she waited to see the victor who would claim-

She was wakened suddenly by someone pulling at her arm. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. “Miss Pierce! Wake up, Miss Pierce!”

She forced herself awake. “Yes, Constance. What is it?”

The little fingers that clutched her arm were icy cold. “It’s—it’s Henrietta, Miss Pierce. Mama called her.”

“Now, Constance.” Edwina pulled the shivering child under the comforter, holding her close against her own body to warm her. “You know these are just bad dreams Henrietta has. Your Mama doesn’t really call her. She can’t.”

The little girl shook her head. “No, Miss Pierce, it wasn’t a dream. Mama called her in that awful funny voice. I heard her, too, but she didn’t call me.” There was a pause while Constance swallowed over her tears. “She told Henrietta to come to her. To—to come to the parapet.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

“What!” Edwina put the child aside and stared at her. “Where is Henrietta now?” she demanded with sinking heart. “Did she listen? Did she go?”

Constance nodded. “Yes, she went to Mama. She told me not to tell you.” Big tears rolled down Constance’s cheeks. “She told me to go back to sleep. And then she left. But I had to tell you, I had to. Oh Miss Pierce, I’m awful scared!”

Constance
was scared! A wave of cold fear washed over Edwina. If Henrietta got up to the parapet- The earl had locked the door, thank God, but she must find the child.

She leaped from the bed and stood there, trying to think. “You stay here, Constance. In my bed. Mind now, don’t you leave it. Not for anything. I’m going to find your sister.”

“Yes, Miss Pierce.” Constance sniffled as Edwina pulled the covers up about her chin and tucked them carefully in.

Edwina lit another candle and set it on the bedside stand. “I’ll leave this light for you, dear. But you must not move from here.”

“I won’t. I promise,” a tearful Constance said. “I promise, Miss Pierce.”

Edwina picked up another candle and hurried to the door. Of course the door to the parapet was locked. It had to be locked. But she’d check there first, just to be sure. Perhaps on her way she would find a clue to Henrietta’s whereabouts or even see the child herself. She fervently hoped so.

She set off down the hall, aware that once more she had rushed off without robe and slippers. But she couldn’t take the time to go back for them. Not now. Not when Henrietta was in danger. Even though the child couldn’t get to the parapet, there was no telling what she might do in her present distraught condition. She might get lost somewhere in the castle. She’d be terrified then, all alone in the darkness. She had to be found, had to be persuaded that she had a friend. That Edwina was her friend.

By the time Edwina reached the tower stairs, she was breathless. She’d just stop long enough to check that the door was locked and catch her breath a little. Then she would decide where to look next.

But when she twisted the knob, the door opened easily in her hand! How had the tower door gotten unlocked? The earl had promised solemnly. It had been locked the last time she’d tried it. Well, this was no time for recrimination, she had to find Henrietta, and soon. Shielding the candle and trying not to think about spiders, Edwina crept up the stone staircase. In the semi-darkness she put the candle carefully on a ledge and pushed the door open as slowly and quietly as she could. If Henrietta stood on the edge of the parapet already, the sight of her governess coming after her might be enough to make her jump.