Seducing the Beast (31 page)

“I can’t prove anything and I suppose you won’t believe me, but I’d never forgive myself if any harm...if I hadn’t warned you.” She turned, walking to his door. “Thank you, sir, for giving me shelter these past weeks. I never deserved such forbearance and noble condescension.” Making light of it, she kept her voice even. Understanding he could offer her nothing more than his bed, she didn’t want him to think her ungrateful for the offer. She was painfully cognizant of how he’d suffered to make some room for her in his life.

Briskly she put out her hand, firm and straight. “Goodbye, my lord. And thank you.”

There was a moment when it seemed he would refuse the hand she offered, but he accepted it, his expression bemused. He bowed stiffly over it, his long, cool fingers holding hers lightly. “The pleasure, madam, was mine.”

Again she felt as if they acted roles in a play.

She left his chamber, slamming the door behind her, ensuring those disapproving, grim-faced Swaffords trembled in their frames along the distant gallery.

* * * *

They left early the next morning, and she caught sight of him watching from the blue chamber’s window as they rode slowly away on the new horses he’d given Captain Carver.

She looked back only once, then turned her face to the gate at the end of the long, winding gravel path, painfully holding in those worthless sobs that would never do anyone any good.

Once, he’d said to her,
“Even if I wanted another life, there is nothing I can do about it. If I could walk in another man’s boots, I would.”

Now she understood. For that brief time, she’d given him the chance to live another life, in that little cottage by the bay, in another world, far away from their reality.

Fruits of Wisdom

Sir,

Apparently your lordship has great disdain for anyone with a mind of their own. I suppose your needs and wants are the only matters of import in this world. If I were not a lady with other things to do, I would treat you to a taste of the willow switch, as I would any spoiled, cantankerous little boy. That said, I have a number of items to lay before you.

Item One.

Your brother. Gabriel is no longer a boy, yet you continue to treat him as one. Perhaps, had you been a less oppressive guardian and allowed him to make his own decisions and mistakes, he might not have fallen prey to Eustacia Shelton, whose primary appeal is likely her failure to fit into your inflexible rules. There is no arguing with love, your lordship. Sadly I know something myself of misguided caretaking and have learned no one will thank you for interfering in their love life. Better let them get on with it.

Item Two.

Captain Nathaniel Downing has been much maligned. I was once assured, by a loyal servant of yours, that you too are misunderstood and wounded by unfounded, slanderous rumor. If this is the case, you should understand Captain Downing’s misfortune and urge his pardon. He is a good man, whose tongue occasionally runs away with itself. I am familiar with this unhappy trait also, for no one’s tongue has tumbled so clumsily as my own.

One last item.

‘Change’, your lordship, is not a curse word. I appreciate that many generations of earls have perpetrated certain traditions in this house, but might I suggest adapting the rules a little could improve your servants’ and your brother’s life. It might even do you a world of good.

Take this advice or leave it, your lordship. It matters not to me if you continue as a bitter, miserly old man without friends.

Sincerely,

An anonymous well-wisher.

He found the letter where she’d left it, propped up against the pillow. He wanted to laugh at her officious manner, trying to tell him, a man fourteen years her senior, how to manage his life.

If I were not a lady with other things to do, I would treat you to a taste of the willow switch, as I would any spoiled, cantankerous little boy.

Then he did laugh out loud, the image of it too clear in his mind.

He ate supper alone in the hall, seated at one end of the long table, the servants fetching and carrying with quiet efficiency, the rules followed, everything in its place. But she was missing. He pictured her sitting there at one end of his table, he at the other, too far apart, but that was the way things were always done. It was tradition.

Tonight, restless, he strode the length of the table to lay his hand flat along the back of her chair, wishing she was there now.

“Are you in love with me
?” she’d asked him in the hothouse, her eyes, cornflower blue, shining up at him.

Love? He’d never believed in it, but he’d never believed in mermaids either until she forced her way into his neatly ordered life.

The first moment he’d seen her, she’d changed his mind, rearranged his parts, just as she’d tried to rearrange his house. It was simple goodness she had. Unfussy, warm and sensuous, she welcomed the ridiculous challenge of loving him.

His chest hurting, he sat heavily in her chair.

“Where the devil is Wickes?” he snapped abruptly to Gregory.

“He is, I believe, in the cookhouse. Taking another nap.”

The earl raised his head, eyes hot and smarting suddenly. “You don’t like him either, eh? Any reason?”

“I don’t know the man, my lord,” Gregory equivocated. Then, suddenly, he added with a rush of boldness Griff had never before heard in is voice, “Mistress Madolyn warned me to keep an eye on him. I understand…he tried to put his hands on the young lady.”

“He
what
?”

“She mentioned it to me, my lord, because she didn’t want young Jennet, or any of the maids, left alone with him.”

He could barely breathe. Some pagan fire roared through his veins, scorching his lungs. His hands tightened into fists. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She said you wouldn’t believe her, my lord. And Wickes threatened her if she told.”

Cursing, he held his taut knuckles against the table. Did he believe her? Could he? What good would it do now? He couldn’t offer her more than he had already. He was trapped.

Gregory continued quietly, “There is one thing to remember, my lord, about that vow you made to your father.”

He stared at the fluttering candles, shoulders rounded, dark thoughts dripping through him like rain through a leaking roof.

“He’s
dead
, my lord, along with those other Swaffords up there.” Gregory turned respectful eyes to the dimly lit gallery above. “They had their life and if they made a miserable mess of it, that’s no reason for you to do the same. Your father, God rest his soul, had his life. Now ’tis your turn to live.”

There was no reply to that. This boldness, he concluded, was yet another result of his mermaid’s presence in that house. Gregory was practically giddy with it and Griff didn’t have the heart to shout at him tonight.

The steward hesitated. “Shall I snuff the candles, my lord?”

“No,” he growled, “Let them burn down.”

“And Wickes, my lord?”

Griff slowly ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’ll deal with Wickes.”

* * * *

In another fortnight they were home. Exhausted, she wanted only a bath and her old bed. Her mother was so relieved to see her safe that, luckily, she didn’t force details of her adventure. Less patient than their mother, Grace followed her to bed and demanded to know what happened in Dorset.

“Please don’t ask me, Grace. I’ve naught to tell.” Maddie clasped her sister’s hands and then released them, falling to the pillow. “Certainly nothing you should hear.”

Grace perched on the edge of the bed. “I won’t tell Papa, but I know you didn’t leave with Eustacia. You were alone all that time with the Beast, weren’t you? There was no chaperone.”

“Hush, dear sister.” Pressing a finger to her lips, Maddie squirmed her way under the quilted coverlet, nestling into her familiar old bed and falling asleep almost immediately, even before she could show Grace the shells she’d brought home for her. Only one did she mean to keep for herself--the tiny, perfect white cockleshell Griff once found. That she couldn’t bear to part with.

Waking later, refreshed and hungry, she strolled out to the orchard, looking for her mother. The sun was setting over the flint stone wall and the colors changed. The dustiness of the afternoon slowly blew away, the air cooler and tranquil. The birdsong was quieter, less harried. Beneath her skirt, the grass rustled lazily. Daisies curled their heads and slept as the sun prepared to slip beyond the horizon, and dandelion clocks waited patiently for a stray breeze or a foot to knock against them and release their fluttery seeds into the evening.

She found her mother picking plums for jam. Her sleeve was warm under Maddie’s fingertips and she turned in surprise at her sudden touch. Overwhelmed with emotion, Madolyn embraced her mother as she hadn’t done in years, committing every sensation to memory--the comfort of a worn, much-patched old gown, the warmth of lingering sun on her shoulder, the sweet scent of lavender water in her hair.

Her mother’s brow pleated with gentle lines, but her brown eyes were still clear and capable of prying out the deepest secrets. “Maddie Carver what have you been up to?”

“I tried to fix something broken,” she replied haltingly.

“And?”

She lifted her shoulders.

Planting a quick kiss on her forehead, her mother whispered, “When shall you tend to your own life and look to your future? Fix that, my dear Maddie, and let other people worry for themselves now.”

They linked arms, walking along together, bowing their heads under the plum and apple trees. Maddie felt fat teardrops trapped in her eyelashes, but if her mother noticed, she kept it to herself.

* * * *

Wickes shuffled across the room to the shutters. In the gray and purple light, the fellow was a ghostly shadow, hunched and mournful. “Should be a fine day, milord,” he croaked, opening the shutters with a clatter.

Turning, he jumped to find him already up, dressed and seated on the bench at the foot of his bed. Morning light spilled through the parted shutters, falling across his outstretched legs and boots, before reaching upward to touch his face with wary fingers .

“You rise early, milord.”

He hadn’t slept actually, but felt no inclination to tell Wickes. “Naught to stay in bed for is there?” he spat.

“Going riding, milord?” Wickes asked, with the slightest narrowing of his weasel-like eyes.

“Yes.” He caressed his whip, a slow boiling anger bubbling below the surface.

Wickes slouched to the next window, turning his back.

“Tell me, Wickes, did you truly think to get away with it?”

“Milord?”

“You tried to touch her,” he spat the words through clenched teeth, syllables taut with disgust, the sound resonating around his chamber.

“Touch who, milord?” Wickes tried to shrug it off. “The little whore what was here? Is that what she told you?” His tongue rasped over his lips. “Don’t believe her word over mine do you, milord? I’ve got a witness who--”

“It wasn’t she who told me.”

Wickes blanched.

“Tell me the truth and I’ll be lenient.”

Slowly the man scratched his cheek with a blackened nail. “That little whore wanted it. Begged for it. Don’t believe her word over mine do you, milord? I told you what she was. I warned you--”

Griff was on his feet and across the room in three strides. Clasping the other man’s chin, he forced it back, suddenly noticing for the first time the fresh scar on his swarthy neck. The mark left by the indent of a blade.

“She tried to get me in trouble,” Wickes protested. “Wanted me dismissed. Meant to trap me--seduce me.”

“And you fought her off, I suppose?”

“She wanted it. I don’t know why she--”

Griff placed his thumb against the man’s throat where the slender scar proved she’d wielded that knife in self-defense. And knew who he believed, who he trusted.

It was the last day he ever saw Wickes. The last day anyone ever saw Wickes.

He knew something was wrong when he rode up the gravel path and saw Luke on the steps, face red, eyes spitting a resentful anger. Swinging down from the saddle, Griff passed his reins to the groom and looked over at the disgruntled gardener.

“What is it, Luke?”

The young man squeezed out, “The countess.”

His wife was the last person he’d expected to see. She never came to Starling’s Roost these days.

“She’s inspecting the staff now,” Luke added, his face going a darker blood red.

“And why are you--”

“She sent me out here because, in her words, my lord, I stink like horse shit.”

Furious, Griff leapt the last few steps and strode into his house. Two maids were sobbing into their aprons, but the cook, in the midst of consoling them, managed to inform him the countess headed for the blue chamber with Gregory.

Her boxes were piled in the hall, her cloying fragrance--far greater insult to his nostrils than Luke’s honest, earthy odor--hung in the air like a thick fog on an autumn morning. The staff were in a degree of shock, their usual tasks forgotten as they looked to him for some instruction. It was, he realized, as if death had come to the house.

Without a word to anyone, he took the stairs, three at a time, and walked quickly down the corridors. No one had slept in the blue chamber since his mermaid left and her things remained in it. He should have had them removed by now, but for some reason he’d put it off, always finding other business to tend, keeping the room exactly as she left it.