The Perfect Bride (19 page)

"But
he is betrothed to another."

"I
thought he would put aside his scruples when he disguised himself as Thornton
again. The chaperon does not know he is the earl, so what is the harm?"

"But
he knows. Not everyone plays to an audience, Isabella. Some people truly
possess convictions."

"That
is a ridiculous notion. Oh, Mortimer, I was so looking forward to being
together again in the flesh. When she let him into her room, I thought it was
just a matter of time."

"There
is only so much we can do to manipulate a person's will, Isabella. Even
controlling their dreams only takes us so far."

"We
must persevere! Why, look how well that young scholar and the Biddle chit get
on — even without our assistance. I'll warrant they are in bed before the week
is out."

"Not
everyone moves from friendship to carnal delight as quickly as you, my dear.
But if you are so certain that the younger couple’s attraction will blossom
into passion, why do we not inhabit their bodies instead of fretting over our
tenant and his principles?"

"What?
And look at that librarian’s balding pate while I am savoring the first real
passion in five hundred years? You must be joking. Now, our tenant is a man to
truly fire one's passion. I can think of no other form I would wish to see you
inhabit for our delightful interlude."

"Are
you certain it is still I whom you want, Isabella? Or have you formed an
attraction for our tenant?"

"Do
not be ridiculous. You are the only one for me."

"Actually,
there were several dozen others, as I recall."

"That
was centuries ago, Mortimer. Where are they now, I ask you?"

"In
a far happier state than we, my dear."

"If
only Edward would rouse himself. I had hoped that Claridge would give him
inspiration. But it seems that he only wishes to sit around and feel sorry for
himself."

"A
man does not easily forget being cooked alive on a spit, Isabella."

"I
never meant for his death to be quite so painful. Do you think that if I
apologized he would help us with our little plan?"

"Why
should he? So you and I can enjoy each other once more? I daresay that prospect
holds no appeal for him."

"But
he never cared who I was with in life, Mortimer. I cannot think he minds
now."

"Do
not tamper with what is. Our existence, joyless as it is, could very well be worse."

"Nonsense."

"You
were never one to let well enough alone, Isabella."

***

Amanda
regarded a particularly lethal-looking stiletto mounted on the wall. One thrust
of its triangular-shaped blade would make any man's plea for mercy his last.
She hoped Felicity would be able to make some changes so that the castle did
not resemble a medieval torture chamber.

Torture
sounded rather appealing, however, when she thought of Mr. Thornton. To think
that she had boldly indicated her receptiveness to his suit, when all the while
he had merely been toying with her. Obligations, indeed!

To
be sure, he had not seemed like a dishonorable man. He had taken no advantage
of her momentary madness. But after he’d left her last night, she’d endured strange
dreams in which he appeared to be cavorting with a queenly beauty. Even now,
the dream lovers' antics brought a blush to her face.

Mr.
Thornton was doubtless but a step removed from the lecherous Mr. Merson, or
Julian, or any other reprobate. Any man who could kiss her as thoroughly as he
had done yesterday, invade her bed chamber, provoke her embarrassing confession
about that night in Vauxhall, and firmly reject her suggestion that they deepen
their acquaintance must be the object of her contempt.

The
facts — that
she
had all but invited that kiss on the cliff, welcomed
him into her room, and blurted out that confession without any prompting — did not
excuse his behavior.

Amanda
tried to envision the stiletto stuck between Mr. Thornton's ribs. Instantly,
she felt ashamed. The poor man was probably not accustomed to women throwing
themselves at him. She’d been the one to blame, not he.

Why
had she behaved so, exposing her most vulnerable self, admitting that his kiss
affected her? Could it be that she had not given up on wedded bliss after all?
That a small part of her wanted to find a hero who would sweep her off her feet?

Why
had the practical, unsentimental woman she had worked so hard to become
suddenly lost her capacity for reason? And why, even now amid her embarrassment
and anger, did she pine for Mr. Thornton's kisses?

"I
see you are studying the misericorde."

Amanda
jumped, teetering awkwardly for a moment before she could stabilize herself
with the cane. She turned, to see the very subject of her torment studying her.
The man had an uncanny knack of showing up just as she was thinking of him. To
make matters worse, he extended a hand to steady her. She batted it away like a
petulant child.

A
rather awkward silence stretched between them.

"Were
you perhaps thinking of using the dagger on me?" he said at last. "I
cannot say that I blame you."

Drat
the man for being noble. And disarmingly polite.

"My
interest is quite benign," she assured him. "I was merely wondering
why the earl chooses to display such barbaric weapons. Indeed, why not also
mount the heads of the opponents the men in the family have dispatched? I
daresay they would fill a wall or two.”

He
frowned. "Do they disturb you? I believe the earl's forebears merely
intended to establish a weapons collection that future scholars might
study."

"I
should think scholars could study them better in a museum,” Amanda responded
irritably. “Displayed as they are here, I can only conclude they are meant to
pay homage to the fighting prowess of the Thornton men."

Mr.
Thornton blanched. "I assure you, the present earl has no intention of
creating a monument to his fighting skills."

"Then
perhaps he would not find it burdensome to remove these artifacts,” she said.
“Should my cousin wish it, that is."

He
appeared to ponder this. “I cannot think of another place in the castle that
would serve as well as the Great Hall.”

Amanda
returned her attention to the stiletto. “Perhaps Felicity will prefer to keep the
knife under her pillow, then. To guard against the intrusion into her room of
those with ill intentions.”

“That
is aimed at me, is it not?”

“The
knife?” Amanda asked, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Not at all, Mr.
Thornton. I am not a violent person. I would never initiate a hostile action.”

He
held her gaze. “Actually, the misericorde was not an offensive weapon. Rather,
it was intended for an act of kindness.”

“Of
course,” Amanda replied. “Anyone can see that straight away.”

He
arched a brow. “Its slender blade can penetrate through thin mail or the narrow
gaps between armor plate, thus quickly ending the suffering of a mortally
wounded man. Hence its name, which refers to the mercy of such an act, not the
misery of its victim.”

Amanda
shuddered at the image. “I do not see that sort of death as a mercy.”

“That
view is to be expected, I suppose, from one who has not been on a battlefield.
Not that I would wish you to see such a thing,” he added quickly.

When
she did not reply, he continued, “But perhaps you can view the dagger from
another perspective — as a knight’s last defense. Should he find himself
otherwise disarmed, he would allow the enemy to think him done for. When his
foe drew nearer, he would thrust the stiletto into his heart."

“That
is a horrifying image, Mr. Thornton.”

“Yes,”
he said.

“And
in the instances you describe, the dagger’s purpose is quite ambivalent, is it
not? Whether it is used as an act of mercy to put a man out of his misery or as
a lethal surprise for an attacker does not matter. It is a weapon without
meaning until wielded. And useless when it is not.”

He
eyed her in surprise. “If you understand that, then you understand war, madam.”

“I
understand that it kills,” Amanda said. “That is the only constant, do you not
agree?”

“It
is one of them,” he replied. “Whether a weapon is used for offense or defense
is not, in the final analysis, relevant. Death cares not.”

“Neither
do the governments that send men to war,” she replied.

He
studied her. “Will you not own, Miss Fitzhugh, that sometimes war is
necessary?”

“History
will judge, Mr. Thornton. I cannot. I am only a woman who has lost a relative
to war’s embrace, and I very much fear that while his death was everything to
me, it was nothing at all to his government.” Amanda looked away, to hide the
tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes.

A
moment later, she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

“His
sacrifice was not in vain, Miss Fitzhugh,” he said gently.

She
turned. “He would say the same, sir. But I have great difficulty accepting that.”

“Perhaps
it is enough, then, to simply honor his sacrifice. And accept that he made it
willingly for reasons that were sufficient for him.”

Amanda
could think of no response to this. And so they fell silent. Strangely, it was
not an uncomfortable silence. He did not seem to feel the need to break it.

After
a while, Amanda returned her attention to the weapons on the wall. They no
longer seemed so threatening, only lifeless.

"You
know a great deal about the collection, Mr. Thornton," she observed.
"As much, I would say, as the earl himself."

He
did not reply. Amanda tried to think of a polite way to take her leave.
Suddenly he turned to her.

"There
is something you should know, Miss Fitzhugh."

"If
it is another enlightening discussion of a lethal weapon — ”

“It
is not.”

She
waited, unable to imagine what information he was determined that she have
next. Mr. Thornton had given her more words today than at any point in their
rather short, painful acquaintance.

"I
wish to inform you that I am leaving today, as my presence here has become a
burden for you," he said.

She
stared at him. “I see.”

"I
do not like to leave you alone with Claridge," he continued. "But the
earl will return shortly."

"You
need not worry on my account." Amanda hoped her tone sounded nonchalant.
"Sir Thomas is here, and at all events Claridge is harmless."

But
his gaze was troubled. "Promise me you will latch the back of your wardrobe."

"I
am quite capable of handling Claridge,” Amanda insisted. “I have had years to
think about that mistake." She gave him a pointed look. "It is my
more recent missteps that give me pause."

Suddenly
his hand, surprisingly gentle, came to rest on her shoulder. "Miss
Fitzhugh," he said quietly. "There is nothing I wish more than to have
yesterday undone."

The
pain in his eyes surprised her.

"Nothing
has been done that a few good nights of sleep will not remedy." Amanda
forced a smile. "Making a fool of myself is not pleasant, but it is not as
though I have never done so."

"I
never meant to kiss you."

She
would not show him how much that knowledge hurt. "Alas, that is the
difference between us, sir," she replied breezily. "For I did mean to
kiss you."

Amanda
took a rather perverse satisfaction in his stunned expression. "Good-bye,
Mr. Thornton," she said. “I hope your journey is a pleasant one.”

She
turned and left him as quickly as the cane and her dignity allowed — which was
an embarrassingly long time. As she made her ungainly way past him, she felt
his eyes on her. She refused to look back.

It
struck her that she did not even know his given name.

***

Staring
at the misericorde, Simon felt its blade in his heart as surely as if Miss
Fitzhugh had ripped the knife from the wall and stabbed it into his chest. It
was as if they had met on the field of battle and the strength of her character
had left him mortally wounded.

It
was honesty that felled him. Her admission about that kiss sent his soul
soaring to heavenly heights even as it left him wallowing in the hellish depths
of his own duplicity.

She
was unafraid to admit her past mistakes, her failures, her vulnerabilities. She
recognized truth, faced it, and embraced it. Her courage humbled him, gutted
his defenses, leaving him like a fifteenth-century knight with only the
misericorde for salvation.

Simon
took the stiletto down from the wall. Holding it in his hand, he rubbed the
blade until it grew as warm as his own flesh.