The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (11 page)

“Three days,” Araminta echoed, horror creeping into her voice unbidden.
Harriet must be out of her mind with worry!

“Yes. I cannot say how you came to be there, and perhaps you will enlighten us on that point. When his lordship brought you in, you were unconscious, and I feared that the exposure to the cold rain would make you ill besides. It is lucky you were brought to me when you were, because you developed a fever that first night. His lordship sent to the village for Dr Fredrikson, who came and saw you, and said that there was nothing to be done but bind your wounds and try to break the fever.”

Araminta tried to understand what she had been told. So, she was definitely at Dillwood Park. But the Joscelins were not there. It seemed that someone else had taken lease of the place. Araminta wondered how that had come to pass, and who that person was
.
She would have to thank him — if what the housekeeper said was true, this man had surely saved her life.

The housekeeper was watching her expectantly, and Araminta guessed she was waiting for an explanation.

“My name is Miss Araminta Barrington, daughter of the sixth Viscount Fanshawe,” she informed the older woman.

Mrs Becker nodded kindly at her. “Yes, my dear, his lordship said as much when he brought you in.”

“He… he did?” Araminta’s head spun in confusion. She remembered nothing of the accident, and could certainly not remember telling her rescuer her name. She wondered how the man would have known her name otherwise. A sense of warmth and security, of strong arms around her, flitted briefly across her memory and she wondered if perhaps it had been quite as much a dream as she had supposed it.

“Didn’t you know? His lordship seemed to suggest that he was acquainted with you. Or perhaps it was your family?” The housekeeper looked confused as she removed the cloth from Minta’s forehead, rinsed it in cool water and reapplied it.

“Who is this lord of whom you speak?” Araminta asked slowly, a strange sense of unease creeping through her.

“Why, he is Jasper Devereaux, the Sixth Marquis of Chestleton, Miss. You are acquainted, are you not?”

Araminta’s mind went blank. Her heart clenched, and the walls of the pretty room seemed to close in around her.
Chestleton?
Here?
she thought desperately,
but that’s not possible. What could he possibly be doing
here
?

She felt her cheeks flush as she angrily wondered if he had had the gall to follow her home.

“Yes, yes we have met briefly in London,” she replied, lest the housekeeper should think that something was wrong. She hoped that the woman would not be able to sense her sudden agitation as she tried to comprehend the strange coincidence. And yet, Minta realised, he could not have followed her — it sounded to her as if he were surprised by her presence in Colestershire.

Mrs Becker seemed to have read her mind, for she asked, “But, Miss Barrington, what were you doing riding hereabouts in such a squall?”

Araminta sighed. “I was visiting Fanshawe Hall and my sister-in-law, the dowager Viscountess Fanshawe. I had decided to go for a brief ride that afternoon, before the weather turned truly ghastly, and I’m afraid I was out longer that I had at first anticipated. I had thought to visit the Joscelins, since I had not yet had the chance to do so, and I was already so near their house. The storm came upon me unawares, while I was yet a way from here. My horse, Nightstar, panicked and threw me. Oh! Nightstar — he must have run off in the storm!”

“My dear, do not distress yourself. His lordship brought in your horse when he found you. Your Nightstar is safely in the stables.”

“Oh, I
am
glad to hear that. He was so terrified by the storm. He’s usually a very obedient horse.”

“I am sure he is, Miss.”

“And now, please, you must help me dress. I must be on my way home. They are expecting me. I cannot stay here.” Through the daze which still fogged her senses, Araminta was keenly aware that she very much wanted to be gone from Chestleton’s house.
Imagine!
She thought,
of all the possible tenants in England.
She felt embarrassed at being there, and this made her feel indignant, and since, saving her or not, Chestleton was the one responsible for her feeling as she did, she blamed him for her discomfort. Araminta also felt odd trespassing upon his home, a place of such intimacy, and she was certain that given the strange antagonism between them, she ought not to be there. She also dreaded public reaction, if word were to reach London that she had spent two nights at Chestleton’s house, completely unchaperoned. In her sudden panic at discovering the identity of her mysterious saviour, Araminta was beyond trying to apply logic, or to consider the circumstances under which her stay had come to pass. The thought of her name being linked with
his
, in any way that suggested an intimacy beyond that of polite and distant acquaintance, horrified her. She would be ruined! To make matters worse, were she to run into him here, she would not know how to behave. She had to leave at once. There was no alternative.

“On your way home? Oh no, my young Miss, you are in no fit state to be going anywhere just right now. You have had a fever. I will not have it said, you know, that his lordship sent away an injured young lady before she was fully recovered.”

“I thank you for your concern and kindness, but Fanshawe Hall is not at all far from here. It is only two hours away. It would not be improper. My sister will be more than capable of tending to me.” Araminta attempted to make a quick rise out of the bed, taking advantage of the housekeeper’s momentary departure from the bedside. Mrs Becker had gone to a nearby table to fiddle with a little green bottle. As Araminta’s bare feet touched the thick woven carpet next to the bed, she felt her knees go weak, and the room tilted suddenly. Her headache increased, and her vision darkened in patches.

“Miss Barrington!” Mrs Becker was beside her in an instant, supporting her as she felt herself collapse back on the bed. “That was a very silly thing to do. You might have fainted right off the bed.”

Araminta blinked owlishly at her as she continued speaking.

“Your home is much too far for you to be driven there before you are fully recovered. Two hours! No, I won’t hear of it, and I am sure his lordship won’t either. He gave the strictest orders that every care is to be taken of you. Now, you just get the idea out of your head, and think only of getting better.”

Something else occurred to Araminta’s dazed mind. “Very well, if I am to be kept from leaving then, please, will you write my sister-in-law at Fanshawe Hall? She must be near mad with worry for me.”

“Don’t fret, my dear. I believe his lordship sent out a letter to your relations just this morning, assuring them that you are quite safe. Now come, you need to get more rest. Here, you must take this spoonful of laudanum, it will help you sleep.”

Resigned, Araminta obediently took the opiate, which had apparently come from the green bottle with which the housekeeper had been occupied, grimacing at the bitter flavour. Mrs Becker was kind enough to give her a spoonful of sugar to counter the bitterness on her tongue. Almost instantly, she felt drowsiness enveloping her, as if she were surrounded by a cottony, warm, cocoon, which covered her head and relaxed her limbs. She felt her eyelids grow much too heavy to lift them, and then oblivion came to her, and she slept.

The next time Araminta awakened, it was mid-morning, and it was raining. It looked as if it had been raining for quite some time. Her head still felt a little cottony as she blinked away sleep though, to her great relief, she found that no trace of her headache remained.

She raised herself carefully on her elbows, mindful of jarring her head into more pain, but it continued to feel quite alright. Her arms, though they still felt a little weak, did not shake beneath her, which she took as a good sign. She looked around the luxuriously appointed rooms, once more admiring their opulence. She had stayed at Dillwood Park on several occasions, but she could not remember any of the guest rooms being quite that beautiful. There was no one in the room but herself, and Araminta lay still for a moment, listening for approaching footsteps. When none came, she gingerly rose to her feet, testing her legs before trusting her full weight to them.

She found that she felt a little stiff and sore, no doubt from her fall, and the remnants of the fever. She was clad in a floor-length, white cotton nightgown, which was slightly large for her, and slipped off one graceful, pale shoulder. The long sleeves had beautiful off-white lace at the cuffs, which reached almost to her fingertips.

Her footsteps made no noise as she walked across the plush carpeted floor, towards the tall open window. Araminta found that it opened a view on a familiar well-manicured lawn below. She could see three fountains, gurgling merrily away, a bit of Lady Joscelin’s beloved rose garden, and a stretch of woods in the distance, which she knew was fenced off and could be entered by a creaky green wooden gate. A lone gardener worked on a flower bed on the far side of the lawn. Araminta knew that, come Autumn, the pair of old apple trees next the fountain would bear delicious red apples. She smiled at the happy memories of picnics and tree-climbing and badminton which the lawns held for her. She wished that the Joscelins were in residence, and she might speak to Mary.

The room also contained a dressing table, which held a few cut-glass bottles and a silver-backed hair brush. A large, carved rosewood wardrobe dominated the wall next to the door, and a painting of the rose garden graced the wall above the fireplace. Araminta caught a glance of herself in the mirror above the dressing table and winced. Her dark hair was mussed and tangled, and her skin was still ashen. She desperately wished for some rouge for her cheeks at least, so that she might not look quite so sickly. Her eyes stared back at her, a startling, dark blue in her pale face.

Araminta made a vague attempt at fixing her hair with the brush, but quickly gave up. She discovered a wine coloured dressing gown on an armchair next to the window, and put it on, wondering where her own clothes were. Araminta opened the large wardrobe, but it held nothing more than a few gowns she did not recognise. Feeling too much like she was prying, Araminta shut it, and looked about herself wondering what to do next, as if hoping to find the answer waiting for her somewhere in the room.

She supposed that she ought to go back to bed, and wait for someone to come and check on her. The thought of going back to bed, however, was unthinkable, after such a long period of inactivity. Her gaze fell upon the closed door. Tightening the robe around herself, she decided to brave the passage beyond. She felt certain that she would quickly come across a servant who could inform the housekeeper that Araminta was awake.

Walking over to the door, Minta rested her hand on the brass handle, in a moment of indecision, before turning it, and stepping out into the passage. It was a long passage, lined with tapestries and portraits of the Joscelin ancestors. Araminta recognised it now, as she walked along it, and turned right, into what was the upstairs sitting room. Knocking softly, she opened the door, but found the room to be empty. Closing the door, Araminta went on, turning down another passage, and knocking on a few more doors. She had yet to meet a soul on her trek through the house, and this was beginning to unsettle her. Despite herself, Araminta increased her pace as she rounded another corner, which would take her to the main staircase.

Suddenly, Araminta collided with someone coming around the same corner at speed.

“Oophf!” she said, as the other person knocked her over. Judging by their own grunt at the collision, they were just as surprised as she was. Araminta found herself prostrated on the floor in a tangle of limbs with the owner of the very decidedly male body above her. She could smell the strangely familiar, tantalising scent of spice and leather and feel a warm, muscular chest pressed against her cheek.

“Oh!” she cried, mortified, as she scrambled out from under the man at the same time as he made to get back up. “I am so sorry. I confess I did not see you at all.” Aware that she was stuttering and stating the obvious, she decided to change tack, “I was unsettled by how quiet the house was, and I was hastening to find a servant. I
am
sorry, are you alright?” she said all this very quickly, addressing her bare toes, and the riding boots of the man with whom she had accidentally collided.

A low chuckle drew her eyes up to his face, and she instantly regretted it. There, towering over her with a supercilious smirk on his face, stood none other than the Marquis of Chestleton himself. Araminta’s face grew instantly hot, and she was momentarily lost for words as he leaned indolently against the wall, looking completely unruffled as his gaze travelled all over her form.

She became painfully aware of her state of dishabille, in the thin robe over her nightdress, as his gaze lingered over her curves, as if he sought to caress her with his eyes alone. She remembered their last encounter in the park, and fought to keep herself from trembling, certain that he would instantly know the effect he had on her if she were to do so. His lips curled a little more as his shadowed grey eyes finally met hers. Araminta narrowed her own eyes in an outraged glare, determined not to accept his insolence and impropriety, although, at the same time, she was painfully aware of how much she owed him for having rescued her.

“Well, well,” he said, lazily, “Miss Barrington, I see you are finally awake. And I feel obliged to express my appreciation at your choice of wardrobe.”

“Lord Chestleton,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height in righteous outrage, “I assure you, my choice of wardrobe is entirely accidental. I could not find my riding habit anywhere. Therefore, I came out of the room to see it I could locate a servant to help me.”

“Then you are out of luck, my rose. It is Sunday, you see, and they have all gone to church. I understand Becky, my housekeeper, managed to locate a few gowns for you? Look in the wardrobe in your room.” His voice dropped dramatically and he pushed himself away from the wall, stepping much closer to her than could ever be considered proper. Araminta’s instinct was to take a step back, away from this powerful man, but some force much stronger than her own better judgment kept her rooted to the spot. “Unless you would like me to help you dress?” His voice seemed to envelop her, whispering to her of things dark and wicked and unbearably tempting. She could feel the warmth of his nearness, as if it were a flame that burned her. Something seemed to uncoil in her stomach at the note in his voice. His face was very near hers, and she could not help noticing his broad shoulders, and the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck.