Elizabeth Mansfield (17 page)

Nevertheless, he would not call out. He would manage. He squirmed out of his coat and dropped it on the floor. Then, feeling his way carefully across the room, he found his bed and sat down heavily. He managed to remove his neckcloth and one boot before he gave up. With a groan, he threw himself back against the pillows and fell into a stertorous sleep.

When the clock on his mantel struck five, the sound woke him.
Strange,
he thought,
those musical bongs never disturbed me before.
He tried to recapture sleep, but his head throbbed, and his britches felt dreadfully constricting. And he still wore a boot. He tried to rise, so that he could take the offending items off, but the effort required to lift his head was too great. It made him dizzy.
Curse me for a bobbing block,
he swore to himself,
if I ever take another swig of that Red Lion rum!

He lay back against the pillows and stared into the darkness. There was something lurking at the back of his mind making him uneasy. What was it? He tried to reconstruct what had passed last night. Vague impressions floated into his consciousness: the Cribb-Belcher bout on which he'd lost a monkey... a talk with Taffy about the disturbing changes that were occurring in his nature of late... drinking whole flagons of cheap rum at the Red Lion when he knew he should have taken only claret. The memories were hazy and disjointed, but he knew there was more. He tried to think carefully. Whatever it was must have occurred when he came home.

Yes! He
remembered!
He'd come home and encountered Miss Douglas on the stairs. Jane Douglas, his man of business. Jane of the silky hair and speaking eyes. Jane, whose translucent skin revealed every flush of her emotions, whose glance of disapproval could cut him like a swordthrust, and whose mouth—

He sat up abruptly. That mouth! He remembered it clearly now! He remembered how those full, rosy lips had gleamed in the candlelight. He'd been tantalized by them, by the luscious trembling of them, and by the little pulse that beat at the base of her lovely throat. The desire to put his own lips against that throbbing pulse had been so strong it clenched his innards. But he'd not given in to it, he remembered that. Not until he'd gone up the first step and discovered those lips so close to his own, and then—Good God!—he'd
kissed
her.

He winced in shame. How could he have done it? How
could
he, after he'd assured her more than once that he was not the sort to lay hands on the women of his household staff? She was probably furious with him, and he couldn't blame her. He was furious with himself.

He fell back upon the pillows and threw an arm over his face. Little hammers beat on his brain, and something behind his eyes throbbed painfully. Nevertheless, despite the aches in his head and the weariness of his entire body, he could feel that kiss again. He could recall in the tiniest detail those trembling lips pressed against his, the incredible softness and pliability of her body in his arms at first, and then how she'd stiffened as the smoldering tension inside her seemed to flame up and spread to every part of her and made her cling to him so tightly that, for a moment, he believed they couldn't be wrenched apart. This had not been the kiss of a bluestocking or a prude. The mere recollection of it sent a wave of heat through his entire body and made him ache for her with an intensity that startled him.

What was the matter with him? Why did his perception of the girl change so radically? How could a woman who had first appeared to be a snobbish and managing prig suddenly become a paragon in his eyes? Her smile, which he'd at first found coldly ironic, was now warmly charming; her barbs, which once seemed biting, he now found sweetly witty; and her cleverness, which once made her seem conceited and unwomanly, he now found admirable and modestly displayed. What did it mean? Was he in love with her? Had love blinded him to her faults? Was Cupid with his carelessly aimed arrows making a mock of him? Could he possibly be in love with this overbearing creature who seemed bent on destroying the man he was and turning him into a quivering pinchpenny?

He sat up in bed, his teeth clenched. The answers to all these questions was the same: no, no, and NO! He would not surrender his manhood to Miss Jane Douglas, no matter how powerful her allure. If it cost him his financial independence, he would not surrender. He would show her—as well as all the fellows who'd been laughing at him—that he was every bit as devil-may-care as he'd always been. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and got unsteadily to his feet. He had something to do, at once.

The clock struck six. The daylight was seeping in just enough to help him make his way—limping on the single boot—to his writing table. There he lit his argon lamp, pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer, prepared a nib, dipped pen in ink, and wrote:

Dear Taffy:

I haven't changed as much as you think. I know I said I didn't care to engage George Poole in a coaching race, but I want to retract. I'm quite prepared to race him as soon as the matter can be arranged. Will you pass the word to him at once? I shall be at home, waiting for you to come.
 

Yours, Luke.

The door opened as he was sealing the letter. Varney, who was accustomed to looking in on his lordship first thing in the morning, had never before found him awake at this hour. "Your lordship's risen very early," he remarked, trying to hide his surprise at the Viscount's appearance.

The mere sound of the fellow's voice set Luke's head throbbing. "Hush, Varney, for the love of God, hush!" he said, wincing. "There's no need for you to hang about. I'll be returning to bed in a moment."

But when the valet saw the evening coat—a particularly fine one, that he'd so carefully brushed the evening before—heartlessly discarded on the floor, he could not contain himself. "I say, my lord," he exclaimed in indignation, "have you slept in your clothes?"

"Afraid so," Luke answered, getting up, "but there's no need to get on your high ropes. I'll take them off now. Here, give this letter to Joseph and have him deliver it to Mr. Fitzgerald." He threw his valet a weak smile. "Don't look so disapproving, man. I'll put on my nightshirt before I return to bed, I promise."

TWENTY-ONE

When Jane awoke the next morning she did not need to look out her window to discover that rain was pouring down in buckets. She could hear it splattering on the panes. She sighed. Adela's first morning in town would prove a disappointment.

She got out of bed reluctantly. She had not slept well. Even after having gone to bed many hours later than her usual time, she could not fall asleep. Her mind kept gnawing away at the details of the encounter with Luke like a little mouse with a piece of stale cheese. She didn't want to keep going over it. She didn't want to think about his unkind words or that disquieting kiss. In order to keep herself from dwelling on it, she forced herself to concentrate on what she'd been brought here to do—straighten his finances. She let her mind drift over various possibilities that might permit him to pay his new debt and still show a decent balance at the end of the month. All at once, she got an idea. It was such a good plan it made her sit up in bed. If she could make it work, he would not be able to say she was a bad influence. Pleased with herself, she was able to fall asleep at last.

That was her goal for the day—to try to implement her plan. She got out of bed with what energy she could muster and began to dress. The sound of her ablutions woke her sister. Adela sat up eagerly. "Good morning, Jane," she chirped. "Shall I get dressed, too? I can't wait to start the day. We're to go to Covent Garden, are we not?"

"Not today, I'm afraid," Jane said with gentle sympathy. "Just listen to that rain."

"Oh!" Adela's face fell. "But perhaps there is something else we might—?"

Jane sat down at the edge of the bed and smoothed her sister's tousled hair. "I can't go anywhere with you today, my love," she explained. "There's some work I must do for his lordship that can't wait."

"But when you came to bed last night, you told me that Lord Kettering had no more work for you. That you were ready to leave for home." She threw her sister an accusing glance. "You said you were staying three days more only for my sake."

"That's true. But in the night I thought of something I ought to do for him before I go. Something important."

"Important enough to ruin even the few days you've given me?" Adela asked in a voice that trembled on the brink of self-pitying hysteria.

"Yes, important enough even for that. But may I suggest to you, as you did to me yesterday, that you need not fall into apoplexy. When the rain stops, I shall ask Mrs. Hawkins to let Meggie escort you to Covent Gardens. And if I'm not interrupted in my work today, I may complete it in time to take you about town myself tomorrow. So, you see, all is not lost."

Adela took a deep, relieved breath, but her pout remained. "But what am I to do in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, why don't you go back to sleep? Then go down for a late breakfast. I'll tell Joseph to watch for you. Perhaps by that time the rain will have stopped."

But the rain did not stop. Adela, with youthful optimism, had dressed herself in her new walking gown. Made of delft blue cambric, it was the loveliest gown she'd ever worn. Her mother had engaged the finest seamstress in the village to fashion it especially for this occasion (paid for with funds Jane had scraped together and left with them, instructing her mother that they were to be used for "dire emergencies only"). But Adela soon realized there was little hope of showing off the gown on the streets of London today. It was after eleven, and the rain had not abated.

She went down to the morning room, where the footman, Joseph, set a sumptuous breakfast before her, but as soon as he left the room, she pushed it aside. She couldn't eat. She took a cup of tea, went to the window, and watched the unremitting downpour with an expression on her face of utter despair.

So abject was her misery that she didn't hear the voices in the corridor outside the morning room. Taffy Fitzgerald had arrived and was handing his rain-soaked overcoat to the butler. 'Tell Luke I'm here, will you, Parks?" he requested. "I'll wait in the morning room. I assume, since Luke hasn't come down yet, that the breakfast things haven't been removed?"

"No, Mr. Fitzgerald, they haven't. Do go in and have something. Joseph is quite ready to serve you."

As he crossed the threshold of the morning room, Taffy was preoccupied with wondering what sort of breakfast fare his queasy stomach could accommodate. One quick glance into the room, however, and the problem ceased to exist. He stopped in his tracks. A girl stood at the window, a teacup in hand, staring out at the rain. He blinked at her in disbelief. Still feeling the effects of the previous night's debauch, he was not sure she was real. She was, to his bleary eyes, a delft-blue-clad vision. Her light hair fell in profuse curls round her shoulders, her profile, with its retroussé nose and full upper lip, was charming, and her form was slim and lithe. He couldn't see her eyes, but he knew they'd be lovely. Now, however, those eyes were fixed on the view, a view so depressing to the girl that she didn't even know he was there. He had to say something to make her aware of his presence, but he didn't know what words to use. He cleared his throat. "G-good morning," he said hesitantly.

She wheeled about. "Oh!" she cried, and the cup fell from her startled fingers. She looked down and, to her horror, saw that the cup had cracked. Worse, a large, ugly tea stain was spreading itself out on the carpet. "Oh, dear!" she cried again and, pulling out a handkerchief from the bosom of her gown, knelt down, and made a helpless attempt to stanch the spread.

Her fright made Taffy brave. He knelt down beside her and stopped her hand. "No need to spoil your handkerchief," he said comfortingly. "It's nothing. Joseph will take care of this."

She looked at him, her eyes wide. "Will he?"

Taffy smiled to himself. He was quite right about her eyes; they were a melting, opalescent gray. "Of course he will," he assured the girl, "as soon as he returns from wherever he's gone."

He took hold of her elbows and helped her up. When they stood erect, he discovered something about her that was even more admirable than the rest—she was shorter than he! The headache and churning stomach that had been plaguing him all morning disappeared at once. His smile broadened. "How do you do, miss?" he said, bowing. "I hope I don't intrude."

"Oh, n-no, no," Adela stammered. "I was j-just... that is, I—"

"I startled you. I'm sorry. I'm his lordship's friend, Theophilus Fitzgerald, but everyone calls me Taffy. May I know your name?"

"H-how d-do you do?" Adela blushed as she dropped a curtsy. "I'm Adela Douglas."

"Douglas?" The name surprised him. "Related to his lordship's Miss Jane Douglas?"

"Her sister. Lady Martha invited me to stay here in town with Jane for a fort... for a few days. It's my very first visit to London."

"Really?" Taffy asked, beaming. "How very delightful."

"Yes, but"—her eyes flicked to the window—"it would be more so if it weren't raining so dreadfully."

"Don't let the rain distress you," he said, taking her arm and turning her away from the gloomy prospect outside. "There are all sorts of sights that can be enjoyed in the rain. 1 daresay Luke will let his stableman take you about in the curricle."

"Oh, I don't think I dare ask—"

"Nonsense. Luke is the soul of generosity." He paused, wondering suddenly if he dared suggest his own escort. He shot a quick, appraising look at her. She was looking down at the floor with a slight, shy smile. There was nothing daunting in that smile. Yes, he
would
dare. "Of course, I'd be honored if you'd permit
me
to squire you about, Miss Adela." The words tumbled out of him in a rush. "My curricle ain't the equal of Luke's, but it's a very passable trap."

She lifted her head and threw him a glance of pure ecstasy. "I'd like that above anything," she breathed.