Lady Silence (6 page)

“
The truth,” he replied, reaching out
to lay his hand over hers. “Only the truth.”

“
Shall I ask the vicar if he knows a
young man who might serve as your secretary?” Lady Moretaine asked
in a small voice.

Damon was surprised by the depth of his
revulsion. Was he actually looking forward to dueling with the
devilish little minx? And watching her roaming about the bookroom,
wiggling her—

Brightening his day.

“
No, mama, thank you, but that will not
be necessary. We will see how the girl goes on. Though, I beg of
you, do not tell all and sundry that I have acquired a female for a
secretary.”

With her head low over her chestnut mare’s
neck, Katy galloped across the meadow as if escaping the hounds of
Hell. Away from Farr Park. Away from Colonel Damon Farr. Away from
emotions so tumultuous they terrified her. Men were to be ignored.
Shunned. Evaded when necessary. Fought, if nothing else would do.
Escaped, when all else failed.

But now it was she who was being
ignored. She’d swear the colonel hadn’t raised his eyes to her
during so much as one of his curt commands, yet many a time this
past week she’d felt his gaze burning into her back.
Devil!

Yesterday, her hands had shaken so
badly, she’d slopped tea into his saucer. Appalled, she’d dashed to
the kitchen, where everyone had gathered round, urging her to tell
them what was wrong. Had the colonel misbehaved? Lady Moretaine
must be told immediately. Katy, thoroughly mortified, had just kept
shaking her head.
No, no, no, no!
She was fine. An accident, nothing more.

And then the miserable man, when accepting
his second cup of tea, had actually looked at her . . . and smiled.
“Not so solemn, child,” he’d told her. “The world won’t end over a
few drops of tea in a saucer.”

More like a sea of tea. But at sight of that
smile, as rare as hen’s teeth, her treacherous heart had done a jig
in her chest, leaving her breathless. During all the years since he
had so casually offered her shelter, she had loved him blindly. But
when he returned cold and unfeeling, she’d felt betrayed. Her
girlish fantasies shattered. And yet she could not turn away. If he
had so much as an inkling of the havoc he was wreaking on her
feelings, how easily he could—

As she approached a line of trees, Katy
slowed her mare Mehitabel to a walk, remembering as she entered a
winding ride through sun-dappled woods the year her figure had
suddenly blossomed into womanhood. When even the well-trained Farr
Park footmen followed her with their eyes as she crossed a room.
The men working in the fields or in the village had been less
subtle. Gestures, whispers, appreciative grunts and whistles marked
her path. She was naught but a servant. Easy prey.

Just when she thought she had found
sanctuary.

Millicent Tyner, sharp-eyed as a housekeeper
must be, had sat her down for a good long talk. Katy listened
attentively, making no attempt to indicate she was already well
aware of the vicissitudes of men. In fact, she paid little
attention until the housekeeper, in her usual frank style, warned
her that it was she, Katy Snow, who could well precipitate her own
downfall. If she did not hold her heart close, she would be ruined.
“Men are not for women like us,” Mrs. Tyner told her. “You cannot
hope to marry higher than a farmer or an innkeeper. Best keep what
you’ve got to yourself and rise to housekeeper in a fine home.
Goodness knows you’ve got the wits for it. But give rein to your
feelings, child, and you’re lost. Lie with a man, and he’ll soon be
gone, leaving you fit for nothing but Haymarket Ware.”

At the question in Katy’s eyes, she added,
“That’s a whore, child. Cyprian, courtesan, filly o’ joy,
share-amy—whatever strange words they use—’Tis all the same. A
girl’s ruined. Useless to any decent man or to serve in any decent
household. Your friend Clover listened to me, a good girl is
Clover. Keeps to herself, with her eye on being dresser to a titled
London lady. And she’ll do it, she will, as long as she keeps her
legs tight scissored and her head out of the clouds.”

Head out of the
clouds
. And much chastened by reality, Katy was making
every effort to do that. Alas, not successfully. The few hours she
spent each day in the bookroom—sorting the household mail, finding
long-unused volumes of history on high shelves, making notes from
the colonel’s dictation, sharpening quills, refilling the inkwell,
and serving tea—were treasured moments. For the most part, the
colonel remained glum and irascible, but once having decided on the
course of his writing—a comparison of battles of historic
significance—he had set to work with an intensity bordering on
obsession. She might be young and inexperienced, but Katy could not
help but wonder if the colonel was attempting to exorcize his years
of war by finding refuge in someone else’s battles.

And there she was, feeling sorry for
him! Which made her poor heart grow more tender, even when she knew
that on her own particular battlefront
he
was the Enemy. It was nothing but
propinquity, of course. Shut a single man into the same room with a
single woman, particularly when both were young in age, if not in
spirit, and the result was almost inevitable. So why had her dear
Lady Moretaine suggested such a remarkable arrangement? Was Katy
the bait to tempt the colonel out of his sullens?

A sacrifice to her son’s baser needs?

The countess couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . .
.

Katy found her mare had come to a halt
in a clearing and was happily cropping a lush stand of
grass.
Propinquity
. No wonder
young ladies of good families were guarded almost as closely as the
crown jewels. Propinquity was lethal. Even now she could feel his
eyes on her, her heart beginning to beat like a drummer sounding
Charge. Her mare lifted her head, whinnied.

Oh, dear God! Not a fantasy. He’s here!

“
Good morning, Katy,” said the colonel
from atop his black stallion, Volcán, who had survived the war with
scarcely a scratch, as miraculously as his rider.

His thighs were quite
beautiful
. Far better displayed on horseback than in
the library. Katy tried not to stare, but here in this lonely
place, she knew better than to look her employer in the eye. She
nodded her head in regal greeting.

“
Do you always ride alone?”

And how else would she ride? With a retinue
of grooms, as if she were the lady of the house?

“
Of course,” the colonel murmured. “How
foolish of me. Lady Moretaine’s remarkable notions have addled my
wits. I forgot you are merely a servant. A servant out for a
morning ride on one of my finest mares.”

Almost—but not quite—a sound escaped
her lips. Katy swallowed her shock.
Bastard!
It was the worst word she knew. How
could he attack her so? She was his helper, his secretary. And what
right had he to tromp on the flutterings of her heart, no matter
how misguided they might be?

Unable to defend herself, Katy sat slumped in
the saddle, head bowed, demonstrating her dejection as graphically
as she could.

“
You think me harsh?” A tiny nod of
assent. “Come, child, do you think I attained my rank by coddling
my men and blowing kisses to the enemy?”

Katy pressed hands and reins over her
mouth, stifling a laugh.
The devil! How
dare he make her laugh?
Peeping at him over her
fingers, she noted that he was once again looking grim. The
clearing was small, their horses nearly nose to nose. His dark eyes
were deep haunted pools into which she could so easily
tumble.

“
You will recall,” he told her, “that I
did not want any distractions from my work. Therefore, I find it
easier to think of you as one of the young men under my command.
This is not,” he conceded, looking even more morose, “always
effective. When I find you wandering in the woods, all alone”—his
already disconcerting dark eyes ranged over the tight fit of her
forest green riding habit—“I am forcibly reminded that you are
female.”

Ignoring the flush she could feel staining
her cheeks, Katy took her reins in one hand, waved the other in a
broad circle, then pointed her index finger at her employer’s
chest.

“
Yes, yes,” the colonel responded
impatiently, “I understand you stay on my land, but, nonetheless, I
fear for your safety. You are not exactly . . . that is . . .
you—ah—tend to attract attention, Katy Snow. You are not easy to
ignore.”

Was she not?
Katy’s traitorous heart soared.
Fool! That way lies disaster.

“
If I assign a groom to ride with you,”
Colonel Farr said into the awkward pool of silence that had formed
after his last remark, “I will elevate your status beyond what is
comfortable for either of us. Yet I am reluctant to curtail your
riding, as it is a privilege granted by Lady Moretaine. One you
enjoy?”

Yes, oh, yes!
Katy nodded vigorously.

“
Then I shall merely ask you to stay on
my land and keep a cautious eye out for strangers. If you see
anyone not known to you, ride the other way.”

As if it were only strangers she had to
fear!

“
You may go, Snow.” The colonel waved
her on. As she carefully guided her mare by him, he added, “And
find my copy of
The Iliad
.
Now there’s a war that lasted even longer than ours on the
Peninsula.”

Wars! Is that all the man thought of? When
love was so much more satisfying. As she knew quite well from all
the years she had held his youthful image in her heart. For Damon
Farr, her savior, difficult as he now was, she would do
anything—

Haymarket Ware, Katy, my girl. Haymarket
Ware.

~ * ~

Damon sat, chin in hand, ostensibly studying
the few paragraphs he had written the day before. In truth, his
mind was filled with a pert young face, kissed by a green ostrich
plume that curled against her cheek, and an exceptionally fine
figure straining so hard against a jacket of green twill that he
had thought a button might pop. It would appear his young secretary
was still growing.

At the moment, she was on the library ladder
again, and he was making a determined effort not to look. The Farr
Park bookroom—a central feature of his Uncle Bertram’s life—was two
stories in height and ringed by a high gallery on all but the outer
wall. Although the upper story of books could be accessed by a
circular staircase, the top shelves beneath it could only be
reached by a ladder that moved on wheels.

There was something about Katy on a ladder .
. .

She was his employee, his mama’s companion,
an innocent child entrusted to his care. Yet the more he attempted
to ignore her, the more sternly he reminded himself of duty and
honor, the more intriguing and enticing she became. Lately, she was
taking on a glow—he was quite certain it was not all his
imagination. She was softer, not so wary. A bud begging to be
plucked.

She trusted him!
Her willingness to be alone with him, day after day, was
proof enough of that. Colonel Farr closed his eyes, swearing
silently. He had come home to Farr Park for peace and quiet, not to
endure daily torture!

A decided thump not far from his nose snapped
his eyes open. For a moment he stared blankly at the book Katy had
just delivered. He opened the leather binding, flipped a page. “And
what,” he asked of the girl standing demurely before him, “is
this?”

She raised her brows, eyes wide and
innocent.

Damon’s lips twitched. Blast the girl!
She refused to leave him to his sullens. “I shall answer for you,”
he said. “From what little I remember of my schoolboy days, this is
the first volume of Homer’s
Iliad
, is it not?” The little minx, still
wide-eyed, nodded. “In the original Greek.” An infinitesimal nod of
agreement. “And you think this soldier, ten long years after seeing
his last Greek letter, might care to do research with this
particular tome?”

The emerald eyes turned accusing.

“
Yes, yes, I know I asked for
The Iliad
, but it never occurred to
me you were capable of recognizing the title of the book in
Greek.”

Arms akimbo, she glared at him.

Katy Snow . . .
scholar?
Absurd. Since the age of twelve, she had had
no education other than access to his library;. Therefore, how
could she possibly . . . ? Seven Dials and Shoreditch suddenly
seemed impossibly distant. As much as he hated to admit it, his
mama’s notions of Katy Snow’s origins were likely more accurate
than his own.

And now the chit’s gaze had turned
mischievous. From behind her back she produced a second thick
leather volume. The Dryden translation, by God. And then the books
before him faded as he succumbed to temptation and took a good look
at his bookroom assistant. Damon leaned back in his chair and
stared, cursing silently as the ruthless, battle-hardened soldier
sprang to life, threatening to escape the bonds of
civilization.

It would appear someone—Katy, his mama,
his female staff?—had decided that Katy Snow’s elevation to the
post of secretary required a new look. Her masses of blond curls
were now twisted on top of her head, secured not only by hairpins
and combs, but by what looked remarkably like some sort of lethal
instrument. Protecting their precious nestling, were they? She
needed it. For the difference was astonishing. In the twinkling of
an eye the hint of the woman seen on horseback that morning had
been transformed into a siren in his bookroom. A siren with wisps
of gold framing a marvelously mobile and expressive face that, with
the language of her body, were her only means of communication. And
an immensely satisfying change it was from his recollections of the
bored ladies of the
ton
whose
faces more closely resembled marble statues, incapable of
displaying, or perhaps feeling, any emotions whatsoever.