“Luc, stop. Please, it’s too hot. I keep telling everyone.”
“The water’s ice cold, Ata,” he said quietly.
She pushed his hand away and sighed. “I don’t need it. I don’t have a fever.”
Rosamunde looked at Ata’s withered hand, which the lady had forgotten to hide under the covers. She rushed forward and gained Luc’s attention by glancing pointedly at his grandmother’s hand.
A blistering rash covered it.
Luc turned his grandmother’s good hand in his palm and saw the same condition. It could be so many things, most of them infectious and deadly serious.
“Ata,” he said urgently, “does anything pain you?”
She smiled weakly. “Yes. The fact you’re all looking at me as if angels are circling to come in for the kill.”
“Ata…” he said.
“Don’t you ‘Ata’ me. Everything in this old body pains me. Make them go away, will you, Luc?” She continued in a low tone, “Looking at everyone in mourning is giving me the most awful premonition.”
Rosamunde edged away until Ata’s hand caught at her. “Not you. Why, you’re wearing my favorite color. It cheers the soul. I’m so glad you discarded the other.”
She didn’t have the heart to disabuse Ata of her notions. The dowager seemed on the verge of delirium.
Sylvia tugged her sleeve. “Rosa,” she whispered, “Charity has invited us to stay at the vicarage. What would you like to do?”
Rosamunde looked at the three of them—her sister, Charity, and her brother, Sir Rawleigh.
“The apothecary said it would be best if everyone removed from here,” said the handsome vicar, his eyes searching Sylvia’s with concern.
“And it will be easier if there are fewer houseguests,” seconded Charity.
Rosamunde glanced at Luc to find his half-shuttered eyes studying her before she addressed her sister. “You go, dearest. Sir Rawleigh is right.”
“I’m staying if you are.”
“No. Sylvia, for once in your life, do as I say.” She spoke with such harshness it was hard to say who was more surprised, Sylvia or herself.
Her sister bowed her head. “Of course.”
Rosamunde was instantly stricken with remorse.
“Perhaps you should consider a retreat as well,” Luc said, his voice low and gravelly.
“I’ve the constitution of an ox. I wish I were more delicate, but my family always said it was the mixture of so many generations of ornery natures.”
He picked up her thin wrist in his large palm. “Really?”
“You’ll need someone to help you,” she pointed out.
He said not a word, turning his attention back to
his grandmother. Gone was the devil-may-care rakish expression that was his second skin. Only the tick of the mantel clock marked the silence.
“Luc,” the wizened dowager whispered, “something is very wrong. I don’t want to worry you, but I must settle a few matters. Private matters.” There was desperation in the depths of Ata’s eyes that Rosamunde had never seen before, and given Luc’s expression, he hadn’t either.
Luc glanced at Rosamunde and with a tilt of his head she understood. She shooed everyone to the doorway. With one foot in the room and one out, she gave hushed instructions to Mrs. Simms to prepare tea and broth, and a few other requests to the others. But between her words, she couldn’t help hearing snatches of conversation between Ata and Luc. It was then that the delicate beginnings of a wish she had barely had the courage to consider were effectively destroyed.
“Luc,” Ata pleaded, “no more ignoring the future. Listen to me and if you love me as I think you do, you’ll not interrupt or…or brush this off. If I die, I want you to promise me something. No, I see your look. I’ve never asked for you to promise anything. I’m asking now and I require your assent.”
Rosamunde glanced over her shoulder to see a quick nod from him and then asked Mrs. Simms to bring an extra blanket.
“Say it,” Ata insisted.
“I will do whatever you ask.” He was so gruff Rosamunde could barely make out the words.
“Luc, you must marry and produce an heir. If you
do not, then what I endured for nearly fifty years will be for naught. I’ve never pressured you because I’d hoped, well—” Ata burst into tears and glanced toward the doorway where Grace Sheffey stood, talking with the other widows. The sound of Ata weeping was so wretched that Rosamunde edged away from the door and would have retired to her room if Mrs. Simms had not handed her the requested blanket.
Produce an heir…produce an heir…
Ata’s glance at the countess and the painful words echoed inside her mind. She tamped down the pain weaving through her chest. If there was ever a time she wished she could run outside and keep running until she could blank out the pain and misery and dashed dreams, it was now. Instead, she did what she had learned to do—she forced herself to stay and be useful. If there was one person on this earth who had always been kind to her, it was this wonderful, generous dowager.
Luc was whispering to Ata and holding her hand when Rosamunde reentered the room and placed the extra blanket on the bed. She held on to the edges of her composure with the dregs of her inner resources.
He kissed his grandmother’s forehead. “You look very tired. Perhaps you should try to sleep a little.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” she replied, her voice childlike. “I fear I might not wake up.”
Rosamunde was sure that whatever remained of her courage was down in her toes, and she imagined how Luc must feel.
“I shall sit here with you”—he pulled the pins out of the dowager’s gray hair and allowed the long thin
braid to rest on her shoulder—“and watch your breathing. I’ll wake you if there is any unsteadiness.”
A lump formed in Rosamunde’s throat. Most people would have made light of the dowager’s worries. But he had instead told her the one thing she needed to hear to allow her to rest. And Ata was so sure of his word she didn’t even require him to swear he wouldn’t leave her.
Rosamunde was thankful Ata’s eyes were now closed, for the dowager wouldn’t have been able to take the sight of her grandson on his knees, his thumb and forefinger clenching the bridge of his nose to stave off emotion. Within moments Ata’s long, slow breaths signaled her surrender to sleep.
The soft crinkle of the crimson silk gown followed Rosamunde as she stepped toward him. She rested her hand on his shoulder and felt the contracted muscles beneath her palm.
“Luc,” she whispered, “don’t give in to despair. We don’t even know what this is. It could very well be some passing illness, gone in a day or two. Give it time.”
He was silent. “Are you suggesting I practice patience?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never had much patience for saintly virtues.” He looked back at his grandmother and a hollow look crossed his features.
She held her breath. She didn’t know what she would do if he yielded to torment now.
“She can’t die,” he said raggedly.
There was something so painful about seeing someone so strong break down.
She shivered and remembered those exact words from long ago.
It was what Sylvia had said to her when she had appeared at Barton’s Cottage. That was the reason Sylvia gave for coming to live with her. The thought had woven into her subconscious. She had never understood Sylvia’s words. Even at her darkest hour, Rosamunde had always felt she could withstand almost anything.
Except this, now. It would be unbearable to witness this man’s catharsis if the worst came to pass.
With considerable effort, she struggled to pull him off his knees and wound her arms around the rock-hard breadth of his massive shoulders. The elemental beat of his heart thudded through his wrinkled coat and damp shirt.
She couldn’t think of a single thing to say to comfort him. And so she reached up and stroked his coarse hair, which was still in wild disarray about his shoulders. Small grains of salt had crystallized in it, giving him an untamed, primal look.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly.
“For what?”
“For not arguing with me.”
She nodded without replying.
“I know it required great forbearance, considering your contrary nature.”
He was trying to hold back his emotions by provoking her with a touch of humor. It had been her father and brothers’ favorite way of deflating a possible display of sentiment. And she could do nothing but play
along. For she hadn’t the heart to watch him reel with misery.
“Well, if you’re going to provoke me,” she said softly.
“It’s in my nature.”
“Then I shall have to retaliate.” And she did the one thing he least expected. She leaned in and kissed his scratchy cheek and breathed in the heady masculine scent of well-worked brawn and the sea. She whispered into his ear, “I know you’re imagining the worst. But tell yourself not to think about it until an hour from now. It’s the secret to withstanding the worst life tosses our way. But if a good row would take your mind off of Ata, I’m happy to oblige.”
It worked.
A glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes. “You’ve a wicked streak in you.”
“I’ve been surrounded by males, with the exception of my sister, my entire life. I know how to deflect almost every argument, especially when I am right about something, which is, of course, quite frequently as I’m sure you of all people have noticed.” She was rambling, digging herself in deeper while he refused to rise to the bait. “Humor is something I hadn’t realized I missed so much, until coming here.” She turned to the petite dowager and stroked her gray hair.
The abrupt recollection of her first meeting with Ata and the duke flared in her mind, when they had vocally jousted with practiced ease, and now it was Rosamunde who suddenly found herself floundering helplessly and fighting back tears.
She bit down hard on the side of her tongue and forced her mind to more practical matters. “I don’t think this is the plague. I remember hearing a rash is only part of it. The main signs are fever and swelling of the neck and such, and she has neither. Look, why don’t we take turns? We must bathe and such.”
“Amusing and sensible too,” he said shrewdly. “Except when judging how long someone can hold their breath underwater.”
“I thought we’d discussed that. And how much I appreciated your not holding it against me.”
“You didn’t really think I’d let you forget that bit of foolishness, did you?” He glanced at Ata’s form.
“Foolishness and courage are in truth one and the same,” she asserted. “Only dumb luck separates them.”
“Or reality.” His smile twisted.
“Or reality,” she echoed. “Now who has the courage to trust what we know? Ata does not have the plague. I’m certain it’s a passing illness. One of us should bathe and then relieve the other. I think I should take the first turn.”
“Your memory is deplorable. I’ve already told you I don’t take turns. Now go and order your bath before I carry you out of here.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Brute.”
“Brat,” he responded and raised a single dark supercilious eyebrow.
That was the last witty repartee Rosamunde engaged in for a while. And in the end she won her point.
But not in any way she could have envisioned or wished. It was those cursed devil’s rules at play.
Friendship,
n.
A ship big enough to carry two in fair weather, but only one in foul.
—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce
T
he water in the bath was tepid at best and in short supply. But with so many servants gone it was to be expected. A knock sounded at the door and Rosamunde peered around the demi-screen when Sylvia entered without waiting for her reply. She was dressed for travel, bandbox in hand.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were—” Sylvia said.
“No, don’t go.” Rosamunde continued to lather her hair with the rosemary and lemon soap. “I’m so glad you’re still here. I was hoping for the chance to talk to you before you go.”
Sylvia put down her bag, her face a mask of impassive stone. “I don’t think there is anything left to say. I’m going with Charity to be out of everyone’s way. You
can send a note when you would like me to return.”
Rosamunde knew that tone all too well. Her sister’s feelings were hurt, and her reaction was predictable. Sylvia’s middle name should have been Jeanne D’Arc, for she was as much a martyr as the famous saint. With sudden clarity Rosamunde saw the lighthearted girl she had once known and the morose spinster Sylvia had become. When had she lost her happiness? Rosamunde wondered with a sigh. But then, she knew, she had changed as well.
“Sylvia, when did we stop laughing with each other?”
“What?” her sister said woodenly. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Us. Do you remember how we used to spend hours laughing and gossiping and having fun together?”
“Sometimes you say the most ridiculous things, Rosamunde. We put away our childish ways when you married. As a lady should.”
“But there’s no rule that says we shouldn’t try to find pleasure. Promise me you’ll try, or else I’ll feel as guilty as ever.” Rosamunde stopped scrubbing for a moment and looked at her sister. “I begged you to go home for so many years, and you insisted on staying. I kept telling myself I was selfish not to force your departure. Living with me brought you such misery. Why did you stay?” With each word she spoke slower and slower, as if she were thinking aloud.
The color had drained from Sylvia’s cheeks and her gaze rested on the floorboards. “I couldn’t let you suf
fer alone. I thought you wanted me to be with you. You’re my sister and I love you, and will always love you no matter what happens.”
“As I will always love you, dearest.” Rosamunde brooded for another moment. “You don’t really mind staying with Charity and her brother, do you?”
“No,” Sylvia replied and finally relaxed enough for her face to gain color. “They’re very kind. But I wouldn’t want any expectations to”—she stumbled—“arise.”
“You’re referring to Sir Rawleigh?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.” Sylvia looked away.
“But why in heavens not? You must know it would be my fondest wish come true. This could be your great chance to embrace happiness.”
Sylvia picked at a tiny hole in her glove. “I’m not at all certain he will offer for me anyway. And even if he did I couldn’t accept. It wouldn’t be right for the
vicar
to marry one of the two notorious cast-out sisters, and well you know it, Rosa.”
“This is where your argument has always baffled me. I was the notorious sister. You are not infamous, only loyal—overly loyal—and everyone knows it. There is no reason for you not to find contentment apart from me. As I said, for every moment you play the pitying, steadfast sister, I suffer more. You must see that.”
“I’m sorry if I pain you,” she murmured. “But I beg you to stop tormenting me about this. I have thought it through. Many times. Marriage to him would be insupportable.”
“Do you love him?” she asked softly.
Sylvia sucked in her breath sharply.
“I have my answer,” Rosamunde said knowingly.
“No,” Sylvia cut in, “you only have the question.”
“Yes is the answer.”
“Only if the question is whether I truly want to strangle you at times.” Sylvia raised one perfectly shaped brow, just as she had used to do a long time ago, and laughed. Her sister was truly the most beautiful woman alive when she dared to show her old spark.
“Ah,” Rosamunde murmured, “she remembers how to dodge and smile.”
“Lean forward,” Sylvia commanded.
Rosamunde obeyed. An icy blast of cold water gushed over her soapy head and she sputtered and shrieked. “You…you witch!”
“You deserved it.” Sylvia replaced the pitcher of cool drinking water next to the pitcher of warm water.
Rosamunde laughed. “You’re probably right.” She shivered and emerged from the bath to accept the toweling from Sylvia. “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier in front of everyone. I shouldn’t have.” Rosamunde yanked on a clean chemise and turned around so Sylvia could help her with her stays.
“It’s all right.” Sylvia jerked enough to take her breath away.
“If pulling on those strings makes you feel better, go ahead.” Rosamunde was relieved and delighted. Her sister had shown more spirit in the last few minutes than in the last half decade.
Sylvia jerked her again.
“What are you doing?” Rosamunde asked breathlessly.
“No, what have
you
been doing?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not loosening these until you tell me where you went with the duke. Auggie Phelps’s betrothed made a point of mentioning to everyone before he left that you and His Grace had been seen leaving in a carriage.”
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Rosamunde tried to loosen her stays, but her sister slapped her hands away. “Will you please let me breathe? Thank you. Where were you during the wedding? You missed Father and our brothers.”
Sylvia released the ties and Rosamunde gulped in air. “Father was there?” Sylvia asked faintly.
“Through the ceremony. But he said not a word to me and left directly after. Did he come to the wedding breakfast?”
“I don’t think so,” responded her sister. “I didn’t see him, nor did anyone mention our family. And you’re changing the subject. Where is your mourning gown?”
Rosamunde pulled the crimson silk gown over her head and fastened the two buttons of the bodice. It was the first gown she had ever worn in the Greek style and her bosom felt very bare. “I went for a sail with the duke.” She paused. “And Mr. Brown.”
She stopped Sylvia, who opened her mouth to speak. “Between Father giving me the cut direct, and
Auggie’s despicable fiancé trying to, well, to paw me, His Grace was kind enough to give me a reprieve from facing the rest of the wedding celebrations. Sylvia, it was the culmination of everything happening this month…and actually for much longer. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”
Rosamunde prayed her sister wouldn’t have the audacity to question her further. She just couldn’t lie to her own sister, but she wanted to preserve in secret the memory of her interlude with Luc St. Aubyn. There was something about sharing those moments, truly the most glorious of her life, that would cast a shadow of guilt and sadness on it. And she could never explain to Sylvia why she had done it. She had never told her sister how painful and degrading her marriage bed had been.
“Well”—Sylvia spread the damp toweling on the screen—“I’m sorry about leaving you to fend for yourself at the wedding. I just couldn’t go and watch everyone staring at us, and I had a premonition Father would be there, what with all the signs of bad luck yesterday. I saw an owl during daylight and I heard you singing before breakfast—although perhaps it was only humming.”
Rosamunde resisted the urge to throttle every last superstition from her sister’s head. It was the most annoying trait Sylvia possessed. “Well, I’m sorry to force you away from here. But I do think it will be good for you. You deserve to spend some time with your new friends, and no, I see your look. I won’t utter another word about Sir Rawleigh other than to say he seems
the kindest gentleman in the west county—and the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”
“Please don’t say anything more, Rosa.”
“I won’t. But here, take this small bouquet I picked yesterday.”
Sylvia accepted the tiny bouquet of pearl-colored spikes. “White heather…”—her sister smiled radiantly—“is good luck.”
“I know, dearest.” Rosamunde eased onto the slipper chair in front of the toilette table and Sylvia pinned back her hair into a ruthless topknot. “But I doubt you’ll need it…not with the way Sir Rawleigh looks at you. If he’s not dirtying one knee of his breeches in a fortnight, I’ll—”
Sylvia’s image in the mirror facing Rosamunde appeared stricken. “You promised not to say another word.”
“I shan’t as long as you promise to consider what you would prefer, either returning to Father and begging him to take you back, marrying Sir Rawleigh
when
he asks, or finding some hideous post as a lady’s companion or governess. Sadly, not one option will allow us to live together unless you would like to add returning to Barton Cottage and playing run around the table with Algernon.” Rosamunde stood and slipped on her old boots. “There is only so much charity and pity I will be able to accept from Ata and her grandson.”
She handed Sylvia her worn leather and cord bag and embraced her with more feeling than she ever had before and whispered into her ear, “Please, please, for
my sake, try to take some pleasure from this stay with Charity and her brother.”
Sylvia avoided her eyes and passed through the door. “I shall if you promise to take
less
pleasure from your stay here with the duke. It’s guaranteed to lead to more gossip.”
Sylvia was right. If there was ever a time to step cautiously, it was now. Hurrying down the darkened corridor of the east wing of Amberley, she stopped at one of the windows to peer at the yellow waxing moon breaking through a rush of clouds in the night. A few raindrops spattered against the old, irregular glass panes.
The weather was changing. The heat of a string of calm summer days promised a spectacular electrical storm. Rosamunde adored the sound and the fury of jagged lightning bolts and booming thunder.
A burst of wind whistled from the cracks around the window and a shiver wended its way down her spine. She was taking too long to return to Ata’s chambers and she knew why. She needed more time to fortify herself against the yearnings Luc St. Aubyn stirred in her breast each time she was with him. She was beginning to be afraid of him or of what he made her feel. Perhaps he really was the devil sent to tempt her again.
And this time it was so much more powerful than the sensibilities his brother had conjured up so many years ago. She had worked so hard to change. Desire and reckless pursuits had only ever led to a lifetime of
trouble and regrets. And here she was riding, climbing, sailing, and discovering something so much more dangerous—passion.
She forced herself toward the whispers she heard behind the door. Before she could knock, the door opened and the perfectly composed figure of Grace Sheffey emerged.
“Oh,” the countess said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. We were worried you had taken ill as well.”
Looking above Grace’s slim shoulder, Rosamunde saw Luc near Ata’s form, his hair glistening wet and his dress very informal. Patches of his fine white linen shirt clung to his damp torso. The room was illuminated by a single beeswax candle that left eerie, moving shadows from the vast canopy of Ata’s bed all the way to a gleaming hipbath half hidden in a room beyond. Pools of water and toweling surrounded it.
“He…” Rosamunde gulped. “He bathed while you were here?”
“Of course not. Whatever are you inferring?” The countess didn’t wait for an answer. “He refused to leave her so he ordered a bath in the adjoining room.”
“How is she?” Rosamunde whispered to Grace.
“About the same, I think. She keeps moaning in her sleep, as if she’s in pain.”
“Has a doctor come?”
“Yes. He was mystified, yet certain it could spread to others. I’m glad his sister and Lord Landry left before so many took ill. Luc asked me to arrange for the other widows to return to Helston House in London. All except you and me, that is.”
He had asked the countess to stay, then. Perhaps he was already granting Ata’s final wishes.
“I’ll see to some tea. Try to get him to rest, will you? He doesn’t look well.”
Rosamunde nodded mutely and closed the door behind the beautiful widow.
She came up beside him and spied lines of worry etched on his brow. “You look exhausted. Will you rest a bit?” She didn’t dare command it since it seemed he often did the very opposite of what was asked.
“Perhaps,” he said to her surprise.
A flash of lightning illuminated the entire room for a second. And in the blackness that followed they both remained silent, counting the seconds and miles before the sound of the rolling thunder. Five miles away, at least. It was coming from St. Ives.
She hurried around the room, securing the windows and closing drapery, but taking care to keep her distance from Luc when she went to Ata. The dowager was moving restlessly whilst humming and talking nonsensically about a harp.
“Does she want for anything?”
He appeared so lost in thought he didn’t answer her. The storm increased in intensity, the leaves and tree branches heaving and roaring in the wild wind, which shook the windows in their frames.
“Lucifer, please don’t. I beg of you!” Ata moaned and struggled.
Luc instantly freed her arms from the covers. “Ata,” he whispered, “I’m right here.”
“No! Please don’t touch me. No!”
It was as if a bolt from the night sky had scorched his hands. He looked at Rosamunde with such anguish. “Help her.” His face, shrouded in unbelievable pain, appeared bluish gray in the dark room.
Ata garbled her speech, then quivered. “Not my hand, please not my hand. I promise I won’t play anymore. I promise I won’t ever play again. Lucifer, no!”
Rosamunde shook Ata’s frail shoulder. “Ata, Ata! Wake up. Come now. Open your eyes and look at me. No one is hurting you here.”
Ata’s dazed eyes opened and were unfocused, unseeing. “No, you must get out of here. He’ll hurt you. But you mustn’t tell anyone. He punishes and we deserve it. Mustn’t tell, promise, mustn’t tell.”
“Shhh…” Rosamunde urged. “I won’t tell.”
And then Ata’s eyes suddenly focused on Rosamunde’s face. “He hurts. Mustn’t tell. Mustn’t tell Luc he looks just like him…” She wailed and her eyes rolled up and she closed her lids again and whimpered. Ata’s withered hand twitched on the covers.