A Lady Betrayed (3 page)

“Your daughter is very weary, sir, but I think she is recovering. If you will permit me, shall I take her up to her room?”

The man nodded, albeit reluctantly, but no one else seemed hardy enough to lift the still slumbering woman. The maidservant led him up the stairs to Miss Applegate's chamber. Adrian laid her gently down after the maid hastened to turn back her covers, then the servant fussed about to bring a damp cloth to lay on her forehead.

With no excuse to linger in the lady's bedchamber, he could only cast one last glance from the doorway. Adrian thought that Madeline might have opened her eyes again for an instant, in time to look up at him before he left the room. Did she smile just slightly?

He came slowly down the stairs.

Mr. Applegate was waiting, as Adrian had been sure he would be.

“I believe we have matters to discuss,” he said, his tone formal. The older man's body might be weakened by whatever accident or illness had wasted his legs and twisted his hips, but his expression showed resolve. “If you would accompany me to a more private setting?”

“Of course.” Adrian followed him down the hall to a small room lined with bookshelves.

Rolling across the wood floor, his host poured them both glasses of wine.

“I am John Applegate. And you are?” Mr. Applegate wheeled his chair behind a small desk and circled to face him.

“Viscount Weller, at your service, sir.” Adrian accepted the glass and took the seat that the older man waved him toward.

“First, of course, I must thank you for giving aid to my daughter and for bringing her home. She is my eldest and very dear to my heart. I spent a sleepless night, concerned that we did not know where she could be or what could have happened. The moor is a dangerous place, and even more dangerous men sometimes roam the land. A young lady unprotected—”

“I would have done no less for anyone I found in such distress,” Adrian said. “Certainly I would always render aid to a young lady, alone and unconscious and in such need.”

Mr. Applegate winced, no doubt at the picture of his daughter in such straits.

His voice firm, Adrian continued, trying to stop the accusations before they began. “And no doubt you also wish to ask me if I have taken advantage of Miss Applegate while she was in such a vulnerable condition. I came across your daughter in the woods, lying unconscious on the floor of the gazebo. Wanting shelter from the rain, I had turned in when I saw the structure. Fearing she would fall ill from cold and damp, I tried to help her. I did nothing that a gentleman would not, should not do. I have no way to prove it; I can only give you my word as a gentleman, sir.”

He met the other man's gaze and held it for several long moments, then continued into the silence. “The problem, of course, is that I understand that the world is not given to accepting such explanations on faith—even when they happen to be true.”

Mr. Applegate's expression was grim. “Indeed.” He took a gulp of his wine. “Which leads us—”

“To my comment to the villagers,” Adrian finished for him. “About being your daughter's betrothed.”

“Aye,” the older man said, his eyes hard. “So you admit it was—is—a lie? Because I happen to know, for a fact, that my daughter is most certainly not betrothed.”

“I'm afraid I knew that the local gossips would put the worst interpretation on the circumstance, no matter how many oaths I swore,” Adrian said. “I admit it was a concoction of the moment. But I am willing to make it the truth, if your daughter will agree.”

His expression hard to read, the man behind the desk stared at him.

“I am a man of good character,” Adrian continued, his voice steady. “I have an old and respected title, an estate of some value, and I will make sure she would have a considerable and comfortable inheritance when I am not around to take care of her.”

“You are a stranger. I do not think she would easily leave her home for a man she does not know,” Mr. Applegate said slowly.

“I can understand that,” Adrian said. “I could make provision for her to stay here. We would think of some story to explain it to the neighborhood.”

“You would make a most accommodating—and unusual—husband,” the other man said, his expression frankly puzzled now. “Why would you be willing to do this to save the reputation of a young woman you don't even know? If you are one of the—the lovers of men and need a wife to cover up your other activities, then I must tell you I would not sacrifice my daughter even—”

Adrian tried to push back a slightly hysterical snort of laughter. “Certainly not!”

“Then why…”

Seeing that only the truth would serve, Adrian gave it, even though he knew that in the end, he would face what he dreaded most—that horrible look of pity that rose in others' eyes when they learned the fate that rode always behind him, dogging his footsteps like some ancient gypsy curse. But at least the elder man now knew why it was easy enough for Adrian to offer his hand in marriage…

And then Mr. Applegate sent the maid upstairs once more, to see if his daughter was awake.

Now Adrian had to face Miss Applegate herself and persuade her that this was the curse she would be fated to share, and yet at the same time her best chance for salvation.

M
adeline opened her eyes to see the familiar flowered
coverlet pulled pristinely up to her chin. An extra blanket—the faded blue one with a patch at the bottom right-hand side—was folded over her feet, and the draperies were drawn, so the room was dim. Her room, her draperies, her patched blanket and faded flowered coverlet.

She blinked.

She was at home in her own bed. She looked down. She wore one of her own linen nightgowns, and the ties at her neck were tied securely.

It must have all been a dream, born of pain and light-headedness—of being stranded alone on the path through the home wood, of being overcome by pain, drenched in the storm, then—then waking briefly to find herself naked, lying next to a man of dark hair and dark eyes with such fire in their depths, a man who had looked at her with an emotion she did not even know how to describe but which made her thrill just to remember.

He had touched her gently, held her when she shivered with the icy cold that came with the pain, covered her and held her close when she almost couldn't move or speak. He had not fretted her with stupid questions, as most people did who didn't know about her wretched ailment. He had been a marvel.

But it had been a dream, she told herself. If he had been real, he would have been a marvel. It would also have been a scandal, and an unspeakably embarrassing imbroglio—having a man, a stranger, see her naked. No, impossible to even contemplate. She blushed now, just considering such an unthinkable, unbearable contretemps.

The door opened. For an instant Maddie hoped it would be her sister Juliana, come to share hugs and sympathetic wishes, but Juliana was married now and sailing off to distant shores with her animal-mad zoologist husband. Their newly widowed middle sister still dwelled with her grief-stricken father-in-law. Even the twins, Ophelia and Cordelia, had recently married. Now only Madeline was left at home. She was happy for all the new brides, of course, only the house seemed so empty sometimes, and she missed them acutely.

Bess, their elderly maidservant, came inside, unaware that she trailed phantoms of happier family times behind her. The maidservant carefully balanced a tray with tea and a bowl of hot soup. Steam rose from the broth, and the aroma reminded Madeline that her stomach was very empty. She sniffed cautiously and decided that the nausea had abated, and it would be safe to eat a light meal.

“'Ow's yer poor 'ead, Miss Madeline?” the servant inquired.

“The pain's fading, slowly,” she said, putting one finger cautiously to her temple. It was tender to the touch, and she winced. The anguish, unbearable twenty-four hours past, had now dropped to a low pounding, the ache still a familiar foe, one she had lived with her entire adult life.

“Ye shouldna 'ave gone to the village.” The maid shook her head. “I tol' ye a storm was brewing. You know 'ow fast yon storms come on, as do yer sick 'eadaches! And ye going off on yer own like that, leaving us worried sick, we were, and yer father 'aving conniptions, 'e was, thinking ye lost out on the moors!”

“No, you were right,” Madeline agreed, her tone doleful, “and I paid the price. Next time I will listen. I thought I could slip to the village and pay my respects to the new Widow Talbot, but the storm hit so abruptly, my sick headache, too, and both were severe.”

In fair weather her headaches occurred only rarely, mostly once a month before her courses, but sudden hard storms would bring one on with swift and severe results. She could do little except go to bed and wait out the agonizing pain.

She knew that her father worried about her a good deal. Several physicians had been consulted; one had advised drinking vinegar mixed with wormwood—that had made her nausea ten times worse. Another had wanted to bore a hole in her temple where the pain was the worst—fortunately her father had shown that surgeon the door right away.

Maddie knew that she simply had to endure the attacks; other people had worse scourges to bear. So now she listened to her longtime servant's lecture without complaining, knowing it was well meant.

“Yes, indeed, Bess,” she said when the maid finally stopped for breath. “I will not do it again.”

Bess grumbled a bit more, but went off to fix a fresh cold compress for her mistress's head. Madeline was able to sip a good portion of the broth and drink some of her tea before lying back on the pillow, exhausted by the slight efforts. An attack always left her feeling as if she had struggled through a rainstorm—except this time she had.

“Who found me out in the woods?” she asked. “Was it you and Thomas? I hope it wasn't too hard to get me home. If Thomas has thrown out his back again…”

Her expression hard to read, the maid stared at her.

Maddie had a sinking feeling inside. “What is it?
Ha
s he thrown out his back? I'm terribly sorry, Bess.”

“Donna ye remember, Miss?”

“Remember?” Madeline felt her heart seem to skip a beat.

“The stranger who found ye in the gazebo?” Now Bess's tone was frankly accusing. “Did 'e do anything 'e oughtna? If 'e did, I donna care what the master says, I will scratch out 'is eyes like a cat—”

It wasn't a dream!

For an instant she felt as if time shifted, and she once again lay in the gazebo. She could almost feel his warm skin against her own clammy flesh—enjoy the firm touch of his muscle supporting her own limp limbs as she lay cradled in his embrace, barely aware….

Madeline swallowed hard.

It was not a dream.

Oh, my lord. She had lain naked with a man, alone in the woods after dark…for how long? Surely only for a brief time before help had arrived. Oh, if only she could remember more.

That was another thing her headaches often stole from her—clear memories of the time that elapsed. It was easier to try to sleep away the pain—to shut her eyes and try to push away the rest of the world. Noises were too loud, lights too bright, smells too intense. So Maddie withdrew from it all, curled into a ball, and tried to escape the pain that dwarfed all else.

Now she put down her spoon. Why had she been naked? Had the man—had he—surely he hadn't. She swallowed hard.

“What–what did my father—what did he say about—about the stranger?” Her voice sounded peculiar to her own ears. “Does he—who knows?”

“Since the baker and two of the biggest blatherskites in the whole village were the ones who found ye,” Bess wrinkled her brow as she picked up the tray, “I'm feared the whole shire will know soon enough.”

“Oh, Bess!” Maddie wailed, too loudly. Her head throbbed harder and she groaned, regretting her cry at once.

“Now then, too late for that,” the serving woman said matter of factly.

She sounded almost as if Madeline might deserve some punishment for her wanton behavior. If her own maid could harbor even a tiny bit of—no surely, not, Maddie tried to tell herself. Yet, the rest of the village was bound to be thinking—and saying—much worse.

Oh, God, she was ruined.

What was her father going to say?

A knock sounded at the door.

She pressed the cold cloth to her head. The pain had increased. She could feel the worry and distress pulling at her shoulders and neck. If her body stiffened with tension, a new cycle of headaches might start.

“Yes?” she said, hearing her voice wobble.

Bess hurried to open the door, and her father wheeled his chair inside.

“How are you?” he asked.

Madeline searched his expression for condemnation or anger. To her relief, she saw only concern and the usual affection that softened his blue eyes. She had to blink hard.

She cleared her throat, then was able to say, “I'm all right, Father.”

He rolled up to the bed and pressed her hand. “I doubt you're all right, but I'm very relieved and happy that you are safe, Maddie.”

Blinking against treacherous tears, she nodded. “I'm sorry I worried you. You know I didn't mean to.”

He smiled at her, but his next words made her eyes widen in surprise.

“The man who brought you home to us has something he wishes to say to you. I would like you to listen to him, my dear. It would be to your advantage, I believe.”

His tone was grave, and she had never seen him look so serious. What was this about? Surely, surely, he did not think she had encouraged this stranger to take such liberties?

“Father,” she said, “I did not—that is, I did nothing that was not proper. I don't even remember meeting this man!”

“I know,” he told her, his eyes rueful and loving and yet troubled, too. “Just give him a fair audience, my dear.”

And while she watched him in astonishment, he went out of the room, leaving the door open. Then a stranger stood in his place—his frame tall and broad in the doorway, seeming to take up more room than any one man had a right to.

She blinked up at him before she realized that she was still in her nightdress, still lying in her bed. Blushing, Maddie pulled the coverlet up to her chin.

“May I come in?” His voice was deep and pleasing.

How could she allow a strange man into her bedchamber?

But her own father had sanctioned this interview. Besides, this same man had already seen her naked as a babe. The memory made her flush deepen and she looked away from his gaze, studying the faded roses on her bed hangings. Madeline, whom her sisters had sometimes called high-and-mighty, seemed to have lost her voice. She nodded, and the man entered her bedchamber.

He looked about him, found the stool by her dressing table, and pulled it closer to her bed. Perching on it—he looked as incongruous as a stallion trying to balance on a half bale of hay—he nonetheless seemed to make himself at home.

“How are you feeling?”

As if a dozen small imps mined her temple for hell-cursed ore, she thought. “Better,” she said. “I understand that I owe you thanks for bringing me home.”

Something that she could not interpret crossed his face. “You don't remember?”

“I recall—bits and pieces,” she said, her tone cautious. She looked away from his gaze, which all at once seemed too piercing. “It's hard to tell what is memory and what is—what is out of my—my illness.”

“I see,” he said. “Does this occur often?”

She stiffened. She didn't care to discuss her affliction with outsiders. Only her father and sisters, and the two servants, knew about her disorder. She didn't want the whole village to have even more to gossip about—the whispers would swirl and grow and they would have her on the verge of being sent to Bedlam next!

“I beg your pardon,” the stranger said at once. “I should not ask such a personal question.”

And then, because he had not demanded it, she felt the need to tell him. He had rescued her, after all, and she must have looked very strange, lying senseless in the woods.

“Not—not often, exactly,” she said, not wanting to discuss feminine matters with a stranger. “But storms will bring them on—the sudden overpowering headaches, I mean. I thought I could get home by the shortcut, but, obviously, I didn't make it. Thank you for your help.”

Then, remembering what his help had entailed, she felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, and again she looked away from his gaze.

“My mother died after being drenched in an unexpected shower. I could not allow you to be endangered just because of propriety's artificial taboos. However, when we had the bad luck to be discovered, I realized I had put you in a difficult position. And in trying to protect you, I fear I may have compounded the tangle.”

For a moment, she could only think about his long, well-shaped fingers—she could just see his hands, his strong, capable-looking hands, without lifting her gaze—removing her clothes and touching her body just slightly, and the thought made a nearly imperceptible shiver run through her. Maddie had known for a long time that she would not marry, so she had never thought that a man would touch her so.

Then the sense of his words penetrated her thoughts and jerked her back.

“What—I'm sorry. What did you say?”

“I'm afraid I may have the situation worse by trying to make it better,” he repeated.

She raised her brows.

“When I told the villagers that we were betrothed.”

Madeline felt as if one of yesterday's lightning bolts had drilled right through her. She sat straight up in the bed.

“What!”

His smile looked rueful. “It was a decision of the moment, as I told your father.”

She stared. “But they will know that it is not true. The banns have not been read, for one thing.”

“Yes, they pointed that out. I told them you were waiting for me to join you for the momentous occasion.”

His lips curved upward, and a hint of a dimple showed at one corner of his mouth. For a face that she suspected could look downright ruthless, it was unexpected, and she felt a moment of corresponding warmth before she remembered to erect once again her wall of righteous affront.