Lord Ruin (3 page)

“We shall see,” Mary said, handing over her cloak.

“Not here?” Sinclair repeated.

“The Privy Council was convened. He’s delayed until tomorrow at least. Perhaps even the day after. But there are guests enough for your amusement, sir.” Devon hadn’t yet left Anne’s side. “Major Truitt was kind enough to bring his sister Evelyn, whom I know you ladies will adore, and we are graced as well with Miss Fairchild, her mother and four cousins.”

Lucy came perilously close to knocking over one of a pair of celadon vases on either side of the grand staircase. The butler casually repositioned it. Again, that midnight gaze fell on Anne. From pure self-defense, she pretended not to notice. Long practice had made her adept at hiding her emotions. But she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that if only her life had been different, she might be four years married. A mother and a countess in the bargain, with every right to hold Devon’s hand in hers.

“Pond will show you to your rooms.”

No. It simply wasn’t possible. Earls married great beauties or heiresses, and she was neither. Anne tugged, and her fingers slipped from Devon’s grasp. They were only part way up the stairs, not even half way, when the front door opened. Hearing the sound, they stopped. The core component of the chattering group appeared to be young, unmarried females and their chaperones. A few gentlemen rounded out the group, young men, one or two of them soldiers, Anne guessed, from their posture and serious eyes. Every one of the men gazed at Emily and Lucy, stricken with awe as men usually were with her sisters.

“I saw the carriage,” said a woman with iron-gray hair. In the crook of her elbow she cradled a dog the color of snuff and constantly stroked between its pointed ears. “I thought perhaps my son had arrived earlier than expected. But I see it is you, Aldreth.” She inclined her head in a queenly nod. “Lady Aldreth.” Fixing her dragon gaze on Emily she said, “Do come downstairs, young woman.” She pointed at Lucy. “You, too.” Emily nodded and returned to the entranceway to offer a curtsey.

Anne’s heart sank to her toes. This could be none other than the duchess of Cynssyr and mother to the present duke. No other woman could have such an air of arrogance about her. This was disaster. Complete disaster. The duchess never stirred from Hampstead Heath except on a serious matter. And what could be more serious than meeting the woman her son planned to propose to, the woman who would make her the dowager duchess of Cynssyr?

Lucy made a knee on the step just ahead of Anne, and Anne saw that Lucy’s bootlace had come unlaced yet again. “Lucy,” Anne whispered. But, too late.

Lucy started down the stairs to join Emily. She stepped on the dangling lace, stumbled and in trying to recover her balance tangled her foot in Anne’s skirt. By catching Lucy’s arm, she saved her sister from pitching headfirst down the stairs, but the effort cost Anne her own balance.

She grabbed for the bannister and grasped only air. The next thing she knew, she was falling with no hope of saving herself. With a strangled cry as she toppled sideways, Anne felt her ankle give a nasty turn. She landed hard on her side and bounced down two steps to the landing. She lay there, stunned and exquisitely aware of the hush.

“Are you all right?” Kneeling, Devon handed over her glasses, which had gone flying when she fell. She put them on, relieved to have the world back in focus until she saw herself the center of attention.

“I’m fine. I think.” She didn’t feel a thing. Her foot was numb from toe to ankle which surely was not natural. “Perfectly all right.”

“Clumsy girl.”

“Yes, Papa.” Sensation returned with a rush, and she bit her lip to keep back a gasp of pain.

Sinclair frowned at her. “Walk it off, my girl.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“You’ve hurt yourself.” Devon put an arm around her, holding her up.

“Good Lord, man, don’t make a blessed fuss,” said Sinclair.

Devon lowered her onto a stair and matter-of-factly unlaced her boot. “Would you be so kind, Pond,” he told his butler, “as to send for the doctor?”

“Milord.”

“I don’t believe it’s broken, but best have it looked at.”

“Nonsense!” Sinclair guffawed.

Anne sucked in a breath as he slid off her boot. From over Devon’s shoulder, she got a full dose of her father’s glower. “Papa is right, my lord. You mustn’t make a fuss.” But her ankle didn’t just throb, it pulsed with agony. Pride was all that kept away the tears. She managed to stand, but without touching her foot to the floor. “I’m all right.”

“You’re not.” Devon was suddenly close. “Put your arms round my neck.” But with her father glaring at her, she didn’t dare. “Come now, Anne,” Devon said in reasonable tones. “I’ll not bite. I promise you that.”

“Always been the clumsy one,” she heard her father say. For the briefest moment, she resented his glib dismissal. Had Emily or Lucy fallen he would have been the first to demand a litter and a surgeon. She quickly stopped the heretical train of thought. She knew her duty and the respect she owed her father.

Devon lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather. She imagined her father glaring at her and then she heard him say to someone, “No good comes of coddling.”

“It’s all right, Anne, darling,” Devon murmured in her ear, low enough that in the general commotion no one heard but her.

Her heart leapt. Not entirely welcome, but not unwelcome either.
Darling
. He’d called her darling. She put her arms around his shoulders, for balance, of course, and something deep inside her stirred. Something she’d not felt in four years.

What if he didn’t mean it? What if he’d been thinking of Lucy or Emily or even some other woman entirely and the word had just slipped out?
Darling
. In that case, he was embarrassed to his toes, if he even realized what he’d said. Like as not, he didn’t know he’d uttered the endearment. But heavens, what if he meant it?

All the way up the stairs, she vacillated between the two possibilities. He meant it. He didn’t mean it. My, but he smelled good, she discovered. A faint, lemony cologne and behind that the particular scent of the man. His shoulders felt nice, too. Solid and comforting. She rested her head against his chest and let her imagination take wing.

“Mary,” he said, “where shall I put her? I don’t see how she can share with Miss Emily and Mrs. Willcott, now. Not with her ankle. None of them will sleep.” His arms tightened around her. “Dash it to deuces. When I built Corth Abbey I never dreamed of entertaining so many. Nor that so many would care to visit without an invitation.” He turned his head to one side. “My room?”

“Certainly not!” Mary said.

He laughed. “I’d sleep in the parlor, Lady Aldreth.”

“Bracebridge,” said Mary.

Anne could practically hear Mary’s eyes rolling to the ceiling, and in her heart, Anne thought that Devon’s glib offer of his room sounded wonderfully wicked.

“Then there’s really only one other possibility. You tell me if it will do.” He stopped at a door near the top of the stairs and waited for Mary to open it and precede them inside. “Well?”

A moment later, Mary said, “I suppose.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I am. Bring her in, Bracebridge.”

“I feel so silly about all this bother,” Anne said as Dev placed her on the bed. If he looked at her, she wondered, did that mean he didn’t remember what he’d said or that he did and had intended to say it? Lucy hurried in, kneeling at the bedside.

Anne peeked at Devon. Their eyes met and locked for just an instant. Her heart jumped. Great beauties and heiresses, she repeated. Great beauties and heiresses. “Do stop crying, Lucy. I shall be perfectly all right.”

Mary gave Lucy a look. “You are no use to anyone when you are upset, Lucy, dear. Take Papa and see to Emily and the duchess if you would, please. She’s probably overwhelmed by now, all alone with Em. Bracebridge.” Dev stopped his pacing at the foot of the bed.

“I do not like this,” he said.

“It is just for the night, after all.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

Mary put her hands on her hips. “I will not put her in your room when you are here, Bracebridge. No. It’s out of the question. We’ll know soon enough how badly she’s injured. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do sit.” She pointed to a nearby chair. “Make yourself useful, Bracebridge. Amuse Anne. Take her mind off the discomfort while we wait.”

“Major Truitt and Mr. Hathaway can room with me. We’ll put her in their room.”

From the bed, Anne spoke up. “My lord, honestly. I would not like to have so many people discommoded on my account.” She looked away from his black eyes. She had to stop torturing herself this way. He was nothing more than a concerned host. Nothing more and everything but, she thought. She spied a small flagon on the dresser, stoppered crystal rimmed with gold. She concentrated on that instead of her throbbing ankle or Devon’s intentions and her own flood of conflicting reactions.

Dark green and gold made the chamber’s primary colors. Solid furniture, a sturdy desk on which there sat an escritoire, near that a stack of paper and a mahogany box for pen and ink. A pair of soft leather boots shaped to a man’s calves lay near a wardrobe. Near that, a stack of linen shirts, freshly pressed. Hanging discreetly over a stand in the corner, a pair of charcoal trousers. A gentleman’s personal effects surrounded her. That was a shaving kit on the dresser, made of pigskin with a crest embossed in shining gold. Not the Bracebridge coat of arms, though. A cockatrice below a duke’s coronet. A duke’s coronet.

“This is Cynssyr’s room!” Anne said, failing to keep the shock from her voice.

“Now do you understand?” Devon jumped from his chair.

Mary threw up her hands. “Bracebridge, you said yourself he’s delayed until at least tomorrow, if not beyond. What’s the harm? He’ll never know. And if Anne’s foot is broken, you and the duke may share quarters. I’m sure he’ll survive the ignominy.”

Anne looked around. Cynssyr’s belongings and none other’s. He meant to come to Corth Abbey. He must if he’d sent his valet on ahead. She had a sudden and inexplicable picture of herself standing at the open window pouring the contents of his crystal flagon onto the bushes below. The imagined spite made her smile.

Devon leaned forward, reaching for her hand. “Feeling better?”

She nodded. Crowded as she now felt by the duke when he wasn’t even here, she suddenly had little hope she could convince him to do anything he didn’t want to. Well, she would think of something. She had to, and God help her if Emily thought she loved the man. But she didn’t think so. Emily, when at last she loved, would love wholeheartedly and without restraint. She’d know, everyone would know, when Emily fell in love. No, her fear was that Emily might feel obligated to make the marriage.

The doctor’s arrival interrupted Devon’s tale of the Italian palazzo that had inspired the layout of the Abbey. Anne sighed. She was sick unto death of doctors. He examined Anne’s ankle and concurred it was not broken. Satisfied that her sister’s condition, while painful, was not serious, Mary left to fetch some of Anne’s things. The doctor filled a glass with water and added two drops of another liquid.

“A small amount for now, Miss Sinclair. I’ll leave a stronger dose for you to take if you wake in the night.” Under his watchful eye, Anne drank down the contents.

Mary returned with a nightdress discreetly folded over her arm. Lucy was with her. “Go on, all of you men. Out.” Mary put down her bundle and made shooing gestures.

Before leaving, the doctor prepared a second glass, titrating several more drops into the water. “There. Should you need it in the night.” He pointed to the nightstand.

“Thank you.”

Mary sat on the edge of the bed when the sisters were alone. “Was not Bracebridge masterful? Carrying you up the stairs like you were his lover.”

“Mary.”

“Well, wasn’t he? Tell me, are those shoulders as strong as they look?”

“Put that down, Lucy,” Anne said. She successfully damped the spark of hope. Just admitting that Devon Carlisle was more than a man whom she happened to know felt traitorous, a betrayal of her father and duty. Frightening and exhilarating both, and neither reaction pleased her. It wasn’t wise of her, she thought, to tempt herself with hopes of a husband and children of her own. In truth, a part of her had already accepted the possibility and soared with a giddy happiness.

Lucy sniffed the laudanum-dosed water. “Doesn’t smell like much. I think he ought to have given you more. Are you going to answer Mary’s question?”

“What question?” The laudanum began to take effect and concentration became difficult. At least her ankle didn’t hurt anymore.

“About Lord Bracebridge’s shoulders.”

Mary laughed. Anne glared at her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She did, though, and despite everything, she joined in the laughter. “Devon’s shoulders are broad. And his chest. . . oh, my.”

“Do put that down, Lucy,” Mary said. “You’ll spill it. Go on, Anne.”

“He smells good, too.”

Lucy put down the glass, not on the nightstand, but on the sidetable by the washbasin. “A fatal case if ever there was.”

Mary took her hand. “You could marry, Anne. It’s not too late for you.”

“Yes, it is.” She felt as if she were floating. A magical, wonderful sensation.

“He’s waited for you since Aldreth and I were married.”

“How could you know that?” She wasn’t entirely certain she’d spoken out loud but she must have for Mary answered.

“Aldreth told me so.”

“Why do you think he invited us here?” Lucy said.

“So that Lord Ruin could break Emily’s heart.”

“Nonsense, Anne. Now, we’ll manage Papa,” Mary said over Lucy’s peal of laughter. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“I predict a marriage.” Lucy grinned at Mary as if Anne weren’t able to see. “Indeed, yes. A marriage all because Anne has injured her ankle.”

“Your injury
will
lead to a wedding,” said Mary with a smile. “Yes, I daresay so.”

Anne’s last thought as she drifted into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness was that she hoped her sisters were right.

As it happened, they were.