The Lie and the Lady (31 page)

“Know what?” she asked.

“That I'm where I'm supposed to be.”

Her eyes softened as she smiled. “Don Quixote. I should have known you'd own a windmill.”

“Why? Because I've deluded myself into thinking this will work?”

“No. Because you're a dreamer.” She stuck one of her pins in her mouth and talked out of the corner. “But that wasn't what I meant. I cannot believe you are sleeping in your mill because you think someone is going to try and burn it down.”

“Is it really so far-fetched?” he asked.

“No. But sleeping in the mill seems like the very least you could be doing to catch the perpetrator. Why, if your mill was burned before, that's arson! Whoever did it should be in prison.”

“I have no proof of anything. All proof would have burned at the time, wouldn't it?” he replied.

“But you have to have a guess as to who would do such a thing. Palmer Blackwell, for one.”

“Of course.” He could feel himself scowling. “But when the mill first burned, it was my father running it, and it was doing very well. Everyone in Helmsley loved him, he was fair and honest with his customers. I cannot imagine that Blackwell would have made a move against him. It would have been too much of a risk.”

“People will do alarming things for money,” she said, pinning the last strand of hair into place. Then grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. “I should know.”

“Don't,” he said quietly.

“Don't what?” she asked.

“Don't talk about yourself like that.”

“I was making a joke, Mr. Turner.”

“No, you weren't.”

He let the mirror drop, forced her eyes to meet his.

She could have laughed. She could have backed away, denying the truth, and made light of it. She could have danced out of the room. But instead she met him eye for eye, honesty for honesty.

“I know what I am, John,” she said, clear and forthright. “And what I am doing is not so very alarming. Women do it every day, marry for money. For most of us, it is the only option. In fact, I'm quite lucky.”

“Are you?” he breathed.

“Yes. Because I like Sir Barty. I . . . I like him very much.”

“He's very likable.”

“I will be a good wife to him.” Her voice shook, ever so slightly, as the space between them shrunk by inches, disappearing like flour in the air. “A good stepmother to Margaret.”

“I have no doubt you will.” His voice was a rumble of warmth. “I know what you are too.”

“You . . . you do?”

“You were married to a man whom you loved but who could not love you. Now you are marrying a man you don't love for the same reasons your first husband asked you to dance.”

“I . . . I never said anything about love. I'm surviving.”

“You are. But there is more to life than surviving.”

Her eyes flicked to his lips. Her voice rasped. “Like what?”

It was the only permission he needed. His body ignored every protest his mind painted in bold red letters as he wrapped himself around her. In fact, everything happened as if he were not the one moving his arms, his head, his lips. They all worked of their own accord.

He let his hands trail down her back, finding the small, the dip just before the rising swell of her bottom. She let out a small sigh, a sound of release, and it made his hand fist at her back, gathering up the thin material of her dress and pulling her closer to him.

She melted in his arms as easily as if she had never left them. As if the last year had not separated them.

As if she lived not in a grand manor, nor he in a mill.

The heady spice of her warm mouth flooded him with memories. But this wasn't long ago. This was here, and now, and Leticia Herzog, Lady Churzy—his Letty—was pressed up against him, and kissing him back for all she was worth.

Her hands crept up to his shoulders, hesitant at first, then winding around his neck, lifting her ribs, those sweet breasts that pressed into him with abandon. It made his fingers itch, made his hands fist all the tighter.

She fit against him so perfectly. Every notch, every bend and curve, his body cried as if it were coming home. He released her lips when her hand snaked into his hair, let his mouth roam to her ear, the fine line of her neck.

Her gasp filled the air, and drove him mad. His lips found their way back to hers; this time she was open for him, letting their tongues dance together, caught on a lifting breeze of joy and want.

“Letty,” he breathed. “Oh God, Letty.”

And just like that, the breeze, the joy, stopped. She stopped. Froze in place.

When his eyes blinked open, it was to see shock and horror in hers. Slowly, painfully, she untwined her arms from around his neck, unplastered her body from his.

Cool air rushed into the void between them, filling like an ocean.

“I have . . . I have to go,” she said shakily, stepping as far around him as possible to grab her cloak from where she had lain it before. “I've been away too long already. Who knows what excuse your mother has had to concoct to cover for my absence.”

Her fingers shook as she tried to knot the cloak around her neck. Eventually she just gave up, crying, “Oh hang it!” and letting the ribbons fly free.

Two quick steps later her hand was on the doorknob.

“Letty . . .” he said, but from the tense of her shoulders, he immediately realized his mistake.

“Don't call me that,” she said quietly, her voice breaking. “You cannot call me that.”

The sound of her name on his lips—the name she called herself, no matter how much she denied it—had brought her back from their own private cloud, and down to earth with a thud. And now, it sent her running for the hills.

Running back to his mother. Back to the ladies of Helmsley. Back to Bluestone Manor.

Back to her complicated, delicately balanced life.

As the door to his office/sleeping space/storage room closed with a gentle click, something else tumbled in his chest and locked into place.

And left him laughing. Laughing loud and raw and echoing against the walls of the mill.

That laughter quickly gave way to despair.

Because there was really no reason to lie anymore, was there?

The truth was, he was utterly done for.

17

T
he days following the events at Turner's mill were so very eventful that Leticia did not have time to concern herself with John Turner, or his presumptuous kissing.

First, there was Mrs. Robertson's visit to take measurements for the wedding gown. This took an entire afternoon. Then of course, there was every lady in Helmsley who decided to pay return calls on Bluestone Manor—with the notable exception of Mrs. Emory. As Leticia had won over the town, she had also won the allegiance of every woman who witnessed Mrs. Emory's defeat. And several others. Like chicks without a mother hen, they flocked around her, waiting to be told what next to do, who next to gossip about, and what fashion next to adopt.

It was, to Leticia's mind, her rightful place.

Mrs. Spilsby and Miss Goodhue made certain to call twice, and Mrs. Spilsby relayed that her husband's sermon that week was likely to have some very pro–steam equipment themes.

“Well, Jesus himself was something new, once upon a time, wasn't he?” she'd said, making Leticia laugh with delight.

Helen was just as delighted. She sat by Leticia's side every morning as the women made their way into the little sitting room with the good north light that Leticia had taken as her own at Bluestone. (She really would have to create and enforce a standard day for taking calls, she decided.) And as Helen was there, one might suppose that Turner would put in an appearance as well, but no.

John Turner had not come to Bluestone in an entire week.

Considering the fact that he was supposed to be courting Margaret, and keeping her mind far away from the possibilities of Palmer Blackwell, this simply would not do.

Not that her mind was tuned to Turner's movements. But rather, it was important that he be there, especially considering that Palmer Blackwell had made himself a fixture at Bluestone, and at Sir Barty's side.

“You have become very popular in such a short period of time,” Blackwell noted one morning, as another set of ladies streamed past him to Leticia's sitting room.

“Please, Mr. Blackwell, you flatter me,” she demurred.

“I am told that your influence extends far in town now,” Blackwell replied.

So. He'd heard about how she'd challenged Mrs. Emory, and everyone in town was now looking with more favor on her and on the Turner Grain Mill. Obviously it raised his suspicions.

“Only in small feminine matters,” she assured, giving nothing away. “Matters of business are completely out of my sphere, and better left to the men. That's what I tell Sir Barty, at any rate.”

“Hmm,” Blackwell grunted. No matter his suspicions, he could not say that she'd placed any undue influence on Sir Barty regarding his grain. And that was all that he'd threatened.

Although, perhaps it was time to let him know his threats were baseless. Especially if Turner wasn't here holding up his end of the bargain, something far more direct might have to be done to rid them of Blackwell.

“What was the name of that club?” she asked, causing him to draw back. “The one you mentioned to me the other evening?”

He blinked twice before answering. “The Yew Tree Club,” he said, with a simpering smile. “As you well know.”

“Hmm . . . only because my late husband went. But only once or twice, I believe. We preferred to travel. But if you enjoyed it so much, perhaps I'll tell Sir Barty, let him know you recommended it. Since we've skipped so many of the celebrations that usually accompany a wedding, I'm hoping to go to London for our honeymoon, and he will likely enjoy going to a gentleman's club while there. I'm sure he would take any recommendation of yours to heart.”

She watched as all the blood drained from Blackwell's face. And it became abundantly clear to her that Blackwell had never expected her to call his bluff. An obsequious weasel never has to play the hand out—they let someone else do the hard work for them, and then pick up the pieces.

Well, he would not be getting any of her pieces.

“I don't know if it would be to his taste,” Blackwell said, bowing. “If I recall there are a number of stairs, and walking isn't . . . that is, he wouldn't like it.”

She hid her smile as she curtsied in return. “I'm sure you're right.” Then she glided past him, greeting the ladies in her sitting room, and shut the door behind her.

It was a risky play. But since she had Helmsley's social circle at her back now, she felt far less alone in the country. And as such, she was not willing to suffer fools. Of course, it did mean that Blackwell redoubled his efforts with Margaret—but as Margaret was kept constantly (and chafingly) at Leticia's side, he was left with no recourse but to glue himself to Sir Barty—who half the time was immersed in his cribbage match with Helen.

“But I have to rotate the geraniums,” Margaret said, looking mutinous. “They need even light. It will take me five minutes, and I'll wear my smock.”

“Not until after our guests leave,” Leticia said gently. She was not taking even a five-minute chance, when Palmer Blackwell was within five miles.

“But the light will be gone by then!”

“Excuse me,” said Dr. Gray. Goodness, she had half forgotten Dr. Gray was there, buried underneath all the ruffles and crinolines as he tried to sip tea, surrounded by the ladies of Helmsley. “But I am deeply curious about Miss Babcock's experiments in botany. Perhaps I could accompany her?”

She met the doctor's eyes. Ever since that night he had happened upon her and Blackwell, he had become an ally of sorts. And for this past week most of his use had been in being a friend to Margaret.

Every time Helen showed up at the door without Turner, Leticia could see Margaret's disappointment in her posture. (If it was a posture she recognized in herself there was no one nearly as observant as she in attendance.) But then invariably Dr. Gray would cheer her up, by asking her about her work in the gardens, or her scientific method, or some such thing.

She never thought she'd say this, but thank heavens for Dr. Gray.

Added to that, Sir Barty's foot was much better too.

Margaret nodded fervently at Dr. Gray's suggestion. “Oh, all right. But take Miss Goodhue.” Some proprieties had to be observed, even if it was only Dr. Gray. And the girl was overly eager to be friends. “And be back before the tea tray.”

“Actually, Miss Babcock, if you would wait just a moment.” Palmer Blackwell's voice came from the doorway. Sir Barty stood behind him, beaming from underneath his mustache.

“I know that gleam in your eye, Sir Barty,” Helen said, her eyebrow going up. “Either you think you've got a winning hand at cards or you have something up your sleeve.”