Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (26 page)

She could never tell anyone.

Including the father of the child growing inside her.

If she went to him now and told him about the baby, she would have to tell him all. The baby would come far too early, yet healthy and whole, and he would know something was not right. More importantly, she could not live with him without telling him the entire truth; to lie to him would tear her apart. He was an extraordinary man, but he had already suspected her of madness. And she could never risk losing her children.

She closed the door softly. “I don’t wish to take Harry away from here so soon after he has arrived. He is so happy.”

“Leave him with us,” her sister said. “Mama and Nurse and I will look after him. He is already a favorite of everyone here. And today Ian said he plans to remain in residence through the spring.”

“Forsaking his merry widows in town for so many weeks?”

“For the foaling. And
must
we speak of our brother’s wanton women aloud?”

“Some of our brother’s wanton women are influential socialites, Evie. If you ever hope to design gardens beyond Dashbourne—”

“I already do.”

“For someone other than our immediate family members,” Calista added, “you must come to know at least some of those socialites. Gossip is how most things happen among the rich and fashionable.” As well as among the residents and guests of a tiny village, she had discovered.

“You are lecturing me to avoid making a decision. Harry will be content here with us while you are gone. And when you are finished at Herald’s Court you can return here permanently.”

Only the ache she now felt every moment marred that happy prospect.

“I will go the day after tomorrow. I hope to be able to return within the month.” It had to be done. It was the first step to beginning her life all over again. No desperation to run away. No need to escape. Simply life on her own terms.

The corridors of Dare Castle
echoed with laughter, conversation, music, and so many comings and goings that Tacitus had difficulty keeping up with it all. Delighted with his home, his cousins swiftly made it their project to fill it with activity.

Cousin Anne had a passion for music. An invitation to a renowned violinist to perform at the castle was soon followed by a stream of fiddlers, harpists, guitarists, flutists, quartets, and soloists.

Cousin Cecelia has a passion for every other form of entertainment, as long as charming young men were involved. Prevailed upon to offer his opinion of the local stock of eligible bachelors, Tacitus turned the task over to the Viscount Mallory. Short on funds—which made London uncomfortable—and rusticating at Dare Castle temporarily, Peyton was happy to escort the cousins to all the parties, picnics and balls in the neighborhood. After each event he declared that American maidens were head and shoulders above English ladies, and if he were the marrying sort he would snatch up one of Tacitus’s cousins and make her Lady Mallory. In response, Tacitus pulled his dueling pistols out of a drawer and dusted them off in his friend’s presence. Peyton laughed. The cousins giggled. And that was that.

His aunt and uncle were excellent company, too, as industrious as their daughters though less gregariously so. His uncle hunted and fished in the estate’s coveys and ponds, and his aunt spent hours in the kitchen trading American recipes for English recipes with his cook and housekeeper.

They were all thrilled with their visit to England.

He would never get rid of them.

But he did not particularly wish to. He liked them. Very much. Soon enough they would head off on their tour of Europe, and continue home from there. He would miss them. He was no fool: he realized that they were a substitute for the woman he truly wanted in his house. But they were a good substitute, and he was content.

He was not, however, happy. He had made a grave mistake in speaking to Calista at that inn. He had made an even bigger error in seeking out her company during their day of entrapment. And he had made a vastly monumental blunder in taking her to bed.

Above all, he was confused. She had changed since he courted her, but she still felt so familiar. He had spent less than twenty-four hours in her company, yet she was embedded as deeply in his thoughts now as all those years ago. The sound of her laughter and the sensation of her touch were so acute in his memory, he could practically taste them.

The dreams weren’t helping matters any. Vivid dreams. Astonishing dreams. Each night with damnable regularity they filled his sleep, often waking him and leaving him hot and bemused for hours.

He
missed
her.

She was a widow and a lady. Despite her feelings for her late husband, she was now in mourning. He couldn’t very well go after her like a randy bull. More importantly, she had said only one night. Quite clearly.

“You are thinking about her again.”

Peyton sauntered across the parlor toward him, dangling a glass of whiskey from his fingertips.

Tacitus blinked to clear away the images in his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Since I walked into this room five minutes ago—and spoke to you, by the way—you haven’t turned one page of that book.”

He closed the volume and set it on the table at his side. He hadn’t read the
Symposium
in years, but the dream he’d had just before dawn had put it into his head. Or perhaps it was that cat at the inn, the one playing with the letter that had revealed to him she was a widow
when she had chosen not to
.

“I am having a moment of privacy, if you will,” he said with ridiculous stiffness given the company.

“Privacy, in this house these days? Good luck to you.”

“Are you drinking whiskey at ten o’clock in the morning?”

“No. This is for you.” Peyton shoved the glass into his hand and took the chair across from him. “Drink it.”

Tacitus set down the glass. “What do I look like to you, a sot?”

“Actually, you look to me like you’ve just lost your new puppy. Did she run away from you or did you run away from her?”

He considered telling his friend to sod off.

“Both, I think,” he said.

The viscount lifted a black brow. “Back to her husband?”

“Her husband? How do you—”

“The woman at that inn. The one with the harridan-tongued sister and the boy. It’s her, isn’t it?”

He shook his head in wonderment. “How you know that, I won’t ask.”

“I might not be the marrying sort myself, but I would be a thorough ass not to suspect you’ve been wearing the willow for a lost demoiselle for years. I did not, however, realize she was still
alive
until we stopped in that little inn and you fell apart.”

“You know, those dueling pistols are still on the sideboard in the drawing room.”

The viscount smiled. “I am quaking in my boots.” He took up the glass of whiskey and drank it in three swallows. “Ah. Thirty years in sherry barrels and … perfection. How I do enjoy sojourning at your house.”

The hairs on the back of Tacitus’s neck were prickling. Several nights ago he had dreamed about drinking whiskey with her.

“You should go,” Peyton said. “I’ll stay here with the cousins and entertain them.”

“They are not your cousins.”

“Six of one.” He waved the empty glass about. “The girls like me better than you anyway.”

“I’ll leave the pistols with their father.”

“Splendid. When are you departing?”

“I’m not.”

“If you take the dueling pistols with you, her husband won’t be a problem any longer.”

He stared into the fireplace. “She is a widow.”

“Good Lord, Tass. What in the blazes are you waiting for?”

He didn’t know. A sign from heaven? More dreams? Another happenstance meeting in an inn on some godforsaken road in a rainstorm?

Her
. He was waiting for her to tell him she wanted only him as he had always wanted only her. Which was ridiculous.

And yet …

He came to his feet and headed for the door.

“Don’t drink all the whiskey while I’m gone,” he threw over his shoulder. “I will need a bottle to toast with on my return.”

~o0o~

He went to Dashbourne. It was less than two days’ ride away, and he had no idea where she now lived. He hoped her family would tell him. He had no good excuse for begging the information except the truth, but he couldn’t very well share that with them before he shared it with her.

Not pausing at the inn at Dashbourne, he went straight to the earl’s mansion. A servant came from the stable and took his horse. Tacitus walked up the steps to the front door and knocked, his heart pounding heavily and his tongue tied in twenty knots.

He managed to untie it sufficiently to announce himself to the manservant who answered the door.

“Do come in, my lord. May I take your overcoat and hat?”

“Dare, old man, is that you?” The earl was walking from the rear of the house into the broad foyer that Tacitus remembered like he’d been here yesterday. “What are you doing here? Passing through?”

“Not precisely,” he bowed. “Good day, my lord.”

Chance grinned. “Don’t be such a stiff fool. Come, let me pour you a brandy and you can tell me what’s lured you out of your hermitage. The last time I saw Mallory, he said you rarely ever venture forth these days. And I haven’t seen you in town in an age.”

In the drawing room appointed very sparely, but with taste, Chance uncorked a decanter and splashed brandy into two glasses.

“What brings you to Dashbourne?” He offered a glass.

Tacitus took the brandy and swiftly swallowed a mouthful. He’d given speeches in Parliament that had been easier than answering the Earl of Chance at this moment. He hadn’t seen Ian in some time, and he’d forgotten how brother and sister shared the same crystal blue eyes. Those eyes now assessed him curiously. He had also forgotten how Ian had not recouped most of his father’s enormous losses in six years by luck alone. The care-for-nothing Earl of Chance rarely lost at the card table not because he was particularly brilliant, but because he could smell a bluff ten miles away.

There was no way around it. Tacitus set down the glass.

“I am looking for your sister. Not long ago I encountered her while traveling. I should like to pay a call on her now, but I haven’t the address of her permanent residence.”

Ian did not even blink. But his jaw became noticeably tighter.

“Evelina?”

“No. Lady Holland.” He’d no idea if Ian knew that he had courted Calista years ago. Until the old earl’s death, his heir had been tearing up the less respectable haunts of London and nowhere near his ancestral estate.

Now the new earl studied him carefully.

“She recently lost her husband,” Chance said with such calm that it was almost a drawl. “Very recently.”

“Yes, I am aware of that. Several months ago, I believe she said.”

“
Weeks,
Dare. Three weeks ago. It happened the day before she found herself trapped by rains in a flooded village not two hours from here.”

The
day
before?

Chance swiveled his drink casually but his gaze had grown sharp. “I don’t suppose you encountered her in that village.” Another swivel. “Did you?”

“I don’t like the way you are looking at me, sir.”

“And I don’t like the way you’re sniffing after my newly widowed sister,
sir
.”

Tacitus blinked. “Did you just suggest that I am a dog?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Well, I say this is a fairly striking example of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Don’t try to tell me you’ve never grazed in abandoned pastures before, Tacitus.”

“It’s none of your business whether I have or haven’t, Ian. Although how any other fellow could even
try
when you’re feeding off all those pastures yourself, I cannot fathom.”

“Are you certain you want to go down this road with me, Dare?”

“Are you certain you want to cross wits with a man of twice your intellect and three times your character, Chance?”

“For God’s sake, man, we’re talking about my
sister
.”

“And I’m in love with her!”

The words echoed across the empty room. Tacitus steadied himself and met Ian’s surprised regard.

“I love her,” he said. “I have been in love with her since before she wed that villain. Now that she’s free of him, I want to ask her to be my wife—which, frankly, I had hoped to say to her before saying it to anyone else.” He raked his hand across the back of his neck. “But there it is.”

“You’ve loved her since
then
?” Lady Evelina stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Yes,” he said, because everybody might as well know now.

“Then why didn’t you ask her to marry you?” she demanded.

“I intended to. But I had the impression she didn’t care for me. At all.”

“You had the impression she didn’t care for you?” She shook her head. “She was madly in love with you. You broke her heart when you left here so abruptly. You didn’t even say good-bye to me and Gregory. He and I were disappointed, to be sure. But Callie walked around here like a ghost after that, until our father forced her to—”

“Evelina,” Ian said, and Lady Evelina’s lips snapped shut.

The countess appeared beside her in the doorway.

“What in heaven’s name is going on in here? I heard shouting.” Her features went slack. “Lord Dare?”

He bowed. He could hardly think.
Madly in love with him?

With a tilt of her golden head, the countess glided into the room, Lady Evelina following.

“Good day, madam,” he managed to say. “I was—” He glanced at Ian. “I was just asking his lordship’s permission to court your daughter.”

Her brows popped up.

“Your other daughter, Mama,” Lady Evelina said. “I was right all the way back then. He was in love with her. I wish I had made a wager with someone about it. I would be rich now.”

“Hush, Evelina. Lord Dare will think your jesting vulgar.”

“Probably not. He likes Callie, after all. But even if he did take offense at my jesting, he would never say so. For instance, my lord, would you rather we simply tell you where my sister is and then all go to the devil?”

He smiled. “I would be very glad to know her present whereabouts.”

“You see, Mama? Always the gentleman.”

“Calista has gone to Herald’s Court to settle her late husband’s estate,” Ian said. “I will have Taylor give you the direction.”

Tacitus nodded. “Thank you.”

“I trust in your intentions, Dare. But if I should hear anything that puts the lie to what you’ve said here, I won’t take it well.”

Ian Chance was a thorough hypocrite; his favorite paramours were other men’s widowed sisters, after all. But Tacitus had to appreciate his protectiveness in this case.

“Understood,” he said. “But the decision, of course, will be hers and her—”

“Lord Dare!” came a piping little voice across the room.

“—son’s,” he finished as the boy bounded toward them. “Good day, Master Harry, and … I don’t believe I am acquainted with your companion.”

“This is Mr. Bear. He is the second son of an earl, like Uncle Gregory, so I don’t call him ‘lord.’”

“Aha. Of course. How do you do, Mr. Bear?”

“How did you escape from Nurse?” Lady Chance said.

“Missy told Nurse that Lord Dare was here and I told her how he saved me from a wild horse in the rain and it was bang-up smashing so she let me come.” He tugged on Lady Chance’s wrist and she bent so that he could put his cupped hands over her ear. “Mama says he is peculiar,” he said in a voluble whisper.

“I see you have your work cut out for you, Dare,” Ian muttered.

“But
I
like him,” Harry continued, sotto voice. “I think he’s top of the trees.” He lowered his hands and looked at Tacitus. “Have you brought your splendid horse?”