Autumn Rain (28 page)

CHAPTER 26

Although she'd not slept at all, she did not go down to breakfast, nor did she bid Longford farewell. She heard the carriage brought 'round, and she heard him tell Mary and Daggett goodbye in the hall. She even knew when he walked past her door, stopping as though he meant to knock, then finally going on. His booted steps took the stairs slowly, his voice carried from the foyer as he thanked Arthur and asked him to convey his "best wishes to Lady Kingsley." Then he was gone.

She rolled over onto her stomach and bit her knuckles to stifle the urge to cry. He was gone, leaving her once again with naught but Arthur.

"My lady—?" Mary entered the room and carefully closed the door after her. "His lordship said I was ter give ye this—and not ter tell yer husband."

"Go away," Elinor whispered.

"Aye." But before she left, the maid laid a folded piece of vellum on the pillow, then patted Elinor's shoulder sympathetically. "It's sorry I am ter see him go also," she murmured.

Elinor rolled over to sit and stared at the letter he'd left her. Finally, unable to stand it, she opened the sheet to read the bold scrawl.

My dear Nell,

There will never be any words capable of conveying my gratitude to you, for I know I owe you my life. And despite what you must now think, I'd have you know that you will forever have my highest, my most devoted regard. If there should ever come a time when you have need of a friend, I do pray that you will not hesitate to ask anything of me. I remain your obedient servant.

He had signed it simply "Luce."

That was it—nothing else. She read it again, thinking it sounded rather stilted, as though he'd felt he had to write it.

The door opened again, and this time it was Mrs. Peake come to inform her that before he'd left, "the earl had quite ruined one of the blankets."

"Yes."

The woman's gaze dropped to where Elinor had wadded her muddy, blood-spotted nightgown and thrown it onto the floor. Her eyes narrowed, making Elinor wish she could somehow disappear.

"That will be all, Mrs. Peake—Mary will attend to that," she said, not daring to look at her.

The housekeeper's mouth drew into a tight line, but she nodded, "As you wish, my lady."

No doubt before nightfall there would not be a soul in the house as did not know or at least suspect that she had been tumbling in the mud with Longford. It must surely be written on her face for all to see—"Lady Kingsley, for all the fine manners she has pretended to, is naught but a slut." She didn't want to face anyone, not now, not ever again. She pulled her covers up, covering her head, and turned to the wall.

There came an insistent tapping at the door, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it totally. But it did not cease, until finally she snapped, "Who is it?"

It was the last person on earth that she wanted to see. Arthur pushed open the door with his stick, then moved slowly to take a chair by her bed. Leaning forward, he lifted the sheet, waiting for her to turn to face him.

"Mary would have it that you are plagued with the headache, my dear," he murmured.

"Yes," she lied.

"Perhaps it was something you ate—or yesterday's brandy," he observed sympathetically. "In any event, I have ordered that you are not to be disturbed. A cool cloth—perhaps a cold collation for nuncheon later—and no doubt you will feel more the thing on the morrow."

"Thank you."

"You have worn yourself haggard nursing Longford, I'm afraid." He peered closer, taking in her reddened eyes. "He has left, you know."

"Yes."

"I made your apologies for you."

"Thank you." She clenched her hands tightly, wishing he would go away.

"And now that he has gone," he continued mildly, "I shall expect to return to the conjugal bed." She lay very still, wondering if he suspected also, but his next words dispelled it. "We both needed time to grieve, my dear. And Longford was so very, very ill, after all."

"It has been but two months," she managed, swallowing the revulsion she felt. "Charley—"

"Charles is gone, Elinor—and I cannot bring him back." He reached a bony hand to stroke her copper hair, smoothing it against her pillow. "I no longer blame you. After I read his journal, I could see it was boyish infatuation, nothing more."

She wanted to scream, to rail at him that she had no wish to speak of Charles, not now, not after what had happened with Longford, but she dared not. She could not let him know that she felt she'd betrayed what Charley had felt for her. She covered her eyes with the back of one hand.

"Please, my lord—my head aches until I can scarce think," she said.

"I quite understand your distress, my dear," he murmured, rising. "Until tonight, Elinor."

She held her breath as he walked past her soiled nightgown, but despite catching his cane in it, he did not appear to note it. It was not until he was safely out of her bedchamber that she dared to let it go.

Arthur was coming to sleep with her. It was a sort of justice, she supposed, God's punishment for what she'd done.

True to his avowed intention, Arthur sought her bed, not on the formerly customary Wednesday and Saturday night, but for a full week, until she found herself taking laudanum for sleep. And still there were times when she lay there, listening to his thin, reedy, whistling breath, thinking she was going mad. Times when he wrapped a bony arm about her, as though he sought the warmth of her body. Invariably, as she recoiled silently in her mind, she could not help thinking of Longford.

And the very memories that shamed her sent remembered heat coursing through her body until she ached while her sinful mind yearned for more. Sometimes, despite the wild, tumbling dreams of a drugged sleep, shed waken, her body wet and hot with desire. It was as though, awake or asleep, she could think of naught else. The feel of him, the hardness of his body, the solid strength of his arms around her could not be forgotten, not when Arthur's thin fingers smoothed her gown over her hip, not when Arthur's wheezy breath sounded in her ears.

But if Arthur made her nights nearly unbearable, Bellamy Townsend did little more for her days. Almost as soon as he'd heard that Longford had removed himself back to Langston Park, the viscount had presented himself once more at Stoneleigh to pay her the lavish compliments of a lover. It was, she reflected wearily, as though he counted Arthur already dead and her a widow.

And it was not as it had been before—now she had a fair notion of what he was about. "Dear Lady, a kiss to treasure," he'd coax. But, when despite her protests, he'd stolen one, she felt nothing beyond an urge to struggle. As handsome, as well-muscled as he was, his presence could not replace Longford's.

For Bell, it was a novel experience, and one he could not like, for his inability to endear, let alone his inability to seduce, was wearing on him. He'd lost his touch, he told Leighton tiredly. To which his host had suggested a repairing lease somewhere else, pointing out the adage that absence was said to make a heart grow fonder.

He gave it one last try.

"Dearest Elinor," he began, possessing himself of her hands, "you behold a man besotted. Only say the word and I shall be the happiest man in England—I swear it."

"There are only two words I can think of," she answered, pulling away, "and neither seems quite proper."

"The only improper word is 'no,' " he insisted. "I should even count a 'perhaps' enough to sustain me."

"Lord Townsend," she retorted, betraying her asperity, "if you are asking me to wed, you are a trifle premature, for my husband is quite alive. And if it is something else, I shall count myself quite insulted."

"Elinor, I cannot wait! You are in my thoughts night and day," he protested. "Not since my salad days have I-"

"A-hem," Arthur coughed. When the younger man swung around guiltily, he fixed him with cold eyes. "Townsend, you are
de trop,"
he said mildly. "Surely by now you must realize that Lady Kingsley neither encourages nor desires your company."

"Elinor—"

"Lord Townsend—Bellamy—" Drawing in a deep breath, she managed to look up at him. "I should always cherish your friendship, sir—but nothing more."

"It's Longford, isn't it?" he asked bitterly.

"Don't be a fool, sir," Arthur snapped. "She still mourns my grandson!" He lifted his cane, poking Bell with it. "I suggest you hang after someone else's wife. And a word to the wise—discretion, boy—discretion."

Bell looked to Elinor. "Until London."

"We are in mourning," Arthur answered for her.

It was not until the younger man had left, taking his wounded vanity with him, that the old man turned to her. "Two words, my dear?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Perhaps and later?"

It was the first time she'd smiled since Longford left. She shook her head. "Go and away."

He caught her hand, lifting it to his lips, a totally uncharacteristic gesture for him. "My dear, your devotion honors me. I must surely be the most fortunate of men."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Bellamy Townsend is an unprincipled rake—I should be a fool to refine too much on anything he said, don't you think?"

"Most definitely." He looked outside, then sighed. "It rains again, and you are blue-deviled, aren't you?"

She started to deny it, then nodded. "Yes."

"Shall we say a game of piquet? A pound a point, perhaps?"

It also was not at all like him to put himself out to entertain her, particularly not since he hated cards, preferring the challenge of chess instead. "All right," she decided. Anything was better than sitting around, moping like a mooncalf over Lucien de Clare.

It was not until he'd dealt the pasteboards that he looked across the small table at her. "You miss him, don't you?"

There was no question who he meant. Not knowing where he meant to lead her, she considered pretending ignorance. "Yes," she answered finally.

"It was the common struggle." He discarded.

"What?"

"For his life, my dear—for his life. And now that he is nearly recovered, you miss that which has occupied so much of your time and thoughts."

"I don't—"

"You must not think I mind it," he went on. "Indeed, but I should not take it amiss if you were to pay him a call when the weather clears."

"Oh, I don't think—well, it's the country, and—"

"Precisely. There are not too many tattlers here." He met her eyes. "Your play, my dear."

It was always difficult to follow him, for one was never quite sure when he meant to close the trap. She tried to keep her voice light. "I am sure there is enough talk as it is, my lord, for he was here nigh to a month. You heard Lord Townsend, after all."

"An unfortunate guess—nothing more," he reassured her. "Do you good to get out of the house."

"Do you mean to go?"

"No. Leg pains me—stupid complaint." He threw down another card. "Take Mary."

"Actually, I had thought perhaps to go into Tintagel to order some black lace and ribbons."

"On your birthday? Surely not. Give Mrs. Peake a list and she may obtain what you need when she goes into the village for me."

She tossed down a card. "One birthday is very much like another, Arthur."

"Well, perhaps this one will be different. I understand that Mrs. Peake has ordered all your favorite dishes-even an apricot tart with raspberry sauce."

"You despise apricots, my lord," she reminded him.

"Ah, but it's not my birth anniversary, is it?"

She kept waiting for him to say something unpleasant, but he did not. Instead, when he tired of the game, he merely added up the points and paid off, taking a handful of guineas from his purse and pushing them across the table.

"I'm afraid I am not so good a player as Longford," he murmured.

It seemed as though every time he spoke with her, he mentioned the earl, until she thought she could not bear it. And every time, she had to appear disinterested, to sound noncommittal. Could he not see what he did? Could he not see she was afraid to even think of Longford? That Lucien's very name made her think of what they'd done?

"Yes," he said, putting away his purse, "I think it would be quite civil of you to call—and take Mary, of course."

CHAPTER 27

The seventeenth was a reasonably warm, pleasant September day. It was also the day she turned twenty. And yet for all that the household prepared to celebrate the occasion, she felt isolated, alone. She sat at her writing desk, trying to compose a letter to Charlotte, but it had been so long since she'd seen her sister, it was like writing to a stranger.

"Mrs. Peake is wishful of knowing if ye got yer list," Mary reminded her, interrupting her already elusive turn of thought.

"Tell her I have left it in the silver basket in the hall."

"It ain't like him to do it, you know," Mary added, shaking her head.

"Who?"

"Yer husband."

Elinor felt a brief irritation. "What is it that he's doing?"

"Gone with Mrs. Peake—said he favored a visit to the barber."

"For what? Daggett keeps him in trim. And I cannot think he wished to be bled."

"Like I said, it don't make sense." Mary moved to the wardrobe door and lifted out a gown. "Said you was to wear this when we go ter visit his lordship."

Elinor's fingers clenched, snapping the shaft of the quill. "I have not the least intention of calling on Lord Longford," she declared.

"It don't seem right—man ran tame here fer more'n a fortnight—and now it's as though he's fallen plumb off the earth."

"I doubt he feels much like being out and about," Elinor muttered.

"No—s'pose not. Then ye ain't wearing this?"

"No."

"Lovely day, ain't it?"

Elinor felt as though her nerves would shatter into pieces, leaving nothing of her sanity. She rose and went to the window. Below, the flowers still bloomed in the mildest of England's climates. It was sunny, as bright as summer almost, and when she looked across the wide expanse of parkland, she could see the jutting crags that rose above the sea.

"I think I should like to ride," she decided impulsively.

"Ye want as I should send down to Ned?" the maid asked.

"No. I think I'd like to go alone."

"Well, the air'd do ye good—no doubt about that—but his lordship ain't—"

"There are no smugglers out in the day."

"No, but—well, ground's rocky, ye know—ye could lose yer footing, and—"

"Just get a habit!" Elinor snapped. Contrite on the instant, she passed a hand over her face, apologizing, "Your pardon, Mary—I know not what ails me."

"Humph! It's the old man, if ye was ter ask me. Twenty and ye ain't—"

"I don't want to hear it! Do you think I like this life I lead? Well, I do not! But what am I supposed to do about it? Flirt with the likes of Bellamy Townsend? Poison Arthur? I am well and truly caught, Mary—well and truly caught!"

"Oh, madam—I did not mean—well, he ain't going ter last ferever, ye know."

"So my father told me—five years ago." Then, realizing what she'd said, Elinor sighed again. "Mary, I don't want him to die precisely. I—"

"Ye just wish he'd a-wed somebody else, don't ye?" the maid clucked sympathetically. "Aye, but then ye'd not be Lady Kingsley, would ye?"

One should not admit one's private thoughts to one's servants, but Elinor could not help it. "As if I ever cared for that, Mary—as if I ever cared for that. I should rather have been a—a
milliner
and had someone to love me!"

"Aye, I know. Me—I wish we was back in Lunnon. I got me eye on Jem."

"Jem?"

"Jeremy. Ye know—the one as was at St. James Market with ye. The day that Longford—"

"Yes," Elinor muttered, cutting her short. "I remember it."

"Well, he ain't no older'n me, ye understand, but we like each other well enough." The maid colored, then looked down at her feet. "Oh, ye don't have ter worry about no babes—I told him I was a-wanting to wed first, ye understand." As she spoke, she shook out a black riding habit trimmed with black braid. It was rather austere, but when one was in mourning, there was not a great deal of style. And for all Elinor cared, it could have been a black sack.

Once she had it on and Mary had fastened the frogs across her chest, she viewed herself in the cheval mirror. She looked more hagged now than when Longford had been so very ill. Longford. The man was everywhere within her thoughts. She sat, letting the maid brush her hair and twist it into a knot on her crown.

"Was ye wanting the hat with the turned-up brim?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Well, it becomes ye, I think—frames yer face, ye know, and the veil ties around it right nicely."

"I told you—it doesn't matter."

Mary placed the hat over her hair, taking care not to loosen it, then pulled the veil down and tied it at the back of her neck. "Aye—it becomes ye," she decided, satisfied.

"I look like a woman trying to hide."

"Nay, ye look real mysterious—like one o' them females in the novels."

"There are times when I feel like a Gothic heroine," Elinor admitted. "Sometimes I think there is nothing else as can go wrong in my life."

"Ye riding ter the sea?"

"No." Elinor took a deep breath, then exhaled fully. "I am going to see Charley."

For a moment, the maid's face betrayed her alarm. "But he's dead!"

"The cemetery. Why must you and Longford assume I mean to throw myself off a cliff?"

"Oh. Well, it don't seem like the place ter go, but—"

"It is quiet, and no one prattles there."

She ought not to have said that, she ought not to have said a lot of things, but she was out of reason cross. It was not until Ned, the stable boy, brought her smart little bay mare to her that her mood lightened. Air—she was going to breathe the air. And for a little while, she was going to forget Longford.

The path to the cemetery was rocky and narrow, cut deeply by centuries of use, and the small stone church stood as it had since there were Plantagenets on the throne. Mignon picked her way down the steep lane, then stopped at the gate.

Elinor dismounted, tied her horse to the iron grating, then let herself into the churchyard. Despite the sun, the spreading branches of a tree that had been used to hang cavaliers on during Cromwell's war cast shadows over the moss-covered stones. She walked slowly among the graves, taking the long way around to the brown, still-soft earth that covered Charles.

She stared down, trying to weep, trying to feel, but she was empty. Finally, she dropped to her knees and began to talk to him, speaking at length of things they'd shared, of dreams, of laughter, of a common defense against Arthur's coldness, until the words tumbled out, one over the other, so rapidly that she scarce made sense.

"I read the journal, Charley—every word. I read it over and over," she said finally. "And I thank you for it." She sucked in her breath, this time trying not to cry, and went on, "Thank you for loving me, Charley. Thank you for standing with me." The tears began to flow, trickling at first, then streaming freely down her cheeks. "I did love you—I did," she whispered, choking. "But not as you asked. You said—you said I didn't have to say it—that I didn't have to promise. You said it was enough if I cared. And I did—Charley, I did! And—and no matter what happens, you are forever in my heart."

The wind moved the leaves, rattling them softly, making the shadows dance over the spaded earth. "Maybe if you'd held me—maybe if you'd kissed me more—if I'd known sooner—" She stopped. She was doing it again— she was telling him what he'd always wished to hear. "No," she admitted sadly. "You are—you were—my friend, Charley. Always my friend.

"It's funny, isn't it? I guess there are different ways to love. If you'd come back, I'd have had to tell you, you know. But I know what you felt. I know what you felt, for I feel it now also. I—I think I love Longford, Charley—and I cannot. I cannot!"

"Here now, missy—it don't do no good talking to the dead." She looked up, startled by a man's voice. "The dead don't answer, 'cause they can't hear." It was one of the men who'd buried Charles. He tamped a lump of earth with a heavy, dirty boot. "Best go on—got another one to dig."

"Who?"

"The Barrett boy. Fell off his horse—banged his leg bad."

"His leg?" she asked incredulously. "I never heard of anyone dying from such a thing."

He nodded. "Turned bad—poisoned him." He walked closer, and she could smell sweat and smoke on his clothes. It was obvious that he did not recognize her. "Guess you heard about the earl, eh?"

Her heart nearly stopped. "The earl?"

"Longford."

"No—what?" she asked cautiously.

"Nearly died—guess they didn't get all the bullet."

"Oh." Relief flooded through her. For a moment, she thought something else might have happened to him. "Yes, I know, but he is recovering."

"Glad to hear of it."

He moved on, leaving her alone again at Charles Kingsley's grave. And it was as though she could hear Charley speak, she could hear his enthusiasm when he'd seen Longford at Hookham's. Charley'd idolized him.

She walked back to where she'd left her horse and mounted it, draping the skirt of her habit over her knee. Leaning forward slightly, she brushed the dirt and dead grass from the black cloth, then she nudged Mignon forward, wishing fervently that some long-distant queen had not brought the darned sidesaddle to England.

She couldn't say she felt good, but at least she felt better. She'd had the chance to say the goodbye that everyone had denied her.

The breeze blew through the black veil, drying her tears. That part of her life was over. But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

She was probably a terrible fool, but when she'd told Charley that she thought she loved Longford, she'd meant it. Even now, she had but to think of him to remember everything about him—the way his black hair lay wetly against his forehead when his fever broke, the beautiful, nearly perfectly chiseled features, the strong, well-defined chin, the size of him. But most of all, she could feel his body against hers, she could remember the way he'd made her feel when he'd kissed her. And she wished fervently that Fate had been kinder, that somehow Longford had not been wed when her father had thrust her into that inn room those years ago.

She wanted what other women had—she wanted someone to love her in mind and body and spirit. She wanted someone to hold and someone to hold her—and she wanted that man to be Longford.

She looked up, seeing the road that divided between Langston Park and the village of Bude. And on impulse she took the side she knew she ought not to take. She was frightened, armed only in her fragile pride. It was not until she was within the gates of the Park itself that she wanted to turn back. But she was too late—he was standing on the wide portico with someone—and he'd seen her.

She raised her hand in salute, then reined in. It was George Maxwell—Leighton—who came to dismount her.

"Lady Kingsley—what a pleasure."

But the earl was watching her quizzically, his black eyes betraying nothing beyond curiosity. She wanted to run and had nowhere to go.

"I—uh—Mignon stepped on a rock—and I—I thought she might be going lame." It sounded stupid even to her own ears, for they'd seen her ride up. She looked to Longford. "I thought perhaps you might send me home in your carriage."

Leighton smiled, then offered gallantly, "Happy to take you up myself. First time I've had a decent conveyance since Bell came—took himself off this morning, by the by."

"No." Longford spoke curtly, his eyes still on Elinor. "I'd have somebody look at her horse."

"Send it home later," Leighton suggested.

She wiped damp palms on her skirt and shook her head. Her heart was pounding in her throat. "No— if she is all right, I suppose I ought to ride her. I just thought—"

"Yes, well—happy to, you know. Got to run—promised Wilmington I'd stop in. He couldn't abide Bell, I'm afraid, but I suspect it was more that he thought Lady Wilmington could." As he said it, he winked at Lucien, who did not respond at all.

Lucien waited until Leighton's carriage was halfway down the drive before he said anything to her. "You might as well come in and have a glass of punch." The familiar, faintly derisive smile that had haunted her for five years played at the corners of his mouth. "If the horse is not lame, I'm sure it needs a rest."

He held the door for her, and she walked past him, every fiber of her body seemingly aware of just how close and yet how far away he was. He stopped long enough to inform a footman to send to the stables for someone to look at "her ladyship's horse, which may be going lame," then he opened another door, this one to a comfortable saloon. He waited only until she was inside, then he closed it carefully.

As pale as she was, she was still the most beautiful creature of his memory. For a moment, he merely wanted to drink in the sight of her. His eyes met hers soberly. "I'm honored, Lady Kingsley."

And once again she thought he mocked her. She swallowed hard, trying to stifle the awful fear that threatened to overwhelm her. While he watched her, she reached to untie her veil and remove her hat, letting it drop to the floor.

"You must wonder why I have come," she began, scarce hearing her own voice for the pounding in her ears.

"Yes." His expression grew wary. "You cannot accuse me of anything I have not accused myself." He turned to ring for the punch.

"Please don't." She swallowed hard, her throat aching, and her chest seemed almost too tight for breath. She waited until he swung around to face her, then she dared to meet his eyes. "You see, I—I am here because I need someone to hold me. I—"

She got no further. He was there in the instant, and his arms closed around her with an eagerness that matched her own, and he buried his face in the knotted hair on her crown. "Nell, Nell—" he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, "I've scarce thought of anything else." He stood there, holding her closely, savoring the feel of her.

"I—I don't want you to let me go, Lucien," she choked, clinging to him as though he were life itself.

He could almost feel her pain, and he knew what it had cost her to come. While he still had resolution, he tore her arms away and pushed her back that he could look at her. "Do you know what you do?" he demanded harshly. "Do you know what you are wanting?"