Beloved (5 page)

“You would like to live with her?”

“I—” Saber turned facedown on his bed. He let the note drift from his fingers. “I would like not to discuss this matter.”

“Perhaps she would help. Mend you, my lord. Heal you.”

“I am sick of soul,” Saber said into the pillow. “A man with a sick soul can never have anything to offer—and he can never
be healed.”

“My lord—”

Tapping at the door silenced Bigun.

Saber turned his face in the direction of the tapping. “Saber? Are you in there?”

“I cannot bear it,” he muttered. “Saber, it’s me, Ella. Can you hear me?”

He shook his head, unable to trust his voice. “I know you are there,” she said, emotion trembling in every word. “Please could
we talk? Please would you tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

He buried his face. To want. To want and to be able to have, yet to know the having would be utterly wrong…Torment.

“My lord?” Bigun said beside Saber’s ear. “It grows almost morning.”

“Go away,” Saber muttered into the pillow. He raised his face and shouted, “Go away, Ella. Forget the past. Go.”

“Saber, please—”

“Leave this house at once. Cease your persecution of me. I never wish to see you again.”

He heard her cry out, a strangled, wounded sound that faded to rasping sobs. Then her retreating footsteps followed.

“You lied to me, Saber,” she gasped through her tears. “You said you loved me. I was too young. I am not too young now, but
you do not love me now.”

Her feet hit the stairs in quick succession.

Saber looked up at Bigun. “See to it that she gains her coach safely.”

Bigun’s face took on the haughty expression he saved for moments of extreme disapproval. “I wash my hands of this.”

“Do as I request,” Saber roared. “Saber!” Ella’s voice reached him from the vestibule. “Today Papa is to see a man who wishes
to ask for my hand. A stranger. I do not want this man.”

He rose and approached the door, then remembered his nakedness. Blindly, he sought around for something to cover himself with.
“Give me a robe,” he said, yanking the door open. “I must speak to her. She must see that what she remembers was only a childish
infatuation that could not last.”

Bigun rummaged in a huge ebony wardrobe and brought forth a black silk robe.

“Hurry,” Saber urged. A draft rose from the floor below. She had opened the door.

“I will die rather than be given to a stranger I do not love,” Ella called to him in her broken voice.

He struggled into the robe and tied the sash. Without bothering with shoes, he threw the door wide and started for the stairs.

“I love you, Saber. I’ll never love another.”

The front door slammed shut.

He ran downstairs and outside into the stinging early-morning air.

Her coach drew away from the flagway. “Ella!”

The shades at the carriage windows were drawn down. She neither saw nor heard him. Too late. It had been too late even before
they met.

“Ella,” he murmured. “My beloved Ella.”

N
o man was good enough for his daughter. Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, turned the pages of a document his solicitor had left
for signature that morning.

A calm manner would serve him well in the days to come. And an unruffled air would be mandatory in such matters as dealing
with the callers he was expecting today. Yes, an air of nonchalant control.

He threw down his pen. He could not be dispassionate where Ella was concerned. “Absolutely not! No!”

“My lord?”

Startled, Struan looked up to see Crabley, the Hanover Square butler, standing before the mahogany desk. “I didn’t hear you
enter,” he said, more sharply than he intended.

“I did knock, my lord.”

“Are they here?”

“
They,
my lord?” Crabley’s small, protruding black eyes magnified the question conveyed by his words.

Struan pushed to his feet and advanced around his desk. This study usually brought him peace and pleasure. He felt neither
today. “They, Crabley. The people I told you were calling on me this afternoon.”

“It is not yet eleven, my lord.” Doughy of complexion, his width and height similar, the butler had always performed his duties
impeccably. Both Struan and his older brother, Arran, Marquess of Stonehaven, found the servant’s manner irritating, but his
loyalty and scrupulous attention to detail made him invaluable.

Struan eyed the man speculatively. “Are you a man of passion, Crabley?” There, let him come up with a suitably butlerlike
response to that!

Crabley pushed out his lips and wriggled his snub nose as if some thought were necessary. “Considerable passion,” he said
without inflection. “Yes, my lord, I am a very passionate man. I would protect those I serve to the death … if such an extraordinary
measure should prove necessary. Is that what you meant, my lord?”

Struan coughed, and waved a hand. “Um, yes, yes, I suppose it is.” He smiled. “Very admirable, Crabley.” And somewhat humbling—humbling
enough to make a man a deal less angry at the world.

“This was delivered,” Crabley said, extending a small bundle of silk the color of emeralds and bound shut with gold braid.
“For Miss Ella.”

“What is it?” Struan asked, deeply suspicious. “Who would send Ella gifts? She knows no one in London.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

“Didn’t the messenger say who it was from?”

“No, my lord.”

“There isn’t a card?”

“No, my lord.”

“In God’s name!” Struan roared. “Must you always be so—?” Ella’s entrance, with Justine at her heels, saved him from losing
his composure completely. “Someone sent something for me?” Ella asked.

Struan glared. “How do you know someone sent something for you?”

She had the grace to blush a little. “I was …I heard the doorbell and looked down to see who it was.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

Ella, dressed in one of the overly simply-cut gowns she favored, swept to a little gilt chair and sat down. She twitched her
lavender-colored skirts and crossed her hands in her lap. Too nonchalant, Struan thought. And too exotically beautiful for
any father’s peace of mind. Her eyes were particularly dark today, her skin translucent despite its burnished quality. Her
blue-black hair had been tightly restrained in braids and knotted at her crown. Rather than producing the plain effect most
would achieve, the stark style only accentuated her mysterious perfection. A man should not be burdened with such extraordinary
loveliness to protect and guide.

He glanced at Justine. Their eyes met, and he saw her understanding of his feelings. They could not love this girl more. She
and her brother, Max, were as dear to them as little Edward and Sarah.

“Ella?” he said sharply, flexing his shoulders. “Perhaps we should have a discussion. Certain matters are deeply concerning
to me. Set that down, Crabley. Leave us, please.”

He caught Justine’s frantic gesturing and stopped himself from chastising Ella for her escapade at Sibley’s. Justine kept
no secrets from him, but she easily extracted a price for her honesty. She had made him promise he would not mention the episode
unless it was repeated.

Once Crabley had closed the door behind him, Struan turned back to Ella. He studied her closely. “You don’t appear rested,”
he said, ignoring Justine’s grimace. “Are you well?”

“Very well, thank you, Papa,” Ella said. Her attention was on the green silk-covered parcel.

“I understand your mama explained to you that I’m to receive visitors this afternoon.”

Ella’s carefully relaxed posture tensed. “We don’t have to speak of that now,” Justine said in a rush. “After all, Struan,
this is all very premature. Ella hasn’t as much as showed her nose to the
ton
yet.”

“The suggestion is that we should consider avoiding the Season altogether,” Struan responded, uncomfortably aware of his own
stress.

Justine came to him and rested her hands on his. “No Season? You cannot mean it.”

“I didn’t say I meant it, merely that the suitor’s father did make the remark in his letter to me that a wedding would be
a better use of a large amount of my blunt than what he termed pretty and pointless affairs.”

“Oh!” Justine blinked rapidly and leaned closer. She lowered her voice. “She is upset, Struan. Please do not persist in this.”

“Please don’t whisper,” Ella said. “I have no intention of marrying this person who needs his parent to speak for him. How
very strange. A man too immature to deal with his own affairs, but who has the temerity to offer for me in marriage. Of course,
you will not see him, Papa.”

Struan smothered a smile. “Of course I will see them, young lady. I have made inquiries. Apparently the Woking-hams have very
deep pockets and a fine estate in Lancashire. Lord Wokingham’s letter refers to a previous meeting of ours. Although I confess
that I have no memory of the event, courtesy demands that I at least entertain his suggestions.” He wished he could recall
the meeting to which Wokingham referred.

“Piffle,” Justine said distinctly.

“Why,” Struan said, anticipating an outburst of annoyance, “I do believe you sound more like your grandma every day.”

Justine didn’t disappoint him. “I shall ignore that comment.” But she scowled darkly at the suggestion that she resembled
her termagant dowager duchess grandparent in any manner. “Sin’s ears, Struan, Ella’s right. A creature who needs his father’s
voice is not ready to ask for any woman’s hand in marriage, much less the hand of the most beautiful girl in England. Wait
until she appears at the Eagletons’ tomorrow. We shall be inundated with gentleman callers. Do not see these people today.”

He found it almost impossible to deny Justine anything, but he had already agreed to see the Wokinghams. “We are in suspense,
Ella,” he said, patting Justine’s hands and reaching for the surprisingly heavy gift. “No card came with this, but I understand
it is for you. Open it.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Justine whispered.

He kissed her elegant nose and whispered back, “Yes, I am, my love.”

Ella took the bundle from him, set it back on the desk, and carefully untied the golden braid. She parted the silk and her
hands went to her cheeks.

Within the silk rested a pouch of woven gold, heavy and soft—and shimmering richly. Here and there in the priceless fabric,
cunningly placed diamonds winked with sly brilliance. “Gad,” Struan murmured. “A small fortune, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You seem remarkably taken with displays of wealth today,” Justine said sharply. “What is it supposed to be? Do look at it,
Ella.”

Ella bent over the exquisite thing. “The diamonds are woven into the gold—like beads into fine lace. So perfect.”

“Very old, I should imagine,” Struan said. “Look at the thing. There’s got to be some sort of note.”

His haste earned him another frown from both his wife and daughter.

Ella touched the gold and it fell open.

“Oh, how clever,” Justine exclaimed. “It’s an evening reticule. See the gold strings to close it—and the white satin lining.
I’ve never seen the like.”

“No,” Ella said softly. She leaned over and picked up something that had lain hidden in the folds of white satin. “A red glass
star on a chain. How strange.”

Struan narrowed his eyes. “A ruby star. Incredible workmanship. I do believe the Wokinghams have decided to ease their way
here.”

Ella wasn’t listening to him. She held the fabulous ruby star in her palm and gathered up the little golden web bag with its
dusting of diamond sparkles.

“Perhaps you are more interested in Pomeroy Wokingham now?” Struan asked. “After all, he wouldn’t send you such a priceless
thing if he weren’t very serious about his suit, would he?”

Ella held the bag to her face and sniffed deeply. “Pomeroy isn’t a name I could ever come to care for in a man,” she said
indistinctly. “He did not send this.” Without another word, she turned away and left the room.

If the beating of one’s heart could make one deaf, then she would surely never hear again. Ella sped belowstairs and through
the kitchens. Cook and three maids all paused and dipped curtsies. Curtsies, Ella thought vaguely. How her life had changed
since the night when Papa had saved her from the horror in Whitechapel.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling brightly. Every eye went to the treasure she carried. Ella held it aloft and said, “Isn’t
it a lovely thing? Useless, but lovely. Did Crabley come this way?”

“In his pantry, miss,” Cook said, wiping her hands on a vo-luminous white apron. Red-faced from working over the fire, she
blew at escaping strands of hair. The aroma of nutmeg and stewing apples promised delicious things to come.

Ella hurried on to Crabley’s pantry and knocked. She waited for him to bid her entry. “Morning, Crabley,” she said pleasantly
once she was inside the comfortable little room. This was where he held court over the household’s fine crystal and china,
and dispatched orders to various underlings.

He got hastily to his feet and set down a book beside his brown leather chair. “Miss Ella?”