My Unfair Lady (17 page)

   "Meg seems to get along real well with the animals," suggested Maria, referring to their young chambermaid. "And I think she'd be interested in being elevated to a lady's maid, even if for a short time. Ya' might want me to ask her."

   Summer slid her knife back in its sheath and nodded.

   "Now listen, Summer Wine Lee. If I didn't think the Duke of Monchester was gonna look out after ya', I wouldn't think of going. But he will, and there's more there than yore willing to see, just 'cause ya' think you owe some kinda' loyalty to this Monte fellow. And I'm not saying it's wrong… just that sometimes things change." And Maria ducked through the adjoining door of their rooms, as if afraid that Summer might change her mind about her leaving, or that she might herself.

   
I don't mind change,
thought Summer, as the door closed behind Maria with a slam.
I just mind losing
the people I love.
She knew she should follow Maria, try to find out why she thought she couldn't have children, for they were soul sisters, weren't they? And they shouldn't have secrets from each other! But she couldn't breathe, and the gaslights kept dimming at the sides of her vision, like a tunnel of darkness was about to enclose her. And she realized that for a long time, Maria had been her only family, that as much as Pa loved her he'd never been with her, always trying to make money, as if somehow that would make Ma's choice to marry him, to cut herself off from her rich family, the right thing to do.

   But Ma had died when Summer was little, and Pa continued his quest for wealth, telling her that what he'd wanted for Ma, he now wanted for her. For the first time, Summer wondered if Pa really only wanted it for himself.

   Why had she never thought about any of this before?

   Why did Ma have to die?

   The sound of a soft whimper and the slight tug on her chemise made her look down. "Chi-chi?"

   The dog whined again and pulled harder on her undergarment.

   "What is it, girl?"

   Summer followed the little dog over to the basket in the corner of her room. The two baby foxes lay sleeping, snuggled up to each other for warmth. Chi-chi nosed them, gave them a few licks, and raised woeful eyes up at Summer.

   "Yes, you've been a good mama to them, haven't you?"

   Chi-chi growled and nosed the cubs again.

   Summer crouched and reached out a shaking hand to stroke the little critters. One of the babies wiggled at her touch. The other lay stiff beneath the pads of her fingertips. "Oh no."

   Summer picked up the small bundle with both hands. The baby fox's eyes were frozen and unseeing, the body stiff as old bread; a little pink tongue dangled from the open mouth. Summer choked on a sob. Chi-chi stood on hind legs and whimpered, licked the soft hair, and entreated Summer with her eyes to do something. To bring back this little piece of life.

   "I can't, Chi… Once they leave you, there's nothing you can do."

   The dog growled at her, then crawled into the basket, licking feverishly at the remaining pup, pricking her ears at the plaintive mew that resulted, then curling her body protectively around her baby.

   "Chi-chi?"

   The dog turned her head away.

   Tears rained down Summer's face, unheeded. "Tarnation, it ain't my fault! Some people—critters— just ain't strong enough to live without their mothers!" She was talking with that "twang" to her voice that Maria refused to give up, but she didn't care. Her eyes had turned to the lifeless thing in her hands, and she couldn't take them away. Her brain quit functioning, and that wall of blackness that had threatened her earlier began to close around her in earnest.

   Summer stood, and her feet began to move. At first she thought they'd take her to Maria, but instead they headed to her door, which she opened and stepped through—unconcerned that she had on nothing but her shift and boots—walked her down the hallway, and stopped in front of the Duke of Monchester's door.

   Summer didn't even wonder why she stood there. She tried the knob, and when it turned, she stepped into his room.

   Byron had just removed his dinner jacket, had started unbuttoning his white linen shirt when he heard the door to his room open. He blinked at the apparition before him, thinking he'd indulged in too much after dinner brandy, for the angel standing in his doorway looked just like Summer, as he'd sometimes fantasized, in nothing but her shift, the outline of her legs and the thrust of her breasts showing through the thin material. His groin squeezed in familiar pleasure-pain when his gaze was drawn to the dark triangle of hair where her legs met, and the outline of her boots. Boots?

   "Summer?"

   She advanced on him like a sleepwalker, her hands held out before her.

   "Are you awake?"

   She didn't answer, but as she neared, he could see that her eyes were open, glassy with the tears that streamed down her face. His heart skipped a beat, and adrenaline rushed through him. He'd kill whoever had done this to her.

"What's wrong?"

   She still wouldn't talk, although her lower lip trembled, and like a child showing a hurt to its mother, she lifted her hands to reveal what lay in them. A bundle of red fur… one of the fox cubs, and dead as a doornail. Good grief, the woman had gotten him all out of sorts over dead vermin!

   "Fellow didn't make it?"

   Summer shook her head in such dejected agony that he sighed. How many times had he seen one of these animals ripped apart by the hounds and hadn't batted an eye? But this girl had made the creature special, had made its life seem a precious thing. He remembered the care in which he'd carried them home under her watchful eye.

   She was taking this unusually hard. He wondered if there was more to this, then shrugged. He'd not likely figure her out if he lived to be a hundred. But he thought back to the pets he'd cared for when he was a lad, and knew just what to do.

   The duke threw his jacket back on and led her from the room. She allowed him to lead her like a real sleepwalker; let him throw a cloak over her shoulder, take her through the maze of hallways, down two flights of stairs and out to the gardens. They'd been lucky and hadn't run into anyone, and he breathed a bit more easily, unsure how he'd explain an excursion into the garden in the middle of the night with this young American. He glanced at the bundle in her hand. It wasn't bloody likely that anyone would believe the truth.

   "Where the red roses bloom, I think."

   Her eyes glowed in the moonlight and gazed at him with absolute trust. Byron tugged at his cravat and led her on, through the maze of hedgerows, past the tinkling pond, through the herb garden redolent with sweet lavender and pungent rosemary, under the trellis, and into the rose garden.

   "Which one?"

   She pointed at a bush heavily laden with blossoms, the roses just blooming, their fragrance overwhelming the night air. He crouched and swept the dead layer of leaves aside to reveal the solid earth, and wished that he'd thought to bring a spade. A knife thunked in the dirt next to him, blade first through the soil, and he prided himself on the fact that he hadn't flinched, amazed that she'd risk the blade on this gritty soil. He chopped and dug until he had a hole deeper than necessary, rose and removed his favorite handkerchief from his pocket—one of the few left that his own mother had embroidered with the family crest.

   He unfolded it, Summer reluctantly laid the fox's body in it, and he wrapped it up as if it were a delicate work of art. He put the bundle in the hole, slowly scraped the earth back over it, and patted it gently when he'd finished. He cleaned her knife and handed it back to her, ready to return to the house, but she stood rooted to the spot, continuing to stare at him expectantly.

   
Now what?
he wondered. With a groan, he remem bered the ceremonies from his youth again. He placed his hand over his heart, from the corner of his eye saw Summer do the same, and whispered into the darkness of the night, "You were a good friend. May God see your soul safely into heaven. Amen."

   He glanced over at the American. Her tears had finally stopped, and the beginnings of a smile played along her lips. Byron gave a sigh of relief and began to lead her back to the house. "Quickly now, before someone sees us. And if you ever tell anyone else about this, I will firmly deny it."

   She sniffed, and he was gratified to see a smile flash out.

   They went through the same back door they'd left, only this time the butler stood there to open it for them. A sleepy-eyed cook and two kitchen maids peered at them as they passed the previously empty kitchen, and no fewer than seven chambermaids watched them as they climbed steps and passed through hallways.

   The Duke of Monchester cursed under his breath. They'd been seen leaving the house, and word had spread like wildfire. How would he do his job and make her respectable to society now, after completely ruining her reputation? He should have taken the dead animal, told her he'd bury it, and made her go back to her room.

   He stole a glance at her glowing face. But then he wouldn't have had the pleasure of watching as he erased her sadness. And she wouldn't have been as content as she was now, for he'd remembered the feeling of losing his own dogs, and the drama and satisfaction of putting the animals to rest. She'd brought all of that back to him, and he accepted it for the gift he felt it to be.

   But it came with a price. He sighed again. There was only one way he could think of to save her reputa tion, and he'd already considered marrying, hadn't he? She'd changed his mind on that score at least. Maybe it was fitting that she be the one he marry. After all, her fortune would be just as useful as the Lady Banfour's.

   Byron felt surprised to discover, now that he'd thought it out with perfect logic, that he didn't mind the idea of marrying this American girl at all.

   He reached past her to open the door to her room, breathing in the scent of roses that still clung to her unbound hair, brushing her arm with his own, setting his nerves afire. Had his lust for her made the idea of marriage more palatable?

   She walked past the threshold, her back still to him, and let the cloak around her shoulders fall to the floor, revealing the curve of her waist and the roundness of her bottom through the thin material of her chemise. He groaned, muttered a "good night," and started to close the door.

   "Don't leave me all alone."

   His hand tightened on the doorknob, threatening to tear it from its pins. What did she want from him… Comfort? He'd spent years honing his words to be witty and hurtful; he knew of only one way to bring pleasure to a woman, and he'd be a cad to take advantage of her vulnerability. If she'd just said, "don't go" or "please stay," he would've had a ready refusal. But her words, and the way she spoke them, as if she'd been abandoned all her life and couldn't bear it if he did so as well… He shook his head. "I'll be right across the hall if you should need anything," he managed to say.

   Her head bowed, he heard the rip of cloth, and the thin chemise fell from her shoulders, past her golden brown hair, revealing the curve of her back, slowing its progress as it slithered over the mounds of her bottom, and then with a rush that made him gasp, it sank to the floor in a puddle around her boots.

   
Only a cad would take advantage of her
, he reminded himself. But he couldn't prevent the thought that if he'd already decided to marry her because he'd compromised her reputation, why not do the deed for which he was thought to be guilty?

   He tried, one more time, to close the door.

   Summer spun, her hair flipping over her shoulders and cascading across her breasts, her hands at her hips, her legs splayed wide in her high-heeled boots, making her nakedness somehow even more exciting.

   If it weren't for those
bloody
boots, he might've had a chance.

HER CHIN TILTED. "DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME."

   A demand. His brow lifted, and he quirked a grin. "I wouldn't think of it."

   Her eyes widened in surprise and then she lowered her head in her hands and her shoulders began to heave with her sobs, and before he knew it, he'd slammed the door behind him and gathered her into his arms, all that glorious, soft, warm skin in his arms, and laid her on the bed. He pulled her hands away from her face and kissed them, the backs and the palms, then each and every finger, until he saw the tears dry up for the second time tonight and felt her body shiver in response to his attentions.

   Would he ever forget the feeling of power that coursed through him when he realized that he was responsible for drying up her tears? Oh, admittedly, he was very good at causing women to cry; he'd reduced more than one conceited debutante into a blubbering mess with his cutting remarks. He'd just had no idea that doing the reverse would result in such pleasure.

   He took each hand and laid it next to her head, letting his sight travel over the length of her, to the sweet curve of her neck, to the pink tips of her breasts, across the flatness of her stomach to the dark golden curls between her thighs, down the length of her legs to the soles of her boots. She was perfect, and if his eyes had the power, he would've burned her with his gaze.