Not Quite a Lady (16 page)

She’d viewed Darius’s dairy as a man would have done, assessing its potential, weighing costs versus profit.

No wonder she’d looked so pleased. She’d seen through the filth and accumulated rubbish to its potential, and gone to work. When he’d found her, she’d been proud and pleased with herself, as she’d every right to be, because she’d judged correctly.

Darius’s conscience stabbed hard, and Logic did nothing to ameliorate the pain. He, who prided himself on his intelligence, on his objectivity, had behaved like the stupidest, most immature of men.

Was this what his father saw in him? Intellectual conceit? Immaturity? Close-mindedness?

At that moment a fair-haired boy—one of the workmen’s apprentices, apparently—ran up to them, cap in hand. He stopped short, his face reddening. He bowed to them separately. Then, tightly clutching his cap, he looked about him. Clearly he was lost. Clearly, too, he was not bold enough to address his superiors without leave.

“Yes?” Lady Lithby said with a kindly smile.

Thus invited, he spoke, the words spilling out in a rush: “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I’m Mr. Tyler’s apprentice, Pip. They told me he was looking for me, and he was here with you.”

“He went upstairs a moment ago,” she said. “To the master bedroom.” She explained how to get there. The boy bowed again and ran off in the direction she’d indicated.

“The master bedroom?” Darius said. He’d given orders that no one was to enter that room. “I thought—”

“I know, I know,” Lady Lithby said. “We were to leave it alone. But you had not realized the plaster was so bad.”

Darius recalled—and he shouldn’t have needed a reminder—how a piece of ornamental plasterwork had nearly killed Goodbody. “Of course. It had slipped my mind. Naturally it must be repaired.”

“Your manservant has removed your belongings to the south bedroom,” she said. “Charlotte is upstairs as well, in the corner guest chamber. She’s sorting the contents of that curious trunk.”

Darius searched his mind. Nothing about a trunk there. “What trunk?” he said.

“Oh, did no one tell you? They found it when they were clearing out the dairy, under a lot of broken chairs and tables.”

Within the top layers of the trunk’s contents, Charlotte found an assortment of elaborate masks, half a dozen exquisite fans, a hooded cloak of a deep blue silk, a linen stomacher embroidered with birds of paradise, and an old-fashioned corset. There were a few letters and books, too, including a copy of Alexander Pope’s
The Rape of the Lock,
its pages filled with pressed flowers: ancient roses, violets, daisies, pansies, and forget-me-nots.

Last, she found a small black silk bag that tied with ribbons.

Charlotte was kneeling on a cushion in front of the open trunk, the various contents she’d unearthed neatly sorted and arranged about her. She frowned over the mysterious bag in her hand. It did not seem sturdy enough to serve as a purse of any kind. What did it hold? Handkerchiefs? Was it an old style of pocket to wear under one’s skirts? But why would it need such large ribbons?

From somewhere to her right a deep voice said, “A wig bag. I haven’t seen one of those since Cousin Hector died.”

Her heart instantly sped to triple time. She made herself turn calmly in the direction of the voice. Mr. Carsington stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded over his big chest.

How long had he stood there, watching her?

And wasn’t “stood” a completely inadequate word for what he did? He not only seemed to take over the room even before he entered it but made the space seem too small to contain him. This was probably because he occupied her, completely.

She was aware with all her being of the arrogant Apollo on the threshold, his hair and eyes glinting gold. She was aware, too aware, of the broad shoulders and chest, the taut waist and long legs. She could almost feel those powerful arms wrapping about her as they’d done yesterday. She could almost feel the warmth of his hard body…the touch of his mouth on her cheek…those teasing kisses that had made her giggle, made her feel like a girl again…

Don’t forget how near you came to doing exactly what you did when you were a girl,
she told herself.

“A wig bag,” she repeated calmly, while she rose calmly, too, while every pulse point of her body seemed to be jumping against her skin.

“A gentleman would wear it to tie up the queue of his wig,” said Mr. Carsington. “Cousin Hector was one of my mother’s relations. An old-fashioned fellow.” He paused, frowning. “As I seem to be. Lady Charlotte, I must speak to you.”

“Are you not doing so?” she said.

He entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“You must open the door,” she said.

He closed his eyes, made a growling sound, opened his eyes, then opened the door a crack. “Very well, if you insist on having witnesses.”

Her heart sped up to quadruple time. “Witnesses?”

“I have come to speak to you about what happened yesterday,” he said.

She was sweating. Why had she not thought to have a servant open the windows?

“Nothing happened,” she said.

“Something did happen,” he said. “I may be a blockhead but I do understand my duty.”

He advanced and, to her horror, sank down on one knee.

She retreated a pace. “No! Get up! You must get up.”

“If I stand I won’t be abject enough,” he said. “By rights I ought to crawl on my belly.”

“Mr. Carsington, really,” she said. “How can you be so medieval?”

“Medieval?”

“Yes. It was—it was nothing. Good heavens, I am twenty-seven years old. Really. You must get up. If you do not, I will not listen to you.” She edged around him and started toward the door.

“You must,” he said. “I have been tormented like—like—well, I’m not sure what, but it’s deuced unpleasant and it’s either this or hit my head against the door, repeatedly, until I’m unconscious.”

She stopped and turned and stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m here to apologize,” he said. “For my stupidity and ingratitude and—and close-mindedness. Instead of fussing about curtains and wall coverings, you undertook a project of economic value to Beechwood. A great many men would not have seen the potential of that pit of filth on my property. You did. I most humbly beg your pardon for my childish, ungentlemanly behavior. I should have gone on my knees to thank you, instead of mocking and spurning your work and care in my dairy.”

A wave of relief and happiness flooded through her. It was even better than the happiness she’d felt yesterday when the servants left and she could stand back and simply enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. She had felt so proud of herself…and so disappointed in his reaction.

If only she’d had the good sense to walk out then, instead of trying to explain herself, trying to win an acknowledgment, a sign of approval.

She’d learned her lesson, though. She would keep her distance from now on. “The dairy,” she said. “Oh.”

He rose. “Yes, the dairy.” His golden eyes narrowed and focused, falconlike, on her. “What did you think I came to say?”

What else but “Marry me”? To answer yes was out of the question. He’d find out she wasn’t the innocent he thought she was, and he’d hate her for deceiving him. Naturally she must say no…but oh, it was a great relief not to have to deal with that wretched business at all.

“Nothing,” she said brightly. “Thank you. I accept your apology. I must be going.” She continued toward the door.

He swiftly overtook her and blocked her exit. “You thought I was offering matrimony,” he said. “That was why you looked so frightened.”

“I was not frightened,” she lied. “I was shocked. I could not believe that a man of your—of your progressive inclinations would believe it necessary to—to…propose marriage.” She swallowed. “Because of…a minor incident.”

His eyebrows went up. “A minor incident like a kiss,” he said, his voice very low. “And an orgasm. But do you know,” he added meditatively, “marriage did not strike me as an appropriate course of action.”

And why does this fail to surprise me?
she thought. What rake would ever consider marriage appropriate?

“Good,” she said. “Because it would be silly.” She remembered the right thing she’d found to say yesterday, the way to make him hate her.

She lifted her chin and put her nose up and said, “I told you that the episode didn’t signify.”

“The episode,” he said. “You mean when I put my tongue down your throat and lifted your skirts and put my hand on your pudenda in that hardly-worth-mentioning way.”

“It would be good of you not to mention it,” she said.

“I’m not good,” he said.

“That much I have ascertained for myself,” she said. “And now if you would be so good—I mean to say, if you would refrain from blocking the door, I should like to take myself someplace where you are not.”

He pulled the door fully open. She marched through it, her chin so high that her neck ached.

“Just one thing,” he said.

“Yes?” she said without turning around.

“You won’t put the dirt back in the dairy?” he said.

“Certainly not,” she said. “That would be childish. Good day, Mr. Carsington.”

She sailed away in all her haughty state, back poker straight, nose aloft.

“Look out!” a young voice called.

Too late.

She felt the bucket before she saw it. Her foot struck it at the same time she heard the warning, and the bucket toppled over, spilling water. She stopped short, but her thin-soled shoes slid on the wet floor. She tottered first one way then the other, trying to get her balance, but she couldn’t. One foot went out from under her, and she saw the floor coming up to meet her…

Then strong arms lashed about her, pulling her up and back. She fell back against Mr. Carsington, her heart beating too fast, her breath coming too quick and shallow.

It all happened quickly and could have ended quickly. As soon as she became aware of the strength and warmth of the body bracing hers, as soon as she realized she was sinking there, her brain softening, she started to pull away.

Then she saw him.

A boy looking up at her, eyes wide.

He was saying something and Mr. Carsington was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words through the drumming in her ears. She saw the child, then she couldn’t see him because everything was blurry, suddenly.

She drew in a long, unsteady breath and let it out. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

He was still there and it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fancy.

Pale gold hair with a wayward curl and the world’s most obstinate cowlick.

Her hair.

But the eyes weren’t hers.

One was blue, one hazel.

Geordie’s eyes.

Don’t faint,
she told herself.
Whatever you do, don’t faint.

Chapter 8

Darius expected Lady Charlotte to break away from him, with an elbow to his ribs for emphasis. Instead she went still, very still. In that strange stillness he became too aware of his hands on her waist and the scent of her and the smooth skin of her neck, inches from his mouth.

His hands itched to move upward—and downward and sideways and everywhere. He could draw her back into the room and close the door and…

Oh, yes, there was a brilliant idea.

Let go. Now. And go away. Far away.

Before he could do so, he felt a tremor go through her. Had she twisted her ankle when she tripped? Sprained it?

“Are you all right?” he said.

The boy spoke at the same time: “I’m so sorry, your ladyship. I saw that bucket when I came by the first time. I knew it oughtn’t to be left there.” He looked ready to cry.

“Never mind, never mind—Pip, is it?” Darius said.

The boy nodded, his worried gaze on Lady Charlotte. “It’s actually Philip, your ladyship. Philip Ogden. But everyone calls me Pip. I knew that bucket oughtn’t to be left there, but Mr. Tyler was shouting for me. I meant to come right back but I didn’t get here quick enough.”

“No harm done,” Darius said. “Her ladyship isn’t hurt.”
I hope.
“Still, the floor is slippery, and someone else might take a tumble. Find a maid, as quick as you can, to mop it up.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy was off like a shot.

“Are you all right?” Darius asked her.

“Yes, yes.”

“You can stand on your own? You haven’t sprained an ankle?”

“No.”

He let go of her waist but as he moved to one side of her, she grasped his arm. He looked at her. Her face was as pale as death. His heart pumped harder. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Did you see your life flash past you? I should have thought you’d be accustomed to falling on your face. Really, you are the clumsiest woman I’ve ever met.”

“I need some air,” she said.

No flash of the blue eyes, no cutting answer. Truly alarmed now, he swept her up into his arms.

She didn’t object. She did not beat on his shoulders or slap him or box his ears or even try to crush his vanity. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. “I need some air,” she said.

He carried her back into the room where he’d found her, crossed to the nearest window, and deposited her on the window seat. He flung open the window. She leaned on the sill, facing outward but with her eyes closed.

He sat beside her, anxiously studying her face. By degrees, the color began to return.

Finally, she opened her eyes, turned away from the window, and met his gaze. “How odd,” she said. “For a moment I felt quite lightheaded. Perhaps it was from poking about in that musty trunk. Though today is cool enough, I should have had the windows opened. Or perhaps the dizziness was a delayed reaction to the shocking sight of you on bended knee. And the shocking sound of you apologizing.”

“You couldn’t be half as shocked as I was, having to do it,” he said. Her color was returning but all was not well. The tautness at the corners of her eyes bespoke pain. Her voice was thin and fragile.