Not Quite Darcy (13 page)

The moonlight cast deep shadows under his cheekbones. With his eyes still closed and the expression of raw sexuality writ large across his expression, it seemed to her that she was watching an entirely different man than the William Brown she thought she knew.

Heat uncoiled from her center as she watched him, listened to his breathing quicken.

Tapered fingers stroked his shaft, tugging it gently, hips bucking up slightly on the down-stroke. His right hand moved down to work the tip of his cock—squeezing and teasing the head with his fingertips, while his left hand continued sliding along his shaft in ever quickening strokes. His breaths came in ragged gulps and the expression on his face was rapturous.

She stepped just a little bit closer. Her feet pulled out of the darkness as if by magnets and solidly placed her in the moonlight's path.

He made the softest “uh” groaning sounds as his hand worked the shaft in short, almost frantic strokes. “Uh, uh, Uhliza,” he called—an almost desperate cry. He ejaculated. A pearl-colored strand suspended in the moonlight for a moment before splashing back down to land upon the back of his hand and across her pantaloons.

Spent, he remained still in the moonlight. Reclining in the chair, hand cradling his cock, her underwear still settled around his groin like a kind of blanket.

She couldn't move. She could only gape in wonder upon that very singular image of hand and cock and underwear. It wasn't until she heard his sharp intake of breath that she realized that she was no longer hidden in the darkness. That she had stepped out into view and…

Quickly, she looked up to his face, but it was too late. Oh,
damn her
, too late. Eyes no longer closed, no longer in profile, he stared at her with a look of abject horror on his face.

He broke eye contact immediately and leapt to his feet. He tugged up his trousers faster than it seemed humanly possible. With a lunge, he slammed the door.

And then all was silence.

Oh god.
Now what?

Chapter Fourteen

The clock in the corner of the library read half past four in the morning. William sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the blank sheet of paper before him.

Dear god, what had he done?

For the long, unforgiving night, he'd floundered in a sea of shame and rage at his own stupidity, at his unforgivable depravity. Lost in self-loathing, he scarcely could rise to the level of completing a thought, let alone pulling himself together to the point of composing a letter. He longed for a hole in the ground and a way to pull the earth down around him. He wanted to escape, to simply wink out of existence. Not to die—his mother, his responsibilities wouldn't allow that. It wouldn't be the gentlemanly thing to do.
God.
His actions had indeed shown him to be a thing, but not a
gentlemanly
thing. Besides, he didn't deserve the peacefulness of non-existence. He deserved to suffer for what he'd done.

Perhaps the only fitting punishment would be carrying on, writing this letter to her, trying to set things right.

He couldn't imagine seeing her again. The shame of it nearly brought him to his knees. But neither could he send her away. She was blameless in this matter. He was a lecherous cad and entirely at fault. Feeling damned no matter which path he chose, he twisted his hands through his hair, tugging viciously.

He had to do something. He knew that. He'd caused this disgusting mess and he had to clean it up.

When he glanced up at the clock again, he winced. Mrs. McLaughlin would be arriving within the hour.

He might not be prepared to write this letter, to say farewell to Eliza, but whether he was ready or not, the day was about to begin and would sweep him along, regardless of his intent. If his concern for her was genuine, he would take the steps to set things right with her, no matter how painful it was to him personally.

William took a deep breath, and set the pen down upon the sheet of white.

Miss Pepper:

It is with utmost sincerity that I express my profound regret at placing you in a compromising position last evening. Words cannot convey the depth of my remorse and shame.

It is most understandable that due to these regrettable circumstances, for which I am entirely to blame, you will undoubtedly seek employment elsewhere. As you leave our employ, please be assured that you will be supported in this endeavor by a letter of reference, in which I would offer the highest recommendation. Every assistance will be given to any agency of employment you would choose to utilise, and I would be responsible for any financial obligations that would accompany such an agency.

As you will no doubt wish to vacate your position immediately, rest assured your salary will continue to be disbursed to you. If you would kindly contact Mrs. MacLaughlin as to the details regarding your new place of residence, I will ensure that the monies will be forwarded to you properly. I attach to this letter a five-pound note which should see to your needs in the short term.

It is my earnest hope that you will accept this settlement and payment for grievances as you find suitable employment in a situation that is more comfortable for you.

With deepest regret for my offenses toward you and gratitude for service to my mother, I remain,

Yours,

William H. Brown

He had neither the heart nor the time to reread the vile thing. While the ink dried, he slipped into his room and grabbed clothing at random. He stuffed a few suits into a suitcase in a jumble, then returned to the library for the letter. After reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his money clip and peeled off a note. Five pounds represented nearly half a year's wages for the girl, but leaving the money only fed his guilt.

That's right, William. Pay Eliza off like a common whore.

He gripped the edge of his desk to steady himself as a wave of guilt nearly brought him to his knees. He placed the money in the center of the paper and folded the letter around it. He walked down the hall as silently as he could manage and slid the letter beneath Eliza's door.

Sorrow and shame wrapped around him like a cloak, he slipped out into the cold, predawn air.

William spent the train journey to St. Albans in a fog. Leaving the scene of his crime had done little to lift the cloud of shame from his head. By the time he arrived at the station, the mid-morning sun shone down on the village, but he felt no warmth from it. When he passed by the small village inn, he paused for a moment, then turned and stepped inside. The tavern on the ground floor was sparsely furnished, with rough-hewn benches and a worn bar, but it was clean. The buxom, gray-haired proprietress looked up from tending the fire grate.

“Good day to you, sir. How may I help you?”

“Good morning.” William gave a slight bow. “I'd like to enquire if you have a room to let.”

“Certainly, sir.” She stood up from her task, looking pleased. “Just for the night?”

An image rose in William's mind—of her. Eliza's beautiful face, illuminated by the moonlight, as she saw him covered in his shame. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I would need to book lodgings for the week, I should think. Have you anything available?”

“Yes.” She padded over to the bar and pulled out a ledger. “Though we've nothing fancy, you should know, sir. We can offer you a bed in a simple room and a roof that doesn't leak.”

“I'm certain that will be more than adequate.” William walked over to sign the register. If the rooms were Spartan, so much the better. Even a monk's cell would be too good for him. He supposed it was the wrong era to request a bed of nails and would have to content himself with a lumpy mattress. Perhaps bedbugs, if he was fortunate.

Once he'd registered, he left his suitcase with the woman and walked to the edge of the town. Crellweather Sanatorium perched on a hill just above the village proper. Its whitewashed brick walls gave it the look of a land-locked lighthouse. The institution had only been built the previous year as a halfway measure for chronic sufferers of tuberculosis. City dwellers often were too ill to travel all the way to the popular spas and sanatoriums with their fresh mountain air. St. Albans was far enough from the city to provide a clean atmosphere, but close enough that William could commute to his home by train.

Mother had spent a week at the facility shortly after it opened. The founder, Dr. Crellweather, was a proponent of the water cure. Though his mother had complained to him at length about the methods they employed, the respite had eased her breathing for a time. And it was as Dr. Hill had informed her, they had little choice considering the fragility of Beatrix Brown's health.

After scaling the hill to the sanatorium, he headed along the wide, white corridor, past the line of patient rooms. The building featured large windows, which were often propped open, even on the coldest of days and beds covered with brightly bleached linens. The place exuded an air of purity.

He climbed the stairs to Mother's room on the second floor. As he walked through the door, he saw a nurse was engaged in cold-water therapy with his mother. Not wishing to disturb them, William walked to the corner of the room and waited, unseen.

The nurse was the same young blonde who had spent so much time settling his mother into her room. Yesterday he'd known her name. But yesterday he'd had his head about him and hadn't yet torn his world apart. Today he couldn't remember her name for the life of him.

“If you'll please just lift your leg, Mrs. Brown.” The nurse wrapped his mother's leg in a dripping wet towel.

“So cold.” His mother's voice was just above a whisper.

The nameless nurse lowered his mother's leg and reached her hand to her forehead. “It's an important part of your cure, ma'am. Only a few more minutes.”

William watched in silence. After a few moments, she peeled the damp towels from his mother's legs and plopped them in a ceramic basin at her feet. When she turned to pull up her patient's covers, she saw William in the corner of the room. She jumped in surprise.

“Oh, sir! I didn't see you standing there.” She brought a hand up to her chest.

“I'm sorry to have startled you.” William reached up to tug on his hair. “So very sorry.”

“It's quite all right, sir. You didn't cause me distress, I assure you.” She turned toward her patient. “Mrs. Brown, you have a visitor. Since you don't have any therapy scheduled until after lunch, I'll leave you be for now.” With a nod toward William, she gathered up her supplies and slipped out of the room.

“Is that you, William?” His mother's voice wheezed. She didn't sound as though she'd improved a bit from the previous day. William stepped toward her bed. She looked pale and so small beneath the covers, more like a child than a woman. He tried his best to meet her eyes, to smile at her.

“Oh William,” she gasped softly. “What's happened?”

He dropped his gaze immediately. “Nothing, Mother. I'm fine.” He smoothed down his hair.

“You are most certainly”—she paused for a breath—“not fine.” She took two more breaths in rapid succession. “I know you, my boy.”

“I had a poor night's sleep. That's all it is.” And now he could add lying to his mother to his list of sins. “The question is, how are you? Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, son.” She waved her hand in dismissal, but he could tell that even that small movement took an effort from her.

“And have you been eating?”

“Yes, yes. Milk.” She shuddered. Dr. Crellweather was a great proponent of dairy products and Mother couldn't abide the stuff.

William reached for her hand and held it carefully, the way he might pick up a dried rose. Her pale skin stretched across her bones, fragile as tissue paper. Despite her bath, she still had a slight temperature.

“I'm afraid I am”—she took a breath—“very poor company at present.”

“Not at all,” William said. “Why don't you see if you're able to catch a little sleep while I speak to the doctor?”

“I believe I shall.” She took another breath, then, “Thank you, dear.” She closed her eyes. Red veins webbed across her eyelids, an ugly contrast to her too-pale skin.

William set off in search of Dr. Crellweather, which led him on a winding tour of the sanatorium. Unlike it had been during their previous visit, the place was now full to bursting. Consumption was doing a booming business in London, no thanks to the heavy clouds of industry constantly banking the city. He found the doctor, at last, busy instructing the staff in the operation of a new device. William waited patiently for the lecture to end. Dr. Crellweather was demonstrating a portable shower contraption designed for patients who were not ambulatory. Secretly, William hoped the staff remained ignorant as to its operation—at least until after his mother had been discharged. It was a cold-water shower and she would loathe the thing.

Dr. Crellweather was a tall, strikingly handsome man, with large brown muttonchops and a monocle, which William suspected was more affectation than vision aid. Once his lecture was finished, he walked toward William, extending his hand in greeting. He appeared quite harried, his perpetual state of being, and assured William that, presuming Mrs. Brown would cooperate fully, she should be feeling much better within the week. William thanked the man and hurried back to his mother's side.

When he reached her room, she was awake. A teapot and cups had been placed at her side table and she was eyeing them with a distrustful expression.

William settled himself in the chair next to her bed and poured out. He did not speak. She had such trouble breathing that not initiating conversation seemed the kindest course of action. Since there was no sugar, lemon or milk, he handed her the cup as it was. She took a cautious sip and made a face.

“I suspected as much.” She took a rattling breath. “Fennel and oat straw tea.” Another rattling inhale. “Vile.”

He took a sip from his own cup and resisted grimacing.

“When can I”—another breath—“return home?” Her voice had an edge of childish petulance.

“A week,” he said, nudging the hand that held her teacup. “If you follow their instructions and drink all your tea, it should be a week.”

His mother's lips thinned to a line. He nudged the teacup to the edge of her lips and she parted them, sipping begrudgingly.

“And I've got some good news. I've taken a room in the village and I'll be with you the whole time.”

“William, you mustn't.” She coughed a little. “I insist upon it.” She took another rattling breath. “The staff.”

“We can talk more of this tomorrow, if you like. But I very much should like to remain. I assure you, the staff will be fine without me.” Truer words were never spoken. With him gone, the staff would be safe from a horrible, vile man who would disabuse a young—

His mother coughed again, mercifully breaking his concentration. He placed a pillow behind her back, propping her upright.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded, but waved the tea away.

He placed it on the bedside table and held his own teacup to his lips. He took a deep drink of the foul brew. At least drinking the nasty mixture was preferable to hearing any more words come from his mouth about his kind regard of the staff. Each time the previous night's shame rose up in his mind, it was a knife twisting in his chest.

“Something is wrong. Are you”—his mother inhaled shakily—“quite certain you're all right?”

“I'm fine, Mother. Truly.” He lifted the cup to her mouth. “Now, let's have some more tea, shall we?”

For the rest of the week, it was as though William was another man entirely. He spent his days following the routines of the sanatorium and his evenings reading in his cramped room at the inn. He kept his mind occupied so that he could keep his memory of
that
night as distant as humanly possible. And so that he wouldn't wonder about her—where she might be now. Whether or not she'd found another position so quickly.