Regency Secrets: My Lady's Trust

At last it seemed Lord Beaulieu had, mercifully, abandoned his attempt to engage her in conversation. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her monosyllabic answers to a nerve-racking series of personal questions had left an impression of such dullness that he would not choose to pursue her acquaintance any further.

She needn’t find his queries alarming. Most likely the earl was merely attempting to make sure that the person he’d asked to care for his brother was entirely respectable. At least she hoped so, not daring to sneak a glance at his expression to verify that theory.

Her heart still beat a rapid tattoo, but that was to be expected after Lord Beaulieu had nearly scared her witless, suddenly appearing as if conjured out of air. Whatever had possessed Misfit to allow him to enter the garden unannounced? The animal was too shy of gunfire to make a hunting dog, for which reason the genial squire allowed the hound to stay with her, but he was usually an excellent watchman, greeting any approaching interloper, man or beast, with a volley of agitated barking.

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment as she recalled how disheveled she must have appeared to him. She’d caught a speculative gleam in his eye at first, but sprawling like a wanton as she’d been, her hair all unpinned, she supposed she’d deserved that. Fortunately she’d also been wearing one of the oldest of Aunt Mary’s gowns, possessed of no style whatever and overlarge to boot.

By the time she’d buttoned up properly and tidied her hair, that unnerving look had vanished, though she’d remained so rattled, she’d forgotten where she’d left her cap. He’d had to hand it to her, which he did politely but pointedly, as if to subtly underscore how unladylike her behavior had been.

Charleton would have been much less kind.

Then there’d been that odd rush of … fear?—when her fingers chanced to entangle his. So jolting had that touch been, she’d made sure to avoid it happening again.

To her enormous relief she spied the gateposts to Squire Everett’s manor. A few more moments and she’d be delivered from his lordship’s excruciating proximity.

They were nearly at the manor when Tom rode toward them. A single glance at his face, tears tracking down the dust of his cheeks, was enough to drive the discomfort of the earl’s hovering presence from her mind.

“Oh, Tom! He’s not—” she began.

“No. Not yet. But the doctor was sending me for you, Lord Beaulieu. He said you should s-see Kit n-now before …” Swallowing hard, Tom left the sentence unfinished.

With a muffled curse the earl pulled up the chestnut, tossed the reins to her and sprang from the gig. By the time she’d controlled the startled horse and guided him to a halt before the front entrance, the earl had vanished.

The squire’s son was weeping openly as he helped her down from the gig. “I … I’m so sorry, ma’am. I should never … How can I ever forgive myself if—”

She patted his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself! If the shot that wounded him was a ricochet, it might just as well have been his own bullet that struck him as yours.”

Shaking his head against her reassurance, Tom took the chestnut’s reins and led both animals toward the barn. For a moment Laura just stood there before the entry.

Should she go in and offer what help she could? But the earl’s physician was there, and much more knowledgeable than she. If the boy were truly dying, his family and friends would not want an outsider hanging about. Perhaps she should just quietly return to her cottage.

She considered the tempting notion for a moment before rejecting it. As long as the boy lived, she must at least offer her help. Only if the earl refused that offer might she in good conscience return home.

When she entered the sickroom a few moments later she found Lord Beaulieu bending over the boy, lips moving as if in conversation with his brother, hands clasping Kit’s limp arm. Though the earl seemed oblivious to her arrival, the doctor spied her immediately and walked over.

“There’s an infection beginning in his lungs, just as we feared. I’ve given him syrup of poppy, but weak as he is, I daren’t bleed him. If you’ve aught of remedies to try, I should be grateful of them.”

Laura scanned her memory for the treatments Aunt Mary had used when one of the squire’s tenants had contracted an inflammation of the lungs the winter previous. “We might set a pot of mint steeped in boiling water by his bedside,” she whispered. “The vapor seems to make breathing easier. And wrap his neck with flannel soaked in camphor.”

The doctor considered a moment. “It canna hurt. An herbalist had the teaching of you, the squire said? There’s much they use that works, though we’re not knowing the whys and wherefores. Let’s try it, for God’s truth, I’ve done all I can for the laddie.”

After that she lost track of time. When she finally slipped from the room to find the necessary, night had fallen. On her way back the squire intercepted her, begging her to let him send Maggie to the cottage for her things so that she might remain at the hall to tend the patient. Taken aback, she fumbled for an answer.

“Both Lord Beaulieu and Dr. MacDonovan asked that I add their requests to my own,” he said. “The doctor admires your skill, and his lordship wishes every experienced hand available be put to his brother’s care.”

Though logically she knew if she were to be of continuing assistance it made much more sense for her to stay at the hall, still she resisted the notion of quitting even briefly the cottage that meant safety and comfort. A stirring at the depths of her being still whispered danger.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself crossly. The earl was fully occupied with his brother, whose survival remained in grave doubt. He had neither time nor interest to waste on his brother’s nurse.

“You will stay, won’t you, Mrs. Martin?”

Since refusing so sensible a request would appear both uncharitable and extremely odd, despite her forebodings Laura had little choice. “Of course, it would be much more convenient for me to remain. If my being here will not be an imposition on you or Lady Winters?”

“It will be a blessing,” the squire returned with a sigh. “My sister is in a state, what with sickness and more noble visitors about, and I’ve all I can do to keep the house running. ‘Twould be a great comfort to me to know you were watching over the boy.”

“I must stay, then.” She made herself smile. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He nodded and pressed her hand before releasing it. And so she returned to the sickroom, her concern over her patient’s condition underlined by the disquieting knowledge that for the indefinite future she would be residing under the same roof as the unsettling Earl of Beaulieu.

Just after dawn a week later Laura roused herself from a light doze. She glanced up quickly and was reassured to find her patient still sleeping deeply, brow free of perspiration and color pale but natural.

Another quick glance confirmed that the earl also slept, his tall form curled on a pallet beside his brother’s bed where he’d had a cot installed at the start of the crisis.

Though Lord Beaulieu had helped as much as possible, the responsibility for Kit’s care had still fallen primarily on Dr. MacDonovan and herself. She’d endured an exhausting and anxiety-ridden blur of time while Kit Bradsleigh teetered on the edge between living and dying, too preoccupied with nursing him to worry about the elder brother who seldom stirred from the boy’s side.

Last evening, the lad’s temperature had spiked and then, for the first time since the inflammation began, dropped to normal. After having hovered for days in a restless, semiconscious haze of pain and fever, Kit woke up clear-eyed, keen-witted—and ravenous.

Laura sent for as much chicken broth as she gauged her patient could tolerate, and Dr. MacDonovan. The physician, who’d been eating a late dinner with the earl, came at once, Kit’s brother on his heels. After a swift examination, to everyone’s great relief the doctor declared that, though Kit was still very weak and would need a long period of rest to fully recover, his lungs were clearing and he was probably out of danger.

The squire went off immediately to fetch a bottle of his best claret while Dr. MacDonovan laughingly admonished Kit, who demanded a glass of his own. As thrilled and relieved as the others, Laura uttered a quick prayer of thanks. And then shooed the men out, telling them that since her patient needed rest and their well-deserved celebration would likely be lengthy, they should take their bottle in the salon and she would keep watch alone. Abjuring her as a downy, kindhearted lass, Dr. MacDonovan shook her hand heartily and ushered the earl out.

She heard Lord Beaulieu come back in after midnight and gave him a nod of reassurance as he silently approached his brother’s bed. He took Kit’s fingers and held them a moment, as if to verify that the fever had really left, then looked back at her with a tired smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, and took up his post on the cot.

The earl’s valet would see to Kit’s needs when he woke, and both the doctor and Lord Beaulieu would keep the boy occupied during the day. Her work here would soon be done—perhaps for good, as Lady Elspeth, sister to Kit and his lordship, was expected soon.

She could return to the safety of her cottage before the household reverted to a normal routine—and the earl had leisure to become curious about his brother’s nurse.

She paused a moment by the doorway. In the hazy pastel light of dawn, the earl’s stern features were relaxed, his handsome face more approachable. She felt again that inexplicable pull, as if his commanding personality called out to her even in sleep. A tiny sigh escaped her.

If events had not transpired as they had, she might risk lingering here, responding to the wordless, urgent imperative that somehow drew her to this man. And then shook her head at her own foolishness.

If events had not transpired as they had, she would never have landed in this remote rural corner of England.

Fatigue must be making her whimsical. Straightening her weary shoulders, Laura slipped from the room.

Two paces down the hallway, a touch to her back made her jump.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin!”

She turned to see the earl behind her. “My lord?”

“I’ve not had the opportunity before, with you so occupied tending Kit, but I didn’t want another day to go by without thanking you for your efforts. Though at times I may have appeared … less than appreciative—” he gave her a rueful grin “—I want you to know mere words cannot convey the depth of my gratitude.”

She felt a flush of pleasure at his praise even as she set about denying it. “Not at all, my lord. I did only what any person trained in the healing arts would have.”

“You’ve done a great deal more, as we both know. Left the familiar comfort of your own home, devoted nearly every waking hour and worked yourself nigh to exhaustion in Kit’s care. Indeed, the squire’s since told me were it not for your prompt and skillful action immediately after his wounding, Kit would never have survived the journey back to the hall. And before you deny it, that assessment was confirmed by Dr. MacDonovan himself.”

Since she had, as he predicted, already opened her lips to demur, she was left with nothing to say.

“I owe you debt I can never repay. I won’t insult you by offering money, but were it in my power, I’d go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart’s desire.”

The quiet conviction of those words somehow compelled her to raise her downcast eyes. She found his gaze fixed on her with such intensity, her heart gave an odd lurch.

He smiled, his face lightening. “Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?”

Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. She struggled to stem it, to summon up a reply blithe enough to match his teasing question. “M-my needs are few, my lord. I’m quite content.”

The earl chuckled. “A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!”

“Not at all. Alas, I’m entirely ordinary.”

The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. While she stood motionless, breath suspended, his expression once again turned so fiercely intent she could not make herself look away.

“No, my lady,” he said after a long moment. “Though you may be many things, ‘ordinary’ is certainly not one of them. But you’ll be needing your rest.” He stepped back, breaking the invisible hold. “Suffice it to say you have my eternal friendship and support. If I can ever be of service to you in any way, you have but to ask.”

He made her a bow. When she continued to stand motionless, he gave her shoulder a gentle shove. “Go on now. If you expire from fatigue in the squire’s hallway, Kit will never forgive me.”

The unexpected contact sizzled through her. “My lord,” she said faintly, and curtsied. All the way down the hall she felt his lingering gaze on her back, while the imprint of his fingers smoldered on her shoulder.

Leaving Kit Bradsleigh in the physician’s charge, the next day at first light, Laura slipped from her patient’s room. She turned toward the stairs to her chamber, then hesitated.

Though she was tired after her long night, a vague restlessness haunted her. Accustomed to daily exercise tending her garden, walking out to gather supplies of wild herbs or to let Misfit ramble, she felt stifled after having been confined to the squire’s manor for nearly a week.

She considered taking the air in the garden, but unsure of the earl’s schedule, reluctantly dismissed that notion. The intricate arrangement of alleys and shrubshrouded pathways would make it difficult to spot someone far enough away to avoid them, and should she chance to encounter the earl, he would doubtless feel compelled to invite her to stroll with him. Though she might simply refuse, with brutal honesty she had to admit the draw of Lord Beaulieu’s stimulating presence and the beauty of the fall flowers would likely prove a combination beyond her power to resist.

Why not visit the library instead? She’d become acquainted with its rich treasures two years ago when the squire had offered her a book to beguile the tedium of her long recovery. Given free rein thereafter, she’d been delighted to explore the excellent collection it contained. That decided, she headed for the front stairway.

Though Kit Bradsleigh was out of immediate danger, he remained seriously ill, and Dr. MacDonovan thought it prudent he still have care both night and day. Quite cleverly, she thought with a touch of smugness as she descended, she’d arranged with the physician to take the night watch while the doctor and Lord Beaulieu provided medical treatment and diversion during the day. She had further requested, since she would be eating at odd hours, that her meals be served in her room.

Yesterday when she’d returned to her patient, she’d discovered that Lord Beaulieu’s cot had been removed from the sickroom. Naturally, with his brother on the road to recovery, the earl would resume sleeping in his own chamber. So it appeared she would not see him again during his stay, since she’d neither meet him at mealtime nor encounter him in the sickroom during her night vigil.

Her relief at avoiding his too-perceptive eye mingled with a touch of what might almost be … regret. He affected her so strangely, setting her skin tingling with a sort of prickly awareness, as if some vital essence about him telegraphed itself to her whenever he was near. She found that entirely involuntary reaction both exhilarating and frightening.

Like that touch to her shoulder, the morning he thanked her for saving his brother’s life. Close her eyes, and she could almost feel it still, his fingers’ imprint branded into the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

How … peculiar. And a warning to her to be doubly on her guard.

After peeping ahead to ascertain no one was in the front hallway, she scurried to the library. Safely over the threshold, she paused to breathe in the comforting, familiar scents of beeswax and leather bindings before walking to the bookcase that shelved the complete Milan set of the Iliad and Odyssey. Her self-imposed confinement would seem much more tolerable if, after her rest, she could look forward to an afternoon among the heroic cadences of Homer’s poetry.

Impatient to inspect the treasure, she selected a volume and carefully smoothed open the manuscript. Just a few pages, she promised herself, and she would slip back to her room.

Within moments she was completely entranced. Eyes avidly scanning the verses, she drifted across the parquet floor, shouldered open the library door—and stepped smack into the tall, solid body of the Earl of Beaulieu.

Chapter Four

Beau was striding briskly down the hall, invigorated by his dawn ride, when a figure popped out the library door and slammed into him. The slight form rebounded backward, a book spinning from her hands.

Swiftly recovering his balance, he grabbed the maid’s shoulders to keep her from falling. His automatic irritation over the girl’s inattention evaporated instantly as first his fingers, then his brain registered the identity of the lady in his grip.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Martin! Are you all right?” Delighted with this excuse to touch her, he let his hands linger longer than absolutely necessary to steady her, reveling in the rose scent of her perfume.

As soon as she regained her footing, she pulled away. “Fine, thank you, my lord. And ‘tis I who must apologize, for not watching where I was walking.”

With regret he let her go. “Are you sure you’re uninjured? I’m a rather large obstacle to collide with.”

“Quite all right.”

“Let me restore your book to you.” As she murmured some inarticulate protest, he bent to scoop up the volume.

And froze for another instant when he read the title. The first volume of Homer’s Illiad. In Greek.

Slowly he straightened. “You are reading this book?”

Something like consternation flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him. She opened her lips, then hesitated, as if she found it difficult to frame an answer to that simple question. “Y-yes, my lord,” she admitted finally, and held out her hands for the volume.

He returned it. “You must be quite a scholar.”

For a moment she was silent. “My father was,” she said at last.

He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he continued, “And you, also, to be reading it in Greek. As I asserted earlier, not at all an ordinary lady.”

“But a tired one, so if you will excuse me—”

“Another moment, please, Mrs. Martin.” He couldn’t let her go, not yet, not when the only communication they’d shared for days previous or were likely, given her nursing schedule, to have in the days ahead were terse directives uttered in the sickroom. “You are looking pale. I fear you’ve been too long cooped up in the house. Do you ride?”

She shot him a glance before quickly lowering her gaze. “N-no, my lord.”

“You must stroll in the garden this afternoon, then. The day promises to be fair and warm. No excuses, now! I shall call for you myself after your rest to ensure it. We can’t have you endangering your own health.”

Again, that darting glance of alarm. “That … that is exceedingly kind, my lord, but I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

How could he ever disarm the wary caution so evident in those glances if she persisted in avoiding him? Determined not to let her wriggle away, he continued, “Walking with a lovely lady an ‘inconvenience?’ Nonsense! ‘Twould be my pleasure.”

“Your offer is most kind, but I—I really should return and tend my garden. Weeds grow alarmingly in a week, and I must restock my supplies.”

“I should be delighted to drive you there. Perhaps you can explain something of your treatments. Dr. MacDonovan tells me Kit is likely to have a weakness in his lungs for some time, and may have continuing need of them.”

“Possibly, but I could not allow you to abandon your work for so tedious an errand.”

“I have no pressing business at the moment,” Beau replied, dismissing without a qualm the two satchels of dispatches his secretary had sent from London by courier just last evening. “What time should you like to go?”

She tightened her grip on the book and inhaled sharply. His concentration faltered as he watched her dart the tip of her tongue over the pouting plumpness of her lower lip. A unexpected bolt of lust exploded deep in his gut, recalling in sharp focus that vision of her in the garden that lingered always at the edges of his consciousness—arched white throat and pebbled breasts and wild tresses calling for his touch.

Heart hammering, he wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Mrs. Martin stood a handspan away, gaze lowered, cheeks pinking, her breathing as erratic as his own. She felt it, too, this primal beat pulsing between them in the deserted hallway. And as surely as he knew his own name he knew eventually she must succumb to it. To him. Already he could sense in her the fluttering anxiety between acceptance and flight.

“N-no, really, I … To be frank, my lord, I should be most uncomfortable to receive such marked attention from one so far above my station.”

She was trembling. He could feel the delicious vibrations thrum through him. How long and hard would she fight their attraction?

He did not wish to push her—too much—but he’d eagerly meet her, could she but persuade herself to advance a part of the way.

Would she? Caution said ‘twas too early to rush his fences, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Your service to my brother makes us equals, Mrs. Martin. But given your obvious reluctance to bear me company, I fear I must have alarmed or offended you in some way. If so, I most sincerely apologize. I stand already so deeply in your debt, surely you know I would never do anything to injure you.”

She looked up then, as he’d hoped. For a fraught moment she studied him, her puzzled, questing gaze meeting his while he stayed silent, scarcely able to breathe, knowing the whole matter might be decided here and now.

Slowly she nodded. “Yes, I do know it.”

Elation filled him, urged him to press the advantage. “What time shall I bring the gig ‘round, then?”

Energy seemed to drain from her and she sighed, as if too weary to withstand his persistence any longer. “Four of the clock?”

“I shall be there.” He reached toward her cheek. She stood her ground, permitting the slight glancing touch of his fingers. “Sleep, Mrs. Martin. Until four, then.”

She nodded again and, holding the volume to her chest like a shield, turned and walked swiftly to the stairs.

Beau stood staring after her, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. He’d been attracted to her from the first, but this … compulsion—he couldn’t think what in truth to call it—to claim the fair Mrs. Martin far exceeded anything he’d anticipated or previously experienced.

He shook his head, still amazed by it. Until a few days ago he’d believed that his current mistress, a lovely dancer as skilled as she was avaricious, had been more than meeting his physical needs.

Mrs. Martin roused in him a similarly intense response that was at the same time entirely different. Oh, he wanted her as he’d seen her in the garden—warm, eager, ardent—but he wanted just as fiercely to discover the story behind those skilled hands, the quiet voice that soothed his delirious brother’s agitation, to penetrate within the lowered head and engage the questing mind that read Homer.

He laughed out loud. Greek, no less! How could he have thought her intellect dull, even for a moment?