Читать книгу The Wallflower Duchess - Liz Tyner - Страница 11

Chapter One

‘Your Grace.’ The valet’s voice had all the bounce of a rock falling into a well.

The Duke of Edgeworth did not want to wake up. He’d worked too late into the night trying to pull his mind back into the ledgers he’d neglected.

‘Your Grace,’ Gaunt repeated. ‘Your Grace.’ The voice broke just a bit.

Edgeworth opened his eyes, mainly to assure Gaunt that he still lived.

‘Yes,’ Edgeworth muttered, half-rising. The wobbliness in his head nearly threw him back to the bed. The pain had almost taken him.

Gaunt’s voice barely rose loud enough to be heard, as if he feared that the sound of it might damage Edgeworth in some way. Edgeworth clamped his teeth together. He was alive. Alive. He’d survived twice. The first time he’d nearly drowned and then he’d been burned. The year had not started out well.

‘The reason I woke you—’

‘Yes?’ Edge just wished the man would speak quickly. Gaunt’s delicateness grated and only served to remind him how close he’d been to death.

‘There’s a woman who wishes to see you. That—we are sure of.’ Gaunt’s hands were clasped.

Edge pushed himself to sit against the headboard, ignoring the pain, then he put his feet on the floor and stood. The sulphur-scented poultice Gaunt had tried to suffocate him with still lay by the wash basin. He pointed to it and with a sharp jerk of his hand indicated it should be removed.

Gaunt snatched up the cloth by two fingers and held it at his side, away from his body.

‘The housekeeper is with the guest now. The butler insisted,’ Gaunt explained.

The housekeeper never saw to guests and for the butler to have someone stay with a visitor was unheard of.

‘We thought it best,’ Gaunt added, ‘that the woman not be left alone. But we could not exactly escort her out as she claims to have news of a friend of yours from the country who has passed on to a greater reward.’

‘Claims?’

‘She does know your relative’s name.’ Gaunt’s face remained immobile as he spoke.

Edge strode to the basin, splashing water on his face. The burns had left him weak, but not feeble minded. And Gaunt knew the family tree far better than Edge himself did. On one occasion he’d even helped Edge sort out just how a cousin came to be related.

‘Why was she not asked to leave a card and sent on her way?’

‘I will dismiss her.’ His pause had a cough in it. ‘She’s dressed in black. Head to toe. Face covered. Handkerchief. Sobbed pitifully. I thought it best you decide. Something about her is...familiar.’

‘I’ll see to her,’ Edge said, wondering if the illness had affected his mind.

‘No carriage with her,’ Gaunt added. ‘Not even a hackney.’

‘Maid?’

‘She’s alone.’

Edge shook his head. This sounded like a jest his cousin Foxworthy would try. Sending some lightskirt on a mission of seduction and then waiting outside with a group of friends who’d wagered on how long before the woman left. Fox had done something similar in the past—more than once—but he should know better than to try such a thing on Edge.

Edge would give Fox a chance to gauge his own recovery skills.

* * *

When Edge stepped into the sitting room, the housekeeper’s eyes darted from the sombre handkerchief-clasping form to him.

Pausing to think back to the mourning attire he’d seen, he didn’t remember seeing anyone dressed so completely in black, although the veil over the bonnet did have a bit of yellow ribbon peeking through.

The woman’s clothing wasn’t dashed together and had no frayed edges or worn seams, and yet he didn’t think it entirely new. She held a wadded handkerchief in each hand and moved the one in her right clasp beneath the veil to daub at her face.

‘Someone has passed from this life?’ he asked the grim form.

‘Yes. Might I speak with you about it privately?’ The soft, velvety smooth words fluttered the veil. A lightskirt’s voice if he’d ever heard one. Foxworthy would pay.

At Edge’s side, the housekeeper’s arms tightened.

‘No,’ he answered.

Her fingers reached up, grasping an edge of the veil to lift it. But she paused.

‘Tell me your news,’ he said. ‘I would hate to keep a grieving person about on an errand when she could be finding solace in her home with loved ones around her.’

He heard her exhale and her arms tightened.

She stood, one sweeping movement. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your mother’s fifth cousin, Lady Cumberson, has passed on.’

Edge remained motionless, sorting out something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Lady Cumberson had died some months back. Then he let out a breath. ‘Lady Cumberson passed on? For a moment I had forgotten her. A dear, sweet woman. About so high.’ He moved his arm out to his side, indicating just below his shoulder. ‘Sainted woman. Grey hair.’

Lady Cumberson had stood taller than any woman he’d ever seen, had a vulgar sense of humour and coal-black hair.

‘No. Quite stately. Dark hair. And I suppose you could call her a saint, but I didn’t see her that way.’

He paused, recognising the voice. He forced himself not to react.

Lily? Lily Hightower? Fox would never dare send her. He had nothing to do with women like Lily. And when did Lily get such a sultry voice?

‘Could you spare a moment to tell me about her last days?’ he asked, turning to dismiss the housekeeper. The older woman scurried out.

‘What is going on causing you to attempt a masquerade?’ Edge asked.

She raised her veil just enough so that he could see a chin, a well-shaped mouth that caused him to take note and then two brown eyes peered out from under the edge of the veil. He swallowed.

‘I can’t visit you openly without my father knowing. I can’t wait until your mother returns from the country so I can pretend to visit her and hope you might walk by and we might chance a few moments to talk privately...’ She shook her head as if trying to remove unsure thoughts. ‘I suppose I didn’t think anyone else could help. And I had no idea what to do if you didn’t recover—soon.’

‘Thank you for your concern about my health.’

‘Of course.’ The words burst out. Her voice tightened and she lowered the veil over her face. ‘I heard of your accident—goodness, another one—but then the next thing I knew you were back in London, brought home in a wagon, and we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. My family would have been so distraught if you’d...’

‘Your...family...would have been distraught?’ He managed to inflect the words with just enough emphasis to point the question her way.

‘Of course, all of us would have been.’

The veil popped up again. The handkerchief bundled so that she could use two fingers to raise the covering and the dark eyes studied him. Then the fabric fluttered down again. ‘I feared for the worst, but then your mother took me to your bedside.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You looked... But you recovered quickly after that.’

He waved her words away. ‘I only had two choices and I thought this one the best.’

‘It was horrible to see you so ill.’

A fogged memory of hearing his mother begging him not to die on his birthday surfaced, but he batted it away. Dwelling on those thoughts would do him no good.

‘Your Grace,’ she said. He leaned forward to hear her. ‘I am very relieved you are yourself again.’

‘If I had awoke to find that I was my cousin Foxworthy, I would not have recovered.’ He had to lighten Lily’s words.

He waited, watching for reaction. Blasted veil.

‘It would be a shame to die after you finally grew into your boots.’ Her voice regained strength.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Your boots. I remember looking at them years ago when you studied outside. It was as if someone had taken you by your ears and just stretched you right up from the boot-tops to the chin. You fit yourself now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I did rather think you were quite handsome until that day you made me fall out of the tree.’

‘I kept you from killing yourself.’ And it hadn’t been easy. He’d realised she was going after the kite which was tangled in a small, half-broken branch near the top of the tree. He’d shouted for her to stop. She’d moved faster.

He’d darted forward, getting to the trunk in time to grab her by the ankle, but she’d had a firm grip on a tree limb. She’d tried to kick free of his grasp. He’d explained, methodically, that he should get the kite by another method. She was going to break the kite’s limb if she put her weight on it.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, looking up, eyes squinted.

He’d released her ankle, thinking she understood, and she’d lunged for the next higher limb. He’d caught her bootlace and she’d lost her grip, tumbling backwards on to him. He’d landed on his back, cushioning her. Spindly as she was, she’d plopped like a boulder on to his stomach. He’d laid on the ground, struggling for air while looking up at the kite fluttering happily overhead.

She’d screeched and jumped up, staring down at him. Apparently she’d bumped her face against the tree on her way down. He’d seen a split lip before, but not on a little girl.

‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.

Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.

‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’

‘You—’

He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.

At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.

Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered it when she grew older, but he always checked for it. Only now her mouth was hidden behind a gauzy screen. It irked him.

‘Your governess should have been punished,’ he said.

‘Mrs Smith was a dear, dear governess. Not like the next one.’ The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’

‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.

‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.

‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.

He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.

‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.

She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.

‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.

He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.

She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.

He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.

‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’

‘To what particular one might you be referring?’

‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’

His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’

She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.

He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.

‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.

‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’

The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.

‘Soon?’ she asked.

‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.

‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’

‘None of us is.’

Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’

‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.

Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.

‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’

Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’

‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.

He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.

Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’

‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.

‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.

‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.

‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.

‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’

‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’

He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.

He’d thought.

Now Lily stood in front of him and she must have seen something on his face. She put her hand out, not touching him, but hovering above his sleeve. She smiled. ‘So you will be at our soirée next week and consider courting my sister?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ She stepped back, eyes widening before the lids lowered, her hand falling to her side. ‘No?’

Neither spoke.

‘Are you certain?’ The words came out carefully, hesitant. ‘You’re not going to marry Abigail?’ She examined him closer than Gaunt had when he’d been checking Edge to see if he had a pulse.

‘I can’t believe you ask that.’

She took in a breath and somehow managed to hold it. ‘Do you have any plans for marriage?’ Her voice rose, her arm moved out and she patted as if touching the top of small heads. ‘A family of your own. Little heirs. A little group all snuggled together at bedtime.’

‘I do not think of it quite the same as going to a litter of kittens and picking out the one with the healthiest yowl.’ Then he thought of Lily falling from the tree and hid his smile. ‘Although I’m not opposed to a healthy yowl.’

‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you have to admit my sister would make a good duchess.’

‘Your sister is a pleasant person. But I’ve never seen her as a duchess. Ever.’

Mouse-brown eyes stared up at him and a flutter in the area of his heart gave him pause. His mother was right. Lily had grown into her eyes, although he did not think her comment about his marrying her sister deserved explanation.

Because of his father’s words claiming it to be true, people had assumed Edge would marry the younger Hightower sister. It had suited Edge’s purpose to let people believe the tale. It deflected false hope in mothers angling their daughters to catch his eye and kept him from having to dodge flirtations. Besides, he’d always known he would some day marry Lily. He’d decided it and the idea had flickered through his thoughts on occasion, seeming more perfect each time, and he’d just known Lily felt the same way. How could she not? True, he always danced with her sister first, then Lily last so he could linger with her without Abigail fluttering around waiting for her dance.

And they’d not said much, but he’d not thought there was a need. They’d stood by each other, companionably, watching the others. If that did not signal a deep interest then he did not know what could have. He’d stayed late at a noisy soirée with music and chatter drowning out all words so he could spend a few moments at her side. Never had he done that with another woman.

‘Stop looking so grim.’ She mocked his face, a forced snarl to her lips. ‘It hasn’t hurt my sister to be considered as your potential bride. Quite the opposite. She received the best education and the envy of so many people.’

He shrugged internally, realising he didn’t quite understand women as well as he’d thought. ‘So, on the day you mentioned that your father would be so happy to have a duke in the family...’ Well, he’d misinterpreted that statement. Her sister had been the last person on his mind as he’d waltzed with Lily that night.

He knew without question she’d always been pleased to have a private word with him. And when she’d spoken about how well Abigail was growing up, he’d noted it as a statement of how well Lily had taken care of her sister and how Lily would be a good mother...to his children. He’d not imagined her as assuming he had any interest in Abigail. Abigail?

‘Edge.’ This time her lips pressed firmly before speaking and he knew she didn’t jest. ‘I know you’re an honourable man and, since you’ve said nothing, I started to worry we’d misunderstood. No one will court her because they think you have her planned for a bride. Father has frowned upon any other suitors. She’s going to end up a spinster if she waits almost for ever for you and then after she’s rejected everyone else you look in a different direction.’

‘I have never once indicated any intention to marry Abigail.’ He’d treated her with extra notice because he did plan for her to be family. His wife’s sister.

‘Well, Father has so much money I suppose we could purchase a husband for her later on.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do feel you should have told me, though.’

‘I thought I indicated my intentions to you.’

‘That you intended to marry Abigail.’ Her words accused. ‘Yes. And she’s said she’s tired of waiting on you and she’s determined to wed before the year is out. It is on her list.’

‘Her list, or your list?’

‘It is on her list, above finishing the embroidery sampler. That sampler will never make it to the wall. However, Abigail will make it to the church... And it is on my list, too. Finding my sister a suitable match.’

‘I will attend the soirée, but—’ The same feeling of the ground crumbling beneath him he’d had when he’d fallen into the water overtook him. His breath shortened. What if Lily didn’t—wouldn’t marry him?

She walked closer, a form he could not decipher behind the dark clothing, and reached out, again stopping just before touching his arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. Her voice quavered.

‘Lily—’

She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.

Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.

The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.

He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.

But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.

He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.

Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.

Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.

He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.

He’d squeezed the fingers twice.

The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.

‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.

The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.

He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.

She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.