Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (3 page)

By the time the wound faded into a scar, mothers were practically throwing their daughters at him every time he walked out his front door. It was enough to drive a man to the countryside.

So he went. And saw to affairs on his estate. And visited his tenants. And planned some improvements with his land steward. And tried very hard to ignore the emptiness in his gut and chest as he walked through the house and saw the ghosts of his parents in every room, and imagined laughter rippling like a clear spring brook along the corridors.

Returning to town, he spent his days in the house he had purchased after his parents’ death, which held no memories of them, and in Parliament. Reading, listening, staying out of the way of women in general. It was rumored, Claude eventually told him, that his recluse ways were due to a broken heart. The scar was apparently a memento of a duel he had fought for his ladylove, which he had lost to his opponent, and now he lived a lover’s lament. Given that six months earlier everybody had known about the cutpurses, Tacitus thought this was positively inane.

“Ah, but the story of the lost love, it is
plus
moving!” Claude exclaimed in an unusual burst of feeling as he cut Tacitus’s hair. “The heart, my lord, it requires more of the time than the flesh to heal.”

Claude had been at Dashbourne with him. At that inn. Tacitus thought perhaps his valet did not offer this comment idly.

“Has there … Has there been any particular lady’s name attached to this ridiculous rumor, Claude?”

“
Non,
my lord,” he said curtly. “They say she was nobody. A commoner, pfft!” He gestured as though she was of no consequence. “Your heart was,
on dits,
smitten despite the vast difference in station.”

He craned his neck to peer at his valet, who was obliged to swiftly draw away the cutting shears.

“To whom did I lose this battle for her?”

“
Un matelot,
my lord.”

“A sailor?” He settled back in his chair again. “That is irrational.”

Claude shook his head. “Ah, but my lord, the love, it knows no reason.”

No reason.

Tacitus thought of his father’s adoration of a woman with rotted teeth who could barely walk. He thought of the present date, January 14, the anniversary of his father’s death of a broken heart; of how it had been two years since his father had eagerly followed his mother into the hereafter. Two years now that he had been without family. Alone.

Then he thought of Calista Chance, and that perhaps he had been hasty in attempting to forget her. That, in fact, love knew no reason. That he should pay a call on the new Earl of Chance and inquire after his sister.

In the year since he had courted her, he had come to know the truth of her family’s circumstances. The old Earl of Chance had been humiliated after a duke accused him publicly of cheating. Chance had sold everything unentailed to satisfy his debts, but it did not suffice. When society cut him, he had retreated to Dashbourne to drink heavily and torment his children. It wasn’t to be wondered at that Lady Calista had wished to run away. Perhaps he should not have judged her so swiftly.

Now, however, the old earl was dead. If rumor were to be believed, his heir, the new Lord Chance was currently struggling to recover his family’s fortune. He might welcome a generous offer for his sister’s hand.

At breakfast, accompanied by these tentatively hopeful ponderings, Tacitus settled at his dining table with a cup of coffee to read the
Times
. Eyes passing desultorily over the society page, they arrested on one item: the announcement of the birth of a son to the Honorable Richard Holland and Lady Calista Holland, née Calista Chance.

The ache in Tacitus’s chest threatened to suffocate him.

Setting down the journal, he made a promise to himself. Again. This time, however, he intended to keep it.

~o0o~

And that was how the wealthy, handsome, dashingly scarred and occasionally political Marquess of Dare came to be one of the
ton
’s most confirmed bachelors.

Five Years Later

Calista Holland never wept
, no matter how twisted her heart. So she did not weep now at the sight of her son’s eyes, round and filled with tears as he stood before her in the inn’s foyer.

“I want you to come with us, Mama,” he whimpered. Whimpering was not permitted at home. But this was an extraordinary occasion, to be sure.

“You know that I cannot.” She straightened his collar. “You will have a splendid visit with Aunt Evelina at Dashbourne. She will show you all the places we used to hide from Uncle Ian when he was in a teasing mood, and Grandmama will instruct Cook to bake your favorite biscuits.” She forced back the prickles threatening her throat.

“Please come, Mama.” Tears fell silently onto his hollow cheeks. Too hollow. Damn Richard for his miserliness. But at Dashbourne her mother and Evelina would see that her son ate well. In a month Harry would return to her as round and happy as a boy of five should be.

“Papa needs me at home just now.” To sit by his bedside and endure his harangues as the gout throbbed in his feet. “Now, don’t weep. Weeping is for foolish women and weak men, and you are neither of those, are you?”

“No, Mama.” His chin wobbled. “I am a warrior.”

She straightened his coat to have an excuse to continue touching him, her only light, her salvation these past five years.

“You are a mighty warrior,” she said. “It will be a grand party at Dashbourne, won’t it, Evelina?”

“Yes. We’ll have a marvelous time, Harry.” Her words sounded forced. Damn
her
. Harry was not an imbecile. He would know Evelina hated this parting too.

“Now, my heart,” Calista said, “Run across the yard and make certain Mr. Jackson has moved your luggage onto Aunt Evelina’s carriage. He’s just in the stable, which looks warm and cozy in all of this rain. I know you must want to see the horses, and I have a word to say to your aunt before you depart.”

“Yes, Mama.” Sucking his lower lip between his teeth, he swiped the tears from his cheek with his sleeve, turned about, and went out the inn’s front door.

As soon as he was gone, Calista rounded on her sister. “I am depending upon you, Evie.”

“I know it.” Evelina’s eyes were clouded. “Of course I will keep Harry busy and happy while he’s with us. But it is unconscionably horrid of Richard to forbid you to spend a measly month with your own family.”

Calista dug into her cloak pocket and drew out a scrap of paper that she pressed into her younger sister’s hand.

“Write to me at this address. You know that Richard is …
particular
about the post. My housekeeper’s sister is reliable.”

“I don’t understand why you must receive and send correspondence in this clandestine manner.”

“When you have a husband and a household,” Calista snapped, “I will welcome your opinion.”

Evelina’s lips became a line. She was twenty-two now, and since their father squandered the family’s fortune, she had often said she never intended to marry, rather to pursue work instead. Calista used to laugh at that.

“You should leave now,” she said to her sister. “The rain is falling harder. The water over that ford must be nine inches high already and you have at least two hours’ ride to Dashbourne. And I’m sure Mama cannot wait another moment to finally see her precious statue.”

“She is more excited to see her only grandson, of course,” Evelina said and went past her toward the doorway. Behind them the taproom was busy with patrons taking shelter from the late-winter weather and the entire inn echoed with the drumming of rain on roof and windows.

Evie paused, looking out. “Good heavens, it has become a veritable deluge.”

“Take this.” Calista proffered her umbrella, using the opportunity to grasp her sister’s hand tightly. It felt peculiar to touch another adult. It had been so long; even touching the edge of affection like this felt wrong, weak, like a prick hole in her armor. She snatched her hand away. “Send Harry back before you leave.” She would kiss him and fill her senses with his sweet scent and hug him one last time before returning to Hell. But he would be well. He would be with her mother and sister, away from his father for a month—long enough for Calista to devise a solution for escaping from Richard forever.

“Of course, Callie.” Evelina grabbed her hand again, squeezed it, then opened the front door.

In the middle of the inn yard, shrouded in sheets of rain, Harry stood as though paralyzed, eyes and mouth agape at the huge horse galloping straight for him.

“Harry!”
Calista leaped forward. But she was too far away, the horse too close, Harry immobile, the rain driving down. Evelina screamed.

The horse shied, and reared, its hooves pawing the slanting rain above Harry’s head.

Then its master was flying into the air, boots slamming to the ground, greatcoat swirling as he swept forward, fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Harry, surrounding her son in safety. A shrill whistle pierced the downpour and the horse wheeled away.

Abruptly there was no movement in the yard except the rain pounding on the muddy ground.

Calista ran forward. Harry broke from the man’s arms and flew straight into hers.

“Mama, did you see? Did you? It was amazing!” Words streamed from his mouth as he wrapped his skinny arms around her neck and she gripped his body to hers. “That man saved me from his horse! And then he made it turn away, with only a
whistle
.”

“Yes.” She pressed the word into his soaking hair, the raw terror of the moment subsiding and making her arms shake. “Yes, darling. What an adventure.”

But he was pulling away already, turning to the rider. Calista rose to her feet, took hold of her son’s hand, and lifted her eyes to the man.

In her life she had hated only one man as much as she had once hated her father and now her husband. Rather, almost as much: Tacitus Everard, the Marquess of Dare.

Now he stood before her, soaked by the sheets of rain that perfectly matched his beautifully intense gray eyes. Still as stone and severe of jaw and stance, he stared at her without speaking as water streamed off the brim of his hat and the cape of his coat. Even with rain washing across his features, he was as handsome as ever: tall and dark and broad-shouldered, with the sort of jaw a woman longed to stroke and lips that stole her reason. And as stiff as a steel rod.

“I beg your pardon,” he said across the rain. “Is he all right?”

“Yes, sir!” Harry volunteered. “Grand horse you’ve got there, sir!”

“Yes, well, he’s a goer.” He looked at her. “Forgive me, madam. I was … That is …” He scowled.

A second horseman splashed into the yard and slowed instantly, drawing his mount to a halt and sliding out of the saddle. He tossed the reins to a stable boy holding the marquess’s horse.

“Damn and blast, Dare,” he exclaimed upon laughter. “I would’ve had you if it hadn’t been for that coach blocking that last bend.” He took them all in. “Good Lord, have you run someone over?”

Calista grasped her son’s slippery hand. “Come now, Harry. We must dry you off before you depart.” She drew him back into the inn as he craned his neck.

Evelina stood in the doorway. “It’s
him
.”

“Who?” Harry said.

Calista glared at her sister. “No one.” Going to her sodden knees in the foyer she dusted raindrops from her son’s coat, and removed his hat and shook it out.

“But, Mama—”

“Harry,” she said firmly.

Her son’s lips shut tight. “Yes, Mama.”

Her heart twisted anew. Despite the Chance spirit he’d been born with, he had learned to be docile from necessity.

Ignoring every lesson about stalwart strength in the face of adversity that she had taught her son over the past five years, she wrapped her arms around him again and pressed her face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I will miss you, my darling,” she whispered fiercely.

“I’ll miss you too, Mama.”

She drew away. “Now, listen to your aunt and Grandmama this month.”

“And to Cook,” he said.

“Yes, and to Cook, so she will bake your favorite biscuits and allow you to taste the bread as soon as it is out of the oven,” she repeated the comforting words she had been telling him the entire journey to this tiny inn in this little village where Richard had instructed her to leave him in her sister’s care. She looked into his sober face that had never resembled her husband’s, rather featured the Chance black hair, blue eyes, and defiant chin. Harry would be better off at Dashbourne than at home, free to be a boy. It was she who would hate every day of this month apart. She stroked his cheek, then stood.

Lord Dare filled the inn doorway, his coat dripping, knees and boots muddy, and face inscrutable. A scar now cut across his jaw, lending an air of danger to his male beauty.

“My lord,” she bit through tight lips.

His attention shifted to Harry at her hip.

“Do you
know
him, Mama?” her son whispered in the comically voluble whisper of the young.

She reached down and clasped his little fingers. “He is Lord Dare. Bow to him now, darling.”

Harry cut a neat little bow, his eyes remaining wide.

“Why doesn’t he come in out of the rain?” His whisper filled the foyer.

“Because he is a peculiar man,” she said. “Peculiar men who are very wealthy do anything they want.”

“Even stand in the rain?” Harry asked skeptically.

“You should see me when it snows,” Lord Dare said, and stepped into the foyer. His voice was as deep and velvety as it had been years ago. Adorned with a caped greatcoat and tall crowned hat, his presence dominated the small space. Were he atop a mountain, Calista thought, he would still seem to command the peaks with his quiet authority and stormy eyes. How a man of so few words could radiate such strength, she hadn’t understood six years ago. Her father had ranted and shouted to make everybody cower. But confidence rolled from the Marquess of Dare’s shoulders and hard, scarred jaw. He needn’t rant or shout. He knew he would not be questioned.

She tightened her fingers around her son’s. “Come now, Harry. You and Aunt Evelina must be on your way.”

“But Lord Dare is all wet, with no one to dry him off. Won’t he take a sniffle, Mama?” Harry said, looking up at the marquess.

“I’m sure he would not allow a sniffle anywhere near him.”

“I don’t know about that.” His companion pushed past him into the foyer. “I’ve even seen him sneeze on occasion. All the great men are doing it nowadays.” He winked at Harry, whose eyes went wide.

“My lady,” Lord Dare said, “May I present to you the Viscount Mallory, my traveling companion today,” and added under his breath, “unfortunately.”

Lord Mallory swept her an elegant bow. “Charmed, madam.” He peered curiously over her shoulder.

“This is my sister,” Calista said.

“Ma’am.” He bowed deeply and grinned.

Evelina’s eyes were sparks. “Were you racing on the road in this weather?”

“We were indeed,” the viscount said. “Excellent sport. Sorry to have discombobulated the little fellow. You’re all right now, my good man?”

Harry threw back his shoulders. “Right as rain,” he said solidly.

“You might have overrun him,” Evelina said.

“Oh, don’t go overstating the thing.” Lord Mallory leaned a shoulder against the wall and drew off his gloves. “Everybody’s well now.”

“Everybody is soaked to the bone, with two hours’ carriage ride ahead of us before dusk.” Evelina’s lips pursed. “I am not impressed with your puerile indifference, my lord.”

“Did you hear that, Tass?” the viscount drawled, giving Evelina an up-and-down perusal. “I believe the lady just accused me of immaturity.”

“I wonder how she could have mistaken your character so entirely?” Lord Dare murmured. Calista’s heart did an uncomfortable trip. He sounded exactly the same as he had six years ago: dry and wry and thoughtful and amused all at once.

“I am positively diverted,” the viscount said, eyes slanted at her sister. “And what do
you
do for amusement? Catalogue molds and funguses?”

“Yes, in fact, among other flora.”

“How utterly original,” Lord Mallory said with thorough disinterest.

“I have no doubt that such a pastime seems tame to you, what with your preference for roguish disregard for others’ welfare.”

“She thinks I’m roguish and I’ve barely said twenty words to her,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Mission accomplished.”

Lord Dare moved around him. “Shouldn’t you be on your way, Mallory?”

“After I’ve had a pint.” He passed them by to enter the taproom.

“Forgive me, Lady Evelina,” Lord Dare said. “His bark is worse than his bite.” With a glance at Calista, he bowed and followed his friend.

“Do not say a word,” Calista whispered harshly. “Just go.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, of course.” Evelina took Harry’s hand. “Come along, sweetpea. Let’s see what treats Cook prepared for our snack on the road, shall we?”

Calista touched her fingertips to her son’s head.

“Good-bye, Mama,” he said with a smile now, his cheeks still pink from excitement. Lifting her hood, Evelina drew him into the rain.

From the doorway, as rain sprinkled her wet traveling gown Calista watched the chaise pull out of the inn yard and onto the rain-washed road and then, finally, out of sight, taking her heart with it.

She swallowed back tears yet again. But they bubbled up, threatening to overflow.
Not here
. Not where the poker-up-his-arse Marquess of Dare might come through that door at any moment. She hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. Richard had not given her sufficient money to purchase more than a meager dinner, and nothing for tomorrow’s long journey home. But her stomach was in knots anyway. Food would wait until breakfast.

Closing her bedchamber door, with damp fingers she began unfastening the buttons of her pelisse and her eyes alighted on a wooden crate at the foot of her bed.

Her mother’s statue.