Anita Mills (15 page)

The air was chilly and damp in the October afternoon, so much so that a fire blazed in the library’s broad marble-faced fireplace, popping and sputtering from the wet wood Thomas had brought in. Harriet laid aside the book she’d been reading, a copy of Jane Austen’s latest, ordered from London fresh off the press. But as much as she liked the story, she could scarce follow it for the drowsiness she felt. Dr. Paxton had warned her that it would be this way, that females experienced a great deal of lethargy while increasing, but she’d not been prepared for the indolence that threatened to overwhelm her. Reluctantly she drew up her knees into the chair, pulled the heavy shawl about her, and leaned her head back. Perhaps if she dozed a few minutes, it would pass …

She never heard the carriage roll up the drive, nor did she hear Richard order a groom to saddle Two Harry for a fast run around the training yard. The child within her shifted position and was still.

“Hallo, Stubbs. O’Neal, see to the removal of the bags, will you? I’d be repacked for the morrow.” Richard stopped, his hands still on the frogs of his lightweight raincloak. “Where the deuce did you come from?” he demanded of Thomas.

“Rowe’s Hill, my lord.”

Stubbs looked from Richard to the almost belligerent countenance of the footman. “He came with the young mistress,” he explained quickly. “And there’s no complaint with his service. Indeed—”

But Richard was no longer attending. Brushing both men aside, he hurried up the stairs, nearly colliding with Mrs. Creighton in the hallway. “Where is she?”

“Lady Sherborne? I am sure I don’t know, but—”

“Is that plaster I smell? What the devil…?”

Before she could answer, he’d thrown open the door to his bedchamber, to find O’Neal surveying a rather full closet of gowns. “I’d say, milord,” the valet murmured, turning around, “ ’tis moot, it is, whither to go t’ Rowe’s Hill like ye were plannin’—by the looks o’ it, the lady’s here, she is.”

It was not as he’d planned it. The decision had been taken from his hands, and as much as he’d wanted to see her, it irritated him that she’d just moved in in his absence. He flung out of the room, stopping only to go to his mother’s chamber. And there he found the furniture under holland sheets beneath newly repaired walls as yet half-covered in a soft rose silk. Looking down, he saw the carpet roll, still in its canvas covering, clearly marked “For Lady Sherborne” and bearing the name of an exclusive London rug merchant. Not only had she moved in. She was redoing the place to suit herself! He backed out, now thoroughly furious, having forgotten his earlier intention to do just what she’d done, and retraced his steps back down.

“Thomas!”

“Aye, my lord?”

“Where is she?” Richard demanded grimly.

“Lady Sherborne?”

“Yes.”

“As to that, I cannot say to a certainty, my lord.”

“Never mind.”

He had to think, to calm his temper before he saw her. He was but surprised, that was all, and he’d not considered that she could be at Richlands. He walked slowly, precisely to the library. A little wine, a warm fire, and then he would decide what he would say to her.

The fire blazed, roared almost, from the extra wood that had been piled on it. He unhooked the frogs that held his cloak still and flung the garment over the back of a tall chair near the door. And then he stopped, caught by the sight of a foot barely visible at the side of his favorite leather wing chair in front of the fire.

“Harry?”

The foot moved, shifting the heavy wool shawl that spilled over the arm of the chair, and she came awake with a jolt. He walked purposefully to face her.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

Her chin came up defiantly, and her dark eyes flashed at the tone of his voice. “I believe I have the right!” she retorted.

“I did not give you leave—”

“No, you did not! But then you did not say overmuch when you left either!”

“You deceived me!”

“You left me without so much as an explanation, Richard!” Her voice rose at the remembered hurt and humiliation. “You left but a letter that made not the least sense, and … and you gave it to Thomas to deliver to me!”

Stung by her anger, he stood over her, his own face reddening. “You deceived me—you plotted this marriage like a damned adventuress. Deny it, Harry!”

“What?
Oh, ’tis rich, it is! You followed me to Bath, insisting I had no choice but to wed you, and you have the … the
cheek
to say I
plotted
to catch you?” she sputtered. “ ’Tis outside of enough, my lord!”

“I heard it from your father’s lips, Harry! Do not be coming the innocent with me!” The long awaited interview was not going at all as he’d expected. With an effort, he backed off and took a deep breath. “But ’tis water under the bridge now, I daresay, and I own your situation was desperate.” Mistaking her outraged silence for attention, he plunged ahead, adding insult to injury. “Given the circumstances, I am prepared to forgive you and accept the marriage.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” she asked with deceptive sweetness when at last she found her tongue. “Well, ’tis noble of you, I am sure, but you are quite mistaken if you believe that will suffice. You see, I am not at all prepared to forgive
you!”
Her face flushed, her dark eyes martial now, she disentangled her legs to stand. “You wed me, you got this child of me, and you abandoned me, Richard Standen! You left me to face Hannah’s certain scorn, and you went off without so much as a thought to what you had done to me! Six months it has been without so much as a word from you!”

As the shawl fell away, slipping to the floor at her feet, he could only stare, bereft of speech. She was obviously very much with child.

“I … Why didn’t you tell me, Harry?” he asked, all anger now gone.

“And just how would I have done that? Just where would I have written to you, my lord?” she demanded sarcastically. “Lest you have forgotten, you neglected in your rather terse letter to give me your direction!”

“I didn’t know, Harry.”

“And you did not care either!” Angry, hurt tears sprang to her eyes and threatened to betray her. While he was still groping for something to say to her, she gathered up her shawl. “I loved you once, Richard,” she whispered from the safety of the door. “And you abandoned me.”

“Harry!”

But even as he shouted, he heard her run up the stairs. Stunned by what he’d seen and heard, stunned by the knowledge that she would bear his child, he stood rooted to the floor, scarce able to think rationally. And then after the first shock wore off, he was torn between running after her and letting her vent her anger. What could he say? That he was mistaken? That he was sorry? He ran his fingers through his thick black hair distractedly. Guilt warred with raw emotion, tearing at him. If she had not trapped him into the marriage, he’d committed a terrible wrong to her. And even if she had, what he in turn had done was still inexcusable. He closed his eyes, thinking how it must’ve been for her, faced with her father’s anger and Hannah’s ridicule. And then for her to have discovered he’d left her with child—how she must hate him now.

“Oh, God, Harry, I’m sorry,” he groaned. And then he knew he could not leave it at that—that he had to explain, to ask her forgiveness.

“Harry! Harry!” he yelled, running up the stairs two at a time. “I know I do not bear listening to, but I’ve got to speak to you! Harry, where the devil are you?”

“Her ladyship has left the house, sir.”

He came face-to-face with a strange girl, her blue eyes cold and accusing, blocking the doorway to his chamber. For a moment he hesitated, and then he set her firmly aside.

“Harry!”

“Beggin’ yer honor’s pardon, but there’s Millie there,” O’Neal announced, aggrieved, “and she’s not wantin’t’ give up the field—says she’s not budgin’ till Lady Sherborne says she ought.”

“What?” Still distracted, Richard turned to face his valet, who’d been engaged in fighting his own territorial dispute over the room. “Who in heaven’s name is Millie?”

“She is.” O’Neal gestured to the girl who now stood martially in the door. “I collect her ladyship’s been livin’ in your chamber, she has, and the girl—”

“We was movin’ soon as t’other chamber’s done,” Millie interrupted. “We wasn’t expectin’ ye yet. And we’d a been done afore you come home, but milady’s been a trifle indisposed. But it ain’t right for him to come here and threaten t’ throw her ladyship’s things about!”

“ ’Tis his honor’s chamber!”

“Let her stay. Tell Mrs. Creighton I’ll take one of the guest rooms.” Turning back to Millie, Richard asked more reasonably, “Do you know where she went?”

“Out. She was overset, she was, and he—”

“Here now, I was all that was polite t’ her, me shrew!” the valet snapped. “But she threw her cloak over her shoulder and left afore I could say scarce a word to ’er, so tell it right if yer bearin’ the tale!”

“She was a-weepin’!”

“And I would’ve helped her, you silly baggage, but between the two o’ ye, there was no talkin’ to ye!”

“Listen, I did not come up to listen to the both of you brangle, and I’ve heard enough! Where is ‘out’?” Richard demanded.

“Walkin’, I’d think—wouldn’t you?” she shot back, unrepentant. “Poor soul—and her increasin’ and all.”

O’Neal met Richard’s eyes and sobered. “I collect it did not go like you was a-wishin’, yer honor.”

“Not at all.”

“If ’twas me, I’d leave her be until she feels more th’ thing. ’Twas a shock a-seein’ ye agin, I’d be bound. Seems t’ me—”

“The shock was not all hers,” Richard muttered dryly.

“Well, she cannot go far, for ’tis gonna rain, and ’tis gettin’ dark, don’t ye know? And if yer honor was t’ leave her be, I’m thinkin’ she might come about, d’ye think?”

“For once you appear to have all the sense in this house, O’Neal,” Richard conceded, still trying to cope with the dramatic changes in his plans. “All right, she’ll be back before supper surely. Er … Millie, is it? Yes, well, when she comes in, send for me.”

He walked back downstairs almost in a trance, his mind still troubled, to where he’d first discovered her in his chair. His eyes took in the bright warm blaze in the fireplace, and he recalled how she’d not even been allowed a fire at Rowe’s Hill. “She hates me—and with reason,” he admitted to himself. Leaving the door open in case she should come back that way, he moved to the sideboard and uncorked the brandy.

Brandishing the bottle in the air, he offered a mocking toast, “To Lady Sherborne! To Richard Standen, bloody foolish bastard that he is!” And then he poured himself a full glass, carried it to the chair, and sat sprawled before the fire, waiting. Slowly, as the brandy warmed him, he allowed himself the luxury of remembering the week that had gained him the child, seeing her again as she had been, recalling the sweetness of discovered passion. There was no help for it, he was caught well and good, in fact and heart. All that had passed since Rowe’s Hill was but the floundering.

It did not take him long to discover that he faced the censure of his entire household. Mrs. Creighton moved about sniffing disapprovingly, Stubbs’s face was wooden whenever he passed by the door, the maids who ventured in scurried like mice before a cat when they saw him, and even Heloise sat back on her haunches and eyed him as though he were an interloper in his own house.

“I suppose you think me a shallow, callous fellow also,” he sighed, leaning down from his chair to pick her up. “And maybe I am, you know, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m going to make it up to her.” The cat stared like an owl, its round, unmatched eyes unblinking. “You don’t believe me, do you? Well, beginning tomorrow, I’m taking Harry to London. She’s going to have the best physician, the best gowns, the best jewelry, the best I can buy her—you hear me, you misbegotten clump of fur?”

Apparently more easily convinced than Harriet, the cat settled down on his lap, stretching across it toward the warmth of the fire. He sat there scratching her ears, drawing comfort from her presence. But it was one thing to confide his dreams to a cat, quite another to explain to his wife.

Nearly half an hour later, he was interrupted from his rather sober musings by Thomas. “What is it? Oh, ’tis you.”

“The rest of ’em don’t want to tempt your temper, my lord, but I thought perhaps you might wish to know …” The footman paused, waiting to make certain he had Lord Sherborne’s attention. “ ’Tis about the horse, my lord.”

“What horse?” Richard roused himself, straightening in his chair, sensing it was a matter of some import. “Two Harry? Tell Cates to tend to it.”

“ ’Tis Cates who told Stubbs,” Thomas persisted stubbornly. “But he could not stop the mistress.”

An awful premonition washed over him. “Couldn’t stop her from what? Out with it, man! Where is she?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but she took the horse.”

He lurched to his feet, nearly oversetting the chair.

“The deuce she did! And he let her? In her condition? Of all the cork-brained … the stupid .. Dash it, Thomas, but she cannot ride! And Two Harry’s not a lady’s mount!” Already halfway to the door, he flung back over his shoulder, “When? When did she leave?”

“That, my lord, you’ll have to ask Mr. Cates. I did but think you’d wish to hear the horse was missing.”

“Stubbs! Stubbs! Where’s Cates? He cannot have been such a fool as to let her take Two Harry! Dammit, where is everybody? Set up a search party! Tell Cates I’ll have his head if anything’s happened to her!”

He tore through the house as though possessed, leaving Thomas to shake his head. “He wouldn’t look for her, but he’ll search for the animal,” he muttered.

Despite the lateness of the day, every available man was sent out, with Richard taking the lead of one party. At first the air was merely misty, but as the sun set, it began to drizzle steadily, soaking through the searchers’ clothes. After nearly two hours of combing along lanes and hedgerows, Richard had to admit she must’ve taken shelter somewhere. Reluctantly he turned back, telling himself that she was all right, that she’d probably doubled back to the house when it got dark, that they’d but been on the proverbial wild-goose chase.