Lady Wild (5 page)

Once, she’d secretly longed to wear court dress and be presented before the queen, but even if she’d been able, her mama had not been an admirer of Victoria’s strict and hypocritical moral code. She had also said the queen treated her sons most foully and that a woman with that many children should be bloody grateful and shower them with love, not constant recriminations and darkest mourning.

Lord Stark eyed the tray in her grip and stood. “May I be of assistance?”

“Hardly necessary.” Had he been sipping at her mother’s laudanum? They both seemed to have gone batty in the brief moments she’d been absent.

Carefully, she placed the tray on the small walnut table. The small piece of furniture still took up a good portion of the back corner of the room. Usually, she sat in the armchair close to the fire, where the viscount was now reseating himself. But today, she’d have to sit a distance back on the embroidered, cushioned stool and fight the drafts that whistled through their strange little abode. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

He nodded. “Both. Heaps of sugar.”

Ophelia swallowed and fought not to let her distress show. They didn’t have
heaps
of sugar. She sneaked a glance at her mother, who merely smiled back encouragingly. She poured the milk in the white and blue porcelain cup first, then the steaming black tea. Gritting her teeth at the sheer decadence, Ophelia then placed three lumps of precious sugar into his cup, careful not to spill a single grain.

“Thank you,” he said as he reached out for the libation.

She passed it carefully, then went about pouring her mother’s cup, adding milk and the remainder of sugar in the small bowl.

She prayed he wouldn’t ask for more. They had none.

“Thank you, my darling.” Her mother took the cup, the saucer shaking lightly in her grip.

As Ophelia poured her own cup, sans sugar, she considered milk but decided to save the remainder for the morning.

The viscount studied her ministrations over the tea. “You are a brave soul.” He took a sip of his tea and let out a contented sigh.

“Am I?” She peered down at the plain tea, trying to be grateful she had tea at all, it was so costly.

“To drink tea as it comes.”

She bit back the reply that he’d left her little choice. “I’ve been attempting to give up sweets.”

There. She’d also explained why she wouldn’t be eating any cake.

He took another healthy drink then looked up. He glanced from her mother to Ophelia, then back to his tea. The strangest look crossed his swarthy features, as if his tea didn’t have three spoons of sugar at all. “I’ve made an ass of myself.”

“My lord,” Lady Darlington gasped.

“My apologies, my lady, but I’ve just realized what a hideous faux pas I have performed.”

Ophelia studiously sipped from her cup, wondering what on earth he was rabbiting on about. His uninvited visit? Well, soon this painful interview would be over. Surely. Windswept rivers and romantic conversation were marvelous, but this? This was torture.

He rested his cup in its saucer, his mischievous face shockingly solemn. “I shall have a large quantity of sugar sent over post-haste, this afternoon.”

Her mouth dried. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have pointed out their poverty? “That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said gently. “When someone acts like an oaf, as I have done, the only way to redeem one’s self is to supply what they have so greedily taken.”

Her heart did a traitorous and confused leap. Ophelia snapped her gaze to the window. Clouds were gathering across the sky, casting the small garden in shadow. Rain. Rain was coming.

She stared at those clouds with desperation, horrified by her circumstances. No one had ever so blatantly addressed the want of her and her mother before. Nor had they offered assistance or apology for being rude.

Gratitude and shame waltzed within her, but she was uncertain which was leading.

“Ophelia?” Her mother’s soft voice cut through the silence. “Isn’t that kind of his Viscount Stark?”

Rain spattered the window, dimming the view of trees and the rutted road. She glanced back to the man who had turned her world upside down since appearing on the river bank, bottle in hand. “Thank you. We are most appreciative.”

The words nearly stuck in her throat, as did the humiliation of needing his help.

“As a matter of fact,” he hurried on, likely to avoid her discomfort, “your mother and I have been planning whilst you were laboring so arduously over our repast.”

No wonder her mother appeared so invigorated. “Have you indeed?”

What had the two devils—for her mother could be quite scandalous if given rein—been planning?

Ophelia sneaked another quick sip of tea before placing a slice of the fruited cake upon a small plate for her mother. The room seemed to buzz about her as she fought a rising sense of alarm.

Her mother took the cake, made a satisfied sound, then said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “You’re going to London with Viscount Stark.”

Those words fell upon her ears, rattling her thoughts with their absurdness. Her mouth gaped in her astonishment. Worse still, in her shock, Ophelia’s grip relaxed, and she dropped the plate bearing the last slice of cake on the red and blue woven rug. Their cat, Wellington, darted out from under the settee, crouched over the morsel, and began masticating, a conquering feral beast.

“Blast,” she cried. She felt as stunned as when she’d slipped in the river, her wits flown.

“Did you hear?” He reached forward, about to touch her arm, but he stopped himself.

Growls of pleasure came from Wellington as he quickly chewed the cake.

“The cake is ruined,” she protested.

Stark leaned forward. “Never mind the cake.”

“But it was the last slice,” she replied, trying not to sound like a little girl unable to believe that she’d just been
instructed
she was going to London.

“Ophelia, you needn’t worry about cake,” he whispered. “You shall have as much of it as you like in future, and I certainly don’t need any.”

She blinked, hating that tears stung her eyes over something so foolish as lost confectionary. In truth, it was the strain of the months, his presence in their reduced circumstance, and a general frustration with the world which inspired such silliness. She sniffed. “I don’t understand.”

He rested his cup and saucer on his knee. “Your mother and I have decided it would be best if you came to London. You will resume your studies with Mr. Ruskin. If he will not have you, I will arrange that you study with Millais, and I shall facilitate your modeling. I shall even bring a pistol so that someone like Rossetti doesn’t have you nude in a trice.”

Ophelia gaped. How had her mother convinced Lord Stark in the mere time it had taken for her to brew tea?

“And you are not to worry about your mother, for she shall come with us.”

Startled, Lady Darlington smoothed her slightly shaking hands over her blanket. “Indeed? How marvelous.”

Ophelia blinked then stuttered, “S-she is far too ill for us to go. . .”

“I am not,” her mother cut in. “And I should rather be surrounded by the bustle of London than pass my last days on this settee staring at the same trees turning from autumn to winter day in and day out.”

It was terribly awkward discussing this in front of him, but it had to be said. “We cannot possibly be beholden to this man, Mama.”

“Where is your sense of adventure, my darling? Seize life with both hands!”

“You did, and look what happened,” Ophelia bit out before she could stop herself. Her parents had loved each other, but it had not turned out well for her mother in the end. That couldn’t be ignored.

“Yes,” her mother said quietly, her soft eyes as peaceful and determined as they had ever been. “And I had fifteen happy years with your father. I also gained a beautiful daughter from my boldness.” She cleared her throat. “Now, I didn’t raise you to be afraid of life, did I?”

Lord Stark glanced from Lady Darlington to Ophelia, his gaze a trifle unsure. “I think I shall leave you two to discuss this.”

He swallowed the last of his tea, stood. The room might have been one in a doll’s house, his size positively dominating the room. Bent slightly, lest his head brush the plastered ceiling, he placed the cup and saucer on the narrow mantel. “Thank you for the tea.”

He scooted between the furniture and headed for the hall.

Ophelia gave her mother an infuriated look before she jumped to her feet and followed the madman out into the cool air. “What are you doing, taunting my poor mother thusly?”

He whipped back toward her, his face fierce. “Taunting? She pleaded with
me
to save you from this dreary life. And as it turns out, I agree with her. You will wither here, Ophelia. As she is doing.”

Pain hit her in a brutal wave. Would she wither here? Yes, yes, she would. Ophelia opened and closed her mouth, her throat an agonizing vise. At last, she managed, “She is dying.”

“Yes. She is. And she wishes to go to London. To see you happy.”

Oh dear God. She knew that was true. Her happiness was all her mother wanted.

He glanced away for a moment, and when he looked back, those sharp eyes of his blazed with unreadable emotion. “To have a little bit of adventure before she must leave you. Do you wish to deny her this?”

How she wished to shout,
No
. That she would deny her mother nothing. But unlike her mama, she had a distrust of lords. After all, the lords in her life, her father and her brother, had failed her. How would this one be different when the novelty of finding her adventuring in the river had worn away? “Why would you help us?”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Because I could not give my own mother the happiness for which she so hungered when she stood at death’s door. I will not turn back from this chance. I hope you will not.”

“But—”

“A coach will come in two days to take you to London. Be on it. Do not disappoint your mother.” He paused, then lifted his gloved hand to her cheek, caressing it ever so lightly, his gaze softening. “Do not disappoint me.”

Then he was off, striding down the road.

Coatless.

Ophelia nearly called out to him, but caught herself. The devil was on that road, urging her to throw herself into his chasm of temptation.

She’d always known that one day it would happen. She’d simply never guessed her temptation would be in the guise of such a beautiful man, bent on saving her mother and herself from misery.

It could not end well. For surely, putting her future into his hands could end only in tears. No one had a pure enough heart to help so profoundly and ask for nothing in return.

Especially not when his eyes stared at her with molten hunger. He eyed her as a starving man might. Could a starving man deny himself what he so desired when it was right before him? Would she even wish to deny him when he looked at her thusly?

What would be the cost of his help? She was fairly certain she knew, even if he himself did not yet. Was she willing to pay it?

As she studied his retreating form, shivering at the sight of his powerful body eating up the earth, she wondered if she would even resist paying the price, or if she would simply hand over the fee with both hands, arms open, full of foolishness, as all the women in her family seemed to have done.

CHAPTER FIVE

A friend is an invaluable thing

until they run amok.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

“Damn it, Stark.” The voice of Marcus Trent, Marquis of Vane, boomed off the rococo, carved-wood ceiling, filling up the long hall despite the thick oriental rugs and multitude of medieval wall hangings that should have muffled the sound. “I don’t wish you here right now.”
Andrew blew out a long breath, eyeing his boyhood friend. Vane had grown more and more absent this past year. “And yet, here I stand.”

Vane stared at him with eyes harder than the black marble that formed the fireplace mantel. He stood silent, in apparent fury.

Andrew ignored the stance, hoping still for some kind of friendly greeting.

Several more awkward moments passed, but he didn’t relent and tiptoe away, as he was sure Vane desired. He was here to make his old friend see reason. Of course, he hadn’t expected a sumptuous welcome for his uninvited descent on the massive medieval, Tudor, and Restoration conglomeration of towering wings that was Larksmoore. Still, he hadn’t quite expected this frigid lack of civility, which was all the more bleak in contrast to the hospitality he’d received not an hour before in a cottage that wouldn’t do justice to one of this castle’s closets.

At last, when the silence was shown not to have an effect, Vane demanded, “Why did you come?”

Andrew came straight to the point. “I was concerned.”

For a moment, Vane’s black brows lifted, a scowl pulled at his lips, and it appeared he was going to make some disdainful comment. Instead, his shoulders sagged. “Drink?”