Lords of Desire (38 page)

A prickle of guilt niggled her conscience, and Christobel dropped her gaze. It was this blasted gap in their social status, making things so uncomfortable. After all, if it weren’t for the fact that he was Jasper’s cousin, their paths would never have crossed. Still, she hadn’t meant to insult him—she simply hadn’t been able to think of anything else to say.

Whatdid one discuss with a man who made his living in the cotton mills?

“Perhaps we should head back to the house,” she offered instead. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your tea.”

Mr. Leyden stood, reaching a hand down to assist her up. “I’ll go on ahead and tell them you will be there shortly.”

“Nonsense. You shall escort me back.” She rose to her knees and retrieved her mackintosh square, folding it into fourths before reaching for her discarded parasol.

Tucking it under her arm, she took Mr. Leyden’s proffered hand.

He tugged her to her feet with too much force, causing her to lose her balance and fall forward against him, her breasts pressed firmly against the rock-solid hardness of his chest. For a single, horrified moment, Christobel feared they might both fall in a tangled heap of limbs on the grass. Instead, Mr. Leyden reached for her shoulders, steadying her.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed a bit breathlessly, undone by the frisson of awareness that shot through her body. He was so close that she could smell his scent—soap and leather, perhaps a hint of tobacco. It was an entirely male scent, and a pleasing one, at that.

For a moment their eyes met and held, Christobel’s widening with surprise at the sudden, inexplicable heat she saw there in his gaze. “I…I’m so clumsy,” she stuttered.

At once he released her, inhaling sharply as he did so. Balling his hands into fists by his sides, he stepped away, a muscle in his jaw flexing perceptibly.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Christobel struggled to regain her composure, feeling oddly flustered.

“Shall we?” he said at last. He offered his arm, the fleeting warmth in his eyes replaced with the usual coolness.

Christobel could only nod in reply as she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow, thinking that perhaps she was far more exhausted than she’d imagined.

“Thank you, Mr. Leyden,” she managed to say.A nap, she promised herself. Right after tea.

As he led her back to the house in silence, she couldn’t help but recall the heated look she’d seen in his eyes, if only for a moment.

Perhaps there was more to Mr. Leyden than she’d supposed—something lurking just beneath that quiet exterior, something far more complex, far more…alive.

No, she concluded with a shake of her head. It was just her overactive imagination making her see things that weren’t there, nothing more.

And with that, Christobel put Mr. John Leyden entirely out of her thoughts.

CHAPTER 3

As was her custom, Christobel rose early the next morning, just as the first silvery light of dawn cast shadows across her coverlet. She liked to greet the day, to walk about the garden while the morning dew still glistened upon the lawn.

There was nothing she cherished more than her quiet morning walks, the rising sun piercing the shadows and causing the countryside to come alive. If only she had a way with words like that clever Miss Potter or the scandalous Elinor Glyn.

If she had, she would sit in the ethereal light of dawn, pen and journal in hand, and describe the sights, the sounds, the smells. Yet she dared not try, knowing she would fail abysmally. Instead, she simply observed.

Slipping out of bed, she hurried to the clothespress and dressed quickly, her gown a simple one—one her mother claimed far too closely resembled a dressing gown, but had the advantage of allowing Christobel to manage without Simpson’s aid.

As quiet as a mouse, she made her way downstairs and threw on her heavy woolen cloak. Tiptoeing across the hall, she let herself out the French doors and skimmed down the back stairs, sighing happily as she stepped onto the soft, springy lawn below.

Mist rose from the ground, swirling about her ankles in dark, atmospheric wisps.

Walking slowly, leisurely, she left the quiet house behind. So much to see before the others awoke, before voices broke her reverie, before the day’s activity stole away her solitude.

Nearly an hour later, she made her way back toward the house clutching a colorful bunch of chrysanthemums—yellow, gold, orange, red—and humming quietly to herself. The hem of her skirt was soaked straight through, her hair escaping the simple ribbon with which she’d tied it back and falling about her shoulders in disarray. Time for a steaming bath, she thought, and then perhaps a spot of tea.

But as she drew closer to the house, she became aware of voices—loud, angry voices—

coming from the direction of the service door. Likely just a servants’ dispute, she realized. Still, she quickened her pace and hurried off in that direction.

What she saw when she came around the bend beside the patio made her breath catch in her throat. A line of servants stood against the house watching one man—a gentleman, judging by his attire—hold another man, clearly a servant, by the lapels, landing blow after blow upon the poor soul’s face.

When the servant crumpled to the ground, the gentleman advanced…Dear Lord in heaven, with a limp. Christobel inhaled sharply, one hand rising to cover her mouth in horror. The man was Mr. Leyden, beating the life out of some poor, wretched servant boy.

“Not very tough now, are you?” Mr. Leyden snarled, aiming a kick at the prone man’s abdomen. “Get out of here, you filthy piece of horseshit, and don’t ever return.”

The smaller man staggered to his feet, straightening his jacket as he did so. “I’m owed two weeks’ wages, and I’ll get ’em before I go, ye bastard—”

“You’ll not get a dime.” Mr. Leyden landed another blow, this time to the man’s nose.

Blood spurted from the wound, a flood of bright red that stained his muddy shirt.

Christobel felt her stomach lurch at the sight. Still, her anger propelled her into motion.

Dropping the flowers, she picked up her skirts and ran.

“Let him go, Mr. Leyden!” she called out, placing herself between the two men. “Good God, he’s just a boy!”

“Get out of here, Miss Smyth. This is no business of yours.” Mr. Leyden’s face was livid, his eyes wild with rage. For a moment, Christobel felt a stab of fear, but her fear was soon replaced with righteous indignation.

“Itis my business when I see a…a gentleman abusing a servant in such a fashion.

Haven’t you any sense at all? Why, what would Jasper say?”

“I demand you take yourself inside at once, Miss Smyth.” His hands—swollen and covered with blood, she realized—were balled into fists, ready to continue the abuse.

“I won’t let you kill him, you…you barbarian! You base, brutish man,” she sputtered.

For the briefest of moments, he looked slightly taken aback. Dazed, almost. “And this is what you think of me?” he finally said.

The housekeeper hurried to Christobel’s side, clutching at her sleeve. “Please, miss. I beg of you to do as he says and go in at once. This is no sight for a lady.”

She met Mr. Leyden’s steely gaze. “I will go inside. I’ll find Jasper at once and tell him what you’ve done.”

But as soon as she stepped in the door, Edith intercepted her. “Heavens, Christobel. You must stay inside. There’s been some…some unpleasantness with the servants, and—”

“Unpleasantness? Is that what you call it? Why, he was beating the man senseless!”

“No more than he deserves,” Edith muttered, causing Christobel to gasp in surprise. Her sister did not condone violence of any sort, particularly a man of Mr. Leyden’s station picking on someone so far beneath him. It just wasn’t done.

“I’m told the girl is in terrible shape, cut and bleeding, violated in the worst sort of way,”

Edith whispered. “Jasper just phoned the doctor. I only hope he arrives quickly.”

The girl? Whatever was Edith talking about? Christobel shook her head in confusion.

“What girl?”

“I thought you heard. I thought that’s why you came racing in, that look of fury on your face. Come, sit down.” She led Christobel to a settee beside the fireplace.

“One of the housemaids, a young girl, very pretty. Marie is her name. She was attacked and”—Edith cleared her throat loudly—“viciously attacked early this morning by one of the new footmen.”

“Attacked?” Christobel could barely believe it.

“Yes, and she stumbled out for help, her dress in tatters. Thank God Mr. Leyden is an early riser and happened upon her when he did. She told him what happened and…”

Edith trailed off, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? His references were sterling; there was no hint of it, or we’d never have engaged him. I feel so…so responsible. The poor girl’s mother.” A fat tear rolled down Edith’s cheek.

Christobel clutched her sister’s hands in her own. “Please don’t cry, Edie. It can’t be good for you, not in your condition. Come, you must go lie down. Where’s Mother?”

“Not yet arisen, thank goodness. I…perhaps Ishould go lie down. The doctor should be here any moment. Perhaps after he sees to Marie, he’ll look in on me.”

“Of course,” Christobel said, rising from the settee and leading Edith toward the stairs.

“I hope Mr. Leyden has taken care of the…the situation with the footman,” Edith said, her voice tremulous.

“I think he has.” And dear Lord, how she’d wronged him. The things she’d said…Christobel shook her head, her cheeks burning with mortification. How would she ever apologize? If only she’d known, if only she’d minded her own business and hurried inside like any proper lady would have done when faced with such a scene.

But no, she had to champion what appeared to be an injured party, as was her habit. Only in this case, the injured party was some poor girl named Marie, not the servant boy.

Christobel let out her breath in a rush, feeling like a fool.

“Come, Edith. Let me help you upstairs. Shall I call for some tea?”

“No, I already had my tea in bed.”

Edith looked entirely discomposed, slightly dazed as Christobel escorted her up the stairs and down the corridor toward her bedchamber.

Once they stepped inside, Edith’s maid helped her undress and settled her into bed.

“Shall I read to you?” Christobel offered, reaching for the slim, leather-bound book that sat on the commode beside the bed.

“If you don’t mind. Anything to take my mind off the situation belowstairs.”

And so Christobel opened the book and began to read aloud.

Hours later, Christobel sat on the bench in the front hall, waiting for Mr. Leyden to appear. After she’d left her sister’s bedside and had her bath, she’d changed into a simple lawn skirt and blouse and had her hair put in proper order by Simpson. Still, she felt anything but orderly as she sat waiting for what felt like an eternity.

At last Mr. Leyden stepped out of Jasper’s study and closed the door, headed down the corridor toward her. Twisting the handkerchief she held in her lap, Christobel rose to face him.

Mr. Leyden stopped short when he saw her there. “Miss Smyth,” he said coldly.

Gathering her courage, she spoke quickly. “Mr. Leyden, I must have a word with you.”

“No need,” he said sharply, pushing past her.

Impulsively, she reached out and plucked at his sleeve. “I beg to differ, sir. I…I behaved most inexcusably this morning, and you must allow me to apologize. I had no idea of the situation, and I had no right—”

“Indeed, you hadn’t.” He stared down at her in his usual supercilious manner, only this time Christobel could not resent it. Truly, she deserved it.

“I…I’m ashamed of the things I said to you. You must think me an unbearable fool.”

He said nothing in reply, neither denying nor confirming the accusation. Instead, he rubbed his chin with one hand, and Christobel winced at the sight of his bruised, swollen knuckles.

“I could find some bandages and wrap your hand,” she offered. “With some liniment, perhaps, and—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, cutting her off.

Nodding, Christobel dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Miss Smyth, I…” He cleared his throat. “Your words weren’t so very far off the mark.

The idea of a man raising a hand to a woman tends to blind me with rage. I’m only sorry that you saw me in such a state.”

Christobel couldn’t hide her astonishment.

“I apologize for speaking so frankly, Miss Smyth. If you’ll excuse me.” He made to quit her company once more.

Christobel shook her head. “I insist you let me take a look at that hand, Mr. Leyden.

Please. It’s the least I can do.”

He relented, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “If it will ease your conscience,” he quipped.

“Mother always travels with her special liniment. If you’ll just let me fetch a tube and some bandages, I’ll see to it straightaway.”

He flexed his hand, wincing as he did so. “Hurts like the devil.”

“Wait right here,” she said. “No, better yet, wait for me in the library. The light’s so much better in there. Go on; I’ll be there directly.”

Not five minutes later she found him in the library, sprawled in a worn leather chair, his long legs stretched out before him, a glass of brandy clutched in his good hand. Nothing but his familiar brooding silence greeted her, the glimmer of good humor entirely gone.

Steeling herself, she hurried across the room and knelt before him, uncapping the tube of her mother’s liniment. “Let me see it,” she said, leaning across his lap to take his hand in her own. He visibly flinched as she did so, as if repulsed by her touch, her very nearness.

She couldn’t help but bristle. After all, she was just trying to help, to make amends.

“Perhaps I should send in my maid, instead.”

He looked startled. “If you’d prefer, Miss Smyth. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Christobel sat back on her heels, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Truth be told, she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was doing. It wasn’t as if she’d ever treated an injury like this before—his knuckles might be broken for all she knew.