Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (14 page)

She glanced over at True, who sat in the lamplight at Lord Drake’s side and sewed. Lord, but they looked like an old married couple! He reading the paper and her sewing a hem. She tossed her blonde curls and selected a piece at random. Such boredom was not for her. Perhaps she
would
marry Lord Drake after all—with their financial situation she supposed she did not really have a choice—but if she did, she would make him take her to London. He would buy her jewels and a high-perch phaeton with four white ponies, and they would stay at Leathorne Place in Mayfair. If she had to marry the gloomy Lord Drake to attain her rightful place in the world, then so be it. She would do as her mother wished, and at night she would close her eyes and think of plumes for her ponies.

• • •

“Will you walk on the terrace with me? I have something I wish to ask you.”

True’s heart thumped, but she put aside the first ridiculous thought that had sprung into her foolish brain at Drake’s whispered words. He had discarded his paper some time ago and sat gravely listening to Arabella’s dramatic performance on the piano. Her cousin was really a brilliant pianist, as good as many professionals. It was the one ability True envied Arabella but had never been able to learn. The vicarage piano was old and out of tune, and that must be her excuse for her inability. Arabella had just started another equally difficult piece, when Lord Drake had whispered his request to her. She slipped out onto the terrace after him, away from the evening gathering in the music room. All eyes were on Arabella, as Conroy turned the pages for her. The music room was next to the blue saloon, and so it opened out onto the terrace, too, through large glass doors.

Her first thought at his words had been,
He means to ask me to marry him!
but of course that was impossible. Ridiculous! What could have entered her brain to think such a thing? Never, by word or gesture, had Drake given her any reason to expect that he would repeat his impetuous offer of marriage, an offer spurred only by his sense of honor and feeling that he had compromised her. It had been a week since that afternoon by the river, and in that time they had often walked together, talking about anything and everything, as Lord Conroy and Arabella amused themselves.

True was puzzled that Arabella did not make more of a push to attach the viscount, but she seemed to almost fear him sometimes. She had confessed to True that Drake’s nightmares—his screams had awoken the household a few times in the night, including the night before—frightened her. And yet still, she seemed determined to have him. When they were together, she gave every indication of finding him fascinating and irresistible.

True caught up with him by a large potted plant at the low wall at one end of the terrace. “What is it, Wy?”

“Will you go for a drive with me tomorrow? I want to show you something.”

His voice was eager, boyish, and utterly irresistible to True. But still . . . “I . . . I don’t think that would look good, Wy. What excuse could we offer? Would it not look peculiar?”

His gaze was fond, and he reached out and caressed one curl, letting it run through his fingers. “Just a short drive in an open gig, my dear. I would not compromise you; you should know that by now. Have I not asked you to marry me?” he teased.

“You did not ask me, sir,” she said, laughing. “You reluctantly said that as I had been compromised, you supposed we
must
marry!”

“I did not say anything in such an unchivalrous manner, I hope. But about the drive . . . have you not been wanting to see the countryside? I know you are an avid naturalist.”

True rolled her eyes. “I pick weeds and wildflowers, Wy, nothing so grand as a ‘naturalist,’ please. At home I find herbs that I need to brew healing potions.” She paused. “I will go with you, if you think you can explain it to your mother. I would not have her think badly of me.”

“How could she? You are the sweetest of girls, and no one with a brain could think ill of you.”

He chucked her under the chin as he said that. If only he meant it, she thought, or at least, if only he meant more by it than just that he was fond of her as a friend and sister. She had acknowledged the danger to herself. She could love him, if she allowed herself, and she was not going to do that.

But still, the chance to be alone with him, driving through the English countryside in autumn, was irresistible. “All right. Take me driving tomorrow, sir!”

He put his arms around her and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek, but he did not release her immediately, as he should have. He stood gazing down at her in the circle of his arms. True heard a rustling sound behind her, but was lost and dazed in Wy’s moonlit eyes, golden like a cat’s. It was like there was a spell on her when he surrounded her with his strong arms, holding her close to him, a spell that kept her motionless. But then he released her and smiled.

“It is settled then. Tomorrow morning at eleven.”

• • •

Drake tossed and turned in his bed. Not once since that afternoon with Truelove by the river had he slept for so many hours unbroken. He longed for that sleep, the oblivion of it, the sweet release. He had been able to snatch a few more hours here and there, but only by remembering the feel of her arms around him, a soft bosom under his cheek, a small hand stroking his hair. If he could just recapture that feeling, that utter peace and contentedness, he could sleep, he was
sure
of it. He turned over on his back and stared into the blackness.

But the memory, or at least the sensory part of that memory, was fading. He needed a repeat of that afternoon to refresh his recollection, but he doubted very much if True, even as kindhearted as she was, would agree to slip away with him to the riverbank so he could sleep in her arms again. He snorted at the idea. Ridiculous, no matter how enticing the thought.

Well, he knew one thing after all these months. If he had had any intention of marrying, it could not be soon. He might recover from these awful nightmares, but it would take some time, years perhaps. How could he inflict his sleepless nights on a wife? He knew that they would have separate chambers as all in their sphere did, but their rooms at Thorne House would be side by side, and she would know of his sleeplessness. Inevitably they would spend some part of the night together. If he should fall asleep after lovemaking and descend into one of his nightmares . . . how horrible! He tried to imagine Arabella Swinley cradling him in her slender arms, bringing him to his senses gently and gradually, as True had, stroking his hair, murmuring sweet words to him. She would likely kick him out of her bed, and who could blame her?

He hoped he had begun the journey back to health, but he was a long way from arriving at his destination. Until he did, he would not even think about marriage. He willed himself to sleep, finally, but again, the nightmare field of Mont St. Jean surrounded him with all its bloody horror, and the weight of his dead horse and poor Captain Lewis pressed down on him, and he awoke screaming to find Horace bending over shaking him awake.

“Wake up, sir. Another narsty night, it be. I shall get your breeches.”

• • •

True glanced over at her companion as he handled the ribbons of the small, lightweight gig with easy skill. As a sop to propriety, they had a tiger up behind them, as they would if this was London. He was really just a small stable boy, but he seemed to be enjoying the ride as much as True was, a grin on his not-too-clean face as they trotted along the country lane at a spanking pace.

At home she had a pony cart, for some of the calls she had to make were a ways away from the vicarage. But the speed did not compare to this lovely gig, and her skills were not those of a top sawyer, as Lord Drake evidently was.

With the thought of home came worries. She hoped her villagers were not missing her too much. Mrs. Saunders, a plump, tidy widow and member of her father’s congregation, had promised to look after things for her, and Faithful would take care of what she could, but True worried anyway. It was not just that it was her duty; she enjoyed visiting the shut-ins and elderly, for they often, despite illness and deprivation, were less complaining than they had a right to be. And the older ones told marvelous stories of village life back in the middle of the last century. It always seemed to her to be a more colorful time, more vivid and lively.

But every one of her “special friends,” as she called them, urged her to take this holiday, just as her father had, saying yes, they would miss her but that she was entitled to a bit of fun like any girl. Girl! She was a spinster of what was called “uncertain years,” meaning no one was unkind enough to remember her true age. She had meant this to be a time of serious soul searching, a time to make her decisions about Mr. Bottleby and the rest of her life, but she had come to no decisions.

She glanced again at Wy. She had awoken in the night to the sound of echoing screams and had gotten up, alarmed. How she wished she could go to him. How precious, to have the right and tender obligation to give comfort. Today he looked remarkably cheerful, though, for the kind of torment he was going through. Perhaps he had decided that what could not be conquered must be endured. He was a soldier and had likely been through worse than nightmares in his many years.

He would overcome eventually, she had no doubt of it. But on this lovely autumnal day, with the sun shining and the leaves brilliant and golden around them, she was not going to concentrate on gloomy thoughts. It was a day for happiness, just to be beside Wy and bowling along a country lane in such a well-sprung vehicle.

“Tell me where we are going!” she said. “I am dying of curiosity.”

“When we get there.” His grin was sly. “I will give you a hint. Do you remember talking about Stanley, and how much he seemed to enjoy his job, and the country?”

She nodded. “He said he had lived in Bristol all his life, but that he had fallen in love with the countryside . . . or words to that effect, anyway.”

“Well, it has to do with that.” He snapped the reins and Dancer, recovered from her twisted ankle, and Juniper, a bay matched in size and speed to Dancer, picked up the pace.

They trundled along in silence for a while. Again, True’s mind wandered and she worried at the problem of what to do about Mr. Bottleby. One day she would think she should marry him, and the next she would be sure she could not. She
must
make up her mind!

What was wrong with her? He was handsome enough; not like Wy, but not repulsive. Not that she should even be considering looks, but those thoughts would intrude, especially when she looked at Wy. Mr. Bottleby was not dirty, he had no bad habits, nor vices, did not smoke, gamble or drink. He was Godly, forceful and energetic, hardworking, sincere, but . . .

And that was what it always came down to. A feeble “but.” It was almost as though her mind was stalling, refusing to make a decision, because she knew that yes or no, she would have to leave Lea Park once she decided, to let Mr. Bottleby know in person what she was going to do. She would not refuse or accept his generous proposal in a letter. Already she had been a guest at Lea Park for a month, but leaving meant she would have no excuse to come back, no excuse to see Wy’s dear face again.

And that was the root of her indecision. She did not want to leave his side. She worried that if she left, Arabella and Lady Swinley would find a way to cajole him into marriage, and she thought that he was not ready for that yet, not ready for such a life-changing occurrence. Given time—time to heal, time to find peace in his heart—he would make a wonderful husband, maybe not for Arabella, but . . .

Who was she trying to fool? Arabella would make him a good wife, for she had many admirable qualities and talents, and he would be the man who could tame all of her unhappy quirks. He could possibly turn her into the woman she had the potential to be: good, loving, sweet. A lesser man would let her rule the roost, and that would be disastrous for her. It was not that True felt that women needed to be tamed or subjugated, but Arabella had a tendency to pouting and selfishness. The sooner she was out of her mother’s clutches the better, and marriage was her only way away from Lady Swinley. With the right influences—Wy and his mother, to name two good ones—she would be a brilliant viscountess, and countess, someday, and more importantly, a good woman.

“We’re here,” he said, pulling up on the road outside of a large, vacant, rambling house. It was enormous, with numerous outbuildings and stables.

The tiger ran around to hold the horses and Drake jumped down from the gig, wincing as he hit the ground. He reached up and swung True down to the road, then took her arm and walked her down the lane toward the building, opening the gate for her, guiding her through, and shutting it behind her.

“What is this?” she asked, looking up at him. “Why are we here?”

“This, my dear,” he said, motioning with a grand sweep of his arm, “is the Drake School of Carpentry and Animal Husbandry!”

Chapter Ten

“The Drake . . . what?”

He laughed at her look of puzzlement and took out a key. “Come inside. I’ll show you around.”

The door was sheltered in a stone alcove that protected the entrance from wind. Tangled masses of vegetation climbed the stone and wound around the pillars, giving True the feeling that this house had not been inhabited for a very long time. It was brick, two full stories plus an attic. The first floor consisted of a drawing room, library, parlor, and a large back kitchen, all with the musty smell of disuse. Drake threw back the draperies in the drawing room, and was rewarded by a shower of dust. They exited quickly, laughing and sneezing as the cloud of dust filled the room.

“This house needs a good turnout!” True said, coughing and brushing her skirts.

The second floor had eight bedrooms of varying size, as well as a couple of dressing rooms. The attic, Drake said, had servants’ quarters. True explored, her “housewife’s” eye taking in the furnishings that remained, what would need to be repaired, the condition of the wall coverings and floors, all the minute details her companion said he had not noticed when he had looked at it with the agent in charge of the property. He lounged against the door frame and watched her with laughter in his eyes.