The Match of the Century (15 page)

“And why not, Perkins?”

The man didn’t answer immediately but kicked his horse forward. Ben fell in with him. When the others were out of sight, Perkins said, “You understand how it looks, your being alone with Miss Morris for a long period of time?”

“I happened to be saving her life,” Ben pointed out.

“Of course. You were successful. There is no doubt that without you, she would not be with us.”

“Thank you,” Ben said, meaning anything but a courtesy. “However, I sense we are discussing Miss Morris for a reason. Or do you enjoy speaking in riddles?”

“Actually, I do enjoy riddles.”

“Good. You seem to have a talent for them.”

Perkins actually smiled.

Ben did not smile back. He was thinking he’d like to plant his fist in the middle of the man’s nondescript face.

Sensing his mood, Perkins came to the point. “It will be best if you and Miss Morris kept a distance from each other for a period of time. There will be those who speculate and talk; however, if the two of you are cordial but distant, the gossip will die.”

Ben had no intention of being “distant” from Elin. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

“To what?” Perkins answered with a touch mild amusement.

Ben reined in his horse. “You aren’t clever, Perkins. Furthermore, my father enjoyed playing these games with his sons. He called it keeping us on our toes. You can tell my brother he’ll have to do better if he expects to bamboozle me into staying where he wishes me to stay or behaving in the manner he deems proper. I will not keep a distance from Miss Morris, and I don’t care what the gossips say.” Indeed, Elin might even now be telling Gavin that she can’t marry him—which was another compelling reason for Ben to be with her.

“Clever? Oh no, Lord Ben, I’m not being clever. I’m direct. Stay away from her.”

Ben’s response was to put his heels to his horse, determined to ride as fast as he could to reach Elin.

Of course, a beat later, Ben heard the sound of horses following. Perkins was on his tail. He would stop Ben if he caught him.

Ben was determined that would not happen, and the race was on.

Chapter Fifteen

E
lin woke as Baynton’s coach rolled into London to find herself hunched in the corner and wrapped in his wool greatcoat, a still-warm brick at her feet. Molly snored quietly beside her.

She sat up, frowning. The duke sat opposite her and appeared to be sleeping, his hat pulled down over his face so he could rest his head, his long legs at an awkward angle.

Lifting the curtain, Elin glanced outside, surprised to see buildings.

“We are here,” the duke said. Sitting up, he pushed back his hat and smiled at Elin.

“I slept the whole time?”

“Through two changes of horses,” he confirmed.

“I’m surprised. I must have been exhausted.” Her muscles felt tight, and she had a need to stretch. As she did so, she noticed Gavin’s gaze drifting to her breasts. She quickly brought her arms down, troubled. “Is your brother with us?”

“He might be. He hasn’t made himself known if he is.”

“I was certain he would join us as quickly as he could.” Elin tried to see all she could out the window. Several riders rode alongside, including her cousin. “They must be exhausted.”

Gavin nodded agreement. “I’m certain many of them attempted to sleep. It isn’t comfortable in a saddle.”

“Will you take me directly to my father?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you.” She settled back. It would not be long before she would be home. Dawn was breaking, and she was beginning to recognize some of the area. She was certain she appeared a fright. It had been a long, terrible ordeal.

“Perhaps Ben found a clue or something on the bodies,” she said, wondering at why he wasn’t here in the coach with her. She missed him. After years of being apart, being gone from him for several hours seemed unbearable. They were a team. She was important to him; he was important to her.

And then she remembered she needed to speak to Baynton. However, Molly was coming to her senses, and perhaps now would not be the best time.

It might be best if she spoke to her father first.

A half hour later, the duke’s coach stopped in front of her father’s house. Henry, the Morris butler, opened the coach door.

“Miss Elin, welcome home.”

She smiled at the man who had known her all her life. He did not appear his usual serene self. He acted relieved at her presence.

“I’m happy to be here.” She knew her hair was wildly tangled, but she didn’t care. She could have thrown herself into his arms. He was not a tall man, not like the footmen of most of the area homes. However, he was efficient and thoughtful. Her father trusted him as he did few others.

Henry held out a gloved hand. “Let’s hurry into the house.”

Elin gave Baynton his coat. She still wore her cloak. She climbed out of the coach. The duke followed, having to unfold himself.

“Tell me, Henry, how is Father?”

“Anxious for your safe arrival, Miss Elin,” was the answer. He turned and began walking down the hall. Elin assumed he was heading to the small dining room where the family usually took most meals. Instead, he walked past it, moving toward the library. He opened the door. “She has arrived, Mr. Morris.”

Elin couldn’t wait for the formalities. She pushed Henry aside. “Papa.” She hadn’t called him that for years. She was halfway into the room when she stopped, stunned by the change in her father’s appearance.

His face was so white, it seemed to blend with his hair, which had once been as black as Elin’s, and his shoulders stooped. The change was startling.

He sat in his leather, high-backed chair in front of the fire, a blanket over his lap as if he were ancient, and he seemed to be. A steaming cup of tea was on the table beside his chair.

“Elin,” he said, his voice rough with either emotion, or pain. “I was so afraid I’d lost you.”

“I’m fine. It was terrible. Jensen, Toby, James, and Craig are dead, but I survived. Fortunately. Lord Benedict came across me running for my life and helped protect me until the duke arrived.”

“Lord Ben?” Fyclan frowned as if he couldn’t quite place him.

She knelt on the floor beside him. Deep lines etched his face. “What has happened to you?” she whispered. “Why did you not tell me you were not well?”

“It is a bit of gout or some bad food. Yesterday, I began feeling worse.”

“I’m so glad I’m here,” Elin said. “And I am the worst sort of daughter. I
should
have been here for you.”

“It has been a bad time,” her father admitted. “We’ve done the best we could.” He smiled then, his eyes watering. “I see pieces of your mother in you. I’ve missed that.”

“Everyone says I am the image of you.”

“Not hardly. You are too lovely.”

Elin felt herself blush. Her father had never spoken to her this way. If anything, he’d often seemed a distant and stern figure. His love had focused on her mother.

And the idea that he was being sentimental alarmed her more than anything else.

She reached for both of his hands. “I’m here now, and I am going to take over the care of you. Your doctor shall be answering to me if anything untoward happens. Do you understand? I won’t let you go without a fight, and
I
can fight
. Perhaps in that way I’m more like you than in any other.”

He smiled at that statement. “What would make me happiest is to see you married to Baynton. I am looking forward to seeing you as his bride. I need to know that you will be cared for in the proper manner.”

This was not what Elin wanted to hear.

In fact, she needed to tell her father the truth. She should do it now before she found herself wrapped in The Dowager Duchess of Baynton’s plans. She knew Marcella couldn’t wait to take control of the details of her wedding. Perhaps even her marriage.

Furthermore, if she was going to cry off—and she was, she was certain of it, her heart belonged to Ben—then she must prepare her father. He would not take her decision well.

However, seeing him in such weakened state . . .

Baynton was present in the room. He’d come to the door of the library and hung back, respecting this moment with her father.

Ben wouldn’t have done that. Ben would have burst in the room and taken charge. Gavin was far more diplomatic, and she appreciated his tact, especially right now, when she was so confused.

Her parents had believed in the prophecy her gypsy great-grandmother had declared over Fyclan when he was born. With all their hearts, in spite of being of modern minds, they were determined that their grandson would be a duke.

Elin wasn’t afraid to fly in the face of superstition. She would marry Ben. Her male child would be a simple “Mister,” and she would love the baby and his father with all her heart.

However, this was not the time to announce such a decision.

Confident that in no way could she be forced to marry the duke against her will, she smiled at her father. “We shall discuss this later. What is important right now is for you to regain your health.” She reached for his cup and saucer of tea. She held the cup up to his lips. “Drink. You always claim a good cup of tea can soothe away anything.”

He did as bid, as docile and trusting as one of Heartwood’s lambs, and Elin feared her heart would break. Fyclan Morris was a lion, not a lamb. She needed to help restore him to fierceness.

She rose to her feet and turned to Baynton, who still stood by the door, his expression solemn and solicitous at the same time. She did not doubt that he empathized with her.

Years ago, when
his
father died, she remembered he had been distraught, if such a thing could be applied to men. Her father had spent a good deal of time by his side, counseling him and helping him pick up the reins of responsibility required of a duke.

“Thank you, Your Grace, for bringing me home.” His eyes were blue, the blue of stained-glass windows, a dramatic blue. The blue in Ben’s eyes seemed almost washed out in comparison.

He took a step toward her and spoke, his voice low, “Gavin. My name to you is Gavin. I’m not a duke with you, Elin. I’m a man . . . and I know this has not been the easiest time for you. This may also not be the correct moment to speak, but I believe I must say something. I’m here for you. Whatever you need, for your father or for yourself, tell Henry, and he will contact me immediately. I mean this, Elin. I know that perhaps I have not been as attentive as I could be, but I will change. You have my protection. And,” he said, almost as if tacking on an afterthought, “my
trust.”

Elin did not want to hear this. “Thank you,” she managed.

It seemed an inadequate response after his uncharacteristic forthrightness. But he acted as if she had said exactly the right thing.

He smiled, a smile that had charmed many. “You must be exhausted. Henry has sent your sister-in-marriage’s maid home. There is nothing for you to worry over.”

“Except my father.”

“Yes,” he quickly agreed. “What I meant is that you are safe now.” He glanced at Fyclan, who sat quiet, still. That was more of a concern to Elin than anything else.

“Has Father asked about Madame Odette?” She paused and confided, “She might have been his mistress.”

“Fyclan? With a mistress?” Gavin almost laughed, and then, seeing that she didn’t find the idea amusing said, “Your father doesn’t have a mistress, Elin. He’s not that sort of man.”

Furthermore, her father, as he appeared now, was not interested in mistresses. She felt foolish for even having the thought. Although when she had confronted Madame, a look had crossed the woman’s face, a mixture of superiority and disdain. Certainly she had thought Elin provincial and silly . . . but there had been something more in that expression as well . . .

A footstep in the hall alerted them to a new guest before Theresa, Robbie Morris’s wife, burst in the room with a resounding, “
Elin
, I’m so happy to see you safe.”

Theresa was a few inches taller than Elin and fifteen years older. She and Robbie had four daughters. Each birth had marked her figure, so she now had an ample bosom that was always threatening to overflow her bodice and a pronounced belly. Jenny Morris once observed to Elin that it was too bad Theresa was too vain to let her dressmaker use more material in her skirts.

Of course, none of that mattered. Robbie was devoted to his wife. She had been the daughter of one of his favorite tutors from university. Theirs was a love match.

A love match . . . exactly what Elin wanted for herself—and what she was determined to have.

“Thank you, Theresa,” Elin murmured, as the two of them shared sisterly kisses on the cheek. “And thank you for sending your maid.”

“That was nothing,” Theresa said, waving the glove she’d pulled off her hand. She looked to the duke. “Your Grace, we are all pleased you found her.
Thank
you. Thank
you
.”

Elin’s smile felt stretched at this effusive sentiment. She was beginning to remember what she truly felt about Theresa, who could be a bit overbearing.

Over her cousin’s wife’s head, Gavin met her eye, and he smiled as he said, “You are welcome,” in a perfunctory manner, but Elin understood. He found Theresa as exaggerated as she did. He knew she could be a handful. She supposed he dealt with insincerity all the time. Another reason she needed to be honest with him.

He excused himself from Theresa and crossed over to the chair by the fire. “Fyclan, I’m leaving now.”

Elin’s father reached for his hand. “Thank you.”

His words were heartfelt.

“Please do what my mother’s doctor asks you to do,” Gavin said.

Her father waved away his request. However, Elin took it to heart. “He will,” she said firmly. “And please thank Her Grace for sending him.”

“Your family is very dear to mine.” Gavin bowed over her hand and did something he’d not done before. His kissed it. His breath was warm against her skin.

Elin was so shocked by his gesture, she couldn’t speak.

Not waiting for an answer, he nodded to Fyclan and left the room

Theresa broke the silence. “Oh. My.”

Her declaration reminded Elin to breathe. She looked down at her hand and realized that while Gavin’s kiss was a gallant gesture, it shocked her more than pleased her. The sooner she spoke to him, the better.

She turned and realized that her father had been watching her closely. She smiled. He regarded her with solemn concern.

Again, it was Theresa who spoke. “Mr. Bartland, the duchess’s physician should arrive momentarily.”

“Good,” Elin said. “I am interested in what he has to say.”

“I am also,” Theresa said.

“You?” Elin questioned.

Her cousin’s wife had the good grace to blush. “That didn’t sound the thing, did it? Very domineering of me. Robbie asked me to be here. He would be here himself except for going with the duke to find you.” She moved past Elin to sit on the footstool close to Fyclan. “He’ll be here later today with a full report. He said you will find it interesting.”

“I believe I shall find the report interesting as well. What time is Mr. Bartland to arrive?”

“At eleven.”

Elin glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was nine. “I have time to freshen up. Will you stay with Father until I return?”

“Of course, I will,” Theresa said.

Fyclan raised a hand. “It isn’t necessary.”

“I would not think of leaving you alone,” Theresa said. She’d been carrying a cloth bag and held it up. “I brought my handwork. Or I’ll read to you.”

“I want more tea,” her father said. “I felt better with the tea.”

“I’ll have some made,” Theresa said, her disposition cheerful.

“I shall return shortly, Papa,” Elin said, and hurried off.

She found Mrs. Elliott the housekeeper in the breakfast room. Requesting a bath be prepared, Elin hurried upstairs to her room, suddenly in need of privacy.

It had been almost a year since she’d stepped into the room. Memories threatened to overwhelm her. She and her mother had picked out the carpet. Her mother had been the one to insist on the gilt carvings on the four-poster bed. Elin had other ideas for the color of the draperies. However, when they were hung, they were the color her mother had chosen.