What a Lady Craves (2 page)

“Forgive me.” The stranger repeated his reverent bow. “I mean no upset. Our ship, you see, sank in the storm. I saw Mr. Sanford to shore, but the ordeal took too much out of me. I was forced to leave him on the beach.”

It wasn’t her place to speak, but Henrietta could no more hold back than she could stop her heart from beating out of control. “Your pardon, Mr.…”

“Satya.”

“Mr. Satya—”

“No, simply Satya.”

She clamped her back teeth. If this man could not get to the point, and soon, she might forget her manners and voice her impatience. “Is Mr. Sanford still of this world?”

“Oh, yes, he is quite well, considering the circumstances. He has merely fainted, and—”

“Fainted?” Her pulse slowed, but only somewhat.

“Yes,
memsahib.
That is why I came for help. I cannot carry his dead weight alone.”

Dead weight. Body. Why did this man insist on such phrasing? Henrietta waved the thoughts away. Surely English was not his native language. He could not know the import of his words.

“Hirsch!” Lady Epperley barked the name, even though the butler had not left the room. “Summon several footmen, and have Mr. Satya show them to my nephew. And tell the housekeeper to prepare his usual chamber. At once!”

“My … my lady …” Henrietta forced the words past a constriction in her throat. “If you won’t be needing me for the rest of the evening …” If she could escape to her quarters, she wouldn’t even have to see him. At the same time, she might hide this blasted agitation from her employer. She’d only have to wonder if he’d changed in the years since she’d bid him Godspeed. Surely India had altered him.

“Nonsense, George.” Lady Epperley heaved herself to her feet, leaning heavily on the arm of the settee for balance. In the process, she overturned Albemarle’s cushion. The cat hit the floor with a dull
thud
and stalked off, flicking her bushy tail indignantly.

“I shall certainly need you,” the dowager went on. “Good heavens, a shock like this at my age. My own nephew shipwrecked.” For emphasis, she clenched a hand about the fabric of her bodice. “My heart.”

Henrietta wasn’t fooled for an instant. The old woman’s voice was far too strong for her to be experiencing any true malaise. “Yes, my lady.”

In what seemed like no time at all, the footmen returned, easing a limp body up the stairs from the foyer. Lady Epperley still wrung her hands at the front of her gown, as if she thought to keep her heart from breaking free of her chest by mere pressure. Henrietta couldn’t help but watch the processional that trailed a slow drizzle of water on the polished parquet that lined the corridor.
Drip, drip, drip,
the even cadence of a black-plumed horse at the head of a funeral procession.

Her mind conjured the image of a robust, serious man in the glow of health. Tall, lean, yet his presence overwhelmed. In direct contrast to her memory, the form before her lay inert. The sharp angles of his cheekbones shadowed chalky flesh peppered with light brown stubble. Sodden hair fell in hanks over his forehead, and his garments were shredded beyond repair … offering glimpses of skin she’d only ever seen in her dreams.

Henrietta pressed her lips into a line, deliberately tamping down the unexpected—and unwelcome—flutter low in her belly. Her knees wobbled. More inappropriate words jumbled in her mouth and clamored for release. She could not risk her position by giving them voice, no matter how great the temptation. In this state, Lady Epperley had no choice but to take in her nephew; the history between him and Henrietta be damned.

Alexander awoke to the rhythm of a sledgehammer pounding at his skull in exact time with his pulse. When had an entire hunting party, beginning with the hounds, galloped over him? Despite a sharp pain in his ribs, he let out a groan and rolled over.

What the deuce? Crisp linen sheets emitted the fresh scent of lavender. He searched his beleaguered brain. His last memory was of cold, lashing rain and wind whipping at his clothes. The solidity of the deck beneath his feet giving way to nothing. An icy plunge into salt water.

If he was in bed now—on a mattress far too broad for a ship’s cabin—he was safe. Safe, perhaps, but not sound. He’d lost everything.

Not everything.
No, at least he’d had the foresight to put his most important possessions on his second ship. As long as they’d weathered the storm, he could hope to find them once more.

He opened his eyes to a darkened room. The glow of candlelight illuminated a small circle of his surroundings. Nighttime, then, but how long had he been insensible? Ages, according to his head, which made prolonging the experience quite a tempting proposition. If only he could find someone to knock him out cold once more.

“Satya?” Even drawing enough air to speak was a hardship. A tight binding constricted his chest.

“Sahib?”

Thank the Lord. “What in God’s name has happened?”

“I pulled you out of the wreckage, naturally.” Satya’s voice came from somewhere
deeper in the room. Passing the night crouched in the corner again, then.

“And I thank you for that.” Alexander drummed his fingers against the mattress. “Would you mind using the chair?”

“It is not fitting for one of my station.”

And how many times had Alexander listened to that argument? Far too often.

“To hell with your supposed station.” No reason to snap like that. He tried to inhale slowly, but his ribs protested the action. “Please. In fact, I insist. You’ll drive me to Bedlam. You are my assistant, not my servant.”

“Not your assistant.” This old debate was the only instance in which Satya would contradict him.

Alexander waited until Satya gave in and situated himself more comfortably. Not that Alexander could hear the evidence. The man moved altogether too silently—eerily so. “Now, where have you brought me?”

If Satya had taken a room at an inn, Alexander wasn’t sure he could afford it. A chamber of this size—hell, a bed of this size—was beyond his means.

“I believe this is your aunt’s house.”

“Ah, a stroke of luck.” God, yes. He’d told Satya they were in the general area. And Satya had had the foresight to knock at the right door. Fortuitous that the old girl was still alive—but then, she was far too cantankerous to join the choir invisible any time soon. When she went, St. Peter and the devil both were likely to come to blows over who should be burdened with her.

“If you want to call it luck after you’ve lost a ship,
sahib.
”

“Yes, well, we’re still alive. Or you are. And I may be yet.” He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the pain in his ribs stopped him cold.

Despite the bandaging, he managed a gulp of air. He might have known by the smell alone he was back in England—back home, or nearly so. The salt air, the polished woods, the faint undertone of mustiness that came from a deteriorating stone manor combined to draw a myriad of old memories from the recesses of his mind. Not all of them good, either.

But then, that was the reason he’d gone to India, to recover the financial losses his father had burdened the family with on his death. Alexander had nearly succeeded, too. This was supposed to be his triumphant return to the fold, but instead, he’d arrived on the breast of a storm, his ship breaking to pieces beneath his feet. And his cargo likely at the bottom of the Channel by now.

That or scavenged. Invariably, on this coastline, when a ship went down, the locals were clever enough to comb the beaches for valuables. Which meant only one thing. If he was to recoup any of his losses, he’d have to get himself out of this bed in the morning and see what he could recover from the local villagers.

Dear God, and his crew. He must discover what had become of them. Lord, let them be all right. The goods were replaceable; the men weren’t. He’d have to inquire after them, as well. He’d witnessed enough death in India. In coming home, he’d thought to escape the worst.

He closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to a deity he wasn’t sure he believed in, whether the Christian God or Vishnu, it hardly mattered.
Please, please let the deaths be over.

“Damn him. Damn him to hell.” A sharp gust off the sea ripped the invective from Henrietta’s lips.

The gray waters of the English Channel hissed over pebbles in an even rhythm that ought to have soothed after a sleepless night. They did nothing for her, nor did a lungful of salt-laden air. Bracing—that’s what they called this sort of predawn cold. It was meant to straighten one’s spine, stiffen one’s upper lip, and urge one forward. But her temper stood firm in the face of the steady headwind off the waves.

Damn him. Why did he have to come back still possessing the power to devastate her just as when she’d first laid eyes on him? Then, he’d done so with nothing more than his handsome features. Something about his somber expression had reached out and wrapped itself about her heart the night of her coming-out ball. She’d never believed he’d approach her among all the other hopefuls, and yet he had. He’d passed over a beauty like Sophia St. Claire and claimed Henrietta Upperton for a dance.

She closed her eyes against a memory of him—of Alexander—broad shoulders filling out a stark black topcoat, sand-colored hair falling in careless spiky locks, gray eyes sparking with interest. Unlike his friends, he’d never been a man given to easy smiles, but his square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and sculpted lips had drawn her gaze.

Then he’d led her to the dance floor and drawn her into a reel. His hand, large and steady every time they clasped, seemed to burn an imprint into her palm. Each separation left her breathless with anticipation for the moment when the dance brought them together again. Was she imagining his fingers lingering a moment too long? The slightest contact seemed magnified. All too soon, the music came to an end, and she had to recover from the sensation of soaring amid the other couples. He bowed low over her hand and promised to call, before leaving her with her mother, and she stood for the next few dances, the ghost of his lips tingling on the back of her hand, and a low pulse thrumming deep in her belly.

He kept his promise the following day. Before too many weeks had passed, he’d captured her heart.

No. She would not dwell on the pain that came afterward. But calling a more recent image to mind was hardly better. The intervening years had graven lines at the corners of his eyes and deepened the creases along his forehead. One might read such lines like a book of
sorrows if one was so inclined.

Not that she was. Oh, no. She would not fall prey to that man once again. She would not allow the desire he’d awakened within her to overcome her reason a second time.

The beach was strewn with shards and splinters of wood, the flotsam of a foundered vessel. Word would spread soon enough. By the time the sun rose, the villagers would come to comb the shore for anything that might prove useful—if indeed anything salvageable remained once the waves had churned the remnants against the rocks.

How ironic that a ship had survived the long miles of open water, the storms, the hidden shoals all the way from India to sink so close to its destination.

She picked a path between boulders, pebbles shifting beneath her half-boots. She ought to make her way back up the bluff to the manor, but she couldn’t face it yet. Couldn’t face
him.
Before too long, she would have to quash her feelings and return. Lady Epperley would rise with the dawn and demand Henrietta’s presence.

But if she kept walking along the shoreline, she would eventually come to the village. Perhaps she might be lucky enough to find an abandoned newspaper, one containing advertisements for another position. As much as she’d thought her current post might buy her a measure of independence, the price was too high when it included close contact with the man who had jilted her.

Shouts farther down the beach pulled her out of her recollections. Now that the sky was brightening with the impending sunrise, the villagers were up and about, picking the shoreline for whatever bounty the waves might offer. She ought to return, but her glance settled on a cluster of rocks not far away.

Or maybe not. One was too regular, too square. Something had survived the shipwreck and the relentless tossing of the tide. She crossed the shifting pebbles to a wooden box, ornately carved and miraculously intact. Or nearly so. A gouge across the polished ivory hide of an inlaid elephant showed where the sea had attempted to smash through and reveal its secrets.

Bending down, she lifted the article. It was heavy for its size. No matter which way she turned the intricate chunk of wood, she could not see a single crack or hinge that might indicate it opened. Solely decorative, perhaps, but clearly valuable with its ivory inlays. And was that lapis? She might use it to buy passage back to London and start over.

No, that would be running away, not to mention stealing. If she stood her ground and showed him, showed Alexander, the past left her unaffected, she’d prove her strength. She’d cloak herself in indifference that, perhaps, would eventually encase her soul. Then she might
finally be free.