Yours Until Dawn (6 page)

After much fumbling and groping, he finally located the rumpled dressing gown draped across the foot of the bed and slipped into it. Without bothering to knot the sash, he rose and padded heavily across the room. Still disoriented by his abrupt awakening, he misjudged the distance between bed and writing desk. His toes slammed into one of the desk’s clawed feet, sending a tingling jolt of agony up his leg. Biting off an oath, he sank down in the desk chair and groped for the center drawer’s ivory knobs.

He felt inside the velvet-lined drawer, knowing exactly what he would find—a thick packet of letters tied with a single silk ribbon. As he drew it out, tantalizing tendrils of fragrance wafted to his nose.

This was no penny lemon verbena purchased from some common street vendor, but a woman’s scent—rich and floral and seductive.

Breathing deeply, Gabriel tugged loose the silk ribbon and ran his hands over the expensive linen stationery. The paper was crumpled and worn from the many months he’d carried the letters next to his heart. He smoothed one of them open, tracing the graceful loops of ink with his fingertip. If he concentrated hard enough, he might be able to make out a single word or perhaps even a familiar phrase.

Meaningless words. Empty phrases.

His hand curled into a loose fist. He slowly refolded the letter, thinking how ludicrous it was for a blind man to hoard letters he could no longer read from a woman who no longer loved him.

If she ever truly had.

Even so, he painstakingly tied the ribbon around the letters before dropping them gently back into the drawer.

My dear Miss March,

Dare I hope that you would allow me to woo you with honeyed words?

W
hen Gabriel emerged from his bedchamber the next morning, desperate for a brief respite from his own company, his suspicious sniffing yielded only the mingled aromas of bacon and chocolate. He cautiously followed them to the dining room, wondering just where Miss Wickersham might be lurking. To his surprise, he was allowed to breakfast in peace without anyone critiquing his table manners or his attire. He ate hastily and with even less finesse than usual, hoping to make it back to the haven of his bed-chamber before his overbearing nurse could come springing out at him.

After swiping the grease from his mouth with a corner of the table linens, he went hurrying back up the stairs. But when he reached for the ornately carved mahogany door that led to the master bedchamber, his hands met only air.

Gabriel recoiled, fearing that in his haste he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

A cheery voice sang out, “Good morning, my lord!”

“And a good morning to you, Miss Wickersham,” he replied through gritted teeth.

He took one tentative step forward, then another, robbed of his confidence by the treacherous warmth of the sunlight on his face, the gentle breeze caressing his brow, the melodic chirping of some bird perched just outside the open window of his bedchamber.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” she said. “I thought we’d air out your chambers while you were downstairs at breakfast.”

“We?” he repeated ominously, wondering just how many witnesses there were going to be to her murder.

“Surely you didn’t expect me to do all the work by myself! Peter and Phillip are preparing your morning bath while Elsie and Hannah change the linens on your bed. Mrs. Philpot and Meg are out in the yard airing out your bed hangings. And dear Millie is dusting your sitting room.”

The splash of water and the brisk flapping of sheets confirmed her claims. Gabriel took a deep breath—a breath poisoned by the sweet tang of lemon verbena and laundry starch. As he exhaled, he heard a rustling from the direction of his dressing room like the sound a rat might make. A very plump, balding rat, wearing a waistcoat.

“Beckwith?” Gabriel barked.

The rustling ceased, fading to stony silence.

Gabriel sighed. “You might as well come out, Beckwith. I can smell your hair pomade.”

Shuffling steps informed him that the butler had come creeping out of the dressing room. Before his nurse could offer some cheery explanation for his presence there, Beckwith said, “Since you don’t wish to have a valet hovering over you, my lord, Miss Wickersham suggested that we group your clothing according to type and color. Then you should be able to dress yourself without the aid of a manservant.”

“And you were kind enough to volunteer for the task.
Et tu, Brute?
” Gabriel murmured.

Not only had his new nurse invaded his only remaining sanctuary, she had enlisted his own servants to lead the charge. He wondered how she had managed to earn their loyalty so quickly. Perhaps he had underestimated her charms. She might be a more dangerous adversary than he’d suspected.

“Leave us,” he commanded curtly.

A frantic bustle of activity that involved much rustling of sheets and clanking of buckets informed him that the servants weren’t even going to pretend to misunderstand him.

“My lord, I really don’t think…” Beckwith attempted. “I mean, it’s hardly proper to leave you alone in your bedchamber with—”

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

Miss Wickersham didn’t pretend to misunderstand him, either. He was probably the only one who noted her slight hesitation. “Of course not.”

“You heard her,” he said. “Go. All of you.” The air stirred as the servants rushed past him. As he heard the last of their footsteps fade away down the corridor, he asked, “Are they gone?”

“They are.”

Gabriel fumbled behind him until he found the doorknob. He dragged the door shut with a thunderous bang, then leaned against it, cutting off her only hope of escape. “Did it never occur to you, Miss Wickersham,” he said tautly, “that I might have left my door closed for a reason? That I might have wished for my bedchamber to be left undisturbed? That I might cherish my privacy?” His voice rose. “That I might prefer to keep some small corner of my life free from your meddling influence?”

“I should think you’d be grateful.” She sniffed pointedly. “At least it no longer smells as if you’ve been keeping goats in here.”

He glowered in her general direction. “At the moment I would much prefer the company of goats.”

He actually heard her open her mouth, then snap it shut. She paused precisely long enough to count to ten before attempting to speak again. “Perhaps the two of us simply got off on the wrong foot, my lord. You seem to have received the mistaken impression that I came to Fairchild Park to make your life more difficult.”

“The words ’a living hell’ have come to mind more than once since your arrival.”

She blew out a gusty sigh. “Contrary to what you may believe, I took this position so I could bring more ease to your life.”

“Just when were you planning to start?”

“As soon as you’ll allow me,” she retorted. “Rearranging the house for your convenience can be just the beginning. Why, I could help alleviate your boredom by taking you for walks in the garden, assisting you with your correspondence, reading aloud to you.”

Books were yet another cruel reminder of a pleasure he could no longer enjoy. “No, thank you. I won’t be read to as if I were some dull-witted child.” As he folded his arms over his chest, even Gabriel knew he was behaving like one.

“Very well. But even so, there are a hundred other things I can do to help you adjust to your blindness.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have no intention of living the rest of my life this way!” Gabriel roared, his control finally snapping.

As the echo of his shout died, the silence swelled between them.

He sank against the door, raking a hand through his hair. “At this very moment, even as we speak, a team of physicians hired by my father is traveling through Europe, gathering all the information they can find on my condition. They’re scheduled to return here within the fortnight. At that time they will confirm what I’ve always suspected—that my affliction isn’t permanent, but is only a temporary aberration.”

In that moment, Gabriel was almost thankful he couldn’t see her eyes. He was afraid he’d find in their depths the one torment she’d spared him thus far—her pity. He would almost prefer her laughter.

“Do you know what the best thing about getting my sight back will be?” he asked softly.

“No,” she replied, all of the bravado gone from her voice.

Straightening, he took one step toward her, then another. She refused to give ground until he was almost on top of her. Feeling the air shift as she retreated, he clumsily flanked her until their positions were reversed and she was the one backing toward the door. “Some might believe it would be the joy of watching the sun dip below a lavender horizon at the end of a perfect summer day.”

When he heard her back come up against the door, he splayed one palm against the thick mahogany behind her. “Others might judge it to be perusing the velvety petals of a ruby red rose…”—leaning forward until he felt the warm tickle of her breath against his face, he deepened his voice to a smoky caress—“or gazing tenderly into the eyes of a beautiful woman. But I can promise you, Miss Wickersham, that all of those pleasures will pale in comparison to the sheer unmitigated joy of being rid of you.”

Sliding his hand down until he encountered the doorknob, he flung open the door, sending her stumbling backward into the hallway.

“Are you clear of the door, Miss Wickersham?”

“Pardon?” she snapped, plainly confused.

“
Are you clear of the door?
”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Without further ado, Gabriel slammed it in her face.

Samantha was passing through the foyer later that day, on her way to retrieve Gabriel’s bed hangings from the laundress, when his smoky baritone came floating down from the landing above. “So tell me, Beckwith, just what does our Miss Wickersham look like? It’s straining the limits of my imagination to envision such a vexatious creature. All I can see in my mind’s eye is some sort of withered crone bent over a cauldron, cackling with glee.”

Samantha jerked to a halt, her heart lurching with panic. She touched a trembling hand to her heavy spectacles, then to the dull, reddish brown hair she’d wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

Seized by sudden inspiration, she drifted back into Beckwith’s line of vision and pressed a finger to her lips, silently pleading with him not to reveal her presence. Gabriel was leaning against the wall, his imposing arms folded over his chest.

The butler drew out his handkerchief and mopped his damp brow, plainly torn between loyalty to his master and Samantha’s beseeching gaze. “As nurses go, I suppose you could describe her as rather… nondescript.”

“Come, now, Beckwith. Surely you can do better than that. Is her hair icy blond? Or faded gray? Or black as soot? Does she wear it cropped? Or wound around her head in a strangling crown of braids? Is she as shrunken and bony as she sounds?”

Beckwith shot Samantha a frantic look over the banister. In reply, she puffed out her cheeks and drew a huge circle around herself with her hands.

“Oh, no, my lord. She’s a rather …l-l-large woman.”

Gabriel frowned. “How large?”

“Oh, about…” Samantha held up ten fingers, then eight. “About eighty stone,” Beckwith finished confidently.

“Eighty stone! Good God, man! I’ve ridden ponies smaller than that.”

Samantha rolled her eyes and tried again.

“Not eighty stone, my lord,” Beckwith said slowly, his gaze riveted on her flashing fingers. “Eighteen.”

Gabriel stroked his chin. “That’s odd. She’s rather light on her feet for such a large woman, don’t you think? When I took her hand, I would havesworn…” He shook his head as if to clear it of some inexplicable notion. “What of her face?”

“We-e-e-e-ell,” Beckwith said, stalling for time as Samantha closed her fingertips over her pert nose and made a tugging motion. “She has a rather long, pointy nose.”

“I knew it!” Gabriel exclaimed triumphantly.

“And teeth like…” Beckwith narrowed his eyes in bewilderment as Samantha crooked two fingers over her head. “A donkey?” he ventured.

Shaking her head, she curled her hands into paws and made tiny hopping motions.

“A rabbit!” Finally getting into the spirit of the game, Beckwith stopped himself just short of clapping his plump hands. “She has teeth like a rabbit!”

Gabriel snorted with satisfaction. “No doubt perfectly suiting her long, horsey face.”

Samantha tapped her chin.

“And on her chin,” the butler continued, his enthusiasm mounting, “there’s an enormous wart with…” Samantha put her hand under her chin and wiggled three fingers. “Three curly hairs growing out of it!”

Gabriel shuddered. “It’s even worse than I suspected. I can’t imagine what possessed me to think…”

Beckwith blinked innocently behind his spectacles. “Think what, my lord?”

Gabriel waved away the question. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a consequence of spending too much time in my own company, I fear.” He held up a hand. “Please spare me any more details about Miss Wickersham’s appearance. Perhaps some things really are better left to the imagination.”