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Clouds came, he had always said. Sometimes they brought rain to nourish, sometimes hail to destroy. Some years were fat, others lean.

She closed her eyes, heard his voice in her heart, so deep and sure, even as the fever consumed him. “
Crops fail, DeeDee. People die. The bad comes, to one
and all. What matters . . . sure and it’s what we
do with it. That’s what makes a man strong
or weak, good or bad. Not the outside—the in
.”

The in
. She pressed a hand to her ribs, where her heart beat a painful accusation. Aye, he would be disappointed in what she’d done with it. He’d look at the baroness and see a girl too long lost, not a pampered princess undeserving of all she’d been given. He’d see a hurting soul, not a pretender. But he wouldn’t have made a fuss about it. He just would’ve said to Mum, “Bake an extra pie, Bonny-my-bonny. We’ve a neighbor who needs the smile.”

She straightened her shoulders and pivoted on her heel, knowing what peace offering she could give. A dash down the main stairs, a turn toward the library.

A book. It couldn’t make them friends, but they needn’t be at odds.

Stepping into the library, she moved to the right, where his lordship kept the novels. The young ladies had been talking last night about
Jane
Eyre
, and the baroness had confessed she had never read it. Lady Melissa said Lord Whitby had a copy in his collection, though, and Lady Berkeley’s eyes had danced. Deirdre would find it, deliver it to her room.

The door clicked shut, and a hum as slick as darkness thrummed through the room. “Well, well. You have a taste for literature too? You are a woman of endless allure, Deirdre O’Malley.”

Though she wanted to jump, to spin, to face the devil so she could read his intent, she restrained herself. Continuing to the shelf, she took a deep breath to ensure her voice came out calm and even. “Good morning, Lord Pratt. I was unaware
you
passed much time with books.”

How could a laugh, quiet and short, sound so very menacing? “No. But the room I find intriguing. Has it always been Whitby’s favorite spot in the house, do you think?”

His voice stayed on the other side of the chamber, muffled as if he spoke toward the opposite shelves rather than her. Good. Whatever his intent, perhaps she could go about her business without ramming into it. “I should think so.” Her eyes perused the titles, alphabetized by author. The D section was before her. She needed the Bs. To the side? No—drat. She craned her neck upward, to the row of shelves well above her head. “I’m glad you found me. I need the journal back, my lord. Her ladyship has turned her room upside down looking for it. She thinks it lost.”

“Let her think it so, lost in travel. I’m not finished with it.”

Was his French as bad as all that? “Could you make out none of it? Whether it supports the claim she’s his or not?”

“She’s his daughter.” His satisfied hum made her feel sick. “I hear she spends much time in here too.”

Deirdre shot a look over her shoulder at him. He stood with his gaze on a row of matching tomes. Should she press the point of the journal? Much as the thought of leaving it with him made panic nip, he wouldn’t budge. She strode to the wheeled ladder and pulled it to the proper shelf. “Not this time of day, if that is your hope. My lord.”

“Not at all.” He picked up a decorative book end, flipped it in his hands, put it back. “I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with her when we first met. But you are with her most of the day—tell me, what does she want in a man?”

Deirdre climbed up the first few rungs, her eyes scanning for
Brontë
. “She’s mum about such things, my lord, even with her cousins. But I can tell you she reads academic texts as often as novels, in assorted languages. I’ve heard them discussing scientific papers a time or two, even.”

No Brontë—neither Charlotte nor Emily nor Anne. She pursed her lips. They had all begun with pen names, hadn’t they? His lordship must have early editions. Bell—that was it. She climbed up farther.

The ladder shook beneath her. Gasping, she gripped the sides.

“I am not interested in her reading material, my lovely. Tell me something
useful
.”

She glanced down only once at his stormy black eyes. “It
is
useful. She takes great interest in such things. And faith, she is all the time talking of her faith.”

He hissed out a breath and grabbed her right ankle. “You expect me to discuss religion with her?”

The more he pulled on her leg, the tighter her throat went, so that she could barely croak out, “Horses. Automobiles. She wants to learn to drive.”

Her foot slipped off the rung. He chuckled and set it back on. “Better. And?”

And his fingers went terrifyingly gentle on her ankle. She pulled it away under the guise of going up one more rung. “That is what she speaks of. Horses, cars, books.”

“How very dull she would be, were it not for that alluring face, figure, and fortune.”

Deirdre spotted
Jane Eyre
by Currer Bell and grabbed it. Though when she glanced down again, she saw him leaning against the ladder like a crocodile on the bank—or perhaps she had paid too much attention to Lady Melissa’s reading of
Peter Pan
the other evening.

He offered a patronizing smile. “Do you really think you can climb away from me?”

Before she could form a response, he grabbed both her legs and pulled hard enough to yank her from the ladder. She tried to bite back the scream, tried to hold to the rungs with her free hand, but in vain. Before she could discern exactly how it hap
pened, he had an arm clamped around her waist and pressed her to the bookshelf.

Struggling was no use, but she averted her face—and caught a whiff of a distinctly floral perfume. The same too-strong scent that Lady Catherine wore.

She had a feeling she knew with whom the young lady had been dallying last night.

His lips found her jaw, his other hand turned her face. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back a whimper when he kissed her, when trying to twist away accomplished nothing but him pressing her harder to the shelves.

She managed to turn her face again, at least. “Please, my lord. You promised. You promised if I gave you the information you wanted, you wouldn’t—”

“DeeDee?” The door slammed open, and Hiram charged in. “I heard a scream. Did you fall? Are you . . . ?”

She squeezed her eyes shut against the horror on his face.

Pratt had the gall to laugh again. “She did, as a matter of fact, but I was fortunately here to catch her.” He backed away, tweaked her chin. “Tread carefully, old girl,” he murmured. Then louder, “No harm done, I think.”

He whistled—
whistled
—his way out of the room.

Deirdre didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes as the door clicked and footsteps hurried her way.

Hiram’s arms came about her. Gentle, warm. Comforting. “What happened, Dee? Did he hurt you?” His hand soothed her back where the shelf had bit, his lips settled on her hair. “Tell me.”

Too soothing. Too comforting. She let her forehead rest on his shoulder one moment more, and then she eased away. “It’s nothing, Hi. I fell.”

Sorrow shone from the eyes usually bright with laughter. “I know you better than that, Deirdre O’Malley. He had his hands on you. He was—”

“He kissed me—that’s all.” She spat it out in a gush, praying he would leave it at that.

But he knew her too well. He stroked her cheek as Da had used to do, brushed his thumb over her lips as no man ever had. “’Tisn’t all, Dee. It never is with men like that, who think they have the rights to whatever they want.”

A shudder overtook her. She knew it. It was why she’d been hoping and praying he wanted information more than he wanted her. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“This time, praise the good Lord above.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead. “You’re too beautiful for this world. This place in it, anyway, where the fancy lords can treat you as naught but a plaything.” He let his arms fall and took a step away. “You should have stayed in Ireland. Married a farmer—a big burly one that could fight off any what looked at you crossways.”

“Oh, Hiram.” He made a muddle of her. And she couldn’t even resent him for it. “It isn’t so bad. It’s a good house.” It’s why her uncle had recommended her here, and why she always filled her letters to him with naught but the good things about it.

“It is.” Determination lit Hiram’s eyes—and lit panic in her stomach.

She knew
him
too well, too, and grabbed at his arm. “No. You can’t be telling his lordship. It’ll only make Lord Pratt angry, and he’ll no doubt find a way to take it out on us.” She shook him, though it barely moved his arm and certainly didn’t dim his gaze. “Promise me.”

“For now.” He said it easily, without relenting at all.

He cupped her cheek where Pratt had pushed it and made her forget the pain. Leaned down and brushed his lips over hers so softly she couldn’t remember the bruising embrace.

Then he stepped away again and held out his hand. “For now. But I’ll not stand by and let him hurt you. I can’t.”

Deirdre stifled a sigh and slid her fingers into his. Just for a
moment, until they left the library. Then she’d pull away. Then she’d put the walls back up. Because Pratt
would
hurt her, before it was over. He would have his way, whatever that way was, and she would pay the price.

But sure and she wouldn’t let Hiram pay it with her.

Thirteen

T
empesta thundered into the trees, leaving Brook little choice but to laugh. The horse wasn’t after the hounds, nor the fox—she was after the run, which suited Brook fine. A tug on the reins brought her down to a walk, the better to draw in a breath and watch the sunlight shaft through the reddening leaves.

In the distance, she could hear the shouts of the others. Her cousin Ram had led the way this morning, promising adventure with a wink aimed at Thate. If the whispers she had overheard in the hallway were correct, said adventure would involve sending Regan off with said young man, giving him a chance to propose.

Brook heard Regan’s laugh now, sweet and too near. Thate’s murmur answered, a low thrum she couldn’t make out. They must have broken away from the others. And it certainly wouldn’t do for them to come upon her. She urged Tempesta behind a thicket, dismounted, and murmured French nothings into the mare’s ear to keep her still.

Crunching leaves, snapping twigs, snorting horses. “Are you certain you saw it come this way?” Regan’s voice, breathless and excited. Who would have thought that staid Regan would be so eager on a hunt?

“I am all but sure. Through here, I think. A little farther and we shall have it cornered.”

A little farther, and they would come out into the clearing by the duck pond—as perfect a spot for a proposal as any girl could dream. Brook shared her smile with her horse and rubbed Tempesta’s nose. “I want them to be happy. Together,” she whispered once they had moved beyond her hearing. “I want to believe it can be.”

And that it could last. That death would not snatch one of them too soon, that life would not tear them apart. It was surely possible. It
had
to be possible. She could think of no examples, but if she couldn’t believe it then she might as well go back to her window seat and the grey, foggy mood that had enveloped her that morning.

Non
. She would not let the nightmare-induced
ennui
overtake her again. “Come, Tempesta.
Viens
.” After mounting again, she wheeled the horse around and headed back the way she had come. Which way had Justin gone? Hard to say—he and Pratt had been insulting each other all morning and were no doubt now in a heated race to nab the wily fox.

Her lips tugged up. Entertaining as it had been to listen to their repartee, she was not about to get in their way. She had joined the hunt for the riding, not the actual
hunt
.

“Good morning, cousin.”

Tempesta took the last step into the clearing nearer the house, and Brook smiled a welcome for the cousin she didn’t know so well. “Lady Catherine.”

“Kitty, please.” She sat atop one of Whitby’s milder horses, her knee up against the sidesaddle, her hat at a jaunty angle. Blond curls spilled over her shoulder.

Did they look alike? They must, on the surface. Blond hair, green eyes. Her mother must have inherited it from the Rushworth side and passed it along to Brook. Though Brook never
felt the same confidence in a crowd that this cousin exuded, nor did her wit lend itself to the clever-but-biting conversation Lady Catherine had apparently mastered.

Brook couldn’t quite decide if she found it entertaining or off-putting.

Lady Catherine’s brother sat the horse next to her. He greeted her with a nod and a quiet, “Lady Berkeley.”

“Lord Rushworth.” Brook hadn’t formed much of an opinion on him at all. Half the time she didn’t even notice when he was in the room. Tempesta fell in alongside them. “I haven’t seen the fox or the hounds this direction.”