A Wicked Pursuit (16 page)

Not that Gus was heeding the dogs. “My sister is not a slattern,” she protested, with more anger of her own than she’d intended. “Not at all.”

“Her actions say otherwise,” he said. “Friends warned me of her, of how she fluttered from one man to another. I should have believed them and seen what she was.”

Gus came closer to the bed, her hands unconsciously bunching into fists at her side.

“What she is, my lord, is my sister,” she said curtly. “And I’ll thank you not to speak of her so—so—”

“So honestly?” he said, his blue eyes full of fire. “The truth isn’t always pretty, Miss Augusta. Is this how you justified lying to me? That you were only protecting your sister?”

“I was also protecting
you
!” she exclaimed. “You were in pain and in danger of dying, and your wits were thick with laudanum and suffering. How could I have told you the truth then? What would I have accomplished?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “You would have told me the truth.”

“I might have, yes,” she said. “But it was a truth that might have made you despair so deeply that you could have died. You have no notion of how ill you were, my lord.”

“You could have told me a score of other times since then,” he said. “You chose not to.”

“And I tried, at least a score of times,” she said. “But you wouldn’t let me, and you wouldn’t listen, and I—and I—”

She broke off abruptly, realizing that she’d almost told him more truth than she wished to.

He jumped on the tantalizing fragment. “And you what, Miss Augusta? You didn’t have time to concoct another lie for me?”

“I didn’t want you to hate me, just as you do now!” she blurted out. “As provoking as you can be, my lord, I—I enjoyed the time I spent in your company, as friends would, and I did not wish it to end. Now it has, and exactly as I’d dreaded it would, too.”

His frown deepened with disbelief. “You enjoyed my company?”

“I did,” she said, her words tumbling faster now, “though I do not know if I should regret it or not. A man who cannot understand the virtue in being loyal to one’s family may not be a man that I wish to know.”

He shook his head, and shoved his hair back with one hand. “You’re a fine one to preach to me of loyalty. Considering you belong to this family.”

“My sister may not be loyal, my lord, or faithful, or whatever you wish to call it,” she said. “But I am, else I wouldn’t be standing here whilst you—you berate me in a fashion that I do not deserve.”

Her voice was trembling now, with emotion as well as with the power of the truth. She
would
finish, no matter what it cost her.

“Despite what you may think, my lord, I never lied to you, not once,” she said fervently. “For the sake of my sister, I may not have told you everything, but I did not lie.”

With a final, emphatic shake of her head, she placed the offending magazine on the bed beside him and took two steps back. She stood very straight, with her hands clasped over the front of her apron, and waited.

He made a grumbling, wordless growl deep in his throat. Then he seized the magazine and hurled it as hard as he could across the room, where it dropped with a fluttering of pages to the floor.

She didn’t flinch.

“Why the devil don’t you leave?” he demanded. “If I’m so damned offensive to you, why don’t you leave now like you always do? Go, leave me, and be like your sister.”

“Because I’m not my sister,” she said. “That’s why.”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything more, for she hadn’t anything left to say. Perhaps he felt the same way, too. All he did was glower at her for what seemed like an eternity, until, finally, he buried his face in his hands with a groan.

Still she did not leave him.

When at last he lifted his face and lowered his hands, he frowned, clearly surprised to see her there still. He took a deep breath, once again raking his hair back with his fingers.

“Miss Augusta,” he said, struggling to find his way through this—this mess. “Gus. You
are
different from your sister. I must take care to remember that.”

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed warily. “You should.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Will you dine with me this evening, Miss Augusta, the better to remind me further?”

“Here?” She gave a little shake of her head, surprised he’d ask.

“I fear I have no choice,” he said ruefully. “It seems that you have been dining alone, as have I. Wouldn’t it be more convenient for your staff if they were to serve us together?”

“It would,” she said. “It would also be most . . . agreeable. As acquaintances, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” He smiled. “You don’t have to remain here now, if you’re wanted elsewhere. You needn’t stay on my account. You’ve made your point.”

“I thought I might offer to read to you, if you wished it.” She crossed the room to retrieve the magazine he’d thrown, smoothing the pages as she walked back to him. She looked at the illustration on the frontispiece, and her eyes widened. “Goodness, Harry. What manner of magazine is this?”

“Ah, Gus.” He grinned wickedly, motioning for her to sit in the chair beside the bed. “I was hoping you’d ask me to explain.”

Harry held
his head still as Tewkes tied the black silk ribbon around his queue, taking care that the hair was neatly curled under. It was the first time since Harry had been hurt that he’d bothered with tying his hair back like this, but he wanted to show Gus at least a modicum of respectable formal dress for evening when she joined him to dine. He’d had Tewkes shave him again, too, and if he hadn’t been able to put on a full suit of clothes, at least he wore a freshly washed and pressed nightshirt.

He’d taken extra care with the preparations for the dinner as well. It hadn’t been easy to make anything a secret, given how the cook and the rest of the staff reported to Gus. But Tewkes had managed to work his usual magic, and had somehow gained entrance to the viscount’s small cellar to produce several respectable—if likely smuggled, this being Norfolk—bottles of French and Spanish wines. Tewkes had pulled a small table close to the bed, and coaxed a damask cloth and silver candlesticks from elsewhere in the house. He’d even contrived a respectable bouquet of red roses and white phlox for the table, thanks to the garden. He’d spoken to Vilotti and arranged for the musicians to play for them after they’d dined, and he’d asked for more Vivaldi, Gus’s newly discovered favorite composer.

He had summoned her cook to his bedside, a formidable woman named Mrs. Buchanan, and together they had planned a small supper that included Gus’s favorite dishes. At least that was what Mrs. Buchanan had claimed, and Harry could only hope she was right.

In fact, he had hopes for a number of things regarding this evening. Would Gus make the same extra effort that he had? Would she put aside her usual apron and cap for something silk? Would she accept the role of his guest, or insist on being the mistress of the house? Most of all, was she anticipating their supper together as much as he was?

And he was. He tried to tell himself that it was only because he’d been as good as a hermit here in this room, that he was so starved for society that this little supper with Gus now loomed far larger than it ordinarily would. In London, he dined
tête-à-tête
with young women all the time, didn’t he? So why now, when there was still over an hour before Gus would join him, was he looking at his watch every two minutes?

Tewkes held the silver hand mirror before him so he could survey his reflection. He was finally beginning to look like his old self, his clean-shaven cheeks not so hollowed. Best of all, the familiar spark was back in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile.

But on the other side of the mirror, Tewkes made the tiniest
tut-tut
, an editorial sound of disapproval that was his prerogative as a longtime servant and, though rare, one that Harry recognized all too well.

“What is it, Tewkes?” he asked with a sigh. “What have I done now?”

“Nothing, my lord,” Tewkes said, his nose so high that he offered Harry an unappealing look up his nostrils.

“Nothing, my foot,” Harry said. “Out with it. That’s your way of scolding me like an old biddy-hen. Do you judge it unseemly for me to wear a black ribbon around my hair when I’m still in bed? Is the collar on my nightshirt not falling the exact way you think proper for a gentleman?”

“No, my lord,” Tewkes said, taking away the mirror. “It’s Miss Augusta.”

“Gus?” Harry was surprised; this was remarkably outspoken for Tewkes. “What about her?”

“I only wish that it be remembered that Miss Augusta is a lady, my lord, and not a common actress or milliner’s apprentice,” Tewkes said. “That is all, my lord.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry insisted. “You don’t approve of this supper, do you?”

Tewkes sniffed. “It’s not my place to approve or not, my lord.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Harry said. “It doesn’t matter that Gus has been in this room with me every day since I broke my leg, or that when I was sick, she likely saw a good deal more of my person than her sister ever did. You still think she needs protecting from me, don’t you?”

“Miss Augusta has no knowledge of town wiles, my lord,” Tewkes said severely. “She is a country lady, and may misconstrue your attentions.”

Harry sighed. Tewkes was right about Gus: He could tell she was a true innocent, with next to no experience with men. For all her brisk efficiency in other areas, she was achingly vulnerable. He’d only to recall how she’d responded when all he’d done was touch her hand.

What Tewkes wasn’t considering, however, was that those infamous “wiles” of Harry’s weren’t exactly at their best. While he realized now that Julia was not the prize he’d once thought, her rejection had stung his pride and shaken his confidence. He’d never before had a woman break with him, especially not in so dramatic and public a fashion, and he didn’t like the feeling. Still, he wasn’t a heartless rake, and he’d more scruples than to seduce Gus simply for the sake of restoring his male sense of omnipotence. Gus didn’t deserve that, and frankly, neither did he. He had asked her to join him as a friend, and he meant to keep it that way.

Not that he’d confide all that to Tewkes.

“My ‘attentions,’ Tewkes,” he said, “as you so quaintly put it, are only of the friendly kind, with thanks for all she has done for me. Besides, I’m hardly in a state to seduce anybody, not with my leg splinted and stiff as a fence post.”

“It’s said that you have always been an inventive gentleman with the ladies, my lord,” Tewkes said with a fastidious sniff.

“And you are privy to none of my amatory inventions, you rogue,” Harry said, laughing. “At least I hope you aren’t. Now go see that Hollick has finished washing the dogs. I don’t expect Gus to eat in the company of two dogs who have been rolling in the stable muck.”

He wouldn’t inflict an overly fragrant Patch and Potch on any lady, and he wouldn’t subject a friend to them, either. His laughter faded to a smile as he thought of Gus. Yes, a friend. A friend who happened to be a lady. That was what she must be to him, and that was how he intended things to remain. A friend, and no more.

“You know
I don’t like repeating tattle, miss,” said Mary as she twisted and pinned a resistant strand of Gus’s hair into a curl. “But there’s things being said in the servants’ hall that you should know.”

Gus sighed. This was one of the most difficult parts of managing servants. She couldn’t forbid them from talking among themselves, but it was up to her to address the little rumors and misconceptions before they mushroomed into larger problems that unsettled the entire household. She also had to differentiate between a servant who came to her with a reasonable concern and one who was a troublemaker spreading ill-founded gossip. It wasn’t always easy to tell the difference, especially being as young as she was, but Mary was one of the ones she could always trust.

“What is it, then?” she asked. “Are the footmen not being respectful again? Or are the Italian gentlemen annoying the maids?”

“Oh, no, miss, it’s not any of the staff, nor the Italian gentlemen, neither,” Mary said quickly. “They’ve been charm itself, those three. No, it’s what’s being said about Miss Wetherby.”

“My sister.” Gus pulled her head free of Mary’s hands and hairpins and twisted on the bench to face her. “What are they saying, Mary?”

Understanding the magnitude of the gossip she was about to repeat about her employer’s older daughter, Mary stood at attention with the hairbrush in her hand.

“Hollick—that’s the fellow who looks after his lordship’s dogs—Hollick told us all over dinner that Miss Wetherby’s broken from his lordship, and that there’ll be no match between them,” she said. “He said that everyone in London knows it, too, and that they all feel dreadfully sorry for his lordship, especially him being so hurt and all.”

“Goodness,” Gus said faintly. This was all the same sordid tale that Harry had told her as well, yet it seemed that his own dog-keeper had heard it first. She’d written earlier in the day to both Papa and Julia, begging for their side of the gossip, but of course she had not heard back. There was also the possibility that neither would reply; her family members were notoriously bad correspondents, especially when the subject was as complicated as this one. “I trust that is all you have heard repeated, Mary?”

“Most all, miss,” Mary said, clearly determined to finish now that she’d begun. “They’re also calling Miss Wetherby a—a jilt, saying she cast off poor Lord Hargreave on account of him being crippled, and that now she’s set her cap on another gentleman, named Lord Southland.”

This was worse than Gus had feared. Why was it that bad news, particularly bad news about someone else, always traveled so much faster than any good? She took a deep breath, deciding how best to respond. Once again, the truth would be safest, even if the truth was not very pleasant.

“What should we say here at the abbey, miss?” Mary asked, clearly worried by Gus’s long silence. “I know we’ve all done our best not to let his lordship know Miss Wetherby is no longer at home, but—”