Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (8 page)

“Yes,” he said.

“Excellent. Now do go away. I am waiting here for tomorrow to arrive.”

“You must return with me to the inn now.”

“I mustn’t do anything of the sort. You are not my husband, my father, or even the local law. You have no authority over me. And as I have already had my surfeit of living according to a man’s will, I don’t think I would be inclined to acquiesce to your demand at this moment even if I liked the idea of it. Which in this case I don’t.”

“The constable, Mr. Pritchard, is presently enjoying a pint in the pub yonder.” He gestured. “Perhaps I will fetch him over here and you will listen to him.”

“Go away. Please.”

“You are soaking wet. You will awaken tomorrow with a fever and then be obliged to spend many more than one day in this village convalescing.”

“If I awaken tomorrow with a fever, I will sing Hallelujah and dance up and down the high street, then leap into my carriage and leave this place forever.”

The darkness was silent then, save for the burble of the water rushing over the ford. The night had grown frigid and her skin and bones were like ice.

“Please, Calista.” The words, spoken deeply, carried the edge of calm authority that always made her feel hot. “Allow me to assist you.”

“No. And I don’t believe I have ever given you permission to address me by my Christian name alone.”

“Not even when you kissed me?”

“Do not
mock
me.”

“I wasn’t mocking you.”

“How could that be so? You don’t believe me.”

“Truth be told,” he said, “I wish I could remember you kissing me.”

“Just … go.”

“You know, you are condemning me to waking with a fever in the morning too,” he said as he set down the lantern, then bent himself to settle on the ground two yards away from her. “It’s devilishly cold out here. I should have brought blankets, or perhaps flint and tinder. Will you accept the loan of my coat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“My teeth are none of your concern.”

“On the contrary. I courted you six years ago because I admired your teeth.”

She peered at him over the lantern light. “Because of my teeth? That is perfectly absurd.”

“Rather, your teeth are. Perfect, that is. At the time I considered excellent teeth the most important quality in the woman I intended to wed.”

“How utterly nonsensical.”

“Agreed,” he murmured.

“I suppose you are still searching for the ideal set of female teeth to marry?”

“No. I ceased that search some time ago, actually.”

Abruptly Calista’s tongue went dry between her admirable teeth.

“Why—” She was obliged to moisten her lips to continue. “Why have you told me this?”

“Well.” His eyes were nearly black in the lantern light. “If this day is to repeat itself again tomorrow, and again the following day, and so on, I won’t remember I’ve said it, will I?”

“No. But I will.”

He nodded. “That suits me well enough.”

She turned her face away from him, back to the waters of the ford that were lower now even than when he had appeared in the dark with his lantern and worry and demands and peculiar revelations. He was a peculiar man all around. He always had been. She did not want to like him now.
Again
. She did not want to feel the warmth that gathered in her when he looked at her as he had just now. She wanted to drive away from this village in the morning and forget she had ever met Tacitus Everard.

She closed her eyes.

When the bell in the church tower began tolling its final hour of the night, Calista opened her eyes and stared fixedly at the water running across the ford. Upon the twelfth ring, a hard exhale shot out of her lungs.

She sprang up as the sound faded into the night. “I am still here! It is not this morning again.”

“It seems so.” Lord Dare climbed to his feet. “May I escort you back to the Jolly Cockerel now?”

Her joints were frozen, her lungs beleaguered, and her cheeks and fingers nearly numb. But she was
free
. The water level was already lower over the ford. When dawn came it would surely be passable. And not a cloud marred the starlit sky to worry her with additional rain before morning.

“I am happy to accompany you to the inn at this time, Lord Dare,” she said with a smile, and set off toward the village center. The marquess took up the lantern and came after her.

In the inn’s foyer, she removed the borrowed cloak and hung it on a peg, then turned to him.

“Good-bye, my lord. I wish you a safe continuation of your journey.” She extended her hand to shake.

He did not take it. “I wish you the same, my lady.” He bowed, and went up the stairs swiftly.

In her bedchamber, Calista packed away the Aphrodite statue one final time and hung her clothing on the bedpost to dry. Then she climbed into bed, pulled the covers to her chin, and closed her eyes.

She opened them to the rattle of the windowpanes as the bell commenced its morning greeting, and she counted the tolls as her eyes catalogued the bedchamber: dim gray light of dawn; rain pattering the windowpanes mercilessly; and Aphrodite’s pale face staring at her from the dressing table with blank eyes.

After the seventh ring, the church bell went silent.

Calista opened her mouth and screamed.

“Her ladyship is unwell.”

“That’s no surprise, after the way she shocked everybody in the place with that hollering to raise the dead,” Molly mumbled.

“I’ve just been up to her and she is in a rare state of agitation, to be sure.” Mrs. Whittle bustled around the kitchen. “She wants a pot of tea, three eggs, bacon, steak, kippers, muffins and marmalade brought up.”

“But we don’t serve in the bedchambers, do we?”

“As Mr. Smythe’s family has taken the private parlor, while she’s a true noble lady, it’s the least I can do, especially seeing as she’s unwell. There’s her tray.”

“All of that for a lady who’s ill?” Molly exclaimed. “Does she have somebody up there in that room with her?”

“Keep a civil tongue, child.” The innkeeper shook her finger. “On top of the Smythes, I’ve got two dozen souls to feed, a lady invalid, and a lord in the taproom. I’ve no time for your impertinence. Go on now.”

“Yes, Aunt Meg.”

Tacitus pushed the kitchen door wide and cleared his throat.

“Milord! You shouldn’t be in here.” Mrs. Whittle hurried forward.

“Mrs. Whittle, the constable has just told us all that the village is encircled with flood and the roads entirely closed.”

“Glory be! And Mr. Whittle still in Wallings. What am I to do?”

“The very reason I’m here. Last night I heard you mention his absence. I’m certain my manservant would be much more useful to you in practical matters, but alas I am traveling without him. However, I can shine boots and chop wood with the best of them. I offer my services to you, if you are in need of an extra hand.”

“Dear me! Now I’ve heard something I never imagined: a lord offering a poor innkeeper help. And the village flooded, too. Glory be, the world’s turned upside down today.”

“In truth, it is either assist you or pass the morning losing every coin in my pockets at cards with Mr. Anderson and Mr. Peabody. They already lifted a pony off me last night and I’ve little left to spare. I should have suspected an accountant’s clerk and a bookseller would know their way around a deck of cards. We politicians are much more honest, it turns out.”

Molly giggled, bumped into a counter, and a dish slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor.

“You clumsy girl,” Mrs. Whittle scolded. “Clean that up and then carry that tray upstairs to her ladyship, if you can manage it without spilling it all over the stairs. Some girls aren’t born with coordination,” she said to Tacitus and scraped eggs from a skillet onto a plate already laden with food. “You’re a fine gentleman to offer help, but I’m sure I can’t think of a thing I could ask of you.”

“Is that for Lady Holland?”

“Yes, milord.” She set the plate on a tray. “Molly, go on now, before it all grows cold as stone.”

He moved into the kitchen. “By the way, there is a lady by the name of Mrs. Tinkerson in the foyer asking to speak with you. About a bonnet, I believe.”

“Oh, she’s a pushy one. But I do like that chip straw hat with green taffeta she’s got in the window.”

“Also, there are a number of patrons in the taproom hoping to have their cups refilled. Allow me to save Molly the trip upstairs.”

“Oh, no, milord. That wouldn’t be proper—”

“Lady Holland and I are old friends.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Not really. Except the part about being friends. “She won’t mind it.” Judging from her attitude toward him last night, she would probably bite off his head. The notion gave him enormous pleasure. It might be six years too late, but if he managed to get under her skin even a fraction of how she’d gotten under his at one time, he would consider the day a vast success.

“What if she’s still wearing nightclothes, milord?” Molly whispered.

“I shall keep my eyes closed.” He hoisted the tray. “Teapot?”

“Well, I’ve never seen the like and won’t again, to be sure, a great lord carrying a breakfast tray,” Mrs. Whittle exclaimed, but she gestured for Molly to set the pot on the tray. She beamed. “You’re as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever seen, milord.”

“Merely fortunate to have been raised by a woman as competent and generous as you.”

“Oh, now none of your flattery. Those eggs are getting cold.”

He went up the stairs with a light step, his heartbeat quickening upon every riser. This was
not
the behavior his mother had raised him to, volunteering to carry breakfast to a married woman. Keeping Peyton Stark’s company was undoing all the lessons in gentlemanliness he had learned as a child.

When Calista Holland opened the bedchamber door and her glittering smile nearly knocked him against the opposite wall, he knew that even Peyton’s bad influence had nothing on him compared to this woman’s unguarded pleasure.

“Lord Dare! Whatever are you doing with my breakfast? I assume this is my breakfast.”

“Yes. The innkeeper is shorthanded on account of—”

“Yes, yes, I know. The flood and the closed roads and the inn full of stranded guests and what have you. Come in, then, and set it down here.”

“I don’t think I should—”

“Then what are you doing bringing it up here in the first place unless you wished to see me? Don’t be such a prig. Do you think a cat would prefer steak or kippers? Or bacon? I ordered the bacon for myself, but I don’t suppose it cares what it eats.”

A cat the color of the deluge outside sat on its haunches in the center of the room, staring at the tray in his hands. Its ribs poked out prominently.

“I suspect the kippers will meet with success. Truth be told, though, I’m rather more of a dog person.”

“I might have suspected that, but only lately, of course. Not before,” she said cryptically. “I’m not fond of any animals. But this one is clearly starving.”

“So you have invited it to share your breakfast?”

“Well, I certainly cannot eat all of that by myself, can I? You look like one of the king’s guardsmen standing there so unbending. Do set that down, will you?”

“Forgive me. I think I may be a bit bemused by your temper this morning. It does not entirely resemble last night’s.”

She set her hands on her delectably curved hips. “Well it wouldn’t, would it?”

He placed the tray beside a statue of a woman sculpted in the Greek fashion.

“This is an impressive piece,” he commented, to have something to say, to give him an excuse to linger.
Reprobate
. “Remarkable how she seems to smile without smiling.”

“She does
not
smile. She only stares.” She crouched before the cat and proffered a kipper with her bare fingers. She was dressed in a simple gown of unremarkable color that now cinched around her gorgeously rounded behind and sent the temperature in the chamber up twenty degrees. “Come now,” she said to the cat, “don’t be foolishly shy. I have gotten these expressly for you and if you do not eat them I shall have to feed them to that great big man there, and I don’t know if he likes kippers either.”

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

“So does this one, it seems. You cannot have them after all, my lord.” A smile pulled at the corners of her intoxicating lips as the cat nibbled at the fish right from her fingers. It was a simple, small smile, but it lit her eyes and sallow cheeks.

He had to turn away to find distraction.

“The statue does smile,” he forced out. “Just look at her.”

“Thank you, but I have already seen enough of her face to last me a lifetime.” She straightened. “But I have seen little of this village except the ford, and the doctor’s house and that wretched church, and Harriet Tinkerson’s awful shop. If I am truly trapped here, I think I will go exploring this morning.” She poured tea and took up a slice of bacon.

“I will leave you to your breakfast, then,” he said, glancing at the untouched cutlery on the tray.

She laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman eat bacon without using a fork?”

“I beg your—”

“You really are an incorrigible prig. Look.” She grabbed up the steak and bit off a hunk with her even, white teeth. “Delicious,” she said around the mouthful. “I think I will slurp my tea now, too, merely for the diversion of seeing you shocked. It’s downright refreshing, really. I feel like I’m eighteen again.”

“If you set the plate on the ground,” he said as he turned toward the doorway, “you’ll be able to eat the eggs like that cat is eating the fish.”

Her crack of laughter was muffled by the food in her mouth.

“I don’t care what you think of me, Tacitus Everard. I don’t care if you are considerate and protective and honest.” She slurped the tea. “I don’t care about anything at all, in fact. If the world refuses to live by its own rules, I don’t really see why I should live by rules either. I have been living according to someone else’s horrid rules for six years. Rather, twenty-four years. If fate is offering me this opportunity, I aim to seize it.”

He peered at her. “Are you feeling quite the thing, Lady Holland?”

“Don’t call me that. Call me Calista like you did last night, or nothing at all.”

“I didn’t—”

“Or, wait! Perhaps you should call me Your Highness. Yes, I like that better.” She lengthened her face by lifting her brows, and thrust back her shoulders. “Your Highness,” she mimicked his voice perfectly, “are you feeling quite the thing?”

Tacitus fought to control the twitch of his lips.

“Clearly, I have my answer,” he said, trying not to look at her breasts that were decadently presented by her erect posture.

“Today I will demand that everybody call me Your Highness. Go now and tell them.” She made a shooing motion. “Tell everyone downstairs that I am a princess traveling incognito, but that you have discovered my secret and they should all treat me with thorough deference. That Tinkerson woman will positively swoon. How delightful. I think it may be illegal to call myself royalty. But nobody will remember tomorrow, so it doesn’t signify. Go now, my lord. Make it so.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

Her eyes rolled. “Oh,
do
try not to be so stiff, will you? Play along.”

“I really don’t think my stiffness is the issue here.” Though the radiance of her eyes and slightly rabid gaiety on her face was making one part of him rather stiffer than he wished at present. She was far too pretty. “You have changed in six years. And yet perhaps you haven’t.”

“You have
no
idea. Now, off with you! Do my bidding, plebe.”

“You do understand that I am a Peer. A relative of
actual
royalty, albeit distant.”

“Of course.” Her lips curved into thorough wickedness. “You are
Dare
.”

He bit down on his molars.

Her eyes went positively round with mirth. And then she commenced laughing so hard that tears ran onto her cheeks. She clutched at her middle and waved him out the door.

“Go, go! I cannot stand this.” She gasped, her entire face overcome with hilarity. “Go now!”

He went. Hysterical laughter was a sign of madness, of course. Perhaps she had gone mad.

But she hadn’t seemed mad when she was holding her son close the night before, murmuring tender assurances into his hair, the sinews in her neck taut as she seemed to restrain her emotions. At that moment she had seemed like a fiercely loving mother, the same way she had been a fiercely loving sibling to Lady Evelina and Gregory over the course of that month six years ago.

Down in the kitchen Mrs. Whittle assured him that she and Molly needed no assistance washing up from breakfast. So he went into the taproom, found Anderson and Peabody and a third fellow, and settled into a rather cutthroat game of whist.

He wasn’t a shabby cardplayer by any means, but he was two guineas poorer by the time he saw Calista Holland descend to the foyer munching on a slice of toast. Popping the remaining crust between her lips, she rifled through the coats hanging on pegs by the doors, pulled forth a green cloak, and slung it around her shoulders. Without an umbrella or hat, she walked out into the rain that was still falling generously.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the three sharpers waiting for him to make his play.

An hour later his pockets were empty and he was accepting a cigar from Mr. Anderson—intended, he suspected, to entice him to play again tonight—when a commotion sounded in the foyer.

“Mother,” said a young lady gowned in frothy white up to her chin, “that woman out there is wearing my cloak. And look what she’s doing to it.”

A woman of middling years, wearing black feathers in her headdress and a gown far too elaborate for a day at a country inn, rushed to the front window. “Good gracious! Who is she?”

“I don’t know.” Her daughter pressed her nose against the pane. “But she has ruined my best cloak.”

“Your father will buy you three new cloaks to replace it, Penny.” A nattily dressed fellow craned his neck over her shoulder. “Why, that’s Lady Holland. The Earl of Chance’s sister. I heard she was stranded here today too.”

An older man came from the private parlor. “Lord Chance’s sister? I placed a bet on his stallion last autumn at Newmarket. Bucephalus, I think the beast was called. A superb runner. Won me a tidy bundle that day,” he said cheerily. “Where is the lady, Alan? I should like Penelope to make her acquaintance.”

“Just there, George. Splashing about on the muddy street. It looks as if she’s
playing,
of all things.”

Tacitus dropped the cigar, grabbed his coat and umbrella, and went around them and out the door.

Twenty yards from the inn, in the center of the street bordered on either side by neat two-story buildings with shop fronts, Calista Holland stood in the light rain up to her ankles in mud. Rather, she danced. Skipped. Pirouetted. She wore nothing on her head, and her dark hair hung haphazardly in long, sodden strands down her back and over her shoulders, and her face and neck were smeared with mud. The green cloak was now thickly covered as well. She had thrown it back over her shoulders, and beneath it seemed to be a white gown that had inevitably become brown.