Dawn in My Heart (9 page)

Gillian, too, had been seventeen, when her mother had discovered her amorous correspondence with the twenty-one-year-old Gerrit. Every desk drawer had been ransacked, every letter burned in the grate.

By the following week, the duchess had engaged Miss Templeton as Gillian's companion. Her guard, she thought bitterly. Over the past three seasons, Gillian sometimes thought she would suffocate from the lady's presence. It was only now, betrothed to Lord Skylar, that Gillian was experiencing anything like the freedom she had known when her father was alive.

She looked at the ring on her finger. It looked lovely. But what was the price of wearing it? Marriage to a man she hadn't known a fortnight ago—when another who'd stolen her heart three years ago had returned on the scene?

S
ky grimaced. The nausea was becoming worse in the rattling coach. It had started soon after he'd eaten that supper at the fete, but it had been faint enough to ignore.

But as the evening wore on, it had grown stronger, and it had been with a sense of relief that he'd summoned the coach for the duchess and her daughter.

Now Sky slumped across the seat of his own carriage, feeling with every bump of the wheels the desire to retch. He held on, knowing it was not far to his house.

He'd managed to hide his bouts of indisposition up to now, but they were becoming more severe. The fever couldn't be striking him again. No! He hit the seat with his fist in futile anger.

The coach stopped. He sat up, allowing the groom to let down the steps and open the door. Sky exited as if nothing
was the matter and bade the man good-night as he held the front door open for him.

The candles in the candelabra had gone out, but they weren't needed. Already a gray light crept into the house.

Glad his father was away—Sky neither knew nor cared where—he staggered up to his room.

“Good evening, my lord,” Nigel greeted him from the chair where he'd been dozing.

Sky collapsed on his bed.

Nigel hurried over to him. “Tired, my lord? What's the matter?” he asked more urgently when Sky said nothing but sat with his head between his knees.

“It's hitting me again,” he answered finally through gritted teeth. “I can feel it.”

Nigel touched his bowed forehead. “Your skin is warm.”

He nodded assent. “Get me something—a basin. I don't know how long I can hold my meal down.”

Nigel hurried to comply. Then he gently helped Sky remove his coat and waistcoat. He undid his cravat and let his shirt hang loose at the neck. As soon as he'd removed his boots, Sky lay on the bed, his legs curled up in an effort to mitigate the discomfort. Nigel threw a blanket over him.

He heard Nigel's soft tread across the room. He came back with a cold compress.

“You'll have…to…cancel my engagements tomorrow. Tell everyone…I—I've gone out of town.” He couldn't think beyond the pain in his gut and between his temples. “Go. Leave me in peace.”

Nigel leaned over him, his brown face inches from his. “It's her. She won't let you go.”

“Don't speak idiocy,” he mumbled, closing his eyes to those greenish-yellow irises looking at him with such certainty.

“She won't stop till she have you back in Kingston.”

Sky groaned. “You think a human can make me this sick? What do you think, she's laced my food with arsenic all the way across the Atlantic?”

“She have her ways.”

Sky cursed. “Get out. You can't help me anymore. Don't let anyone know anything. Say I'm out of town, say anything but that I'm ill. And don't, for pity's sake, call any doctors.”

“Yes, sir. I'll leave the laudanum by your table.”

A few minutes later the room was silent. Soon it would be fully light. Who knew how long he'd be laid low this time. One thing was certain, he would rely on no more physicians. If the illness hadn't killed him the last time, the physics they filled him with would have. The bleedings alone had probably cost him most of his strength.

Finally relief came as Sky heaved over his washbasin. After cleaning himself, he measured the laudanum drops into a glass of water Nigel had left, doubling his usual dosage, hoping for numbness from the pounding between his temples. Finally he climbed under the covers, seeking the blessed unconsciousness of sleep.

 

Gillian's mare stamped restively as she waited with her groom at the entrance to Hyde Park. She patted the horse's neck and whispered a few words to her. Then she flipped open her watch. They had been waiting three quarters of an hour and Lord Skylar had yet to appear. Had he forgotten his invitation? Or had he been too tired from the evening's exertions?

He hadn't struck her thus far as a gentleman who would forget an engagement, least of all with his fiancée!

Perhaps he was indisposed after last night. Although he insisted he was recovered from the illness that had hit him in the Indies, to Gillian he still looked like a man recuperating.

Yes, that must be it, she decided, feeling a momentary sympathy for him as she remembered his solicitude to her last night when he'd thought her fatigued.

Her groom coughed behind her. “My lady, hadn't we better return? The crowds are getting thick.”

She debated a minute longer. She wasn't ready to go back yet. Since last night, a restlessness had seized her. Finally, she turned to her groom and said, “I shall go for a ride first.”

“Very well, my lady.” Together the two entered the park and headed for the Ladies' Mile.

As they were returning along the Row, she spotted Gerrit in the distance. He and a fellow officer were leaning over an open carriage, having a good time chatting with the ladies inside.

She pressed her lips together, determined to ride past him without acknowledging him. It hurt to the quick to admit how little she had meant to him. She had given him everything, and he had never even bothered to let her know he was back in town. Clearly he had forgotten her in the intervening years since their tearful goodbye.

Gillian skirted some other riders and was almost past the carriage, the laughter of its female occupants intermingling with the lower-timbered laughter of the officers—one she recognized so well. It was like a fresh wound, hearing it now, and knowing it was not meant for her.

“Lady Gillian!”

She looked up involuntarily and then wished she hadn't.

Gerrit looked splendid in his scarlet uniform and shako. He had one hand raised and his devastating smile reached into her very heart.

She gave a nod and kept on going.

Five minutes later she heard the muffled clip-clop of hoof-beats against the sandy path behind her. She kept riding.

“Good afternoon, Lady Gillian. What's your hurry?”

His black charger had pulled up alongside her mare with ease. His voice sounded amused.

“Good afternoon, Captain Hawkes. I am in no hurry. This is my usual gait.”

“Care to go for a canter? I recall you used to be quite a good rider.”

The challenge was unmistakable. Without a word, she veered from the crowded path and went off onto the grass. Gerrit's horse was right beside her. Only her groom, with a faint, “Lady Gillian!” was left several paces behind.

They rode across the vast parkland, under massive elms and plane trees and wide fields. Finally, after several moments, having reached almost the opposite side of the park and nearing the ring, they slowed their horses.

He tipped his hat to her with a smile. “You have improved.”

“So have you.”

He grinned, showing those devastatingly white teeth against bronzed skin. “It comes from marching anywhere from ten to twenty miles a day across all sorts of terrain in Spain and France.”

“I read your name in the lists when you were wounded.”

The amusement in those blue eyes deepened. “Were you concerned?”

She could not share his humor. “The only way I could discover if you had recovered was to have a maid talk with a maid at your household.”

He sobered. “I'm sorry if I caused you worry.”

Her smile was tight. “I wouldn't describe it precisely as ‘worry.' More like agony of mind and soul.”

He looked down at his gloved hands on the reins. “I'm sorry I didn't write you after I arrived on the Peninsula.”

She waited.

He sighed, as if sensing the moment had arrived for explanations. Would he have ever given her any if she hadn't run into him at Carlton House?

“I didn't write you anymore after those first few times because, once I understood what I was really in for—between the summer fevers and the long sieges to capture Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz—I doubted very much if I'd ever be home again in one piece.

“My closest comrades didn't come home. Those who didn't die on the battlefield died of the putrid fever from their wounds. The few that are home are missing a limb or two. I didn't want you to be obligated to half a man.”

“Oh, Gerrit, you know that wouldn't have mattered.”

He gave her a smile that made her think no time had passed at all and he was still that wonderful dancing partner in her quadrille class. “To you it wouldn't, but to me it would have.

“You've grown very beautiful, Gillian,” he said softly. The way he looked at her made her feel warm all over.

And then he had to ruin it all by saying with a smile, “I
hear congratulations are in order. The future Countess of Skylar, and someday the Marchioness of Caulfield. I stand in admiration.”

“Doesn't it matter to you?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

His blue eyes looked into hers with absolute understanding. “Of course it does, but what is that to the purpose? Your father and mother would never have countenanced a match between the two of us—I'm a third son, don't you recall? I had few prospects except to die a glorious death on the battlefield. I did you a service by not letting you hope.

“Look at you now, betrothed to one of the biggest titles and fortunes on the market. Every young lady envies you.”

The words were a bitter consolation. Once again, as she had three years ago, she felt caught in a web not of her own making. Before, her mother had forbidden her to see Gerrit. Now, her mother had neatly tied up her future to the most eligible bachelor on the market.

“Come now,” Gerrit told her, “cheer up. We can still be friends. Let's finish our ride before your groom takes you home.”

 

When Tertius finally awoke, he shivered under the weight of the coverlets and his head felt as if a vise were pressing his temples together.

Thankful to be conscious at least, he made an effort to sit up.

Nigel was immediately at his side. He pressed him back down on the bed, feeling his forehead. “The fever is strong. You must stay put.” He turned to pour some water from a pitcher and measured some drops into the glass. “Here,
drink this. It's barley water.” He held his head up enough for Tertius to take a few sips. The liquid felt good against his parched lips and mouth.

“I must get up. I have too much to do.”

“You not be going anywhere today. Let others do what has to be done.”

“Talk to Father's secretary,” Tertius told him, lying back down on the bed, finding it too difficult to concentrate. “Tell him to cancel my engagements and send out the proper notes. You know what to say.” Hadn't they just been down this road a scant few months ago?

“Yes, sir.”

The new dose of laudanum was already taking effect. Suddenly nothing mattered but the oblivion of a drugged sleep. Tertius burrowed down, trying to get warm. He felt, rather than saw, Nigel rearrange the covers and put another coverlet over him.

 

Nigel made his way down to the ground floor. He knocked on the door he knew led to the study, although he had never been in that room himself except when Lord Skylar had shown him around the first day.

“Come in,” a peremptory voice called out.

He entered quietly and went to the desk. Mr. Scott, Lord Caulfield's private secretary, watched him. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Lord Skylar wishes to inform you he will be unavailable for a few days,” he said, hoping it would be only a few days. “He instructs you to cancel any of his appointments and send out the appropriate messages.”

“Well, why doesn't he come and tell me himself?”

“He had to leave town on urgent business.” He knew he wouldn't be able to keep the charade up before the rest of the servants, but perhaps the secretary could be made to believe Tertius wasn't in residence.

Mr. Scott stood and came around the desk. “You may inform your master I am not accustomed to taking my orders from a valet.” His look said clearly that he didn't welcome Nigel's presence in the study.

Nigel took a step closer, not liking to use this weapon but finding no alternative. He stared down at the man, knowing he had probably never had a six-and-a-half-foot black man standing over him.

The man cleared his throat and retreated. “Very well, you may inform Lord Skylar I shall do as he asks.”

Nigel bowed silently and left the library.

“Over my dead body,” Mr. Scott added when the door had shut behind the black man. With that, the secretary turned back to his desk and straightened some papers, the hammering in his heart making it impossible for the moment to concentrate on anything else.

From the study, Nigel went down to the kitchen. He approached the cook, knowing the eyes of the kitchen maids followed him.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins. I would like to request some strong beef broth for the next few meals.”

“What's a matter? Somethin' ailin' you?”

He hesitated, but knew he wouldn't be able to fool the other servants. “No, it be for Lord Skylar. A trifle indisposed.”

“Too much to drink at the Prince's reception last night?”

“Precisely.”

“Tsk-tsk. I hope he's not going back to his old ways. We was so hoping for him to settle down—have a family—now that poor Lord Edmund's gone.” The cook shook her head with a sigh. “Very well, I'll send the broth up.”

“Thank you, madam.”

She turned away from him and noticed the scullery maid. “Stop that gawking and get to chopping them vegetables.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The girl closed her mouth and dragged her attention from Nigel. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced at the other kitchen maids. They hastily looked away and bent back to their tasks. All but a housemaid—he recognized her different rank by her black dress and starched white apron. She backed away a step as he passed by, but kept her gaze fixed on him.

As the door swung closed behind him, he took a deep breath, allowing a moment to release the emotions each step outside Lord Skylar's rooms occasioned him. He hated the feeling of being an oddity, which had gripped him since arriving in England. He might as well be in a freak show. The only other men of color he'd seen since coming to these shores had been an occasional footman dressed in ridiculous velvet knee breeches, coat and white powdered wig and gloves.