The Accidental Abduction (11 page)

Dickenson started as if he'd seen a ghost. In answer, Harry folded his arms, and waited to see if he would dare to climb off his perch on that ridiculous high-flyer of a carriage. But Dickenson did not so much as waste breath on a curse. He just snapped the reins, whistled up the horses, and set their heads toward London without a backward glance.

Well, that was one problem taken care of. Now what in God's name was he going to do about the other?

Harry glanced up at the window, only to see that it was open, and that Leannah was staring down at him.

W
hat is the
matter
with me?

It was still full dark, and Leannah sat in the chair beside the last glowing coals of the fire, trying to brush her hair, and to find some way to calm down after having so unceremoniously fled from Harry Rayburn.

What is the matter with me?
Each syllable was accompanied by an angry jerk of the stiff-bristled brush. It hurt her hands, but Leannah didn't care. The pain helped remind her who she really was and how many responsibilities she had.

The brush tangled in her curls again. It took several hard yanks to work the implement free. Her hair, as she had predicted, had knotted into a solid mass. She'd probably have to resort to shears to take care of the worst of the snarls.

Which would be appropriate,
Leannah thought grimly.
Don't they shave the heads of the deranged?
If she was not truly deranged, she was certainly giving an excellent imitation.

But who could know that insanity came with such a brilliant smile, such fair hair and blue eyes? Or that one kiss could make her forget who she was?

Leannah gave the brush another vicious jerk. The tangle she'd been working on abruptly freed itself, and sent the brush skittering across the room. Genevieve rolled over in her bed but did not wake.
Of course not
, Leannah thought as she stumped across the floor to retrieve the brush.
The only two people awake in this world are myself and Harry Rayburn.

She was certain he was awake. The thought of him being able to go calmly to sleep after driving her so far into pleasure and longing was insupportable. It made him into a calculating libertine. She did not like picturing Harry Rayburn in this fashion. She should not be picturing him in any fashion at all. That way lay not only madness, but genuine danger.

Leannah was intimately familiar with the power of fantasy. Mr. Wakefield had been sixty-five when they were married. It was Elias's hope to get an heir on his blooming, healthy, nineteen-year-old bride, but he was the first to admit he was no passionate lover. She'd never betrayed him, but she had spent a great deal of time with other young wives on the edges of ballrooms, watching other men. She'd discovered there was a form of pleasure in imagining that they were the ones touching her, coaxing her, rousing her. When she'd been widowed and lay alone in her bed, she continued to dream about such men, just as she'd continued to stay away from them. By then she knew how to manage enough of her own pleasure to ease the basic physical craving. It had not been perfect, but it had seemed like it would be enough.

It wasn't until she'd moved her family back to London last year that she'd begun to feel something genuine lacking in her life. She was no longer among familiar countrymen and their fathers, all of whom she knew so well that they aroused nothing in her beyond friendship. It was in the glittering ballrooms, among crowds of officers and the gentlemen, sports, dandies, lords, and wealthy tradesmen that longing woke in her. A part of her that she thought she'd packed away long ago wanted to be asked to dance. She wanted to look up into a pair of fine eyes and feel the press of a man's warm hands. She wanted to be talked with and called upon. Flirted with. Seduced.

If nothing else, this encounter with Mr. Harry Rayburn was a reminder that one should be very careful what one wished for. She could not get herself and Genevieve away from here quickly enough. She would take them straight home. The moment she had locked Genevieve in her room, she would write to Mr. Valloy and let him know she would be at home when he called and that she was ready to accept his offer. He did not engage her heart, but the heart was a willful creature. This last night was proof enough of that. From now on, she would have as little to do with its undisciplined tricks as possible.

The sound of hooves and wheels clattered through the window. Leannah nearly dropped the brush as she sprang to her feet. All her sensible resolve of the moment before fled, driven out by the idea this sound might signal Harry's departure.

I've offended him, repulsed him.
She barely remembered she must not jostle Genevieve's bed as she threw open the window.
He's going before I can explain . . .

But no. That wasn't Harry. Dawn's pearl gray light showed her Mr. Dickenson's landau, and Mr. Dickenson himself, turning the team toward the highway. Harry Rayburn simply stood by the inn, and watched him go.

Leannah moved to close the window, but she wasn't fast enough. Harry turned his head, and looked up. The sight of him there, waiting for her like Romeo waiting for his Juliet with the first rays of dawn lighting up his curling hair took her breath away.

For his part, Harry Rayburn smiled his brilliant smile, and bowed. Despite her agitation and confusion, Leannah could not help but smile herself, and wave her own hand in imperious salute.

Then she did close the window. Forgetting the brush and her hair, she let herself fall back onto her bed.

What is happening to me?
she thought, blinking up at the ceiling.
And what on earth am I to do about it?

Leannah was still groping for some sort of answer to either question when she drifted into sleep.

At least, she did until the door banged open.

Leannah lurched upright, blinking stupidly. Warm daylight streamed through the window. Genevieve stood beside her bed, fully dressed, her hands on her hips.

“What have you done!” she demanded.

“What are you talking about?” Leannah groaned and brushed her hair back from her face. The details of the previous night roused themselves to some sort of order, and it occurred to Leannah that Genny had somehow managed to dress herself without needing help, or being heard.

“Anthony! He's gone! Without a word. You must have done something.”

“I did nothing,” she answered honestly, but her thoughts leapt to Harry Rayburn, standing down in the yard. Had he run Mr. Dickenson off? If he had, it was yet one more thing she had to thank him for.

Apparently, Genevieve's thoughts were running along a similar, but far less grateful, course. “If you didn't do it, you must have put that Mr. Rayburn up to it.”

“As far as I am aware, if Mr. Dickenson left, the decision was entirely his own.”

For a moment, it looked as if Genevieve would argue the point, but in the end she just plopped herself onto the edge of her bed. “Well, it's all ruined anyway, even if Uncle Clarence does still turn up.” She paused. “Do you think something could have happened to him?”

“Other than that he may have met someone on the road who either needed help or salvation? No.” Leannah kicked her way out from her covers and crossed the room to sit beside her sister. “I know you were acting out of good motives, Genny,” she said as she took both Genevieve's hands. “But this isn't the way, and Mr. Dickenson has just proved more than amply he's not the man for you.”

“Then what am I to do?” whispered Genevieve. “We're in so much trouble, Lea. I have to do something to help.”

“We're not in that much trouble,” Leannah told her, and she strove to mean it. “It's nothing we can't work our way through, as long as we keep our heads.”

“Like you're keeping your head with Mr. Rayburn.”

“Mr. Rayburn is not the subject of this conversation.” This declaration probably would have had more force if Leannah hadn't also at that moment gotten to her feet and gone to the small table to adjust the position of the brush and the hand mirror.

“He should be,” said Genevieve to her back. “Considering you were making calf's eyes at him and then running after him into the dark—entirely unchaperoned, may one add.”

“Genevieve!”

“Well, you were. And that was after he knocked poor Anthony down.”

“We are finished with this,” Leannah said firmly. “I am going to get dressed, and find out how soon Gossip can be reshod.”

“What am I to do in the meantime?”

“Get Mrs. Jessop to lay out breakfast in the parlor, and stop making up fairy stories about me and Mr. Rayburn. We have to get home before anyone else unwelcome turns up.”
Or before I lose my resolve with Harry. Again.

Fortunately, Leannah was not given time to brood on this possibility, or any of its most likely consequences. Mrs. Jessop arrived a short moment later, bringing them clean water and fresh cloths. Leannah was a little embarrassed to find Harry's caution with her hands had been warranted. She had broken open her scabs and blood stained the bandages. Mrs. Jessop tut-tutted and helped rebandage her palms. Then, between the two of them, they wrestled Leannah's hair into some semblance of order, and dressed her again in her own simple, powder blue dress. The garment was a bit worse for the wear, but it had at least been shaken out and aired.

When she finally descended the stairs, Leannah found Genevieve enjoying, or at least eating, breakfast in the parlor. Like the night before, the food was simple but hearty—porridge with treacle, fresh brook trout, more of the good bread with fresh butter, as well as strawberry preserves.

Leannah had just settled herself at the table when Mrs. Jessop bustled in with a pot of piping-hot tea.

“The gentleman's outside,” said Mrs. Jessop as she filled their cups full of tea so dark it was almost black. “He sends his compliments and asks if he might come in and say good morning.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Genevieve before Leannah could answer. “I do so long to see how Mr. Rayburn does this morning.”

Mrs. Jessop ignored this too bright and too quick exclamation, and looked to Leannah.

“Please show Mr. Rayburn in,” said Leannah.

She thought she'd spoken quite coolly, but there was so much good-natured understanding on Mrs. Jessop's face as she exited the parlor, Leannah could not escape the realization she had made a bad job of it. This was not helped by the infuriatingly knowing look Genevieve leveled at her.

Leannah ignored her sister and concentrated on schooling her features into an appropriately bland and polite expression before the door opened to admit Mr. Rayburn.

Harry looked as rumpled as she felt. He'd had some sort of rough wash, and his hair was plastered back against his head. Golden stubble gleamed on his chin. It was everything Leannah could do not to reach out and straighten his cravat for him. But they were no longer alone together, draped in a veil of moonlight and shadows. The sun was up. Genevieve was sitting right here. She must return to being Leannah Morehouse Wakefield, and quickly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wakefield, Miss Morehouse.” Harry bowed. “How are your hands this morning, Mrs. Wakefield?”

He spoke politely, almost casually, but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. His eyes were filled to the brim with the memories neither of them could mention.

“Much better thank you,” Leannah answered with equal politeness. But she turned her own eyes toward his.
Please,
she begged silently.
Please see that this polite conversation is not what I would choose.

“Won't you join us, Mr. Rayburn?” inquired Genevieve, gesturing to the empty chair.

“Thank you.” Harry bowed once more. “That is most kind, but I've already had my breakfast, and must make an early start of it. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Wakefield,” he said, and again there was that burning glance, and the clear wish to speak.

A sick pain rose in Leannah's chest. The contradictions of needing him to stay and wishing desperately he would go squeezed her heart and lungs. But he must go and she must let him. She couldn't be herself when he was near. He turned her into something, someone quite different.

You only play the martyr because you haven't the heart for anything else.

Leannah pushed Genevieve's accusation aside, again, and steeled herself for the final end of this—what to even call it?—this scene? It certainly wasn't an affair. She parted her lips. She had the polite farewell ready on her tongue, but the plodding sound of heavy horses' hooves coming through the open window interrupted her as surely as Genevieve's delighted squeak.

“Anthony!”

Genny jumped up and ran from the parlor. Harry ducked back reflexively to avoid being bowled over.

“Surely not,” murmured Leannah. Mr. Dickenson was far too proud to come back after being knocked down, unless he had a plan of some sort. Leannah got to her feet and brushed past Mr. Rayburn. Even though her thoughts whirled with all manner of improbable scenarios involving Mr. Dickenson, she was very aware how Harry followed close behind her.

But it wasn't the return of Anthony Dickenson that created the racket. A massive, antique travelling coach creaked across the yard, pulled by a pair of shaggy cart horses. As soon as the slouching driver halted his team, the coach door opened and a spry old man dressed in clergyman's black popped out. He clapped one hand to his head to keep his broad-brimmed hat from flying off, grabbed up a black bag in the other, and scampered to the doorway where Genevieve had stopped, stunned.