The Lie and the Lady (13 page)

“If you are going to be in such a foul temper, I would ask that you take it somewhere else,” she replied. “And then leave it there, because Sir Barty, Miss Babcock, and the countess will be down within minutes.”

And within minutes he would see Letty again—but in the role of Sir Barty's fiancée. It was a role she played well, but a role it was.

It must be.

“I think I'll take a stroll around the grounds,” he said. “Clear my head.”

“Excellent notion.” His mother nodded. “But be back before the meal is rung—I will not make any excuses for you!”

Her voice was an echo, calling after him as he went out the door. But once in the foyer, he did not turn toward the main doors, leading to the twilight outside.

Instead, he made certain no eyes were on him, and no footsteps were coming, before he made for the grand staircase at the other end of the hall.

He did need to rid himself of this ill temper. And there was only one way to do that.

Give it to the person deserving of it.

HE FOUND HIS
way with little trouble.

Oh, all right, there had been some trouble. It wasn't easy trying to figure out which room was Letty's—and considering the fact that he had never been on the second floor of Bluestone Manor, let alone in the family rooms, he was mostly guessing at this point. He dreaded simply opening a door and finding Margaret (or worse, Sir Barty) in the middle of getting their kit on for dinner. But just as he was about to try one doorknob, it turned, sending him scurrying to hide behind what had to be the oldest (and largest) suit of armor in all of Lincolnshire.

Sir Barty, it seemed, came by his size honestly.

At that moment, Turner was grateful for the Babcock family's penchant for portliness, because it hid him from view as a mousy young maid opened the door and stepped out of the room, carrying soiled and wrinkled linens in a basket.

The maid turned and thankfully walked in the direction opposite him. Then, with even more luck than Turner had ever had in his life, she knocked on a door a few yards down the hall.

“Yes?” Leticia's voice floated, muffled through the door.

“My lady?” the girl squeaked. “It's Molly. The laundry maid?”

A muted shuffling could be heard, then Leticia threw the door open. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair still frazzled from being out in the fresh air, her cheeks flushed from some emotion he couldn't identify.

She looked perfect.

In her arms was the offending garment—now drying into a splotched mess. She held it out to little Molly. “Here. Do try to save it. It's my best—I mean, it's one of my favorites,” she said, correcting herself.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Please tell Sir Barty and . . . anyone else who might be waiting, that I'll be down in a few minutes.”

The maid nodded and curtsied. But then hesitated.

“Yes?” Leticia asked.

“I . . . I was just wondering, my lady, do you need anything else? Water, or . . .”

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

“What about help getting dressed?” Molly was unable to hide her eagerness. “I've been learning to do hair—”

“No, I can do it myself,” Leticia replied before closing the door in the girl's face.

The click of the door handle echoed through the hallway.

“I'll never be a lady's maid,” the little maid grumbled under her breath, and the loss of her dreams would have been heartbreaking if it hadn't been followed with, “Wendra will never believe this.”

There was only one Wendra in town, and she was Mrs. Emory's live-in maid, if Turner's recollection of his mother's long speeches on the politics of the ladies' circle was accurate. Which means that Leticia had just dug herself a slightly deeper hole with the women of Helmsley.

Turner let out his breath, which he had been holding in order to not make a sound, but also to avoid coughing. The old suit of armor could use a thorough dusting.

When Molly had disappeared down the servants' staircase, Turner crept forward and knocked on the door.

“I told you, I wish to be left—” Leticia's voice died as she threw open the door, and expecting to see the maid, was instead assaulted with the sight of his torso. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his face.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“You asked us to stay for dinner,” he drawled. “My mother is quite pleased by the invitation.”

“At my door. What are you doing at my door?”

His mouth opened to answer when a shuffling sound at the other end of the hall had their heads whipping around to pinpoint the noise.

The shuffling, wherever it was from, was getting louder.

“Go.” She put her hand out, shoving him back. “Get out of here—you cannot be seen here.”

“No.”

His hand went to hers, holding it in place against his chest.

“Either I can be seen standing in your doorway while you're in your robe, or we can talk privately in your room.”

She was frozen, except for her bosom, which rose and fell with the pounding rhythm of her breath.

Her eyes never left his face.

“Invite me in, Letty.”

8

H
ello, Letty.”

They were the words she had been dreading all day—and the ones that echoed in her head, the deep rumble of his voice like a memory not yet had. She knew that he would come to her. She knew that they would find a way to talk—they had to, obviously.

But she was not expecting it to be here.

In her robe. In her room.

Her bed mere feet away.

She'd assumed she'd put all those thoughts away. Enough time and anger had buried them. And while they had been forced to spend the day in proximity to each other, thoughts of bed and soft sheets and softer skin had never entered her mind.

Until he entered her room.

Now, no matter what discipline she imposed on herself, her bed was where her mind ended up.

Don't be a fool, she told herself. It's not as if you and he ever—

But they had gotten so close. Closer than Leticia had ever allowed anyone.

A flood of memories filled her body. His skin next to hers . . .

Her fingers, exploring . . .

His eyes, the next day, when she found out about the Lie.

“I must ask that you refrain from calling me by a diminutive,” she said, bearing herself upright while putting as much distance between them as possible. Which wasn't easy—he seemed to take up every bit of air in the room. “We are, after all, strangers.”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “And I must ask that you refrain from calling us strangers. At least while we are alone.”

“I have no intention of ever being alone with you again after this,” Leticia replied. “Tell me, do you often force yourself into ladies' bedchambers? If so, I must put some locks on Margaret's doors.”

“Now, now. You invited me. Both times.”

“That was different,” she replied quietly. “We were different.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough,” he said. “Why are you here, Letty?”

“I'm marrying a man I adore and living happily ever after,” she answered.

Now he folded his arms over his chest. “Do me the greatest of favors. Since this is the one and only time we will be alone together, don't lie to me. And I won't lie to you.”

“You, not lie?” she said. “How very novel.”

He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, just barely. Enough to show his displeasure. Good, Letty thought. He should feel something about that—the impassivity of his expression was bound to drive her mad.

“Do you know, I'm not entirely certain how to proceed,” she said, trying to keep her tone light while her heart beat like a hummingbird's. “Do I say, ‘It's such a pleasure to see you'? Or what about, ‘What a happy surprise!' ”

“I can't imagine it's a pleasure for either of us,” he answered with a growl. “But I have to wonder whether it is actually a surprise to you.”

Her head whipped up.

“What do you mean?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “Did you come here for me?” he asked, direct.

She couldn't help it. She laughed. A long, drawn-out peal of disbelief.

“Letty—” he said. “If you're in trouble or need help, I can—”

“No,” she answered. “Of course not. I didn't even know you were here. How could I possibly?”

He hesitated for a moment—as if her logic caused more pain than her answer did. If her answer had caused any pain, that was. His walls were up, those guards in place that she had so carefully taken to breaking down last summer.

Back when the Lie was still being told and they were both very happy to be fools.

“You could quite possibly because I told you,” he answered.

“No you didn't.”

“I told you about the town I grew up in, I told you—”

“You let me believe it was the town the Earl of Ashby grew up in. Hollyhock. You mentioned no names.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked again.

“Because I'm surviving.”

He held her stare as she watched for any sign of anger or regret on his part. But true to form, he gave nothing away.

She used to be able to read him so much better.

“I'm here to marry Sir Barty. He's an eligible widower and I, an eligible widow. It's a perfectly eligible match.”

“Where on earth did you just happen to meet the man who owns half the grain in the village where I happen to own the local windmill?”

“Paris,” she replied. “Remember? I had to go to the Continent to find somewhere people weren't laughing at me.”

He ignored the jibe. “And how was Paris?”

“Expensive.”

She broke eye contact, moving lightly over to a little table, her fingers falling across some trinkets she had placed there—small things, personal things. A book she'd loved as a girl—
The Odyssey
. A ribbon she wore when she was making her debut. Suddenly, she felt the urge to hide them from his gaze.

“So you own the local windmill,” she said lightly, trying to temper the conversation from growing too . . . something.

“I do. My family business.”

“I'm sure it's a lovely windmill; I know very little about them.”

“I'll give you a tour sometime.”

“No you won't—never alone, remember?” she said.

Her eyes met his—and that was yet another mistake.

For minutes, seconds, hours—she was lost. Who knows. But the bed remained in her peripheral vision, a looming specter reminding her that there were actually three parties in the room: him, her, and them.

“No, I don't suppose we will.” Then he cleared his throat, brushing away any regret that may have creeped in, and folded his arms in front of his chest. Somehow it only made him appear larger, more imposing.

“You expect me to believe this is coincidence?”

“It's not a coincidence,” she said, and saw his eyes light with
aha!
She moved closer to him. Just a half step, but enough for her to lower her voice to a whisper. “What this is, is bad luck shaking hands with unkind fate. And we simply have to deal with it.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” he whispered back.

She was just about to open her mouth when a knock on the door echoed through the room.

Fear filled Leticia like a startled bird. She held up a hand, begging Turner to be silent.

For once, he relented.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“M'dear?” came Sir Barty's voice.

Oh hell, she thought. Oh hell.

“One moment!”

Desperately, silently, she reached out and pulled Turner's arm. At first he resisted, fire in his eyes.

“Being found here does you no good either,” she said, her voice barely a breath. His resistance faltered. Then she dragged him by the arm behind the changing screen in the corner of the room.