The Lie and the Lady (9 page)

“We'll never know the answer to that, will we?” Her voice made his heart crack.

“We are meant for each other.”

The last time they had stood this close together—in public—he had used it to stake his claim. To declare to the world that the Countess of Churzy was his. Now he would renew that claim, the only way he knew how.

“Come with me. Put this foolish running to an end. Where can you go that you think I will not follow?”

“I did not run to be chased, you idiot. I run because it is the only choice I have left!” She pulled away from him, but his hand was still on her elbow and he caught her, pulled her back. Her body slammed into his.

“Not the only choice,” he said, and his mouth crushed against hers.

As cold as it was outside, as cool and reserved as she pretended to be, the warmth of her lips shocked him. Heat volleyed between them with every breath, every shiver. His hand snaked around her back, folding her against him. She gasped for air and burrowed closer. The small moan that escaped from the back of her throat sent a thrill down his spine.

And he knew he had her.

All he had to do now was get her to agree.

“Tell me to go and I will.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Tell me now and I'll go away forever, you'll never see me again. We'll be nothing more than a bittersweet memory to each other.”

Her dazed eyes met his.

“But”—his voice came out a gravelly rumble—“if you want me to stay, if you want me at all . . . you don't have to say anything.”

His thumb brushed over her cheek. His heart beat faster than he knew it could go. And he watched those dark eyes as she debated. As she argued against herself.

As she . . . remembered the rest of the world. And where she stood in it. Not on a dock in Dover. No, she stood wearing the title of countess, lifting her well out of his reach.

It happened in a blink. Her face shifted back from flushed and open to icy and shuttered. “You think you can stir my blood and make me forget myself?”

“I think I can stir your blood, that's for damn certain.” He felt himself getting angry . . . No, it was worse. Not anger—desperation. Because she was slipping away from him.

“That . . . is nothing,” she said. “Something left over—a residue of when I could trust you. But I will never again put myself in the care of someone who lies to me.”

“Letty, you can trust me—”

“No, Mr. Turner. I cannot.”

Something broke over him, made his breath hitch. Because watching her in that moment, he saw the truth. The very truth at the core of his Letty.

What she said was real.

She would never let herself be with him. No amount of cajoling, no kisses or touches or heated looks was ever going to change that. And he had been the world's biggest fool to think that she would.

“Excuse me, milady?” a voice came from behind them, forcing them back outside of themselves.

A boy stood behind them, and judging by his thick oilskin coat and lack of shivering against the cold, his age belied his experience at sea. “Your trunk's been loaded, milady. Beg pardon, but Captain says we can't miss this tide.”

“Thank you, I'm coming,” Letty had replied before turning back to face Turner.

He held his breath.

“Go,” she'd said. “I never want to see you again.”

TELL ME TO
go and I will.
He'd spent the past six months ruing those words.

He'd thought that if he could just explain himself to her, she would understand.

Because she knew him. She could recognize him at a thousand paces, blindfolded and in the dark. And he could recognize her as well.

But it hadn't gone as planned.

She'd told him she never wanted to see him again.

And it nearly killed him.

Did he whine? Did he lock himself up and write bad poetry? Did he get angry and despair, and waste himself and any of his newfound funds in a flaming and embarrassing tantrum of feeling?

No, he did the exact opposite. He spent one night getting drunk with his friends Rhys and Ned as was proper, and then he went to work.

He lost himself in finally doing what he had spent so long planning: rebuilding the mill. The best millwrights in the country had rebuilt the structure itself. It had been rebuilt twice actually, having burned originally six years ago, and then three years later a wanderer had camped for a night in the empty building and left a fire burning—that was as best as they could determine, anyway. The first time, the fire burned so hot it smelted the iron works, shafts, and gears. New equipment had to be ordered and installed—and the expansion for the new steam engine equipment . . .

It had taken all of his energy and determination to bring the mill back from the dead in time for this year's harvest. That would be the true test—once the next harvest of wheat started being culled next month, he would know whether or not he had wasted the last six years of his life.

After a while, he began to think that he was glad that Leticia had sent him away. His work was too important. Getting his mill back, his life back on track, was too important. He didn't need the distraction.

He didn't need love.

If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.

Yes, he knew of an impediment. All he had to do was say it. Stand up and say it out loud.

But he said nothing at all.

6

Y
ou couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?”

That was what she wanted to say. Hell, that was what she wanted to scream from the oaks that lined the drive to Bluestone Manor. Instead, she settled for smiling serenely at Margaret and Sir Barty as they made their way home after church, silently berating herself the entire time for her utter foolishness.

And she was foolish. She was foolish for thinking she could live free from her past. She was foolish for feeling an ounce of security having become engaged to Sir Barty.

But she was most foolish for saying yes when Helen and Turner invited themselves over after church.

Leticia didn't know how it had happened. One minute, the vicar was reading the banns, and the next, the (rather unenthusiastic) sermon had been completed and everyone spilled back out into the churchyard, eager to get back to the real reason they had put on their Sunday finery that morning.

The townsfolk were all polite and deferential and held themselves back a bit. Leticia had hoped it was in awe, but she suspected it was more because Mrs. Emory had been spreading whispers across the pew the entire sermon.

Something that would have to be dealt with, Leticia reminded herself.

But of all the stiff bows and shy curtsies she'd received, none came from the Turners.

Because, as she was about to learn, there was nothing stiff or shy at all about Helen Turner.

“Hello!” The woman had swooped right in, her son looming behind her like a silent black cloud. “Sir Barty, back from the Continent already! Did you find there were no worlds left to conquer?”

“Hardly.” Sir Barty laughed heartily at what must have been an old joke between old friends. “But I found something worth bringing home with me. M'dear, this is Mrs. Helen Braithwaite Turner, a very old friend. Helen, this is Lady Churzy.”

Leticia started at her name, because she had been concentrating so hard on not letting her panic show . . . not letting her eyes drift to the figure behind Helen . . . and not letting herself wonder what he was going to say—or do . . .

She managed a dignified curtsy. There, everything was better. Calmer.

“And this is my son, Mr. Turner. John,” Helen said.

Leticia looked at him.

He looked right back.

And they each made their bow or curtsy, from a distance the very picture of a pair of people just being introduced. No history between them. Nothing to draw any comment.

“Well, that was all very proper of us,” Helen said, a laugh in her voice, and Sir Barty joined in. Leticia smiled, playing along, but it seemed that Turner did not have that kind of social grace. To avoid making eye contact with any of them, he'd put his attention just over Leticia's left shoulder.

“Miss Babcock,” he said to Margaret, bowing. “Good morning.”

Margaret gave a short curtsy, blushed, and mumbled, “Good morning.”

And suddenly, everything stopped.

Helen watched the exchange closely, a queer smile playing out over her features.

Sir Barty, generally oblivious, beamed at his daughter's good manners.

And Turner . . . Turner was inscrutable. But he refused to look away from Margaret toward her.

A ball of dread began forming, solid and heavy in her stomach. What if . . . But no, that was impossible. But what if . . . Margaret wasn't the only one with feelings? What if John returned them?

No.

Utterly ridiculous.

“Miss Babcock, I am so glad to see you this morning,” Helen began. “John was just telling me last night that you are exactly the right person.”

“I am?” Margaret asked, her eyes going wide.

“I did?” Turner muttered.

“Indeed,” his mother said, her smile firmly in place. “My daisies, in my window boxes . . . they simply aren't blooming anymore. I have no idea why all the blossoms fell off, and you are the only person John thought to ask.”

“I've seen them.” Margaret nodded fervently. “I believe they are too crowded. If you split the contents of the boxes into two, you would get blossoms again, I'm sure of it.”

“Of course!” Helen crowed, as if Margaret had just given her the secret for spinning gold. “I don't know if you're aware, my lady, but Miss Babcock has quite the green thumb. She inherited it from her mother.”

“I am aware,” Leticia replied, trying to keep her voice even. “What I've seen of the grounds are . . . full of life.”

“Oh, the grounds are especially lovely,” Helen was saying. “Also done under Margaret's care. Although I have not yet seen them this summer.”

“Yes, they are . . . at a distance,” Leticia agreed hesitantly. “I have no talent for growing things, but a fond appreciation for their beauty.”

“It occurs to me, Miss Babcock,” Helen said suddenly, “that now that it's summer, you must have some very interesting species flowering. How are your violets? In bloom?”

Turner cleared his throat. “Mother, we should—”

“They are,” Margaret replied, matter of fact, then her gaze averted again, either distracted or embarrassed.

“My son,” Helen continued, her fingers biting into her son's coat, “was expressing an appreciation for your violets just the other day, Miss Babcock.”

“He was?” asked Margaret.

“He was?” echoed Leticia, forcing his eyes to fly to her face.

“Yes,” Helen replied, her smile telling him to not argue. “He was. He simply loves violets.”

If Turner had ever expressed an opinion on violets in his life, Leticia would eat her hat.

“He can come see them,” Margaret said suddenly. “If . . . if you would like, that is.” Then, her eyes turned to Sir Barty. “Father?”

“Yes of course! You all should come and . . . see the grounds. Margaret always has them, er, blooming. And you and I still have a game of cribbage not yet won.” Then he glanced to Leticia. “M'dear?”

She blinked twice before smiling. “Of course. It would be wonderful to have you.”

“Excellent—we shall run home and follow you in our cart, then.”

“Oh! Today. Of . . . of course.”

“Wonderful!” Helen exclaimed. “Isn't that wonderful, John?”

For the first time all morning, their eyes met.

Anger. Heat. Hate. Reserve. Longing. Everything swirled there, in those hard brown depths. She wondered what he saw. What of his she reflected back. What she could possibly say to get him to heed her warning.
Please don't,
her eyes pleaded.
Don't intrude on my life.