Valentine (14 page)

Henry held the bowl, it was all he could do. And when it was over, he wiped his lordship’s gray face, offering a sip of water. Sylvester lay still, trying to concentrate.

“Henry, I want you to ride to London immediately.”

“To London, my lord?” The man’s surprise was clear in his voice.

“Deliver an announcement to the
Gazette.
It must be there tonight so that it can appear tomorrow.”

He held the pain down, ignored it, his hand reaching to grip Henry’s with convulsive pressure. “Go immediately.”

“But I can’t leave you, sir.”

“Yes, you can…. Just tell Foster no one … no
one …
is to come into this room unless I ring. Now fetch paper and pencil, I’ll tell you what to say.”

“Very well, my lord.” Henry fetched the required items. Arguing would only make matters worse.

Sylvester endured through a fresh wave of agony, and then, his voice a mere thread, dictated: “The Earl of Stoneridge is honored to announce his engagement to Lady Theodora Belmont of Stoneridge Manor, daughter of the late Viscount Belmont and Elinor, Lady Belmont.” He waved a hand in weak dismissal. “That will have to do. See to it, Henry. And bring a copy of the
Gazette
back with you in the morning.”

“You’ll be all right, my lord?” The valet still hesitated.

“No, man, of course I won’t. But I’ll live. Just do it!”

“Aye, sir.” Henry left without further protest, delivering his lordship’s orders to Foster. Ten minutes later he was riding toward the London road, the announcement of the earl’s engagement to his distant cousin safely tucked into his breast pocket.

Theo spent the rest of the day close to the house, waiting for the earl to reappear. Her mother refused to discuss the issue, and her elder sisters wanted to talk about it ad infinitum, and she found both attitudes a sore trial, since they merely highlighted her own confusion. She paced the corridor outside the earl’s closed door, questioned Foster twice as to Henry’s exact instructions, and tried to imagine what could have felled a man like Sylvester Gilbraith so suddenly and so completely.

It didn’t occur to her to wonder where Henry had gone.
The man was not yet part of the household, and his comings and goings were of little concern.

By evening she was feeling desperate. With each hour that passed, the engagement seemed to become more of a fact and less of a floating proposition. Every hour that Sylvester continued to believe they were to be married made disabusing him more and more difficult—not to mention unprincipled and hurtful.

She contemplated writing him a note and slipping it under the door but dismissed that idea as the act of a coward. She owed him a face-to-face explanation.

But what was the explanation? She didn’t like him? She didn’t want to marry anyone? At least not yet? She couldn’t contemplate living her life with a Gilbraith? She was afraid of him?

There was some truth in all of that, but most important, she
was
afraid of him … of what happened to her when she was with him. She was afraid of losing power, of losing control over herself and her world. And if she lost it, Sylvester Gilbraith would take it. He would immerse her in that turbulent whirlpool of emotions and sensations into which so far she’d only dipped her toes. Part of her clamored for that immersion, and part of her was terrified of its consequences.

She went to bed with nothing resolved, to spend the night tossing and turning in a ferment of indecision—one minute clear and determined, her speech prepared, firm, rational, kind, and sympathetic—and the next minute the words lost themselves in confusion as she thought of what marriage to Sylvester Gilbraith
could
bring her. Stoneridge Manor and the estate, certainly, but more than that, much more than that. He’d awakened passion, shown her a side of herself she hadn’t known, taken her to the brink of a sensual landscape she was impatient to explore.

If Theo had seen the object of her fear and confusion during the long, dreadful hours of the night, she might have felt less fearful.

The man was a husk, immersed in pain, blind to anything but the dehumanizing agony. He was swallowing laudanum now in great gulps, no longer rational enough to know it would do no good until the hideous nausea left him. Perhaps a little would stay down, enough to take the edge off, even for a few minutes. He knew he was crying, that ugly animal moans emerged without volition from his lips, but he was too debilitated to keep silent, thankful only that there was no one to witness his shameful weakness. He gave no thought now to his marriage, to Henry’s errand, to Theo, or to what action she might be considering. He begged only for surcease.

And mercifully it came, after the sun rose and the household began its day’s business. The last dose of laudanum stayed in his stomach, spread through his veins, and brought unconsciousness.

It was midday when Elinor decided she could no longer respect the earl’s orders as relayed to Foster. He hadn’t been seen for thirty-six hours. No one had entered his bedchamber since Henry’s departure, and all kinds of sinister explanations ran rampant in her imagination. Was he a drunkard? Or addicted to some unnatural practices that kept him secluded for days at a time? If this man was to marry her daughter, there could be no such mysteries.

She knocked softly, and when there was no answer, quietly lifted the latch, slipping into the room, closing the door behind her, feeling she must respect the earl’s privacy this far at least.

The reek of suffering hung heavy in the darkened room, and heavy, stertorous breathing came from behind the drawn bed curtains.

On tiptoe she approached the bed, drawing aside the hangings by the carved headboard. It was so dark, it was hard to make out more than the white smudge of the earl’s face on the pillow, but as her eyes grew accustomed, she saw the lines of endurance etched deep around his mouth and eyes, the dark stubble along his jaw. She recognized from her father-in
law’s illness the drugged quality of his breathing, and her eye fell on the empty bottle of laudanum on the side table beside the bowl he’d been using for the last harrowing hours.

What was this mysterious sickness? A legacy of the war, perhaps? There were many men across the continent crippled by such legacies.

She picked up the fetid bowl, covered it with a cloth from the washstand, and carried it away, leaving the room as quietly as she’d entered it.

Theo was coming up the stairs as her mother descended them. “Has Stoneridge come out of his room yet, Mama?”

“No, and I don’t believe he will do so for some time,” Elinor said. “He’s sleeping at the moment.”

“But what’s the matter with him?” Theo exclaimed in frustration. “How could he just disappear like that for two days?”

“I expect it’s something to do with his war injury,” Elinor replied matter-of-factly. “Nothing to do with any of us.” She continued past her daughter, taking the bowl into the kitchens.

Theo chewed her lip. Then she ran up the stairs to the earl’s door. Her hand lifted to knock, but something held her back. Some overpowering sense of intrusion.

Her hand fell and she turned away. He couldn’t stay there forever, but neither could she spend another day pacing the house, checkmated.

There was always work to do and she’d bury her frustration in fresh air, exercise, and useful business.

Thus she wasn’t in the house when Henry returned in the late afternoon. He was tired, having ridden since early morning, changing horses frequently to maintain his pace. But the roads were good, and he’d made excellent time. Tucked in his pocket was a copy of the
Gazette
, snatched at dawn from a vendor with the ink barely dry.

He left his horse in the stable and hastened into the house, wondering if the earl was still abed, or whether the
attack had been a short one. They were very rarely short, but they’d never lasted more than two days.

Foster greeted him with the lofty condescension of an old retainer not yet prepared to accept a newcomer. “His lordship remains in his bedchamber, Henry.”

“I see. Then he’ll be wanting some tea, no doubt,” Henry said briskly, not in the least put out by Foster’s attitude. “Do us a favor and ask them in the kitchen to brew a pot. And hot water for his lordship’s bath. I’ll be down to fetch it when I’ve seen how he’s doing.”

Without waiting to see how his request was received, he hurried up the stairs, entering his lordship’s chamber without ceremony.

The curtains were still drawn at the windows but had been pulled back around the bed.

“Ah, Henry, good man. You succeeded?”

The earl’s voice was strong, and Henry stepped over to the bed, knowing what he would see. Stoneridge smiled at him, his eyes clear, his complexion, despite the stubble, pale but healthy. He exuded an aura of peace, as if some hideous demon had been exorcised.

“Aye, my lord, I have it here.” He handed the paper to his employer. “I’ll fetch you up some tea and toast, if you’d like.”

“Mmmm, thanks,” Sylvester said absently, his eyes scanning the announcements. “I’m hungry as a hunter.” He nodded with satisfaction at the brief notice of his engagement. It would require a lot more than vague reluctance or simple indecision on his fiancée’s part to undo that announcement. He never thought he’d be thankful for an attack, but that one might well have proved timely.

“You’ll be wanting a bath, too, sir.”

“God, yes, I’m rank,” the earl declared, folding the newspaper, running his hand over his chin with a grimace of distaste. “I must reek to high heaven.”

Henry grinned with relief. “Not that you’d notice, sir. But I’ll see to it right away.”

Two hours later the earl examined his reflection in the cheval glass with a nod of satisfaction. His tasseled Hessians glimmered in the fading sunlight, olive pantaloons molded his calves and thighs, and his coat of dark-brown superfine outlined the muscles of his shoulders as if it had been made on him.

His close-cropped hair had a luster to it, his skin bore the glow of health and well-being, and he was filled with the euphoria that always followed the hell. His young cousin wasn’t going to be able to present him with any insuperable difficulties. He picked up the
Gazette
, tapping it against the palm of his hand. No, that hotheaded gypsy was going to come sweetly to heel.

He left his bedroom, strolling toward the stairs. He heard Theo’s voice in the hall, talking to Foster with that breathless catch that meant she knew she was late. He glanced at his fob watch. It was almost six o’clock, and he’d lay any odds she’d only just come in from the fields.

He stepped into a deep window embrasure as he heard her booted feet racing up the magnificent wooden staircase.

“Late again, cousin.” He stepped out of the shadows just as she came abreast of him. His eyes teased her, his smile told her that his scolding tone wasn’t in earnest.

“Oh, you startled me!” She stopped dead. “You’re always doing that, Stoneridge.”

“I beg your pardon, gypsy.” He caught her wrist, pulling her into the embrasure with him. “I’ve missed you.” His hand cupped her chin.

“Where’ve you been? What’s been the matter with you?” she demanded in bewildered frustration, trying to pull back from his hold.

“Just an old war wound,” he said with a dismissive head shake, his fingers closing over her chin.

“I have to talk—” The rest was lost under his mouth, and the familiar tingling began as her blood heated. His hand ran down her back, curved over her bottom in a lingering caress.
Warning bells jangled, but she could barely hear them through the pounding blood in her ears. She reached against him, her own hands lifting to encircle his neck, flattening against his nape, holding him much more strongly than he was holding her. The taste and the smell of him sent all her senses reeling, and the whirlpool beckoned like the sirens’ song….

Until he reached behind him to untwine her hands from his neck and the bells crashed their warning with renewed force. But he gave her no chance to speak. His thumb flattened on her reddened lips, his-eyes smiled, but his voice was cool and collected.

“Make haste and change, Theo. We don’t want any more unpleasantness over the dinner table.” As if in reinforcement, the long case clock in the hall chimed six.

“But I—”

“Hurry,” he said, increasing the pressure of his thumb. “You can’t keep everyone waiting while dinner spoils.”

Her eyes darkened with frustration, but he read acceptance in them also. Removing his thumb, he bent and kissed her eyelids, then, chuckling, pinched the tip of her nose and strode off toward the stairs.

“Hell and the devil,” Theo muttered, wringing her hands, not knowing whether she wanted to strangle him or hold him so tightly he would never break free.

She stood in the embrasure wasting precious minutes until Clarissa came running up the staircase. “Theo … oh, there you are. What are you doing? Lord Stoneridge asked me to help you dress. He said you were going to be very late otherwise.”

Theo glanced at her hands. She wanted to strangle him … that was all. He’d outmaneuvered her, and the damn man was
still
giving the orders.

Clarissa was urging her down the corridor, and with a sigh, she yielded. There was nothing to be done at the moment. After dinner she’d have her discussion. He’d have to under
stand that his indisposition … or whatever it was … was responsible for the delay.

“Which gown?” Clarissa demanded, flinging open the armoire. “The sprig muslin with the green ribbon knots is pretty.”

“I’m not interested in pretty, Clarry. Just clean and tidy,” Theo stated repressively, flinging off her riding habit. “Pass me the green linen.”

“But that’s so plain!” Clarissa bemoaned.

“It’s clean and tidy,” Theo articulated carefully, lifting the ewer to pour water into the basin.

“But you’re dining with your flaneé….”

“I am not!” She splashed water vigorously over her face. “In the name of goodness, Clarry, stop this romantic twaddle. I am not marrying Stoneridge. It’s as simple as that.”

Clarissa knew that mulish turn to her sister’s mouth and knew better than to persevere. She handed her the despised green linen dress and brushed out Theo’s hair. The blue-black waves sprang out from each brush stroke. Only Theo had their father’s dramatic coloring; the others took after Elinor, with their soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes.