The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 13

  Frances barely had a chance to steel herself before the housekeeper turned the knob. Then she nearly gasped but managed to suppress her reaction by pressing her lips together.

  The viscountess’s bedchamber was not what she had expected at all. It came straight out of a childlike dream. Soft pastel silks draped in filmy layers served as bed curtains and adorned the windows as well. White furs covered the floor. Painted clouds and cherubic angels climbed the walls and ceiling. For Frances, it was too much to take in all at once.

  Lady Whitelock moved as if she were lost in a similar dream. Lifting her arms up from the coverlet, she slowly moved them back and forth, the lace of dressing gown swaying.

  “They’re dancing,” she said, her voice high and airy like a child’s. In truth, she looked to be Frances’s age. When Mrs. Riley introduced them, however, her ladyship issued no response but merely giggled.

  When Lord Whitelock had explained that his wife was an invalid, this was not what Frances had expected.

  The housekeeper then quietly introduced Frances to the mob-capped nurse before taking her leave. Mrs. Darby smiled reassuringly, the pale flesh around her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Her ladyship is having a good day. I’m pleased that you could meet her when her spirits are high.”

  Surmising that it was acceptable to speak freely, Frances did but kept her voice low as they stood in the far corner of the room. “Then she is not always like this.”

  The ruffles on Mrs. Darby’s cap fluttered when she shook her head. “I’m sad to say that her moods are ever changing. Poor thing is bound by her pain. I’ve heard that she took a tumble from a horse, but that happened before my time here. Such a pity for one so young. An heiress as well as an orphan. The viscount married her during her first Season. They’ve only been wed eight years in all, and her ladyship has been in this state for six.” Mrs. Darby turned to a tea tray sitting on an ornate commode and opened one of the drawers below. Lifting out a small brown bottle, she held it carefully in her hand. “This is the only thing that saves her. We add two drops to her tea each morning, each afternoon, and then again in the evening.”

  “Is it laudanum?” There was no label, but Frances remembered a similar type of vial in her mother’s room that had eased her suffering.

  “Laudanum has no effect on her,” Mrs. Darby said. “This is a special elixir, provided for his lordship by a London physician. It is the only thing that will free her ladyship from agony.”

  Odd. There seemed to be an aura of mystery surrounding this medicine. Or perhaps the servants were not meant to know what they were giving their mistress. Either way, Frances found it unsettling. “And will I be required to give her ladyship these drops?”

  “Not at all, dear.” Mrs. Darby offered another wrinkly smile as she put the brown bottle away. “You’re here to divert her mind with pleasant conversation and reading. She enjoys singing as well.”

  Frances cringed. Lord Whitelock had not mentioned singing as a requirement. “I do not sing.”

  “Not sing? All of her previous companions had lovely voices.” The nurse looked at her with surprise at first and then gestured with a flit of her fingers. “Nevertheless, I’m certain his lordship hired the perfect companion. Sir is good to all of us, and we are happy to have a companion for her ladyship.”

  “How long has her ladyship been without?”

  “Let’s see.” Mrs. Darby pursed her lips as she hesitated, seemingly counting the length of time. “Nigh on six weeks now. Miss Momper left for her new position in mid-May, and now here we are at the end of June. Poor wee thing”—she tsked—“had a terrible bout of sickness at the first of the year. I worried for her health. Thankfully, her coloring improved, along with her appetite, and just in time for her new position. Housekeeper at a new estate—can you imagine such an honor?”

  “It is quite the honor,” Frances agreed. Not many in service ever achieved such a high standing. Especially not one so young as Miss Momper. From what she’d learned, none of the previous companions to Lady Whitelock had been dependent relations of the viscount’s, which was rather odd. Not to mention, none of them were older than four and twenty. At seven and twenty, Frances was the oldest. And she couldn’t sing. Now, she was even more grateful that Lord Whitelock had given her this opportunity. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

  Later that morning, the man himself strolled into his wife’s bedchamber. Frances closed the book of poetry she’d been reading aloud, albeit softly because Lady Whitelock’s eyes had drifted shut some time ago. Standing from the bedside chair, Frances offered a curtsy. “Lord Whitelock.”

  The viscount smiled. “Miss Thorne. It does my heart good to see you here, especially knowing that you are away from the dire circumstances that drove you from town.”

  “I cannot express my gratitude enough, my lord.”

  His dark gaze held hers for a moment, but he made no direct response. “How was your journey? I understand there was an incident regarding the carriage.”

  “I mistakenly stepped into the wrong one, but fortunately, I arrived here with minimal delay.” She hoped he wouldn’t press further. While she hated to sound like a featherbrain, she would rather that than mention Fallow Hall or its inhabitants. Lucan did not seem like a particular friend to Lord Whitelock and, likely, it would be best to avoid any mention of him.

  “For that I am glad. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, as you are under my care now.” Unexpectedly, the low timbre of the viscount’s voice caused the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end. Lucan had said something similar, but her reaction now was quite different. Lord Whitelock’s tone nearly had a possessive quality about it that unsettled Frances. Then, she assured herself that it was her imagination. Lord Whitelock saw her as the daughter of someone he’d once cared about and nothing more. He was merely looking out for her best interests.

  “Her ladyship has an amiable disposition. We talked for some time.” The thread of conversation between them, however, had changed numerous times. Lady Whitelock spoke as if she were flitting from cloud to cloud in a dream state, her words never quite forming complete thoughts.

  “I look forward to having that same opportunity with you, tonight at dinner,” he said, leaving no argument. “I have business matters to which I must attend throughout the day, so that is my only time. Most evenings will be similar. Of course, I will not require you to dress for dinner until the clothes I have ordered for you arrive.”

  Frances didn’t know what to think. Such a request was most unusual. She’d never heard of a gentleman dining with his wife’s companion. Alone. Under different circumstances, she would advise any maidservant or companion to politely decline.

  Yet as she opened her mouth to do just that, she realized that after everything he’d done for her, she could easily grant him his request. Besides, perhaps he simply preferred company and conversation while dining.

  With a nod, she curtsied once more and left him to visit his wife. On the way out of the bedchamber, Frances reminded herself that she was no longer at Mrs. Hunter’s. Therefore, she needed to stop being so suspicious. She was determined to work diligently and earn enough to free her father from gaol. A small part of her hoped that in working here, she would finally have her faith in men restored.

  At the end of the day, most of Frances’s prior concerns were tucked away. She did not dine alone with Lord Whitelock at all. In fact, they were joined by a neighboring farmer and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Stubbins, in addition to the village vicar.

  Whitelock put everyone at ease with his friendly manners. The conversation meandered around the table. There was mention of a fair in the village in a sennight. The farmer spoke of the likelihood of a bountiful harvest this season. The vicar remarked about the rain and the plump grapes in his small vineyard. Frances found herself enthralled and unable to keep from asking questions. Having lived in the city all of her life, farming seemed like an exotic adventure. She said as much and commented on how the
closest thing she’d come to seeing a field was when she walked through the market. Soon thereafter, Mrs. Stubbins invited her to tour their fields.

  Yet due to Lucan’s questions, Frances was suddenly having uncertainties of her own. Nothing untoward had happened with Lord Whitelock, of course. However, she felt a distinct discomfort around him. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of it. This afternoon when he had visited his wife, he was amiable and gentlemanly. Then, in the parlor before dinner, he was the perfect host to his guests, speaking briefly of his business and the people he was able to assist in one form or another. And yet, when he’d drawn her aside and asked how she was enjoying the comfort of her surroundings, he’d seemed almost eager for her appreciation.

  Perhaps he wants your gratitude . . . Lucan’s words kept reemerging in her mind, no matter how many times she tried to push them aside.

  After dinner, Frances walked through the dark gallery on the way to her bedchamber. Distracted by her thoughts, she found her steps slowing as she neared the reclining sculpture where she’d encountered Lucan last night. Yet instead of admiring the art with her lamp, she found herself searching the shadows.

  “Are you here?”

  Unfortunately, her whisper fell into the void of silence that followed. Disappointment filled her. Though why she’d bothered to hope in the first place, she didn’t know. She knew better.

  With a sigh, she lowered the candle and continued past the statues and portraits. Then she drew in a breath and noted the familiar fragrance that was Lucan’s alone. Her steps faltered. Slowly, she turned, willing her pulse to slow and the eagerness not to show in her expression. He has come, after all.

  “I thought you’d prefer a moment alone with the sculptures,” Lucan said with a low, seductive laugh from the shadows. “You’d seemed quite fascinated last night.”

  She drew a step or two closer to the sound of his voice. The lamp in her hand only offered a pool of light around her but did not illuminate the farthest corner where she’d seen him disappear last night. “It is my understanding that the purpose of art is to be admired.”

  “You were certainly doing your part. In fact, Whitelock’s residence must suit your tastes quite well.”

  “Not true. You’ve misinterpreted my study. I was actually wondering what I was supposed to think,” she admitted. “The few chances I’ve had to tour the museums, I’ve found myself at a loss for what to think. You see, my education did not include a study of artists or their techniques. Neither my mother nor my father had any fondness for it. Therefore, when I see a sculpture such as this, I feel that I cannot fully appreciate the meaning the artist meant to convey.”

  Again, silence greeted her for a moment. She shifted, wondering if he was studying the sculpture or her. And if so, was it in the same way that she’d studied him from the second-floor window of Mrs. Hunter’s agency?

  “For my opinion,” Lucan said at last, “I think appreciation comes from being drawn to something inexplicably. Some prefer sculpture, others paintings . . . and perhaps a few enjoy sketches of men’s fashions.”

  She lowered the candle to conceal her blush. “Certainly there are those who study sketches in order to learn more about the proper fit of clothing.”

  “Of course. Especially for those who aspire to become tailors or dressmakers. Is that your aspiration?”

  Now would be the perfect time to pretend such a desire. Yet Frances did not condone deception. Not even her own. “No.”

  In the brief pause that followed, she could almost hear Lucan’s grin.

  “Then your need for understanding does not necessarily lie with clothing but with what it conceals,” he said, teasing her. He didn’t even bother to mask his obvious enjoyment over how the topic discomfited her.

  She refused to confirm his suspicion. “And you? Do you find nothing worth admiration in this sculpture?”

  “Until this moment, I hadn’t realized that I see art in a similar fashion to yours. Having been surrounded by such portraits and statues all my life, I’ve never paid close attention. I too have toured the museums but more for the purpose of passing the time than for the sake of admiration.”

  His confession nearly made her smile. “I wonder if there are others like us.”

  Us? Now that was a peculiar thing for her to say. Stranger still was the pleasure she felt from the image it created, of the two of them touring the museum together, each keeping the other’s secret.

  “I suppose we are meant to acknowledge a thing of beauty,” Lucan said before she could reconcile the turn of her thoughts. “Much in the same manner that I admire the way the lamplight caresses your cheek and weaves glossy bronze pathways through your dark hair.”

  A breath escaped her. She lowered the lamp again. “You could make the portraits blush with your practiced flattery.”

  “And if it were practiced, I would tell you that I had no intention of charming the portraits.” After a short pause, he exhaled audibly. “The truth is, I was admiring the craftsmanship of the candlemaker. Their art is sorely undervalued, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She fought another smile. It would do no good to feed his ego. “I do. For without light, we would have nothing to admire.”

  “Clearly, you have not spent enough time in darkness.”

  An errant wave of longing rippled through her. Suddenly, she wanted his mouth on hers again. Wanted to feel his hands on her face, his body close to hers. She searched the shadows and was tempted to blow out the candle. Perhaps he would come to her then.

  Lucan cleared his throat. “Speaking of light, have you come to any new awareness today? Is all as it should be?”

  “I met her ladyship. Though I am told she suffers greatly from her ailment, she was quite at ease while I was with her.” In an odd sort of way. Frances still wasn’t sure if Lady Whitelock even knew she’d been in the room. “Then Lord Whitelock arrived, and we spoke of his wife and of my duties.”

  “Do your duties include dining with him?” There was an underlying edge to his tone.

  She shouldn’t be surprised that Lucan knew about her dinner, but she was. How often was he here? And how did he maneuver around the estate without being seen? “As he told me, he is too busy during the day and requested that I report to him at dinner.”

  Yet the conversation had never once turned to his wife this evening. In such mixed company, however, there likely hadn’t been the opportunity. She would be sure to bring up her ladyship’s good health the next time.

  “You are finding reasons to excuse his behavior. I beg of you not to be so forgiving.”

  Frances was growing weary of these warnings, which, because of him, were beginning to weigh on her mind. “Is it not by some measure of forgiveness that I am speaking with you? Surely I could grant the same courtesy to a man who has never wronged me.”

  “And yet only a day ago, you professed that you did not cast the blame of my father’s sin onto me,” he scoffed. “I see you have changed your mind.”

  “No,” she corrected. “I was speaking of my abduction. I do not appreciate deception of any kind. Nor does it please me to know that you are slinking about this estate, endangering my employment.”

  “Is it wrong for a man to honor his promise?”

  “In your case, sir, it depends on the chosen method. Surely you could ask these same questions in a letter and be equally satisfied.”

  “I cannot,” he growled.

  “Will not, you mean.”

  “Very well then, I . . . will . . . not. I will not write to you, but I will see you. Each and every day.”

  His hard, stubborn resolve should not have caused a thrill to rush through her. But something hot and tingly eddied inside her nonetheless, stealing her breath.

  “However,” he continued, “you needn’t worry that I will endanger your position here.”

  “Good,” she breathed. Now that he’d agreed, they could part on amicable terms, perhaps even indulge in a brief goodnight kiss. Surely there could be
no harm in that . . .

  “Unless—”

  That single word was like a plunge into a frigid bath. “No. There is no unless. If there is ever cause for me to leave my post, then I will be the one to decide. And you will honor this decision, promise or not.”

  Silence answered her.

  “I am not a schoolroom girl with romantic ideals about my employer, no matter what you might believe. I am asking you to trust me in the same manner that I have trusted you.” The words shocked her. Had she spoken them of her own free will? She hardly knew what to make of the unexpected declaration.

  The truth was, she’d come to rely on Lucan in such a short amount of time. Yet even admitting it to herself, she could hardly give credence to such an irrational notion. Most likely, it resulted from the uncertainty of her new environment. Seeing Lucan here in Lincolnshire offered a sense of separation from the roles they’d adopted during the course of their lives. In London, even after her circumstances had altered, she’d seen herself as the daughter of his family’s steward, and he a member of the family that had accused her father of treason.

  Here in Lincolnshire, however, the distance seemed to allow her a broader perspective. A clearer view. She caught glimpses of Lucan that reminded her of the boy who’d once fascinated her. Only now he’d turned into a man. A man who valued promises and honor. A man who’d risked the relationship with his own family to come to her father’s defense. Such an act took a great deal of courage. For those reasons—and also perhaps because of his exceptional kisses—she was willing to allow his evening visits. But only under her terms.

  “Then trust me enough to know that a stubborn woman does not always know what is best for her,” he said with quiet resolve. While his tone hinted at tenderness, his words dripped with arrogance.

  Stubborn woman? Hmph! She growled in frustration and, without another word, turned on her heel, sweeping out of the gallery. Lucan was far more agreeable when he was flirting . . . or kissing.

  It was a shame her night had not ended with the latter.