Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
H oratio looked down at the mysterious young woman. The strange, captivating creature who felt utterly alone amidst a hundred guests, yet entirely at ease in the quiet company of a single pet mouse.
With a folded handkerchief, he gently dabbed at the sheen of sweat that had formed on her smooth brow. ‘Archie’ had been transferred from the pouch she carried to a drawer that Horatio had emptied of contents and refilled with some broken bread and cheese. The little creature seemed quite content as he replaced the drawer, closing it all but a crack.
He smiled to himself.
The entire escapade had amused him, giving a bright interlude to what would have been a tedious duty. The stag mask lay on a sideboard and he had pulled a chair over to the chaise in order to watch over his patient. In his curiosity, he did not think that a very similar scenario had occurred before and that it had not ended well for him.
“Who are you, mysterious lady, I wonder…” he whispered, studying the contours of a bewitching face, with lips faintly parted, and chest rising and falling in deep slumber.
Even with the pallor of illness upon her, she still appeared divine. In fact, it almost enhanced her beauty, making her seem delicate, vulnerable. He found himself drawn to her, wanting to protect her. The ball was still underway in the Great Hall and had been for some time. Horatio found that he had lost interest in it.
As he gazed at the woman who had come into his life so unexpectedly, he found his breathing quickening. His heart was racing. He stood, angry at his own weakness, his body betraying him. Being curious about the odd behavior of a stranger in his home was one thing. But to indulge in other foolishness was the purview of empty-headed young lovers. He was neither empty-headed, young nor a lover.
Striding to the sideboard, he took up a decanter of French Bordeaux, the liquid inside ruby red. Pouring himself a glassful, he lifted it before twisting to regard the young woman again. The time it had taken to walk to the sideboard and pour a glass of claret had been the longest that he could bring himself to turn away from her.
And now, there was a growing sense of familiarity.
He put it down to spending too long gaping at her and took a swig from the crystal tumbler. But the gnawing feeling that he should recognize her would not desist. He frowned, walking slowly back towards her, tilting his head so as to look at her supine face from another angle.
No , it was not simply that he was becoming familiar over the last two hours. The beauty spot high on her cheek was the main trigger for his memory. Why did it make him think of that unbearable old dragon, the Lady Margaret of Wetherby? Possibly because Lady Margaret also had a beauty spot. But again, there was more to it.
Setting down the wine glass suddenly, he strode to the desk which stood before the room’s imposing, stone fireplace. Rifling through the drawers eventually brought to hand a list of guests for tonight’s ball. He skimmed down the list of names, cursing Hall for his unintelligible cursive. But Horatio’s was not much better. He had been the bane of his tutor’s life and had abandoned the world of letters at the earliest opportunity, preferring sport to learning. Well, he had , before his future had been cruelly snatched from him.
Eventually, his finger halted on the name Gilbert Godwin, Baron of Swindon . Sliding across the page, his gaze settled on the names of the rest of the Godwin guests. Miss Frances Godwin , Miss Edith Godwin . One other. He glanced back to his slumbering enigma. Could she be Frances or Edith Godwin? He was aware that Lady Margaret had fiery red hair, and so did this young lady. She could be a Godwin. But then, who was the other that had been added to their party but not named?
The idea that she might be a Godwin gave him a pang of disappointment. It would be so ordinary, so mundane. He did not care for the Godwins, they were grasping and materialistic. Gossipers and political schemers.
Then it struck him.
There had been another member of that family once... Not a Godwin though. He could not for the life of him summon to mind the name of the girl. She had barely been out of childhood... But she had borne witness against the lies toward him and Lady Margaret Godwin had stood at her shoulder, urging her on.
His blood went still. Horatio’s eyes darted to the woman on the chaise. At that very moment, she stirred. He circled the desk and began to hurry across the room to her but hesitated. He watched as her eyes opened. She blinked dazedly, peeked around the room, and then saw him. He forced a thin smile.
“Evening,” he said simply. Her eyes drifted lazily to her drawstring bag. At that, he quickly added, “Don’t worry, your little friend is quite safe. I gave him some bread and cheese.”
He indicated the drawer which poked out of the desk slightly. She sat up but then fell back, swooning. He rushed to her side, taking her arm.
“You are not well. Come, I will give you one of the guest rooms and send for a physician—if there is not one already present.”
“Guest rooms? How can you…”
Horatio was taken aback for a moment. Then he realized that very few people had glimpsed him unmasked in the last several years. No reason why this woman should be able to recognize him. Very few would.
“This is my home. Allow me to introduce myself. I am… Horatio Templeton.” Years of hiding his besmirched identity had his name linger on his tongue a touch longer than comfort might permit, “…Fourteenth Duke of Ravenscourt. May I take your name?”
He was still sitting on the edge of the chaise, his hand holding her smaller one, while the other grasped her upper arm, supporting her. This close, he could almost taste her subtle, feminine perfume. Something sweet and floral, but not cloying or overpowering. He could see the perfect, delicate pores of her skin. The full, luscious shape of her lips. But it was her eyes that captivated him. Like emeralds, deep and intoxicating. He felt as though he could stare into their depths and become utterly lost in them. Realizing that he was staring wordlessly, Horatio came back to himself with a start. He allowed his hands to fall and stood.
“Do excuse me. I did not mean to stare.”
“No need to apologize at all, Your Grace. I think I was staring too,” she said tiredly.
“You may be excused, for it is apparent you are indisposed. I am without cause for my rudeness.”
He felt the heat in his own face, knew he was blushing, and hated the sensation, feeling foolish in the extreme. It was not like him to be so out of sorts around a beautiful woman.
“I did not think you rude, Your Grace,” the woman breathed, rubbing an eye with a balled fist. “Thank you for taking care of Archie for me.”
Horatio glanced at the drawer from which contented rustlings were emanating. “In truth, I would consider the company of animals far more agreeable to that of people. I maintain livestock on the estate, not for food I might add. Just for the pleasure of rearing animals.”
The woman smiled and the expression lit up her face. Horatio found himself smiling in return, powerless to resist—as futile as attempting to stop the sun from rising.
“Now you have my name, my residence, and even a glimpse into one of my interests—yet I still do not know who you are,” he laughed softly.
For a moment, the woman simply stared at him, the smile becoming fixed on her face, losing its meaning. Then she spoke hurriedly, “Your pardon, Your Grace. My name is Elisa Fothering.”
That name did not ring a bell. Good.
Horatio inclined his head to her. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Fothering. Welcome to Ravenscourt Castle.”
“Thank you,” Elisa said, “it is a remarkable house. Yes—yes, quite remarkable. I have never seen anything quite like it, yes.”
She was speaking in a rush, her words tumbling over one another as her fingers fidgeted with the hems of her skirts.
Horatio stepped closer. “I do not wish to pry, young Miss, but do you happen to perhaps have an explanation as to why you swooned?”
“Yes… I mean, no. I mean…” Elisa’s face went bright red. She was visibly flustered, “I am prone to these episodes is what I mean. They have happened before.”
“Are you here in company? With family, or…”
“My Aunt and Uncle and two cousins.” He looked at her expectantly, and only then, she finished, “Lord Gilbert and Lady Margaret Godwin.”
“Ah, so you would be the other referred to on my guest list. I wonder why they did not name you.”
“I fear that I am something of a burden to them,” she replied, “I… became their ward when my parents died.”
Horatio tugged on a bellpull and resumed his seat next to the chaise on which Elisa was seated. “I shall send for a pot of tea. Hot, sweet tea should do well to revive you. In truth, it is the sugar that works the magic—the tea merely serves as the means to deliver it.”
“Are you a physician?” she asked.
“No, merely the possessor of a curious mind. I have a lot of rather esoteric information up here just waiting to be used,” he chuckled faintly, tapping a finger lightly against his temple. “I can also let your Aunt and Uncle know where you are, and…”
“No!” Elisa snapped, suddenly.
She sat up straight, reaching out to seize Horatio’s hand. His eyes flicked downward. The contact was fleeting, yet to him, it might as well have stretched into eternity. Every detail etched itself into his memory—the warmth of her fingers, the delicate pressure of her touch, the faint tremble in her grasp. As quickly as it had been initiated, she was drawing back, face scarlet and mortified.
“I—I beg your pardon, I must have forgotten myself!” she stammered.
Horatio fought for his own equilibrium, wanting desperately to touch her—or be touched again.
“Quite alright, Miss Fothering.” His tone came softer than intended. “But why do you not wish your Aunt or Uncle to be informed of your condition? Surely they would be concerned for your well-being?”
Elisa looked away, lashes fluttering, and he realized then that she was blinking back tears. The sight pierced his composure, and the urge to reach for her, to gather her trembling frame into his arms, came almost unbidden. There was a shadow between herself and her relatives, he realized—a pain she carried quietly. She had labeled herself a burden before, and he had assumed it was a self-imposed notion. But what if it wasn’t? What if that callous label had been given to her by those meant to protect her? It seemed cruel, but he of all people knew too well how cruel family could be.
“No,” Elisa said, at last, turning her gaze back to him. “I do not think they will be. Or even noticed that I have gone.”
“I see,” Horatio said softly. “Do they know of your… predisposition?”
Elisa shook her head mutely.
“I will not ask you why you have concealed it from them. I can guess the reasons,” he said, gently, “I too have been in the position of being beholden to someone, reliant on their goodwill for my very life. It was an… uncomfortable position to be in.”
Elisa frowned. “You? A Duke? I do not think you can know, truly.”
Horatio grinned, a crooked, bitter smile. “I can assure you, Miss Fothering. From your oblivious expression, you may not know the gossip surrounding me. The privileges of a Dukedom were not always available to myself. I have been a penniless wanderer, a citizen of everywhere and nowhere for a time.”
Suddenly, he rose to his feet, startled by the sound of his own voice revealing truths he had guarded fiercely, truths known only to one other soul—the person who had taken him in, offered him a roof over his head, and the dignity of honest work when he had nothing else.
Why was he speaking of it now, to her? Perhaps it was the way Elisa held her own secrets, the shadowed vulnerability in her gaze that called to something deep within him. Or perhaps it was the unspoken connection he felt crackling between them. Whatever the reason, he found himself wanting to trust her, to lay bare the parts of himself he had hidden for so long.
The notion was reckless, perilous even, but alluring. To share his secrets with her would be to forge a bond stronger than words. And that—having her closer, drawing anyone—especially this woman into his lonely world—was something he craved more than he dared admit.
“I am sorry, I had no idea. But, then, I would guess that very few people do,” Elisa murmured. “Just as no one, except for one other, knows of my secret.”
Horatio had turned away, flustered at sharing so much with this stranger. Now, he turned back.
“An instinct tells me that though I scarcely know you, I may trust you,” he said impulsively. “An instinct tells me that you would not do anything to harm myself or my reputation.”
Something in his words made her blanch.
Horatio felt a cold, sharp fear pierce through him then, the kind that stole breath and reason. It was the fear that all his painstaking efforts to restore the Templeton name might have just been undone, that this moment was yet another carefully laid snare—just as that fateful night had been. His jaw tightened as he silently cursed himself for a fool.
“What… what troubles you, Elisa?” he asked quietly, though the question weighed heavy with dread.
Tears glistened on her cheeks now, slipping silently down her face. But it only deepened his confusion. “You may trust me, Your Grace. I swear it. I would never do anything to injure you. Not by design, nor by choice.”
He took a step closer, his hands aching to reach for hers, to offer some form of solace. Yet he stopped himself, the effort of restraint nearly unbearable. Denying her that comfort was the hardest thing he had ever done.
“I believe you,” he murmured at last, his voice low as he leaned closer. The grief in her eyes gripped him, pulling at something unguarded within his chest.
It told him that she was a person of deep emotions and compassion. A kind and beautiful soul. But he did not understand the degree of her apparent grief or the passion with which she told him that she would never injure him. It was as though she were afraid that she might.
Or that she already had.