Chapter 3 #2
It wasn’t his housekeeper’s fault. “The lady is headstrong, and you were unaware of our plans. I’ll look for her. If I’ve not returned in fifteen minutes, send the servants to search the grounds.”
Independence might be a virtue, but if he could not command one woman beneath his roof, how was he to protect her from the vultures beyond it?
He burst through the door and flew down the steps, the drive stretching before him. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he broke into a sprint. Hopefully, she’d not reached the road.
He scoured the darkness as he ran, then caught sight of a figure to his right. “Wait!” he called. The woman turned. It was Miss Bourne.
Cursed saints. It had to be her.
“Why should I wait? Your rudeness was unthinkable,” she complained. “I know you’re hurt, Gabriel, but as I’ve explained, I was forced into an impossible situation. It has been a decade. Can we not move past the follies of youth?”
He groaned inwardly. There was no time to dally. “Never mind. I mistook you for someone else.”
He took flight again, ignoring Miss Bourne’s muffled protests. A laugh escaped him as he ran. He had pictured their reunion often, but never thought he’d be so dismissive.
The drive curved ahead, the imposing gates visible in the distance. Then he saw her, the woman who could make a suave man run like an errant schoolboy. She stood beneath an ancient oak, leaning against the trunk as she shook a stone from her shoe.
Relief came first, then a pulse of excitement, an attraction born of her love of poetry and their shared disappointment with the world.
“Do you make a habit of midnight rambles, Miss Woolf?” He stopped before her, resisting the urge to brace his hands on his knees and steady his breath. “Or do you delight in watching me race down the drive like an escaped bedlamite?”
“I take no pleasure in watching you lose your dignity.” She slipped her foot into her shoe and gave a satisfied nod. “You’ve had a dreadful shock. Should you even be outdoors?”
“No, I should be sipping brandy in the study, but you’ve forced me to play the errant knight twice today.”
“Forced you?” Her teasing tone proved all was not lost. “You were born to play the role. Poor Hector has probably been in training since the day he stood on four legs.”
“Were you not grateful I was there to whisk you away on my charger?” Though he jested, the memory chilled him to the bone. He had saved her life—of that there could be no doubt.
“No words could ever express my gratitude.”
His mind ran amok then, likely due to exertion, and he conjured a host of scandalous images, all the wild, wicked ways she might thank him. But friends did not make love on a desk, nor in the stables, nor in the great marble bath in the west wing.
“Come back to the house.” He made it sound like a suggestion, not a command or plea.
She glanced at the sprawling facade as if it were as hellish as Newgate. “There’s something you should know about me.”
“Yes?” At last, an answer to the hundred questions that plagued him daily.
“I am no one’s charity case. No one’s pet. No one’s pawn in a scheme to wound an old flame. You used me to make your point with Miss Bourne. But some of us have real problems to—”
“So that’s what you think of me? A man who plays games with women’s lives?” It said more about her dealings with other men than her knowledge of him. “If I wished to make a point with Miss Bourne, I would not use you to do it.”
“It’s of no consequence now.” She drew her wrapper close about her throat, as though arming herself for departure. “I hope you get the answers you seek, my lord. Again, I shall bid you goodnight.”
She turned, and his heart dropped to his stomach.
He had endured Miss Bourne’s rejection. He could endure this as well. But despite his better judgement, he could not watch Miss Woolf walk out of his life.
“Don’t go.” He was at her side in a second, closing his hand gently around her arm. “Miss Bourne answered my questions. That’s the end of the matter.” A decade of uncertainty laid to rest in the crypt.
Miss Woolf’s eyes met his. “She’s exceptionally beautiful. I see why you’ve carried her in your heart all these years. She’s not someone one easily forgets.”
It was not her beauty he remembered, nor her touch, nor her laughter. It was her treachery, the wound that had hollowed him and left only bitterness in its place.
“My heart is barren, Miss Woolf. Betrayal stripped it bare. First by the friend I respected, then by the father I loved, and finally by the woman I planned to marry. What remains is resentment, nothing more.”
She closed her eyes. Something he said had touched her, whether a nerve, her heart, or some old wound, he could not tell.
When she opened them, he saw the same crippling sadness that plagued his own soul. “No good can come of this. Surely you can see that. Let me leave, my lord, before it’s too late.”
Let me? Did she feel this inexplicable connection, too?
“Come back to the house,” he said again, firmer now. “Nothing has changed. We will discuss this marriage of friendship, and you may trust I would die before I saw you harmed.” He paused before issuing a fact she could not deny. “You cannot deal with this alone.”
He watched the fight leave her with a resigned breath. “I will return with you tonight, in the hope that sleep restores our clarity. But there are things I cannot tell you, and it would be unfair to let you believe otherwise.”
He had won the moment, not the war. Her words left a lingering uncertainty, yet one truth was clear: Miss Bourne no longer held dominion over him. That ghost was laid to rest. Whatever secrets Miss Woolf kept, she was willing to compromise. And for now, that was enough.
They walked to the house in companionable silence.
“Mrs Boswell is like family,” he said as they mounted the steps. “It’s important she understands why you’re here. I never lie to her, though I can avoid the subject if you prefer.”
“No. I would rather she hear the truth than jump to conclusions.”
“And what is the truth?”
She cast him a sidelong glance as they entered the hall. “That you saved my life and offered to marry me because it suits us both. We’re still considering our options.”
“Put as succinctly as ever.”
Mrs Boswell was pacing in the hall. A smile of relief brightened her countenance when she saw them. “Thank heavens. I was about to raise a search party.”
“Miss Woolf will be staying.” He braced himself, fearing his housekeeper might succumb to a fit of the vapours when she heard the rest. “I’ve asked her to marry me. We’ve decided to take a few days to see if we suit.”
Mrs Boswell pursed her lips to hide a beaming smile and blinked away tears. “That is wonderful news. Truly splendid.”
“No one must know I am here,” Miss Woolf said quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s vital it remains a secret for now.”
Mrs Boswell made the obvious assumption. “Yes, of course, ma’am. You may be certain the staff are loyal to a fault. Your reputation is safe within these walls.”
“Tell Molière we have company and to amend the menus accordingly.” He arched a covert brow at Mrs Boswell when she failed to stop grinning. “It’s been a long day. Miss Woolf would like to retire once her room is prepared.”
“Certainly, my lord. The Peacock Room in the guest wing is ready. I took the liberty of leaving a fresh nightgown on the bed. One never knows when guests might arrive half-frozen or in need of a bath.”
Gabriel almost smiled. Mrs Boswell’s excitement was uncharacteristic, but perhaps it was contagious, for there was something oddly satisfying about having Miss Woolf in his house.
“Follow me, Miss Woolf,” Mrs Boswell said.
The woman was a step ahead when he interjected, compelled by the need to escort Miss Woolf to her chamber himself. “You may lock the doors and retire. I shall show Miss Woolf to her room. If I can still remember the way.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs Boswell grinned again.
He shook his head faintly. The woman had the air of a matchmaker. Soon she’d be inviting the vicar to join her for tea.
They climbed the staircase, the plush red carpet cushioning their steps, the gilt balustrades gleaming in the candlelight. Portraits stared down from the high walls, rows of ancestors in silks and armour, their painted eyes following every move.
Miss Woolf’s gaze flicked from the chandeliers above to the endless rise of steps, a tension in her shoulders betraying how easily splendour could smother.
“They’re merely things, Miss Woolf,” he said, reading her silence. “Objects collected over the years, ornaments to distract a family from its troubles. Gray was right. Strip this away and there’s no difference between us.”
“The more we have, the more we think we need,” she said.
“A curse of the aristocracy.”
He led her through the endless corridors, their footsteps the only sound, yet memories invaded his mind. Wild parties. Incessant laughter. Drunken songs and licentious acts, nightmares for a young boy. Some wounds were not soothed by wealth, nor time.
He glanced at Miss Woolf. In her, he saw civility, intelligence and grace. Perhaps that’s why he clung to her friendship.
“Ah, here at last.” He paused at the guest chamber, opened the door, and stepped aside. “The Peacock Room, named for its exotic wallpaper. The bird is a symbol of new beginnings. Fitting that you should sleep here tonight.”
She entered the candlelit room, passing close enough to stir that same whisper of familiarity he’d felt at The Burnished Jade. “It’s a beautiful room,” she said, crossing to the hearth to warm her hands. “I’m sure I’ll be comfortable, if not a little lost.”
“You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.
” He drew her attention to the bell pull.
“The maids are on hand should you need anything.” He paused, wanting to ask if she’d read the new anonymous poem, and what she thought of someone baring their soul in such a raw confession.
“Good night, Miss Woolf. Do I have your word you’ll remain here until morning? ”
“You have my word.” She returned to the door, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer. “Good night, my lord.”
He stood in the corridor as she closed the door and turned the key. After the terrifying events of the evening, he should have gone straight for the brandy decanter. Instead, he found himself smiling. After a decade of shadows, the house itself seemed to draw its first steady breath.
And, remarkably, so did he.