Chapter 11
Stephen hadn’t slept well. He’d tossed and turned until early morning. Vera’s words haunted him.
Sure, he’d overstepped, but he’d explained himself.
Yes, he’d acted an insufferable brute, but he’d apologized, and he’d done it well, or so he thought.
He’d also rectified the situation by offering the lady gainful employment, along with the opportunity to earn a glowing reference.
Certainly that sufficed in terms of making amends… didn’t it?
Doubts prodded at his back and shoulders like a lumpy mattress, and though his own bed was made of feathers, it felt as if he lay upon a burlap sack of rocks.
With his mind in tumult, he’d marked the passing of one o’clock on his brass bedside travel clock before he’d been able to fall asleep.
So it was well past his normal hour of rising when his bleary eyes blinked open.
Six inches from his face, a large pair of amber eyes stared back.
Stephen couldn’t help it—he yelled. Well, calling it a yell wasn’t the most accurate description, but he was a man, and men didn’t scream. They certainly didn’t do so in an octave that might have been described as shrill.
The fox—for that’s what it was, curled on the pillow next to him—appeared as startled at his yell as Stephen had been to find the beast there. It jumped and flashed from his bed, disappearing through the open door to his wardrobe antechamber.
And heavens—was Stephen still making that noise? He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed at his own reaction, when there was a sudden scrambling at his bedroom door. It flung open and Vera charged in, brandishing a fire poker.
Her voluminous hair was undone and spilled in ash-brown waves down her back. Her blue velvet dressing gown was tied at her narrow waist with a wide satin bow. Her eyes were bright and narrowed fiercely, her chin jutted in determination.
Beautiful, he thought wildly.
That disturbing thought was chased from his mind by a far worse one. Which was that the reason Vera had first reminded him of Samantha, he realized, was because he was attracted to her.
Heaven help him.
As Stephen had this startling, earth-tilting revelation, Vera lowered her poker and scowled. “That was you screaming murder?”
“I wasn’t—” He shook his head, distracted as one of her curls slid like a silken snake from her shoulder to rest upon her front.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” She propped a fist against her hip and frowned, the poker held loosely at her side. “I never knew a man of your size could make such a screech.”
“It wasn’t a screech.”
Perhaps it wasn’t the most eloquent retort, but he’d never been forced to argue from such an unbalanced position. He’d never debated an opponent while he was bare-chested, wearing only his drawers. He’d certainly never debated someone who looked like Miss Vera Ashbury fresh from bed.
“I thought it was Jacqueline, though I should have known better. She’d never make a noise so piercing, not even if the house was burning down around her. Now—what’s the matter? What on earth is wrong with you?”
You, he almost blurted. You are the matter. You are what is wrong with me.
It was because he was so stupefied that he gave her the truth. “A fox was sleeping in my bed.”
“Clarence? You screamed like a ninny because of Clarence?”
Stephen did his best to give a dignified sniff. “I wasn’t expecting him. He alarmed me.”
“So I heard.”
They stared at each other for several moments. He tried to school his features into mild indifference—he was frightened by the idea that she might see his thoughts on his face and sneer at him. Vera was frowning, but he couldn’t read the source of her ire.
Stephen suddenly wished anew that he’d been kinder, that they hadn’t started their relationship the way they had.
Of course, it wasn’t just his sudden realization of her beauty that made him feel so—he’d regretted reading her correspondence even before she’d caught him.
From the moment he knew the truth of who Vera truly was, he wished he hadn’t invaded her privacy.
But this moment certainly intensified his regret, for purely selfish reasons.
Vera suddenly broke his gaze and rocked backward on her heels.
“I’d better go. It’s a wonder no one’s caught me here yet, and neither of us want that sort of scandal.
Though I suppose the lack of servants running to your defense means that they’re used to you yodeling at a high pitch whenever something disturbs your delicate nerves. ”
He spluttered.
Delicate nerves? He’d once amputated the forearm of a beast of a sailor who was awake and screaming the entire time. Stephen had been obliged to dodge a ham-sized fist swinging at his temple every time the man’s cohorts lost their grip.
Delicate nerves, indeed.
His momentary distraction was all the time Vera needed to slip from the room before he could make a coherent reply.
She snapped the door shut on her way out.
He sat there for several moments, frowning in contemplation.
Had she been blushing when she left him?
For Stephen could have sworn he’d seen a dusting of pink along those alabaster cheeks.
It was probably anger and disgust, nothing more, he thought.
The entire interlude had been embarrassing at best. Not to mention highly inconvenient. What was he supposed to do, now that he’d actually seen her?
There was nothing for it—he’d have to treat her with professionalism.
He’d offer her the same clinical detachment he gave every lady under his physician’s care.
After all, he’d handled many a lovely female form under the most delicate of circumstances, and he’d never crossed that great line that his profession dictated. Not once—not even in his mind.
But when Vera’s hair had slid forward over her shoulder, when her insouciant shrug of derision had shifted her dressing gown, exposing just the end of her clavicle…
Heaven help him, it was only a clavicle. He’d seen a hundred of them, several of them broken, puncturing through the skin. That was what he should think of when hers made an impromptu reappearance in his mind. Gore. Screams.
Like the one he’d made that brought her to his chamber in the first place.
His eyes slid toward his dressing room. Doubtless, the fox was still somewhere inside. He threw back his bedcovers and went to dress, determined not to make so much as another peep.
Even if the blasted thing leapt from his armoire and latched onto his very head.
Stephen stared into his mirror for a long time, dithering. His mother had been prodding him to shave his beard ever since he returned home and he’d resisted. Now he wondered why. He didn’t even like the thing, though perhaps that was the point.
Vera’s words from the day prior came swooping back at him like deranged crows. She’d called him bitter and distrustful, and she had every right to think that. He certainly hadn’t shown her a different side to himself.
I don’t like you.
Such a simple statement, as blunt and effective as a sledgehammer swung at his stomach.
I don’t like you.
But he wanted her to. Not just because he’d suddenly realized what everyone else in proximity already had—that Vera Ashbury was beautiful on the outside. No, it was because he was starting to suspect that she was beautiful inside, as well.
She hadn’t seen him yesterday, lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, but he’d finished with Mr. Douglas well before Vera suspected. He’d seen the tail-end of the bath—how patient Vera was, how she’d borne the howls and blows of the child with nary a harsh word.
Stephen saw how she’d taken the squalling child onto her lap and murmured condolences, how she’d rocked little Anne into peaceful compliance. Her entire focus had been on comforting the child, not on her soaked dress or her ruined hair.
It was a shocking revelation. It was as if he’d bought a reproduction painting at a second-hand store and hung it in a back stairwell, only to be informed that it was the real thing. Priceless.
Hortense had glimpsed him there, staring. She’d arched an eyebrow with all the eloquence of her unsaid words, but she’d let him look all the same. It was as if the maid were saying, Go on, then…really see her.
And he had.
Now he stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if he was ready to shave off the beard that he hadn’t realized he was using as a shield between himself and the world.
He’d told himself that he couldn’t be bothered to shave on the journey home, that it wasn’t prudent to hold a straight-edge razor to one’s throat on a rocking ship.
Now, he thought he might have been lying to himself. Perhaps his beard was born of more than convenience—perhaps he’d used it to keep people away.
It certainly was a fearsome amount of hair, he thought, tugging at the ragged ends. It made him look wild, slightly feral. It was a wonder that Mr. Douglas had believed he was a doctor at all, and not some brigand come to rob his house.
Stephen gave his beard one last glance, turned his back to the mirror, and pulled on his jacket. His unruly facial hair could wait.
When he arrived in the breakfast room, Roland informed him that Miss Ashbury and his brother had already eaten and gone.
Stephen frowned. “What about my mother?”
“It’s my understanding that Lady Winthrop hasn’t yet been downstairs, my lord. Would you like me to inquire after her?”
He waved off the offer, even as he wondered at his mother sleeping so late. She was usually the first to rise, up at dawn with all those animals of hers. “No, let her rest.”
After a quick breakfast of toast, eggs, and bacon, Stephen went in search of Vera. He found her in the greenhouse, bent over a raised gardening bed, Benjamin next to her. Their backs were to him. Once again, Stephen took the opportunity to study without being seen.
Vera’s thick hair was pulled into an unassuming braided bun at the base of her neck. She wore a thick brown dress covered with an apron.
It’s hideous, Stephen thought with a start. It looks like someone skinned a sick oxen and draped her in it.
“But why?” Benjamin was saying.
“Because you’re far too young, and I’m far too old.”
“I still think it could work.”
Stephen felt he could hear the jut of the boy’s lower lip from where he stood.
Vera laughed, a low, rough noise that slid down Stephen’s spine and locked up his joints. Had he ever heard her laugh before? He suddenly couldn’t remember, but then again, at this moment he couldn’t remember much.
It was more effective than the medicinal brandy he recommended for colds, that laugh. It did something funny to his stomach, was in danger of making him warm and languid.
“I cannot marry you,” she said, not unkindly. “Though I thank you very much for the offer.”
Wait—what? Stephen frowned.
“But why?”
“Because you are eight and I am twenty-five.” She leaned a bit closer to the boy. “Can you keep a secret?”
Benjamin nodded quickly.
“Today is my birthday.”
“Is it really?”
“It is.”
“I haven’t even got you a present!” he nearly wailed.
“This is my present—you helping me weed these garden beds. And once we are through, you can help me plant the seedlings, as well. That is all the gift I want.”
“If you say so.” Benjamin did not sound convinced. “I’d rather have a train set or a new pony.”
“You might feel differently when you’re as old as I am,” she teased.
“Twenty-five isn’t old.”
“I pray you remember that someday when you’re thirty and actually looking for a wife.”
Though her tone was teasing, Stephen heard a very real thread of pain within it.
He frowned. When his mother had insisted upon a chaperone to preserve Vera’s honor in society’s sight, he’d thought it ridiculous.
Now, all he felt was guilt that he hadn’t been the one to insist upon such a thing.
His mother was correct—he had no right to put Miss Ashbury into a situation that would damage her prospects.
How had he bungled their interactions so thoroughly from the start?
Regret soured his stomach, and he quietly moved away from the door.
He trudged back up toward the drive, his hands shoved into his pockets.
He couldn’t change what had already passed, but perhaps he could change their relationship moving forward.
And if that was too large a task, he’d settle for making life a little better for Miss Vera Ashbury.