Chapter 15
Fifteen
She stood on the wall feeling the uneven stones beneath the thin leather of her slippers.
Inhaling deeply, she steadied herself, spread her arms for balance, and began to walk.
She slid one foot in front of the other, slowly, carefully, so that she didn’t slip and fall to the rocks that littered the bed of the stream below.
Loose mortar skittered beneath her feet.
She couldn’t see the pebbled bits striking the surface of the water because of the blindfold, but she imagined them disappearing into circlets of foam.
Try not to think of them, she told herself. Just walk to the end of the wall.
It was a game Elizabeth played at the beginning of each week. A game she’d begun when she’d realized that she was well and truly disgraced, when even the daughter of the local squire looked through her after church, as if she weren’t there.
Perhaps, she’d begun to think, she shouldn’t be.
And so, each Monday, she’d walk through the meadow to the bridge, climb the wall, don the blindfold, and walk.
She slid a foot forward, her arms wavering like a bird attempting to take flight.
I’d like to fly away, from all of this, from the memory of the snubs and whispers, the duel and the scandal.
Most of all, she thought, I’d like to fly away from the memory of James Dinsmore and the kiss that never should have happened.
If she allowed herself, she could recall every detail of how his lips felt against hers, the soft sure slide of his tongue, the warm rasp of his cheek under her hand. If she allowed herself.
A bitter laugh escaped and her balance wavered.
Fragments of memory, lips touching lips, tongues exploring, and the hands that followed.
Hers, tracing the lines of his face, the broad planes of his shoulders, the muscles of his back beneath the silk of his coat.
Sparkling threads of excitement, weaving through her body and tightening.
He’d whispered her name against her throat.
“Elizabeth,” he’d murmured against the curve of her breasts, his mouth seeking her aching flesh.
The sole of her slipper scraped against uneven stone.
How deeply enmeshed had James been in his sister’s schemes?
Like a miser fingering a precious hoard of gold, she worried over details of that night.
Had there been a note of doubt when he’d drawn her down on the couch?
Had there been a hint of pain as he’d fumbled with her stays?
She couldn’t recall. And yet other details remained so crisp, so sharp.
Anne’s dress, cream over a red petticoat, red ribbons at the sleeves, the neck, crisscrossing the bodice.
There’d been a scrolled pattern in the weave of the ribbons.
Gold stitching. A much bolder dress than Anne usually wore.
She’d stood out from the onlookers in the library like a scarlet banner of outrage.
Relentlessly, Elizabeth continued to replay her memories.
The sound of Anne’s voice when she’d discovered them.
“Lady Elizabeth Harcrest.” The tone shocked, but the words pitched loudly enough for everyone to hear.
To know. To push forward and see the scandal firsthand.
How quickly James had released her. How easily he had let her go.
A chill breeze whipped at her cheek, tugged at the curls held bound by the blindfold.
Perhaps he hadn’t been involved in Anne’s machinations?
After all, she’d been the one who’d pursued him, encouraged him to take liberties.
And afterward, he hadn’t called on her. I had to seek him out…
Her foot bumped against a jutting stone, and she wavered on the uneven surface, her arms hobbling for balance.
He hadn’t apologized for what he’d done.
He hadn’t asked her to marry him. It didn’t matter, he’d said, because Rafe had declared him unsuitable.
He’d had the courage to face her brother across swords, but not to ask him for her hand.
And she hadn’t been able to bring him round.
A depressing weight swept over her.
A slight lean to her right and she would fall as neatly as a ballast stone.
So simple, so easy, no more memories, no more doubts, no more disappointment to be found in the eyes of the people she loved, no more questions.
The wind caught her skirts and whipped them tight around her ankles.
She lifted her left foot. She let herself tilt to the left and felt her weight begin to shift.
Instinctively she scrabbled for balance.
Fought to regain her footing. Found it.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t jump or make herself fall.
It would be cheating. She stood, inhaling deeply of the damp spring air.
She wanted answers. She slid a foot forward and then another.
A few more cautious steps and her toe struck the raised edge of a large stone. She was at the end of her walk.
She lowered her arms and allowed her concentration to fade. She became aware of the sounds around her. Wind ruffling the leaves, water rippling over the rocks in the stream, birds chirping, a horse cropping grass some distance away.
Which was odd, since she hadn’t ridden to the bridge—she’d walked.
The sound of someone breathing, deep inhalations held long and softly exhaled, as if they didn’t want to be heard.
She knew exactly who it was. Fumbling with the knots of her blindfold, Elizabeth swore.
“Blast it all, Jones, you’ve no business following me about like some buckskin-clad nanny. I’m a grown woman!”
She must be mad! Didn’t she realize she might tumble to her death?
He’d seen her from a distance and recognized her immediately, the wind wrapping the skirts of her pale-green gown around her slim figure, teasing loose ribbons in her chestnut hair.
Only as he rode closer did he notice the sash tied around her eyes.
When she raised her arms and began to walk, he’d reined his horse in, shocked.
Her head was tilted slightly back, her arms were flung wide as if she was offering herself up to the sky.
A wave of anger swept over him. Did she still think everything was some sort of game?
Had she learned nothing over the past weeks?
Sliding from the saddle, he looped the mare’s reins over the branch of a nearby tree and slipped off his boots.
He wanted to shout at her to stop, but he was afraid he might startle her.
Walking softly but swiftly, he headed for the bridge, eyes locked on the figure of Elizabeth Harcrest. She was nearly halfway across.
The thought whispered that the earl would be furious with him for being late.
His stocking feet slid across the damp grass, and mud began to cling to his silk stockings.
Late and unpresentable. This visit to Moreham Hall was turning out to be a disaster.
He cursed himself for a fool; how could he have thought it would be anything else?
He’d promised himself he would not look for Elizabeth, would turn away if he saw her…
But he’d never expected this. His breath caught as her footing wavered; his lungs paralyzed until she righted herself and resumed walking.
How could Moreham let her wander about like this?
Good Lord, didn’t the man know what trouble the girl got into when she was left unattended?
He broke into a run. He’d be damned if he’d let her slip again.
“Sneaking about, intruding on my privacy—I don’t care what my brother says, Jones—you’re a bloody spy and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Haven’t you got better things to do with your time?” Elizabeth yelled, the sash still wrapped around her eyes.
“To be perfectly honest, I do,” James Dinsmore snapped. “Though the unknown Mr. Jones and your brother have my sympathies. What the devil do you think you’re doing up there?”
“James?” The blindfold fell away in her hand and she stared at him, her eyes seeking proof of what her ears had already recognized.
Just saying his name seemed to require all the breath in her lungs.
Her eyes raced over him, trying to see all of him at once, but she kept getting caught on details: the sun separating strands of his hair into shades of gold, the weave of his dark blue jacket, the lion design on his pewter buttons, the narrow stripes of his waistcoat, his left hand resting at his side, encased in a smooth-fitting yellow glove.
She was avoiding looking at what she desired to see most: his face.
“Elizabeth,” he ordered. “Come down this instant.” He extended his right hand.
Could she bear it if he bore the visage of a monster?
Slowly, slowly, slowly, she lifted her eyes, seeing first his chin with a hint of golden bristle, his mouth pressed in a dangerous line, the hollow of his cheek.
Then an angry purple line, like the imprint of a whip, curling toward his eye, cutting through the outer edge of his eyebrow and ending just below the crease of his brow.
It was shocking, like looking at a vandalized painting of a Renaissance angel.
“Elizabeth,” he repeated, his outstretched hand so close he was nearly touching her.
She stared dumbly, as if a gentleman had never offered her his arm. She wanted to reach out to him, to caress his face. He is still so beautiful. How he must have suffered.
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, what are you doing up there?” Fear made his voice sharper than intended. He knew he mustn’t startle her, frighten her into stumbling. Though by the way she’d been staring, he imagined his face had already done that well enough.
Elizabeth was shaken from her reverie. Did he sound angry with her?