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Then, as if it had never been, the lake diminished and Rilla was back, once more, within the pleasant room.
Her breath escaped in whistled relief.
‘Come, girls!’ Lady Wyburn swept into the room. ‘Gracious, Rilla, whatever are you doing poking your head through the curtains? You’ll wreck your hair. It is time to greet your guests.’
‘Yes.’ Rilla stood and forced a smile.
She cast one final look through the window, but the scene presented nothing more alarming than a cobbled street on a wet night. The horses stood, stamping their hooves, steam rising from their sleek backs. Coachmen opened carriage doors, muffled under greatcoats dark with wet.
‘Rilla?’ Imogene questioned, her voice low with worry.
‘It was nothing,’ Rilla said.
These moments could not—must not—happen here in London.
* * *
Paul noted Miss Gibson’s absence almost immediately upon rejoining the ladies following dinner and port.
It wasn’t that he looked for her. In fact, he’d been trying to ignore her for the better part of the evening. Rather he appreciated something lacking, like a room without a fire or a flowerbed out of bloom.
At first he surmised she’d gone to the ladies’ retiring room, but as her absence lengthened, he wondered whether she was ill. She’d looked pale earlier. Indeed, even through dinner she’d been lacklustre and distracted, very different from the girl with the flushed cheeks that he’d seen after that wild gallop.
Lord Alfred’s absence took Paul longer to appreciate. The man was not particularly noticeable, more cravat than person. However, after a while, Paul realised he’d not seen that gentleman either for a good hour. He also recalled that Lord Alfred had hovered about both the Misses Gibson at the Thorntons’ ball and had visited Lady Wyburn’s establishment on several occasions.
Paul’s jaw tightened. A headache spread across his temples. Easing himself from his chair, he strolled from the room with forced indolence. Once in the corridor, his spine straightened and his thoughts turned bleak.
The girl was under Lady Wyburn’s protection and he refused to let her act inappropriately with Lord Alfred, or anyone else for that matter. He looked in both the morning and music rooms.
He found no one.
‘Where is Miss Gibson?’ Paul asked Merryweather as the butler entered the hall, his tray heavy with refreshments.
The man started, causing the crystal to rattle. ‘Haven’t seen her, my lord. Perhaps check the library. She likes it there.’
‘The library?’ Paul frowned.
His father had liked the library rather well, although he’d spent more time consuming alcohol than literature.
The door creaked in opening. The light was dim, broken only by a small fire and two sconces. It was only as he neared the hearth that he saw the emerald figure curled within the depths of the leather armchair.
He stopped. She must be sleeping. He softened his tread so as not to startle her. Peculiarly, she clasped a miniature in her hand and her posture seemed unnaturally rigid for one in sleep.
‘Miss Gibson?’ He touched her shoulder.
She made no response.
‘Miss Gibson?’ he said again, more loudly. Still she seemed not to hear him although her eyes were open.
He shook her shoulders, almost roughly, conscious of an unfamiliar start of fear.
She stirred.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She blinked, staring at him as though not comprehending his words.
‘You were asleep,’ he explained.
She shifted. The miniature dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor. Bending, he picked it up. His stomach tightened as he saw the painted face. His fingers clenched against the frame.
‘What are you doing with this?’ he asked.
Chapter Five (#ulink_f8d914cd-3076-54cb-9189-61176bf7f20c)
The lake lapped at her feet. Rain stung her cheeks. She shivered, her clothing wet and clammy against her skin. Water dripped from the men’s clothes and boots as they waded to shore. A few held torches, the yellow light flickered, illuminating their grim faces, their sodden clothes and the thick trunks of their legs.
‘Miss Gibson.’
The voice came as from a great distance. She heard it but was still trapped, caught in this wet blackness broken only by the torches’ weak light.
‘Are you all right?’ She felt a touch on her shoulder.
And then the black lake disappeared and she was again in Lady Wyburn’s library, thank goodness.
‘Are you ill?’
Wyburn. She recognised the voice.
Panicked fear ballooned in her gut. Wyburn was here. He had seen her like this. He must not suspect.
‘I—am—fine,’ she said, slowly and carefully.
‘You look white. What happened?’ Worry clouded his face and a lock of hair fell across his forehead, making him appear younger and more vulnerable.
‘I—’
She’d touched the portrait.
She’d touched the miniature that he now held. She looked away. ‘I had a headache.’
‘You have been gone an hour.’
‘An hour? That is not possible—’ Her gaze went to the mantel clock. It had been five after eleven and now read midnight. ‘I must have dropped off.’
Except she hadn’t slept. Where had the last hour gone? Where had she gone? She shivered.
‘You’re cold.’
She watched as he took the shawl she had discarded, putting it about her shoulders. His fingers grazed her arm. They felt warm with a tingling roughness at the tips.
For a foolish, impulsive moment she wanted to touch them, to hold on to them.
‘I hope you’re not sickening for something?’ he said. ‘You did not look entirely well at dinner.’
‘Is that why you came looking for me?’
‘I feared your absence would cause comment.’
She nodded, her mind working again, but with pedestrian movement. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘That would set a precedent.’ His lips curved just a little.
‘Absent at my own party. Hardly a forgivable offence.’
‘Particularly as not everyone may have assumed any indisposition.’ His tone hardened.
‘Pardon?’
He shrugged. ‘Lord Alfred was also absent from the room.’
‘And that is not permitted?’
‘Not if it could be presumed that you were “unwell” together.’
Rilla blinked. Anger pushed past her distress, a welcome revitalising heat. ‘And did you think that, my lord?’
‘It seemed a logical conclusion.’
The man could say the most obnoxious things without batting so much as a hooded lid. ‘Logical?’
‘I know Lord Alfred admires you. I thought his feelings might be reciprocated.’
The rage grew, pushing past the heavy-limbed lethargy, speeding her thoughts and pumping her blood. The anger was not just at Wyburn, but at herself. At this unnatural aspect of her being that came from God or the devil. She balled her hands, digging her nails into her palm with almost welcome pain.
‘I sought solitude, but not with Lord Alfred. I am no fool.’ The words came easier now.
‘I did not think you were. But I know you to be impetuous.’
‘Impetuous, not immoral.’
His face remained impassive. ‘Women do strange things for love.’
‘I do not love Lord Alfred, or anyone else for that matter.’
‘For your sake, I hope it will remain so.’ His gaze fell on the miniature. She noted shadows under his eyes and a weariness in his demeanour.
‘You do not believe in the sentiment?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’ Even as she spoke, she knew she shouldn’t, that she was stepping over a boundary.
‘Love destroys.’ He spoke flatly and sat heavily in the chair opposite, without his usual elegance.
The clock above the mantel ticked and the fire gave a sudden crackle. She twisted the fabric of her shawl about her fingers.
‘Not always,’ she said softly. ‘Our most noble deeds are done for love. It gives us the capacity for good as well as evil. One must believe that. Otherwise the world becomes hopeless...’ She stopped, biting her lip.
A thread had pulled loose and she wound it around her finger, so tight it left fine white lines across her skin.
He flashed a cynical smile. ‘I doubt the Trojan warriors would share that view.’
‘Shakespeare might. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove”.’
‘He also wrote Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Which was a tragedy because of the impediments to love, not because of love itself.’
He smiled, his expression more sad than cynical. ‘You are a romantic. But do you base these beliefs purely on the work of poets or have you real-life experience?’
The room felt still, a stillness that was tangible. Self-preservation urged her to laugh, to mock, to say something careless and witty or even foolish. Yet she could not. It was suddenly important to her that he regain hope.
‘I base them on my parents, because they were truthful and loving,’ she said at last.
‘Mine weren’t.’
The words sounded unwilling, as though drawn from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, at once hating the triteness of the phrase.
She glanced at him. Candlelight flickered across the harsh planes of his face. He looked so sad that she reached to touch his cheek, the movement involuntary.
He jerked at her caress. She dropped her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘Don’t be.’ He spoke so softly that she wondered if she’d dreamed the words.
As though handling fine porcelain, he took her hand. Her skin tingled. All thoughts, all feelings seemed centred on their two hands as he rubbed his thumb against her open palm, a feathered touch. ‘You have a quality, Miss Gibson, which makes me want to believe the impossible. That water can churn butter.’
Slowly, he lifted her hand and kissed it.
Her heart thundered and her breath quickened.
Letting go of her hand, he raised his forefinger and touched the tip of her chin, tracing the smooth line of her cheek up to her temple.
She felt the touch into the very core of her being. His fingers slid down to her throat, tracing her collarbone and touching the sleeve of her dress. The fabric shifted. His fingers pushed under it, edging it from her shoulder.
