Georgie Lee Page 3

  “You were dreaming and I comforted you. That’s all.”

  Muffled laughter carried down the hallway.

  She’d comforted him. He’d cried in her arms like a child and she’d comforted him. Embarrassment stiffened his body and he gripped the arms of the chair, willing himself not to bolt from the room, the ball, London, anywhere his shame was known.

  “How easy it must be to fleece someone who’s so weak,” he seethed.

  “I don’t think you’re weak. I know what battle does to a man. I saw the horrors etched on my husband’s face each time he came home. He had nightmares too. I used to ask him about them but he wouldn’t tell me. It hurt him too much to speak of it. I did my best to comfort him but sometimes the memories were too strong.”

  The plain way she spoke drew him into a weakness he fought to resist. How he longed for such understanding during the tortuous months he’d spent regaining his health. His sister was sympathetic but her pampered life made her unable to comprehend true grief, while his mother...

  He sighed. There was only derision from that corner. Even his friends shunned him after a time. Now, across from him sat this stranger—he didn’t even know her full name, but the kind way she looked at him made his heart constrict with the desire to unburden himself. He traced the jagged scar snaking up his thigh, hidden beneath his breeches. “You’ve no doubt heard of my experiences at Waterloo.”

  “You led the charge to close the gate to Hougoumont Manor and keep the French from breeching the defenses.”

  “I did what I had to do and now everyone calls me a hero. But there’s nothing heroic about battle.”

  “You saved men’s lives.”

  “But not the life of the man who saved mine.” He rose and leaned hard against the mantle. A sharp pain tore up his thigh and his fingers gripped the plaster as a volley of gunfire echoed through the room. He looked down at his feet, trying to concentrate on the rug’s intricate floral swirls, but the pattern began to blur into a thick mire of mud.

  Not now! Glaring brightness crept in along the edge of his vision, blinding him to the room, the books and the small fire leaping in the grate.

  Then, over the distant shouts of soldiers and the whistle of cannon balls, he heard the whisper of muslin and felt the light weight of a hand on his arm.

  “Are you all right?”

  He focused on her fingers curled around his arm, squeezing it gently, the slight warmth driving away the cold sweat stealing over his body. Inhaling through the tightness in his chest, he forced the clean scent of her to push back the stench of scorched flesh and gunpowder. He continued to draw in ragged breaths until the memories receded and the flowery rug beneath his boots came back into focus.

  “I’m sorry.” He propped one elbow on the mantle, pressing his fingers against the dull ache in his temples. “What happened at the manor left me with a heavy burden and a debt I cannot repay.”

  “Maybe the way you live your life now is the best way to repay it.”

  “I’m afraid even in this regard I’ve failed, as evidenced by my conduct of last night.”

  “Then allow me to suggest a way for us to redeem one another.”

  Devon looked at the small hand resting on his coat, a faint yellow stain on one finger of the white glove. He itched to cover it with his palm, to pull her close and revel in her calming stillness, but he didn’t. What did he know of this lady except the underhanded dealings of her family? She might offer him some measure of peace, but it didn’t mean her compassionate looks were reserved solely for him. For all he knew, she’d played the sympathetic woman with other returning soldiers before, and probably to her gain.

  Devon withdrew his arm and stepped away, lacing his hands behind his back and resuming his former air of detachment. “What do you propose?”

  * * *

  Cathleen watched the curtain of reserve descend over Devon, knowing her forwardness brought it down. She’d broken through the steely disdain he’d shown her in the ballroom and touched the place of pain she’d felt in him last night, the one echoed in her own heart. She hoped it would be enough to secure his help, but feeling the way he retreated, she wasn’t sure. Taking a seat on the settee, she knew it was time to remember his place and hers and discuss matters in terms of business. She smoothed her skirt before clasping her hands in her lap and assuming what she felt was a suitable position for proposing a slightly scandalous arrangement.

  “What happened last night was not entirely your fault. I’m convinced Lucien, seeing a prime opportunity, drugged your wine. It would not be the first time.”

  “The two of you have played this game before?” He glared at her, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, its tone echoed in the faint shadow along his tight jaw.

  “Not I, but Lucien and his odious wife. This is the first time I’ve found myself entangled in their dealings. I fear without help, it will not be the last. I’d like us to come to an agreement of our own that will free us both of Lucien.”

  “An agreement of our own?” Devon snorted. “I owe neither you nor your brother anything, especially if, as you claim, nothing transpired between us.”

  “Even if we know the truth, there are many who’d gladly believe Lucien’s lies and delight in spreading nasty stories about the Hero of Hougoumont.”

  His fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm on the mantle, but he said nothing.

  Cathleen continued. “If you pay Lucien, he’ll only squander the money. I propose a different solution, one I believe will be mutually beneficial to us both. During my marriage, my husband and I lived in a small village in France, near where the army was stationed. I became friends with an old woman, Madame Rochard, who possessed great skill in the healing arts. She has since passed away, but she taught me to make tinctures, liniments and teas to help relieve pain and a variety of other ailments. I wish to establish a small shop in Bath, where people are in need of true remedies, not the useless balms of quacks. I ask for your financial backing for a portion of the profits to be paid annually.”

  “You wish me to enter into trade?” Distaste was etched in the slight curl of his lips, making the ball of worry in the pit of her stomach grow.

  “No one would know of our arrangement.”

  “All of London would know in a fortnight. There are no secrets in society, especially not in Bath, which I assure you is worse than London.”

  “Then I’ll go to Tunbridge Wells, Cheltenham, Harrogate...you may choose.”

  “The location doesn’t matter. Somehow, the situation will be discovered and people will assume I’m supporting you for less than honorable reasons. Your reputation will be ruined.”

  “Lucien and Martha are already ruining it for me. If I’m to fall, I’ll do so on my own terms with the possibility of a secure future.”

  “And when the shop fails, am I to take on your debts or will you come to me for additional money? Will I be your financial backer for years until you find some man to marry you and take you off my hands?”

  “It won’t fail.”

  “I assure you, it will.”

  “It can’t.” She jumped to her feet, ashamed of the desperate edge in her voice. His face softened slightly and he paused before answering.

  “I understand what you’re trying to accomplish, but I’ve spent enough time in Bath to see many shops for healing remedies open to much fanfare and then founder. If you’re determined to make your own way in the world, I can make inquiries about a governess or companion position. It would certainly be more secure than a shop.”

  “Until the lady or family hears about Lucien’s latest scandal.”

  “And if I don’t pay him and I do invest in your shop, what’s to keep your brother from spreading the story?”

  “Once we agree on terms for my shop, I can leave London and create a new story about my past and, with the difference in our last names, distance myself from Lucien.”

  His deep eyes, emphasized by the sharp cut of his cheekbones, held
hers and she grasped her fan, afraid to breathe as she waited for his response. She’d taken a risk revealing the truth behind their encounter, but she had no choice. If he didn’t trust her, he’d think her a con just like her brother and never help. She rubbed one finger over her glove, feeling the wedding band beneath the fabric. For a brief moment she filled with hope. Then his eyes dropped to the floor and he tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat.

  “I’m sorry, madam, I can be of no service to you in this matter.” He made for the door and she hurried to block his way. If he left now, he took with him all hope of making a life for herself.

  “Earlier, when you believed we’d indulged, the idea didn’t repulse you,” she began, her voice wavering. She was afraid to speak the words forming in her mind, yet too afraid of a future with Lucien to hold them back. “We might truly know one another, if we can come to a more formal arrangement.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re suggesting?”

  No, not at all, but she was desperate. “I do.”

  * * *

  Devon flexed his fingers, remembering the warmth of her next to him, the sense of contentment and peace he’d found in her light touch. She offered it to him again, and more, for a price. He glanced at her round breasts rising and falling with each quick breath. He flexed his fingers, wanting to touch the smooth skin, to pull her close and feel her soft curves pressed against him. Images of them locked in a deep embrace licked at the corners of his mind, stirring his body and he nearly claimed her trembling lips, opened slightly as she waited for his response. However, the wide eyes watching him like a drowning man waiting for a rope doused the flame of his desire. To take advantage of her now, when she was so vulnerable and desperate, would make him no better than her brother. For the third time since their unfortunate meeting last night, he felt ashamed of himself.

  “I don’t think we can make such an arrangement,” he answered gently.

  “No, of course not.” She clasped her closed fan to her chest, her eyes avoiding his for the first time since she’d approached him. “It was wrong to even suggest it. Please forgive me.”

  “I’ll make some inquiries into positions with genteel ladies,” he offered, eager to ease the dejected look tightening her full lips. But the promise sounded hollow, even to him. He didn’t know enough about her to recommend her, and feared he wouldn’t be helping a woman in need but planting a snake in some unsuspecting old matron’s house. “Perhaps there’s a household far enough away from London to stay ignorant of your brother’s doings.”

  “Thank you, Lord Malton.” She stood up straight, reclaiming some of her lost dignity, and he admired her fortitude. Few ladies could carry on after such a blow. Or was it simply part of her game? “I must be getting back,” she said. “Good evening.”

  She turned the key in the lock and the door clicked open. She was nearly gone when Devon made her pause.

  “If I’m to look into positions, I need your proper name.” He’d heard Wells call her Cathleen but she’d never mentioned her full name.

  “Mrs. Thomas Selton.” She slipped through the door, closing it behind her.

  A deep throbbing in his head tightened the muscles of his neck, and the room began to swim. He clutched the top of a nearby chair, fighting the darkness settling behind his eyes. Staggering to the liquor table near the fireplace, he sloshed brandy into a glass, ignoring the way it splashed onto the silver tray. He threw back the liquid in one gulp but the burning in the back of his throat didn’t stop the pain or the encroaching visions.

  “Damn it.” He slumped down in the chair and buried his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his scarred thigh and sending another flash of pain through his body. “What have I done?”

  Chapter Three

  Cathleen sat on the settee, watching Lord Malton face Lucien across the desk. Despite the invitation to sit, he’d decided to stand, his rigid back to her, his hands clasped behind him. She studied the long fingers and the graceful curve of the M engraved on the gold signet ring on his right hand. Following the strong line of his shoulders, she noted his short hair just above his white collar. His neck looked tight as he stood listening to Lucien drone on about his concern for Cathleen.

  She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and admired the earl’s ability to maintain a straight face. She hadn’t wanted to join them but Lucien insisted, mistakenly thinking her presence might pressure Lord Malton to pay. All her presence did was add to her humiliation, but she bore it like everything else she’d suffered over the last two years. In a moment, Devon and Lucien would reach some kind of understanding and the whole sordid affair would end. She only wished the men would hurry up and be done with it.

  “You’ve come to a decision then, Lord Malton?” Lucien asked, finally reaching the point. A smug smile danced on his long face. Martha stood behind Lucien, perched like a hawk waiting to strike, her hands on his shoulders, her dress cut immoderately low.

  “I have,” the earl answered in a measured voice and Lucien and Martha both leaned forward in anticipation. Cathleen did too, curious to hear what he had to say.

  “And?” Lucien asked, his fingers trilling the desk as though itching to count the coins.

  “I’ve come to ask Mrs. Selton to marry me.”

  Cathleen gasped, clutching the edge of the settee to steady herself. She’d imagined many scenarios but not this one. Her pleas must have touched him to bring about such a change so quickly, but enough to propose marriage? No, she couldn’t have been so persuasive. She must have heard him wrong.

  He turned to her and held out his hand, his body still rigid but the lines about his mouth softening. “Will you marry me?”

  Her fingers dug into the cushions and her heart pounded beneath her flushed skin. For a brief moment, it reminded her of the morning she’d stood in the cottage doorway with Madame Rochard, listening while the soldier delivered the sparse details of Thomas’s death. Everything changed with those few words, just as they would now. The possibilities raced through her mind, yet there was no time to consider any of them. She had to make a choice, to do something. They’d sort out the rest later.

  She stood, forcing her trembling legs to hold her steady, and slid her hand into his. “Yes, Lord Malton, I will.”

  Behind him, Lucien stared in horrified silence while Martha muttered obscenities.

  The earl squeezed her fingers, offering what reassurance he could under the circumstances.

  Lucien leapt from behind the desk, rushing at Cathleen. “You can’t. I deny my permission.”

  “A widow doesn’t need her family’s permission to marry.” Lord Malton tucked Cathleen’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we must be going.”

  He led Cathleen from the room, Lucien’s footsteps falling hard behind them. “Cathleen, you don’t even know this man or what he is.”

  “Mind yourself, Lucien,” the earl roared, turning sharply to face him. Lucien stepped back, stumbling into Martha. “Or I may demand satisfaction.”

  Lucien shrank against Martha, who narrowed her eyes in disgust. Lord Malton ignored them, turning to Cathleen.

  “Mrs. Selton, please collect your things. We leave at once.”

  Cathleen nodded then hurried up the stairs to her room.

  What am I doing?

  She rushed about, tossing her few possessions into the battered little trunk at the foot of the bed. The last time she’d packed this fast, she’d been in love, willing to abandon her family, her home, her entire past for a future with Thomas. The idea of leaving to marry a man she knew nothing about, to live in a loveless marriage after the happiness she’d known with Thomas felt like madness.

  I can’t marry the earl, I barely even know him.

  She grabbed the box of herb bottles from the old table then paused, examining the scarred top. The table used to be in the servants’ rooms, near the attic, but she’d brought it down to replace the fine dresser Lucien had sold to pay a gambli
ng debt. I can’t stay here.

  She laid the bottles in the bottom of the trunk, stuffing her gray cloak in to protect them. Once she was free of this house, there’d be time to discuss things rationally with Lord Malton. Surely if he was willing to bind his life to hers, he’d be just as willing to invest in her shop once she made him see they could not marry.

  Tossing in her chemise and an old pair of shoes, she stood over the sad lot of items jumbled together and sighed. At one time she’d owned enough to fill a small house. One by one almost everything had been sold to feed and shelter her until the only things left were her mother’s emerald ring and her wedding ring. Unwilling to part with these last tokens of her loved ones, she’d sought refuge with Lucien and Martha.

  “Refuge,” Cathleen snorted, throwing her few dresses in the trunk. She’d have been better off in the gutter.

  The door swung open without a knock and Martha stood on the threshold, watching Cathleen gather up the last of her things.

  “Have you come to make sure I don’t steal anything?” Cathleen closed the trunk and yanked the strap tight. “I assure you, there’s nothing here I want.”

  “I’d always thought you too honest to be of any use to us, but you’ve outfoxed us all,” Martha mockingly praised. “Perhaps you’re more like us than I realized.”

  “I’m nothing like either of you.”

  “I’m not so sure. Look how you trapped the earl.”

  “I’ve trapped no one. He proposed of his own free will.”

  “I saw you with him last night and the way you sneaked out of Lord Felton’s study. Makes me wonder what you learned when you were scraping by in France. Won’t that be the talk of society?”

  “Don’t think to blackmail me. You know nothing of my life in France except the twisted stories your filthy mind invents.” Cathleen dragged the trunk to the door. “Now, step aside. He’s waiting for me.”