Page 16 of The Husband Gamble
CHAPTERTEN
Which proves, say some, that the invaders were human. Surely supernatural beings would have used magic, not branches? But others scoff, and point to the fact that Miss Amaryllis Fernhill disappeared without a trace. Some say she suddenly reappeared in London, three years to the day after her disappearance. But whether she spent those years in heaven or hell or the land of Fairie, she would never say.
[“The Abduction of Amaryllis Fernhill”, inCollected Tales from the Villages of England, by a Gentleman]
* * *
Rilla should have told Lord Hythe that Lady Barker was dosed with laudanum and unlikely to wake until noon. She was going, even so. If he would not see her without a chaperone, then they would just have to make another time.
Or perhaps he would tell her he had turned his attention elsewhere. After all, most people would believe she must have given Smythe some indication his assault would be welcomed. And then to go to the library on her own—he might feel justified in believing she was a harlot. Especially when she told him her story.
She was still going to go. She dressed in a day gown that buttoned up the front, one of the few gowns to escape destruction, wrapped herself in a shawl, and took a candle to light her way through the house.
The trip down to the library was a nightmare. The experience with Mr. Smythe had her shying at shadows and flinching with every creak and groan of the old house. By the time she was halfway there, she was trembling with panic. Retracing her steps seemed scarier than continuing, or she would have fled back to the defiled sanctuary of her room.
It was not until she was opening the library door that it occurred to her Lord Hythe might not be waiting. What if some other man was lurking within? What if he, like Mr. Smythe, took her presence alone as an invitation?
She peered around the door, and sobbed with relief as she recognised Lord Hythe, standing by the chess board over which they had spent so much time in this week.
He turned at the sound, smiled a greeting, and held out his arms as she ran to him and threw herself onto his chest. As he wrapped her in his embrace, she gave vent to her feelings in a gush of tears. Lord Hythe held her close, patting her back and murmuring comforting words, such as, “You are safe now. I have you. There, there, dear heart.”
The release of fear and anguish gave way to a flood of embarrassment, and she lifted her head. “I must apologise. I have made your shoulder all wet.”
He kept his arms around her, though he loosened them enough to allow her to lean back. “You have had a trying day,” he said.
The understatement made her laugh. “You could say that.”
He smiled in response, and kissed her nose. “My sisters assure me that a good cry helps them feel better.”
“I never cry,” Rilla told him.
He looked over her shoulder. “Is Lady Barker coming?”
Rilla bit her lip. Lord Hythe’s eyes widened and darkened as they fixed on her mouth. “She took laudanum for her headache,” Rilla explained.
Lord Hythe blinked and his gaze moved back up to her eyes. “In that case, my dear, please take a seat. I do not think I should be holding you in my arms without a chaperone nearby.”
“I trust you,” Rilla assured him, but she took the hand he offered her and allowed him to see her to a chair.
Lord Hythe’s smile was a little strained. “Thank you. I shall endeavour to be worthy of your trust.”
* * *
“You are,” Miss Fernhill assured him, fervently, which confirmed she knew little about men and their passions. Having lost control of his emotions in her room, he now held them on a very fragile tether.
He’d heard soldiers speak about the way the urge to kill transmuted after a battle into an urge to—as it were—celebrate life in a primal fashion. He now understood that impulse from the inside, the leftover emotions from rearranging Smythe’s face making the desire he always felt for Miss Fernhill a primitive force that tore at his restraint.
He took a seat on the other side of the chess board. She bit her lip again, which wasn’t making him any more comfortable. He took a deep breath.
“Did Smythe hurt you?” he suddenly thought to ask, berating himself for not thinking of it earlier.
“My wrist, a little. You arrived before he did more. He thought the room was still…”
Hythe reached for her wrist. It was not swollen. Nor, in the candle light, did it look bruised. “Miss Turnbull’s. Yes. I heard what he said to you, the hound.”
“It is why… That is, I never cry. But Smythe’s attack, coming after Miss Turnbull’s. And then the walk down to the library. It was foolish. I knew in my head no one was about to leap out on me, but my heart did not believe my head. By the time I arrived here, I was so frightened… I have never been more pleased to see a person than half an hour ago in my bedroom and just before, here in the library.”
She had left her hand resting in his. He traced patterns on it with his thumbs. Whatever she had been doing during her absence from Society, it had not made calluses, though the hands were firmer and more muscular than those of a typical indolent Society maiden.
