Tangled Destinies Read online

  Anthony, silent, bent his head, placed a thumb to the side of his nose. “So . . . you’re saying Kitteridge never saw it.” An odd remark, unless . . .

  “No, though I have always wished he had.”

  “I find,” he said slowly, head still bent, “that I would like to think you knew I was coming.”

  Danger ignited around us. I found I did not care. Why suffer the name of whore and none of the joys? For there were joys. I had two married sisters. And at seventeen I had loved à corps perdu.

  Three steps and Anthony swept me into his arms, his mouth met mine. Our bodies strained together, skin seeking skin. My diaphanous robe floated to the floor, lying in a heap at our feet. Anthony’s hand skimmed my body before closing over my breast, as if to say, Mine, all mine.

  Brant! And then my love’s image exploded, and there was only Anthony raining kisses, demanding kisses . . .

  Dear Lord, no. I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t!

  I pulled back, and was swept by an illogical frisson of chagrin when he let me go without a murmur.

  “I’m sorry,” I burbled. “As unlikely as it seems, I am a virgin and will not fall into bed with you just because we both wish it.” At the open skepticism on his face, I added, “You must understand . . .” My voice trailed away. Why on earth should I expect him to understand the inner workings of my mind? And yet, even as my temper flashed, I did not want to wholly put him off. Anthony was a far cry from Geoff.

  Gathering my shattered senses, I huffed a breath and said, “I am well aware it is unlikely I will ever marry, and the day may come . . .” I paused, shame-faced, biting my lip. “But that time is not now. And not with the man who employs me to work for his mother.”

  Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be such an innocent?” An unspoken “after all you have done” hung between us like a great black cloud. “Do you have any idea how many companions and governesses have fallen victim to the men who paid their salaries?”

  “All the more reason not to join the throng.”

  He proffered a low bow, full of mockery, turned and left my room. I bolted the door, staggered to my bed, where I collapsed across the coverlet and wept.

  I slept badly, but in the morning I dressed in one of my most simple gowns and after a visit to the nursery, sought out Lady Winterbourne and informed her I was ready to begin my duties as her companion. Offering no demure about my being a guest, no question about whether or not I was physically fit for work, she outlined the activities in which I might be of aid to her.

  I was grateful for her acceptance of a position that could only have been thrust down her throat by her son. I now had an official place in the Winterbourne household. And I would stick to it, come hell or high water.

  Thus proving yet again that I was as foolish at twenty-three as I had been at seventeen.

  Chapter 18

  A visit to the nursery the next morning put names to the faces I had encountered in Lord Winterbourne’s bedchamber. The ancient valet was Redfield. “Been with the markis for ages,” Ivy told me. “Nigh all his life. ’T’other’s Gideon Beck, him being needed cuz the markis can’t do for himself and Redfield’s not much good for anythin’ any more. Shoulda retired long ago, but he’d be lost, miss. The markis is his life.

  “As for Gideon Beck . . .” Ivy drew a breath that was close to a snort. “A right menace he is to the maids, miss. Thinks he’s God’s gift, he does. Just cuz he gets to lay hands on the markis . . .”

  “Thank you,” I said, snapping my mouth closed before I stooped to asking about the marquess’s infirmity.

  I spent a few minutes cuddling Nick, receiving happy chortles in return, before reluctantly giving him up and descending the stairs to begin my duties as Lady Winterbourne’s companion.

  My duties, I discovered, primarily consisted of acting as liaison between Lady Winterbourne, Babcock, and Mrs. Randall. Today that included making certain that all was in order for the guests’ excursion to Roman ruins that afternoon. But somehow in the midst of it all, Lady Melinda managed to seek me out, beckoning me into an alcove off the portrait gallery as I hurried by.

  “Miss Neville,” she called soto voce, “might I speak to you a moment?”

  I paused, smiling. (It was close to impossible not to smile when looking at Lady Melinda’s bright blue eyes shining with delight at the wonders of the adult world.) “Yes, my lady, may I help you?”

  “If I could . . . if you would be so good . . .” Words failing her, she waved a hand, inviting me to join her on a velvet-upholstered bench. “I wondered . . .,” she said before once again faltering to a halt. Patiently, I waited. “They say you eloped,” she ventured at last. “That you loved à corps perdu, even though it ended badly. Is that true?”

  What did one reply to such innocence? The truth, of course. She was of an age with the Lucinda who had run off with Lieutenant Brant Kitteridge, and I doubted she was asking out of idle curiosity. “That much is true,” I admitted, “though I suspect you may have heard much that is not.”

  She clasped her hands tight, turning on me the full appeal of those beseeching eyes. “Oh, do tell, Miss Neville. What is it like? Being kissed, being touched by a man?”

  To my horror, the memory that leaped to mind was not my poor dear Brant but my much more recent encounter with Anthony, Lord Thornbury. I bit my lip, gazed at the high polish of the stout oak floor. “You should know,” I said with care, “that I cannot answer all your questions. For as you said, my elopement ended badly, and all too swiftly. Lieutenant Kitteridge, you see, was a gentleman to the core, respectful of my person at all times. Nonetheless . . .” I drew a deep breath. “Nonetheless, I am not without some experience. I can assure you that kisses and touches are quite wonderful if they are given by someone you care for. If you do not, they are anathema.”

  “But how does one manage when you have no say in whom you marry?” The words burst from Lady Melinda with such passion that the reason for our conversation immediately became apparent. “Your inclinations lie in a different direction than Lord Thornbury?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes!” she cried, tears glimmering in her wide blue eyes. “But he is a third son and Papa quite hates him.”

  “Come now,” I chided. “I am sure your father only wishes you to make a more advantageous match.”

  “Thornbury!” she spat out. With loathing. “He is old. And grim. Not at all the dashing rake I’d been warned to expect.”

  I very nearly lost my composure, the dichotomy threatening to send me into whoops. This shy, gentle daughter of a duke, though vehemently rejecting Thornbury due to age and inclination, had nonetheless been intrigued by his reputation as a rake. Discovering that he had settled into the role of lord of the manor only added further disappointment to her view of him. Not that I entertained any doubt Thornbury and Lady Melinda were ill-suited, but that she recognized that fact, however reluctantly . . .

  Time for a laugh at my assumptions. I was as guilty of judging others as they were of judging me.

  “I believe you can rest easy,” I said. “I am almost certain Lady Ariana is the chosen one, which will give you time to wear your papa down on the subject of third sons. And now if you will excuse me,” I added, rising to my feet. “I am on an errand to the housekeeper and must not dally any longer.”

  Lady Melinda proffered a watery smile. “Thank you, Miss Neville! You have relieved my mind.” She popped to her feet, dropping a graceful curtsy, which I returned before I hurried off to find Mrs. Randall, my head still full of the shiny-eyed innocence of the girl who reminded me so much of the Lucinda Neville of long ago. I could only hope her story ended better than mine.

  My conversation in the gallery was not my only serious exchange of the day. While ensconced in the library with Lady Winterbourne, planning every detail of our excursion from the seating arrangements in the carriages to what refreshments would be served, my employer suddenly shoved her quill into its holder, breathed a sigh, and said, “As you can
well imagine, I have found recent events startling in the extreme. And I have—unfairly, I believe—blamed you for matters beyond your control. My son tells me it is likely the child would not have survived without your actions—either at his birth or under what appear to be threatening circumstances since.”

  I opened my mouth to protest such praise, but she waved me to silence, continuing with words she had clearly planned in advance. “I do not know if the babe is my grandchild, but it seems likely, even though he may be a bastard. I am, therefore, infinitely grateful. I want you to know that. I do not suffer you as my companion merely because my son asked it of me. I welcome you to my house and grant you as much time as you feel you must have to help the nursery staff keep the babe safe.”

  Merciful heavens, would wonders never cease? I could scarcely get the words out as I thanked her for her trust.

  “Which brings up another matter,” she said, rejecting any display of sentiment. “I have spoken with the other ladies, emphasizing your heroism after the carriage accident, explaining that the baby’s mother died in childbirth and that we are doing our Christian duty, caring for him while seeking his relatives.”

  Awed, I stared at her. This was far more than I expected. “Did they believe you, my lady?”

  Lady Winterbourne raised a finely arched brow. “When scandal is so much more delicious?” She shrugged. “Certainly, some accepted my words. And when Lady Melinda tells her father, I believe we can count on him to come down on our side. A strong ally, Rockingham.”

  Our side. I liked the sound of that.

  “You are most kind, my lady. Thank you. I confess yesterday was more than a bit trying.”

  “Lady Ariana will never like you, of course. Nor those budding young harpies, Lady Cynthia and Lady Pamela. Even in your most drab gown, you outshine them all.”

  “Mais très flamboyant, n’est-ce pas? I fear my looks are not in the accepted mode.”

  “My dear, there is not one of us who would not kill for your looks.” Lady Winterbourne’s eyes—Nick’s eyes—twinkled at me.

  “Then it is a good thing such transference is not possible,” I returned blandly. My heart warmed to a moment such as I had never shared with my mother. And then my employer shattered it.

  “My support does not, however,” she pronounced in the sharpish tone I was more accustomed to hearing from her, “extend to my son.” I paused in the midst of reaching for my quill, blinking as reality once again reared its ugly head. “You are my companion, Miss Neville. I may have gone so far as to name you supervisor of the nursery, but you are wholly ineligible for the role of Lady Thornbury. I will not have it.”

  “But, my lady,” I returned, stung to the quick, “what if the child in the nursery is Thornbury?”

  For a moment we glared daggers at each other, before Lady Winterbourne declared in the grand manner of a pronouncement from on high. “The babe may be my grandson. He is not Thornbury.”

  A short, if ringing silence, and then we returned to the lists of names before us—who would ride in which carriage, who would go on horseback, who eschewed Roman ruins and preferred to spend the afternoon quietly in the shelter of Winterbourne. I longed to be among those staying at home, but I was now a genteel maid of all work, fetching, carrying, ensuring the comfort of the guests, sparing my employer as much effort as possible. Acting out a charade before the judgmental eyes of some of the ton’s finest.

  Complaints, Luce? It was you who insisted on staying with the babe.

  I gritted my teeth and began to write. Anthony, Mr. Draycott, and Sir Harry would go on horseback. The Duke of Rockingham preferred his own coach and would take up Lord Hadlow Lord Dalrymple, and Sir Laurence Carewe, the fathers, respectively, of Lady Ariana, Lady Pamela, and Lady Cynthia. Their wives and daughters, accompanied by Lady Winterbourne, would make the journey in open carriages—the family barouche, augmented by an older landau, which Lady Winterbourne castigated as “lumbering.” I, I supposed, would be assigned to the landau. I was wrong.

  “Four to a carriage is all we can manage without an unacceptable squeeze,” Lady Winterbourne announced. “You, Miss Neville, may ride in the cart with the refreshments.”

  And the servants.

  My pride had been beaten down so many times it should not have mattered. But it did. This latest blow was not as stinging as her words about my possible aspirations to the title of Lady Thornbury, but nonetheless . . . “Yes, my lady,” I murmured, as I dutifully added my name to the list of servants who would accompany the guests to the ruins.

  But there was a gleam in my eye as I delivered the lists to Babcock and went upstairs to change into clothing suitable for an afternoon at Roman ruins.

  I should not have done it, of course. The Lucinda Neville of the past six years would have donned one of the serviceable gowns designed to blend into the woodwork, as the saying went. A gown which, when combined with hair in a severe knot and the off-putting air I had worked hard to perfect, would send gentlemen’s eyes skittering away in search of something more worthy of their notice.

  But I did not. I chose a frothy sprigged muslin in shades of sage green and primrose. Its puffed sleeves and hem boasted flounces of white lace, the latter a full eight inches wide. The ribbons depending down the front were green velvet and long enough to sway with each step. I left my hair hanging down in soft waves of strawberry-tinged blond, topping it with a broad-brimmed shepherdess hat, also trimmed with long green velvet ribbons. I did not look like a companion.

  A wave of satisfaction warmed me as I examined myself in the pier glass. What would Anthony think when he saw . . .

  Oh dear Lord, mine was likely to be the shortest employment in the history of companions. Foolish, foolish girl!

  The boom of the dinner bell echoed up the stairs. Evidently Babcock was using it to summon laggard guests to the carriages. I cringed. With no time to change, I was in the suds, no doubt about it. I drew a deep breath, rubbed my lips and cheeks to give them some color, and descended the stairs to whatever fate awaited me.

  The Roman ruins were not far from Winterbourne, a journey of perhaps five or six miles in the general direction of Bath. I settled onto a wooden bench along one side of the cart carrying two footmen and a maid, as well as blankets, sketching supplies, wooden crates of wine and ale, a variety of delicacies from the Winterbourne kitchen, and even a few lightweight chairs for those not nimble enough to sit on the ground. It was a lovely day, the Cotswold scenery the finest in the land. I would enjoy myself. If I looked like a peacock in a hen house, so be it.

  “Miss Neville!” At Thornbury’s unexpected bark I jumped, promptly apologizing to the maid whose ribs I’d just rammed with my elbow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He was astride a towering stallion, and I had to raise my head at a considerable angle to meet his gaze from under the wide brim of my straw hat. “My lord?”

  “What are you doing in that cart?”

  Choosing to misunderstand him, I asked, “Do you wish me to change, my lord? Indeed, I am improperly dressed for a servant.”

  “Down from there this instant!”

  “But, my lord, the carriages are full. This will do nicely, truly it will.” I was such a liar! Because, of course, my heart was beating fast at this evidence of his concern, and I was thoroughly enjoying the moment.

  “Babcock,” Thornbury snapped to the hovering butler, “see that my curricle is brought round immediately.” To the coachman at the head of the line of carriages, he called, “Go! We will catch you up.”

  Which is how I drove to the Roman ruins perched high on the bench seat of the Earl of Thornbury’s curricle, a vehicle which seated only two. Oh, glorious day. Lady Ariana and the other candidates were undoubtedly gnashing their teeth. And their mamas . . .

  In that moment I knew I had come more than full circle. I was no longer the long-suffering adult Lucinda nor was I the lively, willful, innocent I had been at seventeen. The automaton had at last blossomed into a wo
man to be reckoned with.

  Chapter 19

  “This is quite wonderful,” I said to Thornbury as we bowled down the road at a spanking pace, my hair flying in the wind. “But I fear we have compounded the affront your guests already feel at my presence. The fault mine, not yours,” I added hastily. “Pride overcame me. I have no right to play the role of guest.”

  “Are you, or are you not, Miss Lucinda Neville, daughter of the tenth Baron Neville?”

  “I am your mother’s companion, lately nurse to your brother’s son.”

  A swift, sharp look, then eyes front once again, he declared, “My mother’s companion rides with the servants no more than Miss Neville.”

  “Your mother gave the order.” The horses’ pace faltered as Thornbury’s hands twitched the reins. “I believe she wished to emphasize that I was not one of the guests.”

  I give him credit—his understanding was instantaneous. “Not part of the matrimonial sweepstakes,” Anthony intoned.

  “Indeed.”

  “Ah.”

  Silence enveloped us during the remaining minutes it took to catch up to the Winterbourne cavalcade. As we approached, Anthony slowed the pace, and we jogged along at the tail end of the stately procession, he as seemingly lost in thought as I. The fat was in the fire, as the saying goes. My heedless pride, coupled with Thornbury’s compassion had likely sparked a conflagration. I tried to be sorry for what I had done. And found I could not. On an excursion that included a number of gentlemen of all ages, as well as a variety of high-born females who considered themselves my betters, what young lady would not wish to shine?

  The carriages climbed to the top of a gentle plateau and rolled to a stop. In a colorful flurry of rustling gowns and parasols displayed against the more somber garments of the gentlemen, the guests gathered into a cluster as they waited for Anthony, who was to be our guide. Not a one, I noted, paid the slightest attention to the hustle and bustle of the three servants who were spreading blankets on the ground, setting up chairs, easels, and a trestle table for refreshments. As we approached the others, I positively glowed with the satisfaction of walking at Anthony’s side. Shameful, quite shameful, I know.