Chapter 26

Ignorance is bliss , people were fond of saying. Stacia hadn't really agreed with that maxim until now.

To her eternal shame, it wasn't the sordid details of his past that she hated learning. No, it was the fact that the man she had been in love with for four long years had loved another woman so deeply. That he still loved her.

His story had not destroyed her tenacious, inexplicable attachment to him, nor even given it much of a battering. After all, Stacia had wanted him even when she had believed that he'd impregnated Sarah and heartlessly abandoned her.

His tale had, however, given her a headache and her belly roiled with too much conflicting, confusing emotion.

"I am going to examine the door," Lord Shelton said, getting up and leaving without waiting for an answer.

A wave of exhaustion rolled over her. A few moments of rest and some time to ponder what she'd just learned; that was what she needed.

She went to the bed, which she had made after rising, and unbuttoned her ankle boots before lying down.

It felt… heavenly. Just a few minutes of rest…

The next time Stacia opened her eyes again, she could feel that time had passed—not because of any change in light, but because of a heaviness in her body that said she had not moved for some time.

She yawned, pushed up on her elbows, and looked toward the seating area. Lord Shelton was sprawled in the chair she thought of as his, all four candles in the candelabrum burning on the table at his elbow.

And he was reading. Or at least he was holding a book, she amended, her lips twitching into a smile.

And then it all came back to her—the reason she had needed to close her eyes and stop thinking.

What he'd done to his cousin had been awful. But then…what he had done for Sarah had been noble, regardless of his claim to the contrary.

Don't forget Lady Shaftsbury.

Stacia scowled. Fine. He had done one wretched thing, one ignoble thing, and one self-sacrificing thing.

Those are only the things you know of…

Who am I to stand in judgment of him? she retorted.

You are determined to forgive him. Anything.

Stacia wanted to argue with that, but she could not lie to herself. At least not to that degree. Besides, it was not her place to concern herself with his character. Who was she to him?

His wife, if he has his way…

No.

It is what you want more than anything.

That wasn't true. What she wanted more than anything was his love.

But you will settle for possession…

Stacia swallowed. The thought of possessing him—even if it was only ever in name—was so intoxicating that she simply could not imagine it. She was terrified that she was not strong enough to resist him, that she would latch onto a future with him like a child reaching for something bright, not caring if what she wanted was as dangerous as a dancing flame.

She needed to keep in mind their past, his dismissal of her so many, many times. She needed to remember that he was still in love with somebody else. She needed—

Use your head all you want; it is your heart that will decide .

***

Andrew looked up and smiled when he heard Miss Martin's boots. "Are you refreshed? You should be."

"Have I slept long?"

"More than two hours."

"Goodness!"

He closed his book without bothering to mark the page and set it aside.

She stared at him, an odd smile curving her lips.

"What?" he asked. "Why are you—oh." He smiled wryly and removed his spectacles. "I'd forgotten."

"I like them," she said.

"You may borrow them any time you wish."

She smiled and shook her head. "I like them on you ." Once the words were out her smile turned to an expression of chagrin.

"Do you indeed, Miss Martin?" he drawled.

As he had hoped, she scowled at his teasing. "Yes, as a matter of fact. They make you look clever."

He laughed. "The perfect disguise, then."

"What were you reading?" She'd tilted her head to read the spine, but the gilt had long ago been worn off by the hand of some happy reader, no doubt one of the Bellamy chits.

"It is called The Perils of Lady Louisa ." As far as he could tell, the only peril in the book had been the purple language. Or perhaps the suppressed sexual tension that had rampaged through Lady Louisa's tightly corseted body every time the villain—hero?—had twirled his mustachios in her direction. All that twirling had made him wonder if he should grow facial hair. But then the only time he'd tried, his beard had looked patchy and piebald.

"Is it good?" she asked, a faint twist to her lips.

"Hmm?"

"The book?"

He smiled. "Riveting."

She laughed. "Why do I not believe you?"

He could have told her that he'd only managed to get through about six pages. He'd never had an easy time reading but was even more painfully plodding since injuring his head during the War. The spectacles helped, of course, but they did not stop the letters from performing their tricks and he could never read for more than a half hour without developing a devil of a headache. He knew not everyone was as dull-witted as he was because he'd made the mistake of once asking Sylvester about the moving letters. His cousin had been startled, and then had laughed, believing Andrew had been jesting. That had been the first and last time he'd mentioned that.

Before Andrew could answer her, her stomach growled.

She set a hand over her midriff, her face flooding with color. "Oh. Pardon me."

"Hungry?" he teased. "I cleaned the crockery earlier." He pointed to small collection of plates, cups, and glasses on a dish cloth. "If you set places then I will lay out a feast."

Her gaze slid to the dishes. "I should have done that."

That made him smile. "I might be useless in a kitchen, but I can certainly wash a dish."

"I suspect that is quite rare among the men of our class."

"Yet one more way in which I am a man among men."

Again, she laughed.

They worked in companionable silence, the little domestic space already familiar after barely a day.

She must have been thinking the same thing, because she said, "It is astonishing how quickly one becomes accustomed to a new set of circumstances."

"I agree. It was something I first noticed during my time in the army."

She gazed up at him curiously. "How do you mean?"

He dug to the bottom of the larger trunk and unearthed an entire pie. "Look at this."

"Ooh! What kind?"

He peeled off the layers of waxed cloth, the bottom of which had frozen onto the pan. "There is even ice in the bottom of the trunk," he snorted. "Our captor thought of everything." He pulled a corner free, sniffed, and then grinned as the spices hit him. "A meat pie with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon."

"I adore those. Our cook used to make those, but only at Christmas."

"Ours, too. Shall I warm it on the hearth for a bit?"

"Yes, please."

Once he'd positioned the pie so it would heat without scorching, he gestured to their beverage selection.

"Wine, ale, or lemonade?"

"Wine, please."

They helped themselves to bread, butter, cheese, and a bit of ham while they waited for the pie.

"This bread is getting hard," she said. "We will have to toast the rest of it."

"Luckily for you, cheese toast is my specialty. I was famous for it in the army."

"Impressive," she mocked. "Are there medals for that?"

He laughed. "A knighthood. By rights, you should be calling me Sir Andrew Cheese Toast."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Will you tell me about your time on the Continent?" When he hesitated, she said, "I know it is not done to talk to women about such matters, but I would like to know what it was like—but only if it does not disturb you."

The parts of the war that disturbed him were buried so deeply that Andrew himself never looked at them. There was a great deal to tell her that might not be suitable for polite company, but it would not leave her emotionally scarred.

"We moved often, occupying whatever was convenient: castles, churches, entire villages at times." Andrew told her about the wonders he had seen, the natural beauty of the land—no matter how scarred by war—and the monuments, buildings, and works of art that most people only ever read about.

Her questions were intelligent and informed, as one would expect from a scholar's daughter.

"People will tell you that war is hell—and there are parts of it that qualify for that description—but most of it is tedium and discomfort and uncertainty. And of course, in my cousin's case, there were times of horrific pain."

"And you were never injured?"

"Several times, but nothing to what Chatham suffered. He was fortunate he was not killed, although I doubt that he felt fortunate at the time." He saw that her glass was almost empty and clucked his tongue. "I've been maundering on for too long," he said, refilling both their glasses. "And I daresay our pie is ready."

He placed it on a cloth between them and handed her the knife, handle first. "You do the honors."

"How big?" she asked.

"Is it piggish to say a quarter?"

"It is almost Christmas; I think we are allowed to indulge."

They dug into their respective pieces—hers barely half the size she'd cut for Andrew—and silence reigned for several moments.

"This is good," she said after she'd enjoyed several mouthfuls.

"It is," he agreed. "Now, it is your turn."

"My turn?"

"Tell me about yourself—your life."

"But I have no experiences like yours."

"I am glad to hear it," he said dryly.

"I just meant that my life has not been very interesting."

"I'll be the judge of that. Tell me about school—how long did you go? Where? Did you like it?"

"I went to the same school my mother attended, a lovely old manor house that accommodated only forty girls."

" Only forty? That sounds like a great many girls for one house."

She laughed. "It could feel crowded and lacked privacy at times, and I occasionally yearned for the solitude of my father's house, but I loved the companionship. I am an only child, and my father often forgot my existence—not in a cruel way, but it made for a lonely life. I went to Mrs. Pritchard's Academy for four years, leaving at eighteen. After that I kept house for my father, until my aunt decided I should have a Season." She shrugged. "And you know the rest. My father died and my first position took me to Bath."

"You felt nothing for the young man who proposed to you—er, Townshend, was it?"

"I felt the sort of affection I imagine one feels for a brother."

"Obviously he felt otherwise."

"No, that was the problem. He did not ask me to marry him because he loved me. He asked me because he valued my expertise and knew I could be of help to him when it came to his collection. That was why I could not say yes , no matter how much easier it would have made my life in some ways."

Andrew took a sip of wine to wash down his mouthful of pie, wiped his mouth, and said, "Expertise?"

"Yes, with illuminated manuscripts. I had been helping my father restore them for years. On occasion I did work for others—Townshend was one—but my father kept me busy enough that did not often happen."

"You restore illuminated manuscripts?"

"I did, but it has been years." She cocked her head. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Because I should have guessed your work was too good to be that of a dabbler."

Her lips parted in surprise. "But how do you know what my work looks like?"

"Mrs. Johnson let slip that you'd visited her shop to sell some fans."

"Oh. I wish she would not tell people about that."

"I suspect I am the only one she shared that information with."

She frowned at him. "Why would she tell you?"

"I can be very persuasive."

She snorted. "I can imagine. You saw the fans at the Christmas fete?"

"I not only saw them, I bought three."

" Three!"

Andrew found her expression of shy delight…delightful. "You have an extraordinary talent. Why are you working as a companion when you could be restoring priceless documents?"

"The paintings I do are good enough for fans and such—no," she said when he scoffed at her tepid description, "I am not denigrating my talent, my lord, but it is a far cry from the work done by experts. There are only a few people in the country—probably in the world—who would notice such differences, but they are the same ones who can afford the valuable manuscripts. They want the best, and I am not that."

"To my untutored eye your work is magnificent. By the by, you made Lord Needham a very happy man. Evidently his wife attracts butterflies, and your fan was the sort of gift he had been hoping for."

"I am so glad! She is a lovely woman. They are both very kind. Indeed, all the siblings and their spouses are delightful." She pulled a face. "Even Lady Kathryn, as much as it pains me to admit it."

"She is exceedingly likeable," he agreed. "It is part of her evil charm."

She laughed. "I think, despite some strong evidence to the contrary, that evil might be a bit strong."

Andrew was not so sure. "You are right about the siblings being charming," he said. "Even my cousin's wife has grown on me over the months I've lived at Chatham Park."

"Were you at loggerheads initially because you abducted her sister?"

"Kidnapping Selina did not help matters," he admitted dryly. "But Hyacinth was not fond of me even before that."

She gave him a querying look, but the duchess's masquerade was not Andrew story to share, no matter how much he might have liked to satisfy her curiosity.

"I do hope that Mr. Higgins is taking care of Terrence," she said after a moment.

Andrew blinked. "Er, Terrence?"

"That is what I've named the dog you helped me rescue."

"Terrence?"

"What is wrong with that name?"

"Terrence?"

"Why do you keep repeating it in that obnoxious way? Terrence is a fine name"

"Terrence might be a fine name—not that I am willing to concede that just yet—but it is still a name for a dog that spends its days in a lady's lap, drinking milk from a saucer, wearing a bow on its head."

She laughed. "How ridiculous. What would you call him?"

"He is clearly a survivor of more than a few battles and deserves a suitable moniker." He paused. "I think Scrapper fits him admirably."

"Scrapper? Scrapper ? That is exactly the sort of name that will give a dog terrible ideas."

"Such as?"

"Such as wandering away from home and getting stuck in traps. Haunting neighborhood chicken coops and drawing the ire of farmers. Pushing over rubbish bins and—why are you laughing?"

"Because you are adorable."

Rather than look pleased, her mouth immediately screwed up as if she had just sucked a lemon. Ah, Miss Martin didn't care for compliments. Andrew would have to break her of that after they were married.

"In any case," Andrew said, "You don't have to worry about the dog as Mr. Higgins isn't the sort to neglect any animal under his care."

She looked pleased by his reassurance. "I'm sure you are right." She gestured to the wreckage of their luncheon. "We should return the pie to its ice. Do you think it will keep?"

"Surely until later today."

They busied themselves tidying up. All too soon they were finished with their chores and, once again, staring at each other.

"Do you—"

"Should we—"

They both laughed. "Ladies first," he said.

"Do you want to play a game?"

"I would rather get some exercise." Andrew wasn't accustomed to lolling about all day and it was making him restless.

"Exercise? What do you mean?"

Only with great effort was Andrew able to bite his tongue and rein in his first response.

Instead of scandalizing her and drawing her sour lemon look, and perhaps even getting a well-deserved slap, he said, "Waltz with me."

She gazed steadily at him for so long he expected a no, thank you.

But then Miss Martin surprised him yet again and said, "Very well."