Chapter Eleven

S amuel cantered along the coastline on his horse, a salt-laced mist dampening his face to match his mood. He'd gone out a little while earlier with Charles, sensing his friend's characteristic restlessness might be best served by some fresh air. He'd been reluctant to leave Hope, but she had insisted that she would be fine sitting in the small parlour with Miss Gordon, who had no more wished to ride than it appeared she wished to do anything at all. Samuel had thought about protesting, about reminding her of his promise to protect her from the threat she faced, but something about the adamant look in her eye dissuaded him.

‘I shall not be gone long, and we shall not venture far,' he'd sworn instead.

Hope joining them, of course, had been out of the question; even if she could countenance straying so far from Hayton Hall, her ankle was not yet strong enough to either ride or walk such a distance.

As he'd headed to the clifftops, Samuel had increasingly found himself wishing that she was there; indeed, that they could ride together, alone. That he could show her the wild and rugged parts of his county, and the sheer remote beauty of places where it was possible to ride for miles without seeing a single soul. He had quickly instructed himself to stop being ridiculous; the lady was convalescing in his home, not visiting for pleasure. His duty was to care for her, not to seek to impress her. Not to seek time alone with her.

Not to interrogate her.

He winced, thinking of their conversation in the carriage, how tense it had become. He'd been wrong to press her about her family, and to call into question the plans she had made. She was right; it was none of his concern what she did, or who she sought help from once she was in London. It was none of his business what had happened in her past, or what her terrible uncle had done to her. His questions had damaged the trust which had been building between them—a delicate trust, he reminded himself, which already rested upon the creaky foundations wrought by his lie about who he was.

Since their drive into Lowhaven, Hope had seemed to withdraw from him, burying her nose in her book every time he so much as glanced at her, and staying firmly by the side of Miss Gordon, whose conversation suddenly seemed to hold a great deal of her interest. Samuel understood her need to keep her distance, and had acted accordingly by keeping his. He knew that he'd crossed a line with his intrusive questions, and that he'd upset her. He'd taken too much of an interest and he was not, as she'd pointed out, her father or her brother, or...

Her husband.

She'd been about to say that, hadn't she?

Samuel stared vacantly out to sea, listening to the waves crashing below and wondering why that word felt so odd to him as it rattled around in his mind. Wondering too exactly why he had grown so interested in what the mysterious Hope Swynford's tale truly was, and why he felt the heat of anger rise within him at his increasing suspicion that she was all alone in the world, left to face some malevolence which she could not bring herself to name. Anger was not an emotion which came readily to Samuel Liddell, and yet that was how he felt. He could feel it in his racing heart, in his blood as it boiled and coursed through his veins.

He tried not to consider that there might be other feelings at play, other reasons for this visceral physical response. Reasons connected to the sight of her emerald gaze, to the sight of her sitting abed in her shift, her dark hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. To the feeling of her slight frame nestled in his arms, and the feeling of her slender waist beneath his hands. If she was so adamant that his concerns for her welfare were unwanted, he did not wish to contemplate her horror if she knew how often his mind lingered on thoughts such as those.

‘I never had you pegged as the brooding type, Sammy.'

Charles brought his horse to trot alongside Samuel's and gave his friend a mischievous grin. Samuel braced himself for an onslaught of Charles's customary teasing.

‘I'm not,' Samuel retorted. ‘I believe that the reputation for brooding belongs to my older brother, not me.'

‘Well, since you've borrowed his title, I dare say you can borrow his character traits too.'

Inwardly, Samuel groaned at the reminder. His continued deception of Hope was something else which increasingly preyed upon his mind. He would remind himself of why he kept up the pretence, of the need to make Hope feel safe, but that did not stop the lie looming like a spectre over every moment he spent in her company, and over every day that she remained within the sanctuary of Hayton Hall. He'd had the audacity to seek and enjoy her company, to express concern for her and to ask questions about her story, when he was not even being honest with her about who he was. The guilt of it was becoming intolerable.

‘Do you know what I think?' Charles continued, undeterred by his friend's silence. ‘I think you're a little bit smitten with Miss Hope Swynford. That's why you're pretending to be a baronet, and that's why you won't just admit your folly to her.'

‘Nonsense!' Samuel declared, shaking his head.

Charles eyed him suspiciously. ‘Is it? She's a pretty young chit, as I'm sure you have not failed to notice. And if the uncle's reckless actions in kidnapping her are anything to go by, I'd say she's wealthy too.'

Samuel bristled at his friend's observation. ‘You know that such considerations are no inducement to me, Charles.'

‘Which part—her uncommon good looks or her large fortune?' Charles teased.

‘Both,' Samuel replied. ‘Miss Swynford is in my home under my protection, Charles, not so that I can take advantage of her. That is not my way—you know me well enough to know that.'

Charles nodded. ‘You were always a finer gentleman than me. I would be thoroughly dishonourable, if only I was better at it,' he added with a roguish grin.

‘Just as long as you are not minded to be dishonourable towards Miss Swynford. The poor lady has been through quite enough,' Samuel lectured him.

‘First brooding over the chit, now defensive of the chit—are you quite sure you're not pining for her?' Charles asked.

‘Absolutely certain,' Samuel snapped back, although even he could hear his words lacked conviction. Her fortune—large or otherwise—was of no particular interest to him. Her striking beauty, however...

‘We should return to Hayton Hall,' Samuel continued, turning his back to the sea. ‘We've neglected Miss Swynford and your sister for quite long enough.'

‘I doubt Henrietta will mind,' Charles replied. ‘She seems to quite enjoy Miss Swynford's company.' He shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘Rich, beautiful, and capable of lifting my sister's sullen spirits. The Sammy I knew on the Continent would have been the first gentleman in the room to try to woo a woman like that.'

Samuel grimaced at his friend's words. The ‘Sammy' Charles knew would not have allowed such a woman to believe he was someone he was not. But then, that Samuel had not yet had his pride dented by rejection. That painful experience, he acknowledged yet again, was part of what had driven his deceit. What prevented him from ending it was altogether more complex, and was just as attributable to the potent mix of protectiveness and affection he felt whenever he looked at her as it was to his residual feelings of shame and humiliation whenever he so much as contemplated explaining his lie. But he had to contemplate it, he knew that, even if it risked losing her respect. Even if it meant an end to the way she seemed to regard him, as though he was a knight who had come to her rescue. That was nothing less than he deserved.

If only he could find a way to tell her which would not cause her distress. If only he could be certain that the knowledge that she was not living under the protection of Hayton's baronet wouldn't cause Hope to panic, or to flee back into harm's way. The thought that it might was unbearable, and was another reason why he continued to wrestle with his conscience. And another reason, no doubt, why his blood heated with that overwhelming desire to protect her, to envelop her in his arms and not let go...

Where in damnation had that thought come from?

‘I am not wooing anyone,' Samuel replied after a moment. ‘And certainly not Miss Swynford. That is a ridiculous idea, given the circumstances.'

Impatiently, he cracked his whip, unable to stomach the sound of his own hollow protests any longer. Unable to abide the maelstrom of whirring thoughts as his honour, his conscience and his pride warred with each other in his mind. Instead, he raced back towards the home of which he was not truly master, to the life and title which were not truly his, and to the woman who, to his great shame, believed him to be in possession of all of it.

‘Courtesans...and harlots...'

Hope sat alone in the small parlour, forcing her mind to focus on the book which rested on her lap, to absorb the information contained within Mr Hume's dense prose. Her mind, however, had other ideas, returning continuously to those injurious words which Mr Gordon had uttered. Words which Samuel had not refuted as accurate descriptions of actresses. Words which Hope had been smarting over ever since.

‘Courtesans at best and harlots at worst.'

The irony of the insult was not lost on her since she was, without doubt, thoroughly unqualified to be called either. During her time in the theatre she had steadfastly refused to succumb to the easy virtues expected of those in her profession, rebuking many a man for his unwanted advances. Indeed, the only experiences she'd ever had of the opposite sex were in the form of those who'd tried to kiss or to touch her without invitation. She'd never experienced any welcome intimacy; she'd never been embraced by a man who made her heart race or kissed by one who stirred the heat of passion within her. These were feelings which she knew existed—she'd heard enough of the coarse chatter of other actresses, after all—but they were not experiences she'd had for herself.

Indeed, she realised, the closest she'd ever been to a man was when she'd unwittingly fallen into Samuel's arms in the pantry, or when she'd allowed him to carry her down the stairs. Encounters which she found herself replaying in her mind, picking over their details, reliving the feelings such closeness had evoked in her. She'd felt comforted, reassured, safe, but something else too. The heat of something which she could not find words for, but was there nonetheless, rising within her as her eyes met his, as his arms held her momentarily, tantalisingly close. Another irony, she reminded herself, forcing her mind to cease from lingering over those memories once more. Regardless of the feelings Samuel's proximity might provoke in her, in every respect that mattered—in status and in wealth—she could not be further apart from him.

Hope sighed heavily, putting the book to one side as finally she admitted defeat. Having grown weary of the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans, she'd jumped ahead, seeking diversion in the story of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, which Samuel had briefly yet so tantalisingly recounted. In this, however, she was ultimately disappointed, finding only the smallest reference to their union, and even then it was to discuss how it was believed to have injured the dignity of the Duke of Lancaster's family. As a learned gentleman, no doubt Mr Hume had little time for mistresses who become wives, Hope had thought wryly. Just as baronets could not be expected to have any regard for actresses.

She fidgeted, kicking off the ill-fitting slippers she wore—another item borrowed from Samuel's cousin—and carefully stretching her legs out across the sumptuous fabric of the sofa. At least this unexpected time alone had afforded her some respite from playing her role of the society heiress. Samuel and Mr Gordon were still out riding, and Miss Gordon had retired to her room some time ago, claiming she was in the grip of yet another headache. She had seemed to suffer from a great many of those of late, excusing herself at least once daily on the insistence that she needed to rest awhile. Several times, Hope had observed her brother's brow furrow as his gaze followed her out of the room. It was a look which spoke of his concern, but it was knowing too.

Hope had spent more time with Miss Gordon these past days, feebly shielding herself from the possibility of further questioning by Samuel. Thankfully, the lady had largely desisted from asking Hope any more leading questions about ancestral homes and the like. Nonetheless, between her frequent headaches, clipped conversation and general aloof air, Hope found the unease she'd experienced when first meeting the lady to be fully vindicated. When it came to Miss Henrietta Gordon, it was clear that there was more going on than met the eye.

Then again, Hope thought, Miss Gordon was not the only one at whom such a charge could be levelled. She might be under no illusion as to exactly what Samuel would think of her if he knew who and what she truly was, but that did not stop her guilt at her deception of him continuing to gnaw at her. Moreover, after the way he'd questioned her as they'd sat together in his carriage in Lowhaven, Hope felt that the risk of him unravelling her story for himself was becoming very real.

If he continued to pick over the vague information she'd offered, if he continued to press her for more detail than she was willing to give, then a gentleman as learned as he was could not fail to grow suspicious, and then what would she do? Tell more lies and hope to assuage his desire for knowledge? Tell him the truth and watch the anger and disappointment cloud his usually cheerful countenance? Neither option held any appeal. She regarded him too highly to deepen the deceit, yet she feared the consequences of honesty—she feared losing his good opinion and she feared hurting him. She cared too much to do that.

She cared too much about him, didn't she? And that was the problem. That was the root of her current predicament. Because, as it turned out, deceiving someone so kind, so open and likeable as Samuel caused her pain, far worse perhaps than any of the injuries she'd sustained mere weeks ago. It made her heart sore, and her stomach ache.

Tentatively, Hope glanced at her ankle as it rested on the sofa. The acute discomfort was gone now, as were the bandages. Indeed, the only evidence of injury which remained was the bruising, which had gradually turned from an angry purple to a deep greyish brown. It was not strong enough to walk far yet and it still hurt if she spent too long on her feet but, to all intents and purposes, it had healed. She had healed. Perhaps, she reasoned now, the answer to her growing set of problems was not to choose between honesty and deceit, but to escape. Hayton Hall was only a temporary sanctuary, after all, offered to her while she convalesced. Well, she had recovered, at least well enough to travel. Perhaps it was time to make arrangements to leave.

The sound of horses cantering up the drive caused her to startle, and out of the window she saw Samuel and Mr Gordon approach. Quickly, she sat up straight, sliding her feet back into the slippers as she composed herself and resumed her role. It would only be for a little while longer, she told herself now. She would speak to Samuel about making arrangements for her journey south as soon as possible. He would remain ignorant of her deception and they would part on good terms. In time, his acquaintance with the enigmatic heiress would become nothing more than a strange, brief interlude in his life. Surely her swift departure was necessary. Surely it was for the best.

Hope picked up her book once more, determined to appear absorbed as, out in the hallway, the rhythm of approaching footsteps rang out. Determined too upon her chosen course and determined above all not to dwell on how the prospect of leaving had made her heart ache even more.