Chapter Twelve

‘I s everything all right? Where are the Gordons?'

Hope limped into the dining room, feeling the absence of her walking cane with every tentative step. She'd left it upstairs after dressing for dinner, determined to demonstrate that she was fit enough to walk without it and prove she was well enough to leave Hayton Hall. She had not managed to speak to Samuel about that yet; indeed, she'd barely spoken to him since he'd returned from his ride with Mr Gordon yesterday. He'd seemed unusually subdued last night at dinner and had retired early, and today he'd spent much of his time locked away in his library, ostensibly dealing with estate matters. No doubt he was—as a landowner and a gentleman he would have business which required his attention and could not be expected to entertain guests all the time.

The Gordons, however, had not seemed quite so understanding and, after enduring quite enough of Mr Gordon's fidgeting and Miss Gordon's sullen temperament, Hope had excused herself and spent the remainder of the afternoon resting in her bedchamber. Now she'd returned downstairs at the appointed dining hour to find the house quiet, the table bare, and Samuel hovering beside it, leaning on the back of a chair.

‘I thought we could take supper in the library this evening,' he said, offering her a small smile. ‘I don't know about you, but I've rather wearied of formal dining of late. Too many courses, too much fuss.'

Hope gave a brisk nod. ‘As you wish. Will Mr Gordon and his sister be joining us?'

‘Afraid not,' Samuel replied, shaking his head. ‘They've decided to go to the theatre. Apparently, it's the very last night for As You Like It in Lowhaven and Charles cannot countenance missing it. Miss Gordon seemed less enthused, but has done her duty and accompanied her brother,' he added with a wry smile.

‘Did you not wish to go with them?' Hope asked.

‘My duty is to remain here, with you,' he replied firmly, giving her a look which reminded her at once of his words in his carriage that day, when he'd spoken of his promise to protect her. When he'd acknowledged the look of fear he'd seen in her eyes.

‘There will be other opportunities to go to the theatre,' he continued. ‘Now, aren't you going to ask me why we're taking supper in the library and not the parlour?'

The mischievous grin he gave her piqued her interest, and she pushed all thoughts of invented nefarious uncles and all too real and threatening fathers to one side.

‘All right,' she replied, raising a smile to match his. ‘Why?'

‘I thought, since we cannot go to the theatre, we would bring the theatre to us.'

Hope frowned. ‘What do you mean by that?'

Samuel chuckled as he walked towards her, taking her by the hand. ‘You'll see. Come on.'

The feeling of his gentle fingers holding hers made her thoughts scatter, and willingly she allowed him to lead her out of the dining room and down the hallway to the library. Once inside, she saw that a table had been laid with bread, cold meats and a healthy decanter of red wine set between two glasses. Nearby she spied another, smaller occasional table, bearing several leather-bound books. She turned to Samuel then, raising an expectant eyebrow as she awaited an explanation.

‘I know it is a little unorthodox,' he said, relinquishing her hand. ‘I can assure you, I don't make a habit of dining in the library, but it seemed like the most suitable place.'

‘The most suitable place for what?' she pressed him.

‘To read some Shakespeare. And to show you something rather precious, which I think you will appreciate, given your enthusiasm for the theatre.'

Samuel beckoned her over to the smaller table, where carefully he lifted up a very thick and apparently very old brown book. ‘Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories and Tragedies,' he said as he passed it to her. ‘A collection of his plays, printed in 1623.'

Hope gasped, gently opening the book to see the title page, where the Bard's famous image gazed back at her. ‘It's almost two hundred years old,' she marvelled.

Samuel nodded. ‘It's also very rare. I believe only seven hundred or so copies were ever printed. And we are fortunate enough to have one of them here, at Hayton.'

‘Fortunate indeed,' she mused, still staring in disbelief at the treasure she held in her hands. ‘I have never seen anything like it. The only scripts I have seen have been...'

Hope pressed her lips together, remembering herself just in time. Her heart raced at the knowledge of what she had almost unwittingly revealed. She'd felt herself—her real self—bubbling to the surface once more. This was becoming too difficult—to hide in plain sight, to suppress her true identity beneath polite speech, fine clothes and a character with the vaguest of histories. To keep lying to Samuel, to repay his unfailing kindness and generosity with deceit. This, she reminded herself, was exactly why she needed to leave. Perhaps she ought to speak to him about that this evening, if she could find the right moment, the right words...

‘Oh, I am sure you must have one or two priceless heirlooms tucked away in a dusty family library somewhere,' Samuel remarked, apparently oblivious to her inner turmoil. ‘Perhaps in that ancestral home which you've vowed never to set foot in again,' he added pointedly.

Despite herself, Hope found her mind drifting the several miles across the countryside to Lillybeck, to that damp stone cottage tucked on the hillside. She doubted her father kept so much as a broadside in that barren, cold place.

‘Perhaps,' she replied, regretting now that piece of information which Miss Gordon had managed to draw from her at their first meeting. At the time she'd thought it an evasive enough answer; now she suspected Samuel had caught the scent of truth emanating from it. ‘Here,' she continued, passing his book back to him and hoping to swiftly change the subject. ‘You'd better take this and put it somewhere safe.'

Samuel accepted the book, placing it back on the table as he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You are really not going to tell me anything, are you, Hope? About your past, about your life before you stumbled into that woodland that day.'

Unable to bear his consternation, she dropped her gaze, momentarily lost for words. Deep down, she'd known to expect this conversation, ever since that carriage ride. This was why she'd avoided being alone with him, why she'd stuck closely by Miss Gordon's prickly side. But sensing what Samuel wanted to say and knowing how to answer him were two different matters. What could she say that would not cause yet more harm? Lies were damaging, but the truth was damning.

Instead, she lifted her eyes to meet his, trying not to dwell upon how their grey-blue depths seemed to swirl with concern, with sadness. ‘I thought we'd come to the library to read Shakespeare, not to talk about me,' she replied obstinately, folding her hands in front of her to stop them from trembling. She glanced over at the larger table, still laden with food. ‘Perhaps first we should have some of that bread and meat, before it spoils.'

Samuel walked over to the table, lifting the decanter and pouring two glasses of wine. The only thing which was being spoiled, he thought to himself, was their evening together, and the fault for that was entirely his. He'd set out to make the most of their unexpected time alone, to indulge in something which he believed would interest her, to recapture some of the easy companionship they'd enjoyed before Charles and his sister had arrived. And, most importantly, to grasp the right moment to tell her the truth about himself, to offer his heartfelt apology and hope that she would accept it. To reassure her that whilst she might not have the protection of a baronet, she would always have the protection of Samuel Liddell.

Instead, he'd fallen right back into the same trap and had overstepped the mark with his questions, just as he had that afternoon in the carriage. Her life really was none of his business, he reminded himself, especially when he was still not being honest about his own. The problem was, not knowing the details of her story made his mind run wild, imagining the worst possible scenarios until his need to protect her felt quite overwhelming. He'd never been gripped by feelings like this before—burning, unpredictable emotions which made him feel quite out of kilter.

‘Forgive me,' he said, handing her a glass of wine and forcing a smile. ‘You are right, of course. We should read some Shakespeare, as I originally proposed. Although not from the 1623 book—I don't think future generations of Liddells would forgive me for that. There is a newer, smaller volume of his works on the table.'

He watched as Hope walked back towards the books he'd fetched out earlier.

‘Do you have a particular play in mind?' she asked. ‘A favourite, perhaps?'

He shook his head. ‘To be honest, I like them all. Why don't we let fate decide? Open the book and see which play finds us.'

Hope did as he suggested, putting her wine glass down before picking up the book and opening it at random. He watched as those emerald eyes briefly scanned the page. ‘Oh, goodness,' she said with a wry chuckle. ‘ Romeo and Juliet. '

Fate, Samuel thought, was clearly laughing at them. Or at least it was laughing at him, given some of the thoughts about Miss Hope Swynford which his errant mind had entertained of late.

‘Goodness indeed,' he replied, his throat growing unfathomably dry. ‘The star-crossed lovers in fair Verona—which he never visited, or so I believe.'

‘"Two houses, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene,"' Hope recited, apparently from memory, since she was not reading from the book. ‘"From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean."'

Samuel grinned at her. ‘Very well remembered. A favourite of yours, perhaps?'

She shrugged, closing the book before retrieving her wine glass and taking a considered sip. ‘Not particularly—I have watched it a few times is all. If anything, I find it very disheartening.'

‘You find a play about love disheartening?'

‘Is it really about love?' she countered. ‘Surely it's about the thwarting of love—first by the hatred between two families, and then by death. If anything, Shakespeare is telling us that sometimes love is impossible. Circumstances make it so. Fate makes it so. No matter how much two people want to be together, sometimes there are just too many obstacles. There is too much to keep them apart.'

‘All right,' Samuel conceded, relishing the opportunity to debate. ‘Although you must surely admit that there is beauty in the play too. The love between Romeo and Juliet is genuine, pure and heartfelt, is it not?'

‘Of course it is, but therein lies the tragedy because ultimately it is not enough. It does not even serve to end their families' feuding—it takes them both dying to do that. As I said, disheartening.'

Samuel nodded. Her argument was persuasive and her knowledge impressive. She was more than a theatre enthusiast, he decided. It was very apparent that she was acquainted with at least some of Shakespeare's work inside and out.

‘You would have enjoyed some of the dinner parties I attended on the Continent,' he remarked. ‘Packed with scholars and intellectuals, brimming with opinions on the best and worst that English literature has to offer.'

He watched as her brow furrowed. ‘You're teasing me.'

‘Not at all—I am in earnest. Some of the best evenings I had while travelling were spent in the company of such people. Poets, writers, artists, philosophers, or simply avid readers. I think you would have liked talking to them too, and I think a great many of them would have liked talking to you.' He reached out, taking her hand in his. ‘This evening with you has reminded me of some very happy times, Hope, and I must thank you for that.'

She nodded obligingly, her expression softening. ‘That is kind of you to say,' she replied. ‘Alas, I am unlikely to ever find myself moving in such circles, never mind on the Continent.'

‘You could travel, Hope, it is not impossible. Now that you are free of your uncle, and as long as you can access the means...'

‘Believe me, it is impossible,' she interrupted, refusing to meet his eye. ‘My life has been very different to yours, Samuel. You do not understand. You cannot understand.'

‘Then explain it to me.' Instinctively, he stepped towards her, still clutching her hand with his. Her fingers felt so small and delicate beneath his touch. ‘You can tell me about it, Hope,' he said quietly. ‘You can trust me, please believe that.'

‘I cannot...' She was shaking her head vehemently now. ‘I need to leave. I need to...'

‘What do you mean, you need to leave?'

She did not answer, and the fear he saw swirling in her eyes was too much to bear. Before he could think about what he was doing, Samuel stepped forward, pulling her towards him and enveloping her in his arms. Instinct overcame thought as he held her and, to his surprise, she allowed him, her head coming to rest against his chest as her arms looped tentatively around him. The feeling of her warm hands against his back made his blood heat and, before he could stop them, his own hands had reached for the near-black curls of her hair, his fingers running unbidden through them, teasing them from their pins, then diving under them to find the soft skin at the nape of her neck...

Against him she sighed, before looking up at him, her green gaze no longer filled with anguish but something else, something he could not name.

‘What is it, Hope?' he whispered. ‘Please, tell me.'

She shook her head again but did not break eye contact, nor did she recoil from his embrace. Every sinew of his body was alive with awareness of her petite, alluring form pressed against him, rendering rational, gentlemanly thought impossible. Instinct continued to rule him as he leaned down, his lips gently touching hers. His heart sang as she welcomed his kiss—indeed, she kissed him back hungrily, pulling herself ever closer to him, sending shivers down his spine as she ran her fingers over his broad shoulders then through his hair. She kissed like she spoke about Shakespeare—passionately and with conviction. With her encouragement his own passion grew, sending his lips on a quest to find the soft flesh of her ear, then her neck, then the swell of her breasts which hinted at the neckline of her gown...

Good God, what was he doing? He was meant to be confessing to her, not kissing her!

‘I am so sorry,' he blurted, pulling away. ‘Forgive me.' He swallowed hard, shaking his head at himself in disbelief. ‘I should not have done that. Not when there is so much I need to say. Hope, I must tell you that I am not who you think I am. I am not...'

His words died in his mouth as the door to Hayton's library burst open. He heard Hope gasp as, like him, her eyes flew to see who had intruded so unexpectedly. He was stunned to see Smithson standing in the doorway, looking uncommonly rumpled, a serious expression etched on his heavily lined face.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,' the butler began, sounding a little breathless. Samuel watched as the wily old man's gaze flitted between the two of them, no doubt noting Hope's mussed hair and burning cheeks. ‘Really—very sorry.'

‘Well, what is it, man?' he demanded, his customarily gentle tongue abandoned. Now really was not the time. Not when he'd just kissed Hope. Not when Hope had just said she was going to leave.

Not when he'd been on the cusp of telling her the truth.

‘It's Miss Gordon, sir,' Smithson continued, still regarding them both carefully. ‘I'm afraid Mr and Miss Gordon have had to return from the theatre early. Miss Gordon has been taken ill.'

At that moment Samuel could have groaned aloud with frustration. The news about Miss Gordon's health was concerning, but the thought of leaving the unspoken truth hanging between himself and Hope was unbearable. However, there was nothing he could do. Duty called—his duty as Charles's friend, and his duty as Hayton's caretaker master.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, turning back to Hope. ‘I promise that we will talk soon.'

‘Of course,' she agreed, regarding him just long enough for him to see the concern and confusion swirling in her green gaze. Then she turned away from him, striding purposefully towards the door. ‘I think we should go and assist Miss Gordon, shouldn't we?'