Chapter Fourteen

S amuel knew that he ought to have been exhausted, and yet he could not sleep. He'd spent the day dealing with the aftermath of the discovery of Miss Gordon's affliction, as Charles had rather euphemistically taken to calling it, in a daze brought on by his own lack of sleep. His turmoil over all that had occurred between him and Hope, and all that he had still to tell her, had conspired with his fatigue to leave him feeling thoroughly out of sorts. His stomach had churned almost incessantly, while every spare moment had been haunted by the confusion lingering in Hope's eyes as he'd uttered those most damning words.

‘I must tell you that I am not who you think I am...'

More than once he'd given himself a stern talking-to, reminding himself that he had duties to perform, instructions to issue, and an unwell guest whose care required to be overseen. Miss Gordon had awoken properly by the middle of the morning, and the physician had turned up shortly afterwards. The good doctor had thankfully confirmed that Charles's sister was out of danger but had recommended bed rest and a lengthy abstinence from her tinctures.

Despite her weakened condition, Miss Gordon had protested at that. ‘My headaches are severe,' she'd insisted. ‘The laudanum is entirely necessary, to manage the pain.'

The physician, to his credit, was unmoved. Samuel had felt sure that Hope would have raised a knowing eyebrow at Miss Gordon's objection, had she been present. She'd gone to her bedchamber to rest after breakfast and he had not seen much of her since, although he knew from Charles's report that she'd spent some of the afternoon sitting with Miss Gordon while Samuel had been attending to estate matters at his desk in the library. She'd made only a brief appearance at dinnertime before retiring early, insisting she was still very tired. No doubt she was, but knowing that hadn't made Samuel crave her company any less. He still needed to speak to her, still needed to tell her the truth about himself. Kissing her had made his confession more vital than ever. And as for that kiss...

The memory of that had driven him to distraction more than once during his waking hours. Then there was her intention to leave and his promise to escort her to London—a promise he intended to keep, even if the thought of it made his heart sink and a lump grow in his throat. But he could hardly do anything else, could he? His duty was, and had always been, to protect her, and he would continue to do so, even after she learned he was merely Samuel Liddell. He would honour his promise, even if she despised him.

Even if he so desperately wanted her to stay.

In the ladies' absence, Samuel had spent the evening with Charles, although neither gentleman seemed to have much to offer by way of conversation. For his part, Charles seemed to be in shock over Miss Gordon's near-demise. He was clearly unwilling to discuss exactly what he knew about the extent of his sister's use of laudanum, although in his customarily clumsy way he did make some interesting admissions when referring to it.

‘I suppose I ought to write to Mama and inform her of what has happened,' he'd said at one point. ‘Although she will not be pleased. She'd put a lot of faith in Buxton's waters as a cure for my sister's many ills.'

‘Many ills?' Samuel had repeated.

‘I mean the headaches, of course,' Charles had blustered. ‘My sister has for a long time been gravely afflicted. It affects her spirits too, as doubtless you have noticed.'

Samuel had nodded, deciding not to press his friend further but finding himself wondering if Miss Gordon, like Hope's mother, had pains beyond headaches which made the lure of oblivion too great to resist.

Once their brandy glasses were empty and their stilted conversation had all but evaporated, both gentlemen had retired. Since then, Samuel had tossed and turned in bed, unable to settle, and unable to quiet his thoughts. Everything he'd tried to push aside during the daylight hours had come racing to the fore, and now he found himself picking through the details relentlessly.

How delicate she'd felt in his arms, how warm her lips had been against his. How enthusiastically she'd kissed him back. How embracing her had felt so right, when in every sense it had been entirely wrong. Hope had sought sanctuary at Hayton, not seduction by its pretend baronet. How he could countenance kissing her when he was lying to her about the man he was... Well, he knew the answer to that. He couldn't. He could not countenance it at all.

Then there was the glimpse of Hope's past, which Miss Gordon's affliction had unexpectedly drawn from her. The thought of her losing her mother like that made his heart ache for her, even while he felt that now familiar protective urge burning within him at her veiled remark about her father and the pain he'd caused. Between her wicked uncle and the father she could not bring herself to discuss, it was clear that Hope had suffered at the hands of the men in her life. A fact which made Samuel's own deception of her even harder to swallow.

He had to tell her the truth, just as he'd begun to, in the library last night. He had to find a way to explain his actions, despite his fear that she would never be able to forgive him. That she would leave Hayton immediately and never look back.

Of course, leaving was exactly what she intended to do now, in any case! He pressed his fist into his pillow in frustration. It was clear that sleep would continue to elude him for some time yet, and his restlessness had left him hot and sweating beneath his sheets. Throwing off his bedcovers, he lit a candle, resolved to go downstairs and fetch some refreshment. Smithson could always be relied upon to keep the decanter of brandy in the library topped up for him; perhaps another small glass might see him on his way to slumber.

Stealthily, Samuel crept out of his room and along the wide, wood-panelled hallway. The house was silent, the servants having long since retired for the night. Just as well, Samuel thought, since he wore nothing but his drawers. For decency's sake he ought to have at least pulled a shirt on, but the cool air of the old house at night felt like a blessed relief against his bare skin.

Swiftly, he made his way into the library, closing the door so carefully that it barely made a sound. It was only once he was inside that he realised the room already had the dim illumination of a candle. Assuming that a maid had neglected to extinguish it before retiring, Samuel marched towards it furiously, muttering to himself about the risk of fire—in an ancient dwelling like Hayton Hall, filled with wood, the place would surely go up in flames in no time at all. It was only when he reached the table upon which it sat that he realised someone was there—someone who had curled up in one of the tall green wingback chairs which faced away from the door. Someone dressed in only a white linen shift and a shawl, with a book draped across her lap while she sat upright but fast asleep.

Hope.

Samuel swallowed hard, struggling to tear his eyes from the sight of her sleeping, her expression serene, her pink lips near-smiling, her dark hair loose and tumbling about her shoulders. Quietly, he stepped back, deciding to simply blow out the candle for safety's sake and leave her to rest. It was the proper and decent thing to do, especially given his own semi-naked state. Last night he'd all but seduced her in this very room; she did not need to spy him standing before her tonight, leaving little to the imagination in his undergarments.

Leaving was his plan, but fate—and Hayton's old floor—had other ideas. As he stepped away again, one of the wooden boards creaked loudly, betraying his presence, and waking Hope.

She jolted upright, blinking, then stared straight at him.

‘Samuel?'

Sir Samuel Liddell in nothing but his drawers was a sight to behold. Even in her sleepy, confused state, Hope could not help but let her eyes rake over the details of him—from the broad shoulders and chest, sculpted by muscles usually buried beneath the finery of a gentleman's attire, to the trail of surprisingly dark hair which meandered down the lower part of his flat stomach and disappeared inside the white cotton.

Her fingers seemed to tingle with the urge to reach out and touch him; she fisted them, willing her mind, and her body, to behave. She had never seen a man looking like this before—at least, not a man she found so attractive. Like their kiss last night, this visceral, physical response was also a new experience for her. But that did not mean she should lose her head to the wanton and desirous thoughts currently racing through her mind.

‘Samuel,' she repeated, almost choking on his name. Why was her mouth suddenly so dry? ‘Is everything all right?'

He folded his arms across his chest in a manner which was endearingly self-conscious. ‘You left a candle burning,' he said. ‘I was just going to extinguish it, for safety's sake.'

His rebuke was gentle but clear enough.

‘Forgive me,' she replied. ‘I did not mean to doze off down here. I could not sleep so I decided to read awhile.' She forced a smile, trying to keep her eyes focused on his, and not the other, tempting parts of him, as she held up the book. ‘You have a good selection of Mrs Radcliffe's novels. Have you read them?'

She watched as Samuel shook his head, those arms remaining stubbornly folded. ‘Alas, no—gothic fiction is not really to my taste.' He continued to hover awkwardly for a moment, glancing down at himself. ‘I should go. I only came down to fetch a brandy. I should not...well, should not be standing in front of you looking like this.'

Despite the fact that the way he looked was making her heart continue to race, Hope found herself laughing. ‘I've seen you now, Samuel, so I dare say the damage is done.'

‘You may laugh, but what if Charles or Smithson walked in now and saw us together like this?'

Hope considered this for a moment, then carefully took off her shawl and passed it to him. ‘Here,' she said. ‘For your modesty. Now you can fetch your brandy.'

Samuel draped the shawl over his broad shoulders. In truth, its fine fabric offered little coverage, and Hope could still spy a great swathe of his bare chest and stomach beneath it. He looked ridiculous, and oddly more appealing than ever.

‘Would you like one too?' he asked, holding up the decanter.

Hope nodded. Given her current state, a drop of something strong was perhaps not a bad idea. Although whether it was within brandy's capacity to dampen rampant desire, she had no idea.

‘Have you finished reading Mr Hume then?' he asked as he poured two small glasses, handing one of them to her as he sat down in a chair opposite.

‘No, but I was not in the mood for history tonight. Escaping into some fiction seemed much more appealing.'

‘Too much on your mind?' he asked.

‘Indeed,' she agreed, not daring to say more about the exact nature of the thoughts which troubled her. Thoughts about him, thoughts about leaving. Thoughts about all the lies she'd told.

Samuel held up his brandy glass. ‘Same,' he replied. ‘Hence the need for this.' He paused, taking a considered sip. ‘Charles said you sat with Miss Gordon for a little while this afternoon. How was she?'

‘In low spirits, if I'm honest. It's plain to see that she fears the loss of her tinctures. I cannot say I blame her. Ceasing to take laudanum after the body has become accustomed to it can make you very unwell. My mother tried to give it up several times, but after days of fever and sickness she would always return to it.'

‘Then we must keep a close eye on her, to ensure that does not happen. Tomorrow I will ask Smithson to ensure Maddie and one or two of the other maids take turns to remain with Miss Gordon throughout her recovery.'

Hope smiled. ‘That is a good idea. I will assist them too.'

Samuel let out a long breath, clearly contemplating something. ‘Charles seemed to suggest that Miss Gordon's headaches are responsible for her low spirits,' he said after a moment. ‘However, I am unsure. He seems very evasive about the entire matter, which makes me suspicious that there's more to his sister's current woes than he's telling me. Has Miss Gordon said anything to you that might shed some light on what is going on?'

Hope shook her head. ‘No, but, like you, I think whatever ails her could be due to more than headaches. Between her sombre countenance and cutting remarks, it is not difficult to see that she is deeply unhappy.'

‘I suppose it is none of our business,' Samuel mused, before draining his glass. ‘I dare say once she's well enough to travel, both Charles and his sister will be on their way. I spent an awkward evening with him earlier—it is abundantly clear this whole sorry episode has left him feeling very uncomfortable. And if I know anything about Charles, it's that his usual response to such feelings is to flee.'

Hope took a gulp of her brandy, steeling herself. ‘Perhaps I should go then too,' she said, her heart pounding so hard that the sound of it seemed to echo in her ears. She did her best to ignore it, to remind herself that this was something she had to discuss with him. She had to make plans to leave, no matter how hard, how painful it seemed. ‘I am well enough to travel now. Perhaps, if Mr and Miss Gordon would oblige me, I could travel as far as Lancashire with them, and make my own way from there.'

She watched with bated breath as Samuel's brows drew together in concern.

‘I promised you that I would escort you to London, Hope.'

‘But that was before the Gordons arrived and...' She faltered momentarily, her thoughts scattering as she saw the consternation growing on his handsome face. ‘You have done so much for me, Samuel—truly, I am indebted to you. But I do not wish to cause you any more inconvenience, not when there is another possible solution.'

‘But once you reach Blackburn, you will still be hundreds of miles from London, and you will be on your own,' he replied, shaking his head. ‘Surely that is no solution at all.'

Samuel leaned forward, the shawl slipping from his shoulders and unveiling that magnificent physique once again. Hope swallowed hard, dragging her gaze back up to meet his.

‘I do not wish to tell you what to do. Indeed, I am not your father, your brother, or...' He pressed his lips together momentarily. ‘Or your husband. Therefore, as you once reminded me, you are not my concern. And yet I am concerned. I'm concerned about you going to London, about this uncle of yours, about you wandering straight back into danger. I'm concerned that there is so much more to your story than I know...'

‘Well, that makes two of us,' Hope countered, giving him a pointed look and trying to ignore how her heart lurched at the thought of how little he did know. How dreadful the truth was. ‘Last night you told me that you are not who I believe you to be. What did you mean?'

Even in the dim candlelight his grim expression was unmistakable.

‘What I meant was...' He faltered, his blue-grey eyes seeming to darken. For a long moment he pressed his lips together, steeling himself. ‘What I meant to tell you was that I have lied to you. Hayton Hall is not my house. Its lands are not my lands. And I am not a baronet.'

In the night-time quiet of the library, Hope heard someone gasp. She presumed it was her own voice she'd heard, but the sound seemed somehow separate, somehow distant, as a maelstrom of sudden spiralling thoughts gripped her. Of all the possible explanations for his words last night, this was the very last one she could have imagined. To learn that he was not Hayton's baronet at all had shocked her and yet, as she sat there, her mouth agape as she regarded him, she realised that was only the beginning of her concerns.

A deathly cold chill crept up her spine as the full ramifications of his deceit flooded through her mind. If he was not a baronet, and if Hayton Hall was not his, then the protection she'd felt and the sanctuary she'd enjoyed was surely no such thing at all. Her father was a ruthless, dangerous man—if Samuel was not the prominent, important gentleman she'd believed him to be, then her father would think nothing of snatching her away from him and, worse still, perhaps even harming Samuel in the process. No matter who Samuel really was, she could not bear the thought that she'd unwittingly endangered him. She shivered, feeling suddenly exposed, as the illusion of her safe hiding place crumbled in the face of Samuel's lies. What if her father was drawing near? What if he'd already found her and was just waiting for the right moment to take her away?

‘I am so sorry, Hope,' Samuel continued, clearly grappling with her stunned silence, with the look of horror she doubtless wore upon her face. ‘Please understand that I only want to protect you, that I care about you. When I kissed you last night, I...'

‘No,' she interrupted him, unable to bear her own thoughts or his words any longer. Unable to countenance hearing that he cared about her when her mere presence in this house might yet lead him into danger. ‘That kiss was a mistake—a moment of madness.' She rose from her seat, hurrying now towards the door. ‘I must leave Hayton as soon as possible. I must speak to Mr Gordon tomorrow.'

Hope hurried out of the library before Samuel could spy the tears which had begun to gather in her eyes. Tears of shock, tears of terror—tears which acknowledged that the safe haven she'd put so much faith in lay in ruins, and the protection she'd believed Samuel had given her had turned to dust.