Chapter Fifteen

‘A moment of madness.'

Samuel replayed those words over and over in his mind as he sat at his desk, trying and hopelessly failing to concentrate on working through the pile of papers in front of him. He'd been like this for a couple of days now, attempting to bury himself in the business of running the Liddell estate, to avoid everything and everyone as much as he reasonably could. Mostly, all he'd managed to do, however, was revisit that night-time encounter with Hope again and again, picking over its details while he licked his wounds.

The sight of her sitting in the library, ashen-faced, eyes wide with horror as he confessed the truth seemed to have etched itself indelibly on his brain. He'd expected her to be shocked, angry even, but the fact that she'd appeared so appalled, so offended by the idea that he was neither a landowner nor a baronet, had devastated him. And then there were those words she'd uttered as she'd retreated from him, rejecting his affection for her so emphatically that he felt as though his heart had been trampled on all over again.

That kiss was a mistake—a moment of madness.

All he'd said was that he cared for her, and yet now that she knew who he truly was she could not even countenance that.

Samuel groaned, burying his head in his hands. How could he have got it so wrong, how could he have so gravely misunderstood a woman's feelings for a second time? In the summer he'd wrongly interpreted Charlotte's flirtatiousness as genuine interest in him, and now he'd allowed himself to imagine that the way Hope had kissed him back might have been an expression of her affection for him. Perhaps it had—but it was an affection which had been easily extinguished as soon as she'd discovered that it held no promise of becoming Lady Liddell.

Of course, she would have known there was no prospect of that if he'd been truthful with her from the beginning. In that respect, Samuel knew he only had himself to blame for her evident disappointment in who and what he really was. He deserved every bit of her dismay, her ire, her swift retreat from his affections. He deserved to feel humiliated.

If only he had explained who he was straight away. If only he hadn't kissed her. If only holding her in his arms like that hadn't felt so perfect. If only he hadn't lost his head in that moment of madness in the library, then he wouldn't be on the cusp of losing his heart now too. Because he was, wasn't he? That was why Hope's rejection of him hurt so much.

And now she was going to leave him. She was going to step into Charles Gordon's carriage and never look back. It was the prospect of that, Samuel realised, which hurt most of all.

Despite being preoccupied by his sister's woes, Charles had not failed to notice that something was amiss between Samuel and Hope.

‘Trouble in paradise, Sammy?' he'd asked after knocking on the library door yesterday and trying to coax Samuel out for some tea.

Miserably, Samuel had informed his friend that Hope now knew that he was not Hayton's baronet, and that she had not taken the news well. He had not been able to bring himself to talk about that kiss, or the way she'd rejected him—the wound that had inflicted was still too raw to be confided to anyone. But he had told Charles that Hope now intended to leave, and that she wished to enlist his help to do so—if she hadn't already.

‘She'd talked of leaving before now, and no doubt learning the truth about me has made her more desperate to do so,' he'd finished with a heavy sigh. ‘I've made a terrible mess of this, Charles. I have only myself to blame.'

His friend had sat down at the other side of his desk, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. ‘Miss Swynford hasn't said anything to me about leaving,' he replied. ‘Perhaps she's had a change of heart?'

‘Somehow, I doubt that.'

‘Well, even if she hasn't, do you not think you should talk to her about it, rather than skulking around in here? I'm not blind, Sammy. I've seen the way you look at her. You cannot possibly want her to leave. Why don't you just tell her how you feel?'

Samuel had winced at the thought of it. He'd tried to speak to her about his feelings once, he'd told her that he cared for her, and look where that had got him.

‘So, I am correct then?' Charles had continued, taking his friend's silence as acquiescence. ‘You are smitten with the chit?'

‘I care very much about her,' Samuel had begun, his voice sounding odd and strangled, even to himself. ‘I want to protect her. I want to help...'

‘Then I would suggest that you talk to her,' Charles had concluded as he rose from his seat. ‘You've told her the truth about yourself, Sammy, but perhaps it's time for a bit more honesty. All cards on the table, so to speak.'

Charles's words rattled around Samuel's head as he tried once again to apply himself to his work. In the end he pushed his papers aside, frustrated. Samuel was more accustomed to being on the receiving end of Charles's teasing than he was to being the recipient of his advice. But for all that he was boisterous and more than a little ungovernable at times, his friend's heart was usually in the right place. Perhaps, Samuel considered, his advice was worth heeding. Perhaps he should try to talk to Hope, to explain himself properly. Certainly, it would be better than sitting at his desk feeling sorry for himself.

Surely it couldn't do any more harm. Could it?

Resolved to act rather than dwell any further on it, Samuel leapt out of his seat and hurried out of the room in search of Hope. He strode along the hallway, contemplating where she might be. Often she spent the afternoons sitting with Miss Gordon; if that were the case, he could hardly go bursting in. Perhaps he ought to find Maddie first, and request that she ask Hope to join him in the small parlour...

The sound of soft laughter coming from that very room reached his ears just as he placed his first footstep upon the stairs. Followed by two voices—a woman's and a man's—deep in conversation. Furrowing his brow, Samuel drew closer to the door, then turned the doorknob and walked in.

Hope's wide-eyed expression was what struck him first, as though his sudden intrusion had alarmed her. He watched as her lips parted in surprise, her teacup suspended in mid-air. Across from her sat Charles, that usual broad smile of his illuminating his face as he rose from the comfort of the sofa.

‘Ah! Finally dragged yourself away from all that work, have you, Sammy?' Charles greeted him. ‘Come and join us for some tea.'

Despite his friend's beckoning, Samuel found that he could not move. Instead, he seemed frozen to the spot, his gaze flitting between the pair of them, taking in the cosy scene. The teapot on the table, the small plate of neatly arranged slices of cake at its side. The way their conversation, and Hope's laughter, had ceased the moment he'd walked in...

‘Sammy?' Charles prompted, frowning now.

But still Samuel could not answer. He could only look at the scene before him and think how it reminded him of the events of the summer, when another woman had decided he was not good enough for her and had sought out his older, titled brother instead. Charles might not be titled, but he was the heir to a tradesman's fortune—a better and wealthier prospect, to be sure. As he met Hope's eyes once more, holding her astonished gaze, his blood heated with an intolerable jealousy as it dawned on him that she knew this. That, having learned the truth of who Samuel was, she'd found him lacking and had set her sights far higher.

Just like Charlotte had.

‘I think that I will go and get some air.'

Hope watched, aghast, as Mr Gordon made his excuses and hurried out of the parlour. Little wonder, she thought. The tension in the room was so thick that she doubted a knife could cut through it. Near to the door stood Samuel, his expression severe, his usually merry blue-grey eyes uncharacteristically stormy. Something was amiss, but she was at a loss to understand exactly what.

Since that last meeting with Samuel in the library late at night, and since learning who he really was, she'd managed largely to avoid him. She'd spent her time grappling with the turmoil his deception had caused, placing it with that gnawing guilt of knowing that she continued to deceive him. She could not possibly have done anything to offend him. Indeed, if anyone ought to be angry right now, it was her, wasn't it?

‘Well, are you going to sit down and join me?' she asked, gesturing towards the chair which Charles had recently vacated.

‘I wasn't aware you and Charles took tea together in the afternoons,' he said, ignoring her question.

She frowned. ‘We don't usually. However, I wanted to speak to him about travelling with him and Miss Gordon to Blackburn. I believe I told you I would do so, the last time we spoke properly.'

He seemed to bristle at her reference to that ill-fated conversation. ‘I see,' he replied, giving her a brittle nod. ‘And what did Charles say?'

‘He assured me that once they'd made firm plans for their departure, I would be included in them,' she replied.

In truth, Mr Gordon had been a good deal more non-committal than that, professing a lack of certainty over when his sister would be fit to travel. Certainly, he would not wish to name a date, or so he'd told her. Indeed, he'd confided to her that he'd made the grave mistake of mentioning their return to Shawdale to Miss Gordon and she'd reacted terribly. He would have to tread carefully from now on, he'd said, which meant that Hope would simply have to wait. He'd changed the subject then, trying his best to amuse her, to occupy her with lighter topics of conversation. In response she'd smiled and feigned laughter in all the right places, whilst quietly wondering what on earth she was going to do. The longer she remained at Hayton Hall, the longer she risked bringing danger to its door. Not that she even knew who that door, and this house, actually belonged to...

‘You both certainly looked very at ease in each other's company,' Samuel observed, snapping her out of her thoughts. ‘Given that you were merely discussing travel plans.'

Hope felt the heat of indignation rise in her chest at his insinuation. ‘What are you suggesting, Samuel?' she asked, getting to her feet and marching towards him as she challenged him to spell it out.

‘I'm suggesting that the two of you seem to be getting along very well. Perhaps that is why you are so keen to travel to Blackburn with him and his sister...'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!' Hope threw up her hands in despair. She stood merely a foot away from him now, her hands planted on her hips as she glared up at him. ‘That is completely ridiculous. I've no romantic interest in your friend, Samuel. None whatsoever! I must leave Hayton because my injuries have healed and it is time to do so.'

And because he'd lied to her, she reminded herself quietly. Because she could no longer trust that he was able to protect her, or indeed himself, from the malevolent men who sought her. And because she continued to lie to him too.

Samuel stared at her, unmoved. ‘Charles has much to recommend him,' he began again. ‘He is extraordinarily wealthy, for a start, although he has no title, which I dare say is the paramount consideration...'

‘Not to me!' Hope prodded an angry finger against his chest. Why was he being so insufferable? Where on earth had all this talk of her and Mr Gordon come from?

Touching him, it transpired, was to be her downfall. Almost as soon as she had tapped that finger against the fine fabric of his shirt, her hand seemed to develop a will of its own, her fingers splaying out across his chest, the gesture dissolving from one of fury into one of tenderness. She felt her breath catch in her throat as beneath her hand she sensed his heart beating faster. She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his as he raised his hand, capturing her chin beneath his delicate touch as their lips drew closer.

The kiss which followed was as explosive as it was brief. Hope wasn't sure who deepened it first, such was the speed with which instinct and desire overcame them both. She pressed herself against him, her hands roaming and revelling in the promise of that masculine, athletic physique, hinted at beneath his fine clothes. For his part, Samuel seemed to have absolutely lost control too, his lips firm and hungry against hers, his hands similarly seeking out the curve of her breasts, her waist, her bottom. Then, somewhere within the recesses of her mind, a voice emerged, the one reminding her of his deceit, and of her own. Of the danger of falling for a man she could not have, a man who would be utterly horrified to know who and what she really was. A man she had to leave behind.

‘Enough,' she breathed, stepping away from him, breaking the spell.

She hurried out of the parlour, reeling at what had just occurred. One moment they'd been arguing, the next they'd been kissing—how had that happened? How could she lurch from being in the grip of guilt and anger one moment to melting into his arms the next? She made her way up the stairs as quickly as she could, frantically straightening her hair and her gown as she determined to put a safe distance between her and Samuel.

Perhaps she would go and sit with Miss Gordon for a while. She'd passed many an hour at her bedside of late, relieving either Maddie or one of the other maids of their duties for a while, and finding a sort of refuge in the woman's prolonged silences as she either slept or stared vacantly towards the window. Occasionally, Miss Gordon would reach over and tentatively pat her hand, or offer her an appreciative nod of acknowledgement. It was plain to see that the lady's low spirits persisted, although she had said nothing to Hope about the reasons for her continued malaise. For all her suspicions that at the root of the lady's ills lay something more than headaches, Hope had not attempted to press the matter. After all, she knew as well as anyone what it was like to have things about herself that she was unwilling or unable to discuss. She had a veritable list of them, growing day by day.

Topping that list was her hopeless attraction to a man who had lied to her about who he was. A man who'd just as good as accused her of pursuing his friend! A man who did not even know her real name.

Hope drew a deep breath, composing herself as she reached Miss Gordon's door and knocked gently. It would do no good to torture herself with such thoughts yet again.

‘Maddie?' Hope called softly through the door, frowning that as yet the maid had not come to answer her knock. Usually, Maddie took her turn to care for Miss Gordon in the afternoon, and was always a committed presence at the lady's bedside, just as she had been while Hope had convalesced.

Hope listened for several moments, surprised that she could hear no sound coming from within. Maddie must have been called away, but what of Miss Gordon—was she sleeping? Or had she taken ill once more? Hope's mind returned to her conversation with Mr Gordon, to his words about his sister's reaction to the prospect of returning home. What if she'd had one of her little bottles hidden away and had sought oblivion from it the moment her brother's back was turned?

Gripped by a wave of panic, Hope pushed open Miss Gordon's door and rushed inside. Her eyes darted frantically about, her heart thudding ever harder as she spied the room's damning details one by one: the empty, unmade bed; the pile of clothes abandoned on the floor; the large chest, all of its drawers wide open, as though someone had been looking for something in a hurry.

Hope heard herself gasp.

As though someone had left in a hurry.

But how? When? And where had she gone?

Hope rushed out of the door, her recently healed ankle throbbing in protest as she began to run along the landing and back towards the stairs. ‘Samuel! Mr Gordon!' she cried as loud as she could. ‘I need your help. I think Miss Gordon is missing!'