Chapter 6

The hair ribbon was still bothering him.

Max hadn’t thought about that specific detail in a very long time, likely because he tried to block everything about that day and night from his memory. But yesterday, that girl’s scarlet ribbon had taken him back, and while he’d done a fair job of keeping himself from recalling what had happened, he couldn’t stop the wave of fury and despair. It wasn’t the memory itself, it was the memory of the emotions. News of the battle won in Waterloo added to his unease even though Napoleon had been defeated.

God, he felt so weak.

He finished another glass of whisky and was about to get up to pour another when there was a light knock on the door. No one bothered him here at this time of night. Mrs. Bundle had long ago cleared away his half-eaten dinner.

And it wasn’t the library door, so he didn’t think it would be Miss Treadway. He’d successfully avoided her all day too, which he’d considered a victory. She either annoyed him or somehow coaxed him to agree to things he’d refused to consider. She’d even somehow managed to get him to drive her around the damned estate. But he was through succumbing to her magnetic charm.

The knock came again, and Max pushed himself up. He ambled to the door and opened it just wide enough to see who the hell was intruding on his solitude. It was her.

Dressed in a tidy, pale yellow gown, she looked fresh and lovely. That included the strands of dark hair that grazed her neck. Rebel hair that refused to remain neatly pinned. Of course she would have that.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said with her usual buoyant tone and easy smile. “I missed you at dinner.”

“I can’t imagine why you would have expected to see me. Last night was an anomaly.”

“I hoped it wasn’t. May I come in for a few minutes?”

“I was about to retire,” he fibbed.

“I shan’t take long.” She pushed inward, and he had no choice but to step back unless he wanted to be a complete brute. He wasn’t that far gone. Not yet.

Her gaze fell on his empty glass beside the chair he’d been sitting in by the hearth. “What are you drinking?”

“Whisky.”

“Irish or Scotch?”

“Scotch. My father was rather fond of it.” He used to have a friend who smuggled it south. “This has been in the cupboard for nearly twenty years, I think.”

“Is it good?” she asked.

“I like it.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Are you going to offer me any, or do I have to ask?”

Max blew out an irritated breath. “I told you I was going to retire.”

“You did, but our conversation will be much more pleasant if we have a nightcap to go with it.”

“Please tell me you aren’t delivering bad news,” he said with exasperation. “Or going out of your way to annoy me?”

“No bad news, and I didn’t think I had to try to annoy you. You made it seem as though my simple existence was enough.”

“Saucy chit,” he muttered as he went to pour her a glass of whisky. After handing it to her, he refilled his glass and set the bottle back on the cabinet beside bottles of port and brandy.

She perched on a small chair situated near the hearth, but thankfully not too close to his. “Did you post the letter to Lucien this morning that I left on your desk?”

“Yes. When did you do that?” He looked at her intently. “It wasn’t here when I left last night.”

“I get up rather early, and especially so today, since I was touring the estate with Archie. Are you going to ask me what the letter was about?”

“No.” He sipped his drink.

“I informed him you are hiring a steward and asked for his assistance. I hope he’ll send some names. That was before I discovered a potential candidate.” She took a sip and immediately coughed. A deep grimace lined her face, and she put her fingers to her lips. “Good lord, this is quite strong.”

Max stared at her mouth and the hand covering it. She had long, delicate fingers, he realized, fingers that ought to play the pianoforte. Or… His mind was suddenly overcome with lewd images of things her lovely fingers could do.

He jerked his attention to the hearth. “Would you prefer port or brandy?”

“No, this is good. After a few more sips, I’ll be used to it.”

“You’ve experience drinking whisky?” He dared look at her again, and thankfully, her hand was in her lap while the other still held the glass.

“From working at the Phoenix Club, yes. If Lord Wexford is around, there’s a debate as to which is superior—Irish or Scotch. Because he’s Irish.”

“What’s your opinion?” He both hated and loved that he found her so interesting.

“In truth, I prefer the Irish, but I don’t ever say. It’s better to be noncommittal.” She winked at him before taking another sip. This time, she barely winced.

“You actually drink with the gentlemen?”

“Certainly. I probably would anyway, given my position in the club, but on Tuesdays, women may enter the gentlemen’s side of the club. It’s probably the busiest night of the week. When we aren’t hosting assemblies most Fridays during the Season, that is.”

Max stared at her. “Lucien allows women into the club?”

“Did you not realize that?” She laughed softly. “There’s a ladies’ side and a gentlemen’s side. The men are never allowed on our side—save our half of the ballroom during assemblies. But we’re given access to theirs on Tuesdays. It’s deliciously rewarding.”

There was a seductive quality to the rich glee in her tone that stirred something inside him, something he wanted to keep buried. He didn’t like spending time with her.

Because he did.

She gave him a pointed look. “I think Lucien is hoping you will accept his invitation for membership.”

“I’m rarely in London.”

“It would be a good reason to come.” She seemed to want to say more, but didn’t.

He grunted. “I don’t like social gatherings.”

“You could find a quiet corner at the club. The library is a nice place to enjoy peace and solitude. And the whisky is unparalleled.” She lifted her glass in a silent toast.

He met her gaze and narrowed his. “Are you maligning my whisky?”

“Not at all. But if you’re fond of it, you could sample many different kinds.”

“You’re not talking me into joining that club. You’ve persuaded me to do enough as it is.”

“All necessary and important things, I assure you,” she said cheerfully. “I was able to hire someone in the village today to help Mrs. Kempton for the next fortnight. The young woman was grateful for the work. In fact, she’d make a wonderful addition to your household, perhaps as a maid. Mrs. Bundle could certainly use the help.”

He glowered at her, knowing she was right and hating that she was making this look so bloody easy. “I see what you’re trying to do.”

“Good. I’m certainly not trying to be secretive. You can’t keep employing Mrs. Tallent’s children. She needs them on her farm. Mrs. Debley requires additional kitchen staff, Og needs help in the stables, and Mrs. Bundle needs maids. You could also use a butler and a valet.”

“I don’t need either of those. Butlers are for people who have guests.”

“Am I not a guest?”

“You are an aberration.”

She rolled her eyes, not in the least insulted, not that he expected her to be. “I’m still a guest. A butler will keep your household in order so that you don’t have to. If you truly want to retreat into yourself and live an isolated existence, you must rely on others to maintain Stonehill.”

“I’m already doing that.”

She exhaled in exasperation. “You’re asking a handful of people to do the work of many more. Surely you know that. I can only conclude that you don’t care about these people—or the estate.”

“I definitely don’t care about the estate. It can rot into the ground as far as I care.”

“What of your heirs?”

“I don’t have any bloody heirs, nor do I plan to,” he said, gritting his teeth as his anger began to escalate.

She didn’t seem surprised. “Then think of the people around you—the retainers and the tenants. You’re going to lose them if you don’t change things, and then where will you be?”

“Right where I want to be.”

Her mouth rounded briefly before she snapped it closed. There was the surprise. “That can’t be true.”

“It is, and I can’t change that.”

“You mean won’t. You didn’t used to be like this, as far as I can tell. Why can’t you go back to being the man you once were?”

He leapt out of the chair and grasped the arms of hers, leaning over her. “That man is gone. Just as you’re going to be. Get out of the chair and my house.” He bared his teeth at her.

She plastered her shoulders to the chair and lifted her chin. “No.”

Fury raged inside him. He leaned closer, his face a few inches from hers. “I will pick you up and toss you out.”

Her gaze frosted. “Is that what you did to my friend Prudence when she came looking for a job?”

What the hell was she talking about? “Who is Prudence?”

“Prudence Lancaster. Actually, she’s the Viscountess Glastonbury now.”

Recognition lit his brain. He knew that name. Lucien had come pleading for a dowry for her. But Miss Treadway wasn’t talking about that. “She didn’t come here for a job or anything else.”

“Actually, she did. It was some time ago now, and thankfully, Lucien was here to rescue her from destitution by helping her find a job as a paid companion. How a wonderful man like him remains friendly or continues to believe in someone like you is beyond me, but that’s just who Lucien is.”

Every word she said struck his chest like a knife blade, slicing into him with painful precision. His anger remained, but she’d taken the acid from it. “I don’t know why he does that either. I’ve told him not to.” He let go of her chair and backed away, disgusted with himself for menacing her like that.

She smoothed her hand across her forehead and relaxed her shoulders, showing she’d been far more tense—and perhaps even afraid—than he’d realized. Then she took her longest drink of whisky yet. “This is no way to live, Warfield. Do you truly like feeling grumpy and being alone?”

“Yes.” The word creaked from his throat like an old, unused door hinge.

“I don’t believe you. I think you’ve simply forgotten how to feel anything else.”

“I’ve good reason,” he mumbled before taking another drink.

“Because some bad things have happened to you. Bad things happen to everyone, and we find a way to carry on.”

He growled, curling his lip. “You’ve no idea.”

“I’ve survived a number of bad things.”

“Such as what?”

“My father died, my mother died…my sister also died.” She swallowed, her gaze moving to the wall behind him. “And other things.”

Curiosity about those other things burned in his mind, but he didn’t ask. “My parents and my brother also died. I have no family left.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Except your half sister. Remember Prudence?”

“Of course I remember. I just didn’t recall her name. Her existence dredges up more bad things—that my father was completely unfaithful to my mother and was a lying scoundrel. There’s a special pain in learning your hero was a fraud.” He finished his whisky and immediately refilled his tumbler.

She was silent a moment as she sipped her drink. At last, she said, “I’m sorry. But that isn’t Prudence’s fault. She didn’t get to choose the circumstances of her birth. Why wouldn’t you give her a dowry? I’m fairly certain you can afford it.”

He cast his head back and looked at the ceiling. Shadows waved here and there with the flickering candlelight. “I preferred to pretend she didn’t exist. It was rather childish of me.”

“I’m glad you recognize that, but she’s a real person. A lovely one too. You’d like her.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Perhaps you should. I thought for a brief moment last night that you might like me.”

He lowered his gaze to hers and found her watching him intently. Yes, he’d thought that too. He ought to tell her he didn’t, that he never would, that he was biding his time until she was gone—they were halfway there.

But the words wouldn’t come. He’d been nothing but an absolute blackguard since he’d come back from Spain. Did he really want to spend the rest of his life in this misery?

The problem was that he didn’t know how to escape it. But he had to admit that having her here ensured he was at least thinking of something else part of the time.

He ignored what she said and went back to his half sister. “It sounds as if you know Prudence well.”

“She’s my best friend.”

He snorted. What were the fucking odds that this slip of a woman who’d turned his life upside down in a week was best friend to the half sister he never wanted?

Actually, given his luck, the odds were quite good.

“You are an aberration,” he murmured before sipping his whisky. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed suddenly caught up with him, making his head spin. This was not a good place to be. This was the state where his emotions were unpredictable, where he was in real danger.

He stood, and the floor wavered beneath his feet.

“Can I move forward with hiring people?”

“No.” He shook his head and immediately regretted the motion as the room continued to spin long after he stilled.

“But you need them,” she said with determination. “Will you at least let me hire Teresa when she’s finished helping Mrs. Kempton?”

“You won’t be here then.” He made his way to the door, still carrying his whisky, though he didn’t plan to drink anymore. He’d had enough to settle into oblivion, where red ribbons and nagging bookkeepers wouldn’t trouble him.

“I can do it now,” she called after him.

He didn’t respond. The sooner he lost himself to darkness, the better everything would be.

Ada woke, her eyes shooting open as if she’d been startled by a sound. But there hadn’t been a sound. Rolling to her side, she stared into the darkness, wondering how long she’d been asleep. She’d tossed and turned interminably before finally succumbing to exhaustion.

But now her mind was working, as it had when sleep had been elusive. She was thinking of Warfield again and was still unsettled at how their evening had ended. Or perhaps she was disappointed in herself for the way she’d talked to him about Prudence and Lucien. She shouldn’t have compared them.

What was she even doing? She was supposed to be tidying his ledgers and determining the state of his affairs. Lucien had given her a simple assignment, and she’d turned it into an investigation because of her infernal curiosity.

Yet here she was, and she couldn’t un-know what she’d learned. Warfield was trapped by something, and she’d wager anything that he wanted to be free, even if he didn’t realize it yet.

Guilt was a horrible thing. Ada knew that better than most. It had ruined her life for two long years in which she’d inhabited the darkest spaces before pulling herself from despair.

Then she’d spent two more long years reinventing herself and trying to leave the past behind. She’d done a fair job of it too, until she’d made yet another mistake. She hoped she wasn’t bungling things now by sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

Not that she could seem to help herself.

Agitated, Ada threw the covers aside and slid from the bed. There was a chill in the air, so she grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it over her night rail before shoving her feet into slippers. She went to the hearth and stirred the coals, adding fuel to the fire until flames began to lick the air.

Now she was warm. And still restless.

Perhaps a walk would help. Did she need a candle? She went to the door and opened it, peering into the gallery that ran the length of the first floor. A few sconces lit the way, banishing the need for a candle, thank goodness.

Slipping from her chamber, she closed the door and wandered along the gallery. There wasn’t enough light to study the paintings along the way, except for the ones next to the sconces.

She stopped at the first such portrait and wondered if this was one of Warfield’s relatives. The man stared back at her with blue eyes and a round face tinged with mirth. There was absolutely no resemblance.

Moving on, she meandered back and forth across the gallery, stopping at the next sconce, where a haughty young woman gazed at her from probably the midseventeenth century. The portrait had to predate the current house, unless it had been painted decades later than the time it seemed to portray. There was a fullness to the woman’s lips that reminded her of Warfield. He had an incredibly sensual mouth for a man. She longed to see what it did when he smiled, a slow, lazy, thoroughly seductive smile that would melt anyone who beheld it. She imagined him doing that during his younger years, when he’d left school and gone to sow his wild oats. She hoped she’d get a chance to ask him about that period of his life.

As she neared the other end of the gallery, a distant sound drew her attention. She continued until she found herself in a sitting room. The sound came again, much louder this time—a horrible keening that nearly pulled her heart from her chest.

Rushing forward, she hesitated when the moaning stopped. She stood just outside the door, her pulse roaring. Then it started once more, and she jumped in reaction.

It was an awful, gut-wrenching sound. She couldn’t ignore it.

Then he screamed.

Ada pushed into the chamber, heedless of what she might find, only knowing that she had to help whoever was making that terrible noise.

As if she didn’t know.

The chamber was nearly dark, with only the coals in the hearth for light. The keening had stopped, but the figure in the bed thrashed. Then went suddenly quiet.

She crept to the side of the bed and made out his form. He lay on his back, his arm cast over his eyes as his chest heaved. Was he awake?

“Warfield,” she whispered. The covers were pushed away, and he was nearly nude, garbed in only small clothes covering his groin. A nasty scar, far angrier than the ones on his face, marred his thigh. Letting her gaze rove upward, she saw more scars on his chest—a small round disk on his right shoulder, a long, thin arc across his chest, another burn on his left side between his shoulder and collarbone.

He cried out again, startling her once more. “Warfield,” she said more loudly, reaching for him. The moment she touched his arm, she realized she’d miscalculated.

He vaulted up and grasped her, turning her so that he pinned her to the bed. Then his hands wrapped around her throat, his eyes open but sightless as he stared down at her.

“No!” she managed to shout.

His hands fell away. “Oh God.” He collapsed beside her and drew her against himself. “I’m so sorry, my love. Forgive me. I would never hurt you. I thought you were someone else.” He brushed the hair that had come loose from her braid away from her face. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “You’re here.” He stroked her back as his lips found hers.

Ada went stiff with shock, but only for a moment. Her body decided she didn’t mind his touch or his kiss, and she found herself clasping his shoulders.

His tongue drove deep into her mouth, stirring a sultry desire she’d hoped was buried. Alas, it roared to life, stoked by his caresses.

She clung to him, gripping the back of his neck as he moved over her, pressing her into the mattress. He was hot and hard, and his weight upon her was delicious. Lust pulsed in her sex, making her mindless and desperate.

He skimmed his hand to her breast, stroking her through her clothing and bringing her nipple to a tight peak. She arched up, kissing him with hungry abandon.

He murmured something she didn’t understand, a foreign language perhaps, as he licked along her jawline. This was wrong. She didn’t think he knew who she was. Perhaps he didn’t even know where or when he was.

But then he rolled to his side and went silent and still. Ada stared at the bed hangings above her, unable to move. Her heart raced and her skin tingled. She felt him next to her, his arm against hers.

He twitched, then made a sound that was part gasp and part grunt. Then he was gone, pushing away from her. “What…?”

She turned her head to see him staring at her in horror. “I thought you were having a nightmare.”

“I was, I think.” He sounded breathless. Glancing down at himself, he swore. Her gaze followed his, but she knew what she’d see—his erection, because she’d felt it between her legs, pressing against her in the most glorious way.

Ada sat up as he leapt from the bed and grabbed a dressing gown. He wrapped it around himself and fastened it closed before turning to face her.

“Why are you here?”

“I shouldn’t have come, but I heard you and I was concerned. I wanted to help. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” he croaked before running a hand through his already tousled blond hair.

She chose her next words carefully. Curiosity was going to kill her, but she refused to submit. She really did just want to help. “Would you like me to sit with you for a bit? Just sit here. Together.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, his head slightly cocked as he stared at her. “I suppose.” Slowly, he returned to the bed and sat beside her, but not close enough to touch.

“I used to have nightmares,” she said, closing her eyes briefly and taking a long, deep breath to calm her racing heart.

“About your parents who died?”

“No, it was about my sister, Clara. She was younger than me by eight years.”

“She’s the sister who died?”

Ada clasped her hands together as sweat prickled her neck. “Yes. It was my fault,” she whispered. “Our mother was already sick, and as the eldest daughter—I was fifteen—I had to take care of everyone. I took her with me to fetch my mother’s medicine. There was a kitten, not that I saw it. Clara squealed that she saw one.” Ada’s limbs began to tremble, and she became very cold. She hadn’t told this story in a long time. “I told her to keep up, that we needed to get home. But she ran after the kitten into the street. There was a coach.” The next words clogged her throat, and she couldn’t speak.

His warmth was against her, his thigh pressed to hers as he put his hand over hers. “The children at the farm,” he said softly. “You were upset when they ran toward the cart. I thought there was something the matter. I should have said something.”

Ada swallowed, then coughed slightly to clear her throat. “Why would you? You aren’t meddlesome like I am.” She let out a hollow laugh.

“You aren’t always meddlesome. You’re helpful. Anyway, I should at least have acknowledged another person’s distress. You do it with me.” He hesitated, his thumb stroking her hand. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I can’t seem to help myself. I suppose it’s my curiosity, but I just…I care.”

“Why would you care about me?”

“I care about everyone.” Especially those in pain, which he most definitely was.

“I’m so sorry about your sister,” he said. “You blame yourself for that?”

“I do. So did my mother. She died a few months later. I don’t think she ever forgave me. She didn’t tell me so, anyway.”

His hand tightened around hers. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“I’ve learned not to—most of the time.” She shook her shoulders out. “It wasn’t easy. You asked me why I’m happy. Because I choose to be. It’s better than the alternative. My brother drove me out after our mother died, insisting my sister Agatha, who was just a year younger than I, could do everything I was doing, only better—meaning she wouldn’t get our other younger sister killed.”

“That’s awful,” he whispered. “Your sisters didn’t defend you?”

“No.” How that had hurt too. “They went along with our brother. My youngest sister was devastated. She blamed me more than the others did, and that was quite a great deal.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I spent a long time alone, sad and blaming myself.” She’d barely existed, begging for food and eventually selling the only thing she could to survive. But just once. “I let myself fall to the lowest level of despair and then I said, no more.”

“What did you do?” He sounded enthralled, as if his next breath depended on her answer.

She turned her head to look at him and could just make out the tension in his face. “I knew in that moment, after I’d done the unthinkable of selling my body to simply exist, that I wanted to live. I left Plymouth and went to Cornwall, where I started over. I worked my way to becoming a governess. After a few years, I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore and I came to London. Every day, I choose to be happy, to live.”

Had she said too much? She’d only ever shared that with one other person—her dear friend Evie, who’d brought her to London and introduced her to Lucien. “I’m not trying to persuade you to do anything. I’m truly just answering your question.”

“You’re incredibly brave.” There was awe in his voice, and it made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t know if that’s true. I was afraid of what I’d become, of where I was going, where I would end up.”

“Leaving that and choosing the light over the dark, that’s bravery. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She rotated her hand so she could clasp his and allowed herself to smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for sharing your story.”

“I don’t usually do that.” She let out an uneven laugh. “I know you think I talk too much, but that’s not something I tell people.” Yet she’d told him rather easily. What’s more, she felt good about doing so. Indeed, she felt a lightness, as if he’d somehow taken a piece of her burden. “Guilt is a terrible thing. It will eat at you until there’s nothing left.”

He let go of her hand, and she immediately knew she’d gone a trifle too far. The wall was back up.

He stood. “What were you doing on this side of the house anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, also rising. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dressing gown. “I was walking along the gallery when I heard you call out.” She wasn’t going to describe what she’d actually heard. He didn’t need to know what he’d sounded like—a horribly wounded animal.

“I hope I didn’t frighten you.” His gaze met hers briefly.

“No.” Perhaps for a moment, but she wouldn’t tell him that either. He didn’t need even a speck more guilt.

She longed to touch him, to tell him she was there for him, that he could share his story with her if he wanted. But his defenses were back in place, and she didn’t want to push him to anger. She knew how easily she annoyed him.

Unless by kissing her, he could become somehow immune to that? No, she wouldn’t be that na?ve. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was drawn to him, that she had been almost since the moment she’d arrived.

“You should return to your chamber.” He didn’t look at her.

“Yes. Good night.” She turned to go on suddenly quivering legs.

“Good night.”

She made it out of his chamber, closing the door behind her, before her shoulders drooped and she clapped her hand over her mouth. This couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t allow it.

All she needed was another Jonathan—another mistake—to remind her that the only way she found happiness was on her bloody own.