Through the Smoke

“Such terrible damage. It can’t please you.” He tried to get her to take his other hand instead, but she wanted to minister to the one she held, to let him know that, somehow, it was just as beautiful to her as the rest of him. “It does please me,” she insisted. “Letting me touch you in this way involves an element of trust.”

“Trust?” He sounded like he’d almost choked on the word. “I’m not someone you should trust, Rachel,” he warned, but their hands slid together, smearing the ointment, making their skin slick and sensitive. She got the impression he wanted more. Something held him fast and, since she could scarcely breathe, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what that might be.

“My lord…,” she whispered. She wanted him to slide his hands up her arms, to pull off her nightgown and smooth that ointment all over her body, but he stepped out of reach and put the salve on the table by her bed. “Make sure you put more on in the morning.”

“I will,” she promised and he took his lamp and left.

Suddenly bereft in a way she’d never felt bereft before, Rachel curled up on one side and stared at the light under the crack of his door until her pulse slowed and she finally nodded off.

When she woke, it was late morning, but she was still tired. She felt like she could sleep all day—except there was an argument going on next door.

“In Katherine’s bed?”

“Why not? Last I checked she no longer needed it.”

“But, my lord, how do you expect her family to respond?”

It was Linley and the earl. Rachel easily recognized their voices.

“It’s none of their business.”

“You can’t be serious. News of this will spread like wildfire. She is a mere servant, after all. What are you going to do next, hire her a lady’s maid?”

“No. No doubt that would make her extremely uncomfortable. In any case, she is not a servant. At least, she wasn’t until I employed her.”

Throwing back the covers, Rachel got out of bed and crept closer.

“She is a pauper still the same,” Linley argued.

“She owns the village bookshop. There is plenty of respect in honest industry.”

“You think making her your paramour will go over any better because of the shop?”

“She is not my paramour.”

“Then what is she?”

“My… ward.”

“She is of age, Truman. And you have bedded her.”

“Considering Wythe’s culpability in her deflowering, I am shocked you would bring it up.”

“You know how I feel about your cousin. But that is beside the point. I care about you, am merely trying to remind you what having her so close will mean. Whether you are in actuality lovers, others will assume you are. In this case, it is the perception that counts.”

“I don’t care what the Abbotts ‘perceive.’ I will not let them sit in judgment of me. Had they been honest about Katherine’s character and temperament, I never would have married her.”

“Then what of the Duke of Pembroke? I saw how he treated you, heard what he had to say. It may gall you to be in such a position—and rightfully so—but you are in dire need of his support. Surely you care about his opinion.”

From what Rachel could tell, the earl didn’t answer. It was Linley who continued.

“If you don’t marry his daughter you will be ruined, my lord. He will abandon your cause and the Abbotts will soon have full sway. Do you want to find yourself at the end of a hangman’s noose?”

Rachel winced at the thought of the earl going to the gallows but refused to consider why his marrying upset her just as much. He was still young, needed to produce an heir. And it sounded as if he had the opportunity to make a favorable match. She should be happy for him.

“I refuse to allow whether I swing from the gallows to hinge on where Rachel sleeps.”

“You may not have a choice. Maybe you would have more leeway if you were your old self. But people are wondering about you as it is. You are up all hours of the night. You come and go like a shade. You no longer maintain the relationships that used to be important to you. You should hear the rumors that are circulating in London and elsewhere—”

“And have been circulating for two years,” the earl broke in. “Rachel is not the cause of that. Forget what people are saying!”

“I can’t. And neither can you. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but any odd behavior makes you look guilty.”

Rachel gasped that Linley would be so bold, but the earl didn’t react in anger. He sounded almost… philosophical.

“It wasn’t Katherine’s death that changed me. It was marrying her in the first place. You, of all people, should know that. Certainly you remember how miserable I was, how hard I tried to love her and how bitterly I failed. Anyway, I may not be the man I started out to be, but I will prove my innocence all the same.”

“Just marry the duke’s daughter, my lord. Then you can put the past behind you and, one hopes, forget.”

“I can’t forget, Linley. Not until I prove my innocence.”

“It has been two years and still no one knows how the fire broke out.”

“Someone knows,” the earl insisted. “Maybe even Rachel.”

Rachel covered her mouth and stumbled back, away from the door. She didn’t know. She’d told him as much.

But Elspeth might.

The same maid who had helped her get warm that last miserable night in the garret knocked on the door shortly after noon. She was carrying a tray of food. Rachel guessed the earl had requested it, once again making her grateful for his generosity. She wasn’t sure what would’ve happened had she been forced to go in search of sustenance. She definitely didn’t want to run into Mrs. Poulson. She wasn’t sure of her new place at Blackmoor Hall. Should she try to teach the staff to read, as Lord Druridge had suggested?

Mrs. Poulson would definitely not like that. But would she tolerate it? Or would she find some way to quash it?

“Gaw, look at ye sittin’ in this fine room as if ye own it!” Mary said.

Rachel had donned the wool dress she’d been wearing when she first arrived at Blackmoor Hall. Thankfully, Mrs. Poulson or someone else had piled her belongings on Katherine’s bed last night so she didn’t have to wear her uniform. “It’s beautiful in here, isn’t it?”

“Aye, but I’ve seen the room before. It’s a poor lass bein’ treated like a queen I can’t fathom.” She lowered her voice. “Is he a kind bedfellow?”