The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (13 page)

He went all the way to the first floor without pause and burst into the private parlor with a yell. “Weston! Ferry! Meggie! Where the hell are you?” he yelled as he ran to the door, then stood at the crest of the grand staircase looking out over the entry. “Weston!” he bellowed, as loud as his lungs would allow.

She came up next to him. “Your Grace, you found her!”

“Yes, and it would have been quite nice to know she needed finding,” he answered with a scowl.

Mrs. Weston followed him to the guest suite, running to keep up with his long stride. Roxleigh laid Francine carefully on the bed and she looked up at him with gentle eyes as she reached out, grasping one of his arms before he could move away. She held her right hand straight and flat, the tips of the fingers to her lips, and then moved it forward, but he only stared at her in confusion and worry. Then she mouthed the words
thank you,
and made the motion again.

He nodded to her, taking slight comfort in the fact that her pain seemed to have eased, and turned to Mrs. Weston. “We will discuss this on the morrow. Tonight she needs rest, and
you
will
watch her
,” he said, emphasizing his potential displeasure should his wishes be disregarded again.

“Yes, Your Grace, of course. I’ll not leave her side,” Mrs. Weston replied, her voice quivering, and she went to warm a kettle on the fire.

Roxleigh left Francine propped up on a few pillows, waiting for Mrs. Weston to come back to the bed. When she did, he left and Francine reached for Mrs. Weston’s arm. With her right hand she made a fist and motioned in a circle over her heart, mouthing the words
I’m sorry
. Mrs. Weston’s expression flushed with confusion as Francine repeated the gesture, then understanding broke across her face.

“No, dear! No!
I
am sorry. I should have been close by your side the entire time. I never should’ve left you, and I won’t make the mistake again,” she said.

Francine knew that Mrs. Weston had no idea what had happened tonight in the garden. All she knew was that Francine had disappeared and been returned in the arms of an angry duke. There was no way for her to know of the time shared in the maze, the amount of care he took with her. Mrs. Weston did not know that it had actually been the best night of her entire life, the first night she’d ever felt truly free.

She considered Roxleigh’s actions. No man had ever cared for her. She never had time to deal with them, and frankly they all seemed uninterested and a bit scary. But this one was different. He was concerned, not merely for her health but for her well being. He touched her without moving, her body aware of him regardless of proximity. She could feel him everywhere, and just the thought of him sent blood rushing to the surface of her skin.

She realized his anger was coming from concern and his agitation from some deeply seated emotion that she believed resonated from his gut—because right now, her gut was telling her the same thing.

Dr. Walcott could see dawn breaking through the small gap in the heavy drapes and he heaved a sigh then stood, rubbing his back with stiff fingers. He turned to the girl that had helped him throughout the night and patted her on the shoulder. “Go rest. Send someone else to watch over her. I will give them instructions before I go. There is nothing more that can be done now, but perhaps to pray,” he said quietly.

The girl nodded and took an armload of bloody rags with her as she disappeared. A few minutes later, another servant entered with Lilly’s father behind her.

“Mr. Steele,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I cannot even fathom what it must take for you to look on your daughter like this. I must tell you that in all likelihood she’ll not survive. I’ll stay and see her through as far as I am able, but you should prepare her mother. I’ve never seen injuries as extensive as these, and I don’t know how she’s to survive… Or if she would even want to,” he whispered.

Francine watched as Mrs. Weston pulled the drapes open on the windows, letting in the fresh morning sun, before stoking the fire in the grate and heating a kettle. The room warmed quickly and Mrs. Weston walked to the giant bed.

Francine groaned and rubbed her hands over her face, then cocked an eyebrow as she looked around. She was still here, wherever
here
was. She’d tossed and turned all night, in and out of dreams, her mind replaying the events in the maze. She believed half the images must have been imagined, because she certainly wasn’t aware of the duke being attracted to her before. She decided the excitement had colored her memories, making them more vivid than they actually had been and, in truth, the parts that she knew to be accurate were rather unbecoming and a bit insulting.

Had he actually said that she had no morals?
Yes, he did,
she thought.
He really said that
. Obviously he wasn’t taken with her as much as embarrassed for her sake—or maybe simply for propriety’s sake. Good grief, he was ridiculous. She had never met a man who was so concerned with what others thought.

Francine sat up, looking for Mrs. Weston again. She spied her behind a footman who was pushing in the slipper tub, and she smiled.

“The dressmaker should arrive today, so we should get you all cleaned up.”

Francine watched as Mrs. Weston moved around the room and a parade of housemaids came in through the passage behind the fireplace carrying kettles. Francine sighed as the steam rose, blotting out the countryside as it peeked through the windows. Mrs. Weston added some oils to the bath and then went to help Francine to the tub.

They were starting to get used to each other, and Mrs. Weston turned away politely as Francine disrobed and stepped into the warm bath, then returned and fussed over her hair, straightening tangles and getting it washed.

Francine reached up and patted the hand that gently pushed her forward in the tub.

“Oh dear, sweet. Don’t you worry, miss, we’re going to take good care of you, no matter,” she said.

Francine smiled, leaning her chin on her knees and letting Mrs. Weston take care of her as her mind drifted back to the garden. She closed her eyes, saw him leaning on the wall in front of her, his breathing labored, his movements determined. And his body—aroused?
Is that what I saw?
she thought as she flushed.
Yes, it was.
She could feel the blood tingling close to the surface of her skin, raising goose bumps and tightening her nipples. She leaned back in the tub at Mrs. Weston’s urging, shaking her head under the water to clear her thoughts and rinse the soap from her hair.

“Oh, miss! You’ve caught a chill,” Mrs. Weston said. Francine blushed harder, sending Mrs. Weston in a flurry, yanking the curtains closed and stoking the fire. Francine sat up, giggling, and Mrs. Weston walked over to her. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.

Francine nodded as she glanced up at Mrs. Weston and signed
thank you
.

“You did that last night, miss. You used your hands to tell me something. What was that?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Francine was surprised she remembered any sign language since she hadn’t used it in years. But she used it naturally, as though she had never stopped. One of the girls in the foster home where she was taken after her parents died had been profoundly deaf, and she had learned from her. Francine shrugged, unable to tell Mrs. Weston about it, and signed
thank you
again, this time using both hands for emphasis.

“Well, miss, how do you say you’re welcome?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Francine repeated the sign for
thank you
.

“‘Tis the same?” Mrs. Weston asked. Francine nodded and Mrs. Weston smiled. The housekeeper handed her the bar of lilac soap and turned to ring for her breakfast tray. Francine rubbed her hands around the bar, squeezing to make it spin. She closed her eyes tightly and chanted to herself,
iPod iPod iPod iPod
. She opened her eyes and looked down.
Soap
. She sighed and watched Mrs. Weston as she walked back to the tub.

“Gideon?” Francine whispered, wondering when she would see him again.

Mrs. Weston’s eyes widened. “You must not use his Christian name, miss,” she said stoutly. Francine nodded. “My, but I believe you’re taken with His Grace,” she continued quietly. “Understandable, yet to use his given name would be improper. You cannot do that, and besides, you’re not to speak.”

Francine nodded again and sank into the tub, thinking about the duke, while a broad smile spread across Mrs. Weston’s face.

“Ferry!” Roxleigh sat on the edge of his bed, not bothering to reach for the pull because he felt like yelling.

“Should I have Samson readied?” Ferry asked when he entered.

“No. I’ll be going to London. Pack my things.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ferry said, turning to the wardrobe. “What of the architect?” he asked.

“I’ll leave everything he requires on the grand table,” Roxleigh said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Roxleigh had business to attend to in London that had been waiting for too long, and a few days away from the manor to think seemed more than justified. His ride yesterday had done much to clear his head, but having Francine alone in the maze with him last night had only served to muddle it again. She was so…
Magnificent
seemed to be the only word he could find to do her justice. He could still feel her pressed against him as he ran back to the manor, her hands clasped around his neck, her fingers teasing the curls at his nape. It had steeled every muscle in his body then and sent a shiver through him now.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could still sense her, the lavender and rain. She was so sweet, succulent. He wanted to taste her, breathe her essence, feel her flesh prickle with awareness as his fingers gently caressed her. He knew from the reactions he’d already witnessed how she would respond to him. How her breath would be nothing more than a sigh. He stood, fighting another rush of blood. This was not good. He couldn’t prowl around the manor like an unsatisfied rake, and he knew if he stayed here that’s exactly what he would end up doing. For Francine’s sake, and his own, he had to leave.

Three hours later, Francine was surrounded by soft pastel muslins; lush, heavy velvets in burgundy and deep blue; prickly, stiff tulle; dark, serviceable broadcloth; vibrant, slippery satins; heavy patterned brocades; and several other exquisite fabrics covered in pearls, beads, and lace. The volume of the fabrics overwhelmed her, as did the speed with which the dressmaker spun them around her body, making measurements and notes and then moving on to the next. “Laura, that pink is horrible with her complexion. Try the deeper silk,” Madame Basire said.

“Yes, ma’am,” her assistant replied, dropping the bolt of fabric into a pile and reaching for a deep blue Italian silk and a black corded trim.

Mrs. Weston stood. “No, that color is too bold, Madame. His Grace would never agree, and you know it isn’t proper for a miss,” she said sternly.

Francine groaned.
Proper, proper, proper!
I am so sick of proper.
She had never felt so trapped by her inability to speak. Madame Basire grasped the divine silk, wrapping it around Francine’s middle as she watched the end flutter gracefully to the floor. Francine grinned at the way it drifted about her ankles. She glanced at Mrs. Weston, who was refusing to return her pleading look.