Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

“Whoa…” he murmured, and set the brake, his gaze riveted to the bushes. There, another glimpse of creamy yellow, the same shade as the overblouse Miss Pickford had been wearing.

Then he heard a low moan.

Panting, Thea propped herself on her hands, but the motion triggered another bout of nausea; she retched, sides heaving, perspiration mingling with the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. Not since the night she’d visited Grandfather in that dreadful jail had she suffered from an attack this vicious. Stupid, stupid, stupid not to have realized what might happen if her little scheme to attract Edgar Fane worked.

Or more precisely, didn’t work. The blackguard might have noticed her, but she hadn’t garnered sufficient interest for an invitation to return to the hotel with the rest of his more favored guests.

Listen to yourself, Theodora. Her entire life now re flected the moral virtue of a…a vaudeville singer.

Which punishment in Dante’s Inferno did she deserve, for becoming that which she most despised? The dizziness intensified, sucking her down, down into the depths. God would never forgive her, because she would never forgive herself.

“What the—” a man’s voice exclaimed, and strong hands closed around her shoulders.

“Don’t…” Thea managed before her stomach heaved again and she gagged.

“Easy. Shh…don’t fight me, you’ll make it worse.”

The deep, now-familiar voice soothed, but humiliation scorched rational thought. Better a party of drunken fishermen had stumbled upon her than this man. “Mr. Stone…” Thea managed in a hoarse whisper, “please leave me alone. I’ll…in a moment I’ll be fine. I just need…” The effort to converse overwhelmed her. She could only close her eyes and allow those competent hands to do whatever they pleased.

A musky yet pleasant aroma drifted through her nostrils as he gently eased her back down on the warm earth. Instead of scratchy meadow grasses her cheek was cushioned by some sort of fabric. She tried to lift her hand, but flashing lights stabbed behind her closed eyelids. “Can’t…please. Leave me alone.”

“All right,” Devlin Stone murmured. The air stirred vaguely, then stilled.

So. He’d listened, and obeyed. Life, Thea decided in utter misery, once again proved she was a worthless cast-aside, an inferior specimen of humanity nobody wanted. Both parents had abandoned her. Her chaperone ignored her. Edgar Fane gave her over to his secretary. And now Mr. Stone left her prostrate in the bushes, never mind that he’d only done what she requested.

Lord? If You care anything about me at all, let me die so I’m no longer a burden to my grandfather. Her quest for justice had failed. Her parody on the dock with Edgar Fane clung like a stench. No wonder Mr. Stone abandoned her, as well.

“Miss Pickford? You haven’t passed out on me, have you?”

The calm voice penetrated her miasma, but Thea still started when a damp cloth passed over the back of her neck, then down her cheek. Next she felt his palm—warm, the fingertips slightly abraded—press against her forehead. “No fever. Eat anything today to cause a sickness in your belly?”

“Not…sick.”

“Nor up to talking, either, hmm?” There was a sound of splashing, then he laid the freshly dampened cloth over her eyes. “I’m unbuttoning your sleeves at the wrists so I can bathe them, and your hands. Don’t be alarmed, and don’t fight me, all right?”

As if she could. Sighing a little, Thea allowed his skillful ministrations to lull her into a semicatatonic state, akin to floating on her back in one of the lakes scattered over Staten Island, drifting in the lazy current while the sun and water bound her in a lovely cocoon.

Time floated by, until she was able to take a deep breath without choking on the nausea. Hesitantly she opened her eyes. The whirling had abated. “Thank you,” she breathed, and scraped up half a smile. “I’m better now.” And saying it, she could feel the truth soaking into her pores. Edgar Fane made her sick; Devlin Stone made her feel safe.

Of the two, Mr. Stone probably posed more of a threat.

“Want to tell me what happened?” he asked eventually with the tone that caused a high-strung racehorse to rest its head against him.

For some moments Thea didn’t answer. The vertigo had subsided, but humiliation still burned deep enough to smudge his Good Samaritan kindness into something less benign. A glance upward through the screen of her lashes intensified the uncertainty: he sat at ease beside her, one arm draped loosely across an upraised knee. A light wind stirred the fine linen of his pin-striped shirt. He was hatless today, and the wind brushed the lock of hair over his forehead, lending him the relaxed air of a man with nothing on his mind but a day at the lake. Yet, veiled in shadow, his gaze rested unwavering upon Theodora. She had the impression he would sit there, calmly waiting until Thea offered an explanation even if it took until darkness enfolded them like a blanket.

Who was Devlin Stone?

She had nothing to gain by telling him the truth, and everything to lose if she didn’t. She might not understand his interest, but over the past several weeks she’d witnessed all manner of masculine conduct toward women and this man was no Edgar Fane. He could still be a charlatan, preying upon vulnerable women at resort hotels; from the first she’d sensed his contempt for her. But his present compassion contradicted every definition of a genuine cad. No man she’d ever known willingly nursed a sick woman.

On a more pragmatic note, the severity of this spell had robbed her of the strength to safely hike back to town. Whether the choice was wise or not, Mr. Stone remained her best hope. He might not be cruel, but something warned Thea he would leave her stranded if she wove another story about an English fiancé, or how much she loved to fish. “I…have dizzy spells.” The words stuck in her throat. Clumsily she attempted to rise.

Without a word Mr. Stone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and eased her back against one of the out-cropping of boulders beside the shrubs. “Here.” He tucked his now-crumpled but still-damp handkerchief into her hand. “Wipe your face. It will help. Suck on this peppermint.” He handed her the piece of candy. “Then you can tell me about these spells of yours.”

“You’ve been very kind.” The candy helped assuage the weakness. “If I told you I’d prefer not to talk about them?”

“I’d take you straight to a physician.” He searched her face, then added without inflection, “Are you with child, Miss Pickford?”

“What?” She almost sputtered the peppermint into his face. “Did you say— Do you actually think— I told you I’m not married. Why would you ask such an insulting question?”

For the first time a glint of blue sparkled in his eyes, and that attractive dimple creased one of his cheeks. “Given your response, I withdraw the question. You may be a highly imaginative liar, but these days only an innocent would offer that answer to a man vulgar enough to broach the subject in the first place.”

Well. Thea didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. “You confuse me, Mr. Stone,” she mumbled, ducking her head. “From the moment we first met, you’ve confused me. I know I’m a…a…I haven’t been truthful. There’s a reason. At the time it seemed the only way.” She smoothed the crumpled handkerchief in her lap, folding it into a neat square, her fingers still clumsy with weakness. “I’ve been here at Saratoga Springs for almost a month. Until you, everybody believed everything I told them.” It was difficult, but she made herself face him directly. “How did you know?”