Patricia Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

As she finished her second cup of tea, another tap sounded on the door and Vincent strolled into the parlor. His rumpled black locks lacked their usual neatness and a dark shadow covered his cheeks and chin. He had discarded his neckcloth and coat, but in spite of his disheveled appearance, Diana’s breath caught in her throat.

Or perhaps because of it. The loosened collar showed the sculptured lines of his throat, and his rolled sleeves revealed his forearms lined with veins across the ridges of muscle. How had she never noticed in months past that he was an attractive man? Had she been that caught up in her own problems?

Apparently so.

The innkeeper’s wife scowled, folded her arms across her ample bosom and stepped in front of the young maid, who eyed Vincent warily. He ignored her and addressed Diana. “Are you ready to rest? If this young lady—” he nodded at the maid “—will take the children for a walk, I will accompany them.”

The landlady bristled. “Abby has plenty of work to do and don’t need to be traipsing off with you. If you need help, I’ll watch the little ones.”

Vincent bowed gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Biggleswade. I would appreciate your time.”

Mrs. Biggleswade nodded, the suspicion in her eyes increasing as she glared at Diana’s injured cheek. Selena and Bytham jumped down from their chairs and—as soon as Diana had reminded them—expressed thanks for the breakfast. They followed Vincent and Mrs. Biggleswade out of the room, Diana’s anxious gaze trailing after them.

Surely they would be safe with Vincent. Hadn’t he, himself, stopped the kidnapping? Surely that meant… But Diana knew she didn’t entirely believe in his intentions. He had said that her enemies wished to take control of her—but was that not exactly what he had done? The way he looked at her at times made her wonder what he truly wanted of her. Still, as he had so accurately observed, she could not watch them day and night. Her eyes threatened to close even as she followed the maid into the adjoining room.

“The bed is freshly aired, m’lady. I saw to it myself.” The girl went to the window and drew the drapes. “Just let me help you with your gown.”

Diana turned and let the young woman unfasten her dress. She had no idea where her trunks had got to, so she climbed between the sheets in her shift, and the maid pulled the bed curtains to. Diana lay for a moment, listening as the girl closed the door and then listening harder for some sound from her children. She thought she heard Selena’s merry laugh just before she plunged into oblivion.

She had no idea how long she had slept. She waked to a sliver of light and the hiss of a whisper. Opening her eyes, she discovered the source of the whisper to be none other than Mrs. Biggleswade peeking between the bed curtains. “M’lady. M’lady! Wake up. Do you need help?”

“Wh-what?” Diana sat and rubbed at her eyes, trying to dispel the cobwebs fogging her brain.

“Are you needing help?” The woman cast a hasty glance over her shoulder. “It is all right. His lordship has gone in to sleep, and the other one went out to the privy. Abby has your little ones safe in the parlor.” She reached out and quickly touched Diana’s face. “Did he beat you?”

“What? Oh. Oh, no. It was not his lordship.”

“We’ll help you.” The older woman’s face wrinkled with concern. “We know that one from before. Cruel, he is, and wicked. Do you need help to get away from him?”

“I—I don’t know.”

And, to her horror, she didn’t. Here she was, racing away from everything she had known with a man of whom she had only casual acquaintance. Racing from what and to what? Suddenly a sound from the doorway to the parlor caught her attention. Mrs. Biggleswade whirled, scowling defiantly.

Vincent stood there, gazing at them soberly. He didn’t speak, and Diana, having no idea what to say, didn’t, either. The landlady folded her arms and stood, stalwart, between him and Diana.

Diana drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Biggleswade. I appreciate your concern, but I require no further assistance.”

“Well, you just sing out if you do.” The tall woman brushed by Vincent and went into the parlor.

Vincent watched her retreat with something in his eyes that Diana could not quite identify. Sadness? Certainly something of the sort. Strange. He turned back to her. “I just came to tell you that I am going to sleep for a while. Throckmorton will keep watch. If you wish to go outside, he will accompany you. I do not believe anyone will expect to find me—and therefore you—at Ashwell.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Diana, suddenly bethinking herself of her state of undress, pulled the covers up to her chin. “I feel quite rested now. I may go for a stroll myself.”

He stood gazing at her for several moments. Then, in a perfectly even voice he said, “If you do not wish to continue, Lady Diana, we will, of course, turn back.”

Silence ensued for several more moments. And Diana made her decision. “Back to what?”

He nodded. “Just so.”

And with that, he turned and went back through the parlor to his room across the hall.

Vincent disciplined himself to fall asleep because he knew he must if he were to be as alert as the situation demanded. But it was not easy. Diana’s answer to the landlady echoed in his mind. Do you need help? I don’t know. She did not trust him. Which was hardly to be wondered at. He did not trust her, either. She knew something she would not tell.

But there was another pain in his heart. He knew all too well how he had earned Mrs. Biggleswade’s enmity. He had made his peace with her husband as best he could this morning, paying for certain damages to the inn and adding a large gratuity by way of apology for his behavior on his last visit. But it would be many a day before the landlord’s wife forgave his past treatment of her daughter.

Vincent wondered if he would ever forgive himself.

He had worked so hard in the last four years to overcome his richly deserved reputation—trying to correct every obligation, going into the service of his country, risking his life—but it never seemed enough. Time and time again a new set of circumstances forced him to confront it. He feared he would never live it down, never regain his self-respect. And now it had touched Diana.

And she didn’t know if she needed help against him.

The image of her in the bed, thick fair hair pouring over her soft bare shoulders grew behind his closed eyelids. He had not intended to intrude—until he’d heard the stealthy conversation. Then he had stood immobile, captured by her uncertainty and the curve, just visible above the shift, at the top of her breasts.

Vincent’s body began to grow hard. How could Wyn Corby have neglected such an enchanting woman? How had he missed the glowing spirit beneath the tranquil exterior? Had she been his, Vincent would have sheltered her from every hardship, protected himself and her from the forces that had left her a widow and threatened her still. If he made her his own…

But he could not do that now. He was in too deep.

He was as much threat to her as Wyn had been.

He woke as the fading light and the rattle of pots and pans from below stairs proclaimed the dinner hour. Vincent rang for hot water, and washed and shaved. Throckmorton had brought up his trunk. Vincent selected a fresh shirt, but decided against a cravat. It hardly seemed necessary on a secretive flight across the country in the dead of night. If they met someone, he could always put on his coachman’s garb.

He sauntered across the hall to Diana’s parlor, nodding to Throckmorton at his post by the door. In the parlor he found a freshly washed and brushed Selena, and sounds from the adjoining bedchamber indicated that Bytham would soon join them.