Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 3

  I’m beginning to lose the battle.

  He slowed his walk a little, allowing the lady’s maid to catch up to them. Never in his life had Leonard been so grateful to be chaperoned.

  Wrestling his lustful thoughts away, he looked down at Miss Deborah Wilds. She was far quieter than she had been the last two times they had met. A faint frown was creasing the bridge of her nose.

  “Miss Wilds?” he asked tentatively. “Is everything all right?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, as though holding something back. Leonard stopped walking. He turned to face her and looked into her eyes.

  “I hope you don’t feel the need to keep things from me,” he said gently. “You know you can tell me anything you wish.”

  Miss Deborah Wilds smiled faintly. She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about my sister,” she said finally. As she spoke, Leonard noticed her shoulders sink a little, as though she had released a knot of tension she had been holding on to for some time. He felt a similar relief inside him. They could not spend their marriage avoiding mention of her. Leonard was glad Miss Deborah Wilds had decided to speak of her.

  “I’ve been thinking of your sister a lot, too, of late,” he admitted.

  She looked up at him. “You have?”

  “Of course. How could I not, given the situation?” Leonard had not expected to find himself speaking so openly. But he found Miss Deborah Wilds strangely easy to talk to. He didn’t want her to keep things from him. And he didn’t want to keep things from her, either.

  They began to walk again, Deborah sliding her hand back over Leonard’s elbow. He pressed his other hand over hers. An instinctive gesture, he realized. He was glad she didn’t pull away. They walked close, her shoulder pressing against his arm. Their footsteps crunched rhythmically along the path.

  “Tell me about her,” said Leonard. “I barely knew her. Tell me what she was really like.”

  A wistful smile appeared in the corner of Deborah’s lips. “She was wonderful. She was my best friend. She was so caring and loving.” Her smile widened. “When we were children, we used to escape to the back of the manor grounds after our lessons and climb the trees. We’d come home with our gowns torn and muddy. But she always used to manage to talk our parents out of punishing us. She had a way of looking at Father that made him give her everything she wanted.” She paused for a few moments, seeming lost in her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “My sister and I were always close. We told each other everything. We never had any secrets. Until…” She faded out.

  Impulsively, Leonard’s hand tightened around her fingers. “Go on,” he said gently, despite the uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

  She drew in her breath. “My sister was very secretive in the months before she died, Your Grace. She became an entirely different person to the sister I had known. And I don’t understand why.” Her voice hardened. “I need to understand why.”

  Leonard didn’t speak at once. He understood, of course. How could she not want answers? But he couldn’t stop a knot of dread from tightening inside him.

  Sorrowful as he had been over Miss Edith Wilds’ death, Leonard knew their marriage would not have been a happy one. In the few times he and Edith had met, he had been unable to penetrate the wall she had erected around herself. She had been polite, yes, but there had been a coldness to her. Leonard had no doubts that their impending marriage had made her unhappy.

  And so when she had taken her own life, he had been unable to stop himself from jumping to the obvious conclusion.

  “Perhaps it was her betrothal,” he blurted, unable to hold the words back. “Perhaps she simply could not bear a life by my side.” His voice came out husky.

  He heard Miss Deborah Wilds’ sharp intake of breath. She spun around suddenly and gripped his shoulders. Leonard felt a movement in his chest, surprised at her sudden ferocity. “Duke,” she said firmly, “I know my sister’s death was nothing to do with you.” She looked fervently into his eyes. “I know it. I do.”

  Leonard managed a smile. He had been told by many people that he had not been to blame for Miss Edith Wilds’ suicide. There had been reassurances from his mother, his uncle, even the Viscount of Chilson. Their words had done nothing to allay Leonard’s fears. The facts were there, cold and brutal. He had been betrothed to Miss Edith Wilds. Two weeks later, she had ended her life.

  But somehow, when the reassurance came from Deborah’s lips, Leonard found himself believing it. He felt a weight ease from his shoulders. A weight that had been there so long he had almost ceased to notice it.

  “My sister was so lucky to have you,” Deborah continued. “So lucky.” She shook her head, her eyes suddenly distant. “There was something else going on in her life, there must have been. Something she wasn’t able to tell either of us about.” She let her hands fall from his shoulders. She glanced sideways at her lady’s maid, who was hovering several yards behind them. Then she dropped her voice. “I’ve begun to search for answers, Your Grace. I know there must be something among my sister’s things that can provide some clue as to why she did what she did.”

  “I want to help you,” Leonard said fervently. Questions of Edith’s death had haunted him for the past three years, too. He needed to know the true reason a well-loved young lady of the nobility had seen fit to take her own life. He needed answers for himself and he needed them for his wife-to-be. How could he and Deborah have a happy life together with the ghost of her late sister hovering between them?

  A smile flickered on Miss Deborah Wilds’ lips. She looked up at him with shining, blue-green eyes. He had never seen such striking eyes before. The very sight of them made something shift in his chest. “You will help me?” she repeated.

  “Of course. In whatever way I can.” Leonard reached down and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. He wished they were not wearing gloves. Wished he might feel the warmth of her skin against his own. After a moment, he moved to pull his hand away, but she kept his fingers tightly clasped in her own.

  “My sister had her secrets, Your Grace,” she said. “And I intend to find out what they were.”

  Deborah returned home full of fresh enthusiasm.

  Ever since she had made the decision to search for answers, she had been eager to tell the Duke of her search. But a part of her had been hesitant, unsure how he would react.

  The Duke’s eagerness to help had buoyed her. It made sense, she could see that now. Of course, he too would want answers. Of course, he too would feel haunted by Edith’s death. The thought of him believing he had played a part in her suicide brought an intense ache to Deborah’s chest. When she had seen how important answers were to the Duke, her search had taken on a new level of importance.

  She knew she had to speak to her mother. A dangerous thing, yes. Edith’s death had been hard on all of them, but it had been hardest of all on her parents. Deborah could count on one hand the number of times she had seen the Viscountess smile in the past three years. These days, her mother barely left the house, venturing from the manor only to attend church, or to lay flowers at Edith’s grave. Deborah couldn’t begin to fathom the pain her mother must feel at the loss of her daughter. Perhaps uncovering the truth of Edith’s death might go some way to helping the Viscountess recover, too.

  But Deborah knew asking her mother about Edith was fraught with danger. She knew well it could send her mother into floods of tears and endless days of bedridden grief. These days, the family spoke little of their lost daughter. It had become far too difficult. But Deborah knew Edith was constantly on their minds. And this secrecy had done no one any good. It was time to put an end to it.

  She knocked lightly on the door of her mother’s sitting room. “Mother? It’s me.”

  “Come in, my darling.” The Viscountess’s voice sounded tired.

  Deborah stepped inside. Her mother was sitting on the worn chaise in the corner of the room, an embroidery sampler sitting untouched in her lap. She was star
ing listlessly out the window into the garden. Was she thinking of the apple tree under which Edith’s body had been found?

  Countless times Deborah had found herself wishing they might leave this manor behind. Perhaps even leave Bath altogether. Go somewhere not haunted by memories of her sister’s death. But this was her family home, her father had told her, in a voice that Deborah knew was not to be argued with. This had been Chilson land for many generations and they were to stay here, no matter what tragedies had befallen the place.

  Deborah sat beside her mother on the chaise, deliberately blocking the Viscountess’s view out the window.

  The Viscountess smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  How Mother has aged these past three years.

  Once, the Viscountess had been full of life, with cascading blonde hair and sparkling eyes. Now her hair was almost entirely gray, her eyes dull and surrounded by endless webs of wrinkles. Though she was barely past forty, she looked more like an old woman.

  She reached out and covered Deborah’s hand with her own. “Tell me, my love. How was your afternoon with the Duke?”

  In spite of herself, Deborah felt a smile on the edge of her lips. She thought of the way it had felt to walk beside the Duke, their shoulders pressed to each other’s, his hand clamped over hers. And she had not missed that look in his eyes. That look that told her he wanted far more of her than just the feel of her hand. A look that had made her almost breathless with anticipation.

  The Viscountess gave her a smile that seemed all too knowing. Deborah felt the color return to her cheeks. Did her mother know the way she had felt about the Duke all these years? Did she know Deborah had pined after the gentleman while he had been courting her sister? She pushed the thought away.

  I’m here to speak of Edith.

  “My afternoon was lovely, Mother, but—”

  “I’m glad, my darling,” Lady Chilson cut in. “I’m so glad. I hope you the two of you will be very happy.” Her voice wavered. Deborah knew she was thinking of Edith.

  I know Mother is always thinking of Edith.

  Deborah drew in her breath. “Mother,” she began, her fingers tightening around Lady Chilson’s. “Is there anything about my sister’s death that you haven’t told me? Anything at all?” She spoke hurriedly, the words spilling out her mouth before she could pull them back.

  She watched her mother’s face change. Suddenly, that strained smile was gone, replaced by the look of melancholy she had worn for the past three years.

  For a moment, Deborah regretted asking. She knew how difficult her mother found it to talk about Edith. How difficult they all found it. But the question had been asked now. And Deborah needed to hear the answer.

  “I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” her mother said distantly.

  Deborah squeezed her hands. “Did she ever come to you? Tell you about any problems she might have been having? Or anything that had upset her?”

  Lady Chilson shook her head sadly. “You know what she was like in those weeks before…” She swallowed. “She was closed down. Secretive.” She let out a deep sigh. “I went to her several times. Tried to ask her what was troubling her. But she refused to tell me.”

  It was the most Deborah had heard her mother say about Edith since her death. She felt slightly enthused by it, despite the fact her mother had nothing of use to offer.

  “So you believe she was hiding something?” she asked.

  “Yes,” her mother said sadly. “Yes, my dear. I think your sister had her secrets.” She pushed away a tear. “Although I cannot begin to imagine what they might have been.”

  Deborah looked down, feeling a sharp pain in her throat. “You don’t believe as Father does? That Edith was just overcome with melancholy?”

  Lady Chilson sighed. “Your Father just needed to find a reason,” she said. “Something that make might her loss a little easier to understand.”

  Deborah nodded. She understood, of course. And she wished she could accept her father’s reasoning. But she couldn’t do such a thing. Not now. She needed the truth. So did the Duke. Their happiness depended on it.

  Lady Chilson ran a finger over the top of her daughter’s hand. “Why are you asking me these questions now, Deborah? Your sister has been gone a long time.” Her voice wavered slightly. “Is it because of your impending marriage?”

  Deborah didn’t speak at once. “I’m to walk down the aisle in the place that ought to have been Edith’s,” she said finally, forcing the tremor from her voice. “And I need to know why.”

  Hester Wilds, Viscountess of Chilson, stared at the closed door of the sitting room long after her daughter had disappeared. Her conversation with Deborah had left an ache deep inside her.

  Still, she could not pretend to be surprised by all this. A part of her had been waiting for this, waiting for Deborah’s curious streak to surface, waiting for her to go hunting for answers. Little wonder it had come now, on the eve of her marriage.

  Sometimes, when she could no longer stop her thoughts from drifting in that direction, Hester found herself wondering at the true reason her daughter had ended her life. But these were things that were far too painful to dig beneath the surface of. As difficult as it was to admit to herself, Hester could not bear the thought of knowing why her precious daughter had killed herself. Whatever the reason, Hester had failed her daughter. Had failed to protect her when she had needed it the most.

  Melancholy, her husband William had insisted from the beginning. Hester knew well that he had no knowledge with which to come to this conclusion. But it didn’t matter. She had needed an answer. Deborah had needed an answer. And the Viscount had given one.

  Melancholy.

  Over the past three years, Hester had repeated it to herself so many times it had almost become the truth. But she had always known Deborah did not believe it. She was far too wise, too inquisitive for that.

  Hester picked up her embroidery sampler and tried to stitch. Her hands were shaking too violently for her to continue.

  She knew Deborah would not stop searching until she found the truth. And somewhere deep inside herself, Hester knew that truth would not be easy to take.

  Chapter 5

  Leonard sat at the desk that had once been his father’s and stared down at the mess of paperwork before him. His family owned lands across the country, and sometimes it felt as though there was an endless supply of tenancy agreements to draw up, endless rents to chase, endless contracts to sign.

  The former Duke of Tarsington had died suddenly six years ago, back when Leonard was just seventeen. Inheriting his father’s title, his lands, his responsibilities, it had felt an enormous weight to carry. But his uncle, Phineas Storey, had been a great support. Phineas, the Earl of Terrich, had extensive experience in land ownership and management and had slowly guided Leonard through all that was expected of him, taught him everything his father had not had a chance to do. Leonard would always be grateful for his support.

  He rubbed his eyes tiredly and sat his quill back in its ink. Tonight, his thoughts were not on his contracts. His thoughts were on Miss Edith Wilds.

  No, my thoughts are on Deborah, and this search she is undertaking.

  He had meant it when he’d said he would help her with her search for answers. But what answers could he truly provide? In the time he had known Miss Edith Wilds, she had not opened up to him a scrap. It had been her reluctance to converse and share with him that had made Leonard certain their marriage would not be a success.

  In spite of the edginess brought about by this search, he had thoroughly enjoyed his time with Miss Wilds today. No, thoroughly enjoyed was wrong. It was far more than that. When he was with Miss Wilds, his heart thundered and his thoughts became impossible to control. Deborah made him feel things he had never felt before.

  Leonard had begun to feel excited at the thought of a life with her at his side. A lifetime of looking into those sparkling blue-green eyes, a lifetime of that creamy skin, that shy
smile, that fierce determination. A lifetime of mornings waking up beside her. Nights of holding her in the dark and feeling her body writhe beneath his.

  He stood up from his desk and began to pace, his mind cluttered with thoughts of the Wilds sisters. He could hear distant sounds from within the manor; the rapid footsteps of servants in the passage, and the airy laugh of his seven-year-old sister, Florentina. The laughter seemed to grate against him. He felt restless. True, he had finally begun to convince himself he had not been the one to drive Edith to her death. But he couldn’t help but feel anxious about whatever truths Miss Deborah Wilds’ search might uncover.

  The following night, Deborah was back in Edith’s room. She rifled through the drawers of the dressing table, beneath the nightstand, even peeking between the books on the bookshelf.

  Deborah let out a sigh of frustration. The search felt hopeless. She had no idea what she was even looking for, and the darkness made the chances of stumbling across something of value a thousand times more unlikely.