Guilty Pleasures 0f A Bluestocking (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 7

  She did not know for certain that it would be rage her father would feel if he discovered her seeking answers to Edith’s death. Perhaps he might welcome her search, welcome the chance for answers. Had he convinced himself this talk of melancholy was the truth? She doubted it.

  Perhaps he would welcome her search, but she knew there was every chance he would not. Knew there was every chance he would be furious at her for digging into the past and upsetting her mother the way she had. She had no desire to find out.

  Once the gown fitting was over, Deborah took herself back to the manor grounds to visit Edith’s grave. She sat on the damp grass in front of her sister’s headstone. A surge of grief welled up inside her, pushing aside all thoughts of the Duke and the way he made her feel. How could she allow herself to feel desire, to feel longing, to feel love, when her sister lay dead in the earth?

  She ran a finger over the neatly carved words on the headstone. “Was it Lord Elwood?” she asked gently. “Was he the one you loved? Was he the reason you did this?”

  No answer, of course, just the creak of the skeletal branches above her head. A dried brown leaf fluttered down and settled on Deborah’s skirt.

  She felt tears welling behind her eyes. How she longed to see her sister again, even for one more minute. How she longed to hear her voice again, to feel her arms around her. Her tears spilled suddenly. “Tell me what to do, Edith,” she said. “Tell me where to look.”

  She closed her eyes, pressing her wet eyes against her knee. As children, Edith had always been there to soothe Deborah’s tears. Had stroked her hair, rubbed her back, whispered calming words until her eyes were dry. Deborah felt suddenly, achingly alone.

  She tried to picture Edith’s face. To her horror, she found the image didn’t come. She tried to hear her sister’s voice in her head. The sound she could conjure up was not right.

  Am I truly forgetting the way she looked? The way she sounded? How long will it be before she fades from me forever?

  Deborah closed her eyes again, forcing herself to rake through her memories. The image of Edith must be there somewhere. She was not leaving her grave until she could see her sister clearly in her mind again.

  She felt watched suddenly. Deborah leaped to her feet and spun around. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice disappearing into the stillness. The back of her neck prickled. “Who’s there?” she said again, louder.

  No answer.

  Shivering violently, Deborah tugged her cloak around her tightly. Suddenly, she wanted to be anywhere but this graveyard. She couldn’t bear to be standing there among the dead.

  She raced back into the house, charging up the stairs and into the passageway. She knew she ought to turn to the left and go to her own bedchamber. But she turned to the right. Went into Edith’s room and lay down on the bed, burying her head in the pillow and crying herself into a troubled sleep.

  Her dreams were vivid. There was Edith, her face again clear in Deborah’s mind. But it was not the Edith she had known and loved. This was a dark figure, with lifeless skin and cold eyes. A creature with her sister’s face that had crawled into Deborah’s nightmares.

  Deborah felt herself fighting to awaken, struggling to escape the dreadful dream. Her surroundings returned in part. Here was Edith’s canopied bed, there was the shelf stretching from floor to ceiling.

  But she was not alone. She could make out a shadowy figure at the end of her bed. Deborah felt her breathing grow loud and raspy.

  Am I still dreaming?

  She tried to call out, felt her voice trapped in her throat. Unable to break free of the terrifying image, she rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillow.

  * * *

  She woke fully in the early hours of the morning. Her legs were aching from the fitful sleep, her eyes stinging with old, dry tears. Pale dawn light was filtering through the gap in the curtains. She could hear the faint sounds of the housemaids lighting the fires downstairs.

  I’m in Edith’s room.

  Memories of the previous night swung at her suddenly. She could not let herself be caught in here. She had to get back to her own bedchamber before anyone noticed her.

  She heaved herself from Edith’s bed. She was still wearing her damp cloak and boots, she realized. She had collapsed onto the bed without so much as untying a shoelace. She slipped her feet out of her boots so she could hurry down the hallway on silent, stockinged feet.

  Once safely ensconced in her own bedchamber, Deborah pulled off her muddy clothes and hung them over the back of a chair to dry. Her lady’s maid, Sarah, would no doubt have come looking for her last night. Would she have raised her concerns with the Viscount when she had been unable to find her mistress? Or perhaps Sarah had found her. Perhaps she had peeked inside Edith’s room to find Deborah lying inside. Perhaps she had felt it wrong to intrude.

  Deborah climbed into her own bed and closed her eyes, trying to will herself back to sleep. But she knew it was futile. She knew she had slept as much as she was going to. Her awful dreams were still fresh in her mind and left an uncomfortable crawling beneath her skin. And that feeling of someone standing at the edge of her bed—it had felt so real. So eerily, frighteningly real.

  She climbed out of bed and filled the basin at the washstand, splashing her face with water and gasping at its coldness. The chill of it was bracing and went some way toward washing away the horrors of the previous night.

  A knock at the door made her start. “Miss Wilds?” Sarah’s voice was gentle. “Do you need assistance?”

  “No, thank you, Sarah,” she called softly, surprised at the huskiness of her voice. “I’m quite all right.” She held her breath, waiting for Sarah to raise the issue of the previous night.

  “Very well, miss. You be sure to call me if you need anything.” Sarah’s footsteps disappeared back down the hall. Deborah exhaled in relief.

  She sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from sleeplessness and tears. Her blonde hair had come loose from the knot it had been pinned in last night, and now hung listlessly about her shoulders. She raked her fingers through it in attempt to neaten her tangled locks, then involuntarily brought her hand to her mouth, feeling the place the Duke’s lips had touched her own.

  She felt a flicker of heat inside her. It was futile, she realized, trying to push aside the desire she felt for the Duke. The more she tried not to let herself feel it, the more her thoughts wandered away from the task at hand and toward the Duke’s muscular hands, broad shoulders, shining eyes. Her attraction to the Duke was a tide she knew she could not keep at bay.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, fighting conflicting emotions. Then she looked sternly back at her tear-stained reflection.

  Tears will accomplish nothing.

  Behind her in the mirror she could see the muddy clothes she had tossed over the chair in the corner of her room. There were her skirts, her cloak, her gloves. Deborah stopped.

  Had I been wearing a shawl when I visited the cemetery?

  There was no shawl in the pile of discarded clothes. But yes, Deborah felt certain she had wrapped her old blue shawl around her neck. The icy wind had made it a necessity. Had she left the shawl in Edith’s room? Had it unwound itself from around her neck as she thrashed her way through the terrors of the night?

  Deborah peeked out into the hallway. One of their housemaids was disappearing into the guest bedchamber with fresh sheets in her arms. There was no sign of Sarah, or either of her parents.

  Deborah waited for the maid to close the bedroom door behind her, then hurried toward Edith’s room. There was the shawl, lying across the bed, just as she had imagined. She grabbed it hurriedly.

  And she stopped.

  There at the foot of the bed was a small leather-bound book. What was this? And, perhaps more pressingly, how had it found its way to the end of Edith’s bed? Her mind flickered to the hazy shadow standing over her in the night. Was it possible she had no
t been dreaming?

  Snatching the book, Deborah opened it carefully. Her breath left her and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp.

  Edith’s diary.

  Chapter 12

  Dawn light was pushing through the curtains of Leonard’s study. He had not slept. Fighting a guilty conscience, he had spent the night raking through the manor in search of the Viscount’s letters to his mother. He had searched every box in every cupboard, finding not a thing.

  He had not yet been inside his mother’s bedchamber, unable to bring himself to commit such an act of trespassing. Little wonder he had not managed to locate the letters.

  As the night had drawn on, the search had become something of an obsession. The harder he had looked, the more certain Leonard became that those letters contained information of the greatest importance. Now, with daylight streaming into the room and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness, his thoughts were racing.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  I need to sleep.

  His thoughts were distant. He needed to sleep, yes, but this search had left him far too jittery to do such a thing. He went to his dressing room beside his office and filled the basin with water, splashing his face to awaken himself. In not too long, he would have to sit around the breakfast table with his mother and sister and come up with some excuse for his sleepless state. Leonard didn’t dare look in the mirror and see how red-rimmed his eyes were.

  He stretched his arms above his head, letting out an enormous yawn. There was only one thing, he knew, that would help make sense of these thoughts that had tangled themselves inside his head.

  He needed to see Miss Wilds.

  * * *

  Deborah stood frozen in the center of Edith’s room for a long time. She stared down at the diary, her sister’s handwriting curling across the first page. There was Edith’s name, along with the date. She had begun to keep the diary three months before she had died. Deborah felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten.

  Where had this book come from? How had it suddenly appeared? Who was the figure at the end of her bed?

  Had it been Edith herself?

  Deborah forced the thought away. Foolishness, of course. Foolishness brought about by her restless night’s sleep. Edith was gone. But her diary was here. And someone had known of it. Someone had clearly wanted her to find it.

  And yet Deborah found herself completely unable to turn the page. Unable to begin reading what she was certain was the story of her sister’s final weeks. For all her searching, here she was completely unable to face the answers she had been so desperate to find.

  With the book tightly pressed to her chest, she made her way hurriedly back to her bedchamber. She could smell frying eggs and ham floating up from the kitchen. Breakfast would be served soon. Her stomach rolled over at the thought. She couldn’t face eating. She would have to feign sickness.

  No, not feign. The sickness is real. Brought about by fear of what I am about to discover.

  Deborah locked her bedroom door and, heart racing, she sat on her window seat and opened the diary.

  ‘3rd May, 1813

  I have never been one to keep a journal. Mother has insisted on it for many years, believing it a most lady-like thing to do. I told her I kept my memories stored in my head and had little need to write them down. Mother replied that our memories often fail us, but the written word will always be faithful.

  Deborah smiled faintly. She remembered Edith and their mother having the same conversation many times. Tears blurred her vision and she blinked them away hurriedly.

  But things have changed. Now my memories and thoughts are far too overwhelming to keep everything in my head. Perhaps Mother was right. Perhaps there are times when we cannot rely purely on our memories. I feel the need to write down every moment of the blissful days I have just lived. I do not wish to forget a single moment. And perhaps writing this down may help me to always remember.

  Edith’s joyous tone made Deborah’s stomach lurch. What could possibly have happened? What could have changed so quickly?

  I have read about it in many of my story books, but I never imagined I would be lucky enough for such a thing to happen to me. And yet it has. I have fallen in love.

  * * *

  Three Years Earlier

  Miss Edith Wilds hurried back toward Chilson manor, her lady’s maid struggling to keep up with her.

  “Quickly, Annie,” Edith called over her shoulder. “We need to hurry.”

  She had been gone from the house for far too long. Had been strolling along the riverbank for the past three hours. Edith’s skirts were muddy and her hair a mess. She knew her father would not be pleased if he saw her returning to the manor in such a state. With luck she could creep in through the servants’ quarters and hurry upstairs to change her clothes before the Viscount caught sight of her.

  Once, she had been able to talk her father around to acquiescing to her every wish. But she seemed to have lost the knack as she had grown older. Her father had grown stricter as the years had passed. Still, Edith knew his sternness came from a place of love. With no sons, the Viscount had taken it upon himself to find good husbands for both of his daughters.

  Though Deborah, at sixteen, was still too young to be married, the Viscount’s search for a husband for his oldest daughter was taking place with fervor. And in order to see herself married well, he saw it as Edith’s duty to behave in a manner befitting a young lady of her class.

  And that did not include spending hours marching along the riverbank and returning home a muddy mess.

  Edith gathered her skirts in her fist and strode through the long grass on the edge of the river. Through the early summer haze, she could see the shape of her father’s manor, a silhouette in the fading sunshine. She began to walk faster.

  Breathless, she and Annie reached the Chilson manor. Deborah was sitting on the grass beneath the apple tree, a book in her lap. She looked up as her sister approached.

  “Where have you been, Edith?” she hissed. “Mother has been looking everywhere.”

  Edith looked past her sister, trying to peer into the manor. “And Father? Did he notice me gone?”

  Deborah climbed to her feet and dusted the grass from her skirts. “Not yet. He’s been in his study all afternoon.” She looked pointedly at her sister. “You’d best change before he sees you. You look a fright.”

  Edith flashed her sister a smile. Then, Annie trailing, she hurried upstairs to her bedchamber.

  Annie helped her climb out of her dirty skirts and change into a fresh gown for dinner. Edith felt a smile begin in the corner of her lips as her lady’s maid worked at the fine line of buttons down her back.

  She had seen the gentleman again today. Had seen him on the other side of the river. When his eyes had met hers across the water, his face had broken into a smile.

  She had not gone to the river just to see him. She had no thoughts on who he even was. No, she had gone to the river for the peace, the serenity. For a few hours in which she did not have to stand on ceremony and behave like the young lady her father wished her to be. The sighting of the dark-haired gentleman had just been a wonderful surprise.

  Edith knew it foolish to be daydreaming after this stranger. She was a Viscount’s oldest daughter. Her marriage was of far too much importance for her to be wed to someone she had glimpsed fleetingly on the river bank. But it didn’t stop the pleasant fluttering inside her when she thought of him. Didn’t stop her heart from beating hard when she thought of the way his eyes had met her own.

  And then, there he was, two days later, strolling down the main street with his hands dug into his pockets and the wind blowing his hair across his eyes. Edith, who was visiting the seamstress with Deborah and their lady’s maids, felt her heart spring into her throat. She stopped walking. She had spent the past two days thinking about him. It was as though her thoughts had willed him into being.

  Agitated, she knotted her skirts around her fingers.

&n
bsp; I have to speak to him. How can I just let him walk away?

  But how was she to do such a thing now, with Deborah at her side? Edith loved her sister dearly, and she and Deborah had always shared everything. But this felt different. Intensely personal.

  And perhaps there was more than a small part of her which knew that allowing herself to fall for this gentleman was foolish. Perhaps there was a part of her too ashamed to admit these feelings to her sister. She was the older sibling, after all. The one Deborah was supposed to look up to. And pining after a stranger did not seem the wisest of behaviors.