At least one of them had some sense left,Alister mused darkly.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t him.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he paced the length of his chamber and pulled at the cravat about his neck that was threatening to choke him. He had only intended to bring a smile back to her haunted face, but things had gotten completely out of hand. He’d allowed his lust to overrule any common sense.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Every time he was around Lyra, he forgot all reason. When he’d first met her all those years ago, it was that very pull that had forced him to keep his distance. Now it seemed that same magnetism was what kept drawing him in.
Heknewit had been a mistake to let Drayven talk him into this madness. But if he hadn’t agreed, Lyra would have been forced to remain locked in that Tower under full guard—so what choice did he truly have?
It was ridiculous that she’d been accused of murder in the first place. Even if Roger Coventry hadn’t deserved to die, anyone with half their wits could have seen that during her interview with Talon she had been completely distraught. If she had sent her husband to the grave in cold blood, surely satisfaction would’ve been evident on her face instead of pure anguish, especially in light of Roger’s ill treatment.
It had literally torn him up inside to listen to her accounting. He’d wanted to halt the interview much quicker than he had, not only to save her further pain, but because his own remorse had nearly suffocated him. He might have prevented all of this had he merely had the wherewithal to offer for her before Lord Weston had his claws firmly implanted, but it appeared he was as weak now as he had been back then.
Blowing out a breath, he sat on the edge of the mattress and put his head in his hands. He could only pray that Drayven would locate a suitable chaperone before it was too late and Lyra was sent back to the Tower in irons—along with himself.
* * *
The next morning, a true miracle occurred when Mrs. Fanny Birdwell walked through the front door of Weston House. She was the perfect companion, as she embodied the quintessential stereotype of a neighboring grandmother, with her gray hair drawn back into a tidy bun. A pair of spectacles perched just so on her nose, and when she smiled, the area around her eyes crinkled. Alister was quite sure that there was a pair of knitting needles somewhere in that valise she carried, along with a book on herbs and their medicinal qualities.
A surge of relief instantly washed over him, for the very sight of her made him yearn for a batch of homemade cookies. If there might be anyone who could keep Alister’s desire for Lyra in check, it would be this small, slightly stooped woman.
After sending the butler for Lyra, Alister escorted Mrs. Birdwell to the parlor to await the lady of the house.
Lyra appeared several moments later, and while her blonde hair was pinned up neatly and she wore her usual, mourning attire as expected, the harsh color only enhanced the slight shadows under her eyes. She offered Alister only a flickering glance of recognition before turning her full attention upon the older woman. She attempted a soft smile, but he noticed that it didn’t fully illuminate her eyes.
Dear God. Had he done that to her?
Awash with new regrets, Alister forced himself to tamp down his emotions. He needed to play his proper role as a cordial gentleman by making the appropriate introductions.
Mrs. Birdwell’s tone was sympathetic when she turned to Lyra. “I’m sorry to hear of your current troubles, Lady Weston, but I’m sure this misunderstanding will be cleared up soon enough.”
“I can only hope,” Lyra replied politely, then asked, “I hope your husband won’t miss you too much while you’re here, Mrs. Birdwell.”
“Oh, I’m a widow, dear.” The older woman smiled gently. “I actually arrived on the behest of Mr. Lyridon. I’m a companion to his mother, Mrs. Awellah Freewater, but she is going to a house party for a few days, so he asked if I might fill in here until she returns.”
“Indeed?” Lyra shot Alister a considering look. “Well, I hope you will enjoy your stay, Mrs. Birdwell, and not bemoan the fact you weren’t able to attend as well.”
“Oh, I detest house parties,” the woman replied with a slight shudder. “And please, call me Fanny. Mrs. Birdwell makes me fell so old.”
The woman had to have been at least eighty if a day, but nevertheless, Lyra replied cordially, “In that case, Fanny, would you like a tour of the house?”
Her wrinkled face nearly split in two for her joy. “I should think that would be rather splendid, my lady.”
As Lyra started for the door, Alister halted her progress with a hand on her elbow. She turned to him expectantly and—much to his chagrin—somewhat reluctantly.
He made sure to lower his voice when he said, “I wanted to apologize for last night—”
“There’s no need,” she interrupted curtly. “It’s already forgotten.”
He doubted that was the truth, but he released her with a nod and stepped back. “I hope you and Mrs. Birdwell get on.”
As he hoped, her wary stance relaxed slightly at the change of topic. “She seems sweet.” She paused. “She reminds me of my Grandmother Helston, actually.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I think we might all compare her in a similar manner. She just has that way about her.”
“Indeed,” Lyra concurred. With that, she turned to go, but at the last minute, she paused and turned back to him on an apparent afterthought. “I don’t believe I ever thanked you, Your Grace.”
He gave her a slight bow. “I’m your servant, Lady Weston.”
