Chapter Twenty-One
William woke to a room lit by moonlight. He drew in a deep breath, aware each of his new stitches, but less pain. An apparition rose from the chair near the open window and glided toward the bed.
“You’re awake,” Lanora said. She lay a cool hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Lady Cecelia said I must wake her if you have a fever.”
William caught her hand and caressed her soft skin with his thumb. “I’m well. I’m strong.”
“Fortunately.” She perched on the edge of the bed “What were you thinking, jumping over a desk with a bullet wound in your side?”
“I was thinking that Lethbridge might be fool enough to take you from me and I would do anything to prevent that.”
“Oh.” Even in the dim light, he could see her smile.
“Bullet wound?” he repeated, her words registering. “Cecelia told you?”
Lanora shook her head. “No, but I believe I’ve finally figured you out, William Greydrake.”
“What gave me away?”
“Aside from the bullet hole? Which, you should know, Dodger mentioned to Mrs. Smith as belonging to Lord Lefthook.”
“That’s my fault. I told him to trust you.” Because he did.
“Lethbridge gave me the final clues.” Her voice was midnight soft. “There was the way you grew up, but also the writing tools. He placed them on the left side of the desk. That’s why the second will wasn’t knocked off. It was all to the left, as if that was the hand he knew you would use to sign. Then I recalled your signature below the list, smudged, as if signed with your left hand.”
She pulled her hand from his, but only to reach across him for the other. His knuckles were a blur in the moonlight, but he knew they bore evidence of being buried in Lethbridge’s face. She ran gentle fingers across them. “And you hit him with this hand.”
William shifted, and wondered if she understood the effect of her fingers on his body. He was in no state for antics of any sort, and Cecelia would kill him if he tore his stiches again, assuming he didn’t die doing it. Which seemed more and more worth the risk with each stroke of her fingers. He drew in a long breath and forced calm.
Lanora raised wide eyes to his. “Are you in pain?” Her hand went to his forehead again. “Shall I wake Lady Cecelia?”
He chuckled. She had no notion of the effect she had. He would educate her, once they were properly wed. “I’m well enough. There’s no need for Cecelia.”
“You’re sure?” Lanora dropped her gaze. She pressed her lips together, as she did when she wasn’t sure if she wished to voice her thoughts.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek. “What is it?”
She shrugged, her gaze on the coverlet. “You and Lady Cecelia seem very close and she is, well, rather perfect. And terribly kind. It’s difficult for me to believe…that is, if you say it’s all in the past, I’ll believe you. I should never hold your past against you, William. Not that there’s anything wrong in it,” she added.
“Lanora, there’s nothing between Cecelia and I save friendship, and never has been.” Gently, he placed a finger beneath her chin and tipped up her face so that she was forced to look at him. “She is all the things you describe, but she was never for me. I’ve been in love with another since I was a boy, and she was but a girl. I’ve been reading Darington’s stories of his daughter, somewhere in the countryside in England, for half my life. I was too entranced by her to ever look at Cecelia that way. I love Darington’s daughter and I always will.”
“Oh. I see.” She jerked her chin away and started to stand.
William caught her hand. Fool that he was, he’d left out a rather important piece of information. “I mean you, Lanora. You’re Darington’s daughter. I’ve loved you for years.”
She stared down at him, face crumpled with hurt. She pulled free. Tears glittered in the moonlight. “You are fevered. I should fetch Lady Cecelia.”
He started to sit up. He’d made a muddle of things. “No, you don’t understand. There is no Darington.”
Lanora was at his side. She pressed him back down to the bed. “You’ll hurt yourself. Don’t get up. I’ll return, but let me fetch her. You worry me.”
He captured her hand firmly in one of his, for fear she would go, and used his other to smooth tears from her cheeks. “You don’t need to fetch Cecilia, or to cry over me. I’m a fool. Let me begin again.”
Lanora offered a smile that trembled at the edges.
“There is no Mr. Darington. There never was. Your father invented him.”
“You’re unwell. It’s the bullet wound.”
