“There, is that better?” Juliet dug up a smile from somewhere, and stretched it across her lips with an effort that made her teeth ache, but it must have appeared sincere, because Lady Fosberry gave her hand an affectionate pat.
“Much better, yes, but this is all quite puzzling, isn’t it? Lord Cross has never suffered from an excess of charm, but for him to be so utterly lost to decency that he’d actually toss a young lady—”
Lady Fosberry broke off, eyes narrowing. She was quiet for a moment, tapping her chin, then she went on in an entirely different tone. “Indeed, it’squiteunlike him. I’ve never known him to become so agitated over any young lady before. Tell me, dearest. What else did he say?”
“Nothing to any purpose.”
He’d had quite a lot more to say, but she was weary of talking about Lord Cross, and weary of thinking about him. “I’ll need a carriage. Do you suppose Lord Cross will lend us one of his? I could meet Fowler at The Fox, and return to London with him, and go on to Buckinghamshire from there.”
“Hmm?” Lady Fosberry asked absently. “What’s that, dearest?”
“A carriage, my lady, to take me away from Steeple Cross. I—”
“Take you away? Oh, but you can’t leave, Juliet! It’s out of the question.”
Had Lady Fosberry not heard a word she’d been saying? “But I must. Lord Cross has insisted upon it.”
“Oh, but you can’t possibly go now. It’s… it’s raining!” Lady Fosberry waved a hand rather wildly at the window. “And… and you’ve been through a dreadful ordeal! You’ll certainly be traumatized if you ride in a carriage again so soon.”
“Traumatized? Why, not at all, my lady.” It would be far more traumatic for her to remain in a place where she knew she wasn’t welcome.
“But you… I—I can’t possibly leave this morning, dearest! Why, I daresay I’ll fall into hysterics if I venture onto the roads in this weather after coming so very close to death yesterday!”
“There’s no need for you to accompany me, my lady. I can—”
“I won’t send you off in a carriage alone, Juliet. No, indeed! I’m certain I’ll be as fit as ever tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss it again then, shall we?”
Tomorrow! That was a lifetime away. She could hardly bear to stay here another hour, much less twenty-four of them, but how could she refuse? Given their brush with death, a single day of rest didn’t seem all that much to ask. “Yes, all right. I’ll come check on you later.”
“Thank you, dearest.”
She went back through the door connecting her bedchamber to Lady Fosberry’s, stopping in the middle of the room to eye the bed. How tempting it was, to simply crawl into it, pull the covers over her head, and remain there until tomorrow morning.
But no. She may be a scandal in the eyes of Lady Cecil and her ilk, but the truth was, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Somehow, she kept losing sight of that.
Shehadn’t done anything wrong, no matter what Lord Cross thought of her, and she wouldn’t cower under the covers in her bedchamber as if she had.
Instead, she marched to the door, pausing in front of the looking glass to tidy her hair, and smooth her skirts. A pale lady with violet smudges under her eyes stared back at her. She looked an utter fright, but she threw her shoulders back, and lifted her chin.
Until tomorrow, she was Lord Cross’s guest, whether he wanted her here or not.
So, she’d go down to the breakfast parlor as any other guest would, find Lord Barnaby, and thank him properly for all the kindness he’d shown her and Lady Fosberry last night.
Then she’d come back upstairs, crawl into the bed, pull the covers over her head, and stay there until she could leave this place and the Earl of Cross behind her for good.
ChapterFive
Steeple Cross was an appalling place. A ghastly, vile, dreadful place.
Juliet paused on the threshold of the breakfast parlor to scowl at the enormous, hand-carved walnut monstrosity that served as the dining table. It was polished to such a merciless gloss it reflected the blinding glare of the silver chafing dishes marching in an orderly fashion down the sideboard.
Every room, every window, and every stick of furniture at Steeple Cross was spotless, ruthlessly elegant, rigidly symmetrical, and so lifeless it was like a mausoleum piled high with corpses from which every drop of blood had been drained.
The library was the worst of it. She’d stolen a peek inside as she’d made her way to the breakfast parlor, and dear God, those poor books!
There were thousands of them, each one organized by subject, then grouped by categories within each subject, arranged in descending order by height, alphabetized by the author’s surname, and placed onto acres of spotless mahogany shelving according to the shade of their leather bindings.
They’d been sorted, then sorted again, then cross-sorted a third time until she’d gone cross-eyed just looking at them. Perhaps she’d rearrange a few of them before she left Steeple Cross, so scientific inquiry overlapped with romantic novels, animal husbandry with religion, and the Latin translations with the Greek until a comfortable chaos reigned.
