“Mrs. Watson is here. She’ll make certain the girl’s virtue remains unsullied.” That should be enough to satisfy even the most prudish of Fairford’s citizens, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter, once she was married.
It was a clever scheme. Diabolical, yes, but clever. One of his best. And if hedidfeel just a tiny twinge of conscience at so ruthlessly manipulating the situation, it would pass soon enough.
It always did.
CHAPTER10
“Ah, there we are. Those pretty eyelashes are fluttering, at last.”
Something was touching Rose’s face. Fingertips? Yes, fingertips were tapping gently at her cheek, and there was a voice murmuring something, but she couldn’t quite make sense of it through the cotton wool in her head.
“Can you hear me, Miss St. Claire?”
Rose opened her mouth to reply to the kind voice, but only an incoherent stream of garbled sounds emerged as if her tongue were wrapped in velvet.
“That’s it, lass. Time to come around.”
She shifted, her brow furrowing at the soft warmth wrapped around her, but her eyes refused to open. Why was she so tired? Something had happened, but prod as she might, her sluggish brain could only provide a few messy bits and pieces of it. Trying to make sense of them was like groping her way through a darkened room.
She’d fallen asleep in the chair in her bedchamber last night, burrowed under a nest of blankets, her eyelids growing heavy as the sky beyond the window turned indigo, then a deep, penetrating black, without a single star visible in the sky.
But this wasn’t her chair. No, it was far too cozy and comfortable. Something smooth and lavender-scented was draped on top of her, the satiny edge of it tickling her chin. It was like being wrapped in feathers, or . . . silken sheets?
She twisted in her scented cocoon, a question on her lips, but when she tried once again to give it voice, nothing came out but a weary croak.
“There, there.” A cool, soft hand touched her forehead. “Just take your time, now.”
With great effort, she lifted her heavy eyelids to find a face hovering above her, the pale brown eyebrows drawn with concern. It was a kind face, with a dimpled smile and laugh lines fanning out from the corners of a pair of twinkling blue eyes.
A familiar face, but she couldn’t quite place—
“You look confused, and I don’t wonder at it, you poor thing, with what you’ve been through.” The face came closer. “Well, we might have known it would come to this. It’s not right, for a young lady to be left all alone in a rambling old place like that.”
Rose struggled up onto her elbows, her head spinning, and the lady pressed a cup into her hand. “Here, drink this. It’s a soothing ginger tea, with just a touch of peppermint. I make it myself, you know.”
Rose sipped obediently. Something warm and sweet slid down her throat, and she swallowed eagerly.
“That’s a good girl,” the lady murmured approvingly as she set the empty cup on the table beside the bed. She was a grandmotherly sort, with graying brown hair and a generous bosom that made one want to lay their head upon it and sob out their troubles.
Rose collapsed back against the pillows. Her shoulders ached, and it felt as if someone had kicked her in the backside. “What happened?”
The lady sighed. “I’m afraid you lost a bit of your roof in last night’s storm. I imagine it was the wind that did it.”
“Theroof?” No, surely not. That is, the roof hadn’t been entirely sturdy, and last night’s storm had been a powerful one, but surely it hadn’t been so violent it had torn the roof off the house?
“Oh.” Slowly, the fog in her brain cleared, and memory came rushing back. “Oh,no.”
There’d been an odd cracking sound, so strange, unlike anything she’d ever heard before, as if wooden beams that had held fast for centuries were snapping like kindling, the swollen ceiling, and the rush of water above her head . . .
“The ceiling.” The balloon had burst, and the ceiling had crashed down upon her, bringing a deluge of icy water with it. “The ceiling in my bedchamber collapsed.”
“Aye, and it might have been much worse.” The lady clucked her tongue. “It’s a blessing the duke arrived when he did.”
The duke. Of Grantham. It was all coming back to her now, like a nightmare in reverse.
“I don’t say I approve of everything the duke does.” The lady fussed with the coverlet, smoothing it under Rose’s chin. “Or most things even, come to that—but he did the right thing, bringing you here.”
Here. The room was too dim for her to properly assess her surroundings, but the fire was roaring in the grate, the pillows cradling her head were as fluffy as a cloud, and the delicate teacup from which she’d just drank was made of very fine porcelain, indeed.
