Page 12 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

As soon as she awoke, Hestia felt under the covers for Frederick’s letter. Thank heaven, it was still there. Oh, but his timing had been perfect—had the letter arrived a few moments later, she might have already disclosed their plot to Lord Corsbury.

Now, alas, that option was no longer available, and she felt wretched unto death. Frederick couldn’t love her. No man in love with a woman would send such an ultimatum—despite his declaration that it was best for both of them.

He had refused to believe Methuen could be negotiated with. He insisted on the plan remaining in place. She must search the earl’s papers and discover anything she could relating to Frederick’s finances, especially the purchase of stocks and shares. He was beginning to suspect Methuen might be deliberately liquidating companies in which he owned shares. If she could find out on which companies the earl had his eye, Frederick would sell his shares early and get a better price for them.

This all sounded like sense. But even so, it was something that could be discussed openly between the two men—in her opinion. Not only had Frederick refused to countenance her idea, but he’d also added insult to injury by threatening to send her back to her family if she didn’t comply.

Which meant she would be an outcast, for her parents were far too keen on their hard-won respectability to countenance the return of a ruined daughter. And if Frederick wouldn’t take her back, as either mistress or wife, she’d have nowhere to live. She’d be destitute.

So now, she couldn’t possibly disclose the whole horrid scheme to Methuen, or she’d end up with nothing. Unless she could think of an alternative—not easy to do when she was in pain, and her brain was clouded with laudanum.

For this reason, every time the earl came to see her in the ensuing week, she pretended to be fast asleep. She really couldn’t face him, couldn’t talk to him again, until she knew what she was going to do.

She was still no closer to a solution when Dr Hayward arrived one gloomy afternoon and announced she should get out of bed and walk around a little, lest her muscles waste from lack of use. She need not push through the pain but must try and increase the length of her walks every day.

A stick was provided, and Methuen and his mother, who’d gathered to hear the physician’s pronouncement, jockeyed over who should escort her on her first perambulation. He won, saying if Miss Norton chanced to stumble, he would be better for her to fall upon than his mother. The Dowager Countess made her apologies to Hestia but assured her that her son could be trusted to be a steady prop.

Once this was decided, both parties left her room so she could be dressed. It took a little while before she got used to her feet again, but as soon as she felt capable, she dismissed the maid and fished Frederick’s letter out from under the bed-clothes.

Where to hide it, where Methuen would never think to look? Not that she suspected him of wanting to spy on her, but it would be terrible indeed were he to uncover her duplicity. She eventually settled on the back of a small portrait of some Methuen ancestor, which was slightly loose in its frame. Turning it over, she inserted the letter between the backboard and the frame, then replaced the portrait on the wall. No one was likely to move the picture for months, especially as the room had already been spring-cleaned.

She wandered across to the window and peered out at the cloudy day. Hard to believe it was July already. Such a pity there was no sunshine—but she wasn’t going outside, not yet. It might be a while before she was fit enough to attempt the stairs and wander through the gardens.

Gazing around the room, she was puzzled to find no mirror. She had to hope the maid had done a good job of her hair, or Methuen would think she looked a fright. She took a few deep breaths. Knowing he was waiting outside, ready to accompany her, filled her with trepidation. He must remain unsuspecting of the reason for her presence here, or she’d be homeless and helpless in no time at all.

“Good afternoon, Miss Norton.” He made her an extravagant bow. As she bobbed in response, he flashed her a disarming grin. “I promised you would have my proper bow, in all its glory, when we were both on our feet. Now, that auspicious moment has arrived.”

Something flickered to life in her belly. The man really was attractive, his eyepatch giving him a dashing, rakish air. What did his face look like beneath it? Was there a blind eye, or no eye at all?

“Do you find something wanting?” His coal-black eye glittered at her, and the dimples that framed his mouth deepened. Her attention clamped on his lips. Eminently kissable. What wonders did this man hold in his store of sensuality? She’d only ever known the touch of Frederick. It confused her that she could find any other man alluring.

“Nothing at all, my lord. It is only that I’ve not been able to take your measure before now, having always been in a prone or supine position.”

He smiled again, and her heart lurched. “I like the idea of you taking my measure. Come.”

To her astonishment, he drew her close to him and rested his chin on the top of her head. He smelt clean and sharp, of fresh air. What time was it? Yes, the clocks had already struck three. He must have done his rounds of the estate before coming to fetch her. What part of his schedule was being axed in order to accommodate her now?

“There now. My measure is a full head over yours. But be not alarmed. I shan’t expect you to strain your neck talking to me—I will address your right ear as we walk, and you needn’t look at me at all.”

“I have no objection to looking at you.”

She flushed. Where had that come from? If anything sounded forward, that did. An inexperienced, innocent miss would never say something like that to a man she barely knew. This was what living in sin for almost a year had done—made her fit only to be a mistress, never a wife. Unless Frederick held to his promise and married her.

Methuen stepped away, and she heard the hiss of his breath. “You look downcast, Miss Feelings. Have we got you out of bed too soon?”

“Oh, no, not at all, Mr Facts. I think being an invalid can cast one’s thoughts low at times.”

“Shall we dispense with the foolish names we’ve given one another? I should very much like to call you Hestia if you would call me Conall.”

“That will do very well, sir.” She accepted the walking cane he held out to her, and realised from the carved dog’s head on the handle it must be one of his own. He offered his arm and she accepted it, then took her first steps beyond the Tapestry Room.

The walk around the first floor of the house was a great success. She made it through an entire wing without stumbling, and made no errors in conversation that might reveal her true purpose in being here—she hoped.

He then insisted on carrying her downstairs, so they could examine the ground floor as well. She had to make an effort to breathe throughout that journey, distracted as she was by the feel of such strong male arms around her.

Her fingers tightened on Conall’s sleeve when he set her down and opened the door into his study, informing her this was where he conducted all his business dealings. She covered up her error by appearing to trip and clutching at him harder.

“I’m tiring you. It may be little more than a fortnight since you were able to walk any distance perfectly well, but you’ll ache like the devil if we overdo it now. I recall when I was trying to regain the use of my fingers—”