if she was doomed to suffer until Lucien was healthy enough to leave. She felt more hopeful since the arrival yesterday morning of Lucien’s imposingly cor- rect valet.
Without saying a word, Hastings had managed to con- vey the impression that he found Rosemont less than ade- quate housing for his exalted master, with the guest room’s smoky chimney and the upper floor’s drafty hall- way. To see Hastings’s pinched expression, one would think Lucien was above residing in a fine house like Rose- mont.
“Ha! I could tell them a few stories,” Arabella mut- tered. Of course, her stories concerned a young and reck- less viscount given to seducing young country innocents, not a handsome duke who, with his lineage and fortune firmly behind him, was clearly above reproach. It was maddening.
She resolutely pushed away all thoughts of her unwanted guest. She already knew what would happen if she weakened for any reason—he would take his pleasure, steal her heart again, and then leave under the dark of night like a coward while she drowned in her own feel- ings.
The old wounds ached, and Arabella sighed and re- turned to the stuck damper. Lucien would be gone soon enough and her life would return to normal. But there was something very odd about the way he had reappeared in her life. What on earth would possess a duke to ride unat- tended through the wilds of a Yorkshire moor on a moon- less night?
She frowned. There was something almost sinister about his presence. Despite being confined to his bed, he carried on an amazing correspondence, sending several letters a day. But when Aunt Emma had offered to have
Wilson carry the missives to Whitby, Lucien had refused, saying he didn’t wish to bother the household. Instead, Hastings made daily trips to town in his fancy curricle.
Wilson had taken offense at that. He’d muttered darkly about “secret dooks” and taken to staring glumly at Hast- ings whenever he saw him.
Cold air stirred through the kitchen and swept the last bit of soot from the air. Arabella closed the window, then returned to the fireplace to wrestle one more time with the stubborn damper. She would succeed at something today or go to bed sore and tired from trying. But it was becom- ing obvious that yanking on the handle would not open the damper.
Arabella dropped to her knees before the chimney, peering up into the dark maw. Perhaps a brick had fallen and wedged itself in the opening. Leaning away from the flue, she rattled the damper handle.
“What is all the racket?” Robert’s voice came from the doorway leading to the front hall.
Arabella wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I am trying to get the damper open.” She watched him wheel his chair into the room. The sun glinted off his chestnut hair and highlighted the faint shadows under his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” she said, worry sinking her stomach. He was still so very frail. He looked as if the faintest puff of wind would blow him away.
A sudden frown drew his brows low, signaling his impatience with even that small display of sisterly con- cern. He pushed the wheelchair to the table and reached beneath the cloth to steal an apple slice, his gaze moving restlessly around the room. “The way you’ve been bang- ing about, I thought you’d found the Captain’s treasure and were removing it from the chimney one sack of gold at a time.”
“No one but Aunt Emma believes that old tale.”
“I believe it,” he said so promptly that she almost laughed.
She settled for a grin. “I suppose you also believe in the Captain’s ghost lurking about, watching after the fam- ily.”
He took a bite of apple, his gaze thoughtful. “There are times I wonder. You must admit things often happen at Rosemont that cannot be explained.”
“Like what?”
“Like the time you fell asleep in the dinghy and it drifted out to sea. Father swears the Captain led him to the shoreline and showed him where you were.”
“Pish-posh.
Without saying a word, Hastings had managed to con- vey the impression that he found Rosemont less than ade- quate housing for his exalted master, with the guest room’s smoky chimney and the upper floor’s drafty hall- way. To see Hastings’s pinched expression, one would think Lucien was above residing in a fine house like Rose- mont.
“Ha! I could tell them a few stories,” Arabella mut- tered. Of course, her stories concerned a young and reck- less viscount given to seducing young country innocents, not a handsome duke who, with his lineage and fortune firmly behind him, was clearly above reproach. It was maddening.
She resolutely pushed away all thoughts of her unwanted guest. She already knew what would happen if she weakened for any reason—he would take his pleasure, steal her heart again, and then leave under the dark of night like a coward while she drowned in her own feel- ings.
The old wounds ached, and Arabella sighed and re- turned to the stuck damper. Lucien would be gone soon enough and her life would return to normal. But there was something very odd about the way he had reappeared in her life. What on earth would possess a duke to ride unat- tended through the wilds of a Yorkshire moor on a moon- less night?
She frowned. There was something almost sinister about his presence. Despite being confined to his bed, he carried on an amazing correspondence, sending several letters a day. But when Aunt Emma had offered to have
Wilson carry the missives to Whitby, Lucien had refused, saying he didn’t wish to bother the household. Instead, Hastings made daily trips to town in his fancy curricle.
Wilson had taken offense at that. He’d muttered darkly about “secret dooks” and taken to staring glumly at Hast- ings whenever he saw him.
Cold air stirred through the kitchen and swept the last bit of soot from the air. Arabella closed the window, then returned to the fireplace to wrestle one more time with the stubborn damper. She would succeed at something today or go to bed sore and tired from trying. But it was becom- ing obvious that yanking on the handle would not open the damper.
Arabella dropped to her knees before the chimney, peering up into the dark maw. Perhaps a brick had fallen and wedged itself in the opening. Leaning away from the flue, she rattled the damper handle.
“What is all the racket?” Robert’s voice came from the doorway leading to the front hall.
Arabella wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I am trying to get the damper open.” She watched him wheel his chair into the room. The sun glinted off his chestnut hair and highlighted the faint shadows under his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” she said, worry sinking her stomach. He was still so very frail. He looked as if the faintest puff of wind would blow him away.
A sudden frown drew his brows low, signaling his impatience with even that small display of sisterly con- cern. He pushed the wheelchair to the table and reached beneath the cloth to steal an apple slice, his gaze moving restlessly around the room. “The way you’ve been bang- ing about, I thought you’d found the Captain’s treasure and were removing it from the chimney one sack of gold at a time.”
“No one but Aunt Emma believes that old tale.”
“I believe it,” he said so promptly that she almost laughed.
She settled for a grin. “I suppose you also believe in the Captain’s ghost lurking about, watching after the fam- ily.”
He took a bite of apple, his gaze thoughtful. “There are times I wonder. You must admit things often happen at Rosemont that cannot be explained.”
“Like what?”
“Like the time you fell asleep in the dinghy and it drifted out to sea. Father swears the Captain led him to the shoreline and showed him where you were.”
“Pish-posh.
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