Chapter Seven
That evening the fable of the boy who cried wolf sprung to Hestia's mind as she suffered through dinner. Why had she pretended to have a migraine on her first night at Hawkfield Manor, when this evening the lie would have served a far greater purpose. Namely, it would have allowed her to avoid the Marquess of Falconbridge, who seemed determined to find out everything he could about her past.
He was suspicious of her, she knew, though she also knew that he could have no reason to connect her to the scandalous life and death of David Stockbow, unless she gave him one.
"We were speaking of Truro," Lord Delaney said, as he sidled up to her in the drawing room, after dinner. Tea was being served in delicate china cups, allowing Hestia a minute's relief as she pretended to be distracted by adding lumps of sugar to her drink. "And you were just about to tell me where it was that you had lived in Cornwall."
"Was that what we were speaking of, my Lord?" she finally asked gaily, hoping that Falconbridge could not hear her heart, which was beating a loud, nervous tattoo in her breast. "Oh, yes, just before you left to play cricket. Tell me, where did you learn to play so well?"
She opened her eyes in what she hoped was a wide and innocent way, crossing her fingers that the Marquess, like every other man, would jump at the opportunity to speak of his accomplishments.
"At Eton," he answered smoothly, sitting down, uninvited, on the overstuffed sofa beside her. The china cup that he held looked ridiculously small in his hand and the sheer size of him left her feeling even more nervous. All his questions would be so much easier to bear if he wasn't so intimidating looking, she thought with annoyance. It wasn't just his size that daunted her, but his face as well --he was sinfully handsome. His cheekbones were high, his mouth generous and his eyes hypnotising in their intensity --he truly was a tempting specimen of a man. A lock of Falconbridge's dark hair had fallen out of place and for a moment Hestia felt the urge to brush it away with her hand.
Goodness, she started, where had that thought come from?
"Of course," she parroted stupidly to his reply, hoping that if she kept up a constant stream of babble that he would not get the chance to ask her any more questions. "Why, cricket must be a very popular sport there. What other sports do you engage in, my Lord? Do tell, I'd be most fascinated to hear."
"Sadly, I'm not in the slightest bit fascinated by the thought of listing them off for you," Lord Delaney drawled, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Tell me, Miss Bowstock, are you always this evasive, or is it just with me?"
His direct line of questioning shocked her into silence. Her acting skills were obviously not what she thought them to be, for the Marquess was looking at her with the eyes of a man who knew that she had a secret.
"Other people never give me cause to be evasive," she finally answered, plucking at the skirts of her dress with nervous fingers. "For there are few who would take interest in a Lady's Companion, my Lord. Excepting you, of course."
"So, you admit that you are reluctant to speak of your past?" there was no triumph in his tone and his eyes, when they met Hestia's, were kind.
"If my circumstances had been slightly better, my Lord," Hestia replied, heavily weighting her words so that they were honest and yet revealed little. "Then I would not be a Lady's Companion, I would be someone's wife. A solicitor's maybe, or perhaps a small merchant's."
"I am glad you are nobody's wife."
Goodness, Hestia glanced at the Marquess with utter alarm, was he insinuating that he would like her as his bride? Surely not; perhaps he was going to offer her a position as his mistress, for she knew that wealthy men often did things like that.
"I'm afraid--"
What she was afraid of remained unsaid, for Jane called out for her to play a song on the pianoforte and she readily agreed. Her mother had taught her how to play during the long winters that her father was away at sea and she knew she was as accomplished as any young debutant. Hestia knew all of the proper songs that a young lady ought to know, as well as sadder, more melodic tunes that were native to Cornwall. She was nearing the end of a sweet, poignant song about a sailor lost at sea, when the Marquess came to stand beside her and she lost her place.
"Oh, silly me," she smiled, pushing back her chair without looking at Lord Delaney and going to stand near Jane.
"My dear you have such a sweet voice," the Duchess of Hawkfield cried, "Who taught you how to sing?"
"My mother."
An overwhelming sensation of grief coursed through her and she glanced at Jane, hoping that she might see her distress. Jane, however, was distracted by the ridiculous Mr Jackson, and the only eyes that seemed to witness her grief were those of Lord Delaney, whose sympathetic gaze found hers.
The others were arguing about what activity to play next, with Lady Caroline's suggestion of a board game quickly shot down by her brother.
"How about a game of hide and seek?" Lord Payne asked.
Goodness, Hestia couldn't think of anything worse, but to her surprise the whole group --bar the Duchess, who was going to her chambers--agreed. Giles, Caroline's husband, was chosen as the seeker, and in high-spirits the guests ran from the drawing room, scattering in a dozen different directions.
Hestia, who was not much bothered by winning, scurried toward the library, where she thought she might have a chance to peruse the Duke's book collection while she waited for Giles to find her. The library was situated just off the drawing room, it was a dark, masculine space, lined with mahogany bookshelves that were stuffed with leather bound volumes. She ran an idle finger down the spine of a collection of Lord Byron's works, before plucking it from the shelf and settling down on an over-stuffed Queen Anne by the fireplace. The servants had obviously been busy, as there was a fire dancing happily in the grate, lending the room a cosy air. Imagine having so much wealth that you kept a full fire going in an empty room, just in case you might use it, Hestia thought. There had been one fireplace in the small cottage she had grown up in, and keeping it filled with wood during the winter months had been a constant worry.
Lord Byron's poems were not the most restive of reading materials and after attempting to wade her way through one of his longer sonnets, Hestia stood and padded over to the window. The deep, bay window of the library looked out onto a rose garden, which was in darkness. The sky above was clear with a scattering of stars, that twinkled cheerfully. In Cornwall, the night sky had always seemed endless and magical, stretching to the horizon until it blurred with the sea; but here the sky held no magic for Hestia.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Bowstock."
Hestia went rigid with shock at the sound of Falconbridge's voice from behind her. When had he come in? He either moved in complete silence, or she had been so lost in thought that she had not heard him.
"I don't think they're worth even that," she responded, afraid to turn to look at him. Why was he here? Why could he not just leave her alone, like everybody else? Her status as a servant was supposed to inure her from interest, but it had not deterred the determined Marquess.
"Oh, I don't know," Lord Delaney spoke in a light, teasing tone. "A woman clutching a book of Byron's poems whilst gazing dreamily at the night sky, must surely be thinking something deep and poetic."
"I was thinking of sewing," Hestia responded tartly, offering the dullest topic she could think of. She did not wish to engage in any kind of teasing with Lord Delaney, no matter that his voice left goose pimples on her bare arms.
"Ah, of course you were," he chuckled, a deep, melodic sound that filled the room with warmth. "Were you thinking that the sky is like a beautiful tapestry sewn from glittering silks?"
"No," Hestia replied mulishly, as he came to stand beside her, his arm grazing hers. "I was thinking of my bonnet, which will need a new ribbon sewn onto it."
"Are you always this stubborn?" the Marquess sighed at her answer, looking down at her with eyes that were a mixture of amusement and frustration.
"No," Hestia replied, rather stubbornly, even she had to admit.
"Only with me, then I take it?"
"Well, you insist on following me everywhere," she sighed, her eyes refusing to meet his, "And asking me probing questions that I quite obviously do not wish to answer."
"I am sorry," Falconbridge sounded sincere, his hand reaching for hers, "It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. I am fascinated by you Miss Bowstock and, as an academic, when I am fascinated by a subject, I am filled with a need to know everything that I can possibly know about it."
"There is little to know, my Lord," Hestia's mind was reeling from this startling confession from a man of such a high rank. Her body was responding to his closeness in unfamiliar ways and the feel of his hand holding hers had turned her knees to jelly and her brain to mush. "You know it all, already, my Lord. I fear that I am possibly the dullest creature to have ever walked the earth --I pray, tell me more about you."
"I find it impossible to believe that a woman with such expressive eyes, could ever be dull," Lord Delaney held her gaze. "Though if you would prefer to wait until after we are wed, to reveal yourself completely to me, then so be it."
"Wed?" Hestia balked; goodness this had escalated quickly. "Are you quite well, my Lord? You can't marry me, I am just a servant."
A servant with a criminal father and a history so scandalous that even the Falconbridge's lofty title could not help but be tainted by it.
"Yes, wed," Lord Delaney's eyes danced; he seemed terribly amused by her reaction. "We shall have to for two reasons, the first being that I am attracted to you in a way that I have never felt before."
"And the second?" Hestia asked, wondering if it was she who had gone mad and was hallucinating this absurd conversation.
"Why, because offering for a woman after you have kissed her thoroughly, whilst alone in a dark room, is the honourable thing to do --and I always do the honourable thing. Well, except perhaps for this..."
His lips were upon Hestia's before she had the chance to absorb the intention behind his words. His arms snaked gently around her waist and he pulled her toward him lightly, so that she was pressed against his broad chest. It all happened so quickly and yet, at the same time, it felt as though time had stopped completely. No one had ever kissed her before, nor held her so closely; it was thrilling and terrifying all at once.
"Lud," she whispered in confusion, as he finally broke their spellbinding embrace.
"I'll take that as a compliment," the Marquess's lips quirked in an arrogant smirk. His composure and self-assurance after what, for Hestia, had been a momentous event--her first kiss--irked her.
"It was not a compliment," she whispered waspishly, "You are so arrogant, my Lord. Just because you are a Marquess does not give you the right to kiss me and hold me so closely, when I have given no hint that I wish to be kissed or held."
"You are still in my arms, are you not?"
It was true; Falconbridge's arms were still wrapped around her waist in a possessive manner. Hestia had been enjoying the sensation of being cradled by someone so large and masculine, but she quickly pulled away at his words.
"You took me by surprise," she countered, stepping away from him. She needed to put distance between her body and his, for he radiated a warmth that was overwhelming. "And I think that you must be in your cups, my Lord, to say such strange things and act so rashly."
"I have never been more sober in my life," all teasing had left Falconbridge's voice. "I am immensely attracted to you, I desire you, and I see no reason why we should not be wed."
Hestia could think of one very obvious reason --the Marquess had no idea of her true identity. The second reason, when it struck her, made her realise that she was very much her mother's daughter: he had not said that he loved her.
"Please, I beg you," she said in a voice that was thick with unshed tears. "Do not ask me again, my Lord. It is impossible."
"But why?" Lord Delaney stepped forward, his arms reaching for her again. "Please tell me why it is impossible, Belinda?"
The use of her new moniker was like a slap in the face. Part of her could have been tempted to fall into his arms, to allow him, his title and his wealth to carry her away from her present predicament, but she could not lie to him --no matter how lost and alone she was.
"Because this is not a fairy tale, my Lord," she replied firmly, smoothing down her skirts in an effort to appear calm and collected. "I am not Cinderella, you are not Prince Charming and there will be no happily ever after for us. Now, I beg you, please let me leave."
She would never know if the Marquess would have objected, or put up a fight, against her leaving the room, for outside the door, in the entrance hall, there came the sound of raised voices.
"That sounds like Jane," Hestia cried, gathering her skirts and rushing out of the room. She was greeted by the sight of her mistress, batting away the concern of Giles and Lord Payne, as she made for the staircase.
"Honestly, it's just a migraine," Jane was saying --though Hestia knew from the high-pitch of her voice and its slight tremor, that it was much more than that.
"I will look after Miss Deveraux from here," Hestia said, sweeping out into the hallway and placing herself between Jane and the two men. Jane offered her look of thanks and together the two women climbed the staircase without a backward glance to the men below.
Hestia was most grateful for the distraction of helping Jane to her room, where the misty-eyed young woman confessed that Lord Payne had asked her for her hand --properly this time--and she had said no.
"It's just that I think that Mr Jackson might offer for me," Jane sniffed, "And I have loved him for years. We are both studious, quiet and serious. It would be a much better match."
If Hestia thought that Jane sounded more like she was trying to convince herself, than actually convinced, of Mr Jackson's suitability, she kept her opinion to herself. Jane seemed set on the dull, irritable entomologist and if Hestia said a bad word about him and the pair did marry, then she would soon be out of a job.
The pair parted ways and Hestia undressed for bed. It felt like she had been asleep for only five minutes, when a knocking on the door woke her up. Goodness, she thought as she hurried to open it, was it the Marquess? She would have some very stern words to say to him if it was. She opened the door to find Jane standing outside, her face streaked with tears.
"What on earth?" Hestia exclaimed, worry filling her. She had never seen Miss Deveraux so overwrought; Jane was usually so calm and practical.
"M-M-Mr Jackson thinks me old and unattractive," Jane wailed through her tears.
"Gracious! Did he say that to you?"
"No," Jane's sniffed, her words coming out breathlessly. "I overheard him say it to Lord Payne in the library. Then Lord Payne punched him."
Hestia gave a silent cheer at this news --so she had been right to prefer the heir to Hawkfield over the fusty entomologist.
"I have ruined everything." Jane wailed, a bout of sobbing taking hold again. "I hurt Lord Payne for the sake of Mr Jackson and he has turned out to be an utter cad. Oh, I want to go home to St Jarvis, I don't want to be here anymore."
"It's too late to be running off to Cornwall," Hestia advised, her tone practical. "If you still wish to leave in the morning, then we shall go together. Go to sleep now, Jane. Don't make any rash decisions late at night. Wait until morning, when you feel more rested."
Jane nodded, as though taking her advice and disappeared into her bedchamber, but the next morning when the house woke to find that Jane had disappeared, Hestia knew that her advice had fallen on deaf ears.