Chapter 8

Butterflies danced in Louisa's stomach as she and Lord Wycliff mounted the steep, ill-lit stairs to the bedchamber they would share.

He inserted the key into the iron lock and eased open the door. A candle already burned beside the bed, and a fire blazed. The room's wooden ceiling was low, which together with the warmth, gave the room a comforting feel.

She stepped into the room, a chill inching down her back despite the room's warmth. Her valise  had been placed beside the bed.

Lord Wycliff stood in the doorway. "I shall go to the tavern now. I have the key and will let myself in later." His voice dropped to a husky whisper when he added, "I daresay you'll be asleep when I return."

Louisa looked at him with surprise, but he was already turning away to descend the stairs. She crossed the room and locked the door, then began to remove her wrinkled traveling clothes. First the pelisse, then the gown. And still she wasn't really cold. She decided the innkeepers must keep a fire burning even when there were no guests. She would have to ask Lord Wycliff to give the innkeepers an extra sum in appreciation of the accommodations. Lord Wycliff could obviously afford such a trivial expense. After all, he was going to settle her for life, merely for accompanying him on this journey.

Her chest suddenly tightened. What if he was not a man of his word? Did he truly plan to recompense her so well for a few days of her time? As she had so thoroughly been reminding herself all day, she knew not what manner of man he was. In spite of the many hours they had spent together over the last few weeks, he had revealed nothing of himself.

She stopped midway through donning her woolen night shift and wondered what she really knew of him. That he possessed a great deal of money was a certainty. His cousin boasted of Lord Wycliff's ability to build a sizeable fortune after being left virtually penniless by his squandering father. Louisa also knew without doubt that the lord who was to share her room was fiercely devoted to his mother. An admirable trait in a man, she thought.

But what else did she really know of him? She recounted their many visits together and realized she knew only the little he had allowed her observe, and little of it was personal. She had no idea even of how he had amassed his fortune. Nor did she know if he had ever been close to matrimony. She wrung her hands, learning just now as she was about to share her bed with him that the handsome nobleman was a virtual stranger.

She donned her night rail, slid beneath the warm blankets and blew out the candle. Weary from the day's travel, she went to sleep almost immediately, careful to take less than half of the bed.

* * *

Lying beneath the warm covers some hours later and listening to the rhythmic breathing of the feminine creature beside him, Harry could barely hold back the desire to laugh. The silly woman had actually believed him when he told her he had no desire for her. With every rise and fall of her breasts, he wanted her. His desire for her was more keen than even the desire to command his first ship. Or the desire to reclaim Wycliff House. Or to regain his mother's portrait.

Yet he had instinctively known Louisa Phillips was not a woman to be taken lightly. She would certainly not give herself to a man who did not plan to make her the center of his life, and Harry knew the complex reformer was not the woman for him. Why, she didn't even like men!

He gave himself to trying to unravel the puzzle that was Louisa Phillips. Why did she hate men with such vehemence? The source, of course, pointed to the vile man who had been her husband. What manner of man would leave a young thing like that without provisions for a roof over her head?

From something she had begun to say before amending her words, Harry felt certain that Godwin Phillips had raised his hand to his young bride. Harry could barely hold back his curse. If Godwin Phillips were still alive, Harry would take pleasure in beating him until his ugly face looked like a can of maggots.

As he lay beside her, Harry vowed he would see that Louisa Phillips was comfortable for the rest of her life. Whether she aided him in his quest or not.

* * *

The following morning they ate a hearty breakfast before renewing their journey. He had awakened before she did, slipped on his pantaloons — for he had slept only in his silken shirt — and gone downstairs without disturbing her.

That she had survived the night with her virtue intact undoubtedly loosened her tongue this morning when she met him in the parlor for breakfast. Gone were the scowls of the night before.

Through his restraint, he had earned her approval.

"I believe the innkeeper keeps fires blazing in the rooms so they are warm when guests arrive," Louisa told him between spoonfuls of porridge. "You must be generous to the man, my lord."

An amused grin lighted his tanned face. "As you wish, madam."

"From the indentation on the bed I surmise that you slept in our room," she said, "but I declare I never knew when you came."

He watched as her cheeks grew rosy. He had learned to detect her propensity to blush when things embarrassed her. "Have I earned your trust, madam?"

She shyly nodded. "I daresay it's because I hold no appeal to you."

He would play along with the charade. "Please don't think you're not attractive, ma'am. I vow that any number of men would find you desirable."

Her scowl returned. "Then you lied when you said I was the prettiest woman at Lord Seymour's?"

He fairly spit out his tea. "Not at all, madam. You were the prettiest woman there. It is just that I like women who are a bit more. . ."

"Free with their favors?"

"I confess to having a certain amount of experience with women of that description."

"Women like Lady Davenwood?"

How in the deuce did she know of his affair with Fanny? "A gentleman does not discuss such matters, Mrs. Phillips."

That blush of hers returned.

"I do find your liberal opinions at odds with your own lifestyle," he said.

"How so?" she asked.

"Do you not espouse the principals of free love?"

"I do," she said. "Marriage as we know it is nothing but a sham."

He raised a brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"Surely you know how freely ladies of the ton share their beds with men who are not their husbands."

She really does know about Fanny. He nodded sheepishly.

"Which appears to be perfectly all right because they are married women. Then there is the fact that few women are truly given the opportunity to choose their own husbands. Circumstances of birth determine who marries whom. You must admit a man of your birth would never marry a flower woman at Covent Garden."

"Nor would a lovely young woman from Kerseymeade choose to marry an aging card shark."

Her eyes rounded. She was silent for a moment, then her voice dropped, and she spoke without hesitation. "My father sold me for a thousand pounds. My significant abhorrence to the match was irrelevant."

He felt the pain in her words and reached across the sturdy wooden table to take her hand. "So that's why you hate men," he whispered. "They've done nothing but hurt you. Not only your husband, but also your father."

She withdrew her hand and stiffened. "You're selfish creatures, the lot of you."

"I can see why you think that," he said solemnly, his voice low. Now he knew why she would never return home, why she wanted to get Ellie away from their father. Harry finished the last of his tea, then put on his coat and helped her into hers. "Let us hope the weather is better today."

It was still raining as they walked around puddles in the inn yard, and his coach pulled in front of another in order to save them a few steps of walking. Harry handed her into the conveyance, then took his seat across from her and watched with amusement as she tucked herself beneath the heavy rug.

He wasn't cold yet. He was still warm from the parlor — and from the intimacy of their conversation. It was as if a barrier between them had been removed.

She looked out the window. "I believe the clouds are breaking up," she said cheerfully.

With a lump in his throat, he watched her. There was such a child-like quality about her, despite the tough facade she had erected. In the weeks he had known her, her demeanor had softened considerably. She dressed far less somberly, and acted far more femininely. If only he had more time to spend with the lovely lady.

He almost regretted that he would no longer see her once he located Godwin Phillips's benefactor, but since Harry had no intentions of becoming a member of the House of Lords, nor of embracing Mrs. Phillips's liberal politics, he knew he would have to steer clear of her once he regained Wycliff House.

Why should he wish to extend the franchise and allow his cottagers to usurp his rights, rights that had been enjoyed by the Earls of Wycliff for the past two hundred years? The notion was utterly ridiculous. He would be sorry to disappoint her, but his money should salve her anger and bruised pride.

"It's a pity man's future is determined by his birth," she said. "Take John Coachman. It's his lot in life to brave the elements, the cold chilling his bones and the wind cutting through him, while it is your lot to sit inside the coach, warm and dry."

"Would it please you if I sent him to join you and I take his seat on the box?" Harry asked, mirth in his voice.

"That is not my point at all," she protested. "It is a sad fact of life that while some children are coddled with nurses and tutors and protected within their nurseries, others are left orphans to beg strangers on the street for their next meal."

"I regret that I am unable to feed and clothe all the orphans of the world, Mrs. Phillips. My pockets are only so deep."

She heaved a sigh. "That is not the point, either. Don't you see it is the right of every child to be able to play and learn, not to work to earn his keep? It is the responsibility of thinking people like you and me to equalize people."

"And by that, we would all benefit."

She tossed aside her rug. He loved it when those pale eyes of hers flashed. "Yes!" she said. "A well-fed and well-educated citizenry would automatically reduce crime and could even reduce diseases which I am convinced are spread by sheer ignorance."

"I had no idea your education extended to the field of medicine, Mrs. Phillips."

She glared at him. "You're making fun of me."

"Not at all," he protested. "I find you exceedingly intelligent, and I have great respect for your intellect."

Growing cold, she took up her rug again. "What of your intellect, my lord? It seems to me you have carefully concealed your own ideas from me."

He felt pangs of guilt. "I admit I have spent much of my adult life amassing a fortune, giving little thought to the wisdom of the great thinkers of today. I am now trying to fill that void — with your help." He sounded convincing, even to himself.

She met his gaze with a frank stare. "Tell me, Lord Wycliff, how did you make your fortune?"

Additional pangs of guilt vibrated through him. "I was in the shipping business."

She nodded. "Were I to go into the shipping business, could I make vast sums of money?"

"You're a woman."

"Exactly. Doors are closed in women's faces."

"The next thing I know, you'll be demanding the franchise for women, too."

"And why not? We comprise half the population."

"I don't deny that we need women, but their principal purpose in life is to bear children."

Her face looked wounded. "Are you saying that since I have borne no children, I have no worth?"

"Damn it, woman, that's not what I meant!" Despite himself, he tried to imagine her with a child. He did not at all like to think of her bearing Godwin Phillips's child. Not to say that she wouldn't have been a fine mother. And wife, too, had she been given the chance to marry a man who owned her heart. She might not realize it herself, but with her capacity for compassion she could have been a great wife and mother. Had her circumstances of birth been more fortunate. Had she not been born to the abominable father who could sell his spawn for mere money. The muscles in Harry's face tightened. How he hated the man for what he had done to his own daughter.

Harry's thoughts flitted to his own father. As angry as Harry was with him, he knew his father had always loved him and his mother above worldly possessions. A pity his father's weakness had led to Harry's mother's death. Harry remembered how broken his mother had been when she lost first her home, then her husband.

Louisa's declaration that the clouds were breaking proved correct. When it was time to partake of a nuncheon, the skies had cleared, and they were able to depart the carriage and stretch their legs. Then Harry spread a blanket on the damp grass beside the road, and the three of them sat down to eat the generous repast packed by the innkeepers' wife.