Chapter Sixteen
The nearest village to Twilit Hill was a warm and wonderful place, nestled at the edge of a large woodland area. Small and somewhat rundown, it reminded Whitney of the place that had become her first home after her parents’ deaths. She’d gone to live with Uncle Willard when she was only nine. He had been a man of few words, but strong and proud and unfailingly honest. A blacksmith by trade, he’d had little idea of what to do with a weeping orphan girl of limited strength except put her to work around the workshop.
She smiled at the sounds emanating from the distant smithy and turned her feet in that direction. She had not minded the work she’d been put to by her uncle. The distraction of being busy had lessened her grief somewhat. Her uncle had given her the task of tallying his accounts when she proved capable later, sweeping floors and keeping his house in order, and even performing some of the delicate work his customers expected of him.
She had become quite adept at pouring molten metal to fashion nails, too, a job that required a very steady hand and patience.
She paused at the doorway, lost in the rhythmic sound of the blacksmith’s strikes on the anvil, and sighed. She missed her uncle very much. He’d been a good man who’d made her feel safe and loved and wanted.
She took a few steps into the workshop, curious to see any differences between her uncle’s old establishment and this one. As far as she could tell, the two places were much the same. Heat blasted from the forge, and an untidy and oddly comforting array of tools lay scattered about. The smell of hot metal strong in the air. She felt instantly at ease and waited to be noticed before venturing farther inside.
The blacksmith was a great hulking fellow, who clearly knew his work well and focused solely on what he was doing. He wore a thick leather jerkin over his clothes, and his forearms bulged with the force of each strike upon the anvil.
She sighed again. Such a man, such a physique.
She jerked her gaze from him as a tiny red-haired woman hurried in through a distant door, two tankards of ale in hand.
The woman froze when their eyes met.
“Hello,” Whitney said in her friendliest tone, eyes darting to the blacksmith, who’d finally noticed her, too. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The lady set the tankards down and gave the blacksmith a pointed look. He quickly went back to work and ignored Whitney’s interruption.
The woman drew closer, eyes hard as she took in Whitney from head to toe. “Can I help you? Are you lost, my lady?”
“Lost in the past a little bit,” Whitney confessed, smiling as she looked around. “I once spent a lot of time in a place like this.”
The woman’s brows rose in surprise. “Did you now?”
Whitney nodded, aware the woman was scrutinizing her fine clothing quite closely. Nowadays, Whitney did not dress as if she’d spent a year and more stoking fires. “My uncle was a blacksmith.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose even higher, as if she could not believe that. “Where is he?”
“He passed away, a number of years ago now, I’m afraid.” Whitney shrugged. “I thought of him as soon as I heard that strapping fellow over there.”
“My husband,” the woman said, folding her arms over her chest—claiming the fellow in a way that said “hands off my man.” “I’m Nancy. Mrs. Nancy Blake.”
Whitney immediately liked the woman for her obvious possessiveness.
“Miss Whitney Crewe.” Whitney grinned as she held out her hand. Mrs. Blake took it with obvious reluctance. “He has excellent taste. Redheads always make the best wives.”
“But they are the most troublesome of creatures at every other moment,” a deep voice added from somewhere behind her.
Whitney whipped around and stared into the shadowed corners, recognizing the owner of the voice at once. “Acton, is that you?”
The blacksmith’s wife hurried around Whitney, carrying one of the tankards toward the earl she could not see clearly yet. “There you are, my lord. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Quite all right, Mrs. Blake,” he said kindly, but Whitney detected a faint slurring of his words.
Whitney took a few steps in his direction, squinting until she saw him clearly. She hadn’t seen the earl today, but she had been thinking about him—a lot more than she should. Only Miss Quartermane and her parents had called at Twilit Hill since the day of their water fight. Miss Quartermane had been out of sorts today, but hadn’t explained what had upset her. She hoped her advice to seduce the earl the other night had not gone awry or made trouble between them.
“What are you doing here?”
“Drinking,” he said, before taking a very long drink to prove his point. He sank back into the straw with a groan, as if he’d no intention of standing to greet her…or of ever moving again.
She flashed him a quick smile. “I expected to see you with Miss Quartermane when she arrived at Twilit Hill today.”
He scowled, and Whitney gulped at his expression—most definitely out of sorts today. Had something gone terribly wrong between Acton and Miss Quartermane the other night?
She pushed aside the selfish burst of hope that filled her heart and focused on him.
On closer inspection, Lord Acton appeared rather terribly presented. His clothing was wrinkled, his usually clean-shaven jaw was dark with the beginnings of a beard, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was quite foxed.
She narrowed her eyes on him in disapproval. It was only nine in the morning, far too early for him to be in this state, no matter the reason. If she had erred in her advice to Miss Quartermane, she would make amends and do her best to set things right again. “I trust you and Miss Quartermane have not argued?”
“Of course not.”
Whitney was relieved, and not a bit surprised by that. Alice was lovely, so whatever was going on with Acton may not have anything to do with his relationship with his betrothed. It was just a feeling she had, based on Alice’s cool mood earlier that day. It really wasn’t any of her business…and yet she couldn’t help but poke and pry into the reason for his current unhappiness. “Then what is wrong with you?”
He studied her, scowling anew. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m not sure, but that is a good question, isn’t it?” She didn’t approve of his impending marriage, or keeping secrets, but that did not mean she wished him ill. “I am interested, so tell me what I want to know and I will cease bothering you.”
“You like meddling in my life, don’t you? Going so far as to put scandalous ideas in my future bride’s head.” He scowled, and then finished off the tankard in one long guzzle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched in a rather rude manner, quite unlike the man she’d come to know.
Whitney rocked back on her heels. She’d never seen him act so strangely; this was completely out of character. “I did not think you would object.”
“I object most strenuously,” he claimed.
He struggled to stand, and Whitney caught his elbow when he seemed in danger of toppling over. “Acton,” she chided. “Be careful.”
He shook her off violently. “Stay back,” he warned.
The consumption.
Whitney put her hands behind her back but planted her feet, placing herself directly in his path. She was far enough away that his breath couldn’t strike her face, and close enough that she could see every emotion play across his handsome face. “I’ve never once seen or heard you be anything less than a gentleman.”
He scowled at her again. “Now that’s a lie.”
She almost laughed. She had seen him solemn, flirtatious, aroused and naked—all in one night. She was trying, fairly unsuccessfully, to do the right thing and put that night firmly from her mind, but he made it so difficult.
“You can keep your clothes on today,” she whispered. “I meant that you are being a bit of a beast and very rude. I hope you are kinder to Alice than you are to me.”
He pushed past her, and Whitney followed him at first with her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned Alice Quartermane—the lovely and proper debutant that would soon be his wife. They were so different, and of course Acton had chosen her. Still, it stung a little to be rejected when she was only trying to be his friend. Whitney was not always so wicked, but she’d acted it with him, and he couldn’t forget it, either.
The blacksmith and his wife had drawn close together and were staring. She grinned at them. “Do you happen to have a water trough outside?”
“Indeed, I do,” Mr. Blake confirmed, but then his eyes narrowed. “What do you want it for?”
“I may need it for medicinal purposes,” she confessed, and then slowly followed after the drunken earl. “Nothing sobers a man faster than a good dunking,” she murmured.
As luck would have it, Acton stopped quite near one.
When he saw Whitney, he groaned and pressed his hand to his face. “Kill me now,” he mumbled.
“You’re not going to be that lucky. You’ll probably live forever.” She nudged his shoulder in what she hoped he understood was a playful manner. “What has gotten into you today?”
He shook his head then grabbed a fencepost to steady himself. “It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
He looked at her sternly but then looked away again.
“Acton? Is it your sister? What is wrong? Tell me, please.”
He glanced her way slowly and stared at her. She grew warm under his close inspection, and suddenly the stirring of desire filled her, along with the need to wrap her arms about him and promise everything would be all right. She tried to smile but that only made her more aware of her awkwardness around him now. He didn’t want her. Not really. He wanted a good woman. A better woman than Whitney could ever become.
She let her eyes fall but Acton reached out and caught her arm. When she glanced up at him again, she saw his desire—as clear to her now as the night they’d first met and flirted. A soft smile played about his mouth, drawing her in.
She leaned a little his way, but he released her and stepped back.
“Damn,” he muttered, before raking his hand though his hair. The gesture made him seem vulnerable and uncertain, so Whitney waited patiently, determined to learn what was wrong and how she could help.
“Please tell me what I can do,” she whispered.
He straightened. “Taverham reacted worse than I expected him to when I mentioned Emily.”
“Worse,” she whispered. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”
“I am no longer welcome at Twilit Hill,” he stated, squinting at her. “That is one reason I am not squiring Miss Quartermane hither and yon.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “I had no idea Taverham had taken the news as badly as all that, but he’s been a bit of a bear to everyone, too, when I think about it. He didn’t harm you, did he?”
“No.” Acton grunted and sank down on the edge of the trough. “Can’t even blame him for being angry. Stupid thing to have done, not to explain the situation as soon as he arrived.”
“As far as I can tell, no one has been told. Christopher has been riding or leading Lion all about the estate very happily,” she promised him. “Miranda hasn’t said anything about Emily to me either, which leads me to suspect she might not know yet. She would have warned me to watch over Christopher more closely if she knew.”
“It’s only a matter of time then.”
Once the rumors spread, Acton would have a hard time keeping Emily’s condition from other members of the ton. Friends might wonder why she was locked away too. “Have you told Alice? Have you told Mr. and Mrs. Quartermane?”
“No,” he confessed. “Only you. Alice and I…”
Whitney gritted her teeth. “If you and Alice are to have a happy marriage, you must tell her about Emily and the difficulties you could face. No relationship can withstand secrets such as these.”
“If I told her all my secrets now, she might not consider you her friend anymore. Have you thought of that?”
Whitney swallowed. “I imagine that may become the case anyway.”
“Because you’ve seen me naked?”
She smiled quickly at the pleasant memory. “Because I will not be around to amuse her when she is out of sorts.”
“That’s right, you’re leaving the country.” He bit his lip. “In five days?”
“Yes.”
“Why the rush?”
So she had no chance of being delayed and remaining to witness the day Acton wed, of course. But she wouldn’t confess that. Instead, she trotted out the most reasonable excuse she’d concocted and shared already with others. “Because I have an appointment with my banker, to discuss financial matters for my trip and the liquidation of my investments.”
He gave her a strange look. “I would have thought your cousin managed your affairs.”
Whitney shook her head. “I am more than capable of managing the inheritances my aunts and uncles left to me.”
“I did not say you couldn’t, I just thought Louth might have been of help while you are away.”
“You assume I am returning.”
His eyes widened. “And you’re not?”
“I plan to thoroughly enjoy myself, and if I find a place I love, there really isn’t any reason to ever return to England, is there?”
He gaped at her for a long moment, but then he put his head in his hands with a groan.
Whitney still wasn’t sure if he was upset over Emily, telling Taverham about it, or simply feeling the effects of his intoxication right now.
Whitney considered what to do if it turned out to be the latter. Her uncle had sworn that drinking a concoction of garlic and rosemary steeped in hot water aided clearing the head. She was reluctant to recommend such a vile-smelling concoction to anyone, even if it had seemed to do the trick for her old uncle.
Yet, Acton sounded miserable, and it was unlike him to show himself in such a state. He’d known about Emily for some time, but losing the respect of Lord Taverham might just have upset him a great deal more than he’d want to let on.
She carefully placed her hand on his bent head and stroked his hair. He had nice hair, pale and straight, but he reeked of the ale he’d been drinking, so much that she wrinkled her nose. “Surely falling into a barrel of ale isn’t the way to mend fences with your friend.”
Acton froze as she continued to tease her fingertips into his hair. “Wasn’t trying to get drunk because I’m a disappointment to him. He’s every right to be angry. This is for…another reason entirely.”
“You’re not a danger to everyone you meet, you know,” she promised. “I’m not scared of being near you.”
“You should be.” He stood suddenly, and because Whitney was standing so close, they bumped into each other. For one surprising moment, Acton was as close to her as he’d been the night they’d almost made love.
But then he windmilled his arms and toppled backward, catching Whitney’s arm and dragging her shrieking into the mucky waters of the horse trough behind him.