Dawn in My Heart (5 page)

“I think we will suit,” he said finally. “I, too, want to run my father's estates and prove I can manage them well. I need a wife for that. A good one. I want a woman I can trust. She may play hostess for me whenever she wants. I want to devote my time to my estates and to taking my seat in Lords. I can grace whatever parties she chooses to give, but I don't intend to become caught up in the social whirl.

“I expect my wife to remain faithful to me, as I will to her.”

She met his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to be probing her, willing her to confess any tendency toward waywardness. Would they ferret out her past secrets or only demand future fidelity?

She said nothing. He continued. “I will be frank with you, my lady. I have not led the life of a saint. I sowed my wild oats here in London before I was banished across the Atlantic.” A faint smile tinged his lips, though his tone was bitter.

“In the Indies I dedicated myself to turning around a failing plantation. I have just ended a six-year relationship with a wealthy island widow. It was not a love union, merely a mutually agreeable arrangement. I left no illegitimate children behind.

“Forgive my frankness to your maidenly ears. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, but I want to make it clear I ended any entanglements and fully intend to honor my wedding vows once I take them. I expect my future wife to do the same. Do you understand me?”

Her face had blanched at his unvarnished confessions. Did he expect the same of her? A complete disclosure of her past conduct?

Perhaps with his confession, he was making it clear the past was behind him and he would behave differently as a husband. Her heart lightened. The past didn't matter. She, too, intended to honor her wedding vows, despite her mother's advice, no matter how distasteful they seemed to her at the moment.

She swallowed. “Yes, I understand you. I, too, will—” she almost choked over the words “—honor our wedding vows.”

He sat back, as if relieved some decision had been taken. “Good. I will tell my father to have the betrothal announced and the banns posted. We can discuss a date with your mother.”

He raised his glass to hers. “Let us toast our future union.”

She raised her glass slowly to his, keeping her eyes fixed on the two glasses, preferring not to meet Lord Skylar's penetrating dark gaze.

After that, as if deliberately seeking lighter topics of conversation, Lord Skylar took her for a stroll about the gardens. He spoke to her of the different plant life in the tropics. They drove back to London in the late afternoon. Gillian had long since put the serious part of their conversation out of her mind and focused on the enjoyment of the day. As they neared London once again, she felt a sense of regret that the outing would soon be over.

She enjoyed watching Lord Skylar's handling of the curricle, as she had her father. The two would have liked each other, she realized, and she felt a passing sadness that her father would not have the chance to meet her future husband.

Lord Skylar turned to her. “Would you like to take a
turn?” he asked offering her the reins. Her eyes widened. Most men were so proud of their skill with the ribbons and so protective of their precious vehicles and horses, they would never allow a female companion to try her hand. She smiled and nodded, taking the reins from him.

She had her own low phaeton with its pair of ponies, but it had been a while since she'd handled a pair of horses. She kept the horses at a steady pace, glad they were still on the outskirts of the city. Lord Skylar seemed in no hurry to have the reins back. As the streets became more congested, he finally took them back.

“You handle the ribbons well. Who taught you?”

“My father. We often rode together.”

“Do you know anything of horseflesh?”

She nodded again, surprised anew.

“Maybe I'll take you to Tattersall's with me. I'm looking to buy my own horse now I'm back in England. Everything in our stables is either Father's or Edmund's.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gillian spied a movement on her side of the road. She craned her neck to see around the coach passing them at that moment.

A dog dashed into the street to avoid a man's whip. Without thinking, she grabbed Skylar's arm. “Stop the carriage!”

“What the—” he began, as his pair pranced at the sudden jerk to the reins. Not waiting to find out what she'd caused, Gillian jumped out of the curricle before it had come to a complete stop.

“Lady Gillian!” She heard his sharp command, but she paid it no heed. She dodged traffic and ran toward the dog. Just before a coach ran it over, Gillian lunged at the dog and grabbed its neck.

Hearing the neighing of horses almost on top of her, she dragged the dog back with her.

“What are you thinking of doing, old fellow?” she crooned into its ear as her hands patted his neck, afraid to let it go. “You could have gotten yourself killed. We couldn't have that. No indeed! There. You come back off the road with me.” As she reached the edge of the street, she noticed the crowd around her. Astounded faces ringed her.

“Miss, are you all right? You almost got run over. If the coachman hadn't stopped in time—”

Not removing her hand from the dog, still feeling its trembling beneath her fingertips, she realized the full extent of the situation. Coming from behind the onlookers was Lord Skylar, his jaw set.

The crowd parted for him and he came straight to her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. Before he could say anything more, she turned to look for the man who had caused the commotion, as far as she was concerned. He stood behind a table, selling trinkets.

She marched toward him. “How dare you, sir! Taking a whip to a poor, defenseless dog. You should be whipped yourself.”

The man looked at her in astonishment. “Why—why, that cur's been pestering me. It's a worthless stray. Ought to be taken out of its misery.”

Her outrage knew no bounds. “I'll have you reported. I'll see you—” Before she could utter her threat, she felt Lord Skylar's hand on her arm.

“The lady is understandably distressed with the near miss she had. Her nerves are overset—”

She opened her mouth at Lord Skylar's cool tone. “My nerves! I'll show you nerves.” Wrenching her arm from his grasp, she went in search of the dog. She found him cowering behind a stack of crates. “Come on, boy. Don't be afraid.” She petted him, crouching down to his level once again. “We'll take you away from this place, from that awful brute…”

“She means no disrespect,” she heard Skylar say to the vendor in a soothing tone. “Here, this should cover any damages. We'll take the cur away from here.”

Then he was standing over her. “We'd better remove ourselves from the premises if we want to avoid a riot. The man's an unemployed soldier. He'll soon have the crowd on his side.”

“Come on, boy,” she coaxed the dog, her hand urging it forward. The dog was gazing at her with limpid brown eyes the color of topaz, and she fell in love with it.

She gave a last outraged glance at the man with the stall and only then noticed his missing leg, and the crutch he leaned against. She shuddered and turned in search of the curricle.

Lord Skylar pointed to where he had left it on the other side of the road, his tiger holding the reins. “We shall have to cross the street.”

Gillian looked at him expectantly.

“What is it?”

She motioned to the dog. “Aren't you going to carry him? We mustn't risk his getting run over again.”

She almost laughed at the expression on Lord Skylar's face as he looked down at the dog.

With a lengthy sigh, he finally stooped down and lifted the dog in his arms.

“Don't hurt him,” she begged Lord Skylar.

“I hope you're addressing the dog and not me,” he said dryly.

With a doubtful look at the curricle's immaculate interior, Skylar dumped the animal onto a rug on the floor. “We shall have to have the vehicle fumigated,” Skylar told his tiger.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, unable to aid his master as he held the horses.

After helping Gillian in, Lord Skylar climbed in, shoving the dog out of the way of his feet in the confined space. The dog whined pitifully.

“Be careful! He's been mistreated enough.”

“I believe it's a she, not a he,” he answered shortly as he took the reins from the groom and waited only long enough for the man to jump up in back before setting the carriage in motion.

He handed her his handkerchief with barely a glance. “You might want to wipe the dust from your face.”

“Oh—” She took it from him, wondering that he'd even noticed her face in the entire fray. She scrubbed at her cheeks.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she watched him turn into the park gates.

“We can drop the mutt in the park. Either that or drive back to Kensington. Perhaps I could bribe a farmer to take it off our hands.”

She twisted around in the tight space and glared at him. “We shall do no such thing. How do we know they will take care of it properly?” She laid her hand on his forearm, her outrage turning to entreaty.

“I would suggest, my lady, that you refrain from interfer
ing with my driving a second time. If you did not cause an accident just now, or break your neck, I cannot guarantee your safety another time.”

She removed her hand. “Didn't you see that man? What he was doing to this poor animal?”

“No, I was watching the traffic, a fact you can be thankful for. Otherwise, all three of us would probably have been thrown from the vehicle.”

Finally conceding the folly of her jump, she said, “I'm sorry for the suddenness of leaving the curricle, but the man was whipping this poor dog, and he—she'd—run into the street. In another second she would have been run over by that closed carriage.” Her voice broke at the thought of what might have happened. She sniffed into the large handkerchief, appalled at her reaction.

“Spare me from emotional women,” Lord Skylar muttered.

“At least I'm not being heartless!”

“Excuse me. Next time I'll jump out alongside you with no thought for anyone else on the road.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “This dog needs medical attention. Look at that wound.” She bent over, noticing the gash from the whip. “Can't you take her home with you and have your stableman look at her?”

It was his turn to look at her in outrage. “
Home with me?
That flea-ridden creature? For all we know, it's rabid.”

She looked down at her knotted handkerchief. “I can't—that is, Mother wouldn't allow it into our house, not even into the stables. I—I've taken in some stray cats and keep them there, but Mama doesn't even know about them. I don't think I could keep a dog hidden for very long.”

Lord Skylar remained silent, but after a moment she heard
him give another pained sigh. When she dared look around, she saw with relief that he'd turned around and was leaving the park. She said nothing but dabbed at her nose, being careful not to sniff audibly.

“My father's mastiffs will probably eat her for breakfast.”

She glanced at him in alarm. “You mustn't let them! Can't you keep her apart from them?”

He said no more until he stopped in front of her house. She bent over one last time and petted the dog until Lord Skylar came around to her side of the carriage. She did not look at him as he helped her down.

“You're sure you're not hurt?” he asked curtly.

She nodded.

“You'd best change your dress before your mother sees you.”

She glanced down at her light-colored muslin. Dust and dog prints stained it.

“She might have second thoughts of allowing you to go on another outing with me if she sees your dirty and disheveled condition from a simple turn in the park.”

As he spoke, he took her arm and propelled her toward the front entrance. A footman opened the door before they reached it. Lord Skylar released her and stepped back. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

She looked back at him and bit her lip. “You won't let the other dogs hurt it?”

“We'll muzzle them until they get used to this mongrel.”

“You'll let me know how she gets on?”

“You'll hear from me.” With a final tip of his hat, he turned and made his way back to the curricle.

Her attention went to the dog, whose chestnut head
peered out the side. She gave it an encouraging smile and wave. “I'll see you soon,” she said, not at all sure she would be able to keep her promise.

T
ertius lay on the narrow ledge. He dared not move or he'd fall over the edge. He couldn't see over it but felt instinctively the drop into the darkness had no end. Like the terror that gripped him, it was black and bottomless.

The tension in his muscles from keeping against the wall was dissipating his energy at a rapid rate.

A sudden spasm jerked him over the side. His heart in his throat, his body free-falled. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came forth.

He awoke with a jerk into the dark room. Immobilized by fear that overwhelmed his reason, his every faculty, it took a moment to realize he was safe. It had been nothing but a dream.

Relief came in a slow wave that loosened his muscles, which were tight like twisted rope. As the reality of pillow
and covers intruded on his consciousness, he relived the dream from the viewpoint of wakefulness. A sense of familiarity hovered over it.

As his breathing slowed and he listened to his heartbeat, he searched his memory. He'd been there before. As his thoughts cleared and sharpened from the deep sleep he'd been in, he remembered.

He'd dreamed of the ledge during his last fever.

The details finally faded, and he became aware of his actual surroundings—soft bed under him, hangings at each corner of the bedposts, pillow cushioning his head. As he took in each detail, he became conscious of something else present in the room.

The brief relief at waking evaporated as a new evil confronted him. He wasn't alone. His heart stepped up its pace again as the malignant presence at the end of the dark room made itself felt. It sat there, heavy and still, biding its time before it closed in on him.

He tried to call out but couldn't. Something gripped his throat and kept him mute. He tried moving his mouth, but it didn't respond to his commands.

Before all rational thought left him, the sensation receded, and at last he knew he was truly alone with the natural darkness. He remained paralyzed, voluntarily now, for several moments, his reason doubting what his senses told him.

As the darkness continued to feel normal, Tertius finally dared to move. Slowly, he drew back his bedcovers and felt for a candle. With shaking hands, he managed to light it.

The room was empty. His focus traveled to every reach of it. Everything appeared as he had left it when he'd extinguished his lamp last night. The long shadows of bedposts
and hangings danced about in the candlelight, and he realized the hand that held the taper was still shaking, so he set it down.

He got back into his bed, propping up the pillows to rest against them. He wasn't a coward. He'd faced down plenty of dangers in his life. So why this blind panic in the face of an invisible danger? It was only a dream—it had to be. There was nothing in the room.

He wiped the sweat from the upper part of his lip.

He'd thought the dreams were finished when he'd gotten over his illness. Why were they coming again? And this latest phenomenon? It had been no dream; he'd been awake. What did it mean?

He was in England now. Somehow he'd thought nothing could follow him here.

 

Sky slept late the next morning. The bright sunshine made him laugh at his foolish terrors of the previous night. After a good breakfast, as he sat in his father's office going over papers given him by his father's solicitor, he was able to forget it completely.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his concentration.

“Yes?” he called out.

The butler opened the door. “Lady Althea has come to pay her respects. Would you like me to show her in? I have put her in the morning room.”

Tertius swore under his breath. He had no desire to see his half sister. What did she want? He thought he'd never have to see her again once she reached her majority and left the family seat of her own accord.

“Very well,” he finally said, as the butler stood awaiting
his decision. “Show her in here.” Let her see he was busy and couldn't take time for a family reunion.

A few minutes later the young woman entered and stood by the door without moving farther into the room. The door closed softly behind her, and he was left facing the sibling he hadn't seen in over ten years.

She hadn't changed much, he noted, except for her unfashionable attire. She, too, was in mourning for their brother, Edmund.

“Hello, Tertius.”

The very tenor of her voice exasperated him. It reminded him of some fearful servant, ready to cringe at its master's raised voice. It enraged him, since she'd never been mistreated by his family. On the contrary, she'd received every largesse.

He rose slowly from his desk and came toward her. “Hello, Althea. How've you been keeping?” he asked in an offhand tone as he motioned her to a chair.

She seated herself and loosened her bonnet strings. “Very well, thank you. I only just heard you had returned or I would have been by earlier.”

“No hurry. I won't be going anywhere soon.”

“I'm sorry about Edmund. It was a tragic loss.”

He inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge the condolence. “Still shaming the family name with those Methodist practices?” he couldn't help asking as he flicked a speck of lint off the leg of his pantaloons, pretending a carelessness he was far from feeling.

He watched the color creep over her cheeks. Her hair, the same burnished gold he remembered, was no longer in two pigtails, but pulled back into a tight chignon. No loose
curls framed her face. Not for pious Althea. How dare she pretend such holiness when her roots were so tainted? Time and distance had not diminished the impotent rage he felt every time he thought about her origins.

“I am still at the mission,” she said quietly. “I don't believe I am shaming the Pembrokes in any way. I never took the family name. There is no reason for anyone to connect me to your family.”

“Yes, so Father told me,” he drawled. “You go simply by ‘Miss Althea Breton.' How noble of you to carry the burden of your illegitimacy so bravely on your small shoulders.”

She smiled at him, a smile that struck him as resigned, and he felt renewed annoyance.

“I don't carry any burden except those the Lord gives me, and that usually has to do with people you don't know nor will ever chance to know.”

He said nothing but sat beating a tattoo against his pant leg, awaiting the reason of her visit. Was she going to ask for some donation for her charitable work? Hadn't Father already been more than generous in his settlement on her?

“Your father sent a note letting me know of your return.”

“
Our
father, don't you mean? Isn't that what he wants you to call him? As well as take your rightful place among us and let the world know your true parentage now that Mother is gone?”

She swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands. “I'm sorry, Tertius. I have no desire to hurt either you or your mother's memory. I usually still refer to Father as my guardian. I still think of him in that way,” she added with a small smile.

“How nice of you to consider my mother's sensibilities,” he sneered.

She ignored the gibe and instead asked, “Did you have a good journey back?”

“The seas were calm for the most part,” he replied, a part of him regretting his lack of manners. What was the matter with him? It wasn't Althea's fault who her parents were. But he'd never been able to stop blaming her for having been so blatantly thrust under his mother's nose. The late marchioness had been forced to endure the presence of a child who so clearly was not a “ward,” but the result of one of her husband's many indiscretions.

“Father said you had been ill, and that's why you couldn't come any sooner,” Althea continued.

“Yes, that is so. But I'm fully recovered now.”

“I'm glad. You—you look thin,” she said in the soft, hesitant tone that never failed to irk him.

He shrugged. “So everyone tells me.” He made a point of pulling out his watch and snapping it open, wanting above anything for this interview to be over. He felt out of sorts and ill-humored. It was the poor night he'd had that was making him behave so surly.

“I didn't mean to interrupt you at your work,” she said at once. “I merely wanted to welcome you back and tell you how sorry I was about Edmund.”

He felt another twinge of guilt at his incivility. He was quite some years older than she—at least a decade—so he hadn't had much contact with her growing up. But whenever he'd come home from school, he'd catch glimpses of her. His father seemed to keep her well hidden on the large estate.

She'd always been cowering behind somebody's apron, usually a housekeeper's or servant's, those shy eyes looking out at him, a thumb stuck in her mouth.

He studied her critically. Her black dress with its narrow white ruffle high at the neck made her look older than her twenty-three or twenty-four years.

“How old are you now, Althea?” he asked abruptly.

She looked surprised at the question. “Twenty-four,” she answered softly.

Tertius hated that diffidence. It had always annoyed him and brought out the worst in him. “You look older,” he lied. In truth, she still looked young; it was her clothing and hairstyle that added years.

She didn't seem affected by the implied insult. He preferred a more spirited person. An image of Lady Gillian rushing to save a stray flashed through his mind. Her passionate defense of the mangy mutt stirred something in him like nothing else had in a long time.

“You look older than I remember,” she said with a gentle smile. “You were a dashing young man of five-and-twenty when you left, and I was an awkward girl of fourteen, fearfully in awe of you and Edmund both.”

“I hardly remember you,” he replied, unable to stop his digs.

“I doubt you would. You were a young gentleman about town and I was away at school by then.”

She stood and began retying her bonnet. He stood as well and waited for her to put her gloves back on.

He didn't thank her for coming. The words stuck in his throat. No matter how much his rational mind told him to treat her with courtesy, his gestures wouldn't follow suit.

“I'll show you out,” he said.

“There's no need to accompany me. I'll see myself out.”

“As you wish.” He accompanied her only to the door of the office, where the two stood a moment.

Her clear gray eyes regarded him. He read compassion in them, and he wanted to tell her he didn't need her pity. Who was she—a poor, penniless, illegitimate half sister—to pity him?

Why then did he feel she had something to offer him? That she knew something of his fear and near panic of the night before? Of his feelings of inadequacy in filling Edmund's shoes?

“Tertius,” she began.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering to hide the impatience in his tone.

She reached a hand out to him but let it drop before touching him, and he realized he had braced himself for the contact. “I also wanted to…to let you know, if you ever need anything, you can come to me. You don't seem fully recovered. I hope your new responsibilities won't be too much of a strain—”

“You don't think me capable of assuming the duties of the new Earl of Skylar?” he asked, and then could have kicked himself for revealing his own weakness. It was the fault of that soft, sympathetic tone of hers.

“Of course I do! But as I said, you've been ill. Take it slowly and don't let the opinions of others control you.”

He regained his calm tone. “My dear sister, your solicitude overwhelms me. However, you needn't concern yourself. I am perfectly capable of managing my affairs. And as I told you, I am completely recovered.”

She merely nodded. “You needn't treat me as a sister if
you'd rather not. I understand. Just think of me as a trusted childhood friend who would do anything in her power to help you if you should ever need me.”

She no longer struck him as a timorous inferior. Her tone had gained strength, as if she were supremely confident of her ability to help him.

What could she possibly help him with? “Thank you, dear Althea,” he replied, managing a thin smile. “I shall remember that whenever I am in need.”

She looked down, as if disappointed but not surprised at the condescension in his tone. “Goodbye then. I always pray for you.”

“I'm sure you have many more deserving souls worthy of your petitions.”

She made no reply as she exited the door. He shut it behind her and returned to his desk, but found it hard to resume his work. Drat her intrusion!

He didn't want to have the past tormenting him. He'd achieved an emotional distance from his father and was certainly not going to let a half sibling he hardly saw, let alone hardly knew, upset the careful balance.

He was on the threshold of beginning something new. He would prove to society that he was fully capable of filling his brother's shoes. With a lovely young wife at his side, and offspring soon to follow, there was absolutely nothing he need fear.

 

A few afternoons later Gillian entered the drawing room for tea. Once again she found Lord Skylar calmly seated with her mother and Templeton, one of her mother's fine Sevres cups and saucers balanced upon his knee.

“Yes,” he told them, “she is of a very old pedigree, a direct descendant of a spaniel of my great-grandfather's on our Hertfordshire estate. She'll make a great companion for Lady Gillian.” He reached down to stroke the dog's neck. “A very docile creature, I assure you.”

Gillian could only stare at the “creature” in question. The rescued dog, chestnut coat shiny and clean, sat at Lord Skylar's booted feet. At that moment, it caught sight of Gillian. Immediately it jumped up, almost knocking over the edge of a silver tray on the table before Lord Skylar.

“Sit!” Lord Skylar's tone was more effective than a whip. The dog and owner stared at each other a few seconds—seconds in which Gillian's hand went to her throat and she held her breath, fearful of her mother's reaction. Her mother leaned forward in her chair as soon as the dog had moved, itching to have it removed from the room, no doubt.