The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (4 page)

Roxleigh dismissed him with a gesture. “I will send for you, of course.”

Dr. Walcott whirled and left the study.

Roxleigh walked back to the sideboard, leaning over the whiskey decanter, his mind racing.
What have I done? If she is that far gone, there is no way for me to help her. I know nothing of this girl; I have no relation to her. Why must I feel obligated to protect her?

But he knew why. After what seemed hours instead of minutes, he straightened once more and rang for Mrs. Weston.

“Your Grace?” she asked warily as she entered the study.

“Mrs. Weston,” he said without turning from the sideboard. “It seems our guest will remain with us for a time. She has the physical mien of a lady, and shall be treated as such. She should be made as comfortable as possible and given every freedom in the manor, save one. She must never be left alone. She is your charge. Make the necessary arrangements.”

“Gid… I… Your Grace?” Mrs. Weston sputtered. “Are you quite sure ‘tis safe?”

He turned on her, seeing her unnerved expression. But it was not her right to question him; while he’d known Mrs. Weston for the entirety of his life, he was at this point her master and expected certain formalities. He cast her a firm sideways glance to remind her of her place. “I will not send her to Bedlam,” he said quietly.

She drew a sharp breath, understanding blossoming across her features. Righting herself quickly, she replied, “Of course, Your Grace, I will see to everything. She will be well cared for here.” Mrs. Weston gave a hasty curtsey and retreated from the room.

Bracing himself, he let out a deep, guttural moan, closing his eyes tightly against their sting. He turned, straightening his waistcoat once again and smoothing his unruly hair. There was no more time he could give to the matter. Yet though he had much work to accomplish, now he was entirely too agitated. He needed to ride.

Francine stirred as a ray of sunlight warmed her face through the window.
What day is it? No alarm—must be Sunday
. Keeping her eyes closed, she smiled and giggled at the ridiculous dream her unconscious had unleashed on her the night before. She stretched, curving her back like a cat, and reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes, wincing as her fingers grazed the bandage on her forehead. Hesitantly, she looked through her lashes. Seeing the rich brown velvet comforter that covered the bed, she froze.

“No,” she whispered. There was a swift movement from across the room and she sat up suddenly. The pain lanced through her forehead and branched out in delicate webs throughout her body. She clasped her head, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples as she fell sideways into the mound of pillows.

She heard someone approach, but kept her eyes shut tight against the light.

“Miss,” the gentle voice said. “Miss? Is there something I can do?”

Francine groaned into the pillows as she waved one of her hands above her head.

“Is it the light, miss?” the voice asked.

“Mmmuuuh,” was all that she could say, nodding her achy head as she tried to swallow. The maid quickly released the tent from the bedposts and drew the curtains closed around Francine, who relaxed immediately, letting out a desperate sigh as she sank into the mattress.

This is not happening.

Mrs. Weston was preparing a breakfast tray for her new charge when the small chime rang, calling her to the main guest suite. “Ah, Your Grace, I hope this girl is worthy of your kindness,” she said under her breath. She hurried through the kitchen, seeing that dinner was being prepared in a timely manner, and walked out to the entry, pausing only to inspect the new day’s work.

The great entrance of Eildon Manor opened to the morning and Mrs. Weston liked to see it cleaned early so Roxleigh could enjoy the sunrise. Enormous, solid cherry doors graced the front, surrounded by leaded glass windows. The room itself was a rotunda, everything about it meant to set off the large, round table centered in the entry, which would easily seat thirty guests. It had been designed, constructed, and inlaid with more than fifty types of wood that were brought as tributes from around the world to Roxleigh’s great-great grandsire, Marcus Avris Trumbull, the sixth duke, who had designed and built the manor. Above the table, floating below the large, stained-glass dome, hung a crystal chandelier of the same scale.  

Across from the entry loomed the grand staircase, which mirrored the shapes of the table and the chandelier. It protruded into the perfect circle of the room at its first step and rose, gently narrowing to the first floor, where the dark wall panels concealed a private parlor. The only evidence of the parlor was the row of high placed windows that signified a great, airy room which overlooked the whole of the valley at the back of the manor.

The sweeping design of the grand staircase masked the private stairways that led to passages woven throughout the walls. They ensured the servants could carry out their duties as masters required: quickly, quietly, and efficiently.

Nearly every bedchamber—almost thirty of them—consisted of an intricate suite of rooms branching off from winding hallways in awkward patterns. It was an annoyance for guests who came to Eildon, as they often became lost and had to ring the servants’ bells to summon a rescue. The sixth duke, Marcus, had designed the layout in order to skulk around the manor to watch his guests, and all the goings-on, without being noticed. It also allowed him to keep both a mistress and a wife under the same roof.

Mrs. Weston turned from her inspection and shuffled for the first floor guest suite, gathering her skirts. As she turned toward the wall to enter the passage behind the grand staircae, she noted Roxleigh’s curious glare from the door of his study. She nodded. He didn’t move, and she could feel him watching as she ascended the stairs and disappeared into the wall.

Francine could see the maid next to the door through a breach in the curtains. She was wringing her hands as an older woman entered, the one from yesterday.

“Mrs. Weston, ma’am, she only just woke. She hasn’t said anything yet, just groans and such. The light seemed to bother her, so I fell the tent.”

Mrs. Weston nodded and carefully made her way across the room. “Miss,” she said as she pulled the curtain back on one side of the giant bed. “I am Mrs. Weston. I shall be attending you. If there is anything you need, please never hesitate to ask.”

Francine buried her head in the pillows and closed her eyes.
This isn’t possible. This is a dream.

“You have had a terrible fright, I imagine, miss. His Grace would like to notify your family that you are safe.”

Francine opened one eye and looked at the woman.
Where the hell am I?
She shook her head and closed her eyes again. Even if she understood the circumstances she was currently faced with, there was no one to notify. Wherever in the world she was, she was completely alone.

She studied her surroundings. The solid wood furniture was thickly cushioned with deep cinnamon hues. She’d been surrounded with what seemed like a houseful of British and Scottish servants, a tired doctor who wouldn’t listen to her pleas, and an incredibly powerful and domineering man that she could only assume was this ‘His Grace’ person they all kept referring to.

Her pulse quickened as she remembered him. He was straight and tall, broad and dark, the very definition of masculinity. For some reason she remembered the smell of his skin, spicy from soap and tangy from sweat. She remembered the endless depths of his eyes, swimming with anger at her outburst, but hinting of some other, deeper emotion. Most of all she remembered his grasp on her arms as he caught her and drew her up to him—flush against him from her chest to her knees—before her mind had faded. She grunted and tried again to sit up, this time a bit more slowly.

Mrs. Weston reached for the pillows at the head of the bed to help. “Here, miss, let me. ‘Tis what I’m here for. His Grace has seen fit to put me at your will. There’s a pull just on your right, and another by the door.”

Francine opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. It hadn’t done her any justice the last time, and at odds as she was with her current predicament, keeping her mouth shut might be the best course of action. She snapped it closed, then tried to clear her throat and instead felt it tighten. She frowned and touched her forehead then brought her hands together in her lap. She implored the woman with her eyes, hoping beyond reason that she would understand and could oblige her even a little.

“Hmm, yes… You are not remembering anything?”

Francine shook her head.

“Well, His Grace was out in the curricle yesterday. From what I gather, you came from the wood, startled the horses, and fell under hoof.” Mrs. Weston gently pushed Francine’s hair back from her face and examined the bandage, then the scrapes and bruises on her cheek. “One of them got you good, miss,” she said. “But ‘tis a miracle you weren’t trampled to death.”

Francine looked away.
I wasn’t in a forest. I was in a taxi. I was in a taxi, and I was headed to work and then—then, what then?
She closed her eyes, trying to remember, but the memory wouldn’t come. “Where am I?” she croaked, the words barely recognizable.

Mrs. Weston grimaced at the sound. “You are in the manor at Eildon Hill Park, home of His Grace, the Duke of Roxleigh.”

Francine closed her eyes then looked at her again, confused. Mrs. Weston cleared her throat. “County Lanarkshire.” She paused. “United Kingdom,” she said finally.

Francine felt the shock cross her features and Mrs. Weston patted her hand reassuringly. “Now then, we can worry about the rest of it later.”