Page 56 of A Lady in Name

Once more he moved to the bell-pull. He would have to send for Dion. He devoutly trusted she would accept his tale of Lucy having suddenly been taken ill.

Lucy woke to a headache and hazy memories that made her sit bolt upright in bed. The movement caused hot pokers to jump into her skull and she clutched at her head. It was a moment or two before she was again able to think coherently. But her thoughts were so appalling Lucy almost preferred the pokers.

Could she truly have been kissed in a fashion as ruthless as it was devastating? Her body juddered with horror, and an echo of the sensations she remembered. Lucy’s hands went to her abdomen, pressing down as if to still the fateful risings in an unmentionable area.

There had been an argument, had there not? Then how was it possible she had allowed Stefan to assault her lips in so scandalous a fashion? She must have dreamed it. Which argued so strongly in her mind as the likeliest possibility that Lucy was inclined to believe it. How else could she account for the images and the feelings they prompted? Her affection for Stefan was reason enough for betrayal of her senses in sleep. It was unthinkable he should so far forget himself as to kiss her like that.

Nonetheless, she was relieved, after she had washed and dressed, moving gingerly for the pounding at her temples, to discover only Dion sitting at the oval table in the breakfast parlour.

“Stefan has gone out riding,” said his sister by way of greeting, but Dion’s intelligent gaze widened as she looked Lucy over. “Gracious, you look perfectly wan! What in the world is the matter?”

“I have the headache,” Lucy told her, looking with disfavour upon the dish of ham from which she had removed the cover. “I can’t eat that.”

“Not if you have the headache.” Dion reached for the coffee pot. “Sit down and I will find you something light.”

She poured coffee into a cup and handed it to Lucy as she sank into a chair with her back to the windows, even the weak winter sun proving painful to her eyes. Presently a small plate appeared in Lucy’s place, with two rolls neatly arranged together with a pat of butter. “There is honey, if you wish for it.”

Lucy accepted the honey pot, but refreshed herself first from the welcome coffee. She felt altogether conscious, as if the imprint of her harlot dreamings could be showing on her forehead. She was permitted to eat and drink in silence for a few moments. But it was not long before she became aware of Dion’s curious gaze. She looked round. “What is it?”

Dion twinkled. “I am not entirely surprised you have the headache after last night.”

Lucy’s pulse skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Stefan sent for me to his study. He said you had been taken ill suddenly. I must say, it took the two of us to persuade you to get up and walk to your bed. You leaned on Stefan all the way.”

Appalled, Lucy could only gaze at her.

Dion giggled. “It is of no use to look like that.”

“I don’t know how I look,” returned Lucy snappily.

“No, and you don’t want to know how you looked last night.”

Worse and worse. “I have no recollection of being ill.”

Dion’s eyes danced. “I dare say you don’t. One does not, I understand, after carousals of that nature.”

Appalled, Lucy grabbed her hand. “Carousals? What in the world are you talking of?”

Dion burst into laughter, tugging her hand free. “You should see your face! I beg your pardon for teasing you, dear Lucy, but I could not resist.”

A half-sigh escaped Lucy. But she was not yet satisfied. “Pray tell me just what happened.”

“Well, I can’t because I don’t know,” said Dion candidly, her mirth subsiding. “Stefan would have it you had fallen ill. But I saw two glasses alongside a decanter on his desk, and — do not mind me saying this, for you did ask — I could smell the alcohol on your breath.”

Lucy looked quickly away, putting a hand to her head. Dear Lord, was it not then a dream? Or had she merely drunk more than she was used to? Which might give rise to the sort of tangled amorous dreamings she recalled. Papa had warned often of the dangers of drinking to excess, so many of his parishioners being guilty of that fault.

“Don’t look so downcast,” begged Dion. “I am sure you are not the first woman to have fallen victim in such a way. But what I wish you will explain to me is why you and Stefan were drinking at all. Had you something to celebrate?”

Highly unlikely. Lucy tried to think back to the events of last night and found her memories too foggy to recover more than snatches. Another of the consequences Papa had outlined — loss of memory.

“I have little recollection of any of it,” Lucy uttered fretfully. “I think I was upset.”

“You were,” Dion told her flatly. “By our discussions at dinner. Stefan went after you when you excused yourself. But he won’t tell me what happened after that.”

“And I cannot,” Lucy said hastily, “so it is of no use to plague me.”

Dion eyed her for a moment in silence, a mulish look in her face. Thankfully, she opted to let it lie, instead reminding Lucy to eat her rolls, now sliced and larded with butter and honey, and took trouble to refill her cup from the silver coffee pot.

Lucy would have liked to enquire more closely into the discussion at dinner that had evidently sent her out of the room in a state of distress, but she dared not bring it up for fear of Dion’s demanding tit for tat and enquiring more particularly into her dealings with Stefan. Lucy’s headache had receded a little, but she felt so little her usual self she could not trust herself not to blurt out her fears about those torturous dreams — if dreams they were.

A heavy tread in the room beyond drew Dion’s attention. “Ah, this may be Stefan himself, come in from riding. Now we shall see.”

But the person who entered after the opening of the door proved far other.

“Paulina!”