Page 12 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

His bedchamber, in other words.

And if that was the case, then . . . well . . . she was lying in his bed.

Somehow, that made matters even worse.

She dragged in a steadying breath. With it came the scent of him, lingering on the sheets. Something sparked along her spine, something she chose to call apprehension.

Gradually, the rest of his speech sifted through her aching head. No sisters. No servants. “Do you . . . do you mean to say we’re here . . . alone?”

Her voice was as weak as the rest of her, the last word barely a whisper. Yet it rang in the room’s stillness like the call of the night watch.

“I’m afraid so, yes. I do beg your pardon. And worse yet, first thing in the morning, my solicitor expects to retrieve the key for my tenants and workmen will begin to arrive.”

She plucked uncertainly at the coverlet. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow.”

He didn’t answer; it wasn’t really a question. If the house had been leased, then of course he must vacate it.

And so, perforce, must she.

Though she would not have thought it possible a moment ago, her head began to throb harder. How would she manage on her own until she recovered? She had to wet her lips to get the next words past them.

“Wherever you’re going, will you take me with you?”

The question astonished even her. Because, for almost as long as she could remember, she had relied on no one but herself.

She closed her eyes and waited for him to make another joke, to mock her predicament, to reject her desperate request.

“To Devonshire? That—that hardly seems wise.”

She couldn’t disagree.

“It’s a long journey for someone in your condition. And besides, there must be someone here who will miss you. There must be somewhere better for you to go,” he insisted, though his voice was gentle. “Lady Stalbridge, perhaps—”

Sharply, she shook her head and instantly regretted the movement. The fresh stab of pain made her stomach roil. Given the imminent exposure of everyone associated with the magazine, Lady Stalbridge had trouble enough to be getting on with, without Constantia visiting more upon her doorstep.

Sensing her discomfort, he did not complete the thought. The fire crackled, filling the silence.

“Supposing even that I were willing to take you so far, how would we explain to everyone . . . ?” He didn’t finish the thought, but she knew what he meant nonetheless.

How would they explain—to his family, the servants, anyone they met along the way—who she was, where she’d come from, and what she was doing in the company of the Earl of Ryland?

Excellent questions—perhaps her supposed inability to answer them, even for herself, would prove useful. In any case, she took comfort from them, and from the note of uncertainty in his voice. They meant he was considering the matter. She had to get away from London, and he might yet prove persuadable.

“You . . . you mentioned sisters? Younger sisters?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

“The youngest is not sixteen.”

“Still a teachable age, then.”

He made a noise that might have been a snort of laughter.

She gathered up the sketches now scattered across the bed, the movement made more difficult by her bandaged wrist. “Could you—would you employ me as you sister’s drawing master?”

The suggestion made a muscle twitch along his jaw, as if he had gritted his teeth. Nevertheless, he appeared to consider the matter for a moment, then shook himself brusquely as if to drive the idea further off. “Even if it were possible, there is still the matter of traveling nearly two hundred miles together.”

Unchaperoned.

He did not speak the word aloud.