Page 23 of Against the Wind

A knock disrupted her thoughts. She crossed the room and slowly opened the door, and Mr. Powell smiled and handed her a pile of clothes. “These should do for now.”

She accepted them with a grateful, “Thank you.”

“Do you need any assistance? I can play the lady’s maid,” Mr. Powell said with a wry smile. She was sure he’d had much practice in handling women’s clothing, but she would not be accepting his offer of help.

“No, I can manage myself.” She still had the front-lacing corset and was glad she had worn it this night. He had once soothed her fears in the most intimate of ways, and she was only too aware of how easy it might be to give in to him again. She would not—could not—do that. His was the smile of the cat that had captured the mouse. She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, but she was no mouse. Thanking him, she abruptly said, “Good night,” and closed the door on both him and the passion he offered.

Among the clothes he had brought were a soft nightdress and a blue day gown with butter-soft leather shoes to replace her silver slippers. There was also a soft woolen cloak in a warm honey color. Holding it up in front of the standing mirror, she thought the gown would fit. It was close to the color of her eyes, and she wondered if he had selected it for that reason. Though she was pleased with his choice, she was tired of living on charity. Taking clothing from this man, even if borrowed, felt wrong. The fact that she had so little control of her life grated. Had it only been several weeks ago that Mrs. de Courtenay had insisted on buying Kit gowns?

Weariness overcame her, and too tired to object she decided it was futile to torture herself with things she could not change. She took off her silver gown and underthings, donned the nightgown her rescuer had provided and thought about how things would progress from here. The day had been a long one, getting the twins ready for yet another of their balls. Seeing the faces of her two charges brought a smile to her face. She had fallen in love with them, but now they were launched most splendidly. Their parents, who always accompanied Pris and Pen to the balls, would be all they would need. She didn’t feel badly at having to leave behind the governess position, but she would miss the family. The de Courtenays had been good to her.

She was relieved she had not killed Rutledge. That had been one piece of good news. As evil as she considered the man, to face an accusation of murder would be ruinous. And the earl’s family likely could produce witnesses to swear she’d attacked him. A new worry flooded her mind. He’d survived the blow and sought her at the ball. Was he now looking for revenge?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wondered what tomorrow would bring. Another move certainly. But where, and for how long?

Fatigued, she blew out the candle and slipped beneath the covers, but as she did, she brought her fingers to her lips remembering Mr. Powell’s kiss. She had come close to repeating her prior mistake, nearly seduced once again into his welcoming heat. Only at the last moment had she pulled away. Would she be able to pull away if there was a next time?

Martin had thought he would not sleep, but he was wrong. After one glass of brandy he laid his head on the pillow and soon fell into a fitful state of dreaming. A few hours later, after much tossing and turning, he woke from a nightmare, dripping with sweat though the fire had died long ago and the room had grown cold.

For a moment he had no idea where he was. It was a familiar strangeness; he had awakened in so many different places over the years. He raised his head from the pillow. The rain had stopped and moonlight poured in through the large window. One glance around told him he was in his family’s home in London, in his own bedchamber. My God. It had been so real this time. Like it happened yesterday.

The nightmare of Elise’s death never varied, his mind recalling perfectly the details of that night in Paris. How he had failed. His business was always dangerous; he should have seen the potential for calamity. But in the spirit of celebration he’d ignored his instincts. He had failed to protect his young wife and she was gone in a moment, lost to time, living now only in his memories and his nightmares. A nagging question that always lay beneath the surface, one he did not look at too closely, was whether he’d been the real target that night, not Elise. Perhaps the soldiers had only been feigning drunkenness. Such a possibility only added to his guilt. But he was unquestionably the reason she and their unborn child were dead. Their loss was a constant reminder he never should have married.

Sitting up in bed, he took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he remembered. This night the dream had been different, for when he looked down at the girl lying in the street, the eyes in the vacant stare had not been Elise’s dark brown. They had been blue.

The eyes of Lady Egerton.