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The trouble was, the image he found himself painting on the inside of his eyelids was of medium height, had wide brown eyes, a dimple in her chin and was all too inclined to laugh at him, argue with him… kiss him.
Hell’s teeth, I need a mistress. I need Phyllida. Then he could concentrate on finding a wife. Ashe stood up, found his discarded shoes and took himself off to the library in search of something dull enough to send him to sleep.
By the third evening at Eldonstone Phyllida felt weary with the pleasant tiredness that comes with hard work and a successful outcome. Lady Charlotte had toured the finished rooms, declaring herself delighted with the hall, the drawing room, Lady Sara’s chamber and the master suite. Ashe had been nowhere to be found—inspecting leaking roofs and fields in need of drainage, the two women agreed.
‘At least now my nephew and his wife and daughter may sleep here without having nightmares,’ the old lady pronounced at dinner. ‘The sooner Miss Hurst works her magic on the rest of the bedchambers, the better. I declare I have hardly had a good night’s sleep while I have been here. There is a stuffed bear in my chamber and my maid has had to turn most of the pictures to the wall!’
‘There is a series of prints in mine that I have not inspected too closely, but which I fear may be hideous Chinese tortures and executions,’ Phyllida said with a shudder.
‘I deal with my bedchamber by the simple expedient of only using one candle and confining most of my activities to the dressing room,’ Ashe contributed. He had come in just before dinner looking windblown and energised.
They exchanged horror stories about the house all through the meal. Her companions spoke as though it was an established fact that she would come back and work on more rooms, but Phyllida was doubtful. She would help the family dispose of any items they wished to sell, of course, but she found herself shying away from the idea of continued close contact with Ashe as he pursued a wife with increased motivation.
He had said nothing more about a liaison between them and had not so much as touched her hand. It seemed she was safe now, but she was too attracted to him, she acknowledged as she ate syllabub abstractedly, her gaze fixed on the quite hideous urn on the sideboard. And if she was not careful that attraction could grow and become more. It would be very easy to become exceedingly attached to Ashe Herriard.
‘Miss Hurst?’ Lady Charlotte said impatiently. ‘You are woolgathering! What are you thinking about?’
Phyllida jumped and almost dropped her spoon. ‘Lo—’ No, don’t even think the word! ‘I am sorry! I was just envisaging lovely expanses of clear walls and polished surfaces, all ready for Lady Eldonstone to decorate as she pleases.’
Ashe, speaking to the footman about the dessert wine, did not seem to notice her stumble. Lady Charlotte gave her a considering look, but made no comment beyond saying, ‘If you are ready, Miss Hurst, we will leave Clere to his port.’
Phyllida followed her out of the room, braced for a lecture on either daydreaming at table or, if Lady Charlotte was as perceptive as she feared, committing the heinous crime of falling for the heir when utterly ineligible herself.
But the old lady chatted about local gossip—all of it impenetrable to Phyllida—complained about the new curate’s sermons, asked her opinions on roses, then disagreed with everything she said and finally rang for her maid. ‘I am for my bed.’ She creaked to her feet, waving aside offers of assistance. ‘That boy is turning out better than anyone might have hoped,’ she remarked just as Phyllida was resuming her own seat and offering up thanks that she could now relax.
‘You mean Lord Clere, ma’am? Hardly a boy!’
‘No, he is not, is he?’ The faded hazel eyes rested on Phyllida’s face for an unnervingly long time before Lady Charlotte turned and walked to the door. ‘I just hope he knows what he’s about, that is all. Goodnight to you.’
‘Goodnight, ma’am.’ What on earth does the old dragon mean? She could make no sense of it and her own thoughts were too uneasy to add speculation to them. If Ashe wanted tea, he would have to consume it alone, she decided, she could not face being alone with him just now. Besides, they had a journey ahead of them in the morning and she should try to get some sleep.
Ashe trod softly up the sweep of stairs. He had no desire to wake anyone up at this hour. As if to emphasise the point the long case clock in the hall struck two.
He was strangely unsettled. He knew he was unwilling to leave Eldonstone and uncomfortable with the prospect of wife hunting, but those sources of discomfort did not seem enough to account for this mood. He would be coming back here as soon as he could and he had accepted that the search for a bride was a priority. There was nothing new there.
His nagging state of physical frustration was not new, either. He could deal with that himself, he supposed, while he brooded on tactics for the seduction of Phyllida Hurst. No, persuasion, he corrected himself. He could live with persuading her to do some
thing she already wanted to, he was not such a rake that he would seduce her against her better judgement.
He padded past the first of the bedchamber doors. His, the vast and gloomy Heir’s Suite as Stanbridge insisted on calling it, was inconveniently placed right at the back of the house.
‘Let him go!’
Ashe stopped dead in his tracks, the shadows created by his candle swooping wildly across the walls. The silence that had followed that demand was almost more alarming than its suddenness had been. He was outside Phyllida’s room, he realised. Just a nightmare? Or could there possibly be something wrong—an intruder, illness?
The knob turned under his hand and the unlocked door swung open silently. The candlelight flickered over the bed and he saw that Phyllida was sitting bolt upright, her face turned towards him, her eyes open
‘Phyllida?’ She made no reply, so he entered. The door clicked shut behind him, the small noise like a gunshot to his straining ears. Ashe held his breath and listened. They were alone—he could hear her breathing, feel his own heartbeat—but nothing else stirred.
When he reached the bed she did not move and her wide eyes were unfocused. A nightmare after all. Ashe wondered whether to leave her, but as he watched she stirred, put her hand to the top of the covers as though to push them back. No, he would have to wake her, he could not risk her sleepwalking around the house.
Setting the chamberstick down loudly on her bedside table did not rouse her. ‘Phyllida! Wake up.’
She gave a little gasp and wriggled back in the bed, her eyes still staring past him. ‘No,’ she whispered and raised her hands as though to fend off someone. Some thing.
Ashe sat on the edge of the bed and took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘Wake up, Phyllida, you are quite safe. I am here.’
Between his palms her shoulders felt thin, fragile, although he had seen her lifting heavy ornaments with ease. It was as though this night-terror had sapped her strength. She blinked and he saw focus and consciousness return like wine being poured into a glass. ‘Ashe?’
