Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) Page 4

  They were not making fast enough progress toward the shore. She had to find another way. Fiona tucked his head under one arm. It might strangle him, she worried, but she had to get him to shore as fast as possible. With her arm around his neck, she contrived to swim on her side. They moved faster. Fiona side-kicked with all her might. Tyrell gasped and flailed at the water.

  “Stop struggling! I’ll save you!” she shouted.

  In answer he sputtered and went limp.

  As Fiona swam, she fought to keep down the rising panic in her heart. He was dying. She refused to allow herself to yield to the tears threatening to overtake her. There was no time for weakness. Swim, just swim, she commanded herself.

  Finally, she made the last kick that grounded them on the shore. Jaw locked in determination; she staggered up the muddy bank, stumbling under his weight until she hoisted him onto dry ground. He flopped face down and didn’t move.

  Fiona knelt beside his motionless body. “Please, God, not this. Not him.” She buried her face in her hands. “Don’t let him die. Please. What should I do?”

  It came to her that she must immediately discover whether or not he was still breathing. She rolled him onto his back. His arm thumped to the ground, lifeless, and his eyes remained closed as if in final sleep.

  “No!” she cried. “Please, I promise I’ll never go near another living soul, just let him be alive.” She leaned her ear to his heart to listen for breath sounds. But just as the hairs on his chest tickled her cheek he clamped her shoulders in an iron tight grip.

  Fiona screamed.

  “You are caught!” he shouted. Tyrell’s eyes opened and flashed with life—and triumph.

  Fiona jerked away from him in disbelief. “You … you’re not . . . not dead. You weren’t—”

  “Drowning? No.” He coughed. “Although, dragging me across the lake you almost did the job.”

  As quickly as the realization that he was alive brought relief, it brought anger. She intended to slap his arrogant face into the next county. But Tyrell caught her raised hand and held it tightly.

  She balled up her left. He grabbed her fist before she could give him the pummeling he so richly deserved. Writhing and struggling under his grasp, she made furious noises. She was so angry she couldn’t speak coherently.

  Tyrell laughed. “You really are a wild little vixen, aren’t you?”

  In answer, her animal-like noises turned into a screech. Frustration and outrage finally formed actual words and she spewed them out. “You are a despicable, unfeeling, wicked…You tricked me! I thought you were dead.”

  He roared with laughter, and made the mistake of loosening his grip. Fiona jerked free and slapped his face. Hard.

  The crack startled her. For an instant everything froze. Even the insects fell silent. Not even the air moved.

  One instant.

  The next instant everything sprang to horrible life.

  Lightning fast, Tyrell’s features hardened into fury. He roared like a charging animal. Before she understood what had happened, he grabbed her, flung her over and pinned both of her wrists to the ground. He loomed over her like an enraged bear. Fiona felt his breath hot on her face. She closed her eyes and waited for him to strike back. Time slowed to a crawl.

  When nothing happened, she peeked at him. His eyes were dangerously close to hers, but he no longer looked as mad as before. He stared at her, as if looking at a stranger. Slowly his features cooled, but he still held her firmly beneath him.

  “I – I’m sorry,” he said raggedly, his breathing rapid. “Forgot where I was... reacted... I don’t know what happened.”

  She swallowed, relieved. Then chewed her lip for a moment. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t answer. He studied her features, as if noticing them for the first time. She became aware of the weight of his body, pressing down on hers and heat flooded her cheeks.

  He inhaled deeply, and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I deserved it.” He swallowed hard.

  Sand stuck to the side of his jaw, and she felt the urge to brush it off. “No,” she whispered softly. “You were only playing.”

  Her fingers grazed his cheek, worshipping him with each grain of sand she removed. He shivered under her touch and his voice trailed off, so low and husky she hardly heard him say, “Bloody war. A chair need only thump and I’m grabbing for my sword.”

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she murmured, relishing the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips.

  “Do you know...” He caught her hand, and squinted at her as if trying to figure something out. “You’re so…” Droplets of water fell down from his hair, onto her cheeks and nose. “Beautiful. Like a water nymph, and I…”

  He looked confused, shaken. Before she understood what he meant, his mouth came down on hers and he kissed her lips slowly, carefully, reverently.

  “I–I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t have done that.” He let go of her and leaned up. “Oh hell—” He kissed her again with an intensity that filled her with the most incredible sensation of being wanted.

  The smell of lake and wood mingled with the scent of Tyrell’s skin. It all swirled together, into a delicious whirlwind. With each kiss, he threw open doors in her heart. Doors she’d feared would always remain dark and hopelessly closed. Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all of her heart. Nothing else mattered. If she had her way, she would go on kissing him forever.

  A strange sound jarred her senses. On one of the nearby hills, a shepherd boy must have begun playing a tune to his sheep. The high melodic trilling of the shepherd’s flute wafted across the water.

  Tyrell stopped kissing her and stared down at Fiona as she lay completely contented in his arms. He pulled out of her embrace and sat up, raking one hand through his wet hair. Then he swore. Fiona blinked, jarred out of her reverie, wishing desperately she could return to their euphoric dream.

  But isn’t that the way dreams are? Just when they get to the pleasant bit, morning arrives.

  “Damnation!” He jerked away from her. “What, in heaven’s name, am I doing?”

  He leapt up and charged waist deep into the lake splashing handfuls of cold water over his face and chest. Then he stopped and stared out over the water. A moment later, he slammed his fist against the ripples sending a spray of water arcing through the sunshine.

  Tyrell stomped back out of the lake and pointed his finger at her. “You!” He shouted it as if it were a profanity. “You are dangerous, Fiona Hawthorn.” He jerked his clothes off the tree branch. “And I’m a fool for coming here.”

  Fiona sat and hugged her knees, trying not to watch as he marched to the rock, sat and forcefully plowed a foot into each stocking, and then yanked on his boots. He made a lump of the rest of his clothing, tucked it under one arm and mounted his horse, all the time muttering self-reproaches for putting himself in a position where he might have compromised her.

  “I don’t care who you tell about what happened here,” he shouted. “I’m not getting leg-shackled to you or anyone else! I can’t. I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”

  He kicked his white horse into a gallop.

  When the sound of hooves crashing through the underbrush finally faded, Fiona shivered. She bit her lip to hold back the tears and looked up, beseeching the heavens for comfort. The blue sky and the gathering white clouds seemed oblivious to her anguish. In the end, she gave herself over to racking sobs of shame and confusion.

  Chapter 4

  Notorious Visitor

  Fiona walked home to Thorncourt with slow ponderous steps. She idly brushed some stalks of wheat loaded with grain upright, and watched their heavy heads bounce until they bowed back down under their fertile weight. She drew a long laborious breath. The late afternoon air had turned sultry, heavily laden with pollen and insects.

  It would storm, maybe tonight, or maybe in the morning.

  Fiona confined her thoughts to the weather. Thinking o
f anything else hurt too much. She hoped the coming rain would not ruin the harvest.

  Inside Thorncourt, the butler greeted her with unsettling news. “The Countess, er, excuse me miss. That is to say, Lady Alameda is here. She awaits you in the upstairs parlor. May I add, Miss Fiona, she has been sitting with Lady Hawthorn for well over two hours.”

  “Two hours? Aunt Honore and Lady Hawthorne in the same room?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Oh dear.” Fiona lifted out her skirts and surveyed her present state of dishabille. “A moment. Tell them I’ll be but a moment.”

  She dashed upstairs to her room and took a quick look in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red, her dress had mud around the hem, and her hair was a mess of wavy tendrils flying in every direction. She moaned. There was no help for it. She quickly braided her wild tresses and wound the braid up into a coil. Without a second glance in the mirror, she leapt up and fled to her stepmother’s parlor.

  The butler opened the door for her. Fiona clasped her trembling hands together and marched into the room to stand in front of her aunt.

  The Countess Alameda sat poised like a queen on the settee. Her hair, which in her youth had been brown, was now an unearthly shade of red, almost maroon. She wore an extravagant morning dress of bottle green silk and black lace.

  Fiona’s voice shook. “Lady Alameda, I am pleased to see you.” She sank into a deep curtsy and started wobbling dangerously close to the tea service perched on a slim table in front of the two ladies. Hopelessly unbalanced, Fiona shot an apologetic look toward her stepmother. Lady Hawthorn rolled her gaze up toward the ceiling. Naturally, she would not wish to witness the tea splashing across her guest, as it undoubtedly would.

  Before Fiona could topple into the tea table, Lady Alameda grabbed her arm in an iron grip. Once Fiona regained her balance, her Aunt let go and raised her lorgnette to her eyes. “Stand up child. Let me have a look at you.”

  Lady Hawthorn’s head snapped back to the scene as if she’d been slapped. “How very odd,” she muttered and checked the teapot to see if the contents were still intact. She frowned at the silver teapot as if it had somehow erred. “Very odd, indeed.”

  The countess studied Fiona head to toe, took obvious note of the muddy hem, dropped her peering glass into her lap and turned on Lady Hawthorn. “I confess, I am unbearably hot. Madam, your parlor is stifling. It needs a cross breeze. I suggest you cut another window into that wall over there.”

  “But that wall adjoins the library, not the exterior. I can’t very well—”

  Lady Alameda rose abruptly. “Do it. You will see that I am right. While you’re at it, tear down this atrocious wallpaper.” Honore waved her hand in an imperial dismissal and shook out her skirts, sending teacake crumbs bouncing across the floor. “Come Fiona. I wish to see the gardens my sister laid in before her untimely demise.”

  With a rueful glance at her stepmother, Fiona led her aunt out of the parlor. The gardens lay downstairs and to the side of the house out through the breakfast room. However, the out of doors offered little respite from the heat, and the humid air teemed with bugs.

  “White roses, hmm. Lovely, I suppose.” Her aunt scarcely looked at the flowers. “Your mother had such subdued taste. Quite unlike my own.”

  She walked briskly through the garden to a bench at the far end facing the house. “I want to make certain we aren’t interrupted. This will do. Come and sit down.”

  Fiona poised herself on the edge of the bench, remembering to keep her back straight. Aunt Honore whipped open a fan and flapped it at a bevy of gnats. “I have no desire to mince words with you, my girl. I will get straight to the point. I’ve come to take you away; first to Brighton and then on to London where you will live with me.”

  Fiona’s mouth fell open.

  “I can see by your face you are wondering, why. Why now, after all these years, have I taken an interest in you? Do close your mouth, dear. The bugs are thick. I can’t like to watch you swallowing insects.”

  Fiona snapped her mouth shut.

  “The truth is, my dear, I’ve no inclination toward children. Never could tolerate ‘em. Pesky creatures—not unlike these dratted mosquitoes.” She swatted the air with her fan. “Fortunately, you are no longer a child and I’ve decided you might prove a rather interesting undertaking. Since I never had any offspring of my own and your mother was my favorite sister, I find myself feeling parental toward you.”

  Fiona knew full well that her mother had been Aunt Honore’s only sister. Honore had several brothers, but there had only been two girls in their family. She also knew that her aunt was as unpredictable as the weather in the English countryside. Today, Aunt Honore wanted to play the parent. But, tomorrow? Tomorrow, she might very well climb aboard a ship bound for Egypt because, on a whim, she decided to climb a pyramid. Given the woman’s history, it wasn’t prudent to rely on Honore as a benefactress. Fiona might find herself abandoned to her own resources.

  On the other hand, Fiona had an overwhelming urge to leave the neighborhood. The prospect of staying here and chancing a meeting with Tyrell promised heartache and embarrassment. Aunt Honore might just provide her an escape. Of course, there was also the matter of the accidents.

  Fiona twisted the cloth of her skirt. “My lady, this is a most generous offer. However, I’m certain you know about my disastrous Season. I would not wish to burden you with the catastrophes that seem to follow me wherever I go.”

  “Catastrophes? What nonsense is this? I’ve heard nothing untoward about your Season. Indeed, I could not fathom why your family left London so suddenly.”

  “It was on account of poor Lieutenant Withycombe. He was dreadfully smashed up while dancing with me, broke his collarbone. Surely, you were told? He couldn’t return to the Continent to fight Bonaparte. Everyone blamed me. If only I hadn’t danced—”

  “Folderol! That young nodcock was merely trying to avoid his duty.” Honore sputtered as a mayfly tried to land on her tongue.

  “Oh, I cannot think so. The poor fellow screamed horribly as they carried him away. I seriously doubt he was playing us false.”

  “Yes, well, he would scream wouldn’t he,” she muttered.

  Fiona sighed. “Sadly, he is not my only victim. Most of our villagers believe I carry a curse.”

  “Do they, indeed?” Honore lifted her lorgnette and studied Fiona until she fidgeted with discomfort. “A curse, you say—how very diverting. We leave in the morning.” With that, Aunt Honore stood abruptly, slapped at a buzzing insect, and marched into the house.

  * * *

  True to her word, early the next morning they were ensconced in Lady Alameda’s carriage rolling toward Brighton. Fiona gazed out through the window as rain splattered against the glass. With a heavy heart, she watched the home she loved disappear behind her.

  And him.

  She was leaving him behind. Why didn’t she feel relieved? She would never have to see his scowling face ever again. All too vividly, she recalled the sensation of his mouth covering hers and his arms around her. She would never feel that way again, either. Tears slid out of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

  Honore sniffed at the air, as if she smelled something foul. “Come now, Fiona, you cannot miss your home already? We are but a few miles away and here you are weeping. I should think you’d be glad to be shot of that uncomfortable heap of stones, and that insufferable cow your father married.”

  Fiona wiped away her tears and tried to smile.

  “Well, speak up girl. Are you homesick?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Humph. Are you often this morose?”

  Fiona smiled at her aunt’s pouting expression. “I apologize, Aunt. I’m behaving like a fool.”

  In a flash, Honore’s face changed from that of a pouting child into a shrewd ferret. The ferret calculated her prey through thinly slit eyes. “A fool eh? Then, it’s a man causing those tears. Ah, that would explain your puffy eyes yesterday.�
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  Fiona’s mouth opened and then clamped shut.

  “Ha! See there, your face convicts you. You are in love.”

  “No.”

  Honore tapped the side of her cheek with one gloved finger. “What’s more, this man has broken your heart. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so willing to come to Brighton with me.”

  “No!” Fiona nearly choked. She swallowed hard and shook her head vehemently. “Certainly not. In love? No. Impossible. Not with someone so cruel and heartless and—” She lowered her head under her aunt’s scrutiny.

  “Come, my girl. We’ll have no secrets standing between us. I’ll not have you playing the martyr, whilst I attempt to show you the delights of London. That would make fools of both of us. You will tell me all, so that we can decide together how best to proceed.”

  “It’s nothing. I have simply been—” Fiona clenched her teeth and balled her hands into tight fists. “—stupid.”

  “You will discover, my dear, as I have, that there is no one as brainless as a woman in love. I must admit, there has never been a bigger fool than I was when I fell in love with Francisco de Alameda.”

  With a flourish, Honore recounted to Fiona the story of the handsome Portuguese count stealing her heart away at a masked ball in London. A blush spread on Honore’s cheeks and her eyes softened. “The young devil thought he would trifle with my affections and then go merrily on his way. Ha!” She smacked her hand against the velvet seat cushion and announced triumphantly. “I wouldn’t have it! I stowed away, aboard his ship bound for the African coast. He was angry, of course. But by the time we reached Cape Delgado he could not bear to be parted from me.”

  Honore closed her eyes for a moment. “I can still remember his strong arms around me. Ah, yes, my dear,” she whispered. “Love makes fools of us all.”