child," the housekeeper breathed. She encircled Cara in her strong arms. "I suspect you've been through some things in your life...things that have been hard. But look at you – they've not crushed you. You're here. And Lord Quentin Eliot loves you! That means for sure you're not broken – even if you do feel that way."
Cara looked up into the kindly housekeeper's face, genuinely touched.
"Do you really think he loves me?"
"I don't think it. I know it. I knew it from the first day you arrived. When he carried you up the stairs, the way you two were having a go at each other... Even through your pain, you were matching him word for word, wit for wit. When you passed out, I saw a look come over his face that I'd not seen in years – not since his Sarah died. He cared for you, even then."
Cara could feel emotion welling up inside her. She turned and buried her face in the housekeeper's shoulder. She was grateful that for once, Mrs. Cooper didn't say anything. She just silently held her, letting her vent the torrent of feelings through her tears.
When Cara was all cried out, Mrs. Cooper patted her on the back and smoothed a lock of hair behind her left ear.
"There, there," the housekeeper said. "Just you get some sleep. You'll need a lot of rest after today's exertion. You're a bit pale. I rather think that Lord Eliot might have pushed you too far today."
"That may be true," Cara said, feeling the true weight of the words.
"Well, he means for the best. Goodnight, my dear," Mrs. Cooper said, patting Cara's knee in a familiar, maternal way. "Just you ring for me in the night, should you need anything."
"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Cooper."
After the housekeeper left, Cara did not immediately blow out her candle. She found that although she was exhausted – both emotionally and physically – she was too restless and alert to try sleep. She was still thinking of all that had happened and the sour turn the afternoon had taken. Mrs. Cooper's words rang through her head. “He means for the best.” Deep down, she felt that to be the truth. Then, she remembered something Lord Eliot himself had said. She'd provoked him, and he'd replied.
There was a time when I was quite guileless. Defenseless. Made soft and simple by love. When my heart was broken because death stole that love from me, I was destroyed. Now I know how to arm myself!
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. Perhaps his rakishness and his callousness are only the weapons with which he defends his pain. The thought made her heart soften perceptibly towards him, for she knew she had her own defenses in place – just different ones. And something else: when she searched her heart, Cara recognized that the very recklessness she had first disdained in Eliot was, in fact, quite attractive. It was what had led to the intoxicating kiss in the gallery. It was unpredictable. It was self-involved. It could even be messy, clumsy. But it was also utterly thrilling.
Once again, she felt a shockingly low twinge of excitement as she recalled the sensation of his mouth on hers. She sighed and waited for it to pass.
She knew she'd be hard pressed to fall asleep now, so she picked up one of the books on the nightstand. The binding was old and faded, almost illegible. The name on the frontispiece meant nothing to her, but she could plainly see that it was a book of French verses. Intrigued, Cara turned the page, hoping that her limited command of the language would prove no impediment to her enjoyment of the poetry. But reading the first stanza of the first poem, she clapped a hand over her mouth. It was quite bawdy – and more than a little funny. She found herself looking around the room to be sure that no one was watching – even though she knew that she was alone. Cara had heard that such works existed, but she'd never sought one out.
She read on, giggling and blushing to herself. There was a little part of her that felt guilty for reading something so improper, but then she
Cara looked up into the kindly housekeeper's face, genuinely touched.
"Do you really think he loves me?"
"I don't think it. I know it. I knew it from the first day you arrived. When he carried you up the stairs, the way you two were having a go at each other... Even through your pain, you were matching him word for word, wit for wit. When you passed out, I saw a look come over his face that I'd not seen in years – not since his Sarah died. He cared for you, even then."
Cara could feel emotion welling up inside her. She turned and buried her face in the housekeeper's shoulder. She was grateful that for once, Mrs. Cooper didn't say anything. She just silently held her, letting her vent the torrent of feelings through her tears.
When Cara was all cried out, Mrs. Cooper patted her on the back and smoothed a lock of hair behind her left ear.
"There, there," the housekeeper said. "Just you get some sleep. You'll need a lot of rest after today's exertion. You're a bit pale. I rather think that Lord Eliot might have pushed you too far today."
"That may be true," Cara said, feeling the true weight of the words.
"Well, he means for the best. Goodnight, my dear," Mrs. Cooper said, patting Cara's knee in a familiar, maternal way. "Just you ring for me in the night, should you need anything."
"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Cooper."
After the housekeeper left, Cara did not immediately blow out her candle. She found that although she was exhausted – both emotionally and physically – she was too restless and alert to try sleep. She was still thinking of all that had happened and the sour turn the afternoon had taken. Mrs. Cooper's words rang through her head. “He means for the best.” Deep down, she felt that to be the truth. Then, she remembered something Lord Eliot himself had said. She'd provoked him, and he'd replied.
There was a time when I was quite guileless. Defenseless. Made soft and simple by love. When my heart was broken because death stole that love from me, I was destroyed. Now I know how to arm myself!
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. Perhaps his rakishness and his callousness are only the weapons with which he defends his pain. The thought made her heart soften perceptibly towards him, for she knew she had her own defenses in place – just different ones. And something else: when she searched her heart, Cara recognized that the very recklessness she had first disdained in Eliot was, in fact, quite attractive. It was what had led to the intoxicating kiss in the gallery. It was unpredictable. It was self-involved. It could even be messy, clumsy. But it was also utterly thrilling.
Once again, she felt a shockingly low twinge of excitement as she recalled the sensation of his mouth on hers. She sighed and waited for it to pass.
She knew she'd be hard pressed to fall asleep now, so she picked up one of the books on the nightstand. The binding was old and faded, almost illegible. The name on the frontispiece meant nothing to her, but she could plainly see that it was a book of French verses. Intrigued, Cara turned the page, hoping that her limited command of the language would prove no impediment to her enjoyment of the poetry. But reading the first stanza of the first poem, she clapped a hand over her mouth. It was quite bawdy – and more than a little funny. She found herself looking around the room to be sure that no one was watching – even though she knew that she was alone. Cara had heard that such works existed, but she'd never sought one out.
She read on, giggling and blushing to herself. There was a little part of her that felt guilty for reading something so improper, but then she
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