Almost Heaven Read online

  “Would you permit me to offer to stand in for my cousin tomorrow,” Lord Howard said as the endless meal came to an end and the guests began to arise, “and escort you to the village?”

  It was the moment of reckoning, the moment when Elizabeth had to decide whether she was going to meet Ian at the cottage or not. Actually, there was no real decision to make, and she knew it. With a bright, artificial smile Elizabeth said, “Thank you.”

  “We’re to leave at half past ten, and I understand there are to be the usual entertainments—shopping and a late luncheon at the local inn, followed by a ride to enjoy the various prospects of the local countryside.”

  It sounded horribly dull to Elizabeth at that moment. “It sounds lovely,” she exclaimed with such fervor that Lord Howard shot her a startled look.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked, his worried gaze taking in her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes.

  “I’ve never felt better,” she said, her mind on getting away—upstairs to the sanity and quiet of her bedchamber. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the headache and should like to retire,” she said, leaving behind her a baffled Lord Howard.

  She was partway up the stairs before it dawned on her what she’d actually said. She stopped in midstep, then gave her head a shake and slowly continued on. She didn’t particularly care what Lord Howard—her fiancé’s own cousin—thought. And she was too miserable to stop and consider how very odd that was.

  “Wake me at eight, please, Berta,” she said as her maid helped her undress. Without answering Berta bustled about, dropping objects onto the dressing table and floor—a sure sign the nervous maid was in a taking over something. “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, pausing as she brushed her hair.

  “The whole staff is gossipin’ about what you did in the card room, and that hatchet-faced duenna of yours is going to blame me for it, you’ll see,” Berta replied miserably. “She’ll say the first time she let you out of her sight and left you in my charge you got yourself in the briars!”

  “I’ll explain to her what happened,” Elizabeth promised wearily.

  “Well, what did happen?” Berta cried, almost wringing her hands in dismayed anticipation of the tongue-lashing she anticipated from the formidable Miss Throckmorton-Jones.

  Elizabeth wearily related the tale, and Berta’s expression softened as her young mistress spoke. She turned back the rose brocade coverlet and helped Elizabeth into bed. “So you see,” Elizabeth finished with a yawn, “I couldn’t just keep quiet and let everyone think he’d cheated, which was what they would do, because he isn’t one of them.”

  Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the entire room, and thunder boomed until the windows shook. Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed the jaunt to the village would take place, because the thought of spending the entire day in the same house with Ian Thornton—without being able to look at him or speak to him—was more than she wanted to contemplate. I’m almost obsessed, she thought to herself, and exhaustion overtook her.

  She dreamed of wild storms, of strong arms reaching out to rescue her, drawing her forward, then pitching her into the storm-tossed sea . . . .

  6

  Watery sunlight filled the room, and Elizabeth rolled reluctantly onto her back. No matter how much or how little sleep she got, she was the sort of person who always woke up feeling dazed and disoriented. While Robert could bound out of bed feeling fit and alert, she had to drag herself up onto the pillows, where she usually spent a full half hour staring vacantly at the room, forcing herself to wakefulness. On the other hand, when Robert was stifling yawns at ten P.M., Elizabeth was wide awake and ready to play cards or billiards or read for hours more. For that reason she was ideally suited to the London season, during which one slept until noon at least and then stayed out until dawn. Last night had been the rare exception.

  Her head felt like a leaden weight upon the pillow as she forced her eyes open. On the table beside her bed was a tray with her customary breakfast: a small pot of hot chocolate and a slice of buttered toast. Sighing, Elizabeth forced herself to go through the ritual of waking up. Bracing her hands on the bed, she shoved herself upright until she was sitting back against the pillows, then she stared blankly at her hands—willing them to reach for the pot of hot, restorative chocolate.

  This morning it took more of an effort than ever; her head ached dully, and she had the uneasy feeling that something disturbing had happened.

  Still caught somewhere between sleep and awareness, she removed the quilted cover from the porcelain pot and poured chocolate into the delicate cup beside it. And then she remembered, and her stomach plummeted: Today a dark-haired man would be waiting for her in the woodcutter’s cottage. He would wait for an hour, and then he would leave—because Elizabeth wasn’t going to be there. She couldn’t. She absolutely could not!

  Her hands trembled a little as she lifted the cup and saucer and raised it to her lips. Over the cup’s rim she watched Berta bustle into the room with a worried look on her face that faded to a relieved smile. “Oh, good. I was worried you’d taken ill.”

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked as she took a sip of the chocolate. It was cold as ice!

  “Because I couldn’t wake—”

  “What time is it?” Elizabeth cried.

  “Nearly eleven.”

  “Eleven! But I told you to wake me at eight! How could you let me oversleep this way?” she said, her sleep-drugged mind already groping wildly for a solution. She could dress quickly and catch up with everyone. Or . . .

  “I did try,” Berta exclaimed, hurt by the uncharacteristic sharpness in Elizabeth’s tone, “but you didn’t want to wake up.”

  “I never want to awaken, Berta, you know that!”

  “But you were worse this morning than normal. You said your head ached.”

  “I always say things like that. I don’t know what I’m saying when I’m asleep. I’ll say anything to bargain for a few minutes’ more sleep. You’ve known that for years, and you always shake me awake anyway.”

  “But you said,” Berta persisted, tugging unhappily at her apron, “that since it rained so much last night you were sure the trip to the village wouldn’t take place, so you didn’t have to arise at all.”

  “Berta, for heaven’s sake!” Elizabeth cried, throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed with more energy than she’d ever shown after such a short period of wakefulness. “I’ve told you I’m dying of diphtheria to make you go away, and that didn’t succeed!”

  “Well,” Berta shot back, marching over to the bell pull and ringing for a bath to be brought up, “when you told me that, your face wasn’t pale and your head didn’t feel hot to my touch. And you hadn’t dragged yourself into bed as if you could hardly stand when it was but half past one in the morning!”

  Contrite, Elizabeth slumped down on the bed. “It’s not your fault that I sleep like a hibernating bear. And besides, if they didn’t go to the village, it makes no difference at all that I overslept.” She was trying to resign herself to the notion of spending the day in the house with a man who could look at her across a roomful of diners and make her heart leap when Berta said, “They did go to the village. Last night’s storm was more noise and threat than rain.”

  Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Elizabeth emitted a long sigh. It was already eleven, which meant Ian had already begun his useless vigil at the cottage. “Very well, I’ll ride to the village and catch up with them there. There’s no need to hurry,” she said firmly when Berta rushed to the door to admit the maids carrying buckets of hot water for Elizabeth’s bath.

  It was already half past noon when Elizabeth descended the stairs clad in a festive peach riding habit. A matching bonnet with a feather curling at her right ear hid her hair, and riding gloves covered her hands to the wrists. A few masculine voices could be heard in the game room, testifying to the fact that not all the guests had chosen to make the jaunt to the village. Elizabeth’s steps faltered in