Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

16. The Lark

Everett is in the house, was Mabel's first waking thought the next morning. Everett is in the house. As if it were a violation.

He wouldn't leave her alone in her dreams, so fanciful that her head spun like in a fever. The pillows, the blanket, the sheets—everything conspired to touch or constrain her so she suffocated, sweated, struggled and throbbed.

She staggered out of bed at first light.

Beyond the window, the overcast sky was barely dappled with grey. The bare branches lashed out at it with each gust of wind. The desolate sight dissolved as her mind drifted inward. Looking on with the unseeing eyes, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and chewed her lips. Everett was in the house.

His presence forced her to dress more carefully than usual, but the light filtering through the window—yes, that window, the one that looked out at the Border Lake, Everett's window—was still anemic by the time she descended to the living room. Lighting a lamp, Mabel squinted at her drawing of marigolds, guessing at how she should better—

"Good morning, Miss Walton."

She startled at the greeting. For once, the staircase didn't give a single pipsqueak in warning of someone's approach. For such a tall man, Everett walked unusually light.

Too flustered to say anything, she simply scanned his face, even his startling blue eyes for hints of illness. There was none, save maybe for darker shadows. "You look healthy."

"Thank you." He chuckled. "So you are the early bird in this house."

"I am glad to see you so much improved since last night, Mr. Chesterton." Mabel looked around in alarm.

"Tell me, pretty lark, do you fly out of the doors at this hour often to cross the vales and dales and alight at the lakeshore?"

"My father would be livid if he came upon us alone at this hour." Then again, it was her father who so unwittingly insisted on showing hospitality to her tormentor.

"Do not deflect, Miss Walton," Everett said. "I am certain it was you at the lake."

"As I am certain that you stooped so low as to lie about your illness yestereve to my kind parents."

"Frailty serves Radcliffe famously in winning the hearts, so why must I act stoic?"

Poor, poor Radcliffe. The sour taste filled her mouth. She must have winced from it, because he chuckled again, this time bitterly. "Oh, yes, how dare I throw a shade of suspicion on my martyred brother."

She lowered her head and her eyes stopped on one of the brushes that Radcliffe presented her with. Impulsively, she picked it up and twisted it in her fingers. "What a low thing to say."

"Are you fair yourself? Do I look so sturdy that I must have survived even the killing steel and lead without any lasting harm?"

Mabel remembered the jagged lines on his chest and doubt touched her heart as soft as the bristles. Did he still suffer from his wounds? "If you were in pain, and I was rush, I beg your forgiveness."

Her eyelashes lowered from the intensity of his gaze; like daisies droop at high noon. She wished it was summer instead of winter ahead of her. Winter with its long dark evenings and nothing to do but remeber Everett.

"How insufferably polite." Everett chuckled. "And yet you don't believe me, not to the bottom of your heart. It's easy not to trust me, isn't it?"

"What difference does it make?" Mabel tried to keep the petulant notes out of her voice, but her lips quivered, spoiling her intention. "You are leaving for London. My judgment means nothing to you."