Night of a Thousand Stars. Deanna Raybourn

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      “Damn, I’m a brute. I didn’t even think to feed you,” he muttered.

      I smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” I assured him. “I couldn’t have eaten a bite.”

      Just then my stomach rumbled loudly, as if to prove me a liar, and Sebastian grinned. “I’m sure your father will be more than happy to feed you up. Now, are you ready?”

      I nodded, taking his hand as he helped me out of the motorcar. I’d come too far to turn back now, and I made a point of striding purposefully through the little gate at the front of the cottage and straight up to the door.

      It wasn’t until I raised my hand to the knocker that I hesitated. But Sebastian was behind me, solid and reassuring, and I felt better for having him there. I suddenly realised I had never actually felt better for having Gerald around.

      “I did the right thing in running away,” I murmured to myself. But still I did not knock.

      “Allow me,” Sebastian said. He didn’t give me time to think. He simply lifted the knocker and dropped it into place with two sharp taps.

      I barely had time to take a breath before the door opened. A man in a canvas apron stood on the threshold, scowling.

      “What the devil do you want? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he barked.

      I felt myself wilt, and Sebastian stepped forward, his expression livid.

      “I say, that’s no way to talk to the young lady,” he began.

      But before he could finish, the man in the apron was prodded aside by the business end of a walking stick. It was wielded by a tall gentleman with a head of thick silver hair and a primrose-striped smoking jacket. Father.

      “Shut up, George. That isn’t how we welcome guests,” Father said. He came forward, rather slowly but with a very straight back. He peered at us and drew in his breath sharply.

      “Poppy,” he breathed, and it sounded like a prayer. “Are you a mirage, child?” He put out his hand, a gnarled old hand with traces of rose madder across the knuckles. The skin on the hand was wrinkled and the fingers were twisted like the roots of an oak. An old hand, but still a graceful one.

      I caught it in my own. “Yes, Father. It’s Poppy.”

      He coughed hard, smothering what might have been an involuntary sound of emotion. He glanced sharply away, but when he looked back, he had recovered himself.

      “Come in, child. You must be chilled to the bone. George, fetch tea and whisky. And sandwiches while you’re at it. I suspect our guests haven’t eaten,” he added.

      He had not released my hand, and with it still grasped in his, he drew me into the sitting room of the cottage, where a bright fire burned upon the hearth. A pair of comfortable chairs had been arranged by the fire, but we did not sit.

      “Father, I am sorry for just landing on you like this, and I will explain everything.”

      “I already know,” he said mildly. “I get the newspapers even buried down here. You’re married.” He turned to Sebastian with a bland look. “I suppose I ought to offer you congratulations, young man. The heir to the Viscount Madderley, is it?”

      I gave a strangled sound of horror, but Sebastian rose smoothly to the occasion. “I am afraid I do not have that honour, sir. I am Sebastian Cantrip.”

      “Ah, yes. I see the dog collar now.”

      I cut in before things could get entirely out of hand, muddling the introductions. “Mr. Cantrip, this is my father, Eglamour March, third son of the late Earl March, known to his friends and familiars as Plum. Father, Mr. Cantrip was the means by which I—that is to say—” I faltered, and turned pleading eyes to Sebastian.

      He rose smoothly to the occasion. “Miss March, perhaps you would like to excuse yourself to wash your hands after the journey. I can explain matters to your father.”

      Father gave Sebastian an assessing look, then flicked me a glance. “Back through the hall and up the stairs, my dear.”

      I slipped out, hesitating outside the door. I could just hear them from my vantage point, Sebastian’s firm baritone underscored by Father’s rather more demanding aristocratic tone.

      “Well, young man?” Father asked.

      Sebastian hesitated, and I wished I could see their expressions.

      “I’m afraid Miss March found herself disinclined to go through with the marriage. She was seeking a place of refuge,” he said solemnly. “I hope I have done right to bring her here.”

      To my surprise, Father’s voice was tight with something that sounded like anger. “I suppose you didn’t think you had a choice.”

      “No, I didn’t,” Sebastian countered, his own voice amused. “I daresay there will be a hue and cry and all sorts of bother before it’s all sorted, but these things can’t be helped.”

      “What do you think you’re doing eavesdropping?” I jumped to find the manservant George lurking behind me, a laden tray in his hands.

      “I dropped my handkerchief,” I lied coolly.

      “I see no handkerchief,” he retorted.

      “That’s because I haven’t found it yet,” I replied. I swept past him before he could make heads or tails of that answer, and fled up the stairs. I returned a few minutes later, face washed and hands clean, and smoothed out the crushed skirts of the wedding gown, wishing desperately that I had something—anything—else to put on.

      “Next time I run away, I’ll plan better,” I muttered. I hurried into the sitting room to find Father and Sebastian sitting companionably. Food and drink had appeared in my absence but had not been touched. As soon as I took a chair the sandwiches and cakes were passed. I loaded my plate and dived in, scarcely breathing between bites. The sandwiches were dainty but stuffed with perfectly roasted ham, and the cake was light as a feather.

      “George is quite something in the kitchen,” Father said, eyeing my rapidly emptying plate.

      I swallowed and shot Sebastian a dark look as he helped himself to the last of the cherry tarts. The cherries had been brandied and glazed to look like jewels and the first two had melted in my mouth.

      “He’s an interesting fellow,” I said politely.

      Father arched a brow. “By that you mean he’s a boor, and you’re entirely correct. But he’s a devilishly good manservant and his company suits me. He frightens away all of the casual callers, and I am left to my work.”

      His tone was light, but I felt the sting of loneliness in his words. I put my plate down, the cake suddenly ashes in my mouth.

      “I don’t blame you,” he said softly.

      I looked up into green eyes that were very like my own. Father was smiling. “It was your wretched mother’s doing. She’s the one I blame.”

      A sharp blow sounded at СКАЧАТЬ