Page 15 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

“Get off, you ridiculous woman!” Stonehaven said, appalled. He tugged her hands from his face. This close, the scent of her perfume was so intense he could hardly breathe. “Stop enacting a Cheltenham tragedy over me, for the love of God.”

He stilled as the bed moved again, relieved as she climbed off, and let out a shaky breath.

“I b-beg your pardon,” she said, sounding just as overwrought as he felt. “Only the idea that—that you might—”

“Oh, stow it,” he grumbled. “I’m not so feeble-minded as all that. I’ll admit, when I got the news, it occurred to me it was the easiest thing to do, but when the hell did I ever do anything because it was easy?”

“Never,” she said, and he heard the lightening of her voice, the breath of amusement there.

“For one thing, it’s simply too embarrassing. People would talk about my having a little accident with my pistols— well, he was blind, the poor fellow. Ugh,” he said in disgust.

“Oh, Stonehaven.” There was definitely laughter in her voice now, which was quite inappropriate, but very like Anne. “You are appalling.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Well, I’m blind, not dumb, too bad for you.”

“Too bad for the entire household, so I hear.”

“Hmph.”

The mattress dipped again as Anne sat down. “I’m being serious, Lawrence. We ought to get married.”

Stonehaven groaned inwardly. “You seriously think I’d marry you under these circumstances? What, so you can be my nursemaid?”

“No,” she said impatiently. “So you can have someone you trust close at hand. Someone to ensure your staff aren’t taking advantage of you, that your steward isn’t bleeding you dry.”

“You have such a happy notion of your fellow man, my dear,” he said with a snort. “A pretty picture you paint of my future.”

There was another silence during which he imagined her restraining herself from putting her hands on him again, this time around his throat.

He couldn’t entirely blame her, and it wasn’t as if the image she showed him had not also occurred to him.

He had done little else but reflect bleakly upon the life that lay before him.

Beaumarsh’s romance with Clementine had given him a glimpse of a world he had not thought existed.

While he had not truly believed that was possible for him too, he had assumed he would marry and have a family.

He had seen himself teaching his sons to ride, to box and play sporting games, and imagined how they would regard him with affection and pride.

That was all gone. How could they feel pride in him now, when he couldn’t feed himself without dropping half of it down his front?

“Think about it,” Anne said, having had time to count to ten and restrain herself from doing murder.

“I don’t need to. It’s a preposterous notion and I’m not so bloody desperate that I’d marry you now when I didn’t want to all those years ago. You were right after all, much may the knowledge please you. It was a terrible idea then, and it’s a terrible idea now.”

This time he heard a breath of exasperation as she exhaled and got to her feet.

“Fine. I’ll come back in a few days, and we shall talk again.”

Stonehaven clapped his hands together, adopting a singsong voice. “Oh, how delightful. Do bring me violets, Anne dear.”

He might not be able to see her, but he’d lay money on the fact she was rolling her eyes.

“Well, I am reassured to discover you are just as insufferable as you’ve always been,” she said tartly, and showed herself out.

Stonehaven snorted. How dare she come in here and propose marriage?

As if he needed her! May the lord save him from interfering females.

Yet the more he thought about the future in the light of her visit, the more his guts clenched, the more fear settled in his heart, and the limits of his world shrank and shrank.

For Christ’s sake, he’d not even dared get out of bed since the accident, save to relieve himself.

That in itself was an activity fraught with terror now and he thanked his lucky stars this mostly female household employed a sensible fellow like George Hallat.

Having thrown a tantrum and fired his valet, who had the temerity to burst into tears upon seeing him, he was now in the position of having no manservant when he desperately needed one.

As the reverend could hardly be at Stonehaven’s beck and call when he had his congregation to care for, something else had been required to fill the interim.

Well, he’d never cared much for his last man, anyway. A fussy old woman. Besides, what did it matter if a gardener dressed him? He’d not be seen at Almack’s again, he thought bitterly. George would do very well for the time being.

How long was the time being, though? Anxiety rose once more in Stonehaven’s chest. He could not stay at the vicarage for the rest of his days, yet the idea of leaving this room, of leaving this house… suddenly the world loomed over him like a great leviathan, and he shrank from the idea.

Well, there was no rush. No rush at all.

He would simply ensure it was worth their while to keep him a bit longer.

On his first visit, he had noted how old and worn the furnishings were in the vicarage, though it seemed only to add the charm of the place.

But the Honeywells were clearly not plump in the pocket.

Perhaps he should do something, however.

A little turn about the room couldn’t be too terrifying, could it?

He ought to make himself familiar with this small space.

Perhaps if he did, the idea of returning to his home wouldn’t make his stomach roil and pitch like he was at sea in a teacup facing a great storm.

Haven House was a marvel of Elizabethan excess, built for the express purpose of impressing the queen.

One of the first ever prodigy houses ever built, it remained one of the finest. As the raison d’etre of any prodigy house was to be excessively grand, Stonehaven withered inside at the idea of returning to it.

He’d lived there on and off all his life and could still get lost in it occasionally with his sight fully intact.

How the hell he would make it downstairs to the breakfast room without finding himself shut in a wardrobe or pitching headfirst downstairs, he did not know.

First things first, he told himself and tugged back the bedcovers.

Sitting up fully made his head spin, and he sat for several moments, clutching at the mattress and wondering if he ought not just go back to sleep.

“Don’t be such a white-livered cur,” he said crossly, and pushed himself to his feet.

Once again, the world spun in a disorientating fashion and he reminded himself, the doctor had told him he was concussed.

Still, the young fellow had also told him to get up and move about, so get up and move about he would.

Holding his hands out before him, he counted as he walked cautiously forward.

Five steps to the wall. Very good. Five steps back, then.

Turning so the wall was directly behind him, he walked back and yelped as he barked his shins on the bed.

Leaning down to rub his shins, he felt a blow to his head that made him see stars, his brain exploding with pain as he crashed to the floor.

Bea cast the piano a longing look but resolutely turned away from it.

She did not know if Stonehaven was sleeping or not, or if the sound of her playing would aggravate or soothe him.

Singing unaccompanied would have to do, yet her heart was not in it today.

Before she had sung with the desire to express her hopes, forcing herself to believe Stonehaven’s sight was not entirely gone.

Now that hope had been dashed for good, and she could not raise her spirits sufficiently to sing when her throat closed up and she wished only to weep instead. Much good that would do him.

Mrs Adamson had just left, looking flustered and rather cross but Bea had not dared ask her more than how his lordship was today.

“As well as can be expected,” she had replied with a tight smile and an edge to her voice that was hardly illuminating.

Bea wished she were brave enough to see for herself, despite the impropriety of doing so.

As she was back at home, Clementine had immediately set about her usual tasks of running the household, just as if she had never left, which meant Bea felt a little discombobulated.

She knew Clementine needed to be busy when she was anxious, and Beaumarsh had taken himself off to The Ship to pack up the rest of his lordship’s things, so could not distract her.

Besides, she ran the house far better than Bea did, which was probably for the best when they were all at sixes and sevens.

Still, now she felt at a loose end. Deciding she could do no better than attack the mending pile, which her nephew Caspar added to on an almost daily basis, Bea was climbing the stairs when she heard an oath and a heavy crash that rattled the floorboards and made her heart stop.

Realising at once that it had come from Stonehaven’s bedroom, Bea picked up her skirts and ran, tugging the door open without thinking twice.

She found Stonehaven sprawled on the floor, his nightshirt ridden up to expose powerful legs covered in dark wiry hair, as he clutched at his head and cursed with vigour.

Stunned momentarily by the shocking sight, Bea shook herself and ran to his aid. “My lord? Are you hurt?”

“Of course I’m hurt, you imbecile,” he barked.

“Oh, you poor thing. Here, sit up and let me see.”