LITMIR.BIZ

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outside, the sound of the waves came louder. At high tide, she knew, they could pound against the rounded stones of the terrace and dampen the path with spray. Now a few leaves dotted the dark steps as they made their way down to the stone-lined recess that housed the two wells. Mrs. Price was convinced the Chalybeate Well was the finer of the two, so Meredee steered her toward the line of people waiting for a drink dipped from the stone-edged hole of the south well by a gentle widow.

      One of the wonders of Scarborough was the variety of people who were welcomed at the wells. Everyone from Mrs. Price’s new friend, the countess, to the tiny son of the local coalmonger stood waiting their turns, sure that a sip from the mineral springs would make them stronger, or at least more fashionable. But Meredee and Mrs. Price had only taken a few steps when she saw Lord Allyndale and Lady Phoebe near the north well.

      Mrs. Price must have sighted him at nearly the same time, for she nudged Meredee. “Smile,” she hissed. “You do not want him to think anything’s amiss.”

      Meredee forced a smile, but neither of the Dearborns seemed to be looking in her direction. They had reached the front of their line and stood beside the low well. Mrs. Dennings, one of the elderly widows who served the water, lifted a tin cup. Meredee thought that surely Lady Phoebe would take it, but she refused the spa water with a shake of her honey-colored curls and a scrunch of her pert nose. To Meredee’s surprise, it was the earl who drank of the healing waters, head up, gaze out over the sea, in one great gulp as if taking particularly foul medicine.

      Her father had drunk it like that, when he was afraid of dying.

      Meredee blinked. Chase Dearborn could not be ill. Her father had been thin and growing thinner every day, his skin gray, his eyes shadowed. Lord Allyndale looked the picture of health—tall, solid, imposing. He turned and saw her staring at him then, and her cheeks heated in a blush.

      For a moment, their gazes locked, held. Why did he look at her so intently? Did he find her as intriguing to watch? Had he found their conversation as interesting as she had? Did he admire her?

      The stone floor seemed to shift under her. She caught her breath and clutched her stepmother’s arm to hold herself steady. Lord Allyndale merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, then walked swiftly to the stairs, his sister hurrying behind.

      “Well, I like that!” Mrs. Price grumbled, her gaze following them. “Not even a fare thee well!” She paled suddenly and grabbed Meredee’s hand where it still rested on her arm. “Did you say something to make him take us in dislike?”

      Meredee took a deep breath and pulled away. What was wrong with her? Had she expected some kind of public display? She wasn’t the type to inspire sonnets; by his own admission he wasn’t the type to compose them. If she hadn’t saved his sister’s life, they would probably have never met.

      “I don’t believe his actions had anything to do with us,” she told her stepmother.

      Mrs. Price nodded, biting her lower lip. But Meredee couldn’t tell her what she really thought, for surely that was an even greater fancy. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought the earl was running away from her, just as she’d run from him the other day.

      “But wasn’t that Miss Price?” Phoebe asked as Chase all but stuffed her into their waiting carriage outside the spa house.

      “It was, but I spoke to her earlier.” He climbed in beside her, shut the door and rapped on the upper panel to signal his driver to start. He hadn’t intended to talk to Meredee Price, though he’d noticed her the moment he’d entered the spa. Something about her drew his attention, awakened his senses. He’d have liked nothing better than to spend a few hours in her company. But he knew he had to be circumspect. Undue attentions usually led to assumptions of betrothals he had no intention of confirming. He hadn’t come to Scarborough looking for a wife. Only his life.

      Phoebe tossed her head. “Well, I didn’t get to speak to her. You might have asked before whisking me off.”

      “You’ll see her tonight, pet,” he reminded her. “And, if I know you, you have a great deal to do to get ready for dinner.”

      Phoebe’s pique eased at that, and she prattled on about hair and gowns for the quarter hour it took to reach their Scarborough house above the spa. Chase was just as glad. Phoebe had been away at school when he’d first fallen ill. She didn’t know the fevers that racked him with no warning, leaving him weak, helpless.

      The London physicians blamed it on humors in the blood; the renowned physician he’d consulted in Edinburgh was certain it had to do with the night air on the York moors. Mal aria, the Italians called it. Either way, he was determined to rid himself of the malady. His sister and his duties as earl required him to be alert, focused, dedicated. Falling into a stupor for days at a time was simply not an option.

      If only he could find Phoebe a suitable husband, but the girl seemed drawn to feckless fools—all harm, no substance. He did not doubt for an instant that they would prove weak reeds in times of trouble. Given Chase’s illness, Phoebe had to have someone at her side she could count on.

      Unbidden, Meredee Price’s face came to mind. She never ceased to amaze him. What other woman in his circles had ever been interested in science, could actually converse knowledgeably about the subject? Moreover, she had a way of looking at him that made him feel as if she could see deep inside. For a moment, at the spa, he was certain she’d divined his secret, that taking the waters wasn’t simply a show of being fashionable but a desperate attempt to cure himself. Yet instead of ridicule he saw in her face, it was compassion.

      “Allyndale, you are not paying attention,” Phoebe complained, forcing him back to the present. “I asked you a very important question.”

      Chase inclined his head. “Forgive me. What do you need?”

      Phoebe leaned forward, dark eyes narrowed. “Shall I wear pearls or roses in my hair tonight?”

      Chase’s chuckle came out before he could catch it. “You will be delightful in either, my dear.”

      She cocked her head. “You like Miss Price, don’t you?”

      Oh, he was entirely too transparent. He schooled his face into something significantly more stern, a look that made his servants tiptoe about the house and Parliament tremble. “That, young miss, is none of your affair.”

      Phoebe let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, you do, you do! How delightful! I’ve been praying so long for the right woman for you. I can’t believe I’ve found a sister at last!”

      “Your felicitations are entirely premature, I assure you.”

      “So you say, but time will tell. And when you are happy, perhaps you’ll be willing to let me be happy too.”

      Her words knifed him. “Are you so very unhappy, Phoebe? I thought you wanted to come to Scarborough.”

      She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the bow on her fetching bonnet. “I did. It isn’t Scarborough that makes me so unhappy. I miss him, Chase. I told you I would.”

      Chase’s pulse pounded in his temples. “He isn’t worthy of you, Phoebe. You know that.”

      “You know that,” she said with a sigh. “My heart never agreed with you.”

      “Then perhaps it’s time you spoke to your heart,” Chase said, feeling his tightening inside him. “A marriage should be well thought out, the people well known to each other. You cannot fall in love in an instant and expect to have made a good choice.”

      She raised her gaze to his, her dark eyes stormy. “Oh, I hope you fall in love, so swiftly and suddenly that nothing else matters! Perhaps then you’ll understand how I feel!”

      She had no idea what she asked. Chase turned away from her before harsh words came out. He had no intention of falling in love, swiftly or otherwise. No amount of love had kept Phoebe safe before. That was where his duty lay. And nothing she or the lovely Miss Price could say would change that.

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