Her hair smelled like honeysuckle, her skin like the sea. For one irrational moment, William pictured himself drawing her into his arms, burying his face in the warm, bare flesh of her neck and breathing in that scent until he was dizzy. He didn’t do it, of course; he never considered actually doing it. Yet the resulting fantasy was so vivid it almost seemed real. He had never been this near a woman before—he had never had a woman touch him—and it was a drug even more intoxicating than the laudanum. He thought if he were to become addicted to anything, this would be it.
But she isn’t real, he reminded himself.
And she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. She was something better; she was something safe. She was a dream creature, as considerate as she was beautiful. In his experience, this was never true of real, flesh-and-blood women. The small horde of ladies who treated him kindly in London had done so only because their mothers instructed them to, because of his money. His lack of social grace made him seem like an easy catch for a pretty girl, and likely his wealth made him a very desirable one for a girl who needed to refill the family coffers.
Yet he had not been caught. The London dowagers underestimated him in that regard. William didn’t want just a beautiful face or a prominent name; he didn’t care about bloodlines. What he longed for was a companion, a partner. He wanted a woman who could love him, a woman who would want him for who he was rather than what he possessed. Artful as those little social climbers had been, he had never labored under any serious delusions about their intentions. None of them had ever cared two pins for him, and that was painfully obvious from the start.
Of course, when it came to a certain other young lady he had not been nearly so discerning. In a manner all too typical of him, William had set his sights on the very last creature likely to have him, and he had made a complete fool of himself in his pursuit of her. As a matter of fact, it was due to this very misadventure that he—
But he would not think of that now. His mysterious flaxen-haired companion had nothing to do with such matters, and he refused to waste his time with her dredging up old sorrows. Cecily Underwood might have been a real woman in every unpleasant sense of the word, but Buffy Summers was not.
Thank God for that, he thought fervently. Thank God—
Buffy’s hand was still resting in the crook of his elbow, her expression growing quizzical and slightly amused as she watched him ruminate. When it became clear the silence would continue indefinitely without some intervention on her part, she shook him gently and said, not without a certain amount of playfulness, “Talk to me, William. Tell me what’s going on in that wacky little noggin of yours.”
William looked at her helplessly. What he was thinking was not something he could verbalize, and even if he could, the idea seemed too alien to consider. Aside from his own mother, he had never shared his private thoughts or feelings with a woman before; no woman had ever been interested in them.
“Where are you from?” he asked instead. This was partly to divert her, but also because he was genuinely curious. Her accent sounded vaguely American, yet he had met plenty of Yanks while he was traveling and none of them ever used the strange vernacular of Buffy Summers. Of course, he had made Buffy Summers up out of his own head, which might account for her peculiarity; but he could not help wondering from where his subconscious had drawn its inspiration. Surely it could not all be due to the laudanum.
Buffy cocked her head, and it seemed to William she was weighing her answer with unusual care given the simplicity of the question. Finally, she asked him, “Do you know where California is?”
“On the western coast of the United States, isn’t it? A rather undeveloped region, I’ve heard, and full of rough people.”
She smiled then, and slid her hand from his arm so she could smooth the front of her dress.
“No, I’d say it’s actually pretty developed, all things considered. Why would you think otherwise, William? Do I really look that rough to you?”
Although he knew she was only teasing him, William felt his face heat with embarrassment. What an awful blunder to make. Had she been a real woman, no doubt he would have offended her greatly.
“I—I do apologize,” he said slowly, taking care to consider his words this time. “Of course I didn’t intend to imply you were—it’s only that—well, I’m afraid I’m not very skilled at conversation—”
“You’re doing fine,” she assured him. “Keep going.”
“Going—?”
“Talking. Tell me about yourself, if you want. Or, you know, ask me more about myself. Let’s do our best to keep this conversation ball rolling.”
She really was incredibly odd. William knew he should not find it so appealing, but he couldn’t help admiring her energy, her candor. She would never feign interest in a man because of his money, nor encourage his hapless affections if she did not return them. He was not certain just how he knew this, but he did. If she did not admire a man, she might tell him in the most brusque, unladylike manner imaginable—but she would tell him. She would be honest.
All the same, there seemed little use in asking her further questions about herself; anything she told him would be a fabrication of his own mind. He rubbed a hand across his face and sighed, wishing there was some way he could forget his delusions were only delusions. It would be lovely to believe she was real, if only for a little while.
“What would you like to know about me, Buffy?” Delusion or not, he felt quite bold for asking her outright. Who knew what she might feel compelled to ask him? Those green eyes certainly did look mischievous.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she answered. “I guess I’d like to know how old you are, what you do for a living, and—” she reached out to tug on the end of his cravat “—where you get your keen fashion sense. You know—all the usual things.”
Puzzled by her apparent mirth, William looked down at his neckcloth. He could see no reason why it would be worthy of ridicule. “It’s silk brocade,” he told her defensively.
“Snazzy,” she answered.
“And it matches my waistcoat.”
“As well it should.”
He frowned. “I thought you would like—”
“It’s fine, William, honestly. And you’re fine. Well-dressed, polite, handsome…a Dickensian dish of epic proportions.”
William had no idea what she meant by that, but before he could sort it out she was off on another track.
“So, you’re how old…?”
“Oh!” He suddenly recalled she had asked him that question before. “Thirty-three, this past April.”
“You look younger.”
“Do I?” His laughter held a trace of bitterness. “That’s fortunate. I’m afraid I feel several decades older.”
Buffy’s expression became almost tender then. She reached up to brush back the curls from his forehead. “Well, you’re totally rocking the baby-soft skin.”
William’s eyes drifted shut as her fingertips grazed his brow, yet he remained surprisingly coherent, even in the midst of the caress.
“I’m afraid I forgot the subject of your third inquiry,” he admitted.
“I asked you what you do for a living.”
“I live here.” He did not have the faintest notion of why this should make her laugh, but it did. To his disappointment, she also withdrew her hand.
“No. What I mean is how do you earn money? What line of work are you in?”
“Ah, I see.” Now he did see, but he was shocked she would even ask; it was hardly good manners to talk of money. Nonetheless, he answered courteously: “I don’t have a situation, Buffy, for there is no need of it. I’m landed.”
“Landed?” She looked bewildered, yet there seemed no polite way of explaining things to her. William felt as if he might as well bang his head against a tree.
“Yes, you see…I have…I’m…” He looked around the garden, struggling to find a way to describe his means without sounding vulgar. Buffy looked too, and only a moment after her eyes landed on his house, they lit up with understanding.
“Oh, so you’re independently wealthy, huh? That’s a nice gig if you can get it. I’ve looked into it myself, but there never seem to be any positions open.”
William looked at her suspiciously. She didn’t appear to be teasing him this time, but it was difficult to know for certain. Her speech was charming in its way, but far from easy to comprehend.
“Is there anything else you would care to know?” he asked, after an appropriate interval. He didn’t want to encourage further ridicule of his position, if that was in fact what she had been doing, yet he felt it was only polite to offer.
She thought a moment, and a peculiar expression came over her—the same sad, slightly knowing expression from the night before. She asked him softly, “What about your family?”
“Dead.”
William knew it was awful of him to put it so bluntly, but he had no other words. For the first time since they met, Buffy actually looked a little startled.
“Not all of them, surely?”
“There were only my parents and myself. My father passed when I was young, and my mother—” He hesitated.
“What about your mother?” Although her tone was gentle and sympathetic, William thought he detected a sense of urgency as well, as if she attached a great deal of weight to his response. Because of this, he chose his next words carefully.
“Mother has been gone over a year now. She died last May, in Italy. I suppose it was a blessing. She was ill for quite a long time, and she suffered a great deal.”
“But you’re absolutely sure she’s dead?” Buffy seemed genuinely distressed, but William could not help feeling offended by the question.
“I wouldn’t be likely to misremember such a loss,” he told her stiffly. She blanched, immediately contrite.
“God, of course you wouldn’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, William. I didn’t mean it that way—I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just I’m stupid, and I keep assuming…”
William waited, but her voice trailed away before the explanation was complete. He could not remain angry with her, however, for she looked so remorseful there could be no doubt her apology was genuine.
“Truly, it is all right. Pray don’t be sorry, and do forgive my short temper. I know your intentions were good. I should not have been so overly sensitive—”
“No,” she interrupted. “You weren’t being overly sensitive. I suffer from a huge case of foot-in-mouth disease, that’s all. But despite the massive evidence to the contrary, I really can understand how you must be feeling. I lost my mother, too.”
“Did you?”
She nodded. “Almost three years ago. She had an aneuryism. I came home one afternoon and found her lying on the couch.”
William wasn’t sure what an aneurysm was, but he thought he could picture the horror of that moment with fair accuracy. Buffy, walking into the home she shared with her mother, blissfully unaware anything was wrong. Buffy, finding her mother sprawled across the divan, her mouth gaping, her eyes glassy—
Don’t be absurd, he told himself impatiently. She’s a figment of your imagination, as is all the rest. None of it actually happened.
Perhaps not. However, the sudden look of grief in her eyes was real enough to hurt him, and William clumsily reached out to pat her shoulder.
“I’m so terribly sorry for your loss—”
She smiled a little at that and lifted her hand to cover his, gently pressing his fingertips into narrow ledge of her collarbone. “I know you are, William,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
William managed to return her smile, but he could think of nothing more to say. It was just she was so near to him now—she was beneath his hand—and that made it terribly difficult for him to think in a rational manner. He could have done almost anything—
I could kiss her, he thought dizzily. She isn’t real; it wouldn’t be wrong. She would let me—
Would she, though? Real or not, he was not entirely sure of her intentions. Perhaps she would not be as willing as she appeared. Yet the laudanum made him brave—or stupid—or both—and he might well have tried it had an unexpected torrent of voices not suddenly ruined his chances.
Clearly startled by the noise, Buffy jerked away from him.
“Who is that? Is someone else here?”
“Likely it’s only the servants. They were at church earlier, but services must be over by now. The road to town is just on the other side of those trees—” he indicated the direction with a wave of his hand “—and the sound of their talking would carry on the wind. It’s all right,” he added hastily, seeing her troubled expression. “I shall see to it they won’t molest you.”
“It’s not that,” she said slowly. “I just—”
“What?”
“You haven’t told anyone about meeting me, have you?”
“Certainly not!” He laughed. “I would be thought mad.”
“Not even your servants?”
“I don’t talk to my servants.”
“But your friends—”
“There aren’t any.” How it cost him to admit that! William thought if she expressed any pity for him now, the earth might as well open up and swallow him whole.
However, Buffy nodded without speaking, and nothing in her demeanor indicated she found his solitary existence strange or sad. After a tactful pause, she turned away from him, moving to where her horse still stood, tethered to a tree.
“I should probably go anyway,” she sighed, reaching to untie the animal. “It’s getting late, and if someone were to see me—”
“Stay!” He reached for her hand, pulling it away from the reins before she could unknot them. “Please, Buffy, stay just a bit longer.”
“William, don’t…”
“Why not?” Although she appeared to be doing her best to extricate herself from his grasp, he stubbornly refused to let go of her hand. “The servants won’t bother us, and it isn’t really so very late. You’ve no reason to leave so suddenly—"
But his desperate words and persistent clutching won him no sympathy at all; Buffy reached down and pried his fingers back with a force that made him yelp.
“Would you just chill out?” Having regained possession of her hand, she turned back to her mount, looking more than a little bit exasperated. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here all night, every night. I’ve got other things to do. I have a life—"
Stung, he snapped back: “Well, go on then if you’re intent upon it! I can’t stop you. I should have known it would all turn into a nightmare eventually—all my dreams do.”
He turned away dismissively, expecting she would mount her horse and go. Instead, she hesitated, one hand on the reins and the other resting against the pommel of her saddle. After a minute or so of silent consideration, she finally heaved a sigh and walked back over to him, dragging the reluctant horse behind her.
“Okay,” she said when she reached him. “I didn’t want to have to ask you this, but that’s obviously where the evening’s headed, so here it goes. William, are you trashed or something?”
He blinked at her, too startled to remember he was angry.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Drunk,” she explained. Then, even more plainly: “You know, intoxicated. Have you by any chance been sneaking sips of the cooking sherry?”
William knew he should probably take offense at this, but somehow righteous indignation was difficult to come by. While he might not be drunk in the strictest sense of that word, there was no denying the fact he was something. If he were in his right mind, she wouldn’t be here.
Still, it would hardly be good manners to tell her that. He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed without humor. Things had been so pleasant earlier, he thought. How had it gone so terribly wrong?
Buffy was watching him with steadily growing impatience.
“William,” she said finally. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he insisted, “and I’m not drunk. I’m simply—” He faltered.
“You’re simply what?”
“—having a most peculiar dream.”
Her eyes softened a bit at that.
“You still think I’m a dream?”
“Of course I do.” William was surprised there would be any question of it. A beautiful woman appearing in his garden in the middle of the night—what else could she be but a fancy?
Buffy appeared to consider this for a minute or two, and then she reached out and pinched him on the arm. Hard. For the second time that evening, William let out a most unmanly cry of pain.
“And just what was the meaning of that?” he demanded.
She met his gaze levelly, completely unconcerned by his displeasure.
“I’m proving a point about my reality. Dreams can’t hurt you; I can. Therefore, I must be real.”
“Ordinary dreams cannot hurt one, perhaps,” he conceded. “However, you being the product of a—”
Here he stopped, unwilling to broach the subject of the opium. This was not because he felt embarrassed or ashamed; he was merely loath to face the questions that were sure to follow. He did not want to discuss his illness with Buffy Summers; he didn’t want to think about death in her presence.
Fortunately, Buffy seemed to have no interest in pursuing the matter further. She unfastened the braided leather choker from around her throat and held it out to him.
“What are you doing?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Trying to confirm my existence. Humor me for a second, will you, and let me have your hand.”
Though considerably puzzled by her command, William never thought of disobeying it. He held out his hand and Buffy slid the necklace over it, doubling and redoubling it until the coil of leather lay snugly against his wrist.
“There,” she said, releasing him. “If you wake up tomorrow and that’s still on your arm, you’ll know I’m not just a dream.”
“I—I couldn’t take your necklace,” he stammered. “If something were to happen to it while it is in my care—”
Actually, there was very little to fear in that regard. The choker was hardly quality jewelry—just a pewter crucifix, dangling from a bit of cheap leather—and not even the lightest-fingered of his servants were likely to steal it. Yet it was warm from her skin and smelled of her perfume—it belonged to her—and wearing it, taking it away with him, seemed a gesture of shocking intimacy. It seemed almost…wrong.
Oh, for God's sake. Don’t be a fool. It can’t be wrong, for it isn’t real. She isn’t real, and your reputation is in no danger. What’s the harm in humoring her?
So he humored her, amending his earlier statement with a bold: “I shall be certain to return it tomorrow evening.”
The edges of Buffy’s mouth quivered, though she didn’t exactly smile. “If it’s still there, you mean.”
“If it’s still there,” he agreed. Then, because he couldn’t quite help himself, he asked plaintively, “Must you really leave now? Could you not just—only for a little while—”
“I have to go, but—” she gave his ornamented wrist a tug “—I’ll bet you a million dollars you’ll find this is still here tomorrow morning. You’re not nearly as imaginative as you think.”
“And how can I be sure you will return so I can collect my winnings?” William asked. But despite his best efforts, his voice lacked her playful humor.
Buffy put a gentle hand against his cheek.
“Hey,” she whispered. “You can trust me.”
William didn’t answer her—he suddenly felt too wretched for words—but he forced a smile for her sake and lifted his hand in a mock salute when she told him goodbye. He waited until her horse had cleared the garden wall, its hoofbeats fading away into the dark.
Then he turned and slowly walked back to his house alone.
Early the following morning, Margaret Hastings was standing in the larder with the cook and one kitchen maid taking inventory of the supplies when an unexpected clambering on the cellar stairs startled all three.
“Sarah Walker!” Margaret exclaimed, once the source of the bedlam appeared in the doorway. “Are you a woman, or a Clydesdale?”
The young chambermaid dropped an eager curtsey. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hastings. But I was just upstairs to do my work, and it seems the master’s gone ill, or daft, or something, so I came to get you straightaway.”
This declaration so shocked Margaret she dropped her ledger. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” she demanded.
“He’s up in his room now, ma’am, laughing and crying by turns. And he’s talking clean out of his head—”
“That’s enough!”
“But you’ll go to him?” asked Sarah. She looked so genuinely disturbed Margaret felt a flutter of fear, though naturally she was careful not to let on.
“Of course I will,” she said evenly. She stooped to retrieve her book from the floor, and then shoved it at the cook. “You must carry on without me, but be sure you don’t forget anything. And you—” she nodded at Sarah “—get on with your other duties. I shall see to the master myself.”
She did so with deliberate calm, too sensible to risk alarming the rest of the staff. When she reached the master bedroom, she found the door slightly ajar, but she tapped on it as usual. Her only concession to fear was that she did not wait for his permission before she stepped inside.
Not that he seemed to notice. Although Margaret saw no sign of the hysteria Sarah had mentioned, the master of the house was clearly not in his right senses. He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothing and staring down at something he held in his left hand. Margaret could not see what it was, for as soon as she stepped into the room his fist closed around it, concealing it from view. He was trembling slightly and white to the lips, yet he did not seem to be ill.
Margaret cautiously edged her way over to him. “Sir,” she called softly. “Forgive me for intruding, but are you all right?”
William looked over at her then, his eyes bloodshot and watery, filled with an uncanny brightness. He gave her a crooked smile.
“Well, Mrs. Hastings," he said. "At the very least, it seems I am not mad.”