Authors: Charis Michaels
“This was Joseph’s fault.” His eyes were on her hands in her hair. “If he had not left us, then I would not have reached for you.”
“You are astute at assigning blame,” she said.
“Oh, I can assign blame. You want me to say the words? Fine, I’ll say it: it’s my fault. Look, Piety—
Miss Grey
—there is no denying that I am attracted to you.”
“You know that you may call me Piety.”
“I may call you ‘Miss Grey,’ as I should have done in every instance.”
“Fine. I am Miss Grey.”
“I don’t think I have to tell you that you are a beautiful woman.”
“Oh, no, please, may you never tell me that.”
“You have a captivating smile and a body that would tempt any man. And I’m not able to resist you. It’s a weakness—my response to you.”
“You’re not weak, my lord,” she said, walking to the door. “You are lonely.”
“You would see it that way. Wait,” he called, and he reached for the knob at the same moment, covering her hand with his own. “We cannot carry on like this.”
She did not remove her hand. She drew a breath and turned her face to him. His lips were mere inches from her own, and she heard him swear before he dipped down to kiss her again.
Here was the soft kiss they hadn’t time for before. Slow. Lips closed. Nibbling and teasing. In seconds, it grew deeper, and she fell back against the door. He closed in over her and grabbed her up. For a long moment, she kissed him back. The tentative shyness from their previous embraces replaced by intuitive rhythm and an achingly familiar sort of possession. They belonged to each other. They suited. Together, they were better.
This
would good.
They would be so good
.
When his mouth left her lips to trail kisses down her neck, she turned her head and burrowed into his shoulder. She smelled the cotton of his shirt and his skin beneath. She nuzzled her cheek against his neck, reveling in the roughness of the stubble on his jaw. She pulled him closer, fusing them, but she ceased the kisses. She simply held him.
It took a moment for him to catch up, to stop kissing and hold her in return; but oh, when he did—the embrace was like coming home.
When had she last been held like this? When had she
ever
been held like this?
He lifted his head from her hair. “Marissa is in your back garden.” His voice was hoarse.
“What? How do you know?”
“I can see her out the window.”
Piety nodded and began to pull away. “They have returned. I must go.”
“She’s in your garden with my manservant.”
“With Joseph? You’re joking. Really?” Piety shoved off the door and turned around, trying to peek out the portal window. “Lift me up,” she said. “I want to see.”
“Piety, you test the limits of my self-control,” he said.
“Oh, you don’t even like me,” she said. “Come on. Let’s have a look.”
“Right. I don’t even like you,” he repeated. Then he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her until she had a clear view. She tried not to focus on the ease with which he held her aloft, or his hard body, warm against her back. He kept his head turned away from her neck, though she could hear him breathing.
“I should go,” she said, kicking a little. “If Marissa is back, so is Miss Breedlowe.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“With me to my house? Oh, no. This is my subterfuge, not yours. Isn’t that your battle cry? Let each take care of his own?”
“If your chaperone decides I’ve compromised you, which God knows I have, then it does concern me—intimately so. Let us go and explain it away together. And then let us put a stop to this. Once and for all.” He took her shoulders gently and turned her to face him. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her again, and she held her breath.
“Piety,” he said gravely, “I am resigned to never marry.”
“What?” Piety nearly shouted, jumping back a step. “Who has begun to discuss
marriage
? I am not looking to marry, my lord. Indeed, I fled New York to
avoid
marriage.”
“Proper neighbors do not carry on as you and I have done, Piety. Don’t be coy. This can lead to one of two arrangements. I assume you are opposed to an affair.”
She stared at him. “You assume correctly,”
“The other option is marriage.” He shrugged. “And so allow me to repeat, I am resigned to never marry. Not now. Not in five years. Not when I’m old and facing a bitter, painful death entirely alone, cared for by strangers, and without an heir to this earldom.”
“Well, all right. Good for you.” She snatched up her gloves. Marriage? When had she insinuated even the slightest notion of
marriage?
Frustration replaced the languid pleasure slogging through her veins.
She could not look at him, but he droned on behind her, “Marriage would require, among other things, for me to fall in love—or at least to fall into some sort of happy rapport. Knowing what you know of my sour rapport with nearly everyone, particularly you, this comes as no great shock, I’m sure.”
“Shocked is only a fraction of what I am feeling right now,” she said.
“As I’m sure you know, there is more than one way to the altar.” He raised his eyebrows. “Happens all the time. Marriage
without
the happy rapport. A reckless chap, forced by scandal, into an unwilling union. This, too, mind you, will never happen.
Not
to me. I’d like to avoid scandal if I can, but if scandal finds me, please be sure that I will laugh in the face of the gossipmongers and go about my merry way without ever looking back.”
Piety nodded and hugged her cloak tightly around her. “I understand,” she said solemnly, smoothing her hair. “You feel prematurely trapped into a phantom betrothal, which has been masterminded by me. Every unspeakable thing that has happened between us has been my fault or Joseph’s. And I must cease pressing my shackle-minded devices onto your blameless—”
“On the contrary,” he interrupted. “You are an unexpected weakness for whom I was wholly unprepared. It is me. I am the problem. And I am vowing to you that I will stay away. Beginning now.”
Outwardly, Piety showed no reaction. She nodded and ran two fingers over her brow. She reached for the doorknob. Inside, however, she felt very still. And heavy. Like a stone had settled into the pit of her stomach, and it was sinking her to the bottom of a deep, dark pond.
She stared into the planks on the door, willing herself to be pragmatic, to keep her eye on the ultimate goal, which was finishing the house and staving off her mother. Never had it been the plan to become involved with a sad, difficult neighbor with strong arms and a confounding loneliness.
“Can you endeavor to do the same?” he asked quietly. “Let us stay out of our libraries and music rooms and lives.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, working to sound as if she did not care. In truth, she cared too much. She could see that now. He outlined his wholesale rejection of her so neatly, and then he not-so-neatly implied that she had scheming designs on his bachelorhood. She endured betrayal and blame at the same time.
“Oh, wait,” he called. “Don’t forget these.” He held out the new drawings.
She chuckled miserably. “Oh yes. These. How could I forget? I seem determined to sabotage my own project, don’t I? Now who’s to blame?” She turned to go, but then she stopped. “But what if we have questions? What if I need more advice?”
“Then you may apply to a hired architect, as I have repeatedly said.”
“Impossible. I’ve tried everyone in town and been turned away.”
“Try again. Offer more coin.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Or, I could simply hire you.” Perhaps he could not withstand their mutual attraction, but she would be happy to demonstrate detached ambivalence if the situation called for it, and if it also got her the new stairs at the same bloody time.
“Piety,” he began.
She held up a hand to stop him. Frustration surged. “Right.” She forced her voice to sound light. “Very well. Thank you for this beginning, I suppose. And for the chess.”
“Let us hope that my design is better than my chess.”
Then Piety had a thought. Not a prudent thought. Not a sensible thought. Not a thought that did anything to extricate herself from the already painful and awkward situation. But it was an arresting, irresistible thought, just the same. A thought that just might speed along the construction of her stairs.
And it would mean . . .
Well, perhaps it would mean that their final farewell needn’t be so bitter. It would mean they could ease out of this entanglement, rather than snap in two like the breaking of a bone.
“What would you say,” she asked, clearing her throat, “if I knew a way to test your design work against your chess?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Is there any way,” she continued, “that you would consider a wager?”
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
“No.”
“A friendly wager. A game of chess between you and me.”
He moaned. “Did you not hear me, Miss Grey? I cannot be alone with you again.”
“Not a private game. Something more sporting and gay. With my chaperone, Miss Breedlowe, in attendance. And Joseph. Anyone who wishes to come. At teatime perhaps. Whenever it’s convenient, really.”
“And what, might I ask, am I meant to wager?”
“What do you think? The further advisement and consultation on building my stairs. If I win,” she continued, “then I will cease my frustrating struggle to hire someone elsewhere town—and instead
you
will oversee it.
You
will be my architect. And if you win, then I will
leave you alone
.”
“You will leave me alone regardless,” he said harshly. “You cannot tell me that I haven’t shocked you with my behavior—warned you, in more ways than one, of the result if you do not stay away.”
“You flatter yourself, my lord.” She managed to eke out the words. “I am not shocked, I am
inspired
. To defeat you in chess will mean seeing my renovations advance at a much faster pace. By the time my mother arrives, the sweeping stairwell will be through.”
He laughed. “How confident you are.
When
you defeat me?”
She smiled and gave a shrug, already feeling better.
“Fine, Miss Grey,” he said, whipping the door open wide. “I accept your wager. Just know my terms. When
I
win, there will be no more talk of the stairs or the passage, of me helping you or giving you my advice. You and I will be finished entirely. We will not write, we will not call, we will be separate at all times.”
“Separate,” she repeated, breezing out the door.
“And Miss Breedlowe must always be present.”
“Miss Breedlowe will be thrilled to hear it.” She smiled without looking back. “Good evening, my lord. I will be in touch about the game.”
“Of this I have no doubt.”
T
he first chess match ended in a draw.
They played for two afternoons, their gaming mood alternating between tense concentration and jovial ribbing, while their assembled audience took tea and watched.
On the first day, only Joseph, Marissa, and Miss Breedlowe convened. Because it was teatime, they brought a basket from the market, a kettle of tea, and a clattering stack of cups. Because it was Falcondale, he offered only his drafty drawing room, one chessboard, two stools, and a rickety side chair next to a dark grate, presumably for Miss Breedlowe. He remained silent while Piety buzzed through the house, scavenging proper chairs from other rooms, and Joseph laid a fire.
The following day, Lady Frinfrock, trailed by Tiny, rapped on his door and demanded to know what in God’s name was going on. A carpenter, the marchioness said, had answered their daily call to survey the progress in Piety’s house and informed them that the ladies could be found next door, playing chess. Curiosity and suspicion rerouted them to Falcondale’s stoop, where the marchioness invited herself inside and took Joseph’s seat beside Falcondale.
Prudently, no one explained the real stakes of the game to the marchioness, allowing the verbal banter and biting rivalry to suggest that victory for the winner would be a prize in and of itself.
For her first day in attendance, the marchioness cautiously nibbled the produce from the market and accepted a cup of tepid tea. But by the next day, she directed her staff to convey several tiered trays of cake, pastry, and sandwiches and a shiny silver tea trolley across the street. They set up in Falcondale’s drawing room, and Piety poured for everyone, chatting easily about how civilized it all was and how lucky she had been to fall in with neighbors as pleasant as those of Henrietta Place.
They played for exactly one hour each afternoon while the spectators watched, whispering among themselves about the alacrity of play. Because Piety was careful not remain longer than an hour, the rematch dragged on for the better part of a week. When five o’clock struck each day, she would ask everyone to note the location of pieces on the board to vouch for the next day’s commencement. After that, while Falcondale glared in silence, Piety would push back from the board, smile sweetly, and thank the earl for hosting. Invariably, he would scowl back, studying her, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with something she could not name.
Piety would be lying if she said she did not enjoy it. Lady Frinfrock was disagreeable and rude, but the earl had no qualms about laughing at her outrageousness, and she didn’t seem to mind. Tiny was there every day, and it was gratifying to see her treated so well, like an honored guest for the first time in her life. And Miss Breedlowe was happy, because she felt as if she were doing her job. Even Lady Frinfrock ventured a handful of half-compliments about how the two of them were getting on.
And Falcondale . . .
Falcondale was like a daily indulgence that she allowed herself, if only in small doses. Although he was everything an indulgence was not—not charming, not flattering, not sweet, not gallant or even chatty. But when he did speak, he was bitingly funny, his chess playing was top notch, and he listened intently to everything she said. He pretended to ignore the idle chatter among the ladies and focus on the board, but she could see him cock his head, sometimes asking questions about life in New York, the slave trade in America, or what it was like to traverse the Atlantic on a ship.