A Fresh Perspective, A Regency Romance (14 page)

“The worst,” he admitted. He could not admit to her that Lord and Lady Talcott had adopted the habit of living above and beyond their means. “Your thoughts, I daresay, have been far more interesting than mine.”

“How so?

“Love and marriage are far more interesting than finance, surely.”

“Additions and subtractions of a different order,” she said quietly. Her expression hid in the shadows.

Silence fell between them. Rain drummed in a soothing rattle against the roof. Equally soft, almost as soothing, she asked him, “Money trouble, is it?”

“Yes, he blurted, relieved she had guessed, even more relieved that she asked. It did not occur to him that she had just avoided explaining her own troubling thoughts of love and marriage. “Stupid really, but I feel paralyzed by the whole thing. I vacillate between not wanting to believe there is a problem and the feeling it is a problem so enormous I haven’t the slightest idea where to begin dealing with it.”

“How enormous is enormous?

“It is a mountain in my mind.”

“Even a mountain is not insurmountable. What are your choices?”

Choices? Did he have any choices?

“I could, like my parents, ignore the problem.”

“Ha!” she said. “Not and get any sleep. What else? Come, come! The answers to most our problems stare us in the face if we will only open our eyes to see them.”

“I could follow the solicitor’s advice.”

“Which is?”

“Liquidate and consolidate everything.”

“That requires your father’s involvement, does it not?”

“Yes. Small chance of that.”

“What other options then?”

“I could leave it all behind me. Liquidate my personal belongings for fare to the Americas or the Indies. Start a new life from scratch.”

She stretched her hand between the balustrade to catch a handful of the run-off from the roof. “You could marry into money,” she suggested.

He frowned and flung himself into a more comfortable position on the bedding, his shoulder brushing her hip. “I am loath to do that. It was with that end in mind my parents wed.”

“Was it really?” She let the water dribble away between outstretched fingers.

He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the way they could speak so easily of his troubles. “I thought you knew. Father had land, mother, money. A match made in fiscal heaven. I do not know two more miserable people when they are together. Our current financial crisis is rooted in that misery.”

“I had no idea,” she said softly, withdrawing her hand from the wet to dry it on his bedclothes. “So which is it? The Americas or the Indies?”

“That requires thought,” he murmured.

They fell quiet again, watching the rain fall. Megan rearranged her position on their makeshift pallet, that she might lean against the pillow next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

He liked having her close. She smelled sweet and good and familiar. There was comfort in the trust she exhibited being so close to him, eyes closing, voice drowsing along through a rambling discussion about their combined impressions of the Indies and the Americas. Reed had no idea she was drifting off until her head sank onto his shoulder. Odd, how comforting it was to have the steady warmth of her breath against his neck, the weighty warmth of her head against his shoulder, the airy brush of her hair against his cheek. There was trust inherent in the gesture, even unconsciously made. Reed felt oddly relieved. If Megan had been overly concerned as to his ability to solve his financial crisis, she would never have drifted off to sleep. It occurred to him that he had never allowed her to reveal just what it was that had kept her awake.

He could not bring himself to disturb her, so peaceful was her face, so soft and steady her breathing. Entranced, he cradled the warmth of her. The dark depths of her eyes had been shut away from him--her wonderfully mobile mouth, stilled. How pale and soft was her skin. Her hair smelled like roses. The nutmeg tresses tickled his cheek.

He could see no sense in rousing her, no sense, either, in toting her all the way downstairs to her bed when he might just as easily tuck her into his bed.

“Megan,” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”

She did not rouse. With great care he picked her up, marveling at the sweet, soft heft of her drowsy body. He was unprepared for the little moan she made, unprepared for the endearing manner in which she snuggled her face into his shirtfront. It occurred to him, that given the chance, he would carry this sweet burden with him all the way to the Americas. He forgot how low the ceiling was and cracked his head smartly against one of the beams.

He wanted to shout out “Bloody Hell!” but stifled the impulse. Eyes and mouth squeezed shut, head spinning, he leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself, unable to refrain from a volley of heartfelt but whispered Ow!, OW!, Ows! that in no way began to voice the screaming pain in his head.

Megan did not stir. Oblivious, she slept on. Eyes watering, he took care not to smack his head again, took care, too, not to bang Megan’s head or shins in carrying her through the door to his room. Gently, he lowered her onto his bed. Tenderly, he tucked the coverlet around her. Could he make a new life for himself in America? A life without Megan?

Rubbing at his bruised and throbbing skull, he stood gazing at her. Such an innocent and fragile mite she looked, curled up in the same feather ticking that had so recently enfolded him each night. There was something unexpectedly provocative in thinking that they two shared the same bed, if only on different nights.

So provocative was the thought, it drove him out onto the spinning gallery to collect pillows for her head. In the positioning of those pillows, he touched her cheek lightly with side of his hand. Like velvet, the plush of her skin felt rich against his knuckles. With that touch, came a flood of desire to let his hand remain there, nestled by her cheek, all night long. She stirred however, his touch threatening to wake her. Unable to predict his actions should she wake, he fled the room--fled the seduction of innocence, trust and flesh soft as velvet.

Downstairs, he crept into the quiet emptiness of the room that was Megan’s. It was not so very different from his, but for the fact that her presence hung tangibly about the place in a faint hint of tuberose.

Sitting himself on the bed, he slipped off his walking shoes, setting them neatly on the floor beside a feminine pair of shoes. His footwear looked decidedly
de trop
right next to Megan’s. Furtively, he stripped off his clothes and hung them in the wardrobe, draping them far too familiarly over one of Megan’s dresses. Half-naked, he crept around in the still, darkness of the room, convinced that at any moment he would wake Gussie and Tom in the room next door and be discovered.

He found little relief in tucking himself into Megan’s bed and wrapping Megan’s bed linens around his bare torso. A stronger whiff of tuberose clung tenaciously to the sheets, undeniably arousing, raising hair, gooseflesh and unexpectedly carnal thoughts. He had always associated the perfume of the tuberose with Megan without really being conscious of the association. Sinking into the soft, feather mattress he was beset by the strange impression that he sank himself, head to toe, against the softness of Megan’s breast. Clutching the pillow, he buried his face in its sweetly scented depths, besieged with the impression that he clutched at Megan herself. He longed to return to his own bed, and Megan still in it, longed to seek out the precise pulse points where she dabbed the same provocative perfume.

Chapter Fifteen

M
egan awoke reluctantly from the most pleasant of dreams. In it, Reed held her gently cradled in his arms. So realistic was the dream, so vibrantly sensual, that she could actually smell Reed’s cologne on the sheet tucked up around her chin.

The sound of rain against the rooftop was wrong, the very light against her eyelids was wrong, as was the muffled twitter of housemartins at the window and the texture of the mattress beneath her body. Subtle things, but telling.

Her eyes popped open in alarm.

Rain on the roof! She should not be able to hear rain on the roof. She stared in confusion at an unfamiliar ceiling.

She sat up abruptly in Reed’s bed! Reed’s bed? Heaven help her! What was she doing here? There was no sign of Reed, just his clothes and painting gear. The spinning gallery! Her attention riveted on the little door in the outside wall. The last thing she remembered was sitting outside, on the spinning gallery, talking to Reed. She listened for some sound. There was nary a peep, or a creak or a breath taken. The shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders last night was folded neatly over the back of a nearby chair. She had no memory of putting it there.

Leaping from the bed she swung the shawl around her shoulders and dashed from the room. With quick, furtive steps, she crept down the stairs, thanking her stars that the stairs did not creak too loudly and feeling blessed that Tom and Gussie had yet to rise.

What had transpired the night before? Beyond a certain point, events were a complete blank. She certainly had no memory of climbing into Reed’s bed. Wild thoughts whirled through her mind. What had possessed her to stay in his room the entire night?

It never occurred to her that Reed might have swapped sleeping arrangements with her because she had fallen asleep. Her mind was too caught up in more provocative scenarios. Flustered, she burst into her room, closed the door behind her and flung herself upon the bedcovers, only to discover with a startled squeal that the bed was not empty, as she had assumed. It did, in fact, writhe with life. She had landed directly on top of someone, a suddenly animated someone.

“Hallo!” Reed popped up from the bed linens like a bleary-eyed, bare-chested jack-in-the-box.

“Heavens!” she cried. Three things flashed through her mind. First, Reed appeared to have nothing on beneath the sheets. Second, the moving limb beneath her hip must be his leg. She certainly hoped it was his leg. And third, she had never seen Reed in need of a shave, as he desperately needed one now.

“What are you doing here?” they bleated in unison.

A thump from the room next door as a pair of feet hit the floor. “Megan?” A querulous voice called from the other side of the wall.

“Gussie!” Megan breathed, even as Reed echoed the name, his face a picture of panic.

A pounding of footsteps in the hall, Megan threw the bed linens over Reed’s head and the door burst open to reveal Augusta, nightcap askew, expression one of alarm.

Megan hopped hastily from the bed. In so doing, she accidently kneed Reed in the stomach. He gave a little groan.

“Megan!” Augusta gasped. “Dear God, what have you gone and done?”

“Done?” Megan repeated. “I’ve done nothing.”

Reed popped his head above the covers and calmly agreed. “Looks far worse than it is, you see. I do assure you, we have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Nothing! You call hiding in my sister’s bed nothing?” Her voice rose with every word. “Heaven’s name, Reed Talcott, you get out of there this instant. Do you hear me? Get out, or I shall drag you out.”

“You don’t want to do that.” Reed held up one hand and with the other drew the coverlet more closely around his bare torso.

“Oh don’t I?”

“I do assure you.”

Gussie grabbed his hand with startling strength and gave a sturdy yank. It was a good thing he had hold of the bedclothes, else he would have tumbled from the bed to the floor completely in the altogether. He landed with a crash, a flailing tangle of legs and linens.

“How dare you defile my little sister!” Gussie thundered.

“What!” Reed exclaimed.

“No, Gussie!” Megan cried. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh no? What is this then, that he should be in your bed without a stitch of clothes to cover him?”

“What the devil is going on?” Tom appeared, looking rather more tousled than usual. Spying Reed, his eyebrows shot up. “Oho!” he said. “What have we here?”

“Nothing. . .” Megan tried to explain.

“Tom, you must throw him out of the house immediately,” Gussie ordered.

“Must he?” Reed asked.

“Outside? In the rain?” Tom asked.

“There is no call for anything so rash.” Megan could not make herself heard.

“At once!” Gussie was adamant.

“That might prove a trifle hasty, my love. You must allow Reed a moment, at the very least, to make himself decent.”

“It takes more than clothes to make a man decent,” Gussie snapped. Holding her hand out to Megan she said, “Come! We will leave this to Tom.”

“But you have it all wrong. . .”

“Come, Megan,” Gussie insisted, turning on her heel. “You have some explaining to do.”

“If you will only listen, that is exactly what I am trying to do,” Megan followed her sister to the sitting room, which smelled damply of rain because two windows had been left open.

Gussie closed the door behind them and leaned against it, arms folded across her chest. “All right. What have you to say for yourself? Are you ruined?”

“I am not ruined,” Megan said emphatically. “Nor was I ever in any danger of same.”

“But Reed was naked and in your bed!” Gussie crossed the room to shut the windows.

“And I was in his.”

“In his?” Gussie sat down abruptly on the settee. “Dear God. Father will have my head for this. How often have you spent the night together then?”

“Together?” Megan, shocked, sat down beside her sister. “We haven’t!”

Gussie leapt up from the settee to pace, bedrail flapping about her ankles, braid swaying at her waist. “Don’t lie to me, Megan. Can you honestly tell me he has not touched you, or forced himself upon you, that he has not compromised you beyond redemption?”

“Yes. I can honestly say Reed has not touched me, much less forced himself upon me. Reed slept in my bed because I was safely tucked into his. I must have fallen asleep out on the spinning gallery.”

“The gallery?”

“Yes. We went there to talk.”

“That’s all you did? Talk?”

“Yes. Oh Gus, more’s the pity, he never so much as kissed me.”