Beyond A Wicked Kiss (9 page)

"You have nothing to say?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Are there things you mean to tell me that must be said tonight?"

Ria hesitated. What could be accomplished if she were to tell him everything now? Her mind might be eased by unburdening herself, but she had known from the outset that he could not immediately come to her aid. He would have obligations that must be satisfied, first among them to see that his father was buried and that matters of the estate were well in hand.

West tried to gauge what Ria's indecision meant. "Are you in any way unwell?" he asked. "In danger? Threatened? With child?"

She was too startled to deny any or all of those things.

"No," he said answering for her. "I can see none of these is the case."

For once Ria was glad that her thoughts were so clearly expressed on her face.

"It is too late to impose your presence on any of the suitable females of my acquaintance, therefore I will escort you to suitable lodgings not far from here. My housekeeper will choose one of the maids to accompany us, and she will remain with you as your companion." West paused long enough to allow Ria to put forth an argument. He hoped it was good sense rather than exhaustion that kept her from doing so. Rising to his feet, he said, "Wait here. I will make the necessary arrangements."

* * *

It seemed to West that his head had only touched the pillow when his valet was announcing it was time to rise. West ignored Finch until his bath was drawn, using the twenty minutes this required to fall into a second, deeper sleep.

"Will you take breakfast in your room this morning?" asked Finch.

West finished lowering himself into the tub. The water was blessedly warm, and it was like pulling the blankets over him again. "I always take my breakfast here. Why would this morning be—" He stopped, remembering of a sudden what caused today to be out of the ordinary. He rubbed his closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, it was more to himself than his valet. "Never say she is already arrived."

Finch wisely made no answer. He placed towels near the fireplace to warm them and moved the stool with sponge, soap, and the
Gazette
within West's reach. Disappearing into the dressing room, he chose West's clothes. Since there would be no bracing ride in the park this morning, Finch selected black trousers, a loosely fitting shirt, a black waistcoat with silver buttons, and a short black frock coat, all of it suitable for breakfast in the dining room. He arranged these items within West's easy reach and then applied himself to the change of clothes that would be necessary before West attended his father's service.

West was toweling his hair dry by the time Finch reappeared. He glanced up at his valet from between the tails of the towel, saw the unrelievedly black clothes Finch had chosen, and swore softly under his breath.

Not at all discouraged, Finch approached, handing one item at a time to West until all that was left was the frock coat. This he held out so that West could slip into it. Finch adjusted the line of the coat, pulling on the sleeves until the fit was without wrinkles, then brushed it off.

West suffered Finch's fussing in silence. The man was more of an age with the late duke, but acted like a mother hen with a chick. West had decided early on that it was no reason to upbraid him. The valet performed his duties conscientiously and West never feared making a cake of himself for the way he was turned out. Because Finch tended toward portliness these last few years and experienced shortness of breath and knees that creaked alarmingly when he climbed stairs, West felt it was incumbent upon him to make certain the man remained employed.

"I am all of a piece?" West asked, turning toward the cheval glass and making a quick assessment.

"Your Grace must not doubt it," Finch said.

"I should like a headache powder."

Finch nodded, his oddly cherubic countenance perfectly inscrutable. "I will have it brought to you directly."

"In the breakfast room, Finch."

"Very good."

* * *

Ria was wearing the same black gown as the previous night. Water stains and flecks of mud that had circled the hem had been removed by a vigorous washing. The gown was neatly pressed and looked none the worse for wear. Still, she felt at some disadvantage when West entered the breakfast room and she saw him freshly turned out. Last evening he had looked vaguely disreputable. This morning he looked—every inch of him—to the manner born.

His expression, while lacking the haughtiness that was the hallmark of his father and brother, was neither warm nor welcoming. The smile was slight and the angle of that damnably raised eyebrow suggested a certain remoteness, as if he were exercising the right to be more observer than participant in whatever drama would occur. Most telling was that neither dimple was in evidence.

Ria was of the opinion that gravity did not sit easily upon West's shoulders and that the countenance he presented her was somewhat forced. She could not conceive that he had adopted this mien out of respect for his father. It was more likely that he had decided his responsibilities as her guardian must be discharged in an overbearing, high-handed fashion.

She thought she might prefer that he hold his knife to her throat.

West's head dipped a fraction in greeting as his eyes surveyed her. "You are looking well. The accommodations were satisfactory?"

"Yes, thank you. It was kind of you to see to everything."

"It was not kind, but necessary."

So it was to be like that, Ria thought. He did not mean to support an easy communication between them. It seemed that if an opportunity presented itself to reproach her for what he still considered her precipitous behavior and poor judgment, then he would make the most of it.

West indicated that Ria should precede him to the sideboad. Once there, he uncovered the dishes and invited her to take her fill. Tempering his amusement, he watched her crowd her plate with slices of bacon, tomato, and toast with jam. When they were seated at the table, Ria chose a soft-cooked egg, cracked it expertly with the bowl of her spoon, then began to peel back the shell. It was at this point that she looked up and realized West had yet to help himself to anything but his coffee.

Ria slowly lowered her spoon. She had been about to set upon her meal like the veriest street urchin.

"What are you doing?" West asked.

What remained of Ria's dignity was shattered when her stomach growled with considerable ferocity. The apology she had been about to put forward simply died on her lips and she flushed hotly.

West did not waste gray matter on determining when Ria had last eaten. Clearly, it had been too long since her last meal. "Eat," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Do not stand on ceremony. I do not."

Mortification made Ria's eyes slide away from West's direct gaze. She stared at her plate, then her lap. Her fingers loosened around her spoon enough to allow her to set it aside.

"Never say that something so trifling as a lapse in good manners makes you come undone," West goaded her gently. He regarded the warm muffin and strips of crisp bacon on his plate. "I would not have anticipated that, given the rousing defense you mustered last evening." Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he split the muffin and lightly spread sweet butter on the halves. When she still was not roused to begin eating, he raised his soft-cooked egg, set it in its cup, and thwacked the crown loudly with his spoon. He took it as a good sign that the noise gave her a start, but she still would not raise a morsel of food to her mouth. There was nothing for it but that he tuck into his meal. He bit into a muffin half and hoped it would be enough to encourage her as he had little in the way of appetite.

Ria picked up a triangle of toast and put it to her lips. She was careful to take small bites.

"God's truth, but you are stubborn." West offered this simply as an observation, without rancor. "I believe you would starve rather than break your fast before me. It seems rather oddly done by you."

Looking at him askance, she sighed. "You mean to go on about it, don't you?"

"I am of a mind to do so, yes."

It was his perfectly arid accents that made the corners of Ria's mouth turn up ever so slightly. She could not have predicted that he would have this agreeably curious sense of humor, nor known that she would find it so much to her liking. There had been so little of late that could raise her smile, she did not begrudge herself this response.

Ria forced herself to eat slowly without regard for her hunger. Occasionally she pressed the hand resting in her lap against her midriff to quiet an embarrassing rumble, always darting a look sideways to see if he was taking measure of her success. It seemed to her that he had lost interest in teasing her, in spite of his words to the contrary. He ate more slowly than she, she noticed, and drank three cups of black coffee to her one of hot cocoa. She wondered that he did not come out of his skin with the effects of the bitter brew, but in truth he appeared no more than casually watchful from under his heavy-lidded glance.

West was grateful to see that Ria required no invitation on his part to help herself to more toast and tomatoes. He could not finish his own first serving, let alone take more of the same to his plate. He did not press her to discuss what manner of crisis had prompted her to take leave of both her senses and Gillhollow and journey alone to London. There was time enough yet for that, though he hoped the explanation she served him was more diverting than tedious. The day stretched long before him, and it would be filled with a surfeit of tedium, beginning with his father's funeral service. He was certain to be the object of far too many stares and whispers there. There would be no possibility that he could hang back as was his wont in all gatherings of the
ton.
Circumstances—and the heavy, manipulative hand of his father—had contrived to push him front and center. It was enough to make anyone lose their appetite.

West set down his cup and pushed his plate away. He allowed the footman to take it up, then waved the fellow off. Unlike many others of similar position and modest or better income, West was conscious of the presence of servants in his home. He had never been able to pretend they were not about when they so obviously were, and it was his habit not to discuss just anything in front of them. He knew firsthand what manner of secrets could be learned by the maids and footmen in the course of serving dinner. Between the sorbet and the port, a great many things were often said that were overheard by ears no one at the table seemed to notice. Playing the footman himself, West had had occasion to come by intelligence in just such a manner. Hiding in plain sight was how he'd explained his tactic to Colonel John Blackwood, his mentor in the foreign office.

It had been a very long time since spy work required climbing a chestnut tree.

West waited until the door to the breakfast room closed behind the footman before he spoke. "You have someplace to begin your account, I collect. I should like to hear it now."

Out of West's sight, Ria's fingers pleated the napkin in her lap. On her way to his home, she had mentally rehearsed a pithy speech that would put the facts before him so straightforwardly they could not be lightly dismissed. She could not remember a word of it now. "One of my girls is missing," she said.

West considered this. "Very well," he said. "You mean to begin in the middle, or perhaps it is at the end. It is not often done, but both approaches have their supporters. Will I discompose you by asking how you have come to have any girls at all in your possession?"

Ria had allowed the maid to ruthlessly scrape back her thick hair this morning and fashion it into a smooth knot. Now, as her head began to ache, she had no idea if it was the tightness of her scalp that prompted the condition or West's wry commentary. If she had to choose, she thought it might be the latter. It had not escaped her notice that one of his eyebrows was raised a fraction, and that with very little provocation he might actually laugh at her.

Ria's nostrils flared slightly and her sweetly curved mouth flattened. "I am headmistress of Miss Weaver's Academy for Young Ladies in Gillhollow. I have been a teacher there these last six years and headmistress since January. And before you inquire, no, there is no Miss Weaver."

It hadn't occurred to West to ask after the academy's namesake, but now he could not resist. "There is no Miss Weaver now, or there never was?" He wasn't entirely surprised when Ria did not deign to answer. She was learning when she must ignore him, which he counted as a good thing. "Go on, Miss Ashby, you have explained to my satisfaction why you think of the students as your girls, but it begs the question as to how you came to Miss Weaver's Academy. Last night you mentioned an allowance. I cannot reconcile that with you taking a position at the school. Did the duke provide so little for your care?"

"His Grace provided a generous allowance," she said. "The choice to engage in respectable employment was mine."

West had learned to listen for what it was that people did
not
say. He thought he heard something between the lines now. "My father did not approve of your enterprise."

"No. He did not forbid it, but neither was he in favor of it. He insisted that I continue to accept the allowance."

Here was another thing she was not quite saying, West decided. "Which you do not use for your living expenses," he said, eyeing her serviceable gown, "but for sustaining Miss Weaver's Academy."