Etiquette With The Devil (11 page)

I
t was Bly’s experience that most women preferred to smell of roses or lavender—some feminine scent that was delicate and inoffensive to the senses. So why Clara preferred to smell like lemons was puzzling.

The exotic, biting smell of citrus fit her, and certainly drew his notice. He liked to believe she preferred to smell of lemons because it was unique and called to mind places outside of dismal England, places she never dared to venture, but dreamt about. She did dream; he was quite certain of the fact by the way she hummed from time to time, believing she was free to her own company. The curve of her mouth, the softness that set into her eyes—it all spoke of a woman walking the earth in search of quiet freedom.

He watched as she strolled through the darkened conservatory, her hands clasped behind her back, her hips swaying side to side in marked femininity. He longed to run his finger down the length of her neck and learn the softness of her skin.

It became apparent to Bly that Clara Dawson was not simply agreeable, but beautiful. Surely, that was why she haunted him now, floating about gracefully, smelling like lemons. She was an angel fallen from heaven to tempt Bly.

If he wasn’t cautious, she would trap him at the gates of Hell. Her honeyed humming was the siren’s song. Bly knew he was already drifting dangerously close to the rocky shore on his own accord, but there could be worse ways to die than at the hands of the beautiful woman in front of him.

He took a step closer, and another still, unable to stop his pursuit. A week had passed since they had fumbled over that crate in the attic, and he still wasn’t on a damn boat. It had a lot to do with her hand fitting in his that afternoon, that smile of hers that briefly graced her face and made the rain outside disappear.

As she reached to the high collar of her dress, he stilled. Clara slipped one button free. Then another. With each poised slip, he felt something within him unhinge and open toward her. Wanting her. Bly wanted to put his mouth at the base of her throat and run his tongue over her beating pulse. Would it falter under his touch or would she remain cold and distant?

His lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle he carried, and he took another burning sip of the nastiest whiskey he had ever tasted. Two or three or five bottles today? Bly couldn’t remember. He was too young to have a love affair with the stuff like his father, who last Bly heard, had died after one sip too many alone in India.

Being back at Burton Hall, worse, in England, was dragging his soul into the depths and leaving him to drown, one painful day after the next. Soon, he would be submerged and there would be no more air. He would not fight, but sink to the bottom. That was the end he had been flirting with lately, wasn’t it? Bly wished for escape, but he’d settle for a bullet; anything to help him from spinning aimlessly across the world.

Leaving would be his only salvation. There could be no happy end if he remained. He knew this, recognized the urgency of it in his bones, yet he still took another step and pulled away from the room’s shadows, in pursuit of something he did not deserve, but desired nonetheless.

“Have you decided to make friends with Lucy?” he asked.

Clara vaulted back, tugging at her opened collar as she swung around to meet his indolent grin.

*

“I think,” Clara said, closing her eyes to steady herself, “that Lucy is sleeping.”

It was as if Mr. Ravensdale haunted the halls in search of her. One moment Clara had been daydreaming, wickedly unbuttoning her collar as her thoughts turned to his lips, and the next, he stood with her in the flesh. She should not allow herself to think such lewd thoughts. But she couldn’t help herself, either. Ever since last week when they fought over that crate, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her hand in his. Or how his ever-roaming body paused for her, stuck in some spell as they touched.

He wore that taunting smile she hated, and she was quick to notice the open bottle clutched in his hand. The smell of whiskey that seeped from his skin.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, but still it felt like a caress.

“Why aren’t you?” Her face heated from embarrassment as she fumbled with the remaining buttons of her collar. Or perhaps it was just the coal heat used to warm the glass conservatory attached to the grand home. She held her breath as his eyes seemed to darken. They called to her and her heart answered, beating faster and louder. When his hard stare continued, her skin tingled as if a cool breeze suddenly encircled her.

This wouldn’t do.

In an abrupt turn, Clara rushed to Lucy’s cage and listened to the great beast issuing forth large exhalations from behind bars. To think the animal had once stalked the jungles of India only to be caged up in England; well, it was quite sad really.

“I don’t sleep often,” Mr. Ravensdale spoke out from behind her.

She focused on the sleeping tiger, matching her exhales with Lucy’s until she had more control over herself. “Unfortunate.”

A disgruntled harrumph rattled her curiosity. Clara peered over her shoulder. His tall body reclined against the bars of Lucy’s cage a few paces away from her. He ruffled his hair and sighed, opening his mouth to speak, but only raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of whiskey instead.

It was then she noticed another smell about him, something sickly saccharine. It must have accounted for the weird light in his eyes, for he certainly seemed like a shell of the man who stormed about Burton Hall during the day. She had read about the hollowing effects of opium, of its rampant use and destruction of men in London. And here, before her eyes, she witnessed it lay claim on her employer, stifling his flame until it was but a wisp-thin smolder.

“Have you tried to sleep?” she asked.

“Have you?”

“I needed a walk first.”

“And I needed a drink,” he said with a weary laugh.

“Just a drink?” she dared.

His glazed-over eyes narrowed. “Clever girl.”

Despite his irritating and often childish manner, Mr. Ravensdale was a kind man, which Clara had learned by watching his constant struggle to restore Burton Hall theses past weeks to help support his tenants, even if they were as cruel and nasty as the village. So to be confronted by this specter of her employer, of a man defeated and well into his cups, lodged a knot of dread in her throat.

She swallowed it back and clasped her hands behind her, fighting a desperate want to touch him, to comfort him. She drifted across the flagstone path to the ailing orange tree. With a flick of a yellowed, withered leaf, she peered out from beneath and waited for some admission or taunt. He remained silent.

His stare sent a warm rush of feelings through her body. She flashed a small smile and pulled away from the tree, walking further down the path of the conservatory. That would be best. That would be proper.

“Who brings a bloody tiger to England?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through her collected curiosity.

Clara stopped her retreat. She held her head high as she turned, casting her own studying stare. “I believe you did, sir.”

The unknown between them—their own individual mysteries—poured out into the quiet conservatory, heating up the temperate air, filling up her lungs and head until her confessions waited on the edge of her lips. In that small moment, she wished to confess all her wrongs, to not be as lonely in this world as Mr. Ravensdale appeared this evening.

“It’s killing her,” he whispered.

In the filtered light of the conservatory, the muscles of his throat rippled with each swallow as he took another draining drink. With a few quick steps, she closed the distance propriety demanded, and traded it for the closeness they both needed.

“No,” she answered simply.

“You can’t lock a beast up and expect it to survive, Clara.”

Her hand shot up to her throat at the mention of her name. “There are…” her words died away, his voice still caressing her ears. “There are zoos built for such purposes.”

“A zoo,” he said with an ugly chuckle. “It’s a damn circus.” He tapped his fingers along the neck of the bottle until it sounded as if he would crush it beneath the strength of his hand.

Clara reached out and stilled his hand with hers. He was burning to the touch, his pulse faint. He looked up from beneath hooded lids, strong emotion playing below the surface of his pensive eyes.

“If a beast has the will to survive, it will find a way,” she whispered, matching his stare measure for measure.

“Do you believe so?” Mr. Ravensdale removed his hand from hers, and pushed off from the bars of the cage to face her. The scent of whiskey clouded her head. She was drunk from his nearness. She tried to shake it off, but feared she was too late. He had already affected her.

“Yes.” A thrill ripple down her spine as he placed his thumb at the base of her throat.

“You’ve a freckle here,” he said, her heart drumming under his touch. He wrapped his fingers around the base of her throat, his middle finger tracing the line of her collarbone. Mr. Shaw had done the same, but this felt different, free of threat.

He removed his gaze from her neck, meeting her anxious eyes. “How do you know I won’t bite?” he asked, uncurling his fingers. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of her dress collar to pull at the fine chain of her necklace beneath.

“I trust you,” she whispered. Clara snapped her hand around his and squeezed, forcing his eyes back to hers. Oddly, she did.

Clara reeled from his closeness as he walked his fingers up the line of her neck and reached for her chin, redirecting her averted gaze to his, moving the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She swayed into his touch, helpless.

“You shouldn’t.” He leaned closer, the warmth of his body encircling hers with a dangerous sovereignty that melted her resolve. “You can’t trust the devil,” he whispered, his eyes focused on her lips. “You should get some sleep.” With that, he stepped away, pacing in front of Lucy’s cage.

Clara nodded, slowly awakening from the spell he cast over her. “Good night,” she whispered.

“Clever girl.”

She gripped his bottle of whiskey in her hand and stood a little straighter as she exited the room.

Clara did not feel clever. It would not do to stay behind when she was growing to like him. She trusted him, however foolish that may be, but she did not entirely trust herself.

*

Last night had been a grave mistake. What had he been thinking nearly kissing Clara? He’d spent far more time dodging bullet fire and sabers in his life that made what almost transpired between them seem trivial.

Forget the dangers he faced as a spy or the threat of those who sought out the thief of precious stately treasures—Clara Dawson would bring round his end with those lips of hers.

Her supposed trust in him was misguided. There had been secrets in her eyes last night, secrets that still troubled in him in the light of a sunny afternoon the next day. His head throbbed from too much whiskey, his body stiff from falling asleep in the conservatory for a few hours before he was up at dawn to help Ned rebuild a garden wall. And his chest felt rather full, as though it might fracture from some unseen weight. He had a sneaking suspicion that was entirely Clara’s doing.

“Come along, James.”

The boy’s footsteps plodded behind in an attempt to catch up, but Bly had no patience to slow his pace. If he could get on a boat today, he would gladly board without so much as a farewell. Bly needed escape, needed to know he wouldn’t be stuck in a future that wasn’t his own making.

A gleeful whoop hollered out behind him. Bly stopped and turned, glaring at the offender. Barnes carried a squirming James upside down, poking him ruthlessly in the stomach until the boy fell apart with laugher.

“He’s just a little guy,” Barnes mocked, pulling a long face. “He’s doing his best to keep up.” Barnes righted James and gave the boy a firm pat on the shoulders. “Don’t mind your uncle, James. He’s just suffering under a painful affliction today.”

Bly had tussled with Barnes before. He was still young and spoiled, as his title entitled him to be, but Bly had never had the urge to send a fist into Barnes’s face until now. Barnes might be a skilled assassin, but he had learned than half his skill from Bly. “Why is it you’re still here? Don’t you have an estate to see to? Family?”