Authors: Kate Rothwell
“If I said you were cold, you’ve shown me how wrong I was.” She spoke to break the silence and possibly to convince herself. “You’ve shown me passion.”
A small tuck appeared at the corner of his mouth, a softening. “Yes, and I’ve witnessed your heat as well.”
“I suppose so,” she said mournfully.
His hair was mussed, and something red lay in the waves above his ear. She reached toward him, and he frowned at her hand but didn’t move away.
She threaded her fingers into the cool silk of his hair, and his frown increased, so she explained. “I’m just fishing out a bit of thread.”
She should have left the carpet fuzz or whatever it was in place, any imperfection to lessen the intimidating features of the man. He’d even managed to retie his cravat neatly without mirror or fresh starched cloth.
She hooked her stays. Getting dressed seemed to take so much longer than stripping down.
He stood nearby apparently watching and waiting. For what? Her body clamored for more of his touch, though something deep inside ached with relief.
She wished she could ask someone why he had this effect on her, but there was no one, male or female, with whom she could discuss the matter. Except perhaps Lord Felston himself. Nathaniel. Her affianced.
“Why did we do that?” she asked after she pulled her gown on. “Why are we so driven to do that?”
“Animal needs,” he said in a flat voice. “As basic as hunger or thirst. Here.” He stooped, picked up a hairpin and handed it to her.
She knelt, felt around the thick carpet, found three more and shoved them back into place.
Arms folded, he watched her re-tuck a thick lock of hair in place.
She scrambled to her feet and brushed at a wrinkle in her skirt. “When you watch me, I feel rather like an animal on exhibit in a menagerie.”
“I beg your pardon.” He walked to the drinks tray and stood with his back to her. That was no better, but teasing him apparently didn’t help, so she remained silent.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked carefully. “I could ring for fresh tea.”
“No, thank you.” She picked up the cup on the table next to her chair. It was still more than half full of tea she hadn’t drunk because they’d thrown themselves at each other. He’d seduced her this time. And now he acted as if they’d just met.
She’d drink down the rest of the cup and flee this house.
Weren’t they supposed to kiss and cuddle and hold one another? This awkward chilliness, more frigid than the tea, drove off the last of the desire. Wait, that wasn’t true. She eyed him and knew how much she still wanted to touch him.
This wasn’t the way lovers interacted.
She guessed this wasn’t his true nature, either. He’d held her that long night during their captivity. He’d comforted her and cheered her and showed a passion beyond animal. He must be feeling regret of some sort.
“I’m sorry I accused you of entrapping me. It was a silly thing to say.”
“Not at all,” he said politely. She wondered if he meant it wasn’t silly or if his words were just a gentleman’s automatic response to any apology.
A phrase she’d just read came to her. “Don’t. I think you’re indulging in that thing the Greeks did or maybe it was the Romans.
Damnatio memoriae.”
He turned to her, his brows raised
.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Still far too correct and careful.
“You ought to know the phrase. I read it in an article in your journal.”
He didn’t smile or respond, but she went on. “I mean that ‘damnation of memory.’ Rewriting the history of a man. Only in this case it’s not a man being cast off. Don’t turn the memory of what we just did together into something dishonorable. I think that’s what I tried to do.”
At last she seemed to break through the ice that had formed around him. “No,” he said. “No. Of course not. I esteem you highly, ma’am.”
That was as good as she’d get, she supposed. But ma’am? Eh.
She’d grown up in a noisy squabbling sort of a house, yet understood that emotional display was an anathema to many of the well-bred. Unemotional was their natural state. Oh, no. Was it the drugs that had loosened him back in that room? And this dry, cold man was the real Lord Felston?
A large granite wall iced in winter couldn’t be more of a challenge. Very well, she’d face it as a challenge. The exhilaration on reaching the top. The kisses still tingled as if they’d burned her like the sun. The image of him, eyes blazing with passion. Better than any view she’d get standing atop a stone wall.
He’d sat down again, but stayed stiff and alert, as if he was in conference with some sort of rival—certainly not his betrothed. “Something amuses you?” he asked politely.
“Yes, I think so.” She wished there was a mirror in the room. “Do I look presentable?”
An arch, wary look came to his eyes. “Do you fish for compliments?”
“No, I only wish to know if I look like I’ve been rolling around on your library carpet.”
He reddened slightly. Good to be reminded that his fair skin showed his blushes.
Once again he was on his feet, making a small circle around her. “You are quite presentable. And no one would guess.” He stopped. “Perhaps your hair.”
“I have a hat.” She reached for the straw hat and shoved it into place. “Every one of my hats is designed to cover the disaster that is my hair.”
“It is not a disaster,” he said. “Your hair is lovely.”
“Ha, I managed to get a compliment from you after all.”
He didn’t answer, but he might have smiled.
She pulled on her gloves. “I suppose I should go home. My brother might actually wonder where I got to.”
It was late. The clock over the mantel showed ten p.m. He rang the bell then went to the door and unlocked it. “I will drive you home in my curricle. You needn’t worry about being seen in my company. It’s an open carriage and,” he added, “we are affianced.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I suppose we are.” She studied his face to see if she could find any trace of pleasure or pain at the statement. Nothing. He’d warmed slightly, shifted into something slightly less like a block of wood, but he still avoided her eyes.
It occurred to her that perhaps he was fighting off one of the fits. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.
“Yes.” He hesitated, and in an almost inaudible voice, he asked, “And you?”
“I’m not prone to illness.”
His brows wrinkled. “Neither am I. Oh.” His face smoothed, and for the first time, he looked amused. “I am fine, I assure you.”
“It’s just that I don’t know what I should look for if you should...if you’re feeling ill.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, slightly impatient.
Well, prying him like a winkle from his shell would have to come later. She would accept that this engagement might be real, despite the unreality of the situation. Florrie would keep watch for signs that he regretted his impulsive proposal.
Florrie had no desire to bind herself forever to a man who only wanted her when his mind was disordered and he was dependent on drugs. She didn’t want to wake up one morning to see those eyes regarding her with horrified regret because he’d cast off that dependence and returned to his saner self.
She’d tackle another subject for now. At least it was another form of discomfort for him, and at the moment, she didn’t mind that. “I expect I should be glad you’re taking me home. You and I, being seen together. That was the point, wasn’t it? So that I might be able to find your culprit? Travel in your circles?”
He nodded.
That offer of employment seemed so very long ago. Why had it turned into an offer of marriage? Some day perhaps she’d find out. Not yet. She didn’t want him retreating any more.
The butler appeared at the library door, and Lord Felston ordered the carriage.
As soon as the butler vanished, she spoke in a low voice. “Will I still be your employee when I leave my position at the shop? I must have something to live on.” She hesitated. “Ought one be a fiancée and an employee? And there is another thing. Because of what we’ve done, ah,” she willed herself not to flinch, blush or otherwise act embarrassed, but she still faltered. The memory was too strong. “Because of what we’ve done together... What I mean to say is I’m not in that sort of employment. I won’t get paid with that. For that.”
He still wore the well-bred facade. “Naturally.”
“Good. So you don’t expect that any more. Again.”
The way his mouth twitched might have been a smirk, but she’d ignore it.
“My wages,” she went on, firmly. “I don’t require very much money. In fact, I’d feel peculiar if it was more than three pounds a week.”
“No. You’ll need more money because you need to be tricked out in fashionable clothing.” He seemed nearly human again.
An intriguing idea, but she had to admit the truth. “I’m not particularly adept in such matters. I mean, I don’t have an eye for color, and I’m not up-to-date on fashion.” She did like fine, soft velvets and lace but knew her brother declared her taste was gaudy, and he was reckoned to have a good eye. Or so Duncan assured her—and how would she know otherwise?
“There must be ladies who can be hired for that sort of thing?” he said, sounding unsure.
“I suppose,” she said equally uncertainly. “I’ll have to find one.”
The butler returned to announce that the carriage was waiting. She stole a look at the grey-haired, impressively solemn man. Thompson, she remembered now.
He had to know what had gone on in the library this evening, must have noticed the locked door, but he gave no indication of any sort. The man had surely taught Lord Felston that ability to hold his face expressionless.
The night was chilled but not windy or damp so her wrap was enough. A footman handed her up into the carriage. Nathaniel vaulted into the driver’s seat.
He gave a chirrup, and the horses set off at a brisk trot. The streets were not silent or abandoned, but they weren’t as crowded as they would be when the theaters let out.
She gazed at the haze forming around the gaslights. A fog was moving in. “You’ll have to hire a gooseberry if you don’t want talk.”
“Do you mean chaperone?” Nathaniel asked.
“Yes, I think your mother and uncle are going to be shocked enough. No need to send them to an early grave.”
“My mother knows.”
“You told her?”
He nodded and gave the reigns a slight shake. The horses went to a quicker trot to pass a slow-moving, jangling junk wagon.
“What did she say?”
He hesitated then said, “She wasn’t pleased.”
She groaned. “I can imagine.”
“No need for worry. She’s too well-bred to create a scene. And unless you long to be invited to her salon, she has no power over you.”
“What about you?”
“I? Indeed, no, she has no power over me.” The way his mouth tightened told another story.
“Have you informed your uncle yet?” She dreaded the response.
“No. He’ll find out soon enough. The man pays good money for information.”
She voiced a suspicion she’d had for some time. “Do you think he could be behind the scheme to hold you prisoner?”
Nathaniel didn’t answer for a second then said, “Since my return to London, he has made many hints about going on a rest cure. He’s frequently asked about the state of my nerves.”
“All of his consideration must be like having him dance on your nerves,” she said, recalling her brother’s many questions soon after her escape. It had annoyed her—and at least her brother actually cared about her, as much as he was able to care for anyone. Nathaniel said his uncle disliked him, and she didn’t doubt it. Lord Bessette approved of no one.
“There is more to it than that. My uncle’s unusual solicitude and the way he makes reference to my nervous condition is cause for suspicion. You see, I didn’t inform him what had happened to me in Derbyshire.”
“Heavens. That is strange. Yes, I understand. How could he find out about it unless he was behind the event? Unless your mother told him?”
“I expect my mother told him that I’ve insisted I was held against my will.”
The peculiar way Nathaniel phrased that—perhaps his mother didn’t believe his account. Florrie wondered what sort of a parent she could be.
He said, “But Bessette seems to know more than she does. I have shared no other details with either of them, and Mr. Maller didn’t want to frighten my mother, so he didn’t describe my condition in any way. She only knew I suffered from some sort of brain fever.” They passed under a gas lamp, and he glanced over at her. “Anything that has happened since my return to London, I would expect he knows, for he certainly has an informant in my household.”
“That is odd.” She stared out over the horses’ backs. “You’re a secretive person and now I understand why.”
He drew to a stop to allow a huge dray-horse pulled wagon to cross in front of him. As he watched the wagon rumble away, he said, “I don’t confide in my nearest relations, but I have friends I talk to.”
“Yes, you mentioned them. But they don’t want to help you uncover your uncle’s crimes?”