“Just promise me you will be careful.” Her voice cracked as her eyes burned. If anything happened to him…She couldn’t live in a world without him in it, no matter whose world it was.
North seized her free hand in his, all the ice melting from his gaze as it met hers. “I will be careful, Vie. I promise.”
Such sweet relief his words brought. He would be careful, she knew it. She nodded.
He didn’t move to hold her or comfort her. They both knew how dangerous it would be, what the outcome would be. They would end up back in his bed, or on the floor, and the emotions between them would become even more heightened, when what they needed right now was to bring them down a level—or seven.
Releasing her hands, North smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t I send a messenger round to your house for Miss Henry. Would you like that?”
Ignoring the fact that he was talking to her as if she were a child, Octavia nodded. North obviously did not know how to react to her overwrought state. That was all right; she didn’t know how to react to it either.
He rose from the table and left the room, giving her a few moments alone to collect herself. Regardless of his not
knowing how to handle her emotions, he still knew exactly what she needed to regain control of them.
Sniffing, Octavia inhaled a deep breath. It had an instant calming effect, and she turned toward the window as she exhaled.
What she saw robbed the breath from her lungs.
Out on the street, across from the window where she sat, stood a rough-looking man in surprisingly neat clothing, smoking a cigar. For a second, his gaze locked with hers and he smiled—a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. He tossed his cigar to the ground and turned away, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as he strolled down the street.
Octavia watched him go, her heart pounding against her ribs. Who was he? Had he been watching her and North?
And if he had, how much had he seen? And why was he watching?
W
as Octavia genuinely trying to make him insane, or was she ignorant of the delicate balance of his reason?
First she said she didn’t want things to change, then when he agreed to that, she acted as if she
did
want things to be different between them. What did she want from him? If he knew what she wanted he could at least act accordingly. One minute it seemed all she wanted was to be with him, the next as if she couldn’t wait to get back to Spinton.
And just why was she marrying someone she did not love? Out of duty? Because of a promise? Regardless, she’d better not think that he would still be there whenever she wanted a bed partner, because he’d seen what that kind of arrangement had done to his mother. If Octavia decided to be his, she would have to be all his, and that was final.
But for now he’d take what she was willing to give, because that was better than nothing at all. She would never fully be his. That was impossible.
He wanted her. Damnation, but he wanted all of her. In his life, in his bed, everywhere. Unfortunately, she didn’t want to
stay in his world. She seemed to like parties and society, and what woman in her right mind would give up the chance to be a countess? Not very many. Only the deepest love could persuade someone to make such a decision, and even then that person would have to be slightly insane.
Still, he would be lying if he said he didn’t want Octavia’s love as well. He did. He thought he’d outgrown all that foolishness, but apparently he hadn’t. He wanted her love, and he was too much of a coward to go after it.
She’d almost killed him that morning when she told him she loved him. How much he wanted to believe she meant it in a way other than platonic, but he knew better than that. If Octavia truly loved him he would know it, because that would make him the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
And his luck just wasn’t that good.
His own feelings were almost as hard to pin down as Octavia’s. One minute he needed her as he needed air, and the next he was more than prepared to send her back to Spinton. Spinton could give her so much that he couldn’t—a life that she was born to. A life that she deserved. All he could give her was himself. It didn’t seem like that good of a trade. All he wanted was to see her happy. Spinton stood a better chance of doing that. Which was why he wasn’t going to try to make her stay.
That and the fear that she’d turn her back on him and walk out of his life again.
“Mr. Sheffield?”
Giving himself a mental shake, North came back to the real world. He was with Francis in the paper shop, and the man behind the counter was staring at him expectantly.
“Hmm?” How relaxed he sounded, as though the thoughts that distracted him from his mission weren’t tearing him apart.
The proprietor, Mr. Jones, handed North a list. “These are
all the people who have bought the paper you inquired after.”
Flashing the man an easy smile, North fought the urge to compare the list to the one Octavia had given him. He didn’t want the man to see how important this was to him. He didn’t want anyone else to know.
He flipped the man a guinea. “Thank you.”
Jones looked disappointed. Obviously he had been expecting more remuneration. He could keep expecting. He wasn’t going to get it.
Outside, North pulled Octavia’s list from his pocket. His gaze scanned the different handwriting as he quickly compared names. His heart jumped. There was one. One match. All he needed was one, provided it was the right one. In his gut, he knew this was it.
Lord Alexander Merton
.
Of course it would be a lord. An earl, as it were. North had heard of him before. Merton was a regular at the theater when he was growing up. It wasn’t surprising that Octavia’s mother had had a relationship with him. Merton liked beautiful women, and Octavia’s mother had been very beautiful.
Elation, mixed with a large dose of rage, filled him. He was going to catch Merton. He was going to prove the bastard was harassing Octavia, and he was going to see him pay for it.
And then what? Then he was going to step back and allow the woman for whom he would gladly risk more than a bullet in the arm to marry another man. How stupid was he?
No, not stupid. Stupid had nothing to do with it. He didn’t have a name to give her—not a “good” one as far as society was concerned. She was part of a world that might want him now but could decide it didn’t want him tomorrow, and even if she didn’t care about that, he did.
Then there were those damned promises of hers. She had
made promises to her mother and her grandfather, and while the dead couldn’t enforce such vows, Spinton could. Octavia had agreed to marry him; North had heard her. Octavia didn’t make or break promises easily. She would marry Spinton unless he tried his damnedest to talk her out of it.
He wasn’t going to do that, not when the nature of his job could put her in danger. Even if they could have a future, what if someone tried to use her to get to him?
And why was he thinking of them having a future? Octavia was his friend, his dearest friend. For a while he had thought of her as so much more, but he had no idea what she thought of him. For that matter, he had no idea what his feelings for her were now. He didn’t want to lose her but the idea of spending the rest of his life with her…
It was a little frightening. And exciting. And impossible. Better to stop thinking about it. It would only make it hurt more when she was gone.
He didn’t want to let her go, but continuing her acquaintance with him would only increase the chance of someone uncovering her past. It was flimsily concealed as it was. If anyone found out about her mother, Octavia would lose much of her footing in society. Only marriage to Spinton could save her from whatever damage her past had wrought.
That was the end of the story.
Good Christ, what was he doing? Harker was still on the loose, and here he was, standing on the street, once again mooning over a woman he couldn’t have! Wouldn’t the boys at Bow Street have a laugh if they could see him now? They would no doubt think he had taken complete leave of his senses.
Perhaps he had. And it was all because of Octavia. He couldn’t think of anything but her. It was damned annoying.
And it could be dangerous as well. What if Harker were
lurking around, waiting to make a move? North was a prime target standing out in the open with his head in the clouds. Black Sally and Harris were dead because of Harker, and North wouldn’t be able to make their deaths worth something if he was dead as well.
Tucking both lists into his pocket, he bid farewell to Francis, who was off to watch Harker, walked to where his horse stood, and hoisted himself into the saddle. He was going to collect a couple of his men, and then he was going to confront Merton and make certain the bastard never came near Octavia again. Then he was going to return home to tell Octavia she was safe. Then he’d take her home.
And say good-bye.
“I came as soon as I could. Why are you dressed like that?”
Octavia embraced her cousin as she entered the inviting, manly room North used as office, dining room, and parlor.
“I am so happy to see you. I found it in the attic. Do you not like it?” She twirled around, wrinkled skirts floating about her ankles.
Beatrice’s pert little nose wrinkled. “You smell as though you have spent the last twenty years packed in an old trunk.”
Octavia chuckled. “I have not, but this gown has. It was North’s mother’s.” It was a serviceable gown, a tad too big and a shade too short, but it would suit her purpose. It was far from fashionable—even at the turn of the century—and Octavia supposed Nell Sheffield had worn it for the very same reason she was—to clean house.
Her cousin, who was dressed very prettily in a gown of pale blue muslin, handed her a valise. “I brought you some of your own clothing. The gowns will need to be pressed, but at least you will not be forced to wear
that
.”
Still smiling, Octavia set the bag aside and draped an old
kerchief over her head, knotting it at her nape. “I am wearing this because I am going to make this house livable. And you are going to help me.”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted about the room. “It looks livable enough.”
“This is the only room he lives in.” Other than his bedroom, of course, but she needn’t mention that to Beatrice.
“Perhaps he likes it that way. I am certain the servants must. Why are the servants not doing the cleaning?”
“Because I remember what this house used to look like, how it used to smell and feel. It was much warmer than this, I assure you.” In fact, seeing the house as it was disturbed her. It was eerie, seeing everything covered so.
“Trying to recapture the past, Tavie? It cannot be done, you know.”
“I know.” Her tone was surlier than she intended. “But this used to be a home. North deserves to have that again.”
Beatrice looked dubious as she cast another glance around. “If he wanted that, surely he would have done it himself.”
Octavia balled her right hand into a fist, rubbing it against the palm of her left. “He is afraid.”
“Afraid?” Her tone alone said just how ludicrous Beatrice thought that was. “Of what? I have always thought him the kind of man who fears nothing.”
Octavia turned away only to start pacing a small expanse of the blue and wine carpet. “He is afraid of being happy because he believes it will not last.”
“And you want to make him happy.”
For moment Octavia thought her cousin was mocking her, but there was no sarcasm in her words. “Exactly.”
“Even though you are betrothed to another and will eventually have to leave this house?”
“Yes.”
“You love him.”
“Yes.” There was no point in lying. None at all. Beatrice already knew the truth.
“Spinton deserves better.”
Octavia stopped pacing and faced her cousin. There was no judgment in Beatrice’s dark gaze, only sympathy. She would have preferred judgment. “I know.”
“
You
deserve better.”
“Perhaps.” Right now she didn’t know what she deserved. She wouldn’t even face what she
wanted
, for pity’s sake.
Beatrice folded soft, plump arms over her impressive bosom. “If you love Mr. Sheffield you should not marry Fitzwilliam. It is wrong.”
Fitzwilliam?
Octavia crossed her own longer arms likewise over her less impressive chest. “It is not that simple.”
A dark brow arched. “Whyever not?”
Octavia mirrored her expression by raising a brow of her own. Why had she never noticed how similar she and Beatrice were before this? “Because Spinton and I both made promises. There are certain things expected of us.”
“Expected?” Now her cousin was openly scowling, her opinion of these promises obvious. “By whom?”
“My grandfather for one.”
“He is dead.”
Oh yes, they were very similar indeed, perhaps not in looks, but definitely in attitude. Beatrice could be downright blunt when she so desired. “Spinton’s father.”
This time both of her cousin’s brows lifted. “Dead.”
“My mother.” If it was a list Beatrice wanted, Octavia could certainly give it to her.
“Again, dead.”
Octavia threw her arms into the arm. Was her cousin unable to utter another word? “It does not matter if they are dead or not!”
“Of course it does!” Beatrice jabbed her finger in the air. “If they are dead they do not care if you keep your promises.”
Octavia splayed a hand across her own breastbone. “
I
care. And I am very much alive.”
Beatrice actually laughed at that. Who would have thought that such a mocking guffaw could come out of her prim little cousin? “Yes, you are. More alive than I have ever seen you. Odd that your ‘aliveness’ seems to coincide with Mr. Sheffield’s reappearance in your life.”
“He was my best friend.” She was
not
going to justify her pleasure at seeing North again.
All traces of mockery were gone, replaced by that sympathetic gaze again. “And your lover.”
Octavia looked away.
“Dear heaven, he still is your”—Beatrice’s voice dropped to an accusatory whisper—“lover.”
A flush of guilt crept up Octavia’s cheeks. “Last night, after he was shot. We were carried away…”
“I know you. You do not get ‘carried away’ by anything.” Forget mocking. Forget sympathy, Beatrice was downright incensed now. “You are betrothed to another man!”
Octavia cringed. She deserved this. “I know.”
“You have to tell Spinton.”
What?
“I most certainly do not! What good would that do?”
Hands on her muslin-clad hips, Beatrice faced her like a mother berating a child. “He is being true to you. He deserves to know.”
He most certainly did not! How could she tell him such a thing? And how did Beatrice know whether he was being true to her? Spinton was a young man; surely his natural “urges”
drove him to find companionship now and then. “It is none of his concern.”
“He is going to know.” Beatrice’s tone was haughty, condescending even.
“Not if I pretend to be a virgin,” Octavia replied in a similar manner. She would make Spinton believe she was inexperienced. It was as much for his protection as her own.
“How are you going to pretend a maidenhead, Octavia?” Beatrice demanded. “Tell me that!”
Octavia stared at her cousin, her mouth gaping. Never had she seen Beatrice so emotional about anything before. Never had she heard such direct language come out of her cousin’s mouth before either.
Her shoulders sagged. She had driven Beatrice to this point with her blatant refusal to face reality. Beatrice was right. She did try to control things, even other people, just so circumstances would turn out the way she wanted. She always told herself she could accept the consequences of her actions, but then she tried to control the consequences as well.
She wanted to fulfill her promises, but she wanted to have her own way as well. And part of her was afraid what might happen if people found out the truth. She wanted North, but she was afraid to have him—afraid of the changes it would mean. And yet the thought of being without him was infinitely worse.