It Takes Two to Tangle (9 page)

She held up a hand and ticked on her fingers as she replied, “At the present moment, I'm not losing money at cards, I'm not bumbling through a minuet on the piano, and I'm not racking my brain for the steps of a reel. So how could you think you've spoiled my fun?”

“If I'm the only remaining option, I should try to be more amusing.”

“Please do.” She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him in one of the haughtiest expressions he'd ever seen.

“Good lord, Frances, you're as stiff as a fireplace poker.”

She relaxed, grinned. “At least I'm sitting in the right seat, then, in front of this lovely warm fire.”

“It is lovely, isn't it? I painted the fireplace screen, you know.”

“Well, it's only an early effort. You are still relearning how to paint with your left hand. I am sure you will get better with time.”

His head reared back. “I painted the screen long ago.”

“Oh. You did? It's… hmmm.” She furrowed her brows, obviously trying to think of something kind to say.

“It's been damaged over time.” Henry felt the need to defend himself, though a smile crept over his features. “It was never an astounding work, but I promise you when I finished it, it didn't look like an ash heap had been sick all over it.”

“I'd never have described it that way.” The dratted woman was trying not to laugh.

“No, but you obviously thought it. I've been insulted, and by my own fellow soldier.”

“Oh, come now, you know it's not your best work. If you want a compliment, you can simply ask, and I'll think of a much better subject than an old, damaged painting on glass.”

Citrus caught at him, a sweet scent that reminded him she sat only a touch away. The sound of Bart plunking out “Mr. Beveridge's Maggot” became dimmer in Henry's ears. “Would you, now? I wonder what you'd say. Are you trying to be terrifying again?”

“Why? Are you terrified?”

A
little
. “Of course not,” he huffed. “It would be beneath my considerable dignity.”

“It
is
considerable. Maybe that's what I'll compliment you on. Many men in the
ton
would be helped by a little more dignity and a little less vanity. Have you seen the dandies who can't even turn their head within their high collars?”

“Yes, but surely it's worth it. Isn't that fashion
all
the
crack
?”

When she laughed, he felt a hot clench of pleasure in the center of his chest.

“I don't know,” she laughed. “I haven't been
all
the
crack
for over a decade, Henry.”

“Now who's angling for a compliment? I know this is false modesty, because you notice and remember everything. You could easily be whatever you wanted to be.”

Her smiled dropped. For a too-long moment after this speech, she watched him, her eyes slightly narrowed. If he'd had ten fingers at his disposal, he probably would have embarked upon a world-class fidget under her scrutiny, drumming his fingers and shifting in his chair.

Instead, he sat carefully still, and he spoke lightly in a moment that had mysteriously turned heavy. “What is it, Frances? You're acting like I just transformed into a wolf and howled at the moon.”

“I'm just wondering,” she answered quietly, “if you meant what you said.”

“That you had false modesty? Of course.”

Her mouth curved into a wry little smile. “Never mind. Forgive my distraction. I suppose I'm just distraught over being banished from the pianoforte.”

That armor of humor she kept—he knew it, because he wore it too.

It looked well on her. Her rich dark hair was pulled back by a celadon bandeau; her gown was cut low across her bosom, edged with lace of a darker green. Her skin glowed in the wavery light that penetrated the unfortunate fireplace screen. Subdued but so touchably lovely that he wanted to stroke her. Feel her warmth, take it in. He felt it, the want—a clenching hunger low in his stomach.

“You might be surprised,” she said with a sigh, “at how aggravating it can be to remember everything. Sometimes I can't get to sleep for all the thoughts jostling at the inside of my head.”

“I know that feeling.”

She shot him a quick sideways look. “Yes, I suppose you might.”

“If you recall—which I'm sure you do,” he said more lightly, “I did give you a genuine, unsolicited compliment.”

She shot him another look, this one wicked. “On my memory, which is nothing but a parlor trick? Come now, Henry. You must know that women want only to be praised for their bonnets and gowns. There are quite a few common synonyms for
you
look
very
nice
, you know.”

With a rueful smile, she turned back to the fire, watching a coal crumble into cinders. Henry saw it lick hotly at the thick glass of the fireplace screen; then its light vanished.

“You do look very nice,” he said slowly, “but to give or receive a common compliment is no real honor. Anyone might look lovely, but I've never met anyone with your gifts of memory or your talent in teaching left-handed writing.”

The words swelled within him, filling him with an unexpected heat. She
did
look lovely. She
was
uncommonly gifted. He felt a pull to her, an ease in her presence, that he hadn't felt since returning to London. He wanted to capture this feeling, to hold it close, as in a lover's embrace. His shoulders flexed involuntarily, and he felt the inevitable tug at his right shoulder, the pendulous weight of his still right arm.

The heat turned into a chill reminder of all that had changed.

“As you've never needed to learn to write with the left hand before,” Frances said, “I don't suppose you could know how skilled a teacher I am.”

“But I do know,” he said, not wanting to explain how much she had helped him answer Caro's letters. “And surely such compliments are within the bounds of friendship.”

“If you say they are, then they are.” Frances slapped her hands onto her knees, pushing herself upright. “If you say we're friends, then we're friends.”

So abrupt suddenly. Had he offended her? “Ah… no, you have a say in the matter as well.”

“Consider this my compliment for you,” she replied with a smile. “You may take my friendship for granted.”

“I will never take you for granted,” Henry said. When her face softened, grew warm in the firelight, he wondered if he'd said far more than he knew. She looked at him with her deep eyes, all the tumbled browns and greens of the Bossu Wood, and he felt stripped bare, known and understood, as he had not in years.

He had never thought to be stripped bare again.

Her lips had parted in surprise, and he could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the very essence of her life, pulling him closer.

“I would not take you for granted either,” she murmured, and reached out a hand to brush, so lightly, over his fingers.

Another touch, just as she'd given him when they first met and when she showed him how to write. Each time, he showed her a weakness, and she still reached out to him. That was a miracle in itself, and the sensation of her touch, forbidden and strange and sweet, woke his skin. Heat arrowed through his body: wistful desire, blessed hope.

Yes, hope. He had hope that he could rebuild his life. Though he knew he could not do it on his own. He needed Caroline for that.

It was hard to remember his carefully calculated reasons, sitting here in front of the fire.

Perhaps Frances sensed his sudden confusion; maybe he'd tensed. She pulled her hand from his, looked back at the fire again, and said in her damnably calm voice, “Doggedness.” Her tip-tilted eyes crinkled in a smile, and he knew she wasn't annoyed. “That's my answer to your dignity. Doggedness is probably the best quality I have, though also the worst.”

The change of subject was a relief; they'd been growing a bit too fraught. They couldn't begin grabbing each other's hands at every opportunity or people would talk, and that wouldn't do either of them any good. A companion was in a precarious position in society; it wouldn't take much to send her tumbling.

A
quick
tumble
, that made him remember. Frances's words about soldiers the first time they had met. It had been so long since Henry'd had a tumble, he could hardly remember the sensation. Understandable, then, how much it was on his mind; how tense his body felt, how aware of Frances's closeness, of her every touch.

But this wasn't the time or the place or the person for such thoughts.

“Come now, it can't be both best and worst.” His voice came out clipped as he tried to quit thinking
tumble, tumbled, tumbling
. He waved a hand for a servant. “What do you care for, Frances? Tea or sherry?”

She thought for a moment. “Tea would be a wiser choice than sherry. You are always trying to get me intoxicated so you can learn secrets from me, aren't you? One would think you'd been a spy.”

Henry snorted and asked for a tea service to be brought over, then turned back to Frances. “If I'd been a spy, I'd have much subtler methods. But I've never been very subtle. Not even before the war.”

“Maybe that's
your
best and worst quality, then.” She smiled a quick thanks at the footman who set a tea tray down on a low table between their chairs. “Sugar for you, Henry?”

Henry considered. He'd gotten out of the habit of drinking tea sweetened—or indeed, regularly at all—during his tent-centered life in the army. “Yes,” he decided. “Two spoonfuls, please.” He had a taste for something new.

He watched her pour out the tea, her movements efficient and graceful as though they had been practiced thousands of times. And probably they had. She'd once said she was the daughter of a baronet, had she not? He wondered how she'd tumbled into the role of a companion.

Damn
it.
Tumbled
again
. His whole body felt tight and eager.

Frances held out a cup and saucer to him, and he tugged his mind back to the tea tray. The cup rattled faintly in its frail willow-patterned saucer, and he extended his hand, then paused. How to take it with one hand? If he held the saucer, he wouldn't be able to lift the cup.

After cutting his eyes sideways to ensure that the tune of “Mr. Beveridge's Maggot” was still issuing from the pianoforte, that Caroline and Emily were still practicing their steps with the glee of debutantes, he shook his head at Frances. “Just the cup, please.”

“Oh, of course.” She rolled her eyes at her own mistake. “Sorry about that.” She twirled the teacup so he could grip its tiny handle, then laid the unneeded saucer on the tray again.

He took a too-sweet sip, then returned to the thread of their conversation. “So. You think subtlety isn't always necessary?”

Frances stirred milk into her own teacup as she considered. “Not for men, no. Subtlety's probably more important for women. We're permitted only the flimsy weapons of speech rather than anything really satisfying. Sometimes I think it would be much easier just to shoot out our troubles instead of keeping a smile pasted on all the time.”

Henry let out a low bark and wiggled his fingers against the porcelain cup, trying to keep its hot contents from burning him. “Shooting isn't always the fun it may seem.”

Another gulp drained his tiny teacup to the dregs. It was syrupy at the bottom, with sugar grains not yet dissolved.

Well, he could use some help to sweeten his speech, because he had something difficult to say to Frances. He was getting too distracted by his alliance with her when it was secondary to his true strategy.

“Frances.” He leaned forward and set his teacup down on the tray. “Look, I've got to tell you something.”

Her cup clattered in her saucer. “Then tell me.”

They had just excused the male sex from the need to be subtle, yet Henry didn't want to be too blunt. “It's about Caroline. I—well, I'd prefer to court her on my own from this point.”

He stared at his teacup, lonely and saucer-less on the silver-plated tea tray, as though its dregs held all the mysteries of the universe. He didn't want to watch her face change at his words; whether it was disappointed or relieved, it would be better not to know.

“You don't care to have my help anymore?” The question sounded light enough, simply seeking information. He looked up, and her face was a sweet mask.

He sidestepped the question. “I've been honored by your help. But I think it would be fairest to all of us if I proceeded alone.”

“You want to be fair? How so?”

“None of the other suitors have ever received assistance from you,” he said lamely.

“I see,” she said with that careful smile on her face again. “You don't want to give yourself an unfair advantage in winning Caroline.”

“That's not what I meant. I'm well aware that Caro isn't in the slightest danger of being swept off her feet by me or any other suitor.”

He turned in his chair to regard Caro. She and Emily now stood by the pianoforte, laughing as they shuffled through the sheet music, making a snowstorm of paper around Bart. In truth, Caro looked just as happy plunking sour notes on the pianoforte as she had playing cards, dancing at a ball, entertaining suitors. Her mood was constant sunshine—never a cloud, never a storm.

This was why the
ton
loved her and admired her and sought her company. But did Henry have any idea what lay below that sunny surface?

Yes, he did. He had the letters.

He looked back to Frances, whose odd smile had begun to unbend. “What
do
you mean, then?” she asked.