by Galen, Shana
Nash couldn’t keep up with all the names or connections, but he thought he was beginning to understand that Miss Howard was not like other women he had known. Nash had never met a woman who would admit her dresses were ugly or that men did not fall fawning at her feet. Nash would admit he was no judge of fashion, but he found it difficult to believe men did not fall at Miss Howard’s feet. She seemed refreshingly forthright and plainspoken. Against his better judgment, he could feel himself being charmed by her. He wondered what she looked like. He could make out the general shape of her. Compared to Rowden’s hulking form, she was slim but not short. She was tall and at times seemed more like a wisp of something than an actual form.
“What color is your dress today?” he asked.
“This one?” She sounded almost embarrassed. “I must confess, it’s quite the ugliest dress I have ever seen. It’s the color of old mashed peas. It makes me despondent every time I look down at it. That’s all the more reason I should have stayed at Mrs. Northgate’s and worked on my new dress, but when young Mr. Northgate came home and said you had sent all the workers home for the day, I could not wait to come here and see you.”
She could not wait to see him?
“Why did you send the workers home early?”
“I was tired of the infernal pounding.”
“I see we have something in common.”
He could not see that at all. They seemed to have nothing in common. “What’s that?”
“We were both looking for an escape today.”
Nash found it difficult to believe she would see Wentmore as an escape. It felt more like a prison to him most days.
“If you do not wish to study Ecriture Nocturne today, would you like to do something else?”
She really did not seem to realize he was blind and could do nothing.
“We could play chess,” she suggested.
Nash snorted. “How am I to play chess?”
“Have you played before?”
“Of course.”
“I will simply tell you what move I make, and you keep the image of the board in your head. Or, if you prefer, I could read to you. Or I imagine you have a pianoforte in the drawing room. I play terribly, but I can sing loudly enough to hide my mistakes.”
“Yes, I am familiar with your singing.” And he rather wondered what she would sing and play on the piano, should he agree to listen. But that he would save for another time. He found he really did want to learn this Ecriture Nocturne. If only because he could sit beside her, and perhaps she would take his hand again. Pathetic that he was reduced to hoping a woman in a self-described ugly dress would touch his hand, but he was just desperate enough to forgo his pride.
“Show me this night writing,” he said, rising and moving carefully around the desk. He felt for the chair, and she took his hand and guided him to the back of the empty one beside her.
He sat, half hoping she would continue to hold his hand, but she released it. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“For what?”
“To close your eyes and imagine.”
Eight
Pru was almost glad Mr. Pope could not see her. The looks he gave her were really quite amusing. It seemed almost everything she said puzzled him. His brow would furrow and his lips quirk and he would shake his head slightly as though he had not heard correctly. How she wished she could move the lock of hair that fell over one side of his face. She wanted to see his entire expression. She imagined his left eye must be damaged in some way, else he would not want to hide it.
She liked that he had moved to sit beside her. He smelled so lovely, like soap and starch and just a hint of tobacco. Or perhaps the tobacco smell came from the room. She could certainly picture men smoking and clinking glasses of brandy in this space. A large desk all but squatted in the center of the room. Behind it were shelves of books that reached all the way to the ceiling. Pru itched to run her hand along the spines of those books and read the titles. She had read a few already. Those closest to her seemed to be histories of wars she had either never learned about or forgotten. Still, they had to be more interesting than the books of sermons in the vicar’s library.
More shelves of books lined part of the wall behind her, broken by a large hearth where she had built up the fire. An arrangement of chairs upholstered in cranberry and blue had been placed there, and she’d seen the chess set on a table between two of the chairs. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had played with that set and felt sorry for the pieces who had been so long neglected.
The curtains had been closed tight at the window, and Pru also had the urge to open them and peer at the view. It was probably nothing extraordinary—the overgrown lawn and hedgerows. But she could not help being curious.
“Why do I have to close my eyes?” Mr. Pope asked. Oh, but he was stubborn and determined to be difficult. She hadn’t expected this to be easy. In fact, she had not really thought he would allow her to teach him anything today. So he was not quite as difficult as she’d supposed.
“Because I want you to imagine.”
“I don’t need to close my eyes to imagine.”
“I do, and we will do this activity together.” She turned toward him and took his hands in hers. “Now close your eyes. Close them. There you go. No, keep them closed.” She squeezed his hands in reassurance when he did as she asked. Then she closed her own eyes. “Now I want you to imagine a square, Mr. Pope. Do you have the image of a square in your mind?”
“Yes.” He was very still, but she felt the slight tremor of his hands on hers.
“Good. Imagine it drawn on a sheet of parchment. It fills the parchment and is outlined in black ink.”
“Fine.” His hands tightened and then released in hers.
“Now we will fill in the details about this square. It is full of smaller squares. Thirty-six, to be precise. In your mind, divide the square into thirty-six smaller squares. Across the top, number the first row of squares one to six. Then do the same along the side.”
“Go on,” he said when she did not speak for a moment.
“I am writing the numbers in the squares,” she said. “You cannot possibly be done. It takes a moment to write each.”
“I can write very quickly in my imagination.”
She huffed, determined not to lose her patience. “It is important that you remember this square, so you must take your time.”
“Fine.”
They sat there, hands clasped, eyes closed.
“Am I interrupting?”
Pru jumped and released Mr. Pope’s hands as though she had been caught doing something she should not. Mr. Pope did not seem surprised at the intruder. He had probably heard her coming. “What is it, Mrs. Brown?” he asked calmly.
“I have your dinner, sir. If you want it, that is.”
Mr. Pope had not turned toward Mrs. Brown, and now he tilted his head up toward Pru, who had risen to her feet. A woman in a white cap, plain dark blue dress, and a clean apron stood in the doorway. She was plump with graying hair and a kind smile.
“Have you eaten yet, Miss Howard?” Mr. Pope asked.
“Me?” she asked.
He raised his brows as though to ask who else he might be speaking to.
“No, but Mrs. Blimkin will set something aside for me.”
“Mrs. Blimkin?” Mrs. Brown asked. “You must be the vicar’s charge then. I didn’t realize that when we met yesterday.”
“I am, Mrs. Brown. Do you know the vicar?”
“Oh, I know everyone. I am sure you will want to wait and save your appetite for Mrs. Blimkin’s fare. She is certainly a better cook than I.”
“Oh.” Pru did not want to hurt Mrs. Brown’s feelings. “I doubt that is true.”
“I don’t,” Pope said.
“Mr. Pope!”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Brown said. “I was a maid, not a cook, and well, Mr. Payne has replenished the larders to some degree, but he is a man and doesn’t know what we need and�
�”
“Say no more, Mrs. Brown. I understand completely. But I do not mind simple fare. I am quite used to it.”
“You’ll join me then?” Mr. Pope asked.
“I would be happy to eat Mrs. Brown’s dinner,” Pru said.
“Bring it in here, Mrs. Brown,” Mr. Pope directed. “We’re in the middle of a lesson, and I don’t want to keep Miss Howard too late. We will eat and...study.”
“Yes, sir.” She hurried away, and Pru sat in her seat and smacked Mr. Pope lightly on the arm.
“What was that for?”
“How could you criticize her cooking? I’m certain she is doing her best.”
“I should hope not,” he said.
“Mr. Pope!”
“Don’t chastise me until you taste it.”
“I am certain it will be delicious. I should speak to Mrs. Blimkin and have her intercede. The farmers and merchants in Milcroft do not know Mr. Payne, and he would not know where to go to get the best flour or produce. I can have Mrs. Blimkin choose some items for the larder and have them sent.”
“Why would you do that?”
Pru was at a loss for words for a moment. The answer seemed obvious. “To be helpful.”
“Why do you want to help me?” He seemed genuinely not to understand.
“I like you,” Pru said.
His head jerked up as though he’d been surprised by a loud noise. Was he stunned that she enjoyed his company? Why was that difficult to believe?
“Shall we continue with our exercise?” she asked. “We were imagining our six-by-six square.” She took her seat beside him again. “And we had added the numbers one through six along the top. These are the columns. And the rows along the side are numbered as well.”
Pope shook his head. “I’m having trouble imagining it.”
“Just close your eyes,” Pru said, doing that herself. “When you have the picture in your mind, then think about the square that would be in column one and row one. In square one-one, we have the letter A.”
“This isn’t working,” he said. Pru opened her eyes. Pope was slumped in his chair, looking despondent.
“You mustn’t give up, Mr. Pope. You had the square in your mind before.”
“I did, but now...” He shrugged. “Perhaps if you held my hands again.”
Pru narrowed her eyes. She was not so innocent or inexperienced as to not see what he was doing. “If you wanted to hold my hands, you might simply ask,” she said.
“It’s all in the name of education, Miss Howard.”
“Of course.” She placed her hands in his again. “Now, close your eyes and picture the square.”
“Ah, now I have it. Yes, that’s quite clear.”
His hands were warm and heavy as they lay over hers. She had begun to feel warmer now that the fire was built up and she was out of the cold, but the heat of his hands seemed to speed up the process until she was almost too warm. “You can picture the A in the square at one by one?”
“I do.”
“Good. Now picture the square in column two, row one. That letter is an I. In another lesson, I will show you how to read those letters with the corresponding dots, but for now you just need to remember that A is one-one and I is located at one-two.”
One of his fingers moved against her wrist, tickling her slightly. “And what is the letter in the square one-three?”
That one finger, moving against the skin of her wrist, distracted her. It tickled, and yet it did not tickle. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“The square at position one-three. What letter is that?” he asked, his voice calm. He sounded completely unaffected.
“One-three is the letter O. So we have A, I, and O.”
His finger slid down from her wrist, slowly making its way to her palm. His touch was light and yet she found it oddly erotic. This was why her mother had told her to always wear her gloves.
“Go on,” he said as though he was not making her skin prickle deliciously with his slow strokes.
“Very well.” She sounded slightly breathless. What was wrong with her? He was only touching her hand. “What square have we come to?”
“One-four.”
“Of course. Ah...” She could not seem to remember the letter in position one-four. She could not seem to think of anything but the way his finger slid across her tender flesh and how their legs touched. This seemed to be far more touching than was appropriate. And, sinner that she was, she wouldn’t have moved away for the world.
“Is it another vowel?” he asked. “E, perhaps, or U?”
“It’s U,” she said, glad for the prompt. “And E is in the one-five spot.” She would simply keep speaking. That would keep her mind focused. “As you probably know, in French an E has an accent.”
“Yes, l’accent aigu.”
Pru’s heart almost stopped at the sound of his French accent. She had a weakness for French accents. She had a weakness for a man with any sort of accent, really, and Pope was obviously a proficient French speaker. His accent was flawless.
“And then there is l’accent grave.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Howard? You sound rather breathless.”
“I’ve just never found the discussion of accents quite so...stimulating.” She swallowed. “But we should continue with the lesson.” She sat straighter and forced herself to concentrate. “Since English does not have accents, I have modified Monsieur Barbier’s chart. The one-five spot is still E, but I put...Mr. Pope?”
“Yes?”
“You are holding my hand.” Pru looked down to be certain. And yes, he had threaded his fingers through hers. Their hands were locked together in the most intimate of ways.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
“Should I release you?”
Pru hesitated. The correct answer was Release me immediately. But she did not want him to release her. She wanted him to continue holding her hand. She wanted him to lean closer and kiss her. She looked up and studied his lips. They were pale pink, thin but not too thin, and relaxed. She wondered if Mr. Pope was good at kissing. Pru rather thought she was good at kissing. But if Mr. Pope could make her feel like this just by touching her hand, what could he do with his lips?”
“No,” she said.
“Don’t release you?” he asked.
She had been speaking to herself, telling herself not to imagine what he could do with his lips. “Yes, you should release me.”
His grip loosened.
“In just a moment,” she added quickly. “You could hold my hand just a moment longer.”
His lips quirked in what she thought must be a smile. His hands closed on hers again and he lifted one of her hands slowly to his lips. She watched, unable to tear her gaze away, as he brushed his pink lips over the pale skin of her knuckles.
“My hands aren’t soft,” she whispered, afraid her voice would fail her if she tried to speak.
“They’re exactly as I imagined,” he said. “You’re no spoiled miss who is afraid to get her hands dirty.” His breath tickled her skin, and she shivered.
“I don’t wear my gloves enough,” she admitted. “I have freckles.”
“Do you?” He sounded intrigued. “Tell me where, and I will kiss each one.”
“You can’t. There are hundreds.”
“Oh, I think I can manage.” And he pressed his lips to the back of her hand several times before turning her hand over so her palm was open to him. “What about here? Do you have freckles here?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just calluses.”
“Then I shall explore until I find them.” He pressed his lips to the center of her palm, and she caught her breath. His tongue darted out to taste her and she exhaled loudly. When he kissed her again, she could not stop a moan. “Oh!”
“That’s location one-three,” he said. “You see? I am learning.”
“Mr. Pope—”
Abrupt
ly he released her hand and a moment later the door opened. Pru blinked in confusion as Mrs. Brown bustled in, carrying a tray laden with dishes covered with cloth. “Here we are then,” she said. Pru scooted back in her chair, further away from Mr. Pope. As Mrs. Brown placed the dishes on the desk, she wondered what she had been about to say to him. Had she been about to ask him to stop or to go further?
She should be ashamed of herself, but the truth was, she had hoped something like this would happen. The possibility was the reason she could hardly concentrate on sewing today. Yes, she had been eager at the prospect of teaching Mr. Pope and even more excited at the chance to spend more time with him. But really, she had wanted to touch him again. She had wanted him to touch her. Ever since the first time she had seen him in the informal garden near Wentmore, she had felt drawn to him. She had just never imagined he would feel the same pull.
“Anything else you need?” Mrs. Brown asked, whisking off the cloths to reveal the dishes. She looked at Pru, seeming quite pleased with this flourish.
“I think that is all, Mrs. Brown,” Pru said.
“Then I’ll be off. Just leave the dishes here, Mr. Pope. I’ll wash up in the morning.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” he said.
Pru waited until the housekeeper had closed the door behind her. “Where is she going?”
“Home, I imagine,” he answered.
“She doesn’t sleep here?”
“No. We’re all alone.”
Pru glanced at his face. His expression was like his tone—challenging. Was she afraid to be alone with him? Oh, yes, she was. But not for the reason he thought. He thought she was afraid he might attempt to kiss her or worse. But the truth was, she was more likely to throw herself at him.
And that would simply not do. She could not carry on a liaison with Mr. Pope. Milcroft was a small village and there were no secrets. She was under the vicar’s protection. If he turned her out, she had nowhere to go.