He sighed. “Joe—” At her narrowing gaze, he was wise enough to go silent.
“You had me away at that horrid school last year.”
“Mrs. Belden’s,” he supplied automatically.
Josephine leaned forward. “I well know the school, Webb. I was the one there.” He’d be deaf to fail to hear the accusation there. And once again, it was deserved. It didn’t matter that living in a bachelor’s residence was no place for an innocent. It mattered that his lack of business acumen had seen her not at home with a governess where she’d belonged but at a finishing school that they could afford.
“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly, earning another snort.
Of course, she wouldn’t see anything beyond the careless image he’d expertly crafted these years. “Spare me your show, Nolan.” All right, this was safer.
“What do you want?” he put to her with a bluntness that earned an appreciative nod.
“I want a Christmas celebration this year. See that you make it happen.” She jumped to her feet and glided to the door, pausing to toss a saucy look back. “That is, between your naughty business with the lady you had to visit.”
After she’d closed the door, he sank into the comfortable folds of his chair and rested his head along the back. Naughty business with Sybil Cunning? Why, with the bold, prattling bluestocking there was a greater chance of the late King George coming back from the grave to celebrate the holiday season.
Chapter 6
Hatchards.
“Hatchards?” Sybil muttered under her breath. She folded the scrap of paper with one perfunctory word written on it. The note, that wasn’t much of a note, had been delivered by her maid late last evening. Gentlemen and their lack of wordage. She stuffed it inside her reticule. Then, drawing the hood of her cloak up, she snuck from her chambers. The hum of early morning silence filled the carpeted corridors. Neither her mother nor father rose earlier than ten o’clock each morning. Nonetheless, even knowing that there was a greater chance of her being declared a Diamond of the First Waters than that couple breaking with their routines, Sybil ducked her head out into the hall.
Empty.
Releasing a slow, silent breath, she slipped out into the hall and drew the door closed softly behind her. That faint click sounded like a shot in the night. She froze, stealing a glance about. When there was no rush of servants and concerned parents to bring the household down, Sybil felt a wave of triumph.
I’m not yet out of the house. There was still the matter of reaching outside, to where her maid waited even now at the carriage, without a cry being raised.
Sybil tiptoed down the hall. The floorboards groaned in protest. She unleashed a stream of curses inside her head. Why could she not be one of those dainty English ladies like Rosaleen and not a tall, rounded creature that had a greater hope of being named companion to the queen than managing a stealthy retreat?
Unlike Nolan who, even with his tall, impressive form, prowled like a panther. Except…now she’d only called forth thoughts of the gentleman with his unfashionably long, golden tresses, a man who did not pad his garments, and whose corded muscles had rippled under her hands. Her mouth went dry in remembrance of their last exchange, when he’d lowered his head, his lips so very close to hers that their breaths had mingled. Even as his request for a kiss had been nothing more than his teasing her, in that moment, it had felt so very real. So very much more and—
“Where are you going?”
She gasped and spun around. Her sixteen-year-old sister stood, hands propped on hips, eying Sybil in a way that no one in the whole of her nearly thirty years had studied her—with suspicion. She plastered a serene smile on her lips, all the while damning Aria for being awake. “Why are you awake?” As soon as the question slipped out, she winced. Damn her for failing so miserably at the whole subterfuge business.
“Where are you going?” Aria countered. Her sister dipped her eyebrows and the suspicion there deepened. Sybil sighed. Where she herself had been born with, at best, a clever mind, her sister had been blessed with not only a haunting dark beauty, but also ingenuity beyond her ears. At her protracted silence, Aria gave her another probing look.
“To…” Her mind raced. Where was it they’d expect her to go? “Hatchards,” she blurted. In the end, Sybil settled for the truth. For Nolan Pratt, Baron Webb, had arranged their meeting at the very place everyone would expect her to be. “You know how I enjoy visiting bookshops when they first open. The quiet. The lack of crowds. The peace of your own thoughts.” Stop rambling. She promptly fell silent.
Her sister’s shoulders sagged in tangible disappointment. “Oh.”
She should be fortunate that Aria had ceased her dangerous questioning and yet—Sybil wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”
“I simply thought you were doing something scandalous and outrageously fun.” There it was—that word. The one that had driven her to enlist aid from one of Society’s most shocking rakes. Then she registered her sister’s silence.
Sybil forced a quiet laugh. Be airy. “Scandalous,” she said. To her own way of thinking, it seemed a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “What do I know about scandalous?” Of late, she knew something very much about it. Visiting a bachelor and putting a request to him, and offering to pay for his services. Why, there was nothing more—“Scandalous,” she tittered. Or, she’d hoped it was a titter. It came out as more a high-pitched squawk. “You silly girl. Scandalous,” she repeated to herself.
Aria stitched her dark eyebrows into a single line and Sybil immediately fell silent.
Do not be over the top.
“As you were,” Aria said, stepping aside so Sybil could pass. With each step that carried her further and further away, her skin pricked from the feel of Aria’s stare on her.
She’d have to take greater caution in the future. Aria’s presence this morning was proof of it. One morn it was her sister, the next it could be Mama. She shuddered. And that would be a death-knell end to her great research.
Nearly twenty minutes later, after a quick carriage ride, a credit to the empty winter London streets and the absence of most polite families, Sybil stood outside Hatchards. Her maid remained ensconced in Father’s carriage. Burrowing deep inside her dark woolen cloak, she peered at the elegantly scrawled name above the storefront. Mumbling under her breath, Sybil stepped inside the shop. Of course, a rake who knew everything about pleasure would believe that she, a proper bluestocking without a suitor or scandalous endeavor to her name would find Hatchards remotely stimulating.
Sybil glanced around the empty shop. Rows and rows of books filled the establishment and she drew in a deep breath, letting the scent of leather fill her nostrils. Though, in truth, at any other time, this was precisely the place she’d wish to be. Finding obscure books with even more obscure details.
Not today. Not for these next thirteen days, or nine, if one wanted to be precise with the terms Nolan had dictated. Now, she wanted to be scandalous and wicked. And be the manner of lady who did… She caught her lower lip—whatever it was that sensational ladies did.
She knew little about that. What she did know was this was decidedly not it.
Murmuring a polite declination to the tired-eyed shopkeeper who came forward to offer his assistance, Sybil wandered deeper into the empty establishment. Of course, the members of the peerage who would frequent a bookshop would never do so in the dead of winter, at this early morn hour. Absently trailing her fingertips along the spines of books as she walked, she scanned the titles. And then stopped. Biting the gloved tip of her index finger, she tugged the article off and plucked the book that caught her notice.
She brushed her fingertips over Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Aria had always been an ardent admirer of Austen’s works. Where Sybil? Well, Sybil had lost herself in logical and practical tales that were true to life. It wasn’t that she was one of those dull sorts. She wasn’t. Or she didn’t like to think she was. Rather, she’d found
herself inordinately fascinated with how and why things came to be. Literary fiction was…well, just that…fiction. As such, there could be no interesting truths gleaned. And yet… She fanned the pages. What could be truer to life than Austen’s examination of happiness, and how sense and sensibility were inextricably linked to a person finding that ultimate culminating goal?
She continued fanning the pages and then stopped on a handful of inked letters at the center of that page. “It isn’t what we say or think that defines us but what we do…” she mouthed the words.
A shadow fell over her book and she glanced up. She drew in a sharp intake of breath. Leaning against the brick wall at the end of the row, Nolan stood. With his midnight black cloak and Oxonian hat atop his loose, golden curls, he was a model of masculine elegance. It was his lips, however, that distracted her thoughts. The suggestive, dangerous grin on his lips that quickened the beat of her heart. Say something. Do not simply stand here, ogling him for the splendid specimen he, in fact, is and always will be. She opened her mouth.
Nolan touched a fingertip to his lips, urging her to silence. Pushing away from the wall, he jerked his chin toward the end of the aisle. Her gaze followed the movement to the front of the shop, to where the shopkeeper sat, oblivious to this exchange.
Of course. She released a slow breath through her compressed lips and returned the book to its place on the shelving. Sybil and Nolan danced with ruin. Him for one thousand pounds and her for the thrill of simply living. He strolled over and, with every step that brought him closer, her heart increased its rapid beat. Then he stopped before her. He shot a hand out and she fluttered her eyes, leaning into that caress—that did not come. Wordlessly, Nolan caught the forgotten glove dangling from her teeth and tugged it free. Raising her hand, he slid the article on each finger, in an act that was both simple and erotic all at the same time.
He lowered his mouth closer to her ear and she swayed, pressing her hands to the shelving at her back to balance herself. “I must confess, I did think you might not come, Sybil,” he murmured. His was the near silent whisper befitting a rake, rogue, or scoundrel sneaking off with married ladies and wicked widows. And he is here with me. Granted, he was here for the monetary offering she’d dangled before him. But still, a delicious thrill danced low in her belly.
Reveling in this newfound freedom, Sybil angled her mouth up and leaned up on tiptoe so she might speak softly against his ear. “If you believe bringing me to explore at Hatchards is a wicked, wonderful adventure, then I confess to my disappointment in your scandalous reputation.”
“Ah, is that a challenge, love?”
It was a throwaway endearment and, yet, it set free another round of those dancing butterflies in her belly. She forced her head to move in a semblance of a nod.
He widened his grin, revealing two rows of gleaming, pearl-white teeth. Catching her by the hand, he guided her through the store.
“What—?”
Nolan glanced back, issuing another warning look that killed that question. She allowed him to lead her deeper and deeper into the shop, down the aisles, to the very back. He brought them to a stop at a doorway. What was he…? He pressed the handle and the winter cold spilled into the hall. Without hesitation, he stepped outside and pulled her along into the narrow alleyway. As they walked, their boots crunched noisily in the winter quiet.
She followed him down the snow-covered alley. With every step, the thrill of the forbidden gripped her. Invigorating. Enlivening. She was here. Away from her parents and off without even the benefit of a chaperone. It was the luxury surely permitted a spinster approaching her thirtieth year and she reveled in it.
Until they reached his carriage.
She dug her heels in. “What is that?” she blurted, glancing about for passersby. Alas, in the empty thoroughfare, not a soul was about braving the winter cold.
“Now, it is my turn for disappointment, Mr. Thomason,” he chided, yanking open the door, bringing her focus swinging to another of those coiled serpents. It was the Lord’s reminder of the perils that came in bargaining with the devil.
Sybil backed up a step. “I cannot go away with you,” she hissed, stealing a quick look up at his driver. The older servant, gaze trained forward, gave no indication that he heard nor cared about the debate unfolding between her and his employer.
Nolan drummed his fingertips on the black lacquer door. “Oh?” he drawled. “Just what did you expect it would entail?”
“I…” Hadn’t truly given proper consideration of the absolute scandal of stealing off with a gentleman and joining him in his carriage, no less. Her mouth went dry with worry even as an odd thrill danced in her belly. She, predictable, logical Sybil Cunning was flouting conventions. Still, she warred with herself.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion,” Nolan prodded, “inside the carriage. That is, unless you don’t care if we’re discovered conversing outside—very well,” he finished, as she hoisted herself inside. He climbed in after her, closed the door, and rapped once on the ceiling. That slight tap set the carriage into motion. “As you were saying?” he encouraged.
Flummoxed, Sybil looked out at the passing scenery and over to him. And then back outside. He’d made the decision for her, after all. “Why…why…you’ve abducted me.” She, always-in-control Sybil Cunning, had been tricked. This was a humbling moment, indeed.
“Oh, come,” he scoffed. “The same lady who wished to fight me for an additional four days and put our agreement in writing is surely a good deal more courageous than this.”
“No,” she replied instantly, pressing her forehead against the frosted pane. “You are wrong.” Logic took precedence over everything—including courage. Or it had…until she’d sought out Nolan.
He leaned over and tugged the red velvet curtain from her fingers. The fabric fell back into place, just as they passed her waiting carriage. Ruin. Sybil was dancing with ruin. She swallowed a moan. What have I done?
Chapter 7
Had she been any other lady, Nolan would have been bored, annoyed, and exasperated by Sybil’s outward panic. This lady, however, who moved between bold, unapologetic minx to guarded, proper miss was a conundrum wrapped up tighter than a Christmastide present. He would very much like to free it from its layered satin wrappings.
“Here.” Nolan reached inside his jacket. Sybil watched him with a deserved guardedness. He offered her his flask.
The lady sputtered. “What in blazes is that?”
Taking off the top, he took a large swig. “Sip and find out.” He handed it over, a silent challenge. He’d known her but a day and already gleaned much about the lady; the main piece he’d discovered being that Sybil Holly Cunning would never back down from a challenge.
Tipping her chin up mutinously, she accepted the flask. Took a sip. And then promptly dissolved into a paroxysm of coughing. Tears filled her eyes, but even those crystalline drops did nothing to conceal her outrage. “Y-you did that o-on purpose.”
“I assure you,” he promised, looping his ankle across the opposite knee. “I may be rumored as a rake, but I’m not one of those cruel sorts who’d take delight in a lady choking to death on spirits.” Her eyes softened as though he’d handed down a piece of his soul that she quite approved of. Unnerved by that warmth shown to him, of all miserable bastards, he shifted on his bench. “After all, I’m not inclined to waste fine French spirits.”
Sybil froze. He knew the moment she’d registered his meaning. He braced for the swift death of that previous appreciation. Instead, she fiddled with the engraved flask in her fingers and then raised it to her lips once more. This time taking a smaller, practiced sip.
He flared his eyes. Once again, boldness and strength won out. He’d wager his declining fortunes that, with this woman, it invariably did.
Sybil took another drink. And another. And with every small sip, color filled her cheeks. Her mouth softened like her doe-eyes that possessed an innocence he long steered clear of in
women. With her, however, there was an almost hypnotic pull; an intrigue for a lady so very different than all the others. She tipped the flask back and he shot a hand out, grabbing it from her tight grip.
“My intentions are not to get you soused, Miss Cunning.”
Her eyes danced with merriment and mischief. “Again, you’ll shatter your own reputation, my lord.”
“Doubtfully,” he said with one of his long-practiced winks. No one saw past the image he presented to the world. Except Sybil. Unnerved, he took a long pull from his flask. Don’t be a bloody fool. Sybil Cunning sees precisely what the whole of Society, his own family, and the servants he employed, in fact, saw—the truth. A careless, reckless rake who’d nearly succeeded at bankrupting his family.
But for the wind slapping at the carriage walls, not another sound registered. At that quiet, he glanced over. She studied him, head cocked, eyes narrowed, mouth scrunched up, the way she might have attended a scholarly journal. “You aren’t.”
“I’m not what?”
“The wicked rake Society purports you to be.” Hers was stated as an empirical fact built on lazy research she’d conducted over the course of two meetings in a four and twenty-hour span. And yet, she saw too much. More than he cared or wanted. More than was safe. God help him. He, the rakish Baron Webb, cared what she thought of him.
Disquieted by that irrational truth, he forced another negligent grin. “If you believe that, love, then you’ve imbibed on too much of my French brandy.”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
Bloody hell she was clever. “Is this why you sought me out? To determine whether I’m as naughty as the papers report?” To determine if he was a man who’d sell his body for coin, like a common London street whore? That stinging question went no further than his thoughts as he proved himself more honorable than he’d ever before believed. He could not even breathe aloud the lies that had been laid by the ton.
A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 38