Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3)

by Cassandra Dean

  “Why did you write me?”

  The quiet words gave him a degree of control. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her tongue darted out to wet the plump flesh of her lower lip. “Why did you write me? Why did you write those letters?”

  Stifling a groan, he cursed himself. Control yourself, man. “You were the one who made the error.”

  “Yes.” Steadily, her gaze kept his. “But you didn’t need to write back.”

  No, he hadn’t. Her letter had clearly been an error, addressed to her friend and full of the easy conversation of long acquaintance. He never should have read it, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been so full of life, so happy and joyous, and he’d wanted to experience that. “Because I liked them. Your letters.”

  “What did you like of them?” A smile lit her face, a soft thing that seemed directed more at herself than him. “It was Etta, correct? She and her antics?”

  A smile tugged at his own mouth, and he allowed it some expression, but not enough to pull his scar. “No, I liked you. That is, I like you.” Heat rose along his neck.

  “Oh.” A similar blush stained her skin. “Well. I like you, too.”

  He couldn’t stop his smile then.

  She drew in her breath.

  Immediately, he wiped the expression from his face. He knew how he appeared when he forgot himself.

  She frowned. “Why did you stop smiling?”

  Staring at the floor, he said, “I apologise. I know it’s grotesque.”

  “What is grotesque?”

  He dug his hands into the chair. “When I smile.”

  “No. Edward, no—”

  “Of course it is,” he said, and not even her calling him by his given name again lightened him. “I am scarred, Gwen. You cannot claim not to have noticed.”

  “No, I have. I only—You smiled, and I thought... You are so handsome, and when you smile, you are even more so—” She cut herself off. A furious blush lit her cheeks.

  She thought him handsome? A low boil started within him, and he could not tear his gaze from her lips.

  The air between them grew heavy with some kind of meaning. Body hardening, his hands prickled with the need to feel her skin beneath his touch. He needed to do something; he needed to distract— “Will you walk with me tomorrow?”

  Looking somewhat dazed, Gwen blinked. “Pardon?”

  Clearing his throat, he said, “It will be safer if you walk the moors with me.”

  “Safer?”

  “I shouldn’t like it if you break you head, not when you could have an extra eye looking out for you.”

  “Eye?”

  “Yes. Just the one.” He tapped the temple at the side of his good eye.

  Her eyes widened.

  He knew why. He was surprised at himself. He didn’t think he’d ever referred to his injuries with such casualness before.

  With a grin, she stood and bounced a curtsey. “In that case, Your Grace, I would be delighted to walk with you tomorrow. A girl could always use an extra eye.”

  Standing also, he barely winced at the pain in his hip. “Until tomorrow.”

  Still with a wide grin, she bobbed her head and then turned to leave. As she passed the bookshelf, she took a Gothic and waggled it. “For later.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “Good night, Miss Parkes.”

  She hesitated. “You may call me Gwen. If you like.” A furious blush blazed her cheeks.

  His ears felt warm. “I may?”

  “Yes.” She took a breath and lifted her gaze to his. “May I call you Edward?”

  Silent, he nodded. She offered a hesitant smile and then departed. He watched her leave then, suffused with a feeling of intense happiness, he sat in the chair and smiled at the fire.

  Until tomorrow.

  Chapter Five

  SHE WASN’T HERE YET.

  Edward glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer. To be fair, it wasn’t precisely eleven o’clock, and he had been in the hall for a good ten minutes. Gwen wasn’t late, wasn’t even remotely so. And yet he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock.

  Exhaling, he forced himself to shift his regard elsewhere. Thinking better of it, he turned his body so the clock was on his blind side. Maybe if he had to physically move himself he would cease the constant time checking. He tugged at his sleeves, adjusted the length of his waistcoat, and then he had to force himself to cease that, too. This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t be so...unsettled because he was to spend the day with Gwen.

  Gwen. He rolled her name, the name she had given him leave to use, around in his mind. In the letters she had written her name, all versions of it. Miss Parkes. Gwendolyn. Gwennie. His lip quirked at the last. In her letters, she had spoken of her dislike for that permutation, and yet he could understand why her friend Etta would use it. Gwen would become exasperated by its use, and yet she would be delighted by the affection behind the diminutive. Just as he was delighted she’d invited him to call her by her familiar.

  Heat rose on his skin, and he cursed himself. Damnation, when had he become so easy to fluster?

  The grandfather clock in the hall started to chime, signalling the change of the hour, and a sound drew his attention to the stairs. Hand trailing along the balustrade, Gwen descended, her gaze arrested by something to the side.

  Hands tightening behind his back, Edward battled the strange feeling swelling within him, an emotion that felt too large for his body to contain. A kind of roil began in his stomach, a mix of excitement and uncertainty and God only knew what else.

  Willing his stomach to settle, he followed the line of her eye. He could see nothing of interest, but then he’d walked this house all his life. What seemed normal to him could seem odd to her. A smile tugged at him. It seemed that happened often since her arrival.

  He moved to greet her, and she transferred her gaze to him, a wide grin on her face as she stopped on the second to last stair. “Did you know there’s a gargoyle over that door?”

  The stairs gave her height, making her gaze level with his. He glanced at the door she mentioned, and a hideous creature grinned down at him. As expected, what was normal to him was strange to others. “Yes.”

  “A gargoyle. Indoors.” Grin still wide, she shook her head.

  He didn’t know how to answer, and so instead he offered his arm, the good one. Her fingers slid over his coat sleeve, curling around his forearm in a firm grip. The feel of her sent heat spiralling through him, tying his tongue. Damnation, why could he not say anything when he was with her? “Did you wear sturdy shoes?”

  Her brows shot up. “Of course.”

  “Good.” Leading her from the house and across the driveway, he cursed himself. Of course it was when he finally managed to speak, it would be to blurt inane questions.

  As they walked, the familiar sights of Sowrith wrapped around him. The unrelenting cloud of the sky. The dark grey of rock. The dull green of grass. Each step they took calmed him, reminded him of what he loved about Sowrith. About his home.

  “Are we to walk in silence?”

  Gwen. Gwen was beside him. Gwen, to whom it seemed he could not utter two words together. “No. We can talk.”

  A sunny smile lit her face, so bright he was dazzled. “Oh. Good. Although, I seem to have some trouble providing conversation.”

  Surprise made him look at her sharply. “You? You don’t have any trouble If anything, I—” He shut his mouth before he incriminated himself further.

  She raised her brows. “You…”

  He’d put his foot in it now. “I am not the most...verbose of persons.” His lips twisted. “Not in person, anyway.”

  Lifting a shoulder, she squeezed his arm. “Not everyone has to be. You say enough, when it matters.”

  The tips of his ears burned. Damnation. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How is your family?”

  Her expression bled of animation. “Fine.”

  “Your mother is well? Your father?”

>   She shrugged.

  “Your father has not had another episode?”

  She shrugged again.

  His brows drew. She’d not before been reticent to speak of her family. “Do you not wish to speak of this?”

  “No, I— No.” She sighed. “As far as I know, my father is well. Etta has not reported otherwise.”

  The ground was uneven, and he had to concentrate on his gait before he could answer. “Your mother still does not communicate with you?”

  “She thinks she’s shielding me, that my life will be easier without knowing his condition.” She exhaled. “I’m hoping to visit them soon, and then I’ll know for myself his condition and hers. Neither of them is young anymore.”

  He remained silent a moment, pretending he was again concentrating on his gait. Eventually, he said, “At least you will know. And that will be good.”

  She nodded. “At least I will know.”

  Silence fell as they walked, broken only by the wind. For miles before them the moors stretched, broken by the jut of rock as if the earth was offended by the unrelenting reach of the grey sky. Behind them, Sowrithil would be a speck, a tiny man-made break in the wildness of the moors. The wind was not as harsh here in this shallow valley, merely threading gentle fingers through his hair rather than dragging it from his skull.

  Edward drew them to a halt. This was his favourite of spots, the babbling stream at the base of the valley thin enough to step over easily, but fulsome enough to provide a rush of sound. “I love the moors.”

  He could almost feel her eyes upon him. “I love the greyness of them, the harshness. The way they roll forever as far as one could imagine in a sea of dark grey and green, an endless voyage.” The sky changed to a darker shade as the sun ducked beneath another cloud. “Your eyes are grey, a million shades of it.”

  He heard her draw in her breath. Almost reluctantly, he glanced at her. Grey eyes wide, she regarded him with surprise and something that approached fascination and…and…

  He hunched his shoulders. “What?”

  Without a word, she shook her head.

  Bravado was the only solution. Squaring his shoulders and improving his bearing, he demanded, “What?”

  “You say such...” As if in disbelief, she shook her head again. “There is such beauty in your words.”

  She’d robbed him of what little speech he had.

  “It’s like your letters, Edward. You say such things of beauty, and I don’t know...I don’t know how to respond.”

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wished himself anywhere but here.

  “No, don’t do that.” Frustration made her words sharp. “Don’t stop. It’s amazing. You’re amazing. I’m not... I don’t mean it like...” She exhaled forcefully. “I don’t know what I mean.” Her gaze searched him. “Why can you write such things, Edward? How?”

  Hands balling in his pockets, he shrugged. “It’s paper.”

  “And that is different?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “But here just now. You were telling me these things.”

  Yes, he had. He didn’t know... “It was different.”

  “How?”

  “We’re here on the moors, and I—” Words stuck in his throat. Damnation, why wouldn’t they come?

  “Edward.” Her hand slid up his lapel. Turning, he found her grey gaze upon him, a faint crease between her brows. “What is different?”

  He stared into her eyes. She met his monocular gaze, no part of her expression revolted by the eye patch, the scars. He glanced at her hand, stroking his chest almost absently, her attention fully and totally on him. “When I received your letter, the one meant for Etta, it was like a ray of light, a beacon through relentless grey, so I responded, and you sent your next letter, and they... You were so full of joy it bubbled out from the page and made me think perhaps I could experience it if only a little. You had Etta and your parents and your employment, and though all three annoyed you on occasion, you had such…illumination.” His finger began a mad rhythm against his leg. “I’ve never had any of that. I’ve been here alone since the accident. I didn’t go to Eton. I was too ill. By the time I was old enough to attend university, I was so far behind there was no point. I went to London for the Season, but... That did not turn out well.” Memories of horrified stares assaulted him, the whispers and notoriety that had come with his foray into society. Forcing the memories away, he said, “So I came home and stayed.

  “Then you sent me a letter. A bright, shining thing, and we corresponded, and I...I wanted to meet you. So I arranged it that Beecham brought you to Sowrith, but I never thought he would not tell you, that I—” He grimaced. “You know what happened.”

  “Then you arrived. You were here, and I couldn’t... There were no words. So I stood like a fool and watched you, and I wished I had the words that came so easily by pen. You were just like your letters—bright and gold and glittering with your smile and your lightness, even when you frowned. And that was amazing to me. You are amazing to me. I wish I could…I wish I could tell you…” Finally, he looked at her.

  Eyes wide, she stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

  Shifting his weight, he averted his gaze. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I—”

  A gentle finger against his lips stilled his words, and he remained silent as her hand slipped to cup his cheek. The ruined one. Emotion shuddered through him as he absorbed her touch.

  “See? You say such things, and I can’t…” Her thumb tracing his cheekbone, her other hand slid up his chest to crumple his lapel as she pulled. Following her direction, he leant down.

  Tentatively, her lips brushed his.

  Hardly daring to breath, he stood stock still as she hesitantly explored the shape of his mouth, her lips moulding to his with small stops and starts. Her tongue darted against his lips, and he shuddered, the sensation exquisite and overwhelming.

  Wrapping his good arm around her, he urged her close. She came, her arms slipping about his neck as her lips opened under his. The wind tore at his hair and howled in his ears, his heart thundering in his chest. Her mouth was warm and eager, tasting of honey and gold. Of Gwen.

  They broke apart and stared at each other. Slowly, he brought his good hand to brush a lock from her face. She caught his fingers, her thumb caressing the back of them.

  Watching the tangle of their hands, he said softly, “I’d always hoped it would be like this. With you.”

  She turned her head into the cradle of his hand. “Is that why I’m here?”

  The tips of his ears heated as his tongue tied itself into knots once more.

  She sighed. “You’ve disrupted my life, you know.”

  He traced her ear with his finger. “Does it make you feel any better that you’ve disrupted mine?”

  A small smile flitted about her lips. “A little.”

  Warmth started in his chest. “Because you have. Immensely.”

  “Immensely?” The smile became a grin. “Well, that makes me feel much better.”

  He smiled in return and hoped the ruined thing his expression didn’t disturb her. It didn’t seem to. Her grin merely became brighter as the wind whipped around them.

  All was silent for a moment, but her words bothered him. “I’m sorry.”

  Surprise lit her expression. “For what?”

  “Disrupting your life.”

  Her expression bled of the grin. Now serious, she said, “Thank you.”

  He nodded sharply. “You will tell me if you encounter any trouble?”

  “Yes.” Her hand slipped into his and squeezed. “But let’s not think of that now. It might never happen.” She leant into him, her head fitting into the hollow of his shoulder.

  Wrapping his arm about her, he stared out over the moor. No, he would not think of such things, for they meant there might be a time when she was not near.

  Chapter Six

  EDWARD STOOD AT THE base of the stair
s. Shoulders relaxed and without a cane, he stood with his head turned as if examining the panelling on the wall before him.

  Hand trailing the balustrade, Gwen enjoyed the chance to simply look. Though ruthlessly pomaded, his hair still curled about his ears and tickled his collar, too long for fashionable society but perfect on him. The wind would whip it about him as they walked the moors, and she loved how it appeared when they returned to Sowrithil, a mad tumble of loose curls snared wild about his head. Now, though, it lay mostly tame and sleek along his skull, combed to hide the beginning of the scar on his left side.

  The evening coat he wore was tailored to perfection, one of the suits he must have acquired during his brief stint in London. Black fabric hugged the broadness of his shoulders, outlined the slimness of his hips. His grey trousers clung to thighs made powerful by walking the uneven moors, while the off-white waistcoat, shirt, and cravat contrasted with the unfashionable darkness of his skin. He spent much time outdoors and though the sun was often hidden behind cloud, his flesh showed a tan she had to admit she didn’t find unattractive. Oh no, it was just the opposite.

  He stood at the base of the stairs, seemingly careless and carefree, his bearing proud. He looked every inch what he was—a duke.

  Her step faltered. Quickly, she recovered herself. It did not matter he was a duke. He was Edward, and that was all that mattered to her.

  Glancing up, he saw her and he smiled, his careful smile, the one that didn’t pull at his scar. The one that made her feel she was the person he most wanted to see in all the world. “Gwen,” he said, and the pleasure in his voice sent a shiver through her.

  She took the arm he held out, his right arm. “You look beautiful, Edward.”

  His cheeks turned ruddy. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

  “Maybe men aren’t, but you are. To me.” She felt bold this evening, bold enough to say some of her thoughts as they occurred, and she thought him beautiful. He should know that.