by Shana Galen
“Oh, but I see by your expression—what I can see of it since you have half your face covered—that you think I am being modest. I assure you I am not. I am very plain, Mr. Pope. I have mousy brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes, and I’m too tall and too thin. And since you are not able to see them, I will say I am covered with freckles. I don’t stay out of the sun as I should, but even if I did, I would still have thousands. So if you are imagining me to be beautiful, you can stop now. I understand if you no longer wish to hold my hands.”
Nash sat very still for a long moment. Miss Howard’s words were spoken in a light tone, but he imagined what she’d just revealed was not as amusing to her as she feigned. He heard her chair move against the floor as she pushed back and caught her hand before she could back away.
“I don’t need to see you to know you’re beautiful,” he said, holding her still.
“But I told you—”
“And I want to do much more than simply hold your hand.” Nash rose, slowly, still clasping her hand but doing so loosely in case she wanted to escape. When she didn’t flee and didn’t pull away, he tugged her forward until her body was almost touching his. Only then did he release her hands and hold up one of his own. “Let me see you,” he said. “The only way I can.”
For a long moment, she didn’t speak, and then she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her skin was smooth and warm and impossibly soft. He’d forgotten how soft women’s skin could be, but even whatever memories he could muster did not do the softness of her skin justice. She was no fine lady. He had felt the calluses on her hands and the roughness that came from labor. He had his own calluses, and once his hands had been far rougher than hers would ever be. But the skin of her cheek was like the most exquisite silk. He tried to imagine it covered with freckles, tried to trace where those freckles might be with one finger. She wiggled. “That tickles.”
“I was tracing a line of freckles,” he said. “Right over here.” He touched her nose and felt the shape of it. To her credit, she was quite patient with the exploration, though she must have felt strange having a man trace the contours of her nose. It seemed an average nose—not too big or too small. Straight and somewhat narrow.
“Watch your eyes,” he said as he moved to the bridge of her nose and slid his fingers carefully over her brow and then over her closed eyelid. Her lashes were delicate against his fingertip. He moved to her forehead, felt how her brow was furrowed, skated high enough to feel the softness of her hair. She’d called it mousy brown. “Is your hair long?” he asked. “And pinned up?”
“Yes, though I must admit I have no skill with hairdressing. It’s a very simple knot.”
He would have liked to let her hair down, feel it cascade over his skin. Regardless of the color, it was soft and smelled faintly of cinnamon.
He’d saved the best for last because he’d needed to gather his fortitude. His fingers moved back down her face, over her temple and her cheek to her jaw. It was a well-defined jaw and, he soon discovered, a fairly pointy chin. Then his hand moved up to touch her lips.
She inhaled slightly when she realized his intent. He heard her catch her breath and he hoped the sound was more from desire than discomfort. His index finger moved higher until he touched skin so tender it must be her lips. Like the rest of her skin, they were soft and pliant. He tried to learn their shape, finding them not too thin and not too plump, but a shape he could well imagine kissing. “I want to do more than hold your hands,” he said again, brushing his thumb over her lips to make the point clearer.
“Mrs. Blimkin,” she murmured.
“Is obviously a very poor chaperone.”
“She doesn’t have much experience.”
He leaned closer, so close he could feel her warm breath against his own lips. “How fortunate for us.” He slid his hand to the back of her neck, his fingers grazing the small tendrils of hair too fine and short to be caught in her updo. And then he leaned down to press his mouth to hers. He could not see details and fully expected to miss her mouth or catch only the side of it, but she adjusted her position and met him halfway, so their lips brushed together.
A flicker of heat coiled in his belly and spread through his torso and out to his limbs. It had been so long since he’d felt anything other than numbness that the sensation was odd and unfamiliar at first. But as her lips touched his, he realized what it was. Desire. The feeling was faint. It was like a vine pushing out of a seed and through the darkness of the soil above it. But he knew it was there. He knew he was capable of the feeling. Somewhere, under the pain and sadness and hopelessness, were the beginnings of life.
She pressed her lips against his, turning the brush of skin against skin into a real kiss. Contrary to his concerns that he’d scare her away, she was taking the lead. Miss Howard had been kissed before. Her lips parted slightly, just enough that he might taste her, and it was clear she hadn’t just been kissed. She knew how to kiss.
His heart began to pound and needs he had not acknowledged, had not known he still had, began to claw their way from the depths of the dark place he’d pushed them. Her arms went around him, and her body met his. He could feel her small, firm breasts against his chest. His hand on the nape of her neck tightened as he struggled to control the emotions swirling inside him. He hardly knew how to feel. He felt too much, and it threatened to overwhelm him.
Nash pulled back, breathing hard, grasping the table with both hands to keep from tumbling backward. He was dizzy and perspiring. His heart hammered as though he were being fired upon by the French. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply, to feel his feet planted firmly on the floor, to slow his heartbeat. After a moment, he realized Miss Howard was speaking.
“—shouldn’t have done that. I am so sorry, Mr. Pope. I don’t know what came over me. Are you well? Do you need some wine or a cold compress?”
He reached out and felt for her hand. She took his, holding it firmly. Her touch anchored him, calmed him.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice coming out gruffer than he’d intended. “I mean, there’s no need for apology.”
She was silent, and he could all but feel her grasping for words. Of course, she felt she needed to apologize. He was practically in a full-blown panic. How could he explain?
“I didn’t expect to...” he began. Then he cleared his throat, felt for the chair behind him, and sat.
“Here.” She placed a glass in his hands, and he drank the water like a man who has just finished a long run.
“Thank you. Miss Howard?” He tried to focus on her, but it was pointless. All she would ever be to him was a nebulous form—except when he’d kissed her. Then she’d been very real, very solid and warm.
“I’m here.” She took his hand.
“It has been a long time since I have kissed anyone. That’s all. I haven’t allowed myself to feel...” He did not want to explain. He did not want to think about his feelings himself, much less explain them.
“I understand,” she said. But how could she? How could anyone understand when he was still trying to figure it out?
“We moved too fast,” she said. “Next time, we’ll take things slowly.”
“Next time?” His voice was raspy, but he heard the hope in it.
“If you want there to be a next time. I...oh, I should not have said that. I should not want there to be a next time. I am supposed to be teaching you, not kissing you, but I have to make a confession, Mr. Pope.”
He shouldn’t allow her to confess anything. They’d already gone too far.
“Go on,” he said, uncharacteristically reckless.
“I find you difficult to resist. There’s something about you that draws me to you. It’s not just that you’re so handsome, though no man as handsome as you has ever so much as looked at me twice.”
Nash let out a startled breath. “Handsome?” His hand itched to go to his wounded eye. “I’m disfigured.”
“Oh, no! You’re quite hands
ome.”
He shook his head. Was she mocking him? Or was it possible he looked much as he always had except for the eye, which he was sure to cover with his hair? “You wouldn’t think that if you saw my eye,” he said, gesturing toward it.
“Yes, I would.”
“Miss Howard—”
“Would you call me Pru? I feel awkward enough after kissing you without you calling me Miss Howard. And I don’t care what your eye looks like. It won’t make you less handsome.”
“I should show you and send you running and screaming.”
“Go ahead.” Her voice held a note of challenge. “It won’t change my opinion.”
There was a long pause. She’d called his bluff, and now he’d been caught with his proverbial trousers down.
“I think I’ve had enough of lessons for tonight,” he said.
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I should collect Mrs. Blimkin and go. I’m sure it’s quite late.”
She moved away from him, and he almost reached out to catch her. Instead, he stayed where he was and said, “Miss—I mean, Pru?”
Her footsteps halted. “Yes?”
“You will come tomorrow, won’t you?”
“I will, and I will come earlier. I think it might do you some good to get out of doors and away from the workmen.”
“Will your Mrs. Northgate allow that?”
“She will if I can finish the ruffles on the dress’s bodice. Wish me good luck. I need it.” She muttered the last words.
And then she was gone, and he was alone. For a moment, he thought that the underwater feeling would return. He would feel trapped in murky water, unable to rise to the surface. But he was still warm from her touch, and that flicker of desire was still there. It was faint, but he could still feel it.
Eleven
Pru all but floated down the stairs to the kitchens. She was in a warm, hazy daze of happiness.
Mr. Pope had kissed her. Mr. Pope had touched her. He’d pulled her close and gently cradled the back of her head, and she had never felt more cherished.
The actual kitchen was under repair, and the servants’ dining room had been turned into a makeshift kitchen with the dining table used for preparation and the hearth for cooking. Pru was already in the servants’ dining room before she realized she had walked into a battle.
“—and I will thank you kindly to keep your opinions to yourself,” Mrs. Blimkin said, hands on her generous hips and face red with anger.
Pru froze. Oh, no. If Mrs. Blimkin and Mrs. Brown did not get on then she would not be able to return. There would be no more kisses. But a quick glance at Mrs. Brown showed she looked as concerned as Pru—ostensibly for different reasons.
“There is no reason to take offense, Mrs. Blimkin,” said a well-dressed man Pru had not seen before. “Mr. Pope is recovering from a long illness, and simple, bland fare is best until he regains his strength and appetite.” The man spoke with authority and, in Pru’s mind, bravery. Either he was very brave or very foolish to challenge Mrs. Blimkin’s cooking.
He was a few inches taller than Pru, probably right at six feet, and he had dark hair that he wore combed back from his forehead and tied into a queue at the nape of his neck. It was so neat it could have been a wig. Indeed, he need only powder it, and it might pass for a wig. He was impeccably dressed in a dark coat and breeches, his hose perfectly white and his pumps shiny black. His cravat was simple but definitely starched. His light-colored eyes met hers and he furrowed his brow delicately as he took her in. His thin lips pursed, and the nostrils of his aquiline nose flared as though he were a large predator who had just scented prey.
“Precisely how many meals have you prepared, Mr. Clopdon?” Mrs. Blimkin demanded.
The man seemed to reluctantly look away from Pru. “It is simply Clopdon, Mrs. Blimkin. And I have prepared my fair share.”
“Well, then. I have prepared more than my fair share and then some, and what that man needs is food to tempt his palate. His body doesn’t know how hungry it is, and we need to wake it up.”
Mrs. Brown looked from one to the other then cast a pleading look at Pru. She cleared her throat. Pru nodded. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”
“Rich foods will make him ill,” Clopdon said, ignoring Pru’s interjection. “I have been put in charge of his care, and I will not have it.”
“Well!” Mrs. Blimkin was holding a large spoon, and Pru was half-afraid she would throw it. “You have been put in charge of his clothing, Mr. Clopdon. I have taken charge of his diet, and I will not be told how to cook after forty years of experience. Stick to waistcoats and get out of my kitchen.”
“How can I stick to waistcoats if you make the man ill? You need—”
“Clopdon, is it?” Pru said loudly enough to ensure all eyes turned to her. She crossed the servants’ dining room to stand before him, which had the added effect of putting her between Mrs. Blimkin and the man. “I assume you are the man responsible for how well Mr. Pope is dressed this evening. I am Miss Prudence Howard.”
Clopdon raised his head. “I am the man charged with the care of Mr. Pope. Mr. Payne found himself detained and has hired me as the valet. I am also empowered to hire other staff.” He pointed at Mrs. Blimkin. “I did not hire her.”
“You couldn’t afford me!” Mrs. Blimkin said.
“Of course, Mrs. Blimkin is not for hire,” Pru said loudly. “She is housekeeper for Mr. Higginbotham, who is the vicar of Milcroft. She only came today as a favor to me. I have been engaged as a reading and writing tutor for Mr. Pope, and Mrs. Blimkin agreed to chaperone me. Out of the kindness of her heart and as a favor to Mrs. Brown, who has taken on far too much, she prepared some delicious meals. In fact”—Pru looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Blimkin—“Mr. Pope sent his compliments on the shepherd’s pie. He ate almost all of it.” She hastily turned back to Clopdon. “But not so much as to make him ill, sir. I do think if you taste Mrs. Blimkin’s cooking you will see she seasons it well but not heavily.”
“Miss Howard, your loyalty toward this woman does you credit, but—"
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Blimkin,” Pru said, sensing that things were about to take another contentious return. “It does grow late, and we should start back if we’re to return Mr. Langford’s dog cart and get ourselves to bed at a decent hour.”
Mrs. Blimkin eyed Clopdon one last time then nodded stiffly. “I know when I am not wanted.” With a swish of her skirts she crossed the dining room and went out the door to the yard where they had left the dog cart and horse.
“I do hope she will come back,” Mrs. Brown said quietly.
“You do not need her, Mrs. Brown,” Clopdon said. “We will get on well enough without a person like that.” And then he too stormed out, marching up the stairs with a huff. Clearly, Pru thought, Clopdon has not tasted Mrs. Brown’s cooking yet.
“We will return tomorrow,” Pru said quietly to Mrs. Brown. “We’ll come earlier, and I will take Mr. Pope outside and away from the hammering, which I know grates on his nerves. Mrs. Blimkin will prepare dinner. Did she leave something for breakfast?”
“She did, Miss Howard.”
“Good. That means you should be able to rest. You have been working yourself to the bone.”
She nodded and Pru noticed that the woman’s eyes were moist. She crossed the room and took her hands. “What is it, Mrs. Brown? Did their arguing upset you?”
“No, it’s not that,” the older woman sniffed. “I am just so happy things are finally taking a turn. I have been so worried for Mr. Pope.”
“I do not think he would have survived this long without your care, Mrs. Brown. But now you can stop worrying. I will make sure Mr. Pope is cared for. Mrs. Blimkin will come and this Clopdon seems capable.”
Mrs. Brown nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, all of this is good. I just hope it will be enough.”
Pru frowned. “Enough?”
“Yes, Miss Howard. Enough to convince the earl. You see, he plans to send Mr. Pope
to an asylum. And if he’s sent there, I fear he will never come out again.”
PRU COULD NOT GET THE word asylum out of her mind. Mr. Pope in an asylum. She couldn’t allow that. He did not belong in an asylum any more than she did. He had been through a traumatic experience. He needed comfort and understanding, not to be locked away for the rest of his life. Now she understood why Mr. Payne had moved forward with the repairs to the house, even though Mr. Pope was clearly not ready for that step. And Mr. Pope’s friend had hired a valet as well—not because Mr. Pope needed one but because the earl would see such an addition as a sign that his son was doing well.
“Why do you even bother to come if this is the work you do?” Mrs. Northgate said, startling Pru. She’d been preoccupied with the problem of the asylum all morning. Not only had her stitches been uneven, she realized just now she was sitting and staring at the dress and not even sewing.
“I apologize, Mrs. Northgate,” she said quickly. She lifted the dress and stabbed the needle into it.
“Cease!” Mrs. Northgate said.
Pru froze.
“Put the dress aside. I won’t have you ruin it because your mind is elsewhere. What is troubling you, girl?”
“It’s Mr. Pope,” Pru said, setting the dress material on the table between them. Mrs. Northgate picked the dress up and frowned down at the work Pru had not done. “Mrs. Brown told me the earl plans to send him to an asylum.”
Mrs. Northgate looked up. “Really?”
“Yes. How could he do that to his own son?”
Mrs. Northgate picked up the threaded needle and began to work, almost as though it was second nature. “I am sure the earl would never send his son to a place like Bedlam. He will choose a highly regarded institution.”
“But Mrs. Northgate! It’s an institution nonetheless, and you know once he is taken away, he will never be free again. He will be alone, among strangers. We cannot allow it to happen.”
Mrs. Northgate looked up at her, brows raised in surprise. “How can we prevent it? Mr. Pope’s family surely knows better than either you or I.”