She did not think she could feel rage in the same way anymore. She had no doubt she could feel it to the same degree, but not as something so immediate, uncomplicated by experience or conscience.
She pulled the dress over her head, trying to analyze her anticipation and, yes, undeniable pleasure. Sheffield didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see, hear, or explain. To him, she was a normal woman: exasperating, vivacious, unfathomable, impertinent, if she’d correctly heard the words he’d uttered under his breath as he’d waited for Hayden, but normal, nonetheless. And the final epithet he’d muttered last night had held a quite different connotation from any of the other times it had been attached to her.
He’d called her a beguiling witch.
Her mouth curved into a smile as she opened her bedroom door and hastened down the stairs to the library. At the bottom, she counted to twenty. It would never do for him to see her out of breath.
“Good morning, Lord Sheffield,” she said, entering.
He was bent over a table, scrutinizing a small figurine. He did not straighten or turn his head. “What is this thing?” he asked without preamble.
No manners at all. She sighed loudly, letting her disapproval be known, and then moved to his side to see what he was frowning at. “That is a Japanese netsuke.”
“It looks like Donnie MacKee in diapers.”
She stifled the impulse to laugh. “I believe it is a type of athlete known as a sumo wrestler.”
“What is it doing here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you have it? How did you—” He’d started to turn to look at her and seemed to have forgotten what he’d been about to say. His gaze swept over her. He swallowed.
“How did I what, Lord Sheffield?” she asked, a little breathlessly. She must have taken the stairs faster than she’d realized.
“How did you come by it?”
She studied him a moment. His hair was shaggy and touched by charcoal gray at the temples. He looked…perplexed. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Always,” he replied.
“I had it sent here from an antiquities dealer in Edinburgh. I acquired it to provoke conversation and inquiry into that country’s history. That’s the how and why for most of the things you see in the house. I’ve considered it part of Amelie’s education,” she said. “Now it is my turn. Why do you want to know?”
“You have never been to Japan, and neither has Miss Chase. You have no occidental blood, and neither does Miss Chase.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I am curious about you.”
She started. Had he been referring to her alone or the plural that would include Amelie?
He smiled. It reached into his eyes and lit them from within, and she realized that though he might not be beautiful, when he smiled like this, he was undeniably handsome. “You, Mrs. Walcott,” he said, reading her thoughts.
She didn’t know what to make of that. It flustered her. Which may well have been his intent. Her eyes grew round. Had kissing been an attempt to fluster her, too? Oh!
She stepped away from his side, uncomfortably aware of how much space he filled and how his masculine heat disturbed the air.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
His smile faded. Consternation took its place. “Two reasons, actually.”
“Yes?”
“The first has to do with…well…”
“What are you waiting for, Sheffield?” she asked, her curiosity aroused. “Get on with it.”
He scowled at her. “Do not try to bully me, Fanny Walcott. The matter I wish to speak of requires some diplomacy, and I am trying to think how to phrase it.”
So, he was going to apologize. Her mouth must have dropped open, because his frown deepened.
“You needn’t look like that. I am fully capable of diplomacy. Just…wait a moment, won’t you?”
He looked vastly uncomfortable. And after a few more minutes of waiting, when it became obvious he hadn’t made much progress, she decided to take matters into her own hands. It was her usual response to any given situation. “Let me help you, Sheffield,” she said. “You have come to apologize for accosting me.”
He gaped at her, frozen in place.
“Don’t worry. I accept your apology.” She gave him a kindly smile.
It had the effect of breaking his paralysis. “I most certainly am not here to apologize for kissing you. Why should I? There’s nothing to apologize for. You enjoyed kissing me as much as I did you.”
Heat piled up her chest, into her neck, and up to her face. “Oh! Bounder!”
He made a dismissive gesture of disgust. “Ach. Tell me you did not enjoy our kiss. I dare you.”
“That is not the point!” she said, growing flustered.
“I think it very much is,” he countered.
“You did not ask permission. You…you took me by storm!”
A slow, amused smile spread over his dark, bold face. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Walcott, I assure you, you were not taken by storm. Should that have happened, you would not now be standing here berating me for kissing you.”
“Then where would I be?” she demanded, setting her hands on her hips.
“Still abed. With me.”
She gasped, more from the immediate carnal images his few words conjured than the embarrassment she suspected she should be feeling. In bed with Grey after an entire night of his mouth, his hands… She gasped again.
“All right,” he muttered. “I concede that warrants an apology. Forgive me.”
“I should say so!” Fanny huffed, with more indignation than she felt.
“You provoke me.”
“That is not an adequate defense,” she replied.
“No. It’s not,” he said, and grinned. “You would have made a good barrister.”
Her lips quirked in response, but she stomped out the impulse. “Do you think so? Perhaps I shall pursue your profession someday after we leave Little Firkin. Who knows? We might meet in court to argue opposing sides of a case.”
“I should welcome the opportunity to have you under oath, Mrs. Walcott,” he said, his gaze lazily tracking her movements.
“Oh, but I wouldn’t be there as a witness,” she replied. “I would be there as counsel.”
“But counsel is always under oath, Mrs. Walcott. Didn’t you know that? Perhaps you’d better rethink law as a career option after all.”
She felt herself flush. “Why? Because you think I am constitutionally incapable of the truth?”
He shook his head slightly. “No. I am not sure what I think about you.”
He abruptly clasped his hands behind his back and took a broad stance before her. “That is the other reason I came.”
“Ah, we’re back to it, are we? Yes. Do tell me why you are here.”
He frowned at her, but then cleared his throat. “First, to reassure you that Miss Chase and her heart are perfectly safe with Hayden.”
“What do you mean?”
“The boy might be a bit of a bounder, but not where young ladies of quality are concerned. He is well aware that Miss Chase is required to live in Little Firkin for over two more years and therefore any relationship between them would be curtailed by both time and distance. Consequently, he would never encourage her to think of him as anything more than a casual friend. A very casual friend.”
“But he held her hand,” Fanny protested, at the same time all too aware of the incongruity of her protest. Grey had done far more than hold her hand, and she didn’t think of him as even a friend. But then, she was not eighteen.
“And I daresay she liked it. But that is hardly a declaration of undying devotion, is it?”
Unhappily, Fanny agreed. “No.” Perhaps she was overreacting. “I do not want her hurt, Sheffield.”
“No one does. Including Hayden. The boy would never do anything to hurt her. I guarantee it.”
His guarantee did make her feel better. There was no re
ason Amelie shouldn’t enjoy the company of an attentive young man. It would be good practice for when she did enter society. “If you say so,” she told Grey. “You know the lad well enough to make such an assurance, so I will accept it.”
“I do.”
She nodded. “And now, what was the second reason for your visit?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, then took a deep breath. “To tell you that I may have misjudged you.”
She blinked. It was the last thing she expected to hear.
“I spent the evening assessing everything I know of you and Colonel Chase and his daughter and his will,” Grey went on. “Despite intense scrutiny, I cannot discern how any conspiracy you could concoct would benefit you more than you will be simply by staying the course here. Especially since you have already put in six years of hard labor. You see, I was not deaf to your gilded-cage allusion.” He regarded her with obvious satisfaction.
Fanny stared at him in bemusement. Why, the arrogant bastard actually believed himself to have delivered her a compliment by telling her he didn’t think she was scamming anyone.
He waited. “Well?”
She pulled herself out of her astonished state. “Would you like me to thank you?” she asked.
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
He was amazing. “Good.” The ass. She fixed him with an enigmatic smile. “But what if you’re wrong?”
He met her gaze. His expression subtly, almost imperceptibly softened. “It’s a possibility I’m prepared to risk,” he said.
The wind abruptly ran out of Fanny’s sails. The bastard. He’d confounded her again. Just when she’d been about to verbally rip him to shreds. Because he’d meant it.
This hard, clinical logician was willing to take the chance that she might not be a cheat and a fraud and a schemer, and it melted her heart. He must be crazy about her. She must be going daft. On the face of it, it didn’t seem all that momentous. Or flattering. But it was. Because Grey Sheffield didn’t know how to trust anything other than his reason, any more than she knew how to trust anyone but herself.
Time and experience had set them deep into their molds, and fighting free was a difficult and risk-laden proposition.
A terrified squeal rent the silence.
It was Violet. Chances were she was just squealing. She did that when she came upon a spider unawares. Still, Fanny could not ignore the fear in her voice.
“Excuse me,” she said to Sheffield, and hurried from the room. At the end of the cluttered hallway, Violet hung from Mr. Oglethorpe’s grip, her face ashen. Fanny stopped, collecting herself.
Even at a distance, Oglethorpe’s eyes looked bloodshot and wild. He glared at her.
From the door at the end of the hall, Miss Oglethorpe emerged, drying her hands. Her small eyes darted from Violet to Oglethorpe to Fanny. Fanny welcomed her with relief. She had no standing with Oglethorpe, but his sister would.
“Miss Oglethorpe, please tell your brother to let go of Violet.”
Miss Oglethorpe’s pinched face twisted in disapproval, but she remained silent.
Oglethorpe gave Violet a shake. The girl went as limp as a rag doll, scaring Fanny.
“I’ll teach you, witchling!” he ground out.
“Please, Miss Oglethorpe,” Fanny pleaded.
The woman regarded her with mute obstinacy. “He’s a man of God. Not fer me to tell him what to do,” she clipped out. And with that, she wheeled around as though afraid she could be pressed into service against her will.
“Vicar. Whatever Violet has done I am sure she is sorry for it.”
“Done? I’ll tell you what this devil brat has done!” Oglethorpe sputtered. “She cursed me!”
“Oh, Violet.” Fanny had no doubt he spoke the truth. Violet was always casting spells. What Fanny couldn’t believe was that the girl was so stupid that she’d cursed the vicar right to his face.
“What the bloody hell is going on out here? Who are you, and what the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Grey spoke from behind her. “Let that girl go.”
Instant relief and gratitude washed through her. Oglethorpe took one look at the giant behind her and released Violet.
The girl threw herself against the wall and edged away from Oglethorpe, tears streaking down her dirty little face.
“Say you’re sorry, Violet,” Fanny said. Even though he’d released her, Oglethorpe still looked capable of violence.
“I ain’t going to!” Violet shook her head. “He come in the kitchen and says ’ow I’m goin’ to hell, along with Gram and all me brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts, and then he goes on to say ’ow everyone in this house is cursed, and so I says he might as well join the party, and I puts the curse on him. And I ain’t takin’ it back!”
Fanny stared, uncertain how to proceed. Violet sniffed, Oglethorpe frothed, and suddenly Grey burst into laughter.
“Good God, Fanny, I see why you keep the chit around! Well done, Violet!”
Oglethorpe’s countenance turned an alarming shade of purple.
“Best go, Oglethorpe, before you grow horns or cloven feet or… What sort of curse did you say you put on the vicar, Violet?” Grey went on to inquire.
“Bowel troubles,” she intoned darkly.
“Good God,” Grey said, feigning shock, “then you really had better be off, old chap.”
Fanny couldn’t help it. She started laughing and, once started, she could not stop. The vicar, reduced to being the butt of a ribald joke, trembled in impotent rage.
“And, Vicar,” Grey said, still smiling, even though all warmth had left both his eyes and his tone, “do not come back. You are not welcome here.”
“I think it got stuck up in those shrubs,” Amelie called to Hayden.
Her handkerchief had pulled free of her sleeve when she’d responded to Hayden’s gentle—if frustratingly respectful—embrace. A flirtatious wind had blown it into the slow-moving river, and Hayden had leaped to rescue it and disappeared in the undergrowth beside the bank.
Now she waited patiently for her lover to return.
This was her favorite place in the world, a verdant patch of velvety grass spread beneath the emerald bower of ancient oaks. The ground was soft, the light ephemeral, a moss-covered boulder angled just so for leaning against. She always came here when she wanted to think. Or dream.
She’d been engaged in the latter when Hayden had hailed her from the road. She’d looked up to see him at a short distance, silhouetted against the dawn sky, his hair gleaming like liquid gold. He might have walked straight out of her daydreams.
Upon arriving, he’d explained that he’d been searching for her, hoping that she, like him, had been unable to sleep after the wonder of the night before. When she asked how he’d known to find her here rather than at the house, he smiled—he had a dimple!—and explained that he’d been attending carefully when Bernard had mentioned her favorite place at the river’s bend. Eyes twinkling delightfully, he’d told her he’d counted five bends in the river before finding her. He was so romantic!
“Miss Amelie! I say, Miss Amelie!”
At the sound of Bernard McGowan’s voice, she spun around. Bernard pulled his pony cart to a halt by the side of the road and jumped out, striding down the embankment toward her, his handsome faced wreathed in smiles. He was a fine-looking man, Amelie thought, but nothing about him stirred her heart. She’d given it to another.
“Hello, Mr. McGowan. You’re up early today?” It was a question.
“Yes,” he said. “I had a post yesterday that I was eager to share with you. And Mrs. Walcott.”
“Yes?” She inclined her head, wishing Bernard would share his news and go away. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was alone in the wilderness with Hayden. While she did not mind for herself—after all, she already had the stigma of being a witch to contend with, so being considered a bit of a romp didn’t seem too terrible by comparison—she understood that Hayden migh
t feel awkward. Or, even worse, embarrassed.
“Yes. A representative from the Glasgow Art Workers Guild is arriving in Little Firkin next week. Mr. Edgar Rennie. I recall he quite fascinated you on his visit here last fall.”
“Mr. Rennie is coming back?” Amelie asked. “But he swore never to set foot in Little Firkin again after the townsfolk refused to sell him their mud.”
Bernard chuckled. “Clay, Miss Chase,” he said indulgently.
Hayden never looked at her indulgently. He mostly looked awed. Amelie decided she much preferred awed.
“They didn’t refuse to sell him the clay, just their land. He did not want to transport the clay; it’s too expensive. He wanted to build a factory here,” Bernard continued. “His letter says his conscience will not allow him to live with the knowledge that the best clay in Scotland is daily being swept down a river.”
“He was rather frighteningly fervent, don’t you think?” Amelie asked.
“Most visionaries are,” Bernard said. “At any rate, I thought you might enjoy his company again at a little dinner I am hosting. And Mrs. Walcott, of course.”
“Got it!” Hayden’s voice arrived a moment before his hand emerged from the shrubbery, waving about her kerchief. A second later he broke free of the thicket, twigs and leaves in his hair, his collar askew, and a tear in his tweed jacket. He looked extremely virile, even with the handkerchief. “Little blighter was hiding behind some lily— Oh. I say. Hello, McGowan.”
Hayden came up to Amelie’s side and, with a theatrical little flourish, twirled the kerchief and bowed, presenting it to her. “Milady.”
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