“I don’t think I owe you any explanations, Mr. Fawkes.”
He was much too close now, so close that there were only inches between their mouths. Whether to intimidate or…something else, she could not be sure. Her heart began to pound in her chest, but she refused to back down.
“Since I was nearly killed in the crossfire, I beg to differ,” she scoffed.
He leaned in even closer, until she could feel his hot breath against her cheek. Her skin prickled at the sensation, and the pounding of her heart became a full-fledged gallop.
“I haven’t even known you a week, yet you expect me to trust you with my secrets. But you wouldn’t know anything about having secrets, would you, Fawkes?” His voice was hard with challenge, as if he were goading her. As if he knew.
Her heart tripped over itself.
But he couldn’t possibly…
He would have confronted her the moment of his discovery. Wouldn’t he? Unless he was playing a game with her the same as he was with the marquess, baiting her until she broke.
No, she couldn’t believe it.
But a voice in the back of her head told her, if there ever was a time to come clean with him, it was now.
Tell him, tell him, it urged.
She couldn’t do it, though. She couldn’t tell him. She’d waited too long for that—he’d be furious with her for the charade, and rightly so. He abhorred liars, and hadn’t that been what she’d done from the beginning and every day since? Lie to him?
Even if she could bear to face his anger over her deception—if either of them even survived in the aftermath—how would it keep him from this war with Kildale? And even if she’d come to him as Davina Benwick days ago, uncomplicated by her masquerade and all of the taboos it had placed between them, what would it have changed? He’d have sent her packing immediately.
And God forbid she expressed her feelings for him. She couldn’t imagine in her wildest fantasies Hirst responding positively to that revelation, even without Lady Ambrosia and all of the lies standing between them. In the place in her heart that was still shadowed by her mother’s abuse and her own insecurities, she doubted that Julian would have ever looked twice at Davina Benwick. No one else had, unless it had been to criticize her wardrobe or speculate on the size of her dowry.
No. It would never be worth the risk to find out if all of the moments she’d felt something spark between them had been real.
“Why should my secrets matter to you?” she finally responded.
His expression shuttered completely, and he looked at her as if she were a stranger. As if the past week had not happened at all.
She had a horrible feeling she’d made the wrong decision.
“You’re perfectly correct, Mr. Fawkes. Why should they?”
With that, he threw his spanner down, turned and left the workshop, leaving her staring after him, her heart in her throat and tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
An Indecent Proposal
The following morning, Lady Highbottom woke up, inexplicably determined to picnic at the ruins of the old abbey, and no matter how much everyone else protested against the idea, she refused to be put off, citing a need for fresh air after the Incident of the day before.
The house party capitulated with great reluctance, and, in the case of Lord Highbottom, rather poor grace. Whatever détente the couple had been negotiating had been completely sundered when the crankshaft had flown into their marriage bed. The viscount was soused before noon (which was nothing new) and refused to drive his wife to the ruins in his curricle, choosing instead to be strapped into place upon his own mount for the journey.
Lady Highbottom was not at all bothered by her husband’s tantrum, however, for she’d conscripted Davina as her escort before the viscount had even taken his first drink of the day. Davina’s attempts to hide in the workshop had been for naught.
Not five minutes into their journey, Davina regretted every decision she’d ever made that had led to her present predicament. She would have even preferred making a fool of herself atop Daisy to Lady Highbottom's wandering hands.
Hirst, who’d stayed behind the other riders to make sure Davina knew what she was doing (he clearly remembered her performance upon Daisy), caught a glimpse of Lady Highbottom's gloved hand clutching Davina’s knee. Instead of rushing to her rescue, however, he just smirked at her. The traitor. After all she’d gone through with the viscountess for him, this was how he repaid her.
She pulled the brim of her hat low, hoping it would be enough to conceal her from his sharp gaze. She was still angry from their argument the day before, and she suspected that he was as well, since this was the first time he’d acknowledged her existence in over twenty-four hours.
“It seems you can pilot a curricle, Fawkes,” he said with mock surprise.
“Please try to contain your shock,” she retorted, pulling her hat even lower. She might be useless riding astride, but piloting a curricle was the one skill she possessed.
“I had no doubt that our Mr. Fawkes would be an excellent driver,” Lady Highbottom purred, weaving her arm through the crook of Davina’s elbow so firmly she nearly caused Davina to steer the horses into a ditch. Davina recovered quickly, but not quickly enough for the misstep to escape Hirst’s notice.
Hirst smirked again as he stared pointedly at where Lady Highbottom had latched onto her arm. It was impossible to read the expression in his eyes, but she wished he’d do something.
Instead, he tipped his hat sarcastically, and rode off ahead to join the others. The bastard. He was definitely still mad at her.
Once Hirst had left them alone, Lady Highbottom slid even closer to her on the seat so that Davina’s entire left side was smothered in layers of jasmine-scented silk.
“Alone at last,” Lady Highbottom murmured seductively in her ear.
Davina shuddered. And not in a good way. She was sure the only reason Lady Highbottom didn’t begin nuzzling her neck was because of the massive brim of her hat. As if she’d read Davina’s thoughts, the viscountess reached to pull off the offending article.
Davina pushed it firmly back into place with a vehemence that shocked her companion enough to draw away. Thank God.
Though now Lady Highbottom was starting to look affronted. That would be even worse than being flirted at. The last person who’d offended the viscountess had been forced to leave the country after the malicious gossip she’d spread throughout the ton. Lady Highbottom was witless enough to rarely take offense, but when she did, things never ended well. Davina could only imagine the social horrors the lady would inflict upon her should she ever discover Davina’s true identity.
“Don’t want to burn,” Davina said gruffly. “I light up like a peach.”
Lady Highbottom's expression immediately softened with understanding. She threaded her arm back through Davina’s, though she kept her lips blessedly clear of her face. “Of course you do,” she cooed. “Skin like yours, you’d be the envy of every lady in London. Half would want it for her own, the other half would just want. I’d say quite a few heiresses would love to get their hands on you. Too bad I found you first.”
“Too bad indeed,” Davina muttered under her breath.
“Though, I could find you one,” Lady Highbottom continued.
While Davina was reluctant to ask, she was also perversely intrigued. “What could you find, my lady?”
“An heiress. Or perhaps a rich widow. A few years under my…tutelage,” she said coyly, once more leaning far too close to her ear, “and I’m sure you’d be all grown up. We’d find you a perfect match. You’d never have to demean yourself with such plebeian things like working for a living ever again.”
Davina rather thought Lady Highbottom had a different sort of demeaning in mind for Mr. Fawkes. She’d known the viscountess was keen, but she’d not expected to be so blatantly propositioned. She focused on her driving in case the horses caught on to her utter shock and
tried to bolt.
She wished she could bolt.
“Lady Highbottom,” she began, trying to wrap her head around this entire, bizarre moment. “Are you asking me to be your cicisbeo?”
Lady Highbottom laughed and patted her forearm, though the patting soon devolved into lascivious stroking. “Call it whatever you like, darling,” she purred.
Davina searched for anything to throw the viscountess off her scent. “But what about…what about your husband?”
Lady Highbottom laughed even harder, as if this was the most amusing thing she’d ever heard. “Oh, darling!” she tittered. “You are absolutely precious. So entirely unspoiled. I did hear you come from a family of churchmen, but this is too much!”
Yes, it was. Entirely too much. If only Lady Highbottom knew who she was truly attempting to seduce.
Davina stared longingly at Mr. Hirst’s distant form, but Hirst seemed to have forgotten her entirely. There would be no rescue from that quarter. He’d set his mount to pace with Lady Ambrosia’s, his head inclined toward her, as if exchanging confidences.
Well. They had grown quite intimate in just a few short days. She’d overestimated Lady Ambrosia’s intractability, for it seemed Hirst was having no problem winning the lady’s favor.
Davina was so jealous she felt sick to her stomach. She’d not expected Coombes’ intervention to have that much of an impact, but from the speculative look on the lady’s face, it seemed Ambrosia was as pleasantly surprised as Davina by Hirst’s transformation. Though truth be told, Davina was rather missing the scruff.
Lady Highbottom chose that moment to be uncharacteristically observant, catching the object of Davina’s attention. One hand resumed its place on her knee, long, sharp nails poking her through the fabric.
“And should you have…thoughts about your employer, I suggest you abandon them. I well know that he has an appetite for beautiful women, and beautiful women only. A man as rich as he can afford to have what he wants.”
Davina drew up on the reins and turned to her companion, shocked at the viscountess’ insinuation. Had she been so obvious?
Apparently, she had. Lady Highbottom looked almost pitying. She reached out and patted Davina’s cheek as if to console her. “You would do well to develop the same appetite, Mr. Fawkes, and put such…youthful urges behind you.”
Lady Highbottom could not possibly know how wrong she was…and yet, at the same time, how horribly right.
She’d been trying very hard not to think about those moments after she’d shaved him—and earlier, in the garden, when he’d threaded the yellow camellia through her buttonhole. Even the day before, when they’d been so angry at each other, and he’d leaned in so close, as if torn between throttling her and kissing her…
Kissing her.
What had happened and what she’d wanted to happen were very different things. Hirst had been teasing her every single time, as he’d taken to doing at every opportunity he could since she’d started working with him in his workshop. How could it be anything other than wishful thinking? Hirst wouldn’t want his male secretary in a romantic way—that was too silly to even contemplate.
No, she simply wouldn’t think about it. Or the way he made her feel. Her position at the castle was already tenuous enough. She needed to focus her attentions on sorting her life out, not panting after Arncliffe’s master like a lovestruck mooncalf.
It was a futile infatuation anyway. Even if circumstances were different, even if Hirst knew her true identity, she reminded herself that it would change nothing. Hirst liked women, but he would never like Davina Benwick, plain, dowdy, awkward Davina Benwick. Why would he, when he could have his pick, as Lady Highbottom had so bluntly informed her?
She hated the viscountess even more for exposing her feelings for Hirst so unmercifully. She hated herself for having such feelings in the first place, and couldn’t help but lash out. Damn the consequences. She was her mother’s child after all.
“Beautiful women,” she snapped. “You have solved the mystery as to why he does not want either one of us, my lady. Well done.”
Lady Highbottom untangled herself from Davina as if scalded, the smug look on her face overtaken by shock. She gaped at Davina as if she’d spotted horns sprouting from her head. It was several long minutes before she settled back on the bench, swirled her skirts away from Davina’s legs, and unfurled her parasol with a huff.
On the bright side, Davina’s knee remained unmolested for the rest of the journey.
Chapter Nineteen
Casting Stones
When the party finally arrived at the abbey ruins, a small army of Hirst’s staff was already there with what looked like half of the dining room and kitchen larder set up among the rubble. All that was missing were a few Gainsboroughs hanging on the crumbling walls and a suckling pig for a centerpiece.
Davina should have known that Pilby would never let a picnic get the best of him. Clearly, the thrill of finally having a proper aristocrat like Kildale to cater to (something even the pot boy agreed Lord Highbottom was not) had gone to the butler’s head. But if Pilby’s desire was to make his employer appear anything other than a nouveau riche, he’d failed utterly.
Hirst stood stiffly at Davina’s side as he surveyed the servants, while the other members of the party strolled through the picturesque ruins. He seemed as uneasy in her company as she was in his, their unresolved argument still hanging over both their heads.
“I told Pilby we were going on a picnic, not moving in,” he muttered.
“Poor Pilby hasn’t had an audience like this in years. Or an unlimited budget in…well, ever. Let him have his fun.”
“I don’t see him here,” he grumbled.
“Pilby attend a picnic?” she scoffed. “That would be so far beneath his dignity one would have to travel to China to find it.”
“Is this one of those inexplicable things toffs like to do, then?” he asked. “Picnicking? Like using twelve forks and having forty surnames?”
“It is meant to be picturesque, romantic.”
“Picturesque? I doubt Lady Ambrosia will appreciate the view, unless it has her horse in it.”
She was proud of herself for not flinching at the mention of the lady. “She will appreciate the atmosphere…maybe. Theoretically.”
“Your confidence in this scheme is heartening.” He shook his head as if faced with the most bizarre metaphysical conundrum known to man. “Picnicking at ruins. I thought that was what we did at every meal in the castle. Why do we need to traipse across the moors to do it in some other place?”
He may have had a point, but she was not about to tell him so. “You are the one who insists on this courtship. This is how one courts a lady like Ambrosia.” She tried to keep the sourness from her voice. She doubted she succeeded.
“It’s even more disagreeable than I thought it would be.”
She tried very hard not to smile at his displeasure. “The weather is nice, and the ruins are of historical significance,” she said, determined to be contrary. “I find them very atmospheric.” He snorted. She ignored him. “Did you know they are supposed to be haunted?”
“I do now,” he muttered, unimpressed. He strode to the table, where everyone, even Kildale, was looking well pleased at the spread of delicacies atop the perfectly crisp linens—as if they hadn’t just finished breakfast an hour ago. He immediately intercepted Lady Ambrosia in a display of good manners Davina hadn’t thought him to possess. She could see Kildale’s mood immediately plummet.
So did Davina’s. She searched for a seat as far from Ambrosia and Hirst as she could and felt a stone sinking in her chest every time Hirst managed to make Ambrosia emit that annoyingly breathy laugh of hers—the same laugh that had so bewitched Mr. Xavier that infamous morning visit years ago.
Davina wasn’t bitter (she was). And she hardly thought Hirst so naive as to be ensorcelled by Ambrosia’s charms. He apparently had other motivations for pursuing the lady, such as driving th
e marquess to murder. But knowing his motivations did nothing to soothe her aching heart.
Unfortunately, the only remaining seat was next to Lady Highbottom, of course, and the moment Davina sat down, Lady Highbottom attached herself to Davina’s arm like a limpet. A few doses of laudanum seemed to have erased Lady Highbottom's memory of their little tiff in the curricle.
Davina glanced in Lord Highbottom's direction to gage how much trouble she was in. The viscount, however, had careened straight from his saddle to a chair, trading his flask for a goblet full of claret. He swigged it in one go, belched, jerked the bottle out of the attending servant’s hand, and topped up his glass himself.
She should have been grateful he couldn’t be bothered to care about the viscountess, but she was only more alarmed. If Lady Highbottom's own husband couldn’t curb her behavior when sitting two feet away, what on this earth could? Would Davina one day end up bound, gagged and packed in the back of a coach bound for Lady Highbottom's London boudoir?
The thought was harrowing enough to make her shiver with dread.
The viscountess noticed and quickly misinterpreted the cause. She squeezed Davina’s arm sympathetically, her nails digging deep. “I feel exactly the same way, darling. I was rather hoping for a more agreeable setting, but these ruins are positively gothic.”
Probably because they were gothic. Literally. But Davina held her tongue and forced a smile. Davina had to admit that there was a certain solemnity to their surroundings, especially when the sun dipped behind the clouds, as it did now, and the crumbling walls loomed, dark and foreboding, around them.
“The ghosts of friars past?” Davina suggested.
Lady Highbottom was unwholesomely thrilled at the idea. Then again, her pupils had become so constricted Davina could barely see them even from her enforced proximity. Who knew what horrors the lady was imagining in her stupor?
“Kildale,” Lady Highbottom said brightly, leaning over Davina’s lap, her hand landing precariously close to her crotch. “You should have warned us the place was haunted!”
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 20