by JayneFresina
What would his child be like?
Had his father, True Deverell, felt like this about his sons? Uncertainty, fear, trying to keep his feet steady and hold his balance while all around him tumbled? He thought of Elizabeth's laugh again and how it sounded like ice cracking. She was breaking the frozen surface beneath him and he must run for the shore, dodging the rapidly stretching splinters and the tipping blocks if ice under his feet.
As he watched his strange dinner companion devouring a leg of roast chicken with no concerns for ladylike propriety, he considered how very different she was to Lady Elizabeth, who would never eat like this, among the "unwashed" populace. Elizabeth would have insisted on a private room and kept her face veiled. In all likelihood she would never have eaten anything prepared in this place, no matter how hungry she was.
"What's the matter with you tonight?" Miss Piper exclaimed. "You seem to go off in your own world." She smiled. Suddenly she reached across the table and he didn't know what she meant to do. Startled, he grabbed her wrist and held it tightly.
Her pulse was so strong, her skin warm now. And gripping onto her he felt as if she steadied him, saved him from the breaking ice, dragged him to firm ground.
"It's only something on your chin," she said. "Caught on your beard! Gracious! Anyone would think I meant to stab you in the throat."
He saw now that she held a napkin. Not a weapon.
It took him a moment to compose himself and slowly release her wrist.
"Well, do you blame me?" he muttered.
Laughing, she wiped his chin with her napkin, and then, as if it were nothing, resumed her own meal.
He stared, tried to catch his breath. The noise in the room grew to a pounding crescendo and then, thankfully, fell away again to a more bearable level of sound. Resisting the temptation to touch his own face where she'd just touched it, he quickly picked up the broken thread of their conversation and neatly retied it.
"So these Mortmains needed money to restock their coffers and repair their house, and along came your sister. And you said she was happy with the match at first? Perhaps now she objects to marriage as a business arrangement."
Immediately she squared her shoulders, eyes flashing. "I'm sure Edwyn Mortmain wants her for other reasons too. Serenity is not like me at all. She is very beautiful, as I'm sure you noted. She is very feminine, not at all quarrelsome— except with me, because I tend to bring that out in people— and she would make any man a perfect wife."
She didn't know she was beautiful, he realized.
He watched her lips moving, but the sound was gone. The clucking clatter of their stranded fellows disappeared, to be replaced by the unsteady rasp of his own breath and the hard punching throb of blood through his veins.
Now she gripped the collar of the coat he'd lent her and pulled it up around her face, as if she'd felt a draft. And he was envious of his damned coat.
Because he was beguiled by her.
When had it happened? When she kissed him? When he held her hand and felt her quickened pulse with the pad of his thumb? When he put his coat around her shoulders and brushed her cheek, accidentally, with his hand? When she wiped his chin? Or when he saw her again for the first time in months and felt his pulse skip with happiness like a spring bloody lamb? It seemed their very first encounter had indeed been a premonition of things to come, and he'd been right when he thought he felt his name carved inside her.
Oh, Christ and all the saints.
He couldn't have this. It was merely business. How many times did he have to say it?
Chapter Seventeen
"What is the matter now?" she demanded.
He shook his head, regained his path of thought. "But your sister is primarily thinking of the crest on her stationary, as you just said."
"Many marriages are brokered, according to my aunt. Very few are love matches. I might not approve, but I assumed the practicality of marriage as a business agreement would appeal to you, Master Grumbles, even if you're not the marrying kind yourself."
Lady Roper's words crept through his mind. To survive in this world, we do what we must, not always what we would like to do. Then we find ourselves running in circles, getting nowhere.
He drained his goblet and said, "So everything proceeds smoothly for the Pipers."
"Not quite. Soon after our father sent the dowry money our aunt died suddenly. That has postponed the wedding ceremony." She gestured at her black dress. "Obviously."
"Good lord." So her aunt was no more. Was it wicked that he felt like laughing? Probably only natural, considering he need not now worry about the safety of his "seed-bags". But he did experience a pang of regret that he would have no more opportunity to spar with her. She was an interesting lady.
"Aren't you going to say how sorry you are? That is the polite thing to do."
"Wouldn't be particularly honest. I mean to say, I'm sorry for you. I'm not sorry for me. She made some rather unpleasant suggestions of what she might do to me if I saw you again in private and fed you any more of my...muffins."
"Oh, dear."
"I must reluctantly admire the woman. No man has ever managed to have quite the same terrifying affect upon me. I'm glad I never encountered her in court."
A long moment of silence followed while he straightened the chicken bones on his plate and she stared at the fire. Then, suddenly, in that way she had of blurting things out, she said, "My sister Serenity has decided to go off on a little trip rather than marry Edwyn Mortmain. But it's too late, of course. The Mortmains have the dowry and won't give it back. Indeed, they may already have spent it. That's what troubled me today when I went to visit Jonathan… oh!" Her expression turned chagrinned. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I was quite decided that I wouldn't."
Lethargically biting into a crust of bread, she looked away from him and sighed in exasperation, sagging in her seat. Clearly she considered herself utterly alone with these troubles. Thought him incapable of empathy, unlike this wondrous Jonathan.
"It's the food's fault," she exclaimed. "Good food, especially if I'm hungry, always makes me talk too much."
"Really? I barely noticed."
"It's not ladylike, is it?" she added.
"But nothing about you is."
Her eyes sparkled with sudden merriment as she looked at him again. "I'm so glad we don't like each other. Makes it all much simpler, don't you think?"
"Does it?"
"Well, there's no dancing about, no self-conscious simpering. I don't have to pretend to be a prim lady, and you don't have to mind your manners. No effort required. We can merely sit here and talk frankly, unburden our worries, and whatever we tell each other it doesn't really matter, because neither of us truly cares about the impression we leave behind. We're just passing the time in bad weather."
What about that kiss? Did it count for nothing? Perhaps it made her feel safer in his company if she kept up the masquerade.
"You must be greatly concerned for your missing sister?" he asked. "Your father should be—"
"Oh, it is not the first time Serenity has gone off like this. She will probably return in a day or two, acting utterly shocked that anybody should have worried about her while she was gone. Even though that's exactly what she wants us to do."
"But she goes alone?"
"Why not? Like me, she can look after herself. Serenity may appear pretty and dainty, and she pays the most scrupulous attention to ladylike manners— while being observed— but, I can assure you, she is just as much a fighter as I am when it comes to survival and getting what she wants. It might sound odd to you, but I would get no thanks from her, if I took a hundred men out on the moor to search for her remains and wrote to father. She'll come back when she's ready."
"It sounds as if you and your sisters are accustomed to an unusual amount of independence, madam."
She smiled a little. "Our mother died when we were young, and our father found the raising of daughters quite a trial. He never rema
rried and we traveled a great deal, but there were always women— colorful women— in and out of our lives. Nothing was ever permanent and we became used to that. When life changes around you, almost every day, you cannot afford to get comfortable or take anything for granted. You learn to look after yourself, and you haven't much time for fear of the unknown."
He stared at her, his fingers stilled, spread against the tabletop by his plate.
"Now you know why I'm here, Deverell. What about you? I have confessed enough and now it is your turn. Are you chasing one of those clients that try to avoid you?"
When she smiled it lit up her face. He'd heard that saying before, but never understood it until he met her.
"No. Not a client." His words fell heavily. "A woman."
"Oh." Only a little flicker of surprise. "Did she run away from you then?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
"Who knows really why women ever do anything? You're all unreasonable."
"Didn't you ask her?"
"I haven't yet had the opportunity, have I?" he replied between gritted teeth.
"She left without telling you?"
He bowed his head, his throat feeling tight. That would have to suffice for a reply.
It did.
"At least my sister left a note," she chirped. When he remained silent, she softened her tone. "Well, that must pain you. I hope you find her. It is a terrible thing to leave a matter unresolved and feelings unexpressed. I always say it's much better to get it all out in the open and say what one's feeling, good or bad. Don't leave your happiness to chance, just because you think you have to be a stiff English gentleman and keep your feelings hidden away. I suppose you never told her how much she meant to you." She took a breath, shook her head. "A lady must have some encouragement, you know."
"She's married," he grumbled, reaching for the wine again, pouring it so sharply and lavishly that it splashed into his goblet and spilled over the brim.
Her eyes widened. "Ah."
"So you see it's a little more complicated than one of your girlish, addled, implausible romances."
She licked her lips. "Had you run out of single ladies that might like your company? I thought there was a surfeit in London."
He merely glared at her, gulped his wine and wiped his fingers briskly on a napkin.
She sighed again, but lightly this time as if to say the conversation was all very tiresome. "Forgive me. I daresay I cannot be the most sympathetic ear for your problems. I am, after all, one of those single ladies paraded, against her will, up and down sundry ballrooms and promenades, in the hope of being found acceptable by some so-called eligible bachelor. Like all other young women, I am seen as a commodity with only one worth. And because I am not the prettiest or the daintiest, I am left to suffer the degradations of being looked over by men I would hesitate to touch with a gondolier's pole. Meanwhile, a man of some intelligence, moderate wit, passable looks in a good light, and thoughtful even when he doesn't want to be— when it's an inconvenience and leaves him without the warmth of his own coat— prefers to spend his time entertaining a married woman." She took a breath at last and he thought he saw a wet gleam under her lashes. "So I hope you understand why I cannot take pity on you."
He quickly wiped his lips on the bundled napkin and tossed it to the table where it landed in the puddle of wine. Usually he would have wiped it up. Tonight he left it. The rebellious new Damon, he thought crossly. "We would never get along. It's been decided, remember? And you don't want a husband of any sort."
A light blush suffused her face. "I spoke theoretically. I was thinking of other ladies, who might have found you eligible. I didn't mean for me personally."
"Sounded personal."
She glared. "It wasn't. I spoke for all the women you've overlooked. Respectable young women with..." her pert chin stuck high in the air, "less demanding standards than my own and no other plans in mind for their future."
Damon replied drily. "I doubt there are many respectable women looking for a Deverell."
"Are there many of you?"
"Some would say an inordinate amount. We multiply like rabbits." Next year there would be another born, he thought darkly— his own child. Babies had no choice in their parents, but he would do his best not to let the child down. It was an awful responsibility, of course.
For the first time in his life he pitied his father.
"You've gone all white and angry, and you're grinding your teeth again." Leaning forward, elbow on the table, she rested her chin in her upturned palm. "I can hear it from this side of the table."
Could she hear his heartbeat too?
"Best talk about your problem again then," Damon snapped. "I bought you supper. You must repay me with this amusing story of mercenary intentions gone awry." He much preferred talking of her problems than his own, just as he found it easier to manage other folk's difficulties instead of face his own.
Groaning, she sat back, eyeing him irritably. He had already seen her check the contents of a small black reticule that hung from her wrist and from her crushed expression he guessed that she did not have enough money currently in her possession to pay for half the meal. She was, therefore, in his debt. And she clearly didn't like that, anymore than she had liked being swept off her own two feet and carried by him. A woman intent on doing things for herself, wanting everything on her terms.
"Now." He cleared his throat in a no-nonsense fashion and leaned both arms on the table, shoving his plate aside. "How long has your sister been gone on her mysterious odyssey?"
Sullen, she peered at him through half lowered eyelashes."Since yesterday morning."
Damon shook his head. "If she was my sister, causing all this trouble, I'd tan her hide."
"That would be a shock to her. My sister's hide has never been tanned."
"Nor your own, I'm sure," he murmured, curling his hand slowly as he remembered a certain forbidden touch he'd once permitted himself, in one heated, stolen moment. "I suspect your father's discipline was lax in general," he added tightly.
She had glanced at his hand and quickly away again. "Well, I'd have to find her first, and the Mortmains seldom let me out of their sight."
"They did today," he pointed out.
"Reluctantly. The threat of snow kept The Honorable Edwyn indoors for once, nothing apparently to shoot at. My younger sister Merrythought is confined to bed with a cold, and there was nobody else at hand to act as chaperone. However," she wearily assessed the bones on her plate, "I fear my insistence on going out alone today to visit Jonathan— even just a few miles to Thorford— may already have cost me some of the Mortmain forbearance and good will. Doubtless it has left them even more certain that I lack a few wits. But if anyone might have advised me, Jonathan would."
Jonathan. Even the way she said his name...Damon hastily drained his cup and slammed it down to refill it. "But he wasn't there. You found me instead."
"Yes."
"It seems you're in a pickle, Miss Piper."
She looked at him blankly, perhaps not being familiar with the childhood tongue twister about Peter Piper and his peck of pickled peppers
There was a pause while he rubbed his chin and considered the roof beams. Finally he looked at her again. "It seems I must try to help you avoid this scandal. Your father would expect it. And if you won't let him know—"
"Are you still at our service, even now?" A little hope in her voice warmed his heart. She pretended not to want his help, but she needed it just the same. Finally, perhaps, she realized it.
"Of course," it choked out of his throat, "I am at your service. For as long as you need me, I will be."
"Oh." She looked down, lashes fanning her cheeks, lips wavering uncertainly.
He wanted to sit beside her and put his arms around her. Instead he could only lean forward, arms resting on the table between them once again. This was merely business. "So, we must ascertain where Miss Serenity Piper might have run off to. And with whom."
"She went alone."
"How do you know she didn't go to meet a lover?"
Her eyes widened and she sat up. "My sister would never—"
"There must be a man, mustn't there? Someone about whom you know nothing."
"But why would she keep such a secret from me?"
"Because you can't keep silent, can you? Not if somebody feeds you cake."
She clenched her lips tightly and looked down at her lap. Damon suspected she had already considered the presence of a secret lover— she was not a stupid woman— but perhaps she did not want to think of the possibilities.
He lowered his voice. "What other men have gone missing at the same time as your sister? That's a good place to start."
"There are only two men in the house. Her fiancé Edwyn and his elderly father. And they are both very much there still, creeping about the shadows."
"What about the servants?" Keeping a grave face, he suggested, "Perhaps there is a saucy-eyed groom with a firm hand on her bridle and a way with the riding crop? Or a rough-necked gardener who promises to trim her hedges and prune her forsythia?"
She scowled. At least she didn't pretend to blush as some young women would. "What sort of man would steal a woman away when she was promised to another?"
"The disreputable sort. A scoundrel with no good in mind."
She looked askance. "I suppose you would know."
"Aha! But I don't think we Deverells can be blamed for this one."
"No," she admitted reluctantly.
"Perhaps your sister decided she did not want to marry without love after all." He sniffed and brushed down his sleeves. "Not everybody does, you know."
"What do you know about marriage or love?" she replied, sounding amused. "I'm sure you never sent a billet doux without an invoice attached."
"I've never sent a billet doux. I have better things to do with my time."
Damon had never been romantic, never sent a woman flowers or poems or anything like that. He'd always been realistic, never syrupy. Wouldn't know how to write a love letter if his life depended on it and Elizabeth had frequently declared herself relieved by his lack of sentimentality. And marriage was a fool's game.