by JayneFresina
"You shouldn't have kissed me though," she added solemnly. "That wasn't fair."
"No. I shouldn't have. I should have finished one thing before I began another. Now I pay the consequences."
"It was wretched."
"Yes it—" He frowned. "The fact that I kissed you, or the kiss itself?"
"Both."
The word hung in the air, fluttering against the harsh wind like a fragile butterfly. She was trembling in the cold, but too stubborn to admit it.
So he tugged her into his arms there and then, needing to shelter her from the raw bite of the wind, wanting to soothe whatever part of her was hurting. He held the loose, wildly blowing hair out of her face and, when she looked up at him with tears in her eyes, he kissed her again, not caring that he shouldn't. Needing her too much to hold back and be a gentleman.
Not that he'd ever pretended to be one.
Her mouth softened, lips parting slowly under his, the tip of her tongue rising to meet his. He felt the same need in her, a heated desire, richer and fuller than anything he'd ever experienced.
But suddenly he realized she had something in her other hand, hiding it behind her back. As he deepened the kiss, he slid his free hand around her waist and tackled her for the book.
She broke away. "Give that back!"
"Just a minute, Miss Piper! This is my book. Where the devil—?"
She took a step away, resting her shoulder to the curved stone wall, looking sulky, but beautifully ravished by the wind and his kiss. Damnable woman couldn't possibly say that kiss was wretched, he thought proudly.
"It fell out of your coat," she admitted, breathless. "At the inn."
"Why didn't you give it back to me?"
"Because I wanted to read it. I was amused."
Damon hadn't even realized it was missing. "You were amused?"
"To see how much care you took over every part of your life. Even down to planning a journey around the world when you were nine."
"Ah." He put the book away inside his coat. "That's why you asked me about Nonesuch."
She was silent.
"She was a childhood friend," he said.
"And her name was Nonesuch? Odd name."
"She was an odd girl," he replied wryly. "I suppose she would never have been my friend otherwise."
"What happened to her?"
"I...we went our separate ways as we grew up. It was," he shrugged, adding on a halting breath, "necessary."
"How sad. Perhaps if you kept her friendship, things would be different and you'd be happier."
He laughed suddenly and ran a hand down over his face. "I think I am. Now that I have her back again."
"You do?"
Damon approached her slowly, while she stood against the wall looking puzzled. "Well. that's if she still wants to be my friend."
"Where is she then?"
"Here."
"You're not making much sense, Deverell."
After a pause, watching her lips, longing for another taste, he said, "She was my creation, entirely in my head. Until you came along."
Her eyes widened. "You had an imaginary friend?"
"And if you tell anybody... I'll have to punish you severely. I have a reputation to maintain."
It took a while. He had wanted to say that he would never forgive her if she told his secret. But he couldn't say it. He would forgive her anything, he realized, horrified. Her gaze explored his face, searching, perhaps, for truth. Answers to questions neither dared ask.
"You reminded me of her from the first moment," he added. "So, if you can see fit to overlook my many sins, perhaps we can—"
She'd lifted both hands to his face. "Be friends?"
His heart ached. "It's a start," he said, closing his eyes and leaning over her. "Come back to me, Nonesuch. I've missed you."
* * * *
Pip had a feeling she'd never left him. That might explain the familiarity from that first sight, first word, first argument. He had never felt like a stranger to her.
"Friends. I would like that. If we still can. Of course, you're not a little boy anymore. That might make things...challenging."
"And you're no longer invisible to everybody else. Not merely living in my head anymore. Challenging is hardly the word for it."
She reached up and slipped her fingers through his hair, which she had wanted to do for a long time. "Thank goodness I'm not still living in your head. That would be a scary place to live forever. Worse than Darkest Fathoms."
Oh, what was she doing? Befriending a man who, for some reason, needed her. She wasn't used to being needed. Usually she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, an inconvenience, something that had to be put somewhere or managed somehow.
He said friendship was "a start".
But he might decide he was bored of her again one day soon, and leave her, just as he'd abandoned his imaginary friend before. Someone prettier might come along and catch his eye. Anything more important, more interesting.
A simple, uncomplicated friend might not care who he looked at with those wolf-like eyes. And there, of course, was the rub, because Pip knew she would care. She wouldn't be able to help herself.
For now though, friends. She would try her best to be just that for him and not to encourage any other ideas.
This kissing business, for instance, would have to stop.
"Now it's tidy again," she said firmly, as if that was why she'd touched his hair. But as she backed away he took a step forward.
"Shall I do yours for you now?" he asked, eyeing the wind-torn tumble of hair over her shoulder, his wicked fingers flexing in readiness.
"No. Thank you. I can manage. I always do."
He sniffed, hesitated, his gaze lingering over her hair and then her lips, before he finally put his hands behind his back.
This time, when she heard him grinding his teeth, Pip decided to be safe and say nothing whatsoever about it. Instead she exclaimed cheerfully, "Let's go down. We should dress for dinner."
"First, show me Serenity's room."
"Why?"
"I want to look around it. Remember our wager? Now you're feeling better, no more reason to put it off. I want my ten shillings, Nonesuch. You owe me."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"An outsider can often see clearer than one blinded by familiarity," he told her. "One look around your sister's belongings will tell me more about her true self than you would."
"Aren't you clever?"
"I can't help it. I was born with the ability to read character from just a few possessions."
"Do all Deverells show off like you?"
"Yes. People hate us because we're so insufferable. Open the door."
When she did, he walked in ahead of her, hands behind his back, head raised as if to sniff the air. It was fusty for the room had been shut up, undisturbed, according to Epiphany, since the young woman left. He felt a whisper of excitement for he did love games and puzzles— something he'd forgotten about until he ran into Nonesuch again.
His father had a party trick— he could hold an object in his hands for only a moment and then tell its history, everything about it and much about the person to whom it belonged. But it wasn't magic. Damon, with his quick, inquiring mind had long since figured out how he did it— astute observation and an understanding of human nature that did not pass judgment, but simply saw what was and accepted it. Faults and all.
He looked around Serenity Piper's room now, taking it all in. There were two windows, but the curtains of only one had been opened. So she had looked for something in particular, or saw something that stopped her opening the others.
Damon looked out. Like a roughly stitched quilt, the moor stretched into the horizon, under a grey, bubbling sky of discontent. Somewhere out there was where he'd run into Nonesuch in the snow. One her way back from visiting her darling vicar.
He swiveled around and looked at the bedside table. It was empty but for an oil lamp. But the space beside that lamp had been cleared for someth
ing that was no longer there.
"Did your sister have a bible, like the one in your room?"
"Yes. Why?" Epiphany's eyes went at once to the empty bedside. "Our Aunt Abellard gave us bibles with our initials inside as parting gifts."
Damon strode to the dresser and mirror next, opened the top drawer and found several pairs of white silk evening gloves neatly folded, beside a velvet jewelry case. Apparently she had not expected to attend any social events.
"I think she would say it is not proper for you to pry through her drawers, Deverell."
Inside the jewelry case there was a faded mark on the velvet cushion and a pin hole. "But she took one piece of jewelry." He showed her. "A sprig of something."
"Yes. A forget-me-not brooch that belonged to our mother, who wore it... on her...on her wedding day." She snatched the case from his hands, closed it and set it back in the drawer.
"Hmph. And that was not significant in your eyes?"
"It was a favorite of Serenity's. I read nothing particular into her choice."
"Perhaps you have been deliberately blind."
She shut the drawer swiftly, narrowly missing his fingertips.
"You said your vicar—Jonathan— was not at home when you called?" he pressed.
"That's right. His housekeeper said he'd gone north and would return for Sunday service. Tomorrow."
Damon nodded. "Well then, you should know by this time tomorrow."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I did tell you to think of who else was missing, did I not?" He pointed toward the window, taking a guess that Thorford church lay in that direction.
Her face tightened.
He shrugged as if he was sorry, which he wasn't. "It took me less than two minutes to figure it out."
She stared at him, saying nothing.
"I suppose you're going to weep now over this vicar of yours. Tsk, tsk. You thought he loved you, and all the time he had eyes only for your sister." He put out his hand, palm up. "Ten shillings, if you please, madam. I hope you have better mysteries for me than this one."
"I'm not going to pay you ten shillings."
"That was our wager."
"I never agreed to it."
"Yes, you did." He scowled, pacing toward her.
"No, I didn't."
"You said: Fine. Ten shillings, Mr. Know-All. I'm too worn out to argue with you. And then I said: If I make it in two minutes or less, you have to promise me that amiable mute you once dangled tantalizingly before me."
She gasped. "Your memory for words spoken simply amazes me."
"I'm a lawyer. It's important to remember what everybody says. That's how you catch them out in a lie. So what is it to be? Ten shillings or an amiable mute?"
"Everybody lies?"
"Of course. Trust nobody. My father gave me that advice many years ago."
"Then you shouldn't have trusted me to pay you." She blinked, all innocence and then scoffed, "And I already knew who my sister was with. I didn't need you to tell me."
Eyes narrowed, he studied her. "You knew?"
"I simply gave you the pleasure of amusing yourself and showing off again. It's what you do best."
"Oh, no it isn't. There are a great many things I do very well indeed. But if you come here, Nonesuch, I'll show you what I do best."
Laughing, she ran from him and he gave chase, the floorboards shaking under his feet.
She flew around a corner and directly into Edwyn Mortmain, almost knocking him off his feet.
"Miss Piper! Do have a care!"
Damon skidded to a halt behind her and caught her around the waist to steady himself. "So sorry, Mortmain."
The other man looked crestfallen. "Oh. Yes. Never mind." He stepped aside. "Carry on, please. Don't mind me. You young people should have your fun."
But they watched him walk on around the corner, his head bent, hands hanging at his sides.
"That poor fellow," Damon murmured, catching his breath.
She looked askance. "You and Merry should start a club."
"And people call me heartless."
"In fact, I do feel sympathy for him. My sister should never have said she would marry a man she couldn't love. But he wouldn't have been any happier if she did marry him. He's had a reprieve, but I can hardly tell him that, can I?'
They walked to her room, their demeanor and their pace decidedly more respectable, as befitted two adults rather than two naughty children.
* * * *
"I can't wear that," she exclaimed as he held up a buttercup yellow gown from her wardrobe. "I'm still in mourning, remember?"
"I think that's gone on long enough," he replied briskly. "I may not have known your aunt very well, but she was a colorful soul and I very much doubt she would have wanted her nieces hiding their figures in black for months of misery."
She pursed her lips and looked again at the gown, as he tossed it onto her bed. "Mourning doesn't just come to an end because you declare that it ought. These things have rules."
"Since when have you cared about rules and etiquette?"
"But yellow is so...bright. I should wear grey first. Half-mourning."
"I thought Pipers didn't do anything by halves."
"Ugh! That wretched memory of yours. What else have I ever said?"
He strode to the window and drew the drapes to keep out the chill. "Let's see. One of my personal favorites. I find men to be wholly disadvantageous— obstructive to my contentment, destructive to my equanimity and, ultimately, adversaries to my success in life."
"True. Still true."
"And this one. You're a dreadfully smug, officious Englishman and I'm a willful, independent-minded American. Oil and water have a more convivial relationship. Two brick walls have nothing to do, except stand against each other."
"Congratulations, I have just discovered the most annoying thing about you, Deverell."
"Now get dressed for dinner, Nonesuch. I'm tired of seeing you in grim black. This house needs some cheer. And wear it for me, your dear friend." He strode up to her, put his finger under her chin and lifted it. "We are friends now, aren't we?"
"Somehow I feel as if I haven't any choice. You do have a habit of deciding things for a lady, as I have observed before." But there was a sadness in her face, he thought. A sudden chink in her armor. That moment of running along the corridor had brought a flush of pink to her face and unsettled the knot of hair at her nape, curling strands caressing her cheeks. His own pulse was still raised. Couldn't remember the last time he ran like that. Together they had run back in time, leaving their troubles behind for just that brief moment.
"Good," he managed on a slippery breath. "Then wear the yellow and stop arguing for once."
She swiped his finger away and examined the gown he'd selected for her. "This color is Merrythought's favorite."
"Because it reminds her of spring chickens?"
"No. Because she informs me that yellow is the color of bruising and decomposition."
He arched an eyebrow.
"Yes." She sighed, hands on her waist. "Merry used to be the sweetest of little sisters. I have no idea what happened to her either."
"Blame it on the English climate perhaps?"
"Or novels and horror stories. She's overly fond of them. But then, I was told once, by a woman in Boston, that I also read too many books— all the wrong sort. I should have concentrated on etiquette and how to please a husband. Instead I favored history, business and science."
"This is not a surprise to me."
She smiled tentatively. "As for Serenity and what has become of her. I am utterly lost. I feel as if my sisters are strangers to me sometimes. So much has changed since we came here."
"Wear the yellow," he urged again. "For me."
Her lips straightened, her lashes swept down and up again, that warm violet color very deep and lush this evening. "If I wear yellow it will be because I want to. Not because of you."
Damon cleared his throat. "
Yes. Because you want to."
"I am a woman of my own mind."
"You are a woman of your own mind."
Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. "I do what I want to do."
"You do what you want to do," he repeated.
"This is not a romance. We're merely friends."
"I could not have said it better myself."
"So there."
He gave a little bow. "So there." But as he walked to the door, leaving her to dress, he couldn't resist adding, "Wear the yellow, Nonesuch. Because you know you'll be beautiful in it and I shan't be able to take my eyes off you. I'm no terribly proper, well-behaved vicar. But you know that, of course. Far be it from me to tell you anything." And then he left quickly rather than see her horrified expression, or have anything thrown at his head.
She wore the yellow.
"Pip!" her sister cried. "You are out of mourning already?"
"It has been several months, Merry, and I believe our aunt would not want us to mourn so long. She was always a great proponent of living life to the fullest, as Mr. Deverell reminded me."
"Oh." And Merry looked from her sister to Damon. "Then I shall wear my blue tomorrow."
"Yes, I think you might."
"Thank goodness for that!" old Lord Mortmain bellowed down the table at dinner. "That child doesn't need to be in black so long."
"I'm eighteen, your lordship," Merry exclaimed, sounding shocked. "I'm not a child.""Eighteen, eh? But you're a little thing. Need a bit more flesh on your bones."
"Father," Edwyn interjected, "that is not the sort of thing one says to a lady."
"And what do you know about it? Whatever you say to ladies it doesn't seem to please any."
Epiphany broke the ensuing heavy silence by asking the old man about something called a "Boggart", a story he had apparently told her little sister. Immediately the fellow's demeanor changed to almost jolly, as he related the tale of an impish demon living in his chimney and sneaking about the house to wreck havoc. Miss Merrythought eagerly joined in to help him tell the story, adding all the pieces he forgot in his recital and, probably, adding some of her own invention. The discussion then turned to ghost stories and murder mysteries of a bloodthirsty bent. Lord Mortmain was soon preoccupied teasing his youngest guest and so forgot to berate his son further, much to Edwyn’s apparent relief.