Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  “A decent point. May I, er, serve?”

  “Please. Some of everything.” Confronted by food, Olivia was surprised to discover how hungry she actually was. She watched St. John load her plate. He moved quickly and efficiently, natural enough given his profession, and his fingers were long. Graceful, if one could say that about a man. “You must know your way around the kitchens, if you found all that by yourself.”

  “I know whom to ask,” said St. John. “I made arrangements when I came.” Handing the plate back to her, he relaxed into his seat. Their eyes met again, and he shrugged again, but more defensively this time, as if trying to free himself of something that had settled on one shoulder. “I’m not used to eating at regular hours. Or large meals. Not these days.”

  “No,” said Olivia, breaking her bread into small chunks, “I suppose you wouldn’t be. You mustn’t have had a very settled sort of life over there.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I’d guess Egypt or Afghanistan, but I could be wrong. Lord knows I wasn’t paying as much attention to those things as I should have been.” Olivia ate a chunk of bread. “This could use butter.”

  “I didn’t know I’d have company.”

  “And you don’t like butter?”

  “Not particularly. It goes bad too quickly.”

  “Ah.”

  St. John took a drink, put the glass down, and looked at her. “Egypt. Yes. Was it the suntan or the leg?”

  “Both, among other things. The leg could be anything. You could’ve been kicked by a cow in Yorkshire.”

  “I don’t have the right accent.” The edges of St. John’s mouth had started to twitch upward.

  Olivia felt an answering smile creeping onto her face. “You could’ve moved there. That would probably have explained the cow’s reaction.”

  “How provincial of it.”

  “Very.” Olivia cut her meat and popped a slice into her mouth. It had stood up better to age than the bread had, and was still rich and juicy. She swallowed. “As for your complexion, you could’ve just returned from a pleasure trip to Italy. But then you wouldn’t have the leg wound.”

  “Unless I’d been stabbed in Italy.” St. John was definitely smiling now. “A jealous husband, perhaps.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little conceited?”

  St. John shook his head, his hair falling over his forehead. He flicked it back with a careless gesture. “It’s no compliment. Jealous husbands tend to be jealous of anything male.”

  “In your wide experience,” Olivia said dryly.

  “In my wide experience.”

  A clock nearby struck, and Olivia started. The sound wasn’t up close, but it was very loud in the still, dim kitchen. She glanced back over at St. John, embarrassed, and saw the same sort of rueful look on his face. Together, they listened to the bells: one, two, three, four.

  Olivia groaned. “Worse than I’d thought.”

  “Mm. Why, if I may be so bold”—St. John glanced around the empty kitchen with a faintly ironic air—“are you here? Trouble sleeping?”

  “Not me,” said Olivia and sighed. “Or not at first. Elizabeth’s still having nightmares.”

  “Ah. Can’t you ”—St. John circled one hand vaguely in the air—“shut her down for the evening?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Not truly. I can make levitation harder for her, but I don’t want to do that when she’s not conscious. If she exerts herself too much in her dreams, I don’t know what would happen.”

  “I can hazard a guess or two,” said St. John and also shook his head. “No, you’re right. Hard on you, though, waking up for it.”

  “Hopefully it won’t go on too much longer. Besides,” she said, “I really shouldn’t be talking. You’re as awake as I am, and you don’t complain.”

  His lips tightened. “All I took away from Egypt was a limp and a tendency to scavenge at odd hours. I don’t particularly feel I can complain either.” St. John looked at her as if waiting for some reaction—anger or pity or shock—Olivia didn’t think she had the energy to give.

  Instead, she asked, “Was it your first, um, tour of duty?”

  “First and last, yes.” Finished, he pushed his plate away and propped his arms on the table, leaning forward. His eyes caught hers in the firelight and held them. “You know a few military terms, then?”

  “I was married to a soldier,” she said mildly.

  “At seventeen.” St. John’s gaze brushed downward over her face and neck, taking in her unbound hair and the collar of her dressing gown. “You know, I find it quite difficult to imagine you as a schoolgirl.”

  The air around Olivia felt warmer, although she was quite certain the fire hadn’t come back to life. She leaned forward as well, smiling. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think, though a rather unusual one.”

  “Do, if you like.” He reached one hand across the table and trailed his fingers down her cheek. Olivia’s skin flamed to life where he touched, and her nipples went hard. Two layers of fabric lay between them and St. John’s eyes, thank God. “You’re a rather unusual woman, Mrs. Brightmore.”

  They had risen from the table almost as one and moved toward the end without thinking, so Olivia was almost surprised when she could step forward and slide her hands up to St. John’s shoulders. “Given the circumstances,” she said, “I think you can call me Olivia.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she rose up or St. John bent down, but the next thing she knew, his hands were splayed against her back and his mouth, hot and seeking, had covered hers. Her lips parted easily, eagerly under the pressure. The world swam around her.

  This was not wise. This was anything but wise. But it was four in the morning, and St. John’s tongue was meeting hers. His chest was firm where it pressed against her breasts, and she could feel his manhood rigid against her stomach. Olivia couldn’t make herself care very much about wisdom. She melted into him, half surprised to hear a small, desperate sound coming from her throat.

  St. John dropped his hands and stepped back. As Olivia blinked at him, trying to figure out what was happening now, he caught his breath. “I’d rather not use your name, madam,” he said. Clearly he was trying to sound cold. The thickness in his voice didn’t do much for the attempt. “After all, I’ve no way of knowing if it’s really yours.”

  As icy baths went, the two sentences worked very well. Desire became embarrassment became fury. Olivia drew herself up, gathered the neck of her dressing gown around her, and lifted her chin. “I assure you it is, sir,” she replied and was proud her voice didn’t tremble. “You may use it, or not…or go to the devil. I truly don’t care which.”

  Chapter 15

  Shortly after the woman walked out, Gareth realized two things. The first was that, regardless of what he’d said, he could no longer think of her as Mrs. Brightmore. The name Olivia had gotten a grip on his consciousness, and he couldn’t pry it loose.

  The second was that he’d been more than a bit of a bastard.

  Oh, he hadn’t taken advantage of the woman, whatever Society’s standards might be. Nothing was wrong with Gareth’s memory. Olivia had responded quite willingly to his kiss, willingly enough to make Gareth flush and harden even when he thought about it afterward, as much as he regretted the whole incident. And she hadn’t flinched or drawn back from his advances beforehand. She was no innocent girl either. She’d known what she was doing.

  So had he.

  Half a glass of wine wouldn’t have begun to muddle his judgment, not even now. The late hour and the seclusion of the quiet kitchen had certainly helped to lower a few barriers, though. So had their attire, particularly Olivia’s. Her dressing gown had been golden-brown wool, nothing that would have even whispered at seduction, but it had outlined the smooth curves of her body in a way her dresses never did. And her hair had hung rippling down her back. Watching her eat, seeing her tongue touch her lips occasionally—

  It was a wonde
r he hadn’t acted sooner.

  He’d relaxed his normal suspicions under the surprising ease and comfort with which they’d talked, the simple rather than morbid curiosity Olivia had turned on his time overseas. Then he’d wanted to change the subject, and Olivia had mentioned her marriage. It had been a short jump from there to thinking of her with men…with a man…with him.

  Everything after that had seemed almost inevitable.

  Still, Gareth knew he could have stopped himself. If he was no seducer, neither was Olivia a second Salome. He’d wanted her, he’d showed her as much, and she’d responded. There were men who might have blamed her for that. Gareth had never liked them. He’d remembered her past too late, and he’d turned his anger on her. Whatever she’d been, she hadn’t deserved that.

  Once she’d walked out of the kitchen and he’d recovered enough of his mind to think properly, Gareth knew he’d been wrong.

  The next morning, he wrote her a short note: I sincerely apologize for my conduct on our previous meeting. I give you my word that it will not happen again. One of the maids, Violet, presumably brought it to her room. Olivia didn’t respond. Gareth hadn’t really thought she would. He wondered if she’d go to Simon or his wife about the incident, but the day passed without either of them bringing it to his attention or even acting strangely around him.

  Olivia’s silence on the matter was a relief, but Gareth couldn’t feel any surprise about it, or any real gladness. She hadn’t seemed the type to pretend a man had taken advantage of her, and she apparently wasn’t, which spoke well of her. But anything that spoke well of her increased his guilt.

  If she hadn’t wanted him, she might still have kept silent. It would have been Gareth’s word against hers, after all. Simon was his friend. Olivia was an intelligent woman, and not, from all evidence, a wealthy one.

  That line of thought was even more unsettling. Gareth still didn’t think she’d let him kiss her out of fear or desperation. She hadn’t let him kiss her at all. But he didn’t like to consider why she might not have complained about his presence in her classes, or how she must have felt when he’d gone off to tell Simon about her the first time.

  If Olivia hadn’t spent her life making a profit from people’s grief, he reminded himself, she wouldn’t have had anything to worry about in the first place.

  Gareth started taking his meals in his room over the next few days, and he no longer went to Olivia’s classes. If she wanted to teach the students confidence tricks, Simon had already said he’d allow as much. Gareth could no longer tell himself she’d corrupt them in other ways, not after he’d seen the fear for them in her eyes. There was no need for his presence.

  From time to time, he did see Olivia in the halls or on the grounds. They nodded politely on those occasions and passed a few civil words, as any adults and colleagues might do. Gareth didn’t let his eyes meet hers or even linger anywhere on her person. He did wonder if she looked at him.

  When the first frost came and the ground turned hard, he started walking, ignoring the pain in his leg, so he could get out of the house and away, in some fashion, from his thoughts. He toured the gardens, dead as they were, and he inspected the stables, feeding a few purloined apples to Simon’s horses. The forest was too far, particularly as Gareth didn’t know the place. If something did go wrong in the school, it was best if he was on hand.

  The dormitory had walls now, if no roof. It stood stark against the green-and-brown landscape, a redbrick square that was no more cheerful for its solidity. Gareth walked around it, tried to imagine students actually inhabiting it, and found his imagination unequal to the task. Ludicrous, when his mind was equal to so many unwelcome things.

  In the late afternoon, Gareth was studying a doorway when he heard someone behind him. It wasn’t Olivia, he told himself sternly, doing his best to prevent dread and hope alike.

  When he turned, Mrs. Grenville gave him an almost grudging nod. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, surveying Gareth or the building or both. “Not bad.”

  “The dormitory?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “It seems to be coming along. Not that I’m any judge of architecture.”

  “It’ll hold,” said Mrs. Grenville. “It’ll probably look good too, eventually. Simon’s hired someone impressive, and I’ve seen the plans. But it’ll hold, and that’s the important thing.”

  “How many students do you think we’ll get?” Gareth asked. When Mrs. Grenville turned sharp hazel eyes on him, he realized he’d said we and cleared his throat. “It’s an unusual school.”

  “And I don’t know how many unusual people there are in this world, let alone unusual people who want to learn. Powers forbid we find a lot who’re willing to pay.” Mrs. Grenville looked back toward the building. “But we can use the space. Classrooms. Practice rooms. Things like that.”

  “Like Simon’s room upstairs? The one he uses for ‘fencing practice’?”

  Mrs. Grenville snapped her gaze back to Gareth and, for just a second, her posture changed. She didn’t stiffen, not exactly, but Gareth had seen men preparing to fight. The bright green-and-blue striped dress she wore should have made the pose, or her narrowed eyes, ludicrous. It did not.

  Then she relaxed, deciding, apparently, he was no threat. “Something like that,” she said.

  Gareth hastily revised certain opinions he’d held considering Simon’s adventurous nature or lack thereof. Marriage to this woman would be like keeping a half-tamed tiger in one’s drawing room. Beautiful, in a way, benevolent, in a way, but…better you than me, old man.

  “We have,” he said, attempting to smooth things over without being too obviously conciliatory, “known each other quite a while.”

  “So he said.” There was a quick smile. The claws retracted. “Sorry. I get twitchy where he’s concerned. Especially with old friends.”

  “From what I hear, you have reason.”

  Mrs. Grenville made a noncommittal sound at that, and studied Gareth for a moment, with the frank consideration another woman might have turned on a hat or a cut of beef. He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. There were limits, even with terrifying foreign women who’d married his friends.

  If she asked to see his teeth, he was leaving.

  “You should start teaching your own classes,” she said, which startled him nearly as much.

  “On what?” Once again, he forgot his manners. Once again, Mrs. Grenville didn’t look as if she’d even noticed. “I can’t teach anyone else to use my talent, and I don’t know anything about magic.”

  “You know medicine. They’re going to need that. Especially field medicine. How to stop bleeding and set bones. Cautery. What to do about poison. Whatever they run into, it’s not likely to catch them near a hospital. Anatomy too,” she continued before Gareth could ask any of the questions that occurred to him. “I do a little in combat training, but it’s probably better to be really sure where the kidneys are. At least in human beings.” A pause. “Well, most human beings.”

  The possible questions started with What? and went on from there.

  Gareth took a breath and tried to organize his thoughts. He did know what the students would likely be doing with other people’s kidneys. Anatomical knowledge was useful for self-defense. The implication that human beings would not be the only sort of adversary…Olivia had hinted at similar things. He would not think about the library. And Simon had shown him an image or two back in university days. Besides, Mrs. Grenville’s meaning was self-evident.

  That left only one reply. “I’ve never taught anyone.”

  “Neither have any of us.” Mrs. Grenville laughed, a short and sharp sound that somehow had a hint of fondness in it this time. “Not mostly. Besides, you should do new things. It keeps the mind fresh. It also might make you stop glaring at the servants and prevent you from throwing something through a window one of these days.”

  “I have no intention of throwing anything through a window.”

 
“Most people don’t. Windows get broken all the same.” Mrs. Grenville eyed him much as Helen had in his boyhood, those times when she’d seen his scrapes and muddy clothes before their parents had. “I don’t know what your problem is,” she said. “Not right now, not in general. I’m not a…I mean, your feelings aren’t my business. The school is. You’ve done a good job so far. Keep doing it.”

  “Thank you,” said Gareth, not sure whether the praise or the warning unnerved him more. “I will.”

  Then Mrs. Grenville coughed and, in a considerably less firm and more embarrassed tone of voice, added, “If you’d like to talk about anything, that’s fine. I’m sure Simon feels the same way.”

  “No,” he said hastily. At university, he and Simon had often discussed women, but none of them had been a colleague. Gareth couldn’t imagine bringing up the subject of Olivia with Mrs. Grenville, who was even now letting her breath out in what sounded like relief. “Thank you. I should be going. I’ll talk with you tomorrow about scheduling the classes.”

  Mrs. Grenville nodded. “Be well,” she said.

  Gareth had taken a few steps toward the house when he stopped and turned back. “I’m sorry—” But Mrs. Grenville waved a hand at him: go on. He did. “You said…whatever they encounter? Do you know—?”

  “What’s likely to be a problem?” Mrs. Grenville shook her head. The wind made the blue-dyed plumes of her hat dance, a merriment quite at odds with the knife-edged purpose in her face. “No idea. Might not even be anything. But if something does come up, we’ll damn well be ready for it. Whatever it is.”

  Chapter 16

  “They’re coming along nicely,” said Mr. Grenville, looking out at the brown-and-gray expanse of the main garden and the students who were wandering through it. “ As far as I’m any judge.”

  “Someone must be,” Olivia replied, smiling. “You’re the best qualified by far, and so I’m gratified to hear your good opinion.” Lightly as she spoke, she’d felt her shoulders lift at the praise, and the brisk day seemed a little warmer as she glanced over at the students.