Heather and Velvet

by Teresa Medeiros

  He was gone before Old Fish could reply.

  Sebastian followed an arched corridor to the library he had discovered earlier that morning. The carved doors were shut. As a humming maid rounded the corner with an armful of linen, he pressed himself into a curtained alcove. He stepped out after she passed and gave his frock coat a nervous tug. When he was master of Lindentree, he would have to stop skulking like a second-rate French spy. But that’s what you are, he reminded himself. Only Tricia’s wealth held the power to set him free.

  He pushed open the library doors and, seeing her, bit off a curse that would have made Tiny blush.

  Prudence jerked her head up, her eyes widening in alarm.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I stubbed my toe.”

  He had not stubbed his toe. He’d cursed because the alluring creature of last night had vanished once again. The fragile vision that had haunted him all morning might have only been a dream—her hair tumbled, her nightcap askew, the delicate bones of her face framed by lace—all gone as if they had never been. The twist of Sebastian’s heart was more grief than irritation. Perhaps, he mused, he was dealing with a set of twins possessed by a diabolical sense of humor.

  Prudence’s unbound hair had been replaced by a chignon so tight it made his head ache to contemplate it. Her spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, and her mouth had a pinched look about it. She untucked her legs from the wing-backed chair and brushed a stray crumb from the dun muslin of her skirt.

  He closed the door. “I need to speak with you. Can we be undisturbed here?”

  She laid aside her book with obvious reluctance. “I suppose. I don’t believe Tricia knows where the library is.”

  He frowned. “How long has she lived here?”

  Prudence blinked owlishly over the rims of her spectacles. “Ten years.”

  Sebastian pulled up a brocaded stool and sat at her feet. The library was a cozy room, scented with the must and leather of well-worn books. Two long casement windows overlooked a meadow drenched in buttercups. It was refreshing to look out a window and see something more natural than clipped, rolling lawn and leering stone Apollos.

  Now that he had finally found her, words deserted Sebastian. As he glanced at the book she had been reading, he smiled wryly. “Sur la combustion en general?”

  She covered the book with a protective hand. “Monsieur Lavoisier shared many of Papa’s theories regarding fulminating powders.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were continuing your father’s research.”

  “I’m not.” She picked up a pile of letters stacked beside her chair. “But these men are. Their pleas come in the post every week. They want my father’s notes, his formulas. But I can’t help any of them when I don’t know what went wrong in his calculations.” She laughed weakly. “Some of them even want money.”

  Sebastian frowned at the pile. “Pesky lot, aren’t they?”

  “It’s dwindled. It was much worse right after he died. They used to appear on Tricia’s doorstep, accost me at church …” She sighed. “I can’t help but wonder where they all were when Papa was begging for money to fund his own experiments.”

  Sebastian wanted to touch her hand, but satisfied himself with caressing the worn spine of the book. Silent minutes stretched between them. They both started talking at once, then lapsed again into awkward silence.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  She clasped her hands around her knees. “No, you.”

  He flexed his long legs. “Why haven’t you betrayed me to your aunt?”

  She sniffed with dignity. “If Aunt Tricia is silly enough to marry a highwayman, who am I to stop her?”

  “Who are you indeed? I’ve been asking myself that question since I met you.”

  “I fear you would be disappointed by the answer.”

  She took off her spectacles and folded them into her pocket. Sebastian had placed himself near her in the hope that she would. He saw that shadows smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes, as if she, too, had slept poorly. But the soft amethyst of her eyes was untarnished. He could not help staring at her, riveted by the pure curve of her cheek the view from the stool afforded him.

  “It’s just as well you sought me out, Lord Kerr. I had planned on seeking an audience with you later in the day. I did not think you would be up so early.” She evaded his gaze. “My aunt seldom rises before noon. It never occurred to me that she might be awake at this hour … or that you might be awake or—”

  He took pity on her flustered state. “I have no idea if Tricia is awake or not. Per my own request, my bedchamber is in the west wing.”

  She met his eyes then, and there was reluctant admiration in her gaze. Sebastian felt like a knave. His bedchamber was in the west wing at his request. But he had held Tricia at bay on the pretense that he didn’t want the implication of their intimacy to corrupt her young niece. Both Tricia and Prudence would pale if they knew how desperately he really longed to corrupt her.

  Prudence cleared her throat in a purposeful manner, and he got the distinct impression he was preparing to interview a governess.

  “I wanted to meet with you, my lord—”

  “Sebastian,” he interjected.

  “—to assure you that I will do everything in my power not to be a burden to you and my aunt once the two of you are wed. I don’t know if my aunt has made you aware, but I am quite capable of keeping detailed household accounts. I can tend to the more tiresome details of running a manor house such as Lindentree, freeing you and Tricia to attend balls or hunts or whatever social activities you choose for your amusement.” She bowed her head, and his gaze locked on the sleek cap of her hair. “I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that I lack a certain authority over the servants, but fortunately they adore Tricia, and even the lazy ones will do whatever she asks.”

  He continued staring at her in stunned silence.

  “I am also quite proficient in needlework. I can do simple mending, which should save you the trouble of hiring a seamstress for the more menial tasks.”

  Sebastian wanted to stop her before she applied for the post of chambermaid, but her dignified recitation had rendered him speechless. He wondered what she would say if he offered her the post of his mistress. But no, that would be too cruel. And too easy.

  At his silence, her voice faltered. “I can even turn my hand to light cleaning if you desire.”

  “Of what? My pistols?”

  The words shot out before he could stop them. She lifted her head, her eyes wide in mild reproach as if she did not find his jest amusing. Her fingers knotted in her skirts. “Lindentree is the only home I know. My aunt was kind enough to take me in after my father”—she hesitated for the briefest moment—“exploded.”

  Her discomfiture pained him. He leaned back on the stool, his eyes searching her face. “What of suitors, Prudence? Don’t you wish to marry one day?”

  She met his gaze coolly. Her quiet words held not a trace of self-pity. “I am twenty years old. I have received two separate marriage proposals in my life. Within five minutes, I’d talked both men out of believing they loved me. If they had loved me, I would not have been able to talk them out of it.”

  Her blatant honesty disarmed him and tightened an aching knot in the pit of his stomach. “Does that suit you? Is this the life you choose? No husband. No home of your own. No children.”

  She shyly inclined her head. “I must confess to a fondness for children. I had once hoped to have some of my own.”

  Sebastian rose and strode over to the window before she met his gaze and saw how badly he would like to put his child in her. He balled his fist against the casement, staring blindly at the summer morning.

  When he spoke again, his voice was gruffer than he intended. “You need not worry, Miss Walker. Lindentree will be your home for as long as you desire to make it so.”

  He heard the swish of her skirts, the click of her spectacles unfolding, but did not trust himself to face her.

  “Than
k you, sir. I trust you will not be sorry.”

  Behind him, the library doors opened and closed. He pressed his forehead to the warm glass, baffled by what had transpired. He had come to the library to cajole, to swear, or to threaten her into secrecy concerning his identity, and she had ended up begging him—a lying, thieving, no-good scoundrel—for a small corner in her own home.

  What manner of woman was she? And why was he so powerless to stop thinking of her? His eyes narrowed with determination. With luck and a bit of charm, he intended to find out. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out one of the pearl-tipped hairpins he had carried since the night they had met. He rolled it between his fingers, hearing once again the sweet beat of the summer rain.

  Seven

  Prudence backed through the library door, trying to juggle a tart and flip the page of her book at the same time. Safely inside the library, she shoved the door shut with her foot. A light snore rattled the silence, and she froze. Her heart thudded a warning. As she turned, the tart slipped from her fingers and landed on the polished wood floor with a splat.

  Sebastian sprawled in the wing-backed chair, his white-stockinged feet propped on the stool. His head was thrown back, his mouth slightly ajar. A book lay across his lap, rumpling the neat creases of his tan breeches.

  She knew she ought to scrape up her tart and silently creep away. Sebastian Kerr would soon be master of this house. If he chose to deny her the haven of the library in the first peace of the day, that was his right. But the slanting rays of the morning sun poured over him, seeming to drag her forward. Just one look, she promised herself. Just to satisfy her perverse curiosity about the reading habits of a notorious highwayman.

  Clutching her own book, she glided toward him, bedazzled by more than the sunshine. The fragile light spun a white-gold web around Sebastian. He looked like a medieval prince awaiting a kiss to break his enchantment. Before she realized it, Prudence was leaning forward, her lips parted. Sebastian’s thigh shifted, and she gave herself a harsh mental shake.

  She could hardly afford to indulge in such girlish fantasies about her aunt’s fiancé. He was just a man like any other man. She forced herself to focus on his faults—the little hiccup at the crest of each snore, the pale scar under his chin. She bent over him. Why, his teeth weren’t even perfect! One of his front teeth had a corner chipped out of it.

  He stirred again, and she almost giggled at the thought of him awakening to find her peering into his mouth like a horse trader.

  She eased the book from his lap, but she didn’t have to turn it over to recognize it. It was Lavoisier’s famed tome on gunpowder, the very book he had discovered her reading the day before. He had made it to the second page before falling asleep.

  Her bewilderment shifted to unreasoning ire. The book slid from her rigid fingers, hitting the Persian carpet with a soft thud. How long had he been lying in wait for her? The man should be with his fiancée. What right did he have to ruin her morning? To insinuate himself into her library, her chair, her book? Was there nothing in her life he would leave alone, unchanged by the casual mockery of his touch? She glared down at him, unwillingly noticing how his dark lashes fanned across his cheeks. Sleeping people looked so terribly vulnerable.

  She took three deliberate steps backward, off the carpet, held her arms straight out in front of her, and dropped her book. It slammed into the floor with the force of a gunshot.

  Sebastian flew out of the chair, groping at his waist. Prudence didn’t know whether to laugh or be ashamed when she realized he was searching for his pistols. His wild-eyed gaze lit on her.

  She blinked, all innocence. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”

  He sank back into the chair and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. “Good Lord, girl. You took ten years off my life.”

  She noted that he wasn’t too senile to nudge the treatise on gunpowder under his chair with his heel.

  She knelt to retrieve her own book. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll be going now.”

  “No!”

  She stared at him, frozen in place on her knees.

  He gave his frock coat a sheepish tug, as if realizing how much desperation had tempered his command. “Stay, please. There’s ample room for both of us here.”

  Prudence didn’t know if the Colosseum of Rome held ample room for both of them. Before she could protest, though, he was kneeling beside her. His knee brushed hers as he picked up her book.

  He gave a mock stagger at its weight and read the title aloud, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar Latin. “Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica by Isaac Newton.” He handed it to her. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken up some lighter reading, Prudence. I was beginning to wonder if you ever had any fun.”

  His teasing grin revealed the chip in his tooth. It only made him look dashing. Prudence knew she should have escaped before he recovered his smile.

  She hugged the book to her breasts like a shield, babbling as she always did when nervous. “Newton is quite fascinating, you know. The Principia explores his hypothesis that the force of attraction between two bodies varies directly …”

  Her voice trailed off as she became mesmerized by the clean scent of his hair, the lazy little flick of his tongue across his upper lip.

  He lifted an eyebrow, challenging her to continue.

  She stood abruptly. “You wouldn’t be interested.”

  He straightened too. “You’re wrong, Prudence. I would be very interested.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” She took a step backward. “I—I’m boring. Everyone says so.”

  “Nonsense. I find Norton’s theories quite intriguing.”

  “Newton,” she corrected, taking another step away from him, acutely aware of the closed door at her back.

  He reached for her book, as if by touching it he could somehow hold her there. Her fingers dug into the leather spine. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the considerable charm of his physical presence that tempted her to stay. It was the tender earnestness in his eyes. It would be too easy to believe he actually wanted to sit with her among all these books, and laugh and talk about the things that interested them, as she and Papa used to do. When she looked up, though, Sebastian’s gaze was lingering not on her book, but on her lips.

  A strange heat flooded her cheeks. She fumbled behind her for the door handle. “Perhaps another time.”

  As if sensing he had pushed too hard, too fast, he stepped back. “Come tomorrow morning, won’t you? We could talk …”

  A peculiar expression stole over his face, and she followed his gaze downward. His foot was planted firmly in the middle of her tart. Raspberries bled into his immaculate white stocking.

  Prudence clapped a hand over her mouth before a throaty giggle could escape. Tricia said her laugh was vulgar, as low and common as a London hussy’s. Beneath his lowered lashes, Sebastian’s eyes sparkled dangerously. Prudence opened the door, deciding it was wisest to pretend she hadn’t noticed his foot was mired in her breakfast.

  “Perhaps tomorrow.” She bobbed a harried curtsy. “Good day, my lord.”

  His elegant bow could have graced any London drawing room. “Good day, Prudence.”

  She backed into the hall, turned and ran, skittering around the corner and out the door to the garden. She collapsed against the wall, smothering her merry peals of laughter with her skirt.

  Sebastian trailed his hand through the rippling cool water of the fish pond. A goldfish nipped his thumb. He straightened with a sigh and leaned on the balustrade. The sun toasted his cambric shirt against his shoulders. He longed to tear away his queue and let the warm wind rush through his hair.

  From the bowling green below the terrace, Squire Blake waved a turkey leg at him. Sebastian wondered if that would be him in twenty years. Corpulent and crude, satisfied to spend his days playing games with other overgrown children and his nights learning clever new ways to fold his cravat. He shuddered.

  �
�Have you taken a chill, darling? Shall I have Fish fetch your coat?”

  Sebastian suppressed another shudder as Tricia’s trilling voice raked down his spine. What sort of inane question was that, he wondered. Probably just another excuse to stuff him into a frock coat. He swung around to face his fiancée. She sat a few feet away, going through her correspondence with Old Fish. Just recently risen from her bed, she wore only her elegant robe de chambre—and, of course, a wig and full complement of makeup. Her damp fichu clung to her bosom. A trickle of sweat eased down her flushed cheek, melting the powder in its wake. Beneath the flattering candlelight of London ballrooms and her bedchamber, he had never noticed the folds of skin loosening at her throat. He felt a pang of sympathy mixed with irritation. It must be stifling under that wig.

  “No, thank you, dear,” he said, dredging up a pleasant smile “I haven’t taken a chill.

  She tittered. “Perhaps a goose walked over your grave.”

  A Great Dane, more likely, he thought as Boris galloped across the lawn below, scattering the peacocks.

  Tricia blew him a kiss and went back to dictating her correspondence. Catching the butler’s eye, Sebastian decided he might need that coat after all. Old Fish’s glare was as shivering as a glacier.

  His hands clenched the balustrade. He wouldn’t have to worry about a grave for quite some time. The only thing likely to kill him at Lindentree was boredom. Rising at five each morning to haunt the library wasn’t improving his temper either, especially since Prudence had failed to appear after their last meeting. He was a slow reader, and had struggled to page fifty of the gunpowder book without gaining any insight into her character.

  Squire Blake tromped up the grassy slope, sucking the last drops of grease from the turkey bone. The afternoon stretched interminably before Sebastian. Tea. A round of bowling on the lawn. Dinner. Sipping brandy while listening to Tricia pound on her new pianoforte. A late supper. No wonder Squire Blake was so obsessed with his digestion. In the past week their whole lives had consisted of an endless parade of meals broken only by an occasional hunt or ball. Sebastian smothered a yawn with the back of his hand.