"I will make certain to raise the topic, Papa," she said, pretending not to hear the dubious snort that emanated from Mr. Shirley.
Chapter 12
"Driving with the earl?" Mr. Shirley asked, as she suspected he might when he found her alone in the drawing room some time after noon.
"He invited me, yes."
"How kind of him."
Oh, but sarcasm was dripping from the man's voice. She supposed she ought to have expected it. She'd left with Papa after their discussion earlier and she'd known he was frustrated with her willingness to capitulate on the subject of relinquishing the bird. Indeed, she was frustrated, too, at the thought of it, but he simply did now know all the details of her situation.
"The new earl was often in our company during his youth," she said, as if that might explain everything. "He is a longstanding family friend and an invitation is perfectly acceptable."
"I've no doubt it is. You accepted right away."
"I should have delayed? And what would that accomplish?"
"It might show him he isn't quite as important as he seems to think he is."
"He's the earl now. That's fairly important."
"It's still no excuse for him to get everything he wants around here."
"He only just arrived here. What on earth has he gotten that isn't already his?"
"Already his? Is that what you are, Miss Farrow? Already his?"
"Certainly not! What on earth could make you suggest such a thing?"
"He told you he wants to destroy your pet, so you put on your best bonnet and are ready to hop up into his carriage. Forgive me if I assume that—"
"You should not assume, sir. No one should."
"Then perhaps you should not be so willing to comply with this so-called earl."
"You'd have me be rude to him?"
"I'd have you say No to him."
"I... it's merely a carriage ride, sir."
"Is it?"
"He's been gone several years and simply wants to get reacquainted with the area."
"As if that's all he wants to get reacquainted with."
"I'm not certain I approve of your tone."
"But you do approve of this earl's dashing new conveyance, of course."
"I don't know anything about his conveyance."
"You can bet it's something purse-proud and sparkish."
"I have no interest in a man simply because of the carriage he drives."
"I never claimed that you did."
She scowled at him. He'd not needed to make any sort of claim; the very tone of his voice made it for him. Oh yes, she saw the insolent sneer that just barely tipped the corner of his lip, the almost-roll of his eyes. The nerve of him to judge her for this!
And how infuriating that she was even the least bit concerned what he thought of her.
"You make more than enough claims, sir."
He shook his head. He was close enough that she could feel the warm breath that he released slowly as his hand came up to brush her cheek. She was frozen in place when his eyes locked onto hers, the intensity of his gaze holding her captive.
"I don't make nearly enough of them, Miss Farrow."
Oh, but there was that liquid warmth that bubbled up inside her again and seemed to drain the strength right out of her body. The heat radiating from him... the smoky timbre of his voice... the sizzling impact of his tender caress... it all made her legs tremble and her head spin. Not that she was about to complain!
Indeed not. She pressed herself closer to him. The bubbling warmth threatened to turn into raging lava when he wrapped his arms around her held her as if he had every right to do so. Perhaps he did, at that. She felt remarkably comfortable in this intimate posture.
She studied his face to see if he felt something similar. His eyes were dark and his jaw set firmly. His lips moved as if to speak, but instead he merely smiled down at her. He seemed far more controlled than she felt, all that bubbling and lava making it extremely difficult for her to think straight. But he was fully possessed of all his faculties. Hers as well, it seemed, when he wrapped her tighter and brought his lips down to press against hers.
Was this a kiss? Good heavens, but it appeared that it was! So many years had passed since the few awkward attempts with Nigel, she'd come to believe she didn't care for kisses. But this... she rather liked this. Kissing Mr. Shirley was clearly something she had been wanting to do. That notion had not fully dawned on her until just now, but as the man's firm, heated hands slid tight around her and his lips lingered with rising fervor, she quite eagerly kissed him back.
His body was solid beneath her fingertips as she ran them over his arms, reaching up to very nearly hang upon his neck. His dark hair grew well beyond his collar and it was tempting to desperately run her hands through it. But that would distract from the kiss and, really, she wanted nothing to pull her focus away from that wonder. She clung to him and relished his taste, his scent, his very potent being.
The room around her ceased to exist and all that mattered was pulling herself closer to him, touching him and letting the waves of warm awareness roll her under their influence. Mr. Shirley was a master at what he did to her. Who would ever have thought such a thing from a mere parrot trainer?
A parrot trainer... good heavens, she was kissing their parrot trainer! And she was kissing him in a manner that could only be called wanton and gratuitous. What must the man think of her? Gracious, what would anyone think if they were to find them here like this? What if Papa came by, or if Nigel... Oh dear! Nigel would be here any minute!
She pried her hands off of him and shoved herself away.
"No! We can't."
The world seemed to whirl circles around her and she was forced to grab the nearest wall to keep herself upright. Mr. Shirley, however, appeared singularly unaffected. Only the hint of a knowing smile on his beautiful face gave any indication that he'd even noticed their kiss.
"I would say it appears that we can, Miss Farrow," he said smugly.
"But... oh no, but we shouldn't! Please, Mr. Shirley, you must forgive me."
"For that? Absolutely not."
"I don't know what I was thinking!"
"I have a fair notion what you were thinking."
"Well, I shouldn't have been."
"No, probably not. But I'm so glad you were. Come, my dear, let me help you think more on the subject."
He moved toward her so she staggered back, keeping as much air as possible between them. Any more kisses from this man and there was no telling what might happen. She needed to clear her head, to make herself think straight.
"No!"
"Ah, so you can use that word. I'm very happy to hear it. May I suggest you use it frequently when your companion arrives for your little outing today?"
She nearly panicked at the reminder. "He's expected any moment. Please, Mr. Shirley, don't make mention of... of what has happened here."
Now his smug smile went away, replaced by a darkening frown. "Yes, I suppose you would prefer to keep this particular thing from him."
"From everyone!"
"Of course. I am, after all, nothing more than a lowly parrot trainer."
"What? Oh, but that isn't it..."
"Isn't it? I'm not nearly so grand as your earl."
"He isn't my earl."
"No, he most certainly isn't. Don't let his honeyed words or elegant demeanor make you think otherwise."
"Why would you say that? Have you met the man?"
"I know his type."
"So you are an expert on parrots and the aristocracy, are you?"
"You ought not trust him, Miss Farrow."
"Believe me, Mr. Shirley. I, better than most, know that."
It was too much. She should not have confided in him—no doubt he would infer all manner of things from her words. Some of them might even be true.
"Then make an excuse. Tell him you cannot go with him today."
"But that would be a lie and I abhor lies, Mr. Shi
rley."
"Yes, I'm sure that you do. I've no right to instruct you how to live your life."
"No, you don't."
"You will accept my friendly warning, though? He isn't all that he seems. Be careful, Miss Farrow."
"I'm always careful, Mr. Shirley." And then her cheeks went hot as she had to correct herself. "Well, almost always."
She wanted to look away from him, since it was only too obvious just how un-careful she'd been not five minutes ago, but she couldn't. His blue eyes had captured hers and she was held there, backed up against the wall, still flushed from his kisses. He moved closer and her breath stopped in her chest, held there by invisible force. The pounding of her heart nearly deafened her.
He reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips. Her knees went all weak again and she wondered if it would be careful to grab him about the neck again and pull herself into his arms. She didn't, though. She struggled to breathe as he spoke softly over her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I'll never let him hurt you again."
What had he said? Dear gracious, but it seemed he knew what had happened. But he couldn't. How could he? And yet what else could his words mean?
Now it was even harder not to cast herself into him and pray for more of his kisses. He knew the truth yet he didn't condemn her! Parrot trainer or not, this man was more than exceptional.
A sound from outside caught her attention. She glanced over, and saw the gleaming black carriage just outside their home. It was Nigel... the new Earl of Glenwick. He'd arrived for her, just as expected. She could make out his form, adjusting his hat and descending from one of the highest Phaetons she'd ever seen. The idea of climbing up into that—with him—filled her with sudden terror.
It must have shown on her face.
"You can still claim a headache," Mr. Shirley whispered.
Indeed, she very nearly agreed with him. But no, that would serve no useful purpose. This was something she must face and she knew what to do.
She pulled her hand back from Mr. Shirley and slid away from him.
"I will go with the earl," she announced and hoped it was honest disappointment she thought she saw in his expression. "And I'll plead for Bartholomew. Surely as an old friend, the earl can't ignore my appeal, can he?"
Now his disappointment was coupled with an inelegant snort. "I daresay he cannot. Your appeal is undeniable, Miss Farrow."
A giddy delight welled up in her now. How silly, to find herself girlishly effected by such flattery. She could not help it, though. She'd somehow become hopelessly infatuated with this parrot trainer and the mere fact that he smiled at her nearly caused her to swoon. What a ninny she was!
At least, though, she had no worries of falling under the sway of Nigel's old charm. The very thought of it was laughable now. As she watched him move from his carriage toward their house the panes in the glass made him appear small and distorted. How had she ever found anything of him attractive?
She was glad she resisted the urge—once again—to throw herself into Mr. Shirley's strong arms. Mrs. Cooper appeared in the doorway and cleared her throat just then.
"It seems his lordship has arrived," she announced.
"I'll receive him in here," Meg replied.
Mr. Shirley appeared uncomfortable. "I suppose I'll take my leave."
"Would you care to meet the new earl?" she asked, wishing he would accept, and perhaps even insinuate himself into their outing.
He declined. "No, I think your fine earl would care little for me. I'll go tend to the bird."
Nodding to her and then to Mrs. Cooper, he let himself out of the room. It almost appeared to Meg as if he rushed, but surely that was imagination. What reason could Mr. Shirley possibly have to hurry off, avoiding someone he'd never once met? She attributed it to some sense of inferiority on his part and promised herself she would set him straight on that later. He may not have a fine title or high-perch Phaeton, but Mr. Shirley was far more the gentleman than Nigel Webberly had ever been. If he did not believe that now, she'd find a way to convince him. First, though, she must rescue Bartholomew.
A knock sounded at the front door. It was hollow, insistent. Mr. Shirley's footsteps had disappeared up the nearby stairs and Mrs. Cooper raised an eyebrow, waiting for instruction from Meg.
She waited a long moment before giving it. The knock sounded again. Meg took a deep breath and picked up her gloves.
"Very well. You may let him in, Mrs. Cooper."
"She's going driving with the blackguard," Max grumbled.
He stalked back and forth in his room, pausing to glare out the window and snarl as Nigel's carriage jounced down the street, Miss Farrow perched tenuously on the bench and clearly at Nigel's mercy. What could she be thinking, to go off with him like this? Did she really care for him that much, even knowing that he was heartless enough to rip Bartholomew from their home with the intent of destroying him? He couldn't believe that of her.
No, Miss Farrow had a conscience, she cared for what was right. Perhaps some tender feelings for Nigel still lingered in her, but he was certain it had not been Nigel she was thinking of when he kissed her. When she kissed him.
By God, she had kissed him—had kissed him quite well. He was not likely to forget it any time soon, either. He only wished he could forget that she'd likely kissed Nigel in similar manner sometime in the past. It was entirely possible the ruddy fool expected the same from her today, too.
Well, surely she'd not succumb to any advances Nigel might make. Miss Farrow cared for propriety. She was well aware Nigel's wife was barely cold in the grave—surely she'd rebuff any overtures he might make. The man ought to be in full mourning, not out touring the countryside with an unchaperoned lady.
While Max... well, he ought to be figuring out the bloody mystery he had at hand instead of worrying over a woman who saw him as nothing more than a parrot trainer with a penchant for unseemly poetry. He dragged himself away from the window and went back to the papers he had strewn over his bed. Bartholomew squawked from his perch and stretched his wings as if he might fly.
"No, I don't need you on my head, or mucking about with my papers," Max informed him. "You just stay there in your spot."
"Dear Dot marks the spot," Bartholomew responded.
No less than four times.
Max ran his hands through his hair and bit back some unholy words. "Stop it! What the hell does that mean, anyway, 'Dear Dot marks the spot?'"
As if in sensible reply, the bird simply said, "You'll want what she's got."
Max was about to give in to some unholy words but suddenly the bird's phrase linked with some little memory inside his brain. Dot. A woman's name... short for Dorothy, as he recalled. Why should that seem suddenly familiar to him?
He didn't know anyone named Dorothy, as far as he knew. He kept getting a fuzzy image in his mind, a distant memory of someone, though. A woman... yes, a woman with red hair. How did he know her?
He couldn't picture her face, no matter how hard he tried. All he could recall was long, waving red hair and, well, a rather remarkable bosom. Yes, that part was not so very fuzzy in his recollection.
But how on earth could he have a memory like that? Surely he'd not been on such intimate terms with a woman and then completely forget her face or anything else about her? Indeed, he'd not lived the life of a monk, but still... he was a gentleman. Surely he was not cad enough to play so fast with a woman and then entirely forget her.
For the life of him he could not place her. She was nothing more than a vague, red-headed, big bosomed figure in his murky memory. It was almost as if she had not been real; yet not a fantasy, either. For certain any fantasy woman of his invention would be shaped in a manner more closely resembling reality. She'd be shaped like Miss Farrow, for instance. This Dorothy person... well, she was almost grotesque in his mind. He could see her quite plainly now: weathered skin, clumsy, bulbous, breasts barely hidden behind indecently clinging fabric, a vacant stare from a
face he couldn't quite place... By God, what on earth could he have done with the woman to be so well acquainted with her?
Bartholomew ruffled his feathers, croaking and cackling insensibly as he preened on his perch. And then suddenly the image in Max's memory became clear. He remembered the woman.
"Dorothy Rose."
He breathed the name slowly, allowing the sound of it to hang in the air and his mind's eye to see her completely.
Yes, he did know her well. He'd admired her for years, gazed in awe-struck wonder at her. More than once he'd even climbed up onto his grandfather's desk in order to touch her. That had seemed forbidden fruit to a young lad of ten and after all these years such foolishness had been nearly forgotten.
Not entirely, though. Dorothy Rose still held a place in his heart. He could hardly believe he didn't recall her at once. He had no doubt Bartholomew recalled her. His separation from her, actually, might be some part of an explanation for his unpleasant attitude of late. In all of Max's memories, Bartholomew and Dorothy Rose had been together. She had been the bird's security, his foundation, his place of refuge.
Literally. Max had been more than a little relieved to remember that Dorothy Rose was not, in fact, a real woman. She was the decrepit wooden figurehead from one of Max's less-than-noble ancestor's ships. Bartholomew insisted on using the bawdy thing as his perch as she hung year after year over the desk in Grandfather's office. Over time, Bartholomew had left so many claw marks and refuse on her head that at least once a year Grandfather had been forced to repaint the old girl.
And he had called her Dot. She'd been part of the family for years, proudly displayed as if there was no shame at all in the scandalous rumors of a Glenwick who'd gone to sea, devoting himself for a time to all the depravity of piracy before bringing home a stolen bride and forever tainting the Glenwick name. Max had found her entrancing and exotic. His parents had been appalled at the very thought of her existence. Neither of them shared his grandfather's fascination with the old figurehead, or for the secret family history. If not for the gossip of servants, Max may have never heard of the terrible things his great-grandfather had supposedly done, roving the seas on a mission to pillage and plunder.
Miss Farrow's Feathers Page 13