What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

He watched in shock as his aunt sailed from the room. The cat leapt from the bed with a heavy thunk and followed. Court Henrietta. Good Lord. If he wanted proof his aunt was fit for Bedlam, he had it there. Offer for Henrietta, indeed. He couldn’t envision any sort of courtship that would make up for his transgressions.

  To approach her would mean once more facing what he’d done in leaving—to both of them. But as his aunt so aptly observed, honor demanded he act.

  Chapter Five

  On entering the morning room, Henrietta stopped short. With Alexander laid up in his chamber, it had been easy enough over the past five days to pretend he hadn’t returned. But today would tell a different tale. He sat at the table, his plate heaped with kippers, eggs, and toast. The tanned jut of his cheekbones had lost its translucency that revealed the chalkiness beneath; in fact, he looked nearly his old self. Handsome enough, in other words, to set her treacherous heart to beating faster. And if his appetite was any indication, he was well on the way to recovering his vitality, his energy.

  His virility.

  As she considered turning and ordering a tray in her room, he looked up. Lady Epperley peered at her through her lorgnette. Her papery lips trembled, but Henrietta couldn’t tell whether the tic was due to age or a suppressed titter.

  “Come and have something to eat.” Lady Epperley indicated a seat across from her nephew. “You look positively sickly.”

  Lovely. Worse than her mother, the dowager was, and Henrietta would have to take whatever remark her employer served up without saying a word.

  “Yes, my lady.” She kept her head down in hopes Lady Epperley would return her attention to her stewed prunes and leave the rest of them in peace. Albemarle sat in her usual spot at the head of the table, lapping at a porcelain soup plate full of cream.

  But the harridan’s mouth continued its twitch. “I’d introduce you to my nephew, but I am clearly too late in that regard.”

  Henrietta’s cheeks heated. When she was hired, no mention was made of her broken engagement, even though the inveterate gossip must have been aware of the circumstances. Now Henrietta understood why. Stealth tactics were so much more diverting—at least for Lady Epperley.

  “Yes, my lady.” If Henrietta concentrated on buttering her toast, perhaps they’d leave her in peace. Or perhaps she’d scrape that butter clean through the bread.

  “Albemarle thinks it’s quite a rousing coincidence that both of you turn up here at this particular time.”

  “Does he?” Henrietta carefully ignored the cat’s true gender in favor of avoiding a lecture. She was long since used to the old lady speaking for the cat, as well as believing the creature to be male. But good Lord, would she not let the subject drop? “I wouldn’t call it a coincidence.”

  Lady Epperley speared a prune with her fork, but instead of putting it in her mouth, she waved it about. “Why, of course it is. What else would you call it?”

  “I was already here,” Henrietta pointed out. And if she’d known Alexander would arrive at his aunt’s out of the blue, she’d never have accepted this position. So much for hindsight.

  “Well, yes, but not even Albemarle, clever as he is, could have predicted a shipwreck, just here, and after all these years.” She turned a narrow gaze on her nephew. “And clearly, Alexander, you never expected to find Miss Upperton here, did you?”

  Alexander had been applying himself diligently to his plate. Possibly more diligently than necessary—but then, if he kept his mouth full, he wouldn’t be obliged to take part in the conversation. Except his aunt was studying him through her lorgnette with an air of expectation. Even Albemarle left off her lapping and blinked her large, amber eyes.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his forkful. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

  “Ha!” Lady Epperley slapped her palm on the table, causing the cutlery and the cat to jump. “It’s fate, I tell you. Fate. And Alexander lacking a wife, no less.”

  Henrietta suppressed the urge to slink down in her seat. Such a posture was hardly ladylike, but she’d rather disappear. She wanted to crawl under the table, lift the edge of the Aubusson carpeting, and cover herself. Let the servants walk over her. It was better than allowing Lady Epperley to do so.

  Alexander laid aside his fork. “Now, really.”

  “Well, aren’t you? A man in the prime of his age, and well settled. Even Albemarle knows that such a man, if unattached, must be in want of a wife.” In another moment, she’d be spouting off about universally acknowledged truths.

  His cheeks took on a ruddier tone. “Don’t you think I ought to observe an appropriate mourning period before I go looking to remarry?”

  Heat prickled at the back of Henrietta’s neck. If he was concerned about proper mourning periods, he must have held his wife in high esteem, indeed. Yes, and that was a strip of black cloth tied about his upper arm.

  That carpet was looking more and more tempting. Oh, tomorrow, she would definitely call for a tray in her room. Tomorrow and every successive day until Alexander was well enough to leave. To hell with running away. Judging by his coloring, he might not even remain an entire fortnight. She crossed her fingers, screwed her eyes closed, and prayed for his rapid recovery.

  “Nonsense. From what Albemarle told me, the lady in question had no connections to speak of. No one in society would expect you to hide yourself away for a year.”

  Worse and worse. No matter what connections his wife might have possessed, Henrietta could hardly boast about her own. Any titles in her family were generations removed—along with any great wealth. So why was Lady Epperley championing her as a potential match for Alexander, if, indeed, that was what the old harridan was about? Or was it the cat? Not that either was above amusing herself by intentionally embarrassing others.

  Alexander pushed his plate aside and stood. “I could not care less for society’s opinion. It is a question of respect for one recently departed, her connections be damned.”

  Henrietta gasped. The Alexander she had known would never use such language in mixed company, and most certainly not in front of his aunt.

  But Lady Epperley only cackled. “Do you think those words offend me? I’ve heard far worse in my day. Just keep in mind the circumstances we discussed, no matter what you think of society’s opinion. Although I thought you valued your honor more.”

  Alexander firmed his jaw. “I do, but honor also demands I pay proper respect.” With a nod, he turned and stalked toward the door. But on the threshold, he stopped and regarded Henrietta. “Do you think I might have a word?”

  She held herself rigid in her seat. What more could he possibly have to say? “I beg your pardon?”

  “A word, immediately.”

  Lady Epperley eased herself out of her chair. “Go on with you.” She flicked her hands in a shooing motion that somehow made her appear girlish. “The young man wants a word. Why not use the library?”

  Right. The last place she’d discuss anything with him was a spot where Lady Epperley was certain to listen at the door.

  Henrietta stood. “Very well.” But when she crossed to him, she added, low, “Not the library.”

  He offered his arm, as if he was escorting her to supper. Ever the gentleman. Ever a stickler for the rules, despite his damning of society’s opinion. She stared just above the elbow where a swath of black cloth encircled his upper arm, but he did not withdraw. Fine, then. She tucked her hand into the crook.

  “Do you know a place where we’re not likely to be overheard?”

  “Anywhere your aunt does not expect us to hold a conversation.” She could take him to her room under the eaves, but that was hardly a fitting spot. With his aunt seemingly out to pair him off, she’d likely insist on him making an offer. The corridor outside her bedchamber would have to do. “This way.”

  Moving quickly, she led him up three flights, from the sweeping staircase at the center of the house to the ever-narrowing corridors on the top floor. The servants’ wing was quiet t
his time of morning, with all its denizens hard at work, or nearly so.

  The heavy solitude left nothing but his presence to fill the space.

  She curled her fingers over her palm where the texture of his borrowed morning coat remained imprinted on her skin. “What can you possibly have to say to me that’s so urgent?”

  She made an attempt to soften her demeanor. Although he naturally set her on guard, she had no reason to antagonize him. He would leave soon enough and be gone from her life, and she would pick up where she’d left off a week ago, as if he’d never passed through.

  And what of the future? What happens when he remarries and brings his family for a visit, and you’re still here?

  The question came to her mind unbidden, but she would face that eventuality when it happened. If he were at all conscientious, he’d avoid prolonged holidays, as long as she remained in his aunt’s employ.

  He rubbed his chin and eyed her, considering. “This will seem like an odd question, I suppose.”

  She raised her brows. “I don’t understand.”

  The briefest of smiles eased his features into gentler planes. “You will the moment I ask you. You must know I’m not one for gossip, but there it is. What do you know of my sister?”

  Sister? He wanted to speak to her urgently to discuss his sister? “Which one?”

  “Cecelia.”

  “Oh.” She searched her brain and came up with little. “Last I heard, she was engaged. Was it to Lord …? No, I cannot recall.”

  “Apparently she no longer is.” He rubbed the back of his neck, dislodging several spikes of sandy blond hair in the process. “I was hoping you could tell me why that was.”

  Wonderful, just wonderful. The heat she’d experienced in the breakfast room came flooding back. Now she’d have to stand here and explain to him why she’d all but withdrawn from society and was thus in a poor position to keep up with the latest on-dits. “Why haven’t you asked your aunt for the news? She keeps up with this sort of thing far better than I do.”

  He swept at his fringe. So distracting those locks of hair. An urge rose in her to push them back from his forehead, but that would involve touching him. Physical contact with him was dangerous.

  “Then you’ve heard nothing?” he asked.

  She racked her brain. Cecelia. Cecelia Sanford. Henrietta recalled her well enough, a vivacious, dark-haired beauty, bubbling where her brother was all rigid seriousness. She was his exact opposite. Engaged to Lord Anstruther—that was the name—but if Henrietta had heard whispers of Cecelia crying off, she’d quite forgotten why. “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything.”

  “Then perhaps the matter is not too serious, though that’s not what my aunt claimed.”

  Henrietta blew out a breath. She was simply going to have to tell him. “Beyond my closest friends, I’ve paid very little attention to society for the past few years. Granted, my mother pushed me to attend all manner of balls and what have you, but I’ve far preferred to keep to myself.”

  There. That explained things subtly enough that she need not feel embarrassment—even if she did. She never wanted to tell him how the manner in which he’d broken things off had humiliated her, how utterly mortifying it had been to hear the whispers at her back.

  Yes, that’s Henrietta Upperton. Poor thing. She was all set to marry Alexander Sanford. A brilliant match for her, since she has little dowry to speak of. Or the beauty to turn a man’s head. That is, until he threw her over and married another. In India, no less. One has to wonder if he left to get away from her.

  She’d heard all that and worse. What girl wouldn’t prefer to stick to a small circle of loyal friends than listen to that sort of talk night after night? And even those close friends had made matches of their own. She’d wished them all well with a smile and a heavy heart.

  Alexander cleared his throat. No apology, just a simple rasp from deep in his chest. Likely all she’d ever hear from him. Not that she needed it. Or him.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She refused to allow her hurt to show in front of him. What good would it do to let him see? It was past time she got over what he’d done to her.

  How can a rational being be ennobled by any thing that is not obtained by its own exertions?

  She must remember Mary Wollstonecraft’s words. Her engagement to Alexander was not something she’d achieved on her own merit, certainly. He’d worked the matter out with her father. Her independence, on the other hand … All she needed was to maintain her employment, either here or elsewhere, and she might enjoy relative freedom. At least she might determine her future to the extent any woman was allowed, decide whether she stayed with one employer or left to find another.

  She made to push past him, but he reached for her elbow, his grip warm and insistent. Firm as the rest of him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I should like to get away from you.” She stared pointedly at his armband. “Seems after all this time, you ought to be perfectly willing to let me go.”

  He stepped back but still maintained the hold on her. How his fingers burned through her sleeve. “What’s this now?”

  She yanked away from his grip. “Nothing.” She would not let him see the pain he’d caused her. Would not. It served no purpose.

  He stepped in front of her, blocking the corridor. “This is not nothing. What is the matter?”

  Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. He’d said that so softly, so caringly—just like the man she remembered. The man he’d been before he left. She studied the breadth of his shoulders, his feet, the wall beyond, the ceiling. Anything to keep from looking into his eyes.

  “Can you not guess?” The words came out small and wavering, unsure of themselves, unsure of what they could express to him without letting him in too far. The closer she let him get, the more open, the more vulnerable she’d be to renewed pain. And she’d vowed long ago not to let any man hurt her again.

  He set both hands on her arms, his fingers wrapping around them, drawing her close enough for her to scent the exotic spice that surrounded him. “Is this about what I’ve done?”

  “No.” She lied, because if he cared at all how badly he’d hurt her, he wouldn’t have done so in the first place. If he’d truly loved her, he would have found a way back to her. He would not have permitted another woman to turn his head.

  He placed a hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. She lowered her eyelids. Damn him. If he insisted, she would show him just how stubborn she could be. In the past, she hadn’t allowed him to see this side of her. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t demure. It wasn’t the way to attract a suitor, according to her mother. No, she must be soft and pleasant and cheerful at all times. She must be accomplished. She must make the most of her looks.

  She was none of those things now. She refused to behave that way simply for the sake of pleasing a man. She’d learned her lesson.

  “I don’t believe that.” His whisper might have been a shout for all it reverberated through her being.

  She opened her eyes to turn the full force of her glare on him. So much for the demure little miss. “Believe what you will. I do not particularly give a fig.”

  Lord, the way he was looking at her. She recalled that barely contained passion in his gaze, and it awakened an answering spark in her belly. Like the wick of a candle catching, a burning uncoiled within. But she would ignore the growing flames that threatened to lick at the walls of her resolve. She had to. That or let her annoyance take hold before desire blazed out of control.

  “I’d apologize, if I thought it would do any good.”

  Oh, this was rich. “You’re assuming it matters to me. As I’ve already informed you, it does not.”

  “I think that it does.” His lips hovered close enough that she could nearly taste each honeyed word that rolled off his tongue.

  With a toss of her head, she made him back up. Childish of her, perhaps, but there
it was. A tendril of hair came loose from her coiffure and hung in front of her eye. With one hand, she swiped at it, while she continued to glare at him. Eyes not leaving hers for so much as a second, he stepped closer, crowded her, his presence a tangible force that pushed her against the wall.

  The corridor in this forgotten corner occasionally frequented by servants was too far from the inhabited spaces to bother with candles. The windows up here were small, and the sun was not high enough to allow more than the faintest radiance. He stood so close to her, his body blotted out daylight.

  “Stand aside.” Damn that lock of hair. How it must make her look youthful and wayward; it must rob her of any kind of authority.

  “Not yet.”

  She stuck out her lower lip and blew upward. The lock swayed tauntingly before settling back in the middle of her nose. “I shall scream.”

  He ignored this in favor of reaching for the tress. He took it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing, concentrating on what he was doing as if it were of the utmost importance that he learn the exact texture of her hair. Dumbfounded, she allowed him.

  Somehow, he inched closer until his breath blew across her face, warm and sweet. “Do you remember this?”

  “Remember what?” She had to force the words through her lips. Drawing in air had suddenly become a difficult prospect.

  “This. How it was between us.”

  “No.” A blatant lie. That particular hint of gravel in his voice pulled her straight into the past.

  “I don’t believe you. I recall that expression.”

  “What expression?” She had to work to get that much out, and blast it, the words emerged on a breathy note.

  “Your eyes dark, cheeks pink, lips parted. Like you’re ready for a kiss.” Somehow he edged even nearer. The wall was solid at her back, possibly the only reason she was still upright. “Like you expect one. Demand it, even.”

  Hang it all. She shouldn’t stand for this. From where did he derive this power over her, a power that overwhelmed will and rational thought? She must stand firm in the face of this onslaught.