Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance

by Juliet Moore

  He walked beside her, but at a distance. "She walks in beauty, like the day...of cloudless climes and cloudy skies?"

  She quickened her pace, still trying to pretend that she didn't want the meeting to take place. Then she realized that she was walking a bit too far from the house.

  "In secret we met: in silence I grieve...that thy heart couldn't forget, thy spirit deceive!"

  She stopped. "I wouldn't think you were one to bandy such terms."

  "I'm not. But it got your attention, did it not?"

  "Do you read Byron?"

  "I know only what I've heard my brother say. He's the charmer."

  "Perhaps you should listen more carefully. She walks in beauty like the night. And I don't think the rest of it's quite right either."

  "I don't really care how she walks. I must adapt things for my own purposes."

  She shook the dust from the bottom of her skirt then frowned at the worn tips of her boots. "Would you like to come inside the house?"

  His smirk turned into a smile.

  "We could take tea," she suggested.

  "But would your uncle approve?" The question seemed laughingly false coming out of his mouth. Perhaps it wasn't, but his aura of mystique and raw power made it seem so.

  "I don't see why he should not." Realistically, her true response would have been concerning the notion that her uncle wasn't at home and therefore would have nothing to judge.

  They walked back to the house. Once they arrived, she had a sudden pang of conscience. Inviting a man into her drawing room without a chaperone might give him the wrong impression. But even as she thought this, she also thought of how much she wanted the flirtation to continue. Now, she didn't want to go back.

  She thought all of this while leading him into the house. When they walked through the entrance hall, the room was dark to her sun-filled eyes. Intimately dark. She prayed that one of the servants was close at hand so Mr. Trevelyn's visit would lose some of its impropriety. Then, when she saw his eyes sparkle in the minimal light, she hoped there was not.

  "Shall we go to the drawing room then?"

  "But of course," he said and followed her inside.

  Once they were there, she had her first real doubts. She looked about the room, noticing how dim it was at that time of the day and how it was actually quite small.

  Intimate.

  While before she was tentatively excited, now she was scared. She didn't invite him inside in order to be reckless. Nor had she decided to be wild. But now those desires besieged her when she realized she had the opportunity. That was exactly it!

  The opportunity and a wonderfully handsome man with which to do it.

  * * *

  "So where did you live before you came here?"

  He didn't feel the least bit guilty when a scared look--it was becoming quite familiar to him--spread across her face. In fact, he was pleased. He was on the right track.

  "I lived with my parents," she finally said.

  "Had you forgotten?"

  "No, I...just didn't know how to answer the question." She sat on the edge of the divan, flouncing her skirts as she did. "You see, we traveled a lot. So when you asked where I lived, I really didn't know what to say."

  Quite a good answer, he thought, except that he already knew she was lying. He thought of sitting down, but considered it might cause him to feel too relaxed, and he remained where he stood.

  "Have you lived in this area all your life, Mr. Trevelyn?"

  "Yes," he answered. But he quickly followed with, "So whereabouts did you visit with your parents?"

  She had an obvious change of expression to his quick change of subject. She had obviously underestimated his determination. "Oh, Germany, France, and Italy...the usual places."

  This time, he wouldn't give her time to ask him anything. "And I assume they passed on?" he said.

  Her gaze darted past him and back again. "Yes," she said and her gaze fell to the floor.

  He'd only just started questioning her, but he realized he was forgetting his manners in his quest for information. Of course she'd be saddened by the thought of her parents! It was horrible of him to refer to it in such an off-hand manner.

  "I am so sorry, Miss Fyn." He approached the divan she was perched upon. "I didn't mean to resurrect old emotions."

  Her lip now quivered. "Then why the interrogation? My life can be divided into two separate areas: boring and miserable. I don't enjoy speaking of it."

  He moved closer, wanting to hold her in his arms. Anything to erase the wounded look from her face.

  She began to fidget, her uncomfortable body language even more pronounced. "Usually, I'm able to speak of my parents without becoming upset, but--"

  "Yes, I understand. It's been a while; you've moved past it, and I've just now opened old...wounds."

  She nodded. Her long black unpinned hair caught the light whenever she moved her head. If he could just run his fingers through it, to satisfy his aching fingers' curiosity, he would be satisfied. But no, it was wrong.

  To find her so attractive isn't honorable, he thought to himself, and he started to step away. He was supposed to be interviewing her, not that she was aware of it. He needed to catch her in a lie. Maybe if he could get her to speak of Blackmoore, he would be able to figure out if, once and for all, she was the one to blame. Then, actions could be taken.

  When he was farther away, she calmed down. That was good, wasn't it?

  Just then, he realized what she'd said before he had become so distracted. "So, it has been a little while since your parents passed away."

  He waited for her to respond and realized he wouldn't get anywhere if he kept bringing up her parents. He didn't want to upset her. Not only would it be cruel, but he would get nowhere in his investigation.

  But, surprisingly, all she did was reply, "Yes. Then I spent some time with an aunt before coming here."

  So quick with a response! Especially since only a moment ago, she'd been shaking and trembling. What made the difference?

  He leaned against the fireplace mantle, sparing a glance for the picture that hung above. John Fyn's beautiful wife. Dead. Victoria certainly had a family that wasn't very good at staying together.

  "What was your aunt's name?"

  "Why, Mr. Trevelyn! What an odd question." She hesitated a moment. "If you must know, her name is Georgia."

  So she had an answer to that one as well. How would he get her to trip herself up?

  "I'm starting to believe that you have a reason for all these questions."

  "What better reason than curiosity?"

  "I'm curious about you as well." She smiled. "Do you have any siblings?"

  "Yes."

  She leaned back a little in her seat. "You know, Mr. Trevelyn, usually when one asks such a question they expect a far more detailed response such as, how many and what gender. But perhaps you didn't realize that?"

  "I realized it."

  "They why did--"

  "I'd much rather hear about you," he interrupted. "My life is quite uninteresting."

  "If you are so unwilling to answer my questions, don't be confident that you will have yours addressed."

  He pushed away from the mantle. "Oh, but, Miss Fyn," he said as he approached her, "I can be far more persuasive."

  Through her skirt, he could see that she'd crossed her legs. "I don't know...what else you could possibly ask."

  "That's why I'm doing the asking."

  She uncrossed her legs.

  "There's something I've been thinking a lot about." He moved even closer. "Why did you really give me a false name?"

  "As my uncle said, he'd told me to be very careful with strangers." He could hear her uneven, strained breath from where he stood.

  "But why a false name? What difference should that make?"

  She shrugged and then stood up and darted away. "Before we continue this charming conversation, why don't I call for some tea?"

  It was obvious that she had someth
ing to hide, even to a person who didn't already have a head start. He wondered why she didn't just throw him out. She seemed uncomfortable, for good reason, and he knew there was no reason she had to continue speaking to him unless, perhaps, she wanted to show him that she had nothing to worry about?

  He was amazed. He'd only just met the woman and already he'd decided he knew her well enough to judge her actions.

  She left the room, not saying a word. In his mind, it was another sign of her being flustered. No excuse was made; no explanation spoken. It was implied that she went to find the maid, but her lack of the proper etiquette implied much more. He'd gotten under her skin. He smiled to the picture of Fiona Fyn. Yes, women were just too easy to manipulate.

  When Victoria returned, she said, "The tea will be served shortly."

  "I truly didn't want you to go to any trouble."

  "It is no trouble at all," she said with conviction, even though he knew they only had one maid and she probably had to be pulled from some other important duty. So she was prideful as well.

  "So you wished to know more about my previous living situation? I can't imagine why you'd be interested, but I do so enjoy speaking of my time there. My aunt is such a lovely woman." She smiled and reclaimed her seat on the divan. "Shall I tell you a bit about her?"

  How did one politely say no to a question like that? "I would love to hear about your aunt."

  She must have spoken about her wonderful relative for at least ten minutes. That was about as long as it took to receive the tea. She spoke right up until when she served. He heard more than he ever wanted to know about a woman he'd never meet. Alex heard about how fashionable the older woman was, always knowledgeable on the latest styles. How much fun she was and how there was never a dull moment at Henley House. He even listened to a lengthy story of how the woman had met her husband.

  Finally, the tea came. She filled the delicate porcelain cups with the nostalgic smelling stuff. It reminded him of when his mother was alive, back when there was someone else in the house that cared about someone other than themselves. Such unwelcome memories were another good reason to get their important conversation back on track. Not that his companion knew it was so important.

  What could he ask her that would sound natural and yet suit his purposes? Wasn't he on the right track before? It was right before she ordered the tea and--

  That was it! "You were going to tell me why you used a false name?"

  She sipped her tea until it was gone and then put the glass on the table so quickly he was surprised it didn't shatter. But he could see why she'd done it. Her hand trembled so much that she would have spilled hot tea on her lap if had she tried to hold on to it.

  Then, also to his surprise, after a moment of silence she picked it up again. This time, the trembling was even worse. It wasn't something he could ignore.

  "Is there something wrong, Miss Fyn?"

  He wondered if he'd actually broken her. He had never expected a confession so soon. It didn't make sense that he wouldn't be more excited. Was it fear he felt...or anxiousness?

  For the first time, Alexander Trevelyn wondered if he secretly hoped she was innocent.

  She still looked shocked. He went to sit beside her and the moment he placed his hand on her shoulder, she began to cry. "You don't have to say anything."

  "Oh, this is so embarrassing," she said through her tears.

  "No, it isn't. I understand."

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. "I haven't done this in so long."

  "You mean cry?"

  She nodded. "If I let myself give into the pain, it would be too much. I have to be strong, but..."

  He patted her shoulder some more and her tears seemed to be less. "But what?"

  "I miss them so much!" she cried.

  As cruel as it might have been of him, he thought she might be faking. Then, looking at her again, he decided it was actually more like she was exaggerating. But what if she wasn't?

  "I don't know what to say. I don't suppose anything could make you feel better."

  She shook her head.

  "I can, however, give you my sympathy." He wasn't sure at all about what he was about to do. There was a part of him though, that was very sure. "I lost both my mother and my sister."

  She looked at him with her mouth partially open. "That's terrible," she said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Not really. I just wanted you to know that you're not alone."

  "No, I suppose I'm not." Although she was trembled, she no longer cried.

  "I lost my mother many, many years ago, and although it hurts, the pain does go away."

  "Does it really?" Her expression was one of hopeful questioning.

  "I promise."

  He looked into her eyes which still glistened with tears she had yet to shed and he forgot what he'd come there to do.

  Neither of them said anything for a while, nor did they move. He realized how long it had been when he finally reached for his tea. It was cold.

  As they'd sat there, her tears dried and she moved subtlety to the other end of the divan.

  He stood up and looked toward the door with a lack of purpose. "Perhaps I should leave."

  When she didn't say anything, he turned around. She was looking at him. "If you want to go--"

  "No," he immediately replied. Then he smiled and said, "What I mean is...it's up to you."

  Suddenly, she seemed to consider it as though it were the most important decision she'd ever made. "It would be nice to have some more tea."

  He was pretty damn sure that neither of them was interested in the tea.

  She poured two more cups.

  "Victoria..." He stared at the beauteous stretch of skin her bodice exposed when she leaned over. "What would you say if I declared some interest in you?"

  She raised her gaze to him, peering over the silver service that must have once belonged to her aunt. Before she answered, he had time to wonder why Fiona Fyn kept popping into his mind. If she was haunting him, he was curious to know the reason. After another moment of silence Victoria said, "What exactly does 'some interest' entail?"

  He stepped closer to her. "We'll call it 'a lot of interest' then."

  Her hand fluttered toward her breast, then stopped. "I wouldn't know what to say, Mr. Trevelyn." Her eyes sparkled with some hidden emotion that, try as he might, he could not determine.

  "And what if I told you that I find it difficult to stay away from you, no matter how many reasons I have to do so?"

  "That is a rhetorical question, is it not?"

  He shook his head.

  "Hypothetical?"

  He shook his head once again.

  She stared him down.

  He took another two steps towards her.

  Her hand fluttered again, and this time, it landed on her bosom with a solid thump.

  He knew then--and felt like a fool for not realizing it earlier--why she sometimes handled his queries with ease and other times stumbled over them like a poor man in debtor's prison. It depended on how close he was to her.

  What a discovery it was!

  He forgot his amorous intentions in that moment and realized it was the perfect time to ask his final question, the one she'd been avoiding, the one that he would get her to answer if he only remembered to stay so close to her that she lost all sense and logic.

  "Why did you use a false name?" Because you were running from your past.

  "Why do you keep asking me that?"

  "Because I want to know." He thought of approaching her slowly, then decided it would be a waste of time. He seized upon her anxious nature and planted himself beside her on the divan.

  Her dark eyes went wide with...fear? "I used the false name because I wanted to. That's the end of the story."

  "Why did you want to?" His thigh was pressed against her skirt. If she wasn't feeling nervous, he'd be quite surprised. He could barely stay calm himself.

  She took a long tre
mulous breath. "For safety. It made sense at the time."

  He saw that she was flushed, but perhaps that was the heat in the room. He was feeling quite hot.

  "What if a nefarious sort is looking for someone to kidnap and offer back to their family at a high ransom?" she continued, and it seemed as though she did it in order to keep talking. She took another deep breath. "He might be asking lady's names in order to discover who would be a worthy victim."

  Using his nearness as a weapon was not entirely unappealing. The longer he sat there, the closer he moved, and the better it felt. The only problem was that he kept losing his train of thought. It must be something about her perfume. It was doing funny things to his memory. He struggled to remember what he was going to say next. "But why would you think that your name would cause any alarms?"

  She shivered and he knew it was out of passion. She licked her lips. "For...well, for obvious reasons."

  "But your name…" he stared, and found himself whispering, "is quite common." He'd never noticed just how dark her eyes were. He felt his good intentions drowning in their depths.

  "I hardly think Clavering is a common last name, considering," she said.

  Her last words hardly registered in his head. Alex was too close to her heady scent of wildflowers and spring air. How she carried the aura of spring through the winter, he did not know. But one smell of her permeating fragrance sent his mind into a whirl. He wanted to gasp long, full breaths of her. He wanted to make her breathless and eager for his scent. He wanted her.

  Had they been having a conversation? He no longer remembered what it had been about. If it had been important, he wouldn't have forgotten it so easily. Yes, he assured himself, it must have been something frivolous.

  He breathed in another incredible whiff of her and took in the whole picture. He glanced down her body, at her pale bosom, at her amazingly tiny waist. Looking at her didn't dispel his olfactory-born desires or even lessen them. It just added to his complete sensory experience. He wanted to take in all of her. With time, he would.

  Enigmatically, her beauty was of the cool kind, completely out of sorts with the way she smelled. But somehow, it matched. Somehow, each deepened the appeal of the other. Lord, how she made his pulse race!