Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  She might like to meet this respectable-but-common woman Chadbourn had the poor taste to love. She thought she would like that very much. There were other ties, however.

  “I can’t leave Cambridgeshire at this time.”

  “What ties you here?” He leaned forward, his look probing.

  “Work. I have my work.” She did, but it felt foolish to tell him that.

  He dismissed her work with a sardonic grimace and a wave of his hand. “Jamie has told me that you continue to work on your poems. There is paper in Devonshire, and ink.”

  There is Andrew. She couldn’t say it. “My books are here.”

  “I gather you attempted to find some assistance in the University community.”

  “If you know that, you know I was rebuffed.”

  Richard raised an elegant brow at her plain speaking. “Yes. Quite.”

  Her throat tightened. “One goes forward with the work as one can.” Her eyes defied him to continue, to put into words what was on his mind.

  A light scratch on the door interrupted them. “Mr. Andrew Mallet has arrived, my lady.”

  “Show him in, Chambers.” Georgiana hoped that she showed no sign of discomfort or concern but knew the heat she felt creeping up her neck probably meant she revealed a pink color. She held her brother’s gaze. It registered no surprise at her visitor.

  “I am sorry, my lady, but I have shown him to the workroom as is your customary practice. Shall I ask him to attend you here?” The butler looked uncomfortable.

  “No, that will be all. Please tell him I will join him in a moment.”

  “Customary practice, Georgiana?” Richard drawled.

  “My work, Richard. ‘One goes forward as one can.’ Your old friend Mr. Mallet is an excellent tutor.” I hope you don’t discover how true that is. “His assistance has improved my work significantly. If you will excuse me, I have a longstanding appointment with him this afternoon. I will see you at dinner.”

  She crossed the finely polished parquet floor of the foyer with as much dignity as she could muster before turning down a small corridor. She felt her brother’s eyes on her back every step, but she forced him from her mind.

  Other concerns flooded her, chief among them was deciding how one should greet a lover who has parted in anger in the depths of the night after hours of glorious lovemaking.

  It will be simplest, I think, to throw myself into his arms. She made sure she shut the door securely behind her.

  He planned to keep her at arm’s length, but she flowed into his arms and began to kiss him before he could speak. He wanted to speak to her soberly about the changes between them. Need battered common sense down once again; it pummeled emotion and laid waste to rational thought. Reality was her sweet mouth and the lush body pressed against him. Delicate hands explored the skin under his shirt which had inexplicably come loose from his waist. When those hands began to undo his waistband, he became suddenly, painfully alert and took her wrists in an iron grip.

  “What are you doing?”

  The triumphant smile of a woman well loved, who knows she is desired, was the only response. She leaned forward to kiss him again, but he restrained her. He pressed her into a chair with elaborate gentleness, but he held her there firmly.

  “Stay.”

  “Shall I bark for you?” Her lips quirked, and he almost relented; but he refused to be drawn in by her nonsense.

  “You’re making this difficult, Georgiana.” He ignored her jibe about barking, turned his back, and moved as far away from her as their small workroom permitted.

  “Actually, it seemed easy to me,” she replied smugly.

  He set his clothing to rights, and bile rose in his throat. “Is this it then? Sex and desire on the workroom floor followed by—what? Scholarly pretense? A return to our proper places for dinner until you can sneak out again into the night?”

  That wiped the smugness from her face.

  “You are angry.”

  “Yes. No–confused.” That was a lie. Anger built steadily. “We are collaborators. Partners. It is my understanding that you wish for nothing more. One does not undress one’s collaborator.”

  “No, I …”

  “You what?” he spat. “You planned a different role for me?”

  “No! Us. Different for us.”

  “How different? We’re not equals. Marriage, you tell me, is out of the question. How am I to address you then—my lady?” He could hear his voice rise.

  He was entertaining the household, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stop goading her. He shouldn’t have come. He was still too angry for reasonable conversation.

  “I never said that. I never said ‘not equals.’ I didn’t, I can’t. That is I—the work is still important.”

  “Yes, the work, of course. Lady Georgiana’s true love,” he said bitterly.

  “Not fair, Andrew! Not fair by half. I thought you valued it too!”

  He ran his hand up the back of his head in exasperation.

  “You are correct, of course. Work itself is important.” It was true. Work was important to him, but he was no longer sure he needed Georgiana’s work. He found it challenging and, until today, delightful, but it would never win him the place his father intended for him.

  A message from Geoffrey Dunning lay in Andrew’s coat pocket. Geoff had finally been able to arrange the long-sought face-to-face meeting with Wallace Selby. Andrew’s father had respected Selby. Selby could offer work—more prestigious work than the crumbs he had sent so far. He could bring Andrew into the highest circles of scholarship.

  She appeared to be mollified. She equated “work” with her work. He let her think it. He wasn’t going to lay his needs bare to her, not now. He could see her throat working as she gathered thoughts.

  “I hoped … I wanted …” she stammered, “to suggest that we finish the work before we try to change, that is, try to discuss or decide—to make something out of—” He let her stumble. I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it easy for her. “Out of, out of what is between us. When we finish the work.”

  “The work,” he repeated.

  “Yes. The work. It brings us together.”

  “That it does, Love.” Mistake that. She lit up like a candle. He couldn’t go back to “my lady,” but he vowed he wouldn’t call her “Love” again. “That it does, Georgiana. It brings us together.”

  He thought she might be right that they could resolve the rest of it if they finished the work. He wondered if work would give her peace, time to come to terms with his proposal. Perhaps it will.

  He stared at her. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and stared back with anxiety in her eyes. His own eyes, he thought, must be infinitely sad because sorrow made him mute.

  Andrew looked away at last. He limped to the table and picked up the manuscript without enthusiasm. He would think about his other options tomorrow. “We were finishing Nossis, I believe.”

  “We are finished. ‘She whom Aphrodite has not loved … ’ I understand her better now.”

  The she-devil! “You still have much to learn.” She responded with a hungry look. “Greek,” he explained. “You have much Greek to learn. Eros is one thing.”

  “The longing of one for union with the other?”

  “Yes. Union. Physical and spiritual. There is also porneia: the taking of pleasure for oneself, the illicit, the vile.” She looked as if he had slapped her. He didn’t let her speak. “And rhaidios: behavior that is easy and reckless. Perhaps you wish to explore those also.” If it isn’t mutual giving, Georgiana, what is it?

  “I see.” She sobered now. Joy had fled, but he couldn’t regret his words. He watched her take a shuddering breath and say, “What shall we work on next.”

  Change the subject, Georgiana. For now. She wouldn’t look at him.

  “Who is left?” he asked while he searched over the worktable for their index.

  “Andrew.” An odd note in her voice drew him to look up. “There is on
e more thing. I am going away for a while.”

  Away? Where could she go?

  “Indeed she is.” A familiar voice came from the door. He wondered how long Richard had been standing there. Damn Glenaire’s eyes. Can’t he knock like mortal men?

  “Chadbourn is to be wed. My sister is summoned to attend.”

  Summoned. Normal people were invited.

  “Hello, Richard,” Andrew said. They were many years past titles and formalities, and not a few years past true warmth. “You look well.” Couldn’t you allow me one day to adjust to my lover?

  “I could say the same for you. You found Peabody satisfactory, I presume?”

  “More than satisfactory. The healing isn’t perfect, but I’ll do.” He stood erect as if to demonstrate.

  “Excellent. I wouldn’t want my sister’s–tutor is it?–to be incapacitated.”

  Andrew had no response for that.

  “Will is to marry? I wonder why I received no invitation.”

  Glenaire lifted his well-bred chin. “Perhaps Chadbourn believed you too ill to travel.”

  And you didn’t enlighten him.

  Georgiana looked back and forth between her brother and Andrew. She looked as confused and uncomfortable as he felt. Glenaire never looked uncomfortable. He went on smoothly, “If the two of you have things to arrange for your little project, I won’t keep you from it. Georgiana and I depart in the morning.”

  “Commentary on Praxilla.” Georgiana underlined ‘Praxilla,’ the last item on the list. Organizing the work gave her a sense of being in control, or it did up until now. Today she needed to feel safe. It felt safe to arrange the work and their partnership.

  Once Richard left the room, it took them an hour to sort the notes. Andrew responded to her suggestions and assisted her in packing up their notes with distant care.

  He agreed to take two boxes home and work on the commentaries from her notes. She planned to take another box with her. It held assorted research on the two to three authors for whom translations were not yet finished.

  “How long will you be gone?” His voice sounded hoarse. She realized it was his first comment on anything other than work in the past hour.

  “I don’t know. The wedding is in a week. Her Grace may well expect my presence at Mountview for a time. It has been three years.” He looked skeptical. “They are my parents, Andrew. I will send you my notes as I finish them.”

  “That should work. I’ll continue to polish the commentaries, make them more consistent in format.” She nodded. They had agreed to it; he submitted to her direction meekly. In her estimation he acted much too meekly. She wished he would lash out. She was glad he didn’t.

  “Do you think Will really believes you are too ill to travel?” she asked at last.

  “Perhaps. He and I had harsh words the last time we saw each other. Who knows what Richard told him? Your brother doesn’t want me there if you are to attend.”

  She felt sick at the bitterness in his voice.

  “Some distance to think will do us good, Andrew,” she said, side-stepping the issue. “We can finish the work and then we’ll talk.” She sounded like a pedantic schoolmaster even to herself, but she meant it. She needed distance. She needed to finish her translations. She needed to still the panic in her heart.

  Andrew’s eyes shot darts at her, but he didn’t argue when footmen carried out his share of the boxes. Georgiana felt the darts and the suffocating heat that seemed to radiate from his body. She sighed when he started to follow the footman.

  When she thought he meant to pass, he turned so suddenly that he knocked the breath from her body. Warm, strong arms imprisoned her, and he kissed her fiercely. Just as suddenly, he was gone before she could respond.

  She believed she ought to be pleased with her perfect control of the situation—up until that kiss, that is. She clung to that thought while misery pooled around her and began to close in. He was gone; empty darkness remained.

  Chapter 19

  Every hour took her farther from him. Georgiana put her lap desk away hours before the carriage stopped, and she was left with nothing to do but count the miles between them.

  Even people lucky enough to be able to read while moving–Georgiana was one of the lucky ones–find detailed work and concentration difficult in a jolting carriage. With no partner to challenge her ideas, no colleague to share her enthusiasm, work became impossible. Richard rode outside for the last stretch of road, leaving Georgiana alone with darkening thoughts and intrusive, sensual memories.

  She rejoiced to see the Crown and Goose in Bridgewater come into view and hours of dirt, awkward conversation, and muddy ruts come to an end. The muddy roads were frightful even in Richard’s exquisitely appointed carriage. She sighed in gratitude that she had only one more day of travel to endure and that Murnane House lay a mere one hundred miles from Helsington.

  Her brother’s staff worked their usual magic. Clean sheets, hot water, and hot tea were greeted her. Perhaps she might squeeze in an hour of work.

  “Tea is in your sitting room. Dinner will be served in a private parlor in one hour.” Richard pronounced. So much for time to myself.

  “I won’t be much company, Richard. Perhaps I’ll take a tray in my room.” Conversation between them lagged very early in the day. Richard showed no interest in her work and was impossibly closed-mouthed about his own life. Discussion about their family had been perfunctory at best.

  “Nonsense. We’ll dine together.” He neatly ordered her evening, just as he ordered her life.

  One hour later, Georgiana entered the private parlor to find a dinner suitable for the Duke of Sudbury’s offspring, proper table service (unpacked no doubt from her brother’s baggage train), and Richard, looking every inch the Marquess of Glenaire, holding a chair for her.

  Georgiana resented his high-handed arrangements in spite of the comfort they brought. She stared at the first course and cast about for something to say that didn’t sound petulant. Neither “How are the machinations at Whitehall these days?” nor “Has our lady mother expired of her own venom yet?” seemed appropriate. She chose silence.

  Richard directed servants while he maintained what he considered the expected dinner conversation. She heard drivel about the weather, the road conditions, and current fashion. He went on longer than necessary about the likelihood that their sister Eloise would attend Chadbourn’s wedding. Monosyllabic answers didn’t deter him. His words became one long drone.

  “Mm. Quite.” She responded to one dry statement. She wasn’t sure she heard him properly and didn’t care.

  “Georgiana! You haven’t attended me this entire evening. I just told you Great Aunt Maud eloped with an elderly footman to the Antipodes, and you responded ‘quite!’ Are you well?”

  “Well? Yes. Simply tired.” The pudding placed before her revolted her. It would go back uneaten. “I should leave you to your port.”

  “I hardly think …”

  She sat back down. Rebellion flared in her. Fine. If he wants my company, I shall speak the thoughts that have haunted me all afternoon, and I will expect a real response.

  “What caused the scars on Andrew’s face?” She heard his indrawn breath, but it didn’t stop her. She was out of patience, and there was no other opening for what weighed on her mind. He would have to endure it.

  “That isn’t a proper question,” Glenaire sputtered. “It’s the man’s private business.” He tossed down his napkin.

  His attack was a diversion. Georgiana’s next question would be harder to sidestep. She folded her own linen napkin deliberately and set it beside her uneaten pudding.

  “He got them doing your bidding.” She opened with a statement not a question. “Did you know he was in danger when you sent him there?”

  “Really, Georgiana, where is all this coming from?” Richard on the defense was a novel sight.

  She refused to be intimidated when he resorted to his familiar glare.

  “Did you, Richa
rd?” She repeated.

  “Yes. Death is always an option for a soldier,” he ground out.

  “Capture also?”

  “Capture also when one is behind lines. The French were not kind.” Richard looked as though he tasted something vile.

  “They were brutal,” she growled.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that then at your desk at Whitehall?” She gave no quarter today.

  “Of course. It was my duty to know. Andrew knew also. He volunteered for the mission.”

  “He volunteered for the mission perhaps but not the army. He never volunteered for the army, did he?” She kept her gaze steady, daring him to deny her words.

  An odd expression flitted across his face. It might have been compassion. It might have been guilt. It disappeared quickly and took the gentle face of her beloved brother with it. Only the mighty Marquess of Glenaire remained.

  “He made his own choice,” he declared, eyes hard as steel, “and he did well. His service made him a wealthy man.”

  Wealthy? she thought. Perhaps, but what had war cost him? She wondered how much he earned with each of his scars.

  Richard’s eyes were implacable, and it was Georgiana who broke eye contact at last. Andrew made his own choice. Andrew, at least, had been given one. She had no choice at all. Her eyes dropped to her plate.

  “Really, Georgiana, none of this is a fit subject for a lady. I won’t have it.”

  Ask me about my work then. “What shall we discuss if not that, brother? How is our esteemed father? How goes the estate?”

  “His Grace is well, and Sudbury thrives—as I believe we discussed this morning.” He spat it out impatiently.

  That was it then for family intimacy. Richard was one more man who didn’t care to inquire about what really mattered to her.