by Suzi Love
“She refuses to speak to us of what happened. Go. Comfort her. I shall sit on this chair next to the open door, as chaperone. Trust me. In a household where Laura is revered by every servant, no one will gossip about untoward behavior.”
“Thank you.”
As he walked toward the bed, what he assumed to be her head turned towards him. She’d recognized his footsteps. He sat in the bedside chair and touched her spine through the bedding, rubbing softly.
“I’d like to explain about my visit to Countess Newbery’s townhouse this afternoon.” Silence. “I am so, so sorry if seeing me there, with that particular lady, caused you this distress.”
Her tousled head appeared about the blankets. Red rimmed eyes stared at him in accusation. “You, Winchester, are a bare faced liar. A distorter of truths.”
“No, no, I’ve never lied to you.”
Her finger came out to point at him and he noticed she still wore her afternoon gown. Probably best. A miserable Laura distressed him. A wretched and dressed-for-bed Laura would tempt him to climb under the blankets beside her to offer careful, yet caring, words of consolation. Rubbish. He’d offer a damn sight more than that if he could get beneath those covers with her, and once he had her in his arms he’d find a way to convince her to stay there. For the rest of their lives.
“You said your appointment this afternoon wasn’t with a new mistress.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You neglected to add it was with your past mistress. A lie by omission.”
He grasped her finger and held it still. “No. The Countess came to me, implored me to meet with her, as she’d learned something important.” His eyes roved her drawn features, looking for encouragement that he’d caused no permanent damage to her fragile feelings. “A threat to someone very important in my life.”
She frowned.
He stared into the deep swirling pools of her eyes, willing her to understand. “I’m a dullard, a foot-dragger, and any of the other names you delight in calling me at times like this, but it doesn’t need a lightning strike for me to realize that, without this person, my life would be insipid, mind-numbing and not worth contemplating. That most important person is you, my love.”
Her eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Oh.”
He truly was an idiot. During their habitual sparring, their game of advance and retreat, he’d forgotten something of importance. Laura’s level of participation in these games was of a novice. The bond that grew and strengthened every day between them became mind-bogglingly clear to a rogue with his level of sensual and sexual experience, yet, she possibly assumed it to be commonplace.
Another misinterpretation for him to deal with. Later.
“Gloria—”
“Do. Not. Speak. That woman’s name to me.”
Laura’s brows furrowed into one of her infamous scowls. His spirits rose. An angry goaded opponent he could deal with. A sad one confounded him.
“The Countess informed me she knew who was behind these latest threats on your life. The rifle shots. The injuries your family suffered at the park. I couldn’t take the chance of not going. Couldn’t risk missing hearing about a vital segment of our conundrum, especially if it concerned your safety.”
She pushed up onto her elbows. Her curls tumbled around her shoulders and the tips settled like tiny dark halos close to her nipples. He sat on his hands. Better that discomfort than a slap to his face from her aunt, if he reached across and traced one of those swirls with his finger.
“… swear you didn’t go to the Countess to resume your affair?”
With great reluctance, he shifted his gaze back to her mouth. “I do.”
Unable to help himself, he reached over and brushed a thick lock of dark back from her cheek and tucked it gently behind her ear. Her body may still be street clothed, but her hair flowed ready for his bedding.
“My association with her could never have been deemed an affair in any case.” He shrugged. “I admit we were lovers on a few occasions–”
She gave several small gulps for breath that ended on another of those heart wrenching sobs. When she turned her head away from him, he put his palm under her chin and turned it back.
“But nothing more. I know you cannot possibly understand, but there is an enormous difference between a man and woman enjoying each other’s bodies and–”
“And what?”
“Becoming the lover of someone you care for deeply.”
Her eyes widened and her fingers clutched at the blankets at her sides. He’d said too much. Revealed too much of his deepest yearnings. He cleared his throat.
“I just remembered. She said… ‘I’ve won.’ What did she mean?”
Now he needed to clear his head. “Pardon?”
“Your countess–”
“She’s not my anything,” he said, trying not to grind his teeth.
“My mistake. That lady stood on her steps and she said those words, ‘I’ve won’. She looked more awake, excited. “And now, Richard, I understand her meaning. She heaped scorn upon my head because her scheme, whatever or whomsoever it involves, with you, had succeeded.” She shook his arm, her eyes widening, color flooding back into her pale face. “And that made her feel…exalted.”
He tried to follow her train of thought, her quick mind and rapid speech hard to follow when she was in full flow. “How do you know what she said? You were nowhere near her.”
He saw her cheeks pinken before she dipped her head. “Oh, my goodness, how stupid of me.” He slapped a palm to his forehead. “How could I not have guessed? I’ve always known there were hidden facets to you, more skills you took pains to hide. Some were obvious, some I guessed, but this one…this one I didn’t know. Doesn’t anyone else?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Only my auntie, my brothers, my sisters.”
“Not you father?”
“He’s the reason I learned how to do it.” He cocked a brow. “Even as a child, my father always thought my skill as an aromatherapist less important than other proficiencies a normal young girl learns at her mother’s knee, or from her governess. I believed, wrongly as it happened, if I could make myself into what Papa wanted, he’d stay. He’d want to be our father. Most of all, he’d love us. Especially…especially me.”
He winced. The compulsion to defend this brave woman grew stronger. Despite her resistance to his shielding of her in situations of danger, he’d glimpsed her moments of vulnerability. Searching ballrooms each night looking for something she wasn’t going to find, the perfect man, seemed pitiful and a cause for ridicule to many of their peers.
Yet he admired the courage it took to follow her research through to the end. To cling to the hope of finding that one superior male specimen. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
She shrugged. “It was easy. I took to following Papa when he went about the estate, watching him when he talked to himself over his archaeological treatises, when he ordered an ale at the inn. I tried to learn his every thought by reading his lips. After a while, I began reading others’ as well. For similar reasons. I thought if I understood what people said about me, why some of them distrusted my skills in mixing my herbs, oils and blends, I might convince them that I’m not some medieval witch–”
Oh, hell. The burn in his belly became a gnawing pain.
“I might convince them to see me as a normal sort of lady. The sort that capably presides over a large manor house. The sort that never get herself into inextricable dilemmas. The sort that a proud papa would introduce as his beautiful and clever daughter.”
Do something, anything, his conscience screamed. Spill his guts. Tell his secrets. Reveal his sins. Rip out his heart. Soothe this wondrous woman’s wounds.
Stop her blaming herself for a father who was too self-absorbed to see past the end of his nose. Too detached to show her any love. He wanted to haul the absent Earl back from whatever God-forsaken kingdom he’d lost himself in this time.
Stop her making excuses for superstit
ious bigots who labelled her a witch. Ingrates who should thank the Lord for the cures and potions she dispensed to save their lives. He wanted to push their noses to the earth and make them kiss the ground she walked on.
Loving Laura grew up expecting nothing in return for her favors, for her goodness. She expected little and assumed she deserved even less. Yet, from somewhere, she’d found the courage to march through the flotsam and jetsam of male society for that rare specimen: a husband who admired her merits, who worshipped her uniqueness and treated her like a princess. Treated her far better than her father.
Before he could stop himself, he started to speak. Started to reveal his secret. If he shared his insecurities, his failings, it might offer her some comfort, lessen her own fears. That, and his heart, were all he had to offer.
He took her cold hand in his, rubbing it between his palms to warm it. It took several deep swallows, plus a clearing of his throat, before he found his voice. “You’ve naught to be ashamed of, my sweet. You’re far, far, more intelligent than I.”
She chortled. “As if I’d believe that make-believe story.”
He shook his head. “It’s true. In fact, only this afternoon on our visit to the Society, I experienced several bad moments with the women. Do you remember when Ruth asked me to read through those multitudes of pages from the solicitor? The one who is in charge of making the investments for all those women under their pseudonyms.”
She frowned, nodded. “Yes, but–”
He placed a finger over her lips. “No. Let me finish. I may never summon the nerve, nor have the opportunity, again. I made an excuse to Ruth that I was tired, and then asked Josie to read it out instead. I know Josie is rather withdrawn, but I also noted how well educated she is.”
Laura glanced at him with eyes as shrewd as Lottie’s, making him wonder if his secret was not so secret after all. But this afternoon he hadn’t imagined she’d seen anything amiss. Other than that he was too lazy to read aloud sixteen pages of script.
“Funny how life changes in the space of a few hours. This afternoon I remained determined to not let you get too close to me. Not close enough to uncover my closely guarded secret. And yet now, I am eager to unburden myself to you. In the hope it will show you that none of us is perfect. Apparently, my mother not only suffered several miscarriages, but the births she had were all long and difficult. Especially mine.”
“Ah, and you decided to continue being difficult through the rest of your life.” Her mischievous grin was balm to his soul. He laughed with her.
“Like you, I’ve studied many research treatises. Only mine were concerning the damage done to a baby’s brain after a traumatic entrance into this world. Evidence points to the fact that a long, hard birthing can cause damage to a baby’s head and brain.”
She pushed up again on one forearm and looked at his head. “But Lottie says your phrenology bumps indicate a high level of intellect and a steady character. No mental disturbances and no criminal tendencies.”
“Yes, and I’m eternally grateful for that, as it’s allowed me to compensate for my deficiency. You see–”
He wiped his sweaty palms down the sides of his trousers. “I cannot read.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and explain in words she’d comprehend. “No, no, actually, I can read now, but I couldn’t read, not for a long time when I was a child, nor at Eton. I hid it, you see, from everyone, and because of it I took many a beating at Eton so that taught me to overcome–”
‘Richard!” She laid a hand on his sleeve and tugged. “Goodness me, Richard, you’re rambling again. Is that what this is about? Your big confession. Your huge sin.” She flopped back onto her pillows and waved a hand between them. “I knew that long ago. About your reading.”
“You–you already knew? Bu–but how? Wh–why didn’t you say something? Accuse me.”
“Accuse you of what? It’s not a crime to be unable to read. Beside which, I know that you now devour books with an unquenchable hunger for knowledge. I also recognize the degree of bloody-minded determination it took to teach yourself how to fathom those damn, blasted pesky letters on a page.”
He chuckled. “I do so enjoy your demure language.”
“In truth, Richard, the knowledge that you managed to not only learn how to read, but kept the fact hidden from most people for all these years, intimidated me dreadfully. Made me feel even less sharp that you.”
“So share your secret. How do you know about my difficulty, when even those who have been close to me for years didn’t realize?”
“Years ago, an Irish priest visited our village. He’d suffered an injury to his head when a child. Said it made it impossible for the words to stay still on a page when he read them. They leapt around more than the leprechauns in the bottom of his garden.”
“I referred to mine as dancing fairies when I was younger.”
“Still, like you, he found a way of fixing the look of letters in his mind, so that when he saw a word he recognized it. Didn’t need to spell out each individual letter the way most people do. I’ve watched the way you worked your way down a page of writing, using your index finger as a guide to each word. Not the letters, but the word in its entirety.”
“I cannot believe that you saw all that, yet said nothing.”
“The only puzzling thing is why you never told me yourself.”
“The idea that you might think badly of me held me back. I’ve experienced the shame of being thought obtuse. It happened when I struggled in some classes at school. And even later at university. Although, by then, I’d become proficient at covering up my deficiencies. Using every method at my disposal, I avoided any actual public readings. In my own mind, I balanced my backwardness with books by out-stripping my peers in other fields.”
“Let me guess. Mathematics. Sciences. Engineering.”
He quirked a brow. “Those subjects weren’t hard to determine. Your investments tend to run to inventions, machines, anything where you can view the mechanisms in person and make visual evaluations.”
“You’re not a witch. You’re a mind reader.”
“Huh! Many people imagine it to be the same thing. Another reason I hide my gifts, in the same way you damp down the things in which you excel and secrete the ones in which you struggled. Extremes of any sort invite condemnation and ridicule. None of us enjoy being dissimilar, or risk being ostracized for our differences.”
“Ah, my wise one. We all make do in this life with whatever gifts we are given. And your gifts are unique. You should treasure them.”
At the door, their chaperone cleared her throat to indicate that he’d lingered too long. He began to stand but Laura gripped his arm.
“Come back to me. Tonight,” she whispered.
Sweat broke out across his brow. His palms went damp. He shook his head, a last bid to deny what they both wanted. To do the correct thing for her family’s sake. “You—you don’t know what you’re asking.”
She nodded. “I do know.” She gripped his hand. “This is the perfect solution for both of us. You cannot deny you desire me.”
He swallowed. “No more. I’ve tried.” He snorted. “It does no good. You can read everything I think.”
“… and it will be ideal for me, because I can conduct my research with you. Experiment with someone I trust implicitly. I trust you to take care of me.”
He groaned, thinking of her aunt standing guard at the door.
“….and neither of us wants to marry the other.”
He flinched. How could he admit those white lies he’d told himself, told his family, told her, told countless husband-hunting women, no longer showed his feelings?
“….sooo… there’s no risk one of us will be hurt. Not when we’ve done tests. The scent ones. And remember, your aroma didn’t call to me, not in as strong a way as I wished. And of course, I will never, ever, try to trap you into a marriage because of anything we may do. So, please, promise you’ll come back tonight.”
&nbs
p; He rushed his farewells, desperate to distance himself from the sight of Laura, in a bed, a large soft bed, begging him to return to her. Any true blue-blooded and well-bred gentleman would have responded in the negative, in an instant. No hesitations, no second thoughts involved.
His own taut silence verified that trying to abide by every convoluted rule of gentlemanly behavior was beyond the capabilities of any red-blooded male.
Especially him.
Chapter Seventeen
Standing in the garden of Jamison House many hours later, Richard hoped his raging inner debate may have resolved itself. At long last, his head might even clear enough to focus on other pressing problems. Such as, was it Lady Hetherington, an escaped madwoman who’d set men after them? Was she trying to kill them?
Or merely frighten them sufficiently that they would withdraw from the race to buy shares in the new railway line about to expand into northern England? Or the proposed one in regional France that the French engineers had requested their assistance, both physical and financial, with.
Or how long before a lunatic and her greed-driven followers succeeded? Those were the sort of nitty-gritty problems a logistical brain like his relished solving. No wonder he’d scrupulously avoided emotional entanglements. No wonder every male his age did.
Men, by design, weren’t equipped with the convoluted reasoning necessary to untangle excesses of sentiment. Though he was wise enough to never share his peculiarly male reasoning with his sisters. All four of them were avid supporters of the new thinking women’s movements, even going so far as to carry placards down Oxford Street if a cause fired their imagination. On those days, he’d learned to hide invent urgent business appointments or country races. Any excuse that took him outside the Town precincts.
In recent weeks, the clamor in his veins, the depth of his desire, the instinctive and primitive need of a male to claim his mate, had risen, grown, heightened on an almost daily basis. Reminded him every minute, every hour, what had commenced as light-hearted banter and mild family disagreements had progressed into friendship, then crystallized into desire, and now burned hotter than a fever.