by Cecilia Gray
“I find them too exaggerated. All the talk of women’s beauty and walking and whatever else, as if we are paintings instead of flesh and blood.”
“That is decidedly simplified,” he said, his blood rising to defend the beloved poet. “Have you truly studied his work?”
“I suppose not in enough depth to make such statements.”
“I’ll have you know—”
“I can’t decide if you are avoiding the question or truly enraptured by the Bard.”
“Both, I suppose.” He grinned, snatched a passing flute off a tray, lifted it in toast to her, and set it to his lips. “The reason is you, Dinah.”
He had used her name without the proper form of address. It shouldn’t have been so surprising. They’d known each other for years, were friendly, and were family by marriage, after all. It shouldn’t have shaken her, shouldn’t have caught her off guard. But her eyes widened, and a breath puffed past her lips. “Surely not.”
“Inevitably you.” He set his empty glass beside hers in the nearby pot of ferns. His arm stretched to swipe another passing flute from a server’s tray, but she slapped his hand. He gave her a look of incredulity. “Any man would be driven to it after being harassed by your correspondence these past three months.”
“Harassed?” He found her tedious, did he? Why did the thought deflate her? Science was tedium. She knew that. She drew up to her full height, which she realized, depressingly, barely brought her gaze level with his chest. “Being the recipient of my time, attention, and scientific knowledge is an honor, I will have you know.”
“And a burden.”
“Nonsense. Have you already found yourself able to think of Lady X without . . . Ah no, see there? Your eye is twitching.”
“Surely not the first time your visage has had that effect on a man.”
Dinah inhaled swiftly at the affront. She turned to leave, but his hand at her waist stayed her. She stilled, feeling that strange, familiar tingling she’d encountered when he’d grabbed her ankle. She spun to face him, and he moved his hand to the back of his neck, staring down at her with a sheepish grin. “I’m only teasing.” His gaze swept the crowd, and perhaps finding ears too close and prying, he leaned forward. His voice dropped and his brown eyes softened with sincerity. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend. I . . . I have no talent for teasing, and do not know why I felt compelled to try it. In truth, I found your correspondence . . . welcome.”
She felt a rush of relief at his words, as though the idea of his being hostile toward her was intolerable. “Truly?”
He smiled. “Truly.” He took a step closer. “I do not want your treatment. Nor do I agree with your findings. But I did enjoy the letters and even began to anticipate them.”
Dinah’s cheeks flushed. She had enjoyed writing the letters very much. “Is the idea of being cured really so abhorrent to you?”
His eyes danced with merriment. “The idea of my safety being at risk, per your letters, gives me pause.”
“But I specifically noted your safety was not at risk. I didn’t want you to assume otherwise, since the treatment itself requires a degree of pain.”
He gave a swift laugh. “Let me assure you that being physically subjected to pain for your amusement—”
“For science,” she corrected.
“—gives me much more than pause.”
“But would not the temporary physical pain be preferable to the constant emotional pain you suffer? Unless . . . Are you cured already?”
“That would make me the most fickle of men,” he said. “Which I am not.”
“I didn’t imagine so. My father has clung to my mother’s memory for so long. But he also has a family and enjoyed many years with her. Whereas you . . .” She sighed. “You’re too young to resign yourself.”
“And too averse to pain to let you continue as you desire.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are teasing me again.” It was half question, half statement.
“Yes. If you are to subject me to pain, I should be allowed to tease you without censure. It is only fair. Let us assume your research fails. I would have been subjected to pain for nothing. Shouldn’t I, too, gain from this arrangement?” He glanced down at her speculatively. “Unless there’s something else you have to offer?”
The ballroom felt unaccountably warm all of a sudden. Her neck burned beneath her curls, and a faint sheen of sweat had developed on her brow. His eyes darkened and his stare hardened, as he waited for an answer. An outbreak of applause broke the spell. Movement began around them, signifying the toasts had finally finished. The early sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments cut through the room.
Graham leaned in, close enough to set his hand on her waist. “Find me later. Where you first found me that night.”
And then he was gone.
* * *
Dinah did not know how anyone managed a clandestine affair. Not that she knew much about clandestine affairs beyond Bridget’s fevered imagination and the occasional book. But she imagined it involved meeting in places one ought not be meeting. Such as the gardener’s cottage where she was supposed to meet Graham.
For one, his rushed whisper had said she should find him later. But how much later? When exactly? Their birthday crush was not merely a ball; it was an event. There was dancing and music and food, but also outdoor activities, including archery and sack races, not to mention the impromptu hunt. Guests were expected to linger long past two or three in the morning. Did he mean to meet with her after that? She’d be dead on her feet.
“Have you seen him?” Bridget asked from Dinah’s side, craning her neck to peer out a window to the grass where a game of lawn bowling was in effect.
Had she spoken Graham’s name aloud? “No, have you?”
She pressed her nose to the window. “He’s there.” Bridget let out a long sigh and melted into the window.
Dinah followed Bridget’s gaze to Viscount Savage and frowned. She closed her eyes and shook herself. Of course she hadn’t spoken Graham’s name aloud. Bridget was still obsessed with the young Viscount. Viscount Savage was not bowling but watching the activities from behind the lawn chairs, striking an impressive pose. Really, how absurd was it that one could be moved by the mere profile of a man’s nose? Had Shakespeare been a woman, he could have filled a cathedral with sonnets over this man.
“You can’t mean to be interested in him,” Dinah said. “He’s a rake.” And it was rather obvious their sister Charlotte also fancied him, unfortunately.
“That may be his reputation,” Bridget said. “But his acquaintance gives him far more credit. Would the Abernathys truly befriend a rake?”
“Graham would befriend anyone. He doesn’t know how to be unpleasant or mean.” Or teasing, she thought. Except to her, a little.
“It is Graham now?”
Dinah curled her hands into fists so hard that her nails bit into her palm. “They are our brothers, and Sera refers to them by their given names.”
“I was only bantering,” Bridget said, pushing her face even closer to the window, if that were possible. “Graham perhaps is incapable of disliking anyone, but Benjamin would have no tolerance for a rake. I’m sure of it.” Bridget’s head turned to follow Lord Savage as he made progress across the lawn. “I read your account of your first sight of Viscount Savage, by the way. How awful that you had to leave for sneezing. Otherwise you could have watched him ride. It’s beautiful when he rides. We shall have matching mounts once we are married.”
Dinah doubted that very much. “Father would consent to the match, but Viscount Savage is a confirmed bachelor. Would he agree to it?”
“He will,” Bridget said determinedly. “He just needs to meet the perfect woman to reform him—me!”
“Reform him in what regard?”
“From being a rake.”
“You just said he wasn’t actually a rake.”
“Well, he’s rakish enough,” Bridget said. “And everyone knows a
rake is looking for a beautiful, spirited woman.”
“I believe the problem with rakes is they look for several beautiful, spirited women.”
“Dinah!” Bridget clapped her hand over her mouth to cover her laugh. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”
Dinah shrugged. “It is the truth.”
“And salacious.” Bridget frowned. “Drat! He’s moved out of sight. At any rate, I’ve every intention of capturing his heart and marrying him. I need only put him in a position to notice me. Perhaps rescue me? Yes, I believe that if I give him the opportunity to play the hero, his better instincts will rise up. Oh, maybe I could have an accident upon a horse!”
“If you even think of risking your neck for the likes of him, I’ll break it myself,” Dinah muttered. She made a mental note to ensure that the grooms would warn her if Bridget got any ideas about visiting the stables.
“Setting my sights on Lord Savage isn’t a purely selfish desire, either. I’m doing it for all of us. For you especially.”
“Ha!” Dinah couldn’t help the unladylike bark. “Even I could not gather an argument that would convince anyone you had my interests at heart when you declare yourself to Lord Savage.”
“But I do!” Bridget nodded vigorously. “Sera is married, but Father still has his eye fixed on his goal of seeing all of us married—to dukes, no less. And everyone knows you don’t want to marry at all. If Sera and I, at least, make advantageous matches, perhaps he will loosen his hold on the rest of you, and then you can be alone for the rest of your life as you like.”
Alone? Dinah felt a pang at her chest. She had railed against marriage, and she did believe it an unnecessary practice to ensure what amounted to a transactional contract, but she didn’t want to be alone forever. She would always have her family and sisters, but in addition to that felicity, it wouldn’t be too awful to have someone with whom she could speak, to converse with on matters of state and science and general merriment.
Another person to stand to the testimony of her life, and for whom she could stand in return.
Alone?
She didn’t want that, did she?
But wasn’t that why she was curing her father of love? So he would let go of her mother’s deathbed wish so she would not need to marry?
Her stomach twisted into a knot. She had never realized that not marrying meant being alone.
* * *
From the moment Graham entered the darkened entry of the gardener’s cottage, his mind became flush with memories of the afternoon Dinah had discovered him. What had he been thinking? How could he have been so selfish as to nearly ruin Tom’s wedding?
He found the matches, lit the lamps, poured two glasses of water, and set them on the long kitchen table. He took a seat and, from it, was able to see the foyer where he’d passed out while trying to open the door. He had spent the night reading over Lily’s message informing him she had accepted an offer of marriage. He’d tried to distract himself. To focus on Tom’s wedding. He’d even tried on his suit to ensure the coat still fit as it had been months since he last wore it. But his thoughts had kept returning to Lily.
He remembered running from the house, across the lawn, and then into the cottage. It had seemed occupied—several bottles of wine were already open—and he’d called out, but no one had presented himself. So he had taken the wine. It was his family’s wine, after all. It had been a glass, and then a bottle, and then the floor.
Until she had come.
He rapped his knuckles against the wood table. Where was she now? He had half a mind to find her and drag her to the cottage in spite of the possible witnesses. He had a surprising number of impulses where Dinah was concerned. She’d been so bothersome to begin with that his tolerance of her was merely polite, but he’d quickly come to enjoy her presence. She had managed to make him forget his pain, even forget himself.
Graham had accepted his lot as the middle child, as the peacekeeper, both in his family and among his friends. The key to being fulfilling that role was to be likable, yet he was indulging in all manner of unlikable activities—drinking, insulting, teasing—with poor Dinah. Everything about her was unexpected, and it had him acting in heretofore unpredictable ways. If there was anyone up to the task of indulging him, it was her, and he had to admit the therapeutic benefits. He was so often pondering ways to amuse her that he had less time to devote to his depression over Lily’s engagement.
And plenty of time to wonder what was keeping Dinah. Fortunately, it was only another twenty minutes before he saw her blond head and lithe figure striding around the pond’s edge toward the cottage.
She came in without a knock, proceeded to the table, and drank the entire glass of water without a word. Then she set it down and said, “Let’s begin.”
Graham could not hold back his grin. “As you wish,” he said.
She paced in front of the table, wringing her hands. Her yellow dress was simple, but it lit up her face as she spoke. “I read many volumes of the apothecary’s observations regarding his treatment of those with mental afflictions. You may protest having your experience compared with an individual who believes to have seen the very devil himself stealing his sweet pies—”
“Let the record show I do protest,” he interrupted.
“—but,” she continued, “the baseline methods of redirected associative thinking remain the same to cure you as they do to cure the insane.”
“I actually wonder if my continued correspondence with you does make me insane,” he said. He’d even arranged to have her letters forwarded during his sojourn in Bath for several weeks in May.
She seemed to know he was teasing this time because she forged on without comment. “Therefore, I hypothesize that if I force you to recall your memories of Lady X—not only recall them but relive them—and in the process inflict a small amount of physical pain upon your person, soon you will come to associate these memories of her with unpleasant memories. In the process, you will not be able to recall her without feeling an unpleasant sensation.”
“Perhaps not dissimilar to the one I have now,” he muttered.
She only glared at him. Lily had never glared at him. Not once. Of course, Lily had never quite looked him in the eye. She was more one for staring at the tips of her shoes. How rapturous it had felt when she’d finally met his gaze that first time. And to think Dinah wanted to make it painful.
“Is that wise?” he asked.
She raised a brow. “Is anything done in the service of progress ever deemed wise?”
“I’m assuming the answer is often yes, else how would it reach consensus?”
She stopped in her tracks, crossed her arms, and leveled a stare on him. He was beginning to recognize this expression. Once he had thought it mulish, but now he acknowledged it to be tenacious. “I’ll assume we can begin?”
He leaned back in the chair and studied her. She was quite serious. She intended to cause him physical harm, as if such a thing as physical pain would somehow blot out his heart’s pain. It was a ludicrous idea, one that would never work. Still, a part of him was loath to tell her so. Not because he was uncomfortable telling the truth, but because she just might take him at his word and leave him alone to wallow in his misery over Lily.
And if there was something he had learned since sharing his tale of woe with her, it was that having a companion made it all the more tolerable.
“Do I have your word that you’ll stop if it becomes too unpleasant?” he asked.
“How will I know when it’s become unpleasant?”
“Won’t my screams of pain be enough?”
“But you may have knee-jerk reactions to the unpleasantness, which aren’t requests to stop.”
“I’ll say the word stop, then.”
“But you may also be tempted to say it in reaction without really meaning it,” she insisted. “No, we need something else. A word you wouldn’t say in reaction. A word you would normally never say when in pain or when recount
ing your relationship with Lady X, a word so recognizable that I will cease and desist.” She tapped her nose, her pace resuming. “What might such a word be?”
“Prime Minister Lord Liverpool?” At her blanched expression, really an attempt to disguise her grin, he shrugged.
She snapped her fingers. “Shakespeare.”
“Shall I accompany his name with a snap of my own fingers?”
“I believe I should like to start the pain segment of our activities tonight,” she said loftily.
He laughed. Apparently laughing loudly was becoming a habit. Even she joined him for a moment, but once the laughter ended and the silence stretched out, her expression turned serious again.
“Remain seated,” she ordered. “Tell me what you remember about seeing her for the first time. Don’t be alarmed if I approach you.”
“Any sentence that starts with a request not to be alarmed must be aware of its own irony.” He pressed the tops of his hands into his thighs, willing them to stop trembling. He was surprised to find he was all nerves and sensation. Not ideal for someone who had been threatened with pain.
“Where were you?” she prodded. “That first time?”
“I was attending a music salon, the work of Charles Dibdin. Lovely, uplifting compositions. Have you heard him?”
“Perhaps. I never remember songs.” She walked around the back of his chair.
He craned his head to look over his shoulder at her. “But your memory is perfect.”
“With books.” She circled slowly. “Music is different. I hear it and try to see it on the page, the series of notes, but am not talented enough in that regard.”
“So every time you hear a song it is like hearing it for the first time?” He smiled. “There’s poetry in that, Dinah.”
“There’s a faulty memory and an even worse ear,” she said. “You’re only prolonging this for yourself. Continue.”
He’d almost forgotten what story he was here to tell. But then he cleared his throat and began. “I saw her before I heard her. In fact, once I laid eyes on her, I heard nothing. Her hair was like gold. Her eyes bright as the sun, like a summer’s day, in fact. Damn it.” He flinched as she pinched his arm—hard.