Refine (House of Oak Book 4)
Page 19
Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses undue emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.
Yep. She officially hated Rule #23.
“Rules, Miss Fleury. I need twenty-first century rules.”
She shook her head, slowly pushing the pile of papers away, as if it were diseased.
Though if he wanted a rule or two . . .
“Okay. How about you start by calling me Jasmine?”
He shifted. Rubbed his neck. “I-I quite like ‘Miss Fleury.’ It describes you.”
She shot him a quizzical look.
More subtle shuffling. Wait? Was he embarrassed? “I find you are kind of like a flower. So I enjoy calling you Miss Fleury.”
Her eyebrows furrowed further. Surely she was missing something here?
“My first name is Jasmine. You can’t get much more flowery than that.”
He pondered that for a moment, something flashing across his cheeks. There and then gone.
“True. . .”
“Just try it.”
Another pause. A stuttering breath on his part.
“Jasmine,” he finally said, his deep voice rumbling her name.
The sound really shouldn’t have sent a thrill chasing down her spine.
And yet . . .
“Jasmine.” He tried her name again, nodding as if pleased with the sound.
“There. Not too hard, right.”
He nodded. “Well then, Jasmine—” Another breath. “What are the rest of the rules?”
She sighed. If she had to tell him every little thing . . . really, there was only one rule in the end.
“No. No rules. Or, well, maybe just this. Be yourself. Accept others as they are. Acknowledge your innermost self. Stop hiding.”
His head reared back. A slight crease appeared between his brows.
“What kind of a rule is that? That makes no sense whatsoever. I already am myself.”
“Yes . . . but are you? Your truest, most recalcitrant self? Or are you just the automaton your father created?”
Her words punched all the air from Timothy’s lungs. Everything leaving in a violent rush.
An automaton? Is that what she thought he was?
An unthinking—what was the word she had used? Robot?
A machine?
“There’s a reason your father felt the need to add thirteen more rules, all seemingly aimed at mechanical engineering and mathematics. Are those things you like?”
A long pause. He felt as if the very molecules themselves froze, awaiting his answer.
He had never confessed his passion for machines to anyone. Rarely even admitted it to himself.
Be yourself. Acknowledge everything that you are.
That endless war within him fractured.
The side his father had always tried to suppress roared to life. Smashing a lifetime of barriers. Surging through him, hungry, demanding to be heard.
Finally, he nodded his head.
“Yes.”
He sprang to his feet. Pacing. The room suddenly too close.
His admission too big.
A hand in his hair, another on his hip.
Chest-heaving. Like he was going to be pulled apart.
His hand itching to grab hold of his talisman cog and never let go. Wanting to reel everything back inside.
But he didn’t. He resisted retreating into his learned behavior.
“Those aren’t bad traits. Being mechanically inclined. It’s nothing to hide or be ashamed of. They’re good things—”
“Not when you are destined to be a viscount and must maintain an aristocratic way of life—”
“Who cares. You’re letting go, remember? The idea that an aristocrat doesn’t engage in manual tasks or trade or whatever is ludicrous. And horrifically outdated. Work is good. Work is healthy—”
“Work is common.”
“Pffffft. Hardly. Everyone does it. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Charles have their charities. Prince William flies helicopters for a living. That’s like the nineteenth century equivalent of piloting a boat or something. If he had a brain for inventing, he would be running his own business instead. And everyone would think the better of him for it. His wife, Kate Middleton, comes from trade. Not a drop of genteel blood anywhere. Her parents run a party business. They’re the servants who show up and organize a social event for others. And everyone loves her. Why? Because she’s herself. And she appears, on the surface at least, to accept others the way they are. She’s not a snob.”
“A snob?” Miss Fleury—correction, Jasmine—really needed to stop using words that made no sense to him.
“A person who behaves as if they are better than someone else.”
Oh.
“If this Kate Middleton is married to the heir to the British throne, then she is better than everyone else—”
Jasmine made a tsking sound. “No, you’re not getting it. Welcome to a democratized society. No one is inherently better or more valuable or more necessary than anyone else—”
“But—”
“No. I’m not going to argue this point. You need to find a way to accept it.”
He faced the kitchen and planted his hands on the cool marble counter, trying to breathe.
The concept of such equality was not horrid. The Americans and the French had fought bloody revolutions based on the same thought.
But if he gave up all his rules, then where was his place in society? Who did he become?
As if reading his thoughts, Jasmine came up behind him, placing a comforting hand on his back.
Her touch scalded. The warmth welcome.
“I know that this entire concept is probably scary to you.”
Was that what he was feeling? Fear?
He assessed his emotions. Yes. It was fear.
She rubbed his back. Like he was a small child in need of soothing. He should have been angry at her audacity. But . . . the motion was consoling. His breathing slowed.
“Timothy, you don’t know who you are. You’ve never been given the space to explore your own inner wants and interests. I think that is what the universe has given you here. A period of refinement, as it were. A time apart to find yourself. To define and accept who you intrinsically are. Learn to accept others as they are. The universe has set you on this path. Now you just need to trust the process.” She gestured toward the note attached to the fridge.
He closed his eyes, her words letting loose a flood of emotions. He sorted through them.
Fear, yes. But also worry, confusion, anger, pain, agitation . . .
Heartache.
He had always had rules. He just couldn’t—
Her hand remained on his back, stroking, calming. Helping him move through the swarming panic.
He drew in a deep, stuttering breath. “I intellectually understand your words, but I cannot see a way to put them into practice. As I have repeatedly said, I require specificity.”
He lifted his head. Stared at the note before him.
Trust the process.
What kind of logic was that? All processes involved rules. What did he need to do?
Her hand stopped. She moved to his side, leaning an elbow on the counter, though she kept a hand on his back.
“Okay, I can appreciate that concern. Why don’t you start by making a list? Spend some time. Think about it. And then make a list of things that you personally like and dislike. Not what you think you should like or dislike. But, casting aside anyone else’s opinion about what a viscount should or shouldn’t be, what does Timothy Linwood like? Let’s start with that.”
Chapter 16
Duir Cottage
April 7, 2015
What do I like?
How could such a seemingly simple question be so hard?
Timothy had spent the better part of the previous day pondering the problem, without making much headway. Well, outside of the obvious things he had already admitted to . . . machines and mathematics . . .
The entire time feeling like a naughty child stealing biscuits from the kitchen.
He started with the broken alarm clock.
It had sat forgotten in the corner of his bedroom, its case shattered. Google helpfully suggested something called duct tape to fix the housing. Which after a small search, he found in a drawer in the kitchen, along with a box of tools.
The clock posed a unique challenge, as it wasn’t precisely mechanical in nature. It was digital, as Google helpfully explained. So instead of using gears and springs, the machine used electricity and circuitry.
Timothy had spent most of the day reading and studying. After several hours of trying to read on the small phone screen, Timothy texted James. Who kindly guided Timothy through powering and ‘logging on’ to the large computer in the downstairs study.
The enormous screen was a decided improvement. As were the engineering books James walked him through purchasing and downloading from a place called Amazon. Which Timothy had always assumed was a river in Brazil but, apparently, he was mistaken.
With the tools, books and a larger screen in hand, he had been able to repair the clock. Fortunately, the problems had been assembly related, rather than any problem with the clock’s circuitry. The clock was now covered in shiny metal tape, but it functioned, red numbers glowing.
He felt ridiculously proud.
Gah! Why? Why should repairing an inconsequential little machine cause so much pleasure?
It made no sense.
Was this the ‘value of work’ that Miss Fleury . . . Jasmine spoke of? Or just the natural result of indulging his selfish desires?
If the latter, it certainly explained why so many people did so. It felt wonderful. Would finding other things he liked bring a similar result?
Which all brought him to this morning and the list in front of him. Under Likes he had listed:
Marianne
Isabel
Machines
Mathematics
Pugilism
He pondered the list a little more. And then added one more word:
Rain
He did like rain. It was soothing and cleansing. It brought life.
But did he really truly like rain, or did he feel that way merely because he had spent the last hour watching it pitter-patter against the windows in his bedroom?
He was undecided.
Surely he liked more than five or six things. What grown man couldn’t create a simple list of the things he liked? Had Jasmine set him to this task just to be vexing?
Though, she would probably counter, what grown man couldn’t shave himself?
Google had been helpful on that particular topic. After watching several tutorials, he realized that the necessary components (namely, shaving cream and a razor) had been in the cabinet in his bathroom all along. He just hadn’t recognized them for what they were.
Which just went to show what Jasmine knew. She knew no more about twenty-first century men’s shaving apparatus than he did. Hah!
It was a relief to have a smooth chin again.
An angry voice broke the silence. Wafting up the stairs.
“What do you mean we need space? I’ve always come to Thanksgiving dinner—”
Jasmine. Judging by the clamor of cupboards being slammed, she was not doing well. She probably could use some assistance.
Which meant his list could wait.
Unbidden, Rule #85 scurried through his mind:
A gentleman never puts off until tomorrow that which can be done today.
Good thing he was not abiding by The Rules anymore, right?
Jasmine was pacing in front of that marble counter in the kitchen. An island, it was called. The entire room was still impossibly disordered. Dirty dishes, empty cartons, papers, books, clothing . . . the woman obviously tolerated a lot of physical disorder.
For herself, Jasmine was dressed in those loose trousers and a tight t-shirt, long hair pulled over one shoulder. A hodgepodge of necklaces dangling.
She was also crying. Not making any noise. Just wiping her cheeks with a towel.
“Rita, the pendant matters to me, okay? You are trying to strip me of everything that Marmi left me, and I have to put my foot down. Besides, it’s barely freaking April. You can’t un-invite me to Thanksgiving six months in advance. Who does that?”
Another swipe of her cheeks.
A sharp stab of . . . something shot through Timothy.
Who was this on the phone? Who had upset her so?
And why did the sight of Jasmine crying make his fists clench and his breathing short?
She turned and froze, seeing him.
“I gotta go, Rita.”
She wiped her eyes as she set down her phone. And then rested a hip against the counter, chewing on her still trembling bottom lip.
Timothy didn’t know what to do, what to say.
Rule #188 governed situations like these: A gentleman should pretend ignorance of another’s display of emotions, so as to spare the other person embarrassment.
Based on that, Rule-Abiding Timothy Linwood would have kept his mouth shut and pretended not to notice anything amiss.
But he wasn’t supposed to follow The Rules anymore. He had been given only one rule:
Be yourself.
Which, as a rule, was fairly ludicrous. It was far too brief and unspecific.
No-Rules Timothy Linwood had no idea what to do.
Rules. He needed rules.
Or, at the very least, a few discreet hints.
Not just faith in some unknown, unseen, unstructured process.
Why was that concept so hard for Jasmine to understand?
Tears still tumbled down her cheeks. Her blue eyes watery pools.
What to do?
He wanted to pummel the idiot who had made her cry. But that clearly wasn’t possible.
His next instinct was to comfort her. Preferably by scooping her up in his arms and kissing her.
That also seemed ill-advised.
“Pardon me, Jasmine.” He spread his arms wide, indicating his confusion. “It is plainly obvious you are upset. But I am unsure—”
That was as far as he got.
Jasmine obviously interpreted his open arms differently. She flung herself across the room, wrapped her own arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.
Weeping as if her heart would break.
Well.
That was . . . unexpected.
Without consulting him, his arms reciprocated, gathering her tight against him. Sobs shook her body.
The urge to bloody the person who had upset her seethed. But other emotions roiled through him as well.
Per Rule #23, he had rarely in the past tried to distinguish between emotions. He had merely suppressed them all as a general principle.
So he struggled to identify them.
Anger. That one he knew.
Worry and frustration. Yes, also familiar.
But there were others.
A feeling of fierce protectiveness. A desire to comfort her, to soothe her.
A longing to never let her go.
She continued to weep, soaking his collared shirt, her palms pressed against his spine. In the moment, she seemed too small, so frail. Her head stopping midway up his chest, his arms so large around her back.
After a few minutes, her tears abated. But she continued to hold him, bringing one hand around and resting it on his sternum, next to her head. Relaxing her body into his. Trusting.
Something sharp swelled in his chest. An emotion different from his previous ones . . . something he couldn’t remember feeling before.
Warm and sweet. Possessive in its strength.
Mine.
Without thinking, he dipped his head down and brushed his lips across her hair. Breathed her in. Peppermint and clean
soap.
Of their own volition, his hands rubbed her back. The motion natural and intuitive. One even migrating up to stroke her hair. As if his hands had been created for the sole purpose of comforting Jasmine Fleury.
Her body relaxed further. Her breathing slowed. He stared into the kitchen as he held her, noting a paper she had stuck to the fridge.
Don’t confuse your path with your destination. Just because it’s stormy now, doesn’t mean you aren’t headed for sunshine.
Did that not define Jasmine? She was storm and sunshine, energy . . . and color. Vivid and bright. Eternal optimism. Even in the midst of a storm.
And how had he treated her over the past weeks? With disdain, even cruelty. Heedless of her emotions. She should have abandoned him, tossed him out on his arse. True, she had stood her ground and refused to allow him to trample her but, at the same time, she had cared for him, fed him, clothed him. Even when he had least deserved it.
He was an ass.
Regret filled him. But, right on its heels, came resolve.
He could not change how he had been. But, by hell, he could certainly change how he would be.
Starting with his treatment of Miss Jasmine Fleury.
The moment lingered, spreading warmth through him that pushed away all the anxiety and panic. Washing him with peace.
He could have held her all day. Wanted to hold her all day, in fact.
But after a few minutes, she pulled back. Gave one final sniffle. “Thank you. For the hug.” Her small smile turned wobbly. “I really needed that today. Things are just . . . hard, and it’s nice to feel like someone . . . anyone cares.”
She popped up on her toes and pulled his head down, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek.
Ah. His eyes closed of their own accord. That felt nice. Her soft lips on his skin. Her small hand clutching the side of his head.
He opened his eyes to see her frowning, head tilted. She brushed a hand over his smooth chin.
“Drat,” she said, rubbing her thumb across his jawline. “You found a razor. I liked the scruff.”
With a final pat of his face, she moved all the way out of his arms and turned to the fridge, rummaging for something.
He had yet to say much at all, but gauging from her reaction, his behavior hadn’t been incorrect—