Engraved (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  “Want, want, want,” she muttered.

  “It’s not over yet. I can’t…I almost couldn’t leave you that morning.”

  “Ah yes! The note left for my maid. Thank you very much for that. What were you thinking?”

  He looked at her. He was grinning haplessly, boyishly. “I suppose I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me?”

  Keeping her face solemn, she shook her head and walked to the window, hoping for some sunlight to warm her and some fresh breeze to blame for her tremors. “How can you even say all this to me with your fiancée a few yards away sipping tea? Have you no conscience?”

  Silly question.

  His smile widened until it was positively lecherous.

  The fact that he hadn’t bothered to mention his fiancée before now should have angered her, but how could it when she knew exactly what he was from the beginning? And when she also had future plans. They were as bad as each other it seemed. Two wicked souls with almost no hope of saving unless one of them put their foot down and stopped this foolishness. Clearly, the good sense wouldn’t come from him.

  The Hawkesworth girl reminded her of a squirrel with her small, clawing hands and full cheeks, not to mention her rodent-like fashion of chattering, but since this was not a very charitable thought, she quickly discarded it. Truly, it was none of her business any more than her affairs were his business.

  Her head felt too tight, as if she’d been out in the sun far too long, but, perversely, she shivered, hugging her arms.

  “I should light a fire,” he said.

  “Don’t bother. I’m not staying. May I have my painting now, Mr. Blackwood?”

  His dark eyes filled with frustration and desire.

  “I think it’s for the best that we don’t continue.” She looked down at her hands. “What happened on Friday—”

  “And Saturday morning.”

  “—was a mistake, a lapse.”

  When there was no response, she raised her eyes and found his gaze returning to her, the potent craving palpable. An inherent sense of fear warned her he’d just glanced at the door and the key in the lock.

  “The painting,” she added. “If you please.”

  But she read his expression and the journey of his thoughts as if they were plotted out for her on an open atlas. He wouldn’t let her go that easily. After the flare of insolence only to be expected from a spoiled boy, he lowered his lashes artfully.

  So then, with no other weapon at hand, she said, “Mr. Blackwood, there’s something you should know.”

  He waited, one arm leaning on the mantle, apparently studying his feet.

  “I accepted a proposal of marriage this morning.” She hadn’t yet accepted Jonas Carbury. But she would. Now she would.

  Those thick, soot-black lashes flew open. “What?”

  “I did tell you I’d had offers”

  Lina never thought she’d see the day when he would lose that shameless confidence. This afternoon a miracle occurred. Adam Blackwood’s face actually paled.

  “This will not continue, so there is no reason for you to stay here,” she added. “Go back to London with your fiancee.”

  “You’re just saying that,” he spat his words, “because of Matilda Hawkesworth. You’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry about Miss Hawkesworth. I’m sure she’s the perfect choice for you. I hope you’ll be very happy and she keeps you from straying.” The lies gushed out of her, attached to one another, like magician’s scarves from an endless pocket. “Not that you felt any guilt when you had me on Friday, I’m sure.”

  “No I didn’t. What I have with you is completely different to what I have with her.”

  Her answer was swift, biting. “You don’t have anything with me. You had something for one night. Today you have nothing. Look at that clock hard as you might, you’re out of time.”

  He leaned away from her, rocking on his dusty, booted heels.

  “My painting, Mr. Blackwood. I believe I paid for it.”

  * * * *

  There was only one thing Adam knew in that moment. He had to have her again. He couldn’t allow her to walk out of his life. She was in his blood and he couldn’t be free of her, even if he wanted to.

  Therefore, she wouldn’t be free of him.

  “One last time,” he growled, crossing the threadbare rug toward her.

  “That wasn’t our arrangement.” She backed away, shoulders to the window frame, sunlight gilding the side of face.

  He swore crudely, letting her know what he thought of their previous arrangement.

  “Come one step closer and you’ll get your face slapped,” she warned steadily, eyes unblinking.

  Ignoring the threat, he moved the extra step, his thighs brushing up against the front of her gown, his hands at his sides. He dared her to do it, called her bluff. It would hardly be the first time his face had been slapped.

  Instead, she was distracted. “You haven’t shaved today.”

  “Too busy working on the house.” He raised his right hand to her face, his knuckles gently brushing her cheek, her butter soft skin. She was trembling, he realized.

  “Miss Hawkesworth and her aunt must be appalled.”

  “Are you?” He ran his thumb across her lips, exerting just enough pressure to part them.

  She shook her head, looking up at his mouth.

  “Good.” He kissed her, his hands around her face, lifting and warming it. There was no brandy, no wine to compare with this. Settling his feet, he leaned into her, holding her against the window frame, his lips steadily opening hers, making way for his tongue.

  He felt her heart beat in unison with his and his right hand swept down to her bosom, stroking her through the brown wool, feeling the rigid corset beneath. She was too lovely, a gift his father had given him he realized, a last minute bequest.

  He had something to thank the old devil for after all.

  “Tell me the name of the man you accepted,” he whispered as their lips finally parted.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Yes, he would. Nothing stayed secret long in the village. But he didn’t know if he could handle it. If she married another, he’d lose her again. She would never come to him like this if she had a husband. He knew her well enough now to know she was no adulteress. Gently, she caressed his unshaven cheek, just as he had done to her smooth one.

  “I hear you read palms,” he said. “Like a gypsy.”

  A little spark of surprise lit her eyes. “I do.”

  He smiled. “Read mine.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” He held it out to her, palm up. “What do you see in my future, Mrs. Phillips?”

  He watched her lashes sweep down. He had to curb the urge to kiss her eyelids. Even the gently narrowing curve of her ebony eyebrow seemed to him the most beautiful and perfect of shapes.

  She looked at his hand only briefly, so he knew she lied when she told him, “Soon you’ll marry Miss Hawkesworth and, much to everyone’s surprise, finally become a properly-behaved, upstanding gentleman.”

  “I don’t like that fortune. What does my other hand say?” It was on her breast at that moment, holding her firmly.

  “On a right-handed person, like yourself,” she answered evenly, “the right hand tells only what has already been achieved in your life; whether you have neglected, or developed, your talents. The left tells of your scope and potential.”

  “Have I neglected my talents?”

  She smiled wryly. “I cannot say that you have. Although I’m only familiar with one particular talent.”

  “But I have many.”

  “Yes.” She gave a lilting sigh. “I have no doubt.”

  “Look,” he insisted, holding out his right hand again, genuinely interested to know what she would see. “Tell me.”

  Finally she took the hand he offered and her gaze traveled slowly over it. “You have a square hand which means you are methodical, organized. You work hard for what you believe i
n.” Abruptly she grabbed his thumb and bent it back.

  “Ouch! What was that for?”

  “Just testing,” she replied coolly. “It doesn’t bend far; therefore, you’re strong-willed.” She treated him to saucy look. “Which we already knew. But see this wide angle here, when the thumb is spread from the palm? This means warmth and generosity. Surprisingly.”

  He smiled. “See. I’m not all bad.”

  “And this cross on the mount of Jupiter.” She lightly pressed the pad below his index finger. “This indicates…a happy marriage.”

  He was as stunned by that as she appeared to be. Her lashes drooped, her brow wrinkled, and then she dropped his hand.

  “What else do you see?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. It’s a very dull hand.”

  He moved closer, trapping her against the window frame. “And what do you see in your future, Mrs. Phillips?”

  “That I will marry again and be a respectable lady.” She paused, lifting her eyelashes until their eyes met and hers reached inside him, searching for something. “There must be no gossip about us, Adam. This must end.”

  But he wouldn’t hear that. He simply closed his ears to it. Perhaps if he held her very tight and loved her very hard, he could make her stay.

  “One last time,” he whispered, burying his face in her neck, deeply inhaling her sweet scent. He felt her sigh as her arms came around his shoulders, fingers tentative in his hair.

  “One last time,” she agreed finally, her breath warm against his ear.

  * * * *

  She left his house carrying her painting wrapped in calico and sackcloth under her arm. From the library window, he watched her climb up into the butcher’s cart for the journey back to East Lofton. The same transport she’d used to bring her there. Adam didn’t particularly like the way the merry-eyed butcher held her hand a little too long while helping her up.

  Finally remembering he had guests elsewhere in the house—hopefully Mrs. Murray had taken care of them for the last three quarters of an hour–he tucked his shirt back into his trousers and took a hasty glance around at the damage his lover left behind. The leather desk top had certainly taken some abuse, and he’d better clean up the broken lamp before Mrs. Murray saw it. Slowly he folded the plaid blanket and placed it over the arm of his father’s old chair.

  The prickly Mrs. Phillips seemed to think she could leave him and go on with her life as if this had never happened.

  But he wasn’t giving up. He had a feeling she’d seen that in his palm.

  Chapter Eight

  For three days Evangeline went through the motions of living, trying her best to ignore the resident of The Grange. Whenever his name was mentioned in her hearing, she kept her face bland, politely disinterested. Truthfully, he was all she wished to talk about, yet she could speak of him to no one. If she saw him around the village, she merely inclined her head in greeting and hurried on as if she had somewhere important to go, someone else waiting for her. But there was nothing, just the walls of her cottage, a mirror to polish, and a flagged stone passage to wash clean.

  Then she received a surprise visit.

  The two women sat in her parlor, their cups of tea untouched. From the moment she came in, they barely moved and their eyes, cold as those of dead fish on a market tall, stared unblinking. When Mary told her who had come to see her, Evangeline could have been knocked over by a feather duster. But once her mind settled, she knew very well why they were there.

  Adam’s forty-five minute, unchaperoned meeting with her in his father’s library three days ago had been enough to prick their suspicions about her. Miss Hawkesworth came to stake her claim and reassure herself that she had no competition. Her aunt came to ensure Evangeline Phillips was put in her place.

  “Mrs. Phillips, it seems you live comfortably here,” said Lady Cheswick. “I expected something smaller, more rustic. And you have a maid.”

  “Yes. That was my husband’s idea. I let her stay on, but I really have no need, being alone now.”

  “You have no plans to marry again?”

  This was rather an impertinent question, she thought, considering this was their first visit to her house and they barely knew her. Still, it had been years since she was out in society. Perhaps people came to the point much quicker these days. Miss Hawkesworth and her aunt certainly liked to fire their questions at her. They had discussed the size of her house, the number of rooms, the state of her garden, how long she’d been living there, and how long she’d been a widow. She had not yet had the opportunity to ask them anything.

  “A young widow like yourself must have offers, Mrs. Phillips. You are still of childbearing age.”

  Again, the impertinence. She might drop her teacup if this questioning continued. “I suppose I am.”

  “How old are you?” Matilda chirped.

  “Really, Matilda,” her aunt chided, with a sideways glance at Evangeline.

  “I’m thirty-five, Miss Hawkesworth.”

  “Oh.” The girl slumped back in her chair, ignoring her aunt’s reminders about posture, and apparently satisfied she had nothing more to be worried about.

  “You must be very busy with your wedding arrangements, Miss Hawkesworth.”

  “Yes. There is so much to do.” The girl rolled her eyes. “And men are never any use with such things.”

  “My niece’s fiancé has been somewhat distracted with his father’s house,” said Lady Cheswick, her gaze boring holes in Lina’s gown, “and other matters, it seems.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” she replied, smiling a little. “I’m sure he’ll soon be done with all that and give Miss Hawkesworth his full attention again.”

  “He’d better,” the old lady grunted. “My niece didn’t come all this way to watch him wield a hammer.”

  Adam was a hands-on master, so she’d heard, and he had no problem getting dirty. That thought caused her cheeks to warm. She bent her head quickly and sipped her luke-warm tea.

  “You have heard about the May ball?” ask Lady Cheswick, her voice sharp, cutting the air like an axe.

  She nodded.

  “You won’t attend, of course.”

  Had that axe just come down and severed her head from her slender neck? She raised one hand to check.

  “It would be best for all concerned,” the woman added.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Lady Cheswick.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you do.”

  She waited, balancing her teacup and saucer in her lap, listening to her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  “Mr. Blackwood and my niece have invited several folk up from London for the ball. Many of them will attend the wedding next month. These are people of consequence and influence. It would not be fitting for someone like you to be there.”

  She licked her lips. “Someone like me?”

  “My dear woman, I know you understand me perfectly. You can hardly be naïve at your age.” Lady Cheswick tipped her head back, feathers nodding on her bonnet. “Adam Blackwood cannot have his fiancée and his mistress under the same roof on the night of the ball.”

  For a brief moment her world went black. She could hear her teacup rattling in its thin china saucer.

  “Of course, my niece understands that men take mistresses, women of easy virtue, from time to time. I have explained it to her.”

  “That was good of you.”

  Lady Cheswick shook her chins. “I don’t care for you tone.”

  She set her cup and saucer on the table. “Then I think you’d better leave before I say something you care for even less, madam.”

  “Don’t tell me you mean to deny what’s been going on, when this entire village is aware of it? They all know what you are, Mrs. Phillips.”

  Lina thought about leaving the room since her guests wouldn’t, but she didn’t want to give Lady Cheswick the satisfaction. “What am I, exactly?” she demanded, her temper rising with every syllable.

  “They say you’re
a witch,” Matilda exclaimed, finally showing a little animation. “Is it true?”

  Her aunt interrupted, “You’re his whore in the same way that you were his father’s, according to local rumor. Naturally, I knew the moment you walked into his house. Even in our presence he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, and I have no doubt his hands behaved in the same manner the moment you were no longer in our presence.”

  “That’s quite enough, madam. Once again, I must ask you to—”

  “I will leave when I have said my piece, Mrs. Phillips. I know you’re an American and I cannot expect the same manners I would from a properly raised Englishwoman, but surely even you have some standards of proper behavior. Your brazen affair with my niece’s fiancée will not continue while we are in the country. What you do when my niece is busy elsewhere is up to him, but as long as we stay, he will pay Mattie the respect she is due and not have her made a laughingstock.”

  Shockingly, throughout the duration of this speech, Matilda Hawkesworth sat beside her aunt, mutely observing the wallpaper and pulling on her ringlets with one gloved hand. Her countenance had fallen back into a bored mask since her aunt refused to discuss rumors of witchcraft.