Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  He yanked at the cover so hard that the crate budged forward. Clara tripped a step backward.

  “Christ,” he shouted, kicking the crate again. “Stop addressing them so formerly. I swear to you they are still children who prefer James and Minnie instead of their damn titles.” This wasn’t worth the effort, surely. This whole scatterbrained plan of his brother’s to see his children raised and educated in England couldn’t be worth the trouble. Yes, many children of the Raj were sent back, but hadn’t some stayed and made it to adulthood successfully?

  “They need a schedule,” she repeated, her chin out. “They need to know that this is not some grand adventure, but that it is their responsibility to do their family proud. They have obligations…”

  “Just give it a good push,” he grunted, yanking at his end again, his knuckles white from the effort. She must think him an idiot. Better yet, why did he find himself caring?

  Clara straightened, slapping her hands over her thighs, blowing away a piece of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Maybe you should wait for Mr. Barnes. Or try a hammer, maybe?”

  “Come on, don’t hide behind the lie that you’re the weaker sex. You’re capable and strong enough. Push.”

  “I can do my part, Mr. Ravensdale,” she continued. “But at some turn, you must do yours as their uncle and offer them some guidance.” She widened her stance, then dove down to shove at the crate’s lid, taking him by surprise.

  Bly bent and pulled, his boot braced against the crate to keep it sliding. “Stop calling me that.”

  “I will not. You are my employer and with that comes expectations of decorum.” Her breath skipped, her cheeks growing pink as she continued to push.

  “I employed you as a governess, but now you are rearranging furniture and cleaning like a maid.”

  She glared up at him from across the crate. “And why is it a fault that I wish to help, especially when it is needed?”

  “Push,” he leveled, his tone cold. The woman was exasperating. And as for icy disposition, apparently it was catchy, because he felt much the same himself in that instant. “And it’s not needed. I can handle the affairs at Burton Hall.”

  “You can’t open this crate, Mr. Ravensdale, never mind dress a toddler.”

  This is why he was positive that not only exhaustion had set in while in Ceylon, but that his brain must be addled as well, because he could not fathom how this woman could be so exasperating and attractive at the same time. One moment he wanted to kiss her quite speechless, the next he wanted to send her packing, back to wherever it was she was running from.

  “True, Dawson, but you can’t lie for shite, and you’re as stubborn as a mule.”

  She gasped, her ivory skin coloring red. Instead of pushing, Clara began to pull. “You have no right to address me like that.” She wiggled her hips, sticking her behind in the air. “And I have never lied—” She flew back as the crate slid open, the lid clutched tightly in her hand until it knocked against her head, and she landed with a thud.

  Bly wasn’t able to catch himself in time and tripped over the crate, the lid suddenly missing from his grip to steady him. He landed beside Clara, the breath knocked out of him on impact against the old wood floor.

  The room groaned around them both, its bones arthritic from years of disuse.

  He stood on his knees and grabbed the lid from her hands. Clara winced, shaking her head over the floor as cobwebs and dust floated down around the pair. Rain gathered against the window sashes, softly, then more loudly until the sky opened up and water began leaking from the cracked ceiling above.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Her breathing was even, her eyes still wide and staring up above. He swore no matter the light, no matter the dress, Clara was the most bewitching woman he’d ever set eyes on. Clara pushed up to her elbows, wiping away a cobweb fastened to her pale golden hair.

  A deep, throaty laugh escaped him as he watched, nerves hitting his stomach as if he had found himself in a boxing ring, not alone in a room with a woman.

  “I fail to see the humor.”

  Bly rose to his feet and stretched out his hand for hers, laughing until he caught a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. That would do. That small spark of hope that she could get more out of life than following her damn rules. Her hand slide into his, cold and shaking, and he pulled her upright.

  They stood silently as the rain echoed around in that decaying room, secrets of Bly’s life feet away, the secrets of this unknown woman much closer. He held her hand, his thumb swiping over a scar across her cold palm, before letting go. Clara stepped away with a small exhale, casting her eyes about the room as if she couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer.

  He grabbed a pile of aged papers and sank to the floor, disregarding her lofty nose. One day he would kiss that nose, then those lips, then that creamy neck of hers….

  No, he would not, he corrected himself. He was getting on a boat next week if he had any say. He was going to leave the ghosts of Burton Hall behind him in England once more. He had no business walking around the halls of this cursed place. He did not deserve what he had begun to build here.

  “Are you hurt?” he found himself asking as he quickly shuffled through the stack of documents, scanning the faded ink.

  Clara paused by the window, clutching onto the carved grandfather clock, nearly double her height. “No, but thank you.”

  He had lost her again. The small, faint voice of hers had returned, as did the frightened stiffness that set into her slim shoulders. Her grey eyes lost their green spark as the rain struck against the brittle glass, and softly, so softly he barely heard, she exhaled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was Bly’s experience that most women preferred to smell of roses or lavender—some feminine scent that was delicate and inoffensive to the senses. So why Clara preferred to smell like lemons was puzzling.

  The exotic, biting smell of citrus fit her, and certainly drew his notice. He liked to believe she preferred to smell of lemons because it was unique and called to mind places outside of dismal England, places she never dared to venture, but dreamt about. She did dream; he was quite certain of the fact by the way she hummed from time to time, believing she was free to her own company. The curve of her mouth, the softness that set into her eyes—it all spoke of a woman walking the earth in search of quiet freedom.

  He watched as she strolled through the darkened conservatory, her hands clasped behind her back, her hips swaying side to side in marked femininity. He longed to run his finger down the length of her neck and learn the softness of her skin.

  It became apparent to Bly that Clara Dawson was not simply agreeable, but beautiful. Surely, that was why she haunted him now, floating about gracefully, smelling like lemons. She was an angel fallen from heaven to tempt Bly.

  If he wasn’t cautious, she would trap him at the gates of Hell. Her honeyed humming was the siren’s song. Bly knew he was already drifting dangerously close to the rocky shore on his own accord, but there could be worse ways to die than at the hands of the beautiful woman in front of him.

  He took a step closer, and another still, unable to stop his pursuit. A week had passed since they had fumbled over that crate in the attic, and he still wasn’t on a damn boat. It had a lot to do with her hand fitting in his that afternoon, that smile of hers that briefly graced her face and made the rain outside disappear.

  As she reached to the high collar of her dress, he stilled. Clara slipped one button free. Then another. With each poised slip, he felt something within him unhinge and open toward her. Wanting her. Bly wanted to put his mouth at the base of her throat and run his tongue over her beating pulse. Would it falter under his touch or would she remain cold and distant?

  His lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle he carried, and he took another burning sip of the nastiest whiskey he had ever tasted. Two or three or five bottles today? Bly couldn’t remember. He was too young to have a love affair with the stuff lik
e his father, who last Bly heard, had died after one sip too many alone in India.

  Being back at Burton Hall, worse, in England, was dragging his soul into the depths and leaving him to drown, one painful day after the next. Soon, he would be submerged and there would be no more air. He would not fight, but sink to the bottom. That was the end he had been flirting with lately, wasn’t it? Bly wished for escape, but he’d settle for a bullet; anything to help him from spinning aimlessly across the world.

  Leaving would be his only salvation. There could be no happy end if he remained. He knew this, recognized the urgency of it in his bones, yet he still took another step and pulled away from the room’s shadows, in pursuit of something he did not deserve, but desired nonetheless.

  “Have you decided to make friends with Lucy?” he asked.

  Clara vaulted back, tugging at her opened collar as she swung around to meet his indolent grin.

  *

  “I think,” Clara said, closing her eyes to steady herself, “that Lucy is sleeping.”

  It was as if Mr. Ravensdale haunted the halls in search of her. One moment Clara had been daydreaming, wickedly unbuttoning her collar as her thoughts turned to his lips, and the next, he stood with her in the flesh. She should not allow herself to think such lewd thoughts. But she couldn’t help herself, either. Ever since last week when they fought over that crate, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her hand in his. Or how his ever-roaming body paused for her, stuck in some spell as they touched.

  He wore that taunting smile she hated, and she was quick to notice the open bottle clutched in his hand. The smell of whiskey that seeped from his skin.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, but still it felt like a caress.

  “Why aren’t you?” Her face heated from embarrassment as she fumbled with the remaining buttons of her collar. Or perhaps it was just the coal heat used to warm the glass conservatory attached to the grand home. She held her breath as his eyes seemed to darken. They called to her and her heart answered, beating faster and louder. When his hard stare continued, her skin tingled as if a cool breeze suddenly encircled her.

  This wouldn’t do.

  In an abrupt turn, Clara rushed to Lucy’s cage and listened to the great beast issuing forth large exhalations from behind bars. To think the animal had once stalked the jungles of India only to be caged up in England; well, it was quite sad really.

  “I don’t sleep often,” Mr. Ravensdale spoke out from behind her.

  She focused on the sleeping tiger, matching her exhales with Lucy’s until she had more control over herself. “Unfortunate.”

  A disgruntled harrumph rattled her curiosity. Clara peered over her shoulder. His tall body reclined against the bars of Lucy’s cage a few paces away from her. He ruffled his hair and sighed, opening his mouth to speak, but only raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of whiskey instead.

  It was then she noticed another smell about him, something sickly saccharine. It must have accounted for the weird light in his eyes, for he certainly seemed like a shell of the man who stormed about Burton Hall during the day. She had read about the hollowing effects of opium, of its rampant use and destruction of men in London. And here, before her eyes, she witnessed it lay claim on her employer, stifling his flame until it was but a wisp-thin smolder.

  “Have you tried to sleep?” she asked.

  “Have you?”

  “I needed a walk first.”

  “And I needed a drink,” he said with a weary laugh.

  “Just a drink?” she dared.

  His glazed-over eyes narrowed. “Clever girl.”

  Despite his irritating and often childish manner, Mr. Ravensdale was a kind man, which Clara had learned by watching his constant struggle to restore Burton Hall theses past weeks to help support his tenants, even if they were as cruel and nasty as the village. So to be confronted by this specter of her employer, of a man defeated and well into his cups, lodged a knot of dread in her throat.

  She swallowed it back and clasped her hands behind her, fighting a desperate want to touch him, to comfort him. She drifted across the flagstone path to the ailing orange tree. With a flick of a yellowed, withered leaf, she peered out from beneath and waited for some admission or taunt. He remained silent.

  His stare sent a warm rush of feelings through her body. She flashed a small smile and pulled away from the tree, walking further down the path of the conservatory. That would be best. That would be proper.

  “Who brings a bloody tiger to England?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through her collected curiosity.

  Clara stopped her retreat. She held her head high as she turned, casting her own studying stare. “I believe you did, sir.”

  The unknown between them—their own individual mysteries—poured out into the quiet conservatory, heating up the temperate air, filling up her lungs and head until her confessions waited on the edge of her lips. In that small moment, she wished to confess all her wrongs, to not be as lonely in this world as Mr. Ravensdale appeared this evening.

  “It’s killing her,” he whispered.

  In the filtered light of the conservatory, the muscles of his throat rippled with each swallow as he took another draining drink. With a few quick steps, she closed the distance propriety demanded, and traded it for the closeness they both needed.

  “No,” she answered simply.

  “You can’t lock a beast up and expect it to survive, Clara.”

  Her hand shot up to her throat at the mention of her name. “There are…” her words died away, his voice still caressing her ears. “There are zoos built for such purposes.”

  “A zoo,” he said with an ugly chuckle. “It’s a damn circus.” He tapped his fingers along the neck of the bottle until it sounded as if he would crush it beneath the strength of his hand.

  Clara reached out and stilled his hand with hers. He was burning to the touch, his pulse faint. He looked up from beneath hooded lids, strong emotion playing below the surface of his pensive eyes.

  “If a beast has the will to survive, it will find a way,” she whispered, matching his stare measure for measure.

  “Do you believe so?” Mr. Ravensdale removed his hand from hers, and pushed off from the bars of the cage to face her. The scent of whiskey clouded her head. She was drunk from his nearness. She tried to shake it off, but feared she was too late. He had already affected her.

  “Yes.” A thrill ripple down her spine as he placed his thumb at the base of her throat.

  “You’ve a freckle here,” he said, her heart drumming under his touch. He wrapped his fingers around the base of her throat, his middle finger tracing the line of her collarbone. Mr. Shaw had done the same, but this felt different, free of threat.

  He removed his gaze from her neck, meeting her anxious eyes. “How do you know I won’t bite?” he asked, uncurling his fingers. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of her dress collar to pull at the fine chain of her necklace beneath.

  “I trust you,” she whispered. Clara snapped her hand around his and squeezed, forcing his eyes back to hers. Oddly, she did.

  Clara reeled from his closeness as he walked his fingers up the line of her neck and reached for her chin, redirecting her averted gaze to his, moving the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She swayed into his touch, helpless.

  “You shouldn’t.” He leaned closer, the warmth of his body encircling hers with a dangerous sovereignty that melted her resolve. “You can’t trust the devil,” he whispered, his eyes focused on her lips. “You should get some sleep.” With that, he stepped away, pacing in front of Lucy’s cage.

  Clara nodded, slowly awakening from the spell he cast over her. “Good night,” she whispered.

  “Clever girl.”

  She gripped his bottle of whiskey in her hand and stood a little straighter as she exited the room.

  Clara did not feel clever. It would not do to stay behind when she was growing to like him
. She trusted him, however foolish that may be, but she did not entirely trust herself.

  *

  Last night had been a grave mistake. What had he been thinking nearly kissing Clara? He’d spent far more time dodging bullet fire and sabers in his life that made what almost transpired between them seem trivial.

  Forget the dangers he faced as a spy or the threat of those who sought out the thief of precious stately treasures—Clara Dawson would bring round his end with those lips of hers.

  Her supposed trust in him was misguided. There had been secrets in her eyes last night, secrets that still troubled in him in the light of a sunny afternoon the next day. His head throbbed from too much whiskey, his body stiff from falling asleep in the conservatory for a few hours before he was up at dawn to help Ned rebuild a garden wall. And his chest felt rather full, as though it might fracture from some unseen weight. He had a sneaking suspicion that was entirely Clara’s doing.

  “Come along, James.”

  The boy’s footsteps plodded behind in an attempt to catch up, but Bly had no patience to slow his pace. If he could get on a boat today, he would gladly board without so much as a farewell. Bly needed escape, needed to know he wouldn’t be stuck in a future that wasn’t his own making.

  A gleeful whoop hollered out behind him. Bly stopped and turned, glaring at the offender. Barnes carried a squirming James upside down, poking him ruthlessly in the stomach until the boy fell apart with laugher.

  “He’s just a little guy,” Barnes mocked, pulling a long face. “He’s doing his best to keep up.” Barnes righted James and gave the boy a firm pat on the shoulders. “Don’t mind your uncle, James. He’s just suffering under a painful affliction today.”

  Bly had tussled with Barnes before. He was still young and spoiled, as his title entitled him to be, but Bly had never had the urge to send a fist into Barnes’s face until now. Barnes might be a skilled assassin, but he had learned than half his skill from Bly. “Why is it you’re still here? Don’t you have an estate to see to? Family?”