by Diana Davis
“Oh, has he gout as well?”
She smirked at him. Well, on another person it might be called a smirk. Temperance still managed to make a simpering smile beautiful.
He was an utter fool.
Temperance leaned closer to whisper to him. “Now, what we need to do is position ourselves where Godfrey cannot help but see us, and then you will laugh as if I just said the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.”
“Temperance —”
“Please, Owen.” She stared up at him, her green eyes plaintive, and once again he was reminded of another time she’d looked at him that way.
It had not ended well for him that time, either, but he was still willing to risk far more than another broken bone if it would make her happy. He sighed his assent and followed her through the crowd, trying to somehow appear he was pursuing her for an entirely different reason.
She held up a hand to stop him and pointed out her quarry by fireplace. Owen followed her line of sight, then followed Temperance herself as she brought them close enough to talk to Godfrey.
She crooked a finger at Owen and he leaned down so she could speak in his ear. When he leaned in, she placed a hand on his arm. “Whisper something to me,” she said.
He covered her hand with his and tamped down all other thoughts but the most obvious. “Do you really think this is going to work?”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Owen, you are a wit!” She touched Godfrey’s elbow. “What do you think, Mr. Sibbald?”
Godfrey turned to them, and Owen suppressed a shudder. “What was that?” he asked.
“My friend here contends that Dame Fortune knocks upon every door.”
“Not so,” Owen countered. “What I said was that I have only ever been visited by her daughter, Miss Fortune.”
Temperance whipped back to look at him, real mirth in her gaze in spite of herself. Even Godfrey giggled.
Indeed, the grown man giggled.
“Well,” Temperance said. “I suppose I should go to Mr. Sibbald should I ever need help then, dear.”
“Indeed you should,” Owen returned. “A lawyer’s help is always very dear.”
The delight on Temperance’s face snuck past his defenses for a moment, but she spoke to Godfrey. “Do you know Mr. Randolph?” she asked him.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“Oh, but you have,” Temperance insisted. “Last week, at the same party where we met.”
“I think I would remember,” Godfrey insisted.
“How unfortunate.” Owen could not express how little he wanted to be remembered by Death Incarnate. Surely he’d done his duty to Temperance now and she didn’t have to torment him any longer. That sad part of him only wanted to spend more time with her, make her laugh again, make her forget skeletal Sibbald.
And then Godfrey turned away to dance with another woman. Temperance set her jaw. She stood there with her arm still lingering on Owen’s through the entire dance. As the music died out, she pulled Owen’s arm around her waist.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Take me out.”
Honestly, he wanted to get this torture over with, but he had a sense if he forcibly marched her out, it wouldn’t achieve the desired effect and he’d end up roped into more of this heart-shredding charade. So he smiled down at her and ambled toward the doors. He couldn’t miss the way she leaned across him to catch Godfrey’s eye. If she’d ever once given Owen the same alluring, enticing expression, he’d have had no hope of recovering.
And then she looked up at him. His breath caught in his chest. He knew better than to believe it, but for all the world it appeared Temperance Hayes wanted him for three entire seconds.
Like a fool, he relished every single one.
They reached the landing outside the long room. “You played your part ever so well, dear!” Temperance whispered, pulling away.
His arms felt emptier than ever — but nothing compared to the hollow in his chest.
“Come.” She took his hand and tugged him up the stairs. What was she trying to imply?
She released him when they reached the next landing, already dimmer than the floor below. She climbed two more stairs and leaned over the bannister. “Let’s watch and see what he does.”
After the look she’d just given him, he had had enough of this game. That was all this was to her. In two strides, Owen caught up to her at the foot of the next set of stairs. He took her elbow. “I will thank you not to toy with —”
He pulled her around to face him, throwing her balance off. She pitched forward and he caught her against him before she could fall farther. One hand landed on his chest.
He held her close, warm and soft in his arms. Temperance slowly raised her gaze to meet his.
Was it his imagination, or was she drawing closer?
Her hand slid up his chest, and that was definitely not his imagination. Her fingertips grazed his neck.
He didn’t dare move or breathe or speak. If he said anything, if he moved at all, his lips would be upon hers.
For an eternity, they stood as still as stone.
A burst of laughter overflowed from the room below them. Partygoers tumbled out of the doors and down the stairs, and then Temperance was gone too. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. By the time he turned, she had disappeared into the long room again, and he was alone, a faint cinnamon scent the only evidence she’d ever been there.
He sank onto the stairs and hung his head. No matter how he’d tried to ignore that sad voice inside, the instant Temperance Hayes wanted anything — everything — from him, he’d bowed to her every whim.
Even now, all he wanted was for her to come back and finish what she’d started.
Someone descended the stairs to settle next to him. Owen barely dared check, and he was scarcely surprised to find Beaufort next to him, reclining over several steps like he was featured in some Renaissance painting.
“Randolph, do you know what just happened to me?”
He barely managed to bite back the response that he hardly cared before Beaufort continued. “A few moments ago, I was accosted and dragged up here in the most lascivious manner.”
Owen had a hard time believing any woman at the reception would do such a thing to a married man until Mrs. Beaufort edged between them down the stairs. “I didn’t hear any objections from you,” she said as she passed. “Are you complaining or boasting?”
“Boasting, obviously.”
On the landing, she turned to Owen. “Methought the gentleman didst protest too much.”
“I beg your pardon,” Beaufort continued, feigning injury. “I’m trying to complain about being interrupted by those revelers.”
Mrs. Beaufort fixed him with a sardonic expression. Beaufort held out a hand and she took it. He sat up to press a kiss to her fingers, but when he tried to tug her down to join him, Mrs. Beaufort withdrew. “Would you like anything to drink, Mr. Randolph?” she offered.
“Whatever’s strongest,” he muttered. He ignored the significant look that passed between the Beauforts.
As soon as Mrs. Beaufort was gone, Owen cut to the chase. “You saw that, did you?”
Beaufort leaned back across the stairs again. “Saw enough to wonder if you should be speaking with Josiah instead of me.”
Owen laughed without humor. “No need for that. Temperance Hayes was born for money.” Bitterness laced his words, but he didn’t care.
“Ah.”
“What, no sage advice? No meetings to fix this? No money to throw at the problem?”
“Sorry, did you want me to pay Temperance to marry you?”
Owen shook his head. It wouldn’t be enough — and besides, if he really wanted to, it wouldn’t be that hard to pull some dishonorable trick to force Temperance into a marriage.
He would never do such a thing. He couldn’t do that to anyone, but especially not Temperance, for the same reaso
n he hadn’t kissed her when he’d had the chance. He wanted Temperance to choose him.
He wanted the impossible.
“I’m sorry,” Beaufort said softly. “I do wish I could help.”
“Why?”
Beaufort tilted his head curiously. “Beg pardon?”
“Why do you want to help me? Why give me this coat? Introduce me to Sibbald? Take me on the hunt?”
“I like you. You’re honest, a good person.”
Owen remembered how reckless he’d felt less than an hour ago. Now he only felt wrecked. The result was the same: speaking his mind. “Not simply another project to proselyte to your Patriot cause?”
“No. Do you know, when I arrived in Philadelphia, I didn’t even know what party my family had belonged to?”
That was scarcely imaginable, Beaufort was such an ardent Whig now. Beaufort looked away. “Naturally, I’d be happy to have you join us. We need men of intelligence.”
“That’s obviously not me.” He threw a gesture toward the reception room below them to indicate . . . everything Beaufort had witnessed.
“Love makes us all fools. Case in point: I let Cassandra drag me up here. Very willingly.”
Sneaking away to kiss one’s wife at a party hardly seemed foolish.
“Randolph?” Beaufort ventured. “You deserve to be treated better.”
“That’s unlikely to happen.” He’d been treated the best he had in years — decades — these last two weeks. By everyone except Temperance.
Owen closed his eyes and willed away the memory of Temperance in his arms, her hand on his chest, her lips a fraction of an inch from his.
If he ever hoped to have her — to keep — he needed more clients like Sibbald. And more hours in the day, but first things first.
He turned to Beaufort. “When does the hunting club meet next?”
“Saturday.”
“Can you teach me to jump a fence?”
Temperance removed her red cloak as soon as she stepped into her home. Two weeks had passed since that second disastrous party, and still no word from Godfrey Sibbald.
“There’s a letter for you!” Verity called from the drawing room writing table. Scribbling away at her theatricals again. She’d gotten that from Constance, who’d moved on to epic poetry. “I believe Mama has it. It looked ever so fine! Such penmanship!”
Temperance didn’t dare get her hopes up that it might be from Godfrey. “You didn’t see who it was from?”
“No, I’m sorry. Mama is in bed now.”
Probably best not to disturb her, then. She’d been improving for the last two weeks, but she always seemed to ebb and flow. Temperance climbed the stairs, and Constance met her coming down. “Tippy!” Constance gushed. “A letter came for you!”
“So I’ve heard. With elegant penmanship.”
“Yes, very.”
“How is Mama?”
Constance glanced over her shoulder. “She’s asleep. I think she’s well, though, simply tired.”
Constance turned and accompanied Temperance up to their room, and they sat upon the bed as they always did after a morning returning calls. “How were your visits?” Constance asked.
She briefly recounted her visits with Euphemia, Amity, and Jane — who announced her engagement to Dr. Adam Drinker, to both Temperance’s and now Constance’s utter shock. That was a wonder.
“Who did you call upon?” Temperance asked.
“Well, first I went to see Papa at his office.”
Temperance rolled her eyes heavenward. “And the clerks asked after Patience.”
“They were very excited to see her.”
“She went with you? Where is she now?”
“She stayed to help with a case.”
Ah. Patience was always the bright one.
“And,” Constance drew the word out. “Mr. Randolph asked after you.”
“Mister — Owen?”
Constance nodded. Had she been so little when they left that she didn’t call him by his given name?
“I’m sorry, you said Owen asked after me?”
“Yes, and he seemed most . . .” She paused, her lips pressed together in deep thought. Or perhaps not; Constance did have a tendency toward wool gathering. “Most concerned,” she finally finished. “Or, no, solicitous. Yes, that is the right word.”
What did Owen have to be concerned about?
Yes, the last time she’d seen him it was fleeing from his embrace, but that was nothing. That was an aberration. An accident. He’d thrown her off balance and she’d gotten caught up in the moment.
Anyone would have made the same mistake. She had known him too long to see him as anything more than a friend, but if she had to be objective, she would have to say he was dashingly handsome. The most handsome man she’d ever been in that close of quarters with. So it was only understandable that she might forget herself in a moment like that.
Fortunately she hadn’t completely taken leave of her senses and done something she couldn’t undo. Even if every part of her had screamed for her to close that last hair’s breadth.
That would have been very unwise. She’d asked him to introduce her to Godfrey for a reason, after all.
“Was Owen well?” Temperance asked. Surely he was merely caught up in the moment as well.
“Other than being worried for you, I think so. Did you know one of his sisters is Elizabeth’s nursemaid now?”
“Oh, that’s lovely for them.” Temperance tried to ignore the stone in her heart at the mention of Lord David’s family. She believed Winthrop’s driver, but something inside her would not let her forgive Lord David. All of them.
“She’s Mercy’s age. It’s a wonder they haven’t met before.”
“Philadelphia is a big city,” Temperance demurred. Why did she not want to admit that Owen and his sisters weren’t part of their set?
Their parents’ door opened, and Temperance hopped up. “I want to go see about that letter,” she said. “Did you wish to tell me anything more?”
“Only that you might be interested David is back from Virginia.”
Had he gone there? She’d never heard of him venturing south before. “What business did he have there?”
“Freeing a slave, apparently.”
He was following through on that? Even more guilt heaped upon the stone in her heart, calcifying it further. “Good for him,” she managed.
“Well, no, he was unsuccessful.”
Temperance’s heart fell. Much as she liked to see Lord David thwarted, she knew failing to free one person in this case was actually a failure to free an entire family. She might not know how to feel about the man, but she didn’t want other people to suffer because of him.
But she didn’t have to concern herself with that now. She hurried from the room to find Mama.
“Good afternoon, Mama!” she called, catching up to her mother in the drawing room. “How do you feel?”
“Not my best, but not my worst. I have a letter for you.” Mama dug into her deep pocket.
Temperance tried not to bounce on her toes. It was probably just Euphemia prattling on about the same gossip she’d shared this morning, but Temperance couldn’t help but hope this was from Winthrop.
No, no, Godfrey. No more letters could ever come from Winthrop.
Mama produced the letter, and Temperance had to agree with her sisters: the handwriting on the front was excessively elegant. She flipped it over. The wax seal bore a stately S.
Temperance broke the seal, and her eyes jumped to the bottom of the page. In perfectly formed letters was signed Godfrey Sibbald.
He had written her. Owen helping her flirt had worked.
She had to tell Owen — no, she had better read the letter first. It was filled with the usual platitudes and greetings, asking after everyone’s health, although Godfrey had only met one or two of her sisters at the parties.
And then the best part
: he invited her to dinner with guests in three days’ time.
Her plan was working, each move building on the last. She couldn’t be certain of anything yet, but it certainly seemed as though she would be secure and settled soon enough, in a position to take care of her family and help others as she’d always wanted.
“Good news?” Mama asked.
“He wants me to dine with him on Monday.” Temperance kissed her mother on the cheek and ran back to their room to tell Constance.
But Constance wasn’t in their room any longer. Patience sat on her bed, concern lined through her forehead.
“Is something the matter?” Temperance asked.
“Perhaps.” Patience examined her fingernails. “I was at Papa’s office today.”
“Constance told me.” Was this about Lord David? Could they not forget the man for a few days?
Patience finally looked up. Whatever was troubling her was important. Grave, perhaps.
Temperance lowered herself to her own bed across from Patience. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s about Owen Randolph.”
Temperance turned as if she could ask Constance. Constance, who had just told her Owen was well enough to be asking after her. “What about him?”
“Do you know he’s a very good person?”
“I’m the last person who needs to be informed of that, though everyone has done so recently, several times.” She knew better than anyone what a good person Owen Randolph was, the kind of sacrifices he would make for a friend —
“He is,” Patience said. “He’s not a bad lawyer either.”
That didn’t sound like much, but Temperance knew it was high praise from a scholar of Patience’s caliber.
“Is something the matter with Owen?”
Patience focused on her hands again.
This was maddening. Was something wrong with Owen? Temperance grabbed her sister’s fingers and leaned down to meet Patience’s gaze where it had fallen. “Is Owen unwell?”
“No. Though I think he’s working much too hard.”
She squeezed her sister’s hands. “Don’t frighten me like that.”
“Temperance, Owen Randolph is — he —”
Temperance tilted her head to the side. What on earth was she trying to say? “Have you set your cap at him? Would you like my help?”