He won the next hand, but then her luck turned quite remarkably. Carefully, hiding her expertise while shuffling, she handed them out ensuring that her movements were pedestrian.
She then went on to trounce him quite thoroughly in three consecutive hands.
‘Apparently, you are more skilled in this than I have given you credit for,’ he said.
‘I played sometimes with my father and my brother.’
‘Despite your mother’s disapproval.’
She dealt again, smiling as she felt his close scrutiny. Again she won.
‘You know,’ he said as she rounded up the cards once more, ‘I usually prefer my hand dealt from the top of the deck and not the bottom.’
She gave a happy chortle, shuffling with the expert movement of the hands that her father had taught her. ‘You caught me. When we played we used to see if we could gull the other. It was half the fun.’
He laughed. ‘Now that is something I didn’t expect. Your father certainly sounds unusual.’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, her expression gentling. ‘Wonderfully so. I was lucky. My father spent a lot of time with us.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My father and my brother were very close.’
She glanced at him, shuffling the cards again. She wondering if he had had a similar intimacy, but something in his hard expression made her hold her tongue.
‘Anyway, Ramsey was quite dreadful at cards. I think that was why Father made him play. He said that he would be rich one day and, therefore, he needed to know every card trick in the book in order to ensure he was not fodder for a trickster.’
Tony pulled a face. ‘I might have benefitted from such instruction. I am afraid I had to learn the hard way.’
‘You lost money?’
‘Some. Edgar would bail me out, which saved me from a good many lectures.’
‘My mother was the lecturer.’
They played a few more hands, but Letty soon found herself almost nodding off. It was likely the good food and wine.
‘I am afraid I will have to say goodnight. I am somewhat sleepy,’ she said, standing.
‘Roadside rescues are apt to prove tiring.’
He rang for Dobson and for a moment they both stood by the fire. There was a stillness, a magic to the moment. She glanced up, again acutely aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the strong firm line of cheek and jaw.
She had the odd feeling that she would remember this moment: the soft firelight, the shelves filled with their books, the man.
He must have been watching her gaze as she looked towards the books. He again gave that slightly lopsided smile. ‘If you would like to borrow a book for the night, please help yourself?’
‘Really?’
‘Indeed, I even have the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, if you are interested.’
She had it at home, but had not yet had time to read the most recent copy and positively itched to do so. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ Again, she felt touched that he had remembered the peculiarities of her taste in reading. Most others would have scoffed or have forgotten.
He went to the shelf, pulling forward the volume. He handed it to her. Their hands touched and she felt that peculiar sensation of energy and awareness. The moment again stilled, broken only by the fire’s crackle and the rhythmic tick of the clock.
For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be honest—to tell him about the powdered wig, Guy’s anatomy lab, the illegal dissections—
Just then Dobson opened the door. Letty jumped back. Heat washed into her face. She pressed her lips together as though the words might yet tumble out. It was illogical. She could not breathe a word of any of that to Lord Anthony or anyone—
‘If you could show Miss Barton to her room and ensure that a maid is sent up, as well,’ Tony said in his clear, crisp authoritarian tones.
‘Yes, sir.’
She went to the door.
‘And make sure that Miss Barton has adequate light,’ Lord Anthony said. ‘I know she likes to read.’
Chapter Six
The cannons thundered. He heard the whistle, that eerie sound, like wind blowing about the eaves, but higher and more shrill. The mud sucked at his feet, so heavy he could not move as the slick clay both anchored his limbs and paralysed his body.
Why was it so dark? It must still be daylight. The battle had started at dawn. How much time had passed? Hours? Minutes? Infinity? Everything was black and wet. He heard the shouts of men. He heard their screams as he stumbled to the ground, groping with his hands, wiping the sweat or mud or blood from his eyes.
‘George! Edgar!’
He had to find them. Or George, at least. Edgar was fighting on the left flank. He’d promised Elsie he would look after George. He’d promised Elsie he’d bring him home. Except he couldn’t move. He couldn’t see.
‘George!’
Something...someone gripped him. He felt fingers tight about his arms. He struggled, pushing against the restraints. George! He had to find—
‘Lord Anthony! Tony, wake up. Stop! You’re having a nightmare.’
The voice was female and came as though from a great distance, echoing down a long tunnel. His eyes were closed. He wanted to open them. He wanted to break free of the dream, but he could not. His lids felt huge and weighted.
‘Tony, you are just having a dream. You are safe.’
At last, he jolted awake. Shudders still ran through his body. Goosebumps prickled his arms even as he felt the clamminess of his sweat-soaked linen. The feeling was familiar. The nightmare was familiar—his nightly reality.
Except tonight, something was different. He stared. For a moment, he could make little sense of the shadowed shapes of his room or the figure leaning so close to him. His hands rose, instinctively wanting to fend off attack, and then dropped. It was a woman. She held a candle. The flickering flame lit up her face. Huge eyes stared down at him, dark brows furrowed in concern. She smelled of flowers. Wisps of hair sprang loose, falling forward.
Reality thudded back. ‘Miss Barton? What are you doing in my bedchamber?’
‘Determining if you required assistance or medical intervention,’ she said.
‘You usually go into the bedchambers of men?’
‘Only when they are screeching the house down and might require assistance.’
‘I was not—I was merely having a bad dream,’ he said.
She placed the candle down on the side table and poured something into a glass. ‘Drink this.’
‘What is it?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Hemlock! Water, of course.’
He sipped. The cool fluid anchored him into the present, pushing away the shadows. He exhaled, silently readjusting to the calmness of his room, the silver slip of the moon just visible through a crack in the curtaining, the peaceful, melodious ticking of the mantel clock.
‘You should leave. You will ruin your reputation,’ he said.
‘Fiddlesticks. I have independent means and no desire to marry.’
She stood, and went to the towel stand. She wore a gown of fine linen. It was quite simple, but hung attractively, draping her bosom. She poured water into the bowl, placing the cloth into it. Then she wrung out the cloth with a musical trickle of water droplets. The sounds of the water and the rustle of her movements soothed. Her movements were not graceful, but capable and oddly calming.
Gradually, his panic eased, his breath becoming more even as his muscles relaxed, the throbbing in his head lessening.
‘Here.’ She sat on the chair close to the bed, and touched his brow with the cool, damp cloth. It felt good. That sense of peace grew.
Gently, she wiped away his sweat.
They were silent for several moments. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘But really you should leave.’
She r
eturned to the bowl, rinsing out the cloth and replacing it on the towel stand. The gown must be borrowed. It was a little short and fit loosely so that he could see her ankles and the curve of her calf.
‘Do you have bad dreams often?’ she asked.
‘No more than anyone,’ he lied.
‘I have never before been awoken by my host or hostess making noise in their beds.’
‘Then your life has been most sheltered.’
She bit her lip, obviously understanding his meaning as colour flickered into her cheeks.
She sat back on the chair beside the bed. She pressed her lips together, looking at him in that quizzical way, her composure again regained. ‘I find your humour reassuring, but also intended to divert.’
‘Indeed.’ He sat up in the bed. His chest was quite bare as he did not sleep in a nightshirt. The cloth irritated his scar.
He’d thought either his naked chest or injuries would frighten her away. They did not. Her gaze flickered across his torso and then away.
‘Has the frequency or intensity increased since you returned from the war?’ she asked.
‘No.’
He wished she would go. He was too aware of their isolation, too aware of their proximity and the way her borrowed nightgown gaped, the quickness of her breath and the sheen of moisture on her lips.
‘Do you ever hear a whistling sound?’
He startled. She was psychic now? ‘What? Why?’
‘I read of something called vent du boulet. I believe it was identified during the French Revolution. Sometimes soldiers are impacted by the sound even when physically unscathed. I think Goethe also wrote about it.’
Good gracious, the woman was a walking medical text book. He frowned with rising irritation. He was thinking about her lips while she studied him like a bloody specimen.
‘Of course you have,’ he muttered.
‘Did you know that the philosopher Pascal almost drowned in the Seine.’
‘Must we play Twenty Questions in the middle of the night?’
‘This is only one question, easily answered,’ she said.
‘No. Might I benefit from his acquaintance?’
‘I do not think that is possible as he is dead.’
‘My condolences to his family.
‘There is anecdotal information that people who have been at war or suffered some other catastrophe have more nightmares and feel more apprehensive than is typical. That is what happened to Pascal, you see, and his personality was quite changed.
Apprehensive?
Is that what this woman thought he felt? He did not feel apprehensive. This was not apprehension, but fear, panic, anger, despair, hopelessness. His good hand balled the sheet so tightly that his fingers hurt, his muscles cramping.
And now he wanted only solitude. He did not want her analysis. He did not want her scientific theories. He was a man, not a specimen—certainly not her specimen.
‘Fascinating,’ he drawled. ‘However, might I suggest that we discuss this at a time which will not risk your good name and reputation?’
‘I think you might have much in common.’
‘I am not a philosopher, nor French, nor dead for that matter.’
‘Your personality is changed—’
‘You based this on our one brief conversation during a ball?’
‘Yes. As well, your sister reports your personality is changed and you have experienced a traumatic event,’ Miss Barton persisted, in those strong, clinical tones.
Anger, fierce and sudden, pushed through his numbness and calm control. Despite the lingering pain, he was up from his bed. He cared nothing for his scars. He cared nothing that he wore only loose pantaloons and that his chest was bare. Every muscle had tautened. His shoulders hunched and his hands balled.
‘You—do—not—know—me.’ He ground out the words, almost barking each syllable.
She stood. For once, she seemed unsure. He heard her swallow. Her green eyes widened. Her breath quickened as her mouth dropped slightly open.
It pleased him to see her rattled, to see cracks appear within that calm façade.
The nightgown revealed the creamy skin of her chest and the occasional freckle. He stepped forward. She was a tall woman, but even so her head was only at the level of his chin. Her hair had been pulled back into a single, short plait, but loose tendrils curled at the neck and framed her face.
Even in the half-light, he saw colour rise into her cheeks. Her lips parted. The silvery gleam of the moonlight made fascinating shadows so that her long eyelashes formed shadowy fans against her cheeks.
Without conscious thought, he touched the smooth line of her jaw, tilting her chin up. He saw her eyes widen and heard that quick exhalation of breath as he leaned into her, touching her lips with his own.
Tony hadn’t ‘felt’ anything for months.
But he felt now. The onslaught of emotion was huge like water from a dam breaking during spring flooding. It was tumultuous, overwhelming. His kiss deepened, his tongue teasing at her soft lips.
He felt her startle. Her fingers rose to his shoulders, perhaps initially to push him away, but instead instinctively gripping his shoulders. Then, more wonderfully, her mouth opened under his own. Her body had stiffened, but then arched sinuously into him so that he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fine linen of her nightgown against his bare torso.
Thought and reason ceased, swamped in a wild, driving, growing need. The emotion that he had not felt poured into him, drummed through him, making his pulse throb and his heart pound. Nothing mattered, nothing existed, save for the touch of her lips, that instinctive bending of her body into him, the soft swell of her breasts against his chest and the eager press of her fingers on his shoulders and winding into his hair.
He pulled her even closer. His hands spanned her back, feeling the curve of her waist. He inhaled the slightly soapy scent of her. His fingers slid up her spine. He touched the soft skin at the nape of her neck and the silky strands of hair not captured in the plait. He loved the feel of her; the warmth of her and her humanness. The connection was sexual, but also about the physical connection of being human and alive.
He felt...alive.
For the first time in for ever, he felt alive.
His fingers moved, exploring her curves as he slid down the length of her spine and felt the curve of her buttocks. He heard her quick gasp, felt her startle and then yield at his touch. Instinctively, she pressed against him and he heard her soft, muted groan.
That moan, her eager unschooled fingers tracing his shoulders and arms and the needy arch of her body against his own fuelled him. He pulled on the silky ribbons at the neckline of her gown. He tugged roughly, the delay intolerable. The strings released. The gown fell loose. He pushed it past the soft smooth skin of her shoulder, exposing one breast.
He stepped forward, inching her backwards until the back of her legs touched the side of the bed.
He pressed kisses along her collarbone, conscious of the quick rapid beat of her pulse. His hand touched her breast. He felt the nipple’s pucker and her gasp as she half-tumbled on to the bed. Her hair had loosened from the plait and now haloed about her head in a wash of brilliant red. The cloth of her nightgown had fallen to her waist, revealing soft, creamy alabaster skin.
Her arms reached for him.
He lay beside her and raised himself over her. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her breasts—
It was his wound which brought him to his senses. It was his wound that jerked him back to reality with a stab of pain, twisting through his ribcage just where the bullet had lodged.
He froze.
The air chilled against his heated skin.
He heard her muted moan of protest, her hand instinctively reaching for him, her body pushing against his own. Dazedly, he realised he was spr
awling on top of this beautiful, young, wide-eyed innocent—his sister’s guest.
In the moonlight, he saw his hand, scarred and deformed.
He rolled off her and pulled himself upright. He heard his own ragged breaths and her own, mingled with the quickened beat of his heart.
‘I apologise,’ he managed to gasp.
For a long second she did not move.
‘For God’s sake, cover yourself,’ he said.
His harsh words energised her. She stood, pulling her nightgown over her shoulders, clasping the cloth and silk ties at her neck. Her hair was wild and tousled. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red and swollen from his kisses.
‘I—I—didn’t know. I didn’t know I could feel like that,’ she said, with eyes that made him want to forget about his honour or that he no longer had the physique that was pleasing to the female eye.
‘Go. For God’s sake, go,’ he said.
She stepped towards the door. For a moment she paused, silhouetted against the curtains and the shimmering grey light of the new dawn.
‘Try...try not to shout the house down again,’ she said. ‘And in the event that you cannot sleep, read Goethe. I believe he writes about his wartime experience.’
He glared. He had lived, was living with his wartime experience. He had no desire to read some philosophic treatise about it.
‘I will keep that in mind,’ he said, although obliteration through sleep or brandy seemed a more preferable solution.
* * *
Letty stood within the entrance of her bedchamber, staring at the simple furnishings as she might a foreign landscape. Her breath came quickly. Her cheeks felt hot as though on fire. Feelings and sensations entirely foreign to her flooded her body and mind. She had wanted...she still wanted...
She crossed the bedchamber to the window and lay her forehead against the cool comfort of the pane. She took deep, gulping breaths as though starved of oxygen. She tried to focus on the immediate present: the feel of the sill under her hand, the cold wooden floor on her bare feet, the chill glass against her forehead and the rasping intake of her breath.
It didn’t work. All she could feel was the memory of his kisses and the welcome invasion of his tongue. She remembered the hard, angular, muscled strength of his body and the sizzling heat which had darted like fire sparks within her. And she recalled her need, her compulsion to arch against him, to seemingly meld herself with him and to feel, without embarrassment but rather a great joy, the evidence of his need for her.
A Debutante in Disguise Page 11