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by Steffanie Holmes

  “Perfect. We can talk more at the ball.”

  Christina beamed. “I’d like that very—”

  “Thank you, but Christine has a full weekend already,” Professor Hathaway touched his daughter’s hand. “Please escort me back to my room, dear. I don’t wish to derail the dance practice with my presence. When the ladies see me on the dance floor, they tend to go a bit silly.”

  Christina rearranged her face into a placid expression. “Of course, Father. Please, excuse us.” He took her arm, leaning into her to whisper something in her ear, and they ascended the staircase.

  Heathcliff stared after them. “That scoundrel.”

  “Who?”

  “Hindley,” he whispered. His body shuddered with rage.

  “What do you mean?” Hindley was the brother of Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff’s sworn enemy in his book, but I didn’t know why his name came up now.

  “Watch her walk away,” Heathcliff said through gritted teeth. “See how her body stiffens at his touch? See how she shrinks away as he leans close?”

  I followed his gaze to Christina and Professor Hathaway as they ascended the staircase, squinting as I tried to follow her movements. My shrinking peripheral vision limited what I could see, but I thought I saw her step outward in order to place another inch of space between her arm and his.

  “I think I see what you mean,” I whispered. “But I don’t understand what it has to do with Hindley.”

  “He does not see her,” Heathcliff whispered, his voice tight. “He only sees what he wants to see. The pain he causes because of his own misery will break her, too.”

  I cast my mind back to Wuthering Heights, to Heathcliff’s hatred for the man who terrorized him, how it was that hatred, combined with the pain of Cathy’s death, that trapped Heathcliff in his destructive pattern. He was saying that Christina was trapped by her father’s Regency ideals, and I had to agree.

  A shudder rocked through Heathcliff’s body. A line of sweat streaked across his brow. A thunderstorm raged inside his eyes as he stared ahead at the spot where Hathaway and Christina had been.

  I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Oi, come back to me. That wasn’t Hindley.”

  Heathcliff blinked. “What?”

  “You went somewhere else for a moment. I think you believed Christina’s father was Hindley.”

  Heathcliff ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Yes. I did. His manner to his daughter… the way he sought to control her… I’m back now. I think it’s all these costumes, all this grandeur. It’s doing my head in.”

  “Come on,” I grabbed Heathcliff by the hand. “No more thinking of Hindley. We’ve not at Wuthering Heights now. This is Jane Austen, where all can be forgiven with a ball and a marriage proposal. If we’re to attend the dance tomorrow, you’re going to need to know all the moves.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Ow,” Heathcliff muttered as I trod on his foot again.

  “You don’t have to say that every time I stand on you,” I muttered as Heathcliff and I crossed places. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  “You’re not the one whose shins are being battered around by steel-capped toes,” Heathcliff growled as he turned around the man behind him. I turned too, only I got the direction wrong, and ended up spinning right into a woman’s shoulder. “At least now we know why women wore those dainty slippers. It’s so they didn’t hobble the men in the room.”

  “You’re such a twat.” I stretched out my hand to meet him again in the middle. “Shut up and spin me.”

  As I ducked under Heathcliff’s arm in an awkward circle, Morrie and Lydia glided past us, lifting their arms as they crossed over to swap partners. At least someone’s having no trouble at all learning the moves. I glowered at them both as I swung around Heathcliff and stood on his foot again. It didn’t surprise me – Morrie had to control every aspect of his life, so of course he’d have a perfect sense of rhythm and grace.

  As he turned back to the set, Morrie’s eyes met mine. What I saw there startled me. He looked frightened.

  Weird. Fear was not an emotion on Morrie’s radar. Even when he’d leaped out at Darren as he tried to stab me, his eyes blazed with a kind of brutal intensity. Morrie knew exactly what he was doing at every moment. He had a solution for everything. He never had a reason to feel fear.

  What about this dance has him so on-edge? My mind flashed back to the letter Morrie received earlier this week, the letter that he refused to explain to anyone. It can’t have anything to do with this ball, can it?

  Still thinking about Morrie, I lost my step and crashed into David.

  “Yeooow!” David winced, breaking his Regency cool to grab his injured foot, which was encased only in a buckled fabric shoe. He’d finally given up hope of anyone attending his numismatics lecture and joined the dancing fifteen minutes ago, a decision he was probably right this moment regretting as he hobbled across the dance floor. He knocked into Cynthia, sending her sprawling into a waiter, who knocked a tray of glasses.

  “I’m sorry!” I bent down to help Cynthia to her feet.

  “Thank you, Mina.” Cynthia dusted off her muslin gown. “My, this dancing is harder than I imagined.”

  “You were supposed to go under,” Heathcliff smirked at me. “Not go down and take everyone in the room with you.”

  “I’ll do it better next time,” I grumbled, watching Morrie and Lydia spinning away. I couldn’t see his face.

  “No, you won’t. We’re getting off this dance floor before you put someone’s eye out.” Heathcliff took me under the arm and dragged me off. Behind me, the dancers applauded.

  Ingrates.

  I dragged Heathcliff toward the front of the room, where Morrie and Lydia were still dancing the set. “It turns out that Regency dancing is much more complicated than moshing to punk music.” I glowered at Morrie as he spun Lydia around in perfect time. Morrie glanced up at me. His body stiffened. Although he didn’t step out of time, his focus wavered for a moment, and his perfect features crumpled back into a look of such despair that sent a chill down my spine.

  Why is he looking at me like that, as though I’ve just stomped on his pet puppy? It can’t be that he’s finally realized his behavior has been upsetting me – this is Morrie we’re talking about. He wouldn’t care. So what’s wrong?

  Heathcliff’s foot came down on my boot. “What are you staring at?”

  “Morrie. Something’s up with him.”

  Heathcliff peered at our friend as he and Lydia switched places. As he skipped past her, he pinched her bum. She squealed in delight and chased after Morrie to get him back, causing two dancers to lose their time and crash into each other. “True. He’s a bigger wanker than usual.”

  “That’s not it.” I squinted at Morrie as he came around to do the twirl and swap again. His eyes fell on mine. He plastered his usual sublime grin on his face, but too late – I’d seen the darkness lurking there. “I mean, you’re right. He’s been a massive wanker lately, but I think something else is going on. There was that weird letter he got the other day, and some things he’s said and done.”

  Like the way he ran away from me after that threesome—

  At the thought of that night – of being sandwiched between Morrie and Quoth while they did delicious things to my body, of surrendering my senses to dwell in the dark places beneath their hands and lips – a delicious shiver ran through my body. By Aphrodite, not now. I’m trying to figure out Morrie, not relive one of the hottest moments of my entire life so that I become a puddle of mush on the ballroom floor—

  “From MENSA,” Heathcliff cut into my memories.

  “What?”

  “I saw the envelope in the rubbish bin,” Heathcliff shrugged. “It was from some organization called MENSA. I assumed Morrie was blackmailing them.”

  MENSA? I wasn’t surprised that Morrie was a member. He liked people to know exactly how clever he was. But I was surprised that he kept the letter secret. Morrie
wouldn’t waste a moment telling everyone in Argleton that he’d been accepted into MENSA. So then why did he hide the letter? And what does it have to do with the weird way he’d been acting?

  “What if he took an IQ test, and he failed.” My mind whirred. Yes, it could explain why Morrie was so snappy, especially when one of us implied he didn’t have the answer to something. “Maybe he’s worried he’s not as clever as he thinks he is, and he’s taking it out on us?”

  “But this weirdness started well before that letter arrived,” Heathcliff pointed out.

  “True. Do you think he—”

  “Do you want a drink?” Heathcliff growled in my ear.

  “Hell yes.”

  He gripped my hand and dragged me off the dance floor. Cynthia yelled after us to come back and dance in the next set, but my shins hurt so much I no longer cared. Heathcliff tugged me into the Uppercross antechamber, now empty of people, unless you counted the two staff members clearing away the discarded napkins and cocktail sticks. Heathcliff steadied himself against the gilded fireplace and jammed his hands down the front of his breeches. A moment later, he produced a silver flask, popped the cork, and offered it to me.

  “I’m not drinking that. It’s been against your testicles.”

  “Suit yourself.” Heathcliff knocked back a shot. “There’s barely any room to hide booze in these ridiculous clothes. Give me a greatcoat and some proper trousers and I could mix you a right posh cocktail.”

  “By the end of Wuthering Heights you were quite the gentleman,” I teased him. “You’d have worn clothes like this all the time.”

  “Luckily I got out before my life became so dire.” Heathcliff took another sip. I paused, wondering if I should ask him about his odd moment earlier, but then he said, “I’ve been thinking about your letter.”

  “You have?” Instinctively, my hand flew to my chest, where my father’s letter pinched between my breasts. Between all the costumes and warring academics and running around after Lydia, I’d barely thought about it or the fight with my mother all day. At that moment, it all came rushing back to me – that I was at Baddesley Hall dressed in this ridiculous outfit and forcing Heathcliff through the ordeal of a Regency ball because I was desperate to avoid the subject.

  I still hadn’t told Heathcliff, Morrie, or my mother about the fireworks and what Dr. Clements had said. I hadn’t even tried to research the letter beyond Morrie’s examination of the paper. I’d been so distracted by balls and bonnets that I hadn’t given any more thought to my father and the time-travelling room and Victoria’s comment about me being covered in blood. For someone who’d faced down three murderers, I sure was running away from a hell of a lot.

  Examining my behavior from the outside, I made about as much sense to myself as Morrie did right now. All my life I’d wanted to know who my father was. The only thing holding me back from hunting him down in earnest was knowing how much it would hurt my mother and how disappointed I’d be that I’d find a criminal.

  But if my father was Herman Strepel, the time-traveling bookseller, and whatever disguise he’d presented for my mother had been designed to help hide him from the nameless enemy, then the next move was obvious to me – I had to find him.

  Heathcliff snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Now it was you who went off somewhere.”

  “Yes, sorry. You were saying?”

  “Your father and Mr. Simson both spoke about you being in danger. Victoria also said your father purchased occult volumes from her. Mr. Simson acquired a large occult book collection in the shop. It stands to reason that they knew each other.”

  “You’re right.” I hadn’t made that connection. Another coincidence that couldn’t possibly be a coincidence at all. I patted Heathcliff’s arm. “That’s very wise. Too wise for someone as ungentlemanly as you. Did you and Morrie somehow swap bodies in the time-travel bedroom? It would explain why you’re being all clever and he’s being a mega grump.”

  “I am clever,” Heathcliff growled.

  “Yes, but your cleverness is hidden behind your surly and arseholeish exterior.”

  “Fine. I concede your point. But grumpy or not, I’m on to something here. If your father is intent on staying away from you, perhaps we should attempt to track down the old man? You said he treated you as a special helper in the shop when you were a kid. Perhaps it was his way of trying to protect you. At the very least, Morrie can look into his life, see which retirement home he’s holed up in.” Heathcliff shrugged. “If we can find him, Mr. Simson might tell us more about this supposed danger.”

  “You’re right. We will do that as soon as we get back. Maybe sooner, if I get sick of wearing these clothes and decide to bail early.”

  “Please do. Mina?” Heathcliff leaned closer. His deep voice rumbled in my chest. I loved when he said my name.

  “Yeah?” An electric charge leaped from my body to his.

  “I’ve been thinking about the other night, in the time-travel bedroom.”

  My heart thudded. I’d been thinking about it too, non-stop, all the time. How if Victoria Bainbridge hadn’t interrupted us, and Morrie hadn’t been such a wanker, we might’ve… things could have…

  I might have slept with all three of them.

  At once.

  I gulped. Why did the idea of it make my body flush with desire and quiver with fear at the same time?

  I’d already been with Morrie and Quoth together, and with Heathcliff on the same night. But that was a one-off threesome while I was tied up and then this was… another thing entirely.

  There was the way Heathcliff unleashed himself when we were together, as though being with me kept him teetered on the edge of insanity. There was Quoth’s impossible kindness and his desperate, silent plea to be loved, and Morrie’s battle to control his emotions and conceal his dual nature. There was the way the three of them made me feel like I was invincible, like I could do anything. When I was with them, I wasn’t poor friendless Mina, the sad girl who was going blind. I was a goddess. And by Astarte that felt good.

  I could never choose one of them. I needed them all, as I’d come to suspect they needed me. But did that mean all four of us, in bed, together? Would that even work?

  “What were you thinking?” I managed to choke out.

  Another guy might’ve turned away from such a proposal, but this was Heathcliff. His eyes blazed, boring into mine like they intended to flush out a bit of my soul. “I’ve already texted Quoth to tell him to head straight to Baddesley Hall after he closes the shop. If you want to finish what we started, you should wait until Lydia is asleep and sneak into our room tonight.”

  “Okay,” I whispered, my heart in my throat.

  Behind Heathcliff, the ballroom doors burst open. Attendees spilled out, chatting and laughing, demonstrating their dance moves to each other. Waiters swept in to offer refreshments, and maids ducked into the ballroom to clean up after the session. The noise swirled around us, bouncing off the high roof. All I saw was Heathcliff’s dark eyes boring into mine, devouring me. Heat pooled between my legs as I accepted the promise of what I would receive tonight from my three fictional men.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “A couple just left the shop. The wife wore her Regency finery and informed me they were in the village for the festival. She trotted around the shop, exclaiming over every little thing, and ended up buying that complete set of Folio Society Austen from your display for £150. The husband dragged his feet after her, weighed down by shopping bags. He leaned over the counter with a look of utter despair and asked if we any books in the craft section about how to build a gun, as he wished to shoot himself in the head. On a positive note, absolutely no one has quoted ‘The Raven’ today, and I look forward with rare and radiant anticipation to seeing you later this evening.”

  After speaking with Heathcliff, I found Quoth’s text on my phone. It only increased the maelstrom of excitement and nerves swirling around inside my stomach.

  I barely
heard a word the rest of the day. I sat through two more lectures with Heathcliff’s invitation blaring inside my skull. Every time Morrie brushed past me in the hall, his hand grazed the small of my back.

  Our VIP tickets included dinner. I was tempted to skip it, but Heathcliff pointed out that if we skipped out on Lydia, she’d likely drag us back by our ears or worse, sit by herself and blab all our secrets.

  As we took our seats, Heathcliff’s hand brushed my thigh under the table, and my breath hitched.

  Morrie, not to be outdone, dropped his fork on the floor. “Whoops, I’m such a butterfingers.” His eyes sparkled as he slid under the table, his body hidden from the others by the floor-length tablecloth. As I reached for the bread basket, hands frantically flung up my skirt and shoved aside my underwear. I yelped as Morrie buried his face between my legs.

  “Something wrong?” Cynthia looked at me in concern.

  “Nothing, nothing.” I held up my wine glass. “The wine was just er… warmer than I expected.”

  I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t…

  Morrie’s tongue twirled over my clit, like a ballerina taking the stage for a breathtaking fouetté. The sheer audacity of what he was doing combined with that relentless rhythm sent my head spinning and my body pulsing with an ache that needed to be sated. I tried to pick up my knife to butter my bread, but Morrie pounded the flat of his tongue against me and ended up swiping the butter across the front of Heathcliff’s jacket.

  Oh Isis oh Isis his tongue…

  “…Grey likes to joke that I’m his Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but I really do think my personality is more in tune with the kind-hearted and quiet nature of Anne Elliot, do you agree, Mina?”

  “Um…” I gasped, gripping the edge of the table as heat pooled in my stomach. Morrie fed the growing ache inside me, driving me closer… closer…

  “That friend of yours has been hunting for his fork for an awful long time.” Cynthia bent down. “I hope he hasn’t passed out down there.”