by Charlie Lane
Allison nodded. “True. It’s why I dislike you.” Used to dislike, truth be told. Every word he spoke, each of his actions she witnessed, changed her understanding of his character.
He lurched forward, his face draining of color. “That bad, is it?” He pinned her with a fierce stare. “You have no desire to marry a paragon of propriety. Why not?”
Why lie? “I don’t want to be bored my whole life. And the sections of the book where she talks about you … one day I was reading, and the next moment I was waking up from a good three-hour nap. Some of the best sleep I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Ah.” He leaned back once more and folded his arms behind his head.
The sight of him now—tousled, sweaty, and warm? Hah. He’d trouble her sleep, not help it. How could he not feature in her dreams this evening? Her body heated, and she focused on the stage across the room. “You take exercise. You’re friendly to those socially lower than yourself. You accompany young, wayward women on scandalous adventures to impromptu theatrical performances. You read gothic novels. No, you’re nothing like your mother’s view of you.” She frowned.
“What?”
“How do you hide it? Is this who you really are, or are you the silent man who accompanies his mother on social visits?”
“Both.”
“But your mother doesn’t know about the other you, so the paragon must be the real you.”
He grimaced. “Must it? I’m afraid I don’t like that part of myself very much.”
She tossed her hands in the air. “The adventurous you can’t be the real you if it’s secret.”
He watched the room, read a few lines of the play, then spoke into the play’s lines and margins. “You do the same thing, Miss Shropshire. You hide, too. You have secrets.”
“I do not!”
He raised his eyebrows, challenging her.
“All right. I may have a few secrets.”
“A few?” He raised a finger. “Your books.” He raised another finger. “This adventure. What other secrets you may have I do not know, but the first time we met, I saw secrets in the corners of your smile.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same at all.”
“No? We both hide parts of our true selves. I’d rather be at Gentleman Jackson’s when I’m following my mother from at-home to at-home. But I love her, so I do what I can to please her.”
“Even if it makes you appear to be someone you’re not?”
He nodded.
“Can’t you just tell her about Gentleman Jackson’s? About your books?”
“Can’t you tell your mother about your preferred reading habits? Will you tell her about today? Where, by the way, does she think you are at this very moment? Some London Lady’s meeting, was it?”
Bollocks! He would bring that up. She hesitated before answering. “The Society of London Ladies.” A lie, that. Her stomach rolled. Another secret. No more. She’d left home this afternoon determined to stop living in the shadows.
She set her chin and faced Lord Trevor boldly. “In public, the members of our small group call it the Society of London Ladies. In private,” she took a deep breath and barreled forward. “In private, the S stands for Scandalous.”
“The Scandalous London Ladies? Truly?”
She nodded.
“I’m impressed. What sort of scandalous things do you get up to?”
In truth, their scandal could be more appropriately characterized as … conversational. “Oh, this and that,” she prevaricated.
“Hm. All talk and no action?”
Blood rose in her cheeks. “Fine. I admit it. We meet. We talk about things we shouldn’t. Some of us create more scandal than others, but … but—”
Lord Trevor laughed. “You don’t have to apologize. I already knew.”
“What? No. How?”
“You mumble, remember?”
Apparently, she did. Damn. She’d have to stop.
“Your mumblings are how I know you.”
How annoying. He did seem to know her spectacularly well. And she barely knew him at all. Unfair! “There you go again, saying you know me, and you just can’t. Eavesdropping on someone’s mumbled self-conversations is no way to properly get to know someone.”
He scooted closer, speaking in soothing tones. “You prefer fine, flimsy fichus, but you certainly don’t want to spend time speaking of it. You wanted one of those other ladies to be your book fairy because you want a friend with whom to suffer in silence. You have a journal you’re fond of writing in. You’ve read The Monk, but you couldn’t sleep for days afterward. You close your eyes every time you bite into a strawberry tart, and you look at novels like they’re the keys to existence. There’s a footman,” his voice grew curt and gravelly, “whose form you’re particularly appreciative of. Though, I’d personally like to see him sacked. You have a German cousin named Olga whom you exchange letters with, and you always try to be kind to her.”
“She feels very alone right now,” Allison whispered, following the journey of his hand as he lifted it to push a lock of hair near her temple behind her ear. She swallowed. “Anything else?”
“You want a dog, but your mother won’t let you.” He frowned. “Are dogs not allowed in my mother’s Guide?”
Allison shook her head. “Dirty, and they fornicate in public.”
“Ah. That explains why she never allowed me to have one as a child. But you know what, I always wanted a dog, too. What kind should we have?”
“I love Pyrenees!”
“A giant of a dog, then. So be it. Only, he’s not allowed in our bed.”
Wait. What? Bollocks! “No, no, no! I admit you know much about me, and I approve of your love for dogs, but I’m not marrying you!” She’d just rejected him again. Twice in a single day. Mortifying. She rushed to change the conversation. “I really mumble so much, then? How embarrassing. Do you think anyone else has noticed?”
“I hope not. I’d like to think your secrets are mine alone to keep.”
Her heart skipped a beat. It skipped several in fact. And when it resumed function, it did so at a hellish pace, thumping against her ribs like a deluge against a windowpane. She thought he might press his lips to hers; he certainly stared at her mouth long enough.
But he leaned back in his chair, dispelling the tension between them with distance. “See? You won’t tell your mother your secrets, and I won’t reveal mine to my mother either.” He lifted his leg and laid his booted foot atop his knee. “It’s easier, don’t you think?”
“But you’re a man! You can do as you wish. Your good fortune doesn’t rely on being acceptable to those around you.”
He nodded, leaned forward, and took her hand again. He touched her much too frequently, as if he had a right to it. And she liked it much too well. She pulled away and folded her hands over her unread script.
“You’re right,” he acknowledged, remaining close to her. “I have more freedom than you do, and my secret activities are acceptable to society at large, if not to mother. It’s just …” He sighed, hiding his face in his hands for the space of a breath before looking at Allison once more. “My father is … not the best of husbands. He left for Scotland when I was a boy and hasn’t returned since. Has another life up there I’m told. Whores, illegitimate children, and every other unsavory thing you can imagine. But it’s better than him being here. One of my earliest memories is of him hitting my mother.”
“Oh. I’m—” Allison swallowed. How could she possibly respond? “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. For the first time since she’d met Lady Hemsworth months ago, she didn’t hate her.
“My mother worked hard to make sure I didn’t end up like my father. If I did anything to defy her image of the perfect gentleman, she’d put all the blame on herself, so I do as I please, but keep it secret.”
“But …” Allison buried her nose in the script. She couldn’t say what she’d been about to say.
He nudged her. “But
?”
Why not say it. This day had been anything but ordinary after all. “But your mother hates me.”
His eyebrows knit together. “No … she doesn’t … hate you. And I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”
“Yes, she does hate me. She sees the real me and knows I am not a paragon of propriety.”
“I don’t care. Your lack of propriety is exactly what I like about you.” He reached across the small space between them and traced his fingertips from her temple to her chin. His knuckles rested there, right on the tip of her face for a breath before he dropped his hand back to his lap.
“Your mother cares, and yet—” She inhaled, needing the courage of a good, sturdy breath. “And yet you proposed to me this morning.”
“Not quite.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t quite propose. I told you I had intentions of proposing.”
Do you still intend to do so? The question popped into her head fully born, surprising her. She couldn’t ask it out loud, though. Best to change the subject. “Do you want your books back?”
“No. They are yours. My gifts to you.”
“I can’t accept them. It’s not appropriate.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked slowly around the room before returning his attention to her. “You’re worried now about propriety?”
“I … I think there’s a line I will not cross.”
He nodded. “Me as well. So, accepting gifts from single men is beyond your line but accepting them from unknown book fairies is not.”
“Precisely. It’s like in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Her mysteries may be ridiculous, but they never step over the line into the actual supernatural.”
He opened his mouth to reply.
Lord Hellwater bounded up to them. “All right, my lovelies. Time for your stage debut. Do you have your parts memorized?”
“Not even remotely,” Lord Trevor admitted.
“A tiny bit,” Allison lied.
Lord Hellwater’s face fell, then he heaved a sigh. “No matter. It’s what I get for taking in amateurs off the street.”
Lord Trevor’s jaw clenched. “We didn’t ask to be here. You asked us. Besides,” he waved at the room. “Aren’t we all amateurs here?”
Lord Hellwater waved the words away. “Technicalities, my dear Romeo. It’s best to turn your attention to the task at hand. No lines, but do not worry. Just say what comes into your hearts.” He beat a fist to his chest. “Remember, you’re in love, but circumstances keep you apart.” He eyed the two of them skeptically, sighing once more. “You look the part at least. Five minutes till curtain!”
Allison jumped up, her skirts swishing about her legs. “Wait, Lord Hellwater!”
He turned back impatiently.
“Who is to be the audience?”
“Anyone who likes.” He swept a deep bow. “My doors are open to the public every Wednesday afternoon, as they well know.”
“Will … will it be a large crowd?”
“Oh no, we hardly ever have more than fifty. Sometimes only five.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Once, we packed close to a hundred in here.” He smiled brightly and bustled off.
Allison plopped back down beside Lord Trevor. “Oh.” Her voice was breathy and her body tense. Her heart raced. She hadn’t thought of audiences when she’d followed Lord Hellwater to his Drury Lane residence.
A warm, strong hand slipped into hers. “It will be fine. We don’t have to do it if you’ve changed your mind.” Silence. “But if you’re still determined, then you can do it. I know you can. And I’ll be right beside you. With me next to you presenting the very picture of a clueless buffoon, you’re sure to look ethereal and competent in comparison.”
“But we’ll never be on stage at the same time!”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I forgot. Mr. Hopkins is not a skilled playwright, I think.”
Allison snorted but luxuriated in Lord Trevor’s words. They warmed her as much as his hands did. She studied his face and found confidence in his strong jaw, those soft lips, and his calm, brown eyes. How had she ever thought their color boring? She could do this. With him … even if he wasn’t in the same acts as her. Without thought, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
Her first kiss.
He jolted back, shocked. But only for a moment. His arms wrapped round her, and his head lowered. His lips found hers, and this time, he offered no innocent peck. His lips were firm and slipped across hers with a delicious pressure. Tingles spiraled across her entire body. He nibbled at her bottom lip, then his tongue shot out, tasting the corner of her mouth. Daring, that. She liked it. She wanted to taste him, too. Would he taste like the bland, perfect gentleman of his mother’s book or like the charming secret rogue she’d discovered this afternoon?
She dared. She tasted. He tasted of something bitter—ale? It made sense. He’d admitted to drinking after the Moral luncheon. But his kiss tasted of something sweeter, too. She pulled away, and he made a sound of distress, tightening his arms around her.
She placed a steadying hand on his chest and pushed gently. “You taste like chocolate,” she whispered accusingly.
“I bought a sweet or two on my way to Hopkins Bookshop today.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a tiny bag. “Want one?”
How to answer? Yes, please? Or I’d rather taste you again? She didn’t get to find out.
“Places! Places, everyone!” Hellwater clapped his large hands, and all the actors scurried about. A tall man grabbed Allison’s hand and dragged her away. Despite the fact Hellwater pulled Lord Trevor in the other direction, he contemplated her across the growing distance. And for the life of her, she couldn’t look away from him, especially when his lips curled into a slow, sweet smile.
Her heart turned into a cat, small and purring under the tender ministrations of its master. Bollocks. How could a heart change so swiftly? She thought back to their first meeting, the way her heart had thumped when she’d laid eyes upon him for the first time. Perhaps she hadn’t changed so much after all. Her heart had known instinctively that first day.
Mary Sillas snapped her fingers in front of Allison’s face, breaking her eye contact with Lord Trevor, but not the trance he held over her. “Miss S, yoo-hoo, no time for lovemakin’. It’s time for makin’ art.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mary.”
“Mary Sillas.”
“Hm?”
“Call me the whole name. Mary Sillas.”
“Oh. Oh! Yes, of course. My apologies, Mary Sillas.”
“No matter. Are you ready to be a ghost?”
“A what?!”
“Didn’t you read the script?”
She’d meant to, but then Lord Trevor’s lips had gotten in the way. “No. I’m—”
Mary Sillas heaved a sigh and her magnificent bosom rose up and down. “Why Hellwater insisted on a pair of toffs sitting in tonight, I’ll never know.”
“I’m not a toff! I can’t be. I’m a—”
Mary Sillas waved away her objection. “Here’s what you need to know. You’se a ghost. Killed by your husband’s brother. Your man over there, Lord Nice Lips—”
Did she mean Lord Trevor? He did have nice lips. Perfect, it turned out, for kissing.
“He’s the man ’at killed ya.”
“But I thought we were lovers.”
Mary Sillas shrugged. “It were an accident. A Hopkins play never makes sense. Anyway, you’re out to avenge your death and kill your lover.”
“If I love him, why would I—”
“It don’t make a lick of sense, that’s for sure. I dunno. Maybe you want to be ghosts together. Don’t matter, though. You best get your brainbox around it all before getting on stage.” Mary Sillas peeked around the curtain she’d pulled them behind. “Speaking of which, you’re up!” She shoved Allison on stage.
Chapter 7
Allison stumbled through something that was definitely a monologue, or quite poss
ibly a prologue, although maybe an exposition. Carson couldn’t tell. The script, quite simply, stunk like a full chamber pot left in a hot, closed room too long. Perhaps her improvisation improved it, but he couldn’t say for certain. Though his attention fixated on her lips, he had no idea what words they shaped. The shapes themselves, though … damn. He remembered how they’d felt pressed to his own lips, how they’d moved innocently, experimentally. What a heady mixture, that—innocence coupled with the boldness and curiosity of experimentation.
He hardened. Blast. He shifted, trying to hide it. No one looked at him, though. The twenty or so audience members sat in rapt attention for the beautiful girl in the amethyst gown.
Before this afternoon, he’d thought her funny, beautiful, odd. Her mumblings had suggested she held secrets, hidden depths matching his own, but he’d had no idea just how well-matched they actually were. He could not have fashioned a more perfect woman for himself had he been asked to. Her adventurous spirit called to his own, and she knew as well as he the necessity of keeping that spirit hidden.
Chains clunked onto the stage from behind a curtain, thrown by someone hidden. Huge, and heavy-looking, they couldn’t be fake.
“How heavy are those?” Carson whispered.
Beside him, Mary Sillas snorted. “Jack stole ’em from the dockyard, he did.”
Allison kneeled to pick up the chains. Her slender fingers wrapped around the links, her muscles twitched as she attempted to lift them. They stayed right where they were.
“Oh, dear,” said Mary Sillas. “She’s just a bit o’ a thing. Can’t lift ’em. How can she be a ghost if she can’t rattle the chains?”
Carson wondered the same thing, but he didn’t have to wonder for long. Allison stood, faced the audience, clenched and unclenched her hands a few times, then said in a wavering voice, “My burdens are too heavy to carry alone. I must go to my lover, for he shall spend all eternity helping me carry this sinful load.” Treating the audience to a ghost’s lonely wail, she abandoned the chains, gliding across the stage toward where Carson waited in the wings. When her form disappeared from the audience’s view, her face lit up as bright as the afternoon summer sun, and Carson couldn’t help an answering smile. He realized in a flash—he liked Allision Shropshire.