by Mia Vincy
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said and immediately wished the question back.
She had written to tell him that her father had died in a riding accident. Invited him to visit the estate that he had inherited.
Instead, he sat alone in Scotland and mourned the best man he had ever known. He had sent money, Newell, and a cat. Bloody hell. He deserved to be pilloried.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said.
“Your mother?”
“She doesn’t know. None of them know. You mustn’t tell them.”
She hugged her knees, her cheek laid on them so her hair listed to one side. She looked too young and innocent to carry this awful burden. Naive, he’d called her. Smug, he’d called her.
He moved to sit beside her on the settee. She lowered her legs and let him take her hand.
“What do you mean, none of them know? You carry this alone?”
She played with his fingers and spoke in bursts. “He did it in the second stable, the empty one. There was a storm, so I suppose the thunder masked the noise. A groom found him before dawn and told the housekeeper. She couldn’t wake Mama because…Well. Because. So she woke me instead. I insisted on seeing him. I shouldn’t have. Something tore inside me and I went empty. I sent the groom to fetch Sir Gordon Bell—he’s the magistrate and Papa’s dear friend—and I told him that no one must ever know the truth, and he agreed. If everyone knew, we would have…we would have had to bury him at a crossroads with a stake through his heart. My father. Buried like…I couldn’t let that happen.”
She was tracing the lines on his palm, but he doubted she saw a thing. He did not want to hear this but he had to.
“We paid the coroner five hundred pounds so there’d be no public inquest. That is, you paid him five hundred pounds.” She sounded almost jolly. And he had accused her of pasting a smug smile over her emotions. Bloody hell. “The doctor refused payment, but you bought him a new carriage and horses anyway. You bought the groom a small cottage near Margate, and he moved away and married his sweetheart. The housekeeper Mrs. Greenway didn’t want anything either, but you paid for her two nephews to go to Shrewsbury Grammar School. They’re doing well. You are generous in your bribes.”
“And your family?”
She had been twenty when she did all this. It had been a month after they married, and he couldn’t even remember her face. Where in blazes was her mother?
“They don’t need to know. By the time they woke up, it was all arranged. They had moved Papa, and Mrs. Greenway and the doctor washed him, and the doctor said his face was smashed in the fall so they had to keep the coffin closed.”
A single tear fell onto his hand. She looked up at him. Her eyes were green and wet, the lashes clumped in little spikes.
“He knew, Joshua,” she said. “He worried about dying before I could marry and keep everyone secure, and I laughed at him and said there was no reason he would die. But the whole time he was planning to do it, and that’s why he wanted us to wed. He even transferred his property to you, so the Crown could not seize it. We killed him, you and I. If we never married, he would never have done it, and his demons would have gone away. And now he’s buried in the churchyard, which is sacrilege, and we did this crime and I try to do the right thing but I can never atone for that. I get so angry at him sometimes.”
Her logic was wrong, utterly wrong, but emotions had a way of making the worst logic seem right.
“Lord Charles said the same thing to me, when he asked me to marry you,” he told her. “He said that Charlie’s death left you all unprotected. I thought he was worrying unnecessarily.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. He fumbled for a kerchief and wiped them away, trying to be gentle, but feeling rough and clumsy. She let him. Because she was taking care of everyone and no one took care of her. He pulled her against him and she slumped against his chest. He stroked her hair and wished he could take away her pain.
“It was his decision,” he said. “He must have been hurting and you gave him peace.”
She said nothing. He held her close and breathed in her fragrance, breathed through the tightness in his chest, the burning in the back of his throat. Cassandra had borne it all and he had mocked her. And Lord Charles: He would have done anything for Lord Charles, if only he had known. But Lord Charles was always so cheerful and congenial, even while he grieved for Charlie. Covering it all up with a pleasant, polite smile.
There was a woman who might know the full story, but he could never tell Cassandra about her. Cassandra still believed her father had been faithful to his wife. He would not take that from her too.
The poor thing. He had been so annoyed by her self-righteousness, her self-possession. It had been easier to think of her as a good, boring girl with polite smiles and petty concerns. He almost wished he didn’t know this about her: That she was so much more.
They sat together a long time, Cassandra’s weight warm and comforting against his side, until he realized she was falling asleep.
“Come on.” He shifted out from under her and she protested, bleary and tipsy. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“I like it here,” she said. “It’s warm and you’re comfortable.”
“Your bed will be warm and comfortable too.”
He banked the fire and went to pick her up. She was young and trusting and a little broken too. She was trying so hard to hold her family together. Sweet little fool. It was impossible. He knew better than anyone that families fell apart and there was nothing to be done.
“You’re humoring me,” she said. “That’s what I do with Lucy when she’s drunk. I agree with everything that she says.”
“That’s very wise. You should agree with me every chance you get.”
He lifted her into his arms. She looped her hands around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder and tickled him with her hair. Her bosom pressed into his chest, her rounded hip against his belly. He had not been this close to a woman in months. He ignored his stupid body; she was upset, drunk, and his wife.
“One should never argue with a drunk person,” she said, as he carried her out of the study and up the stairs. “This is something I have learned.”
“I agree.”
“One must be agreeable. You’re not agreeable. You’re disagreeable.”
“No, I’m not. I’m lovely.”
She laughed, her chest moving against his. She wasn’t light, but she wasn’t heavy. He liked the feel of her in his arms. The way her body moved with laughter and the laughter moved into him. Carrying her, as he ought to have done from the start.
“You’re cantankerous.”
“I’m charming.”
“You’re ill-mannered.”
“I’m delightful.”
She laughed again. Soft, gentle laughter. It was nice to see her laughing, but he worried about the pain that she had put away. The pain that had exploded out of her today. It had bewildered him at first, but he understood it now. How lonely it must have been, in her family, the only one knowing the truth, smiling pleasantly through it all.
And he…Selfish didn’t even begin to cover it.
In her room, he lowered her onto her bed. Her eyes were big and dark in the light of the single candle, her brown hair wild against the pillow. He fingered the big bow of her bed jacket.
“Do you wear this thing to sleep in?”
“It’s warm and comfortable. Like you.”
He laughed despite himself, and helped her under the covers. She didn’t need help, but he did it anyway. And he didn’t need to lie down beside her, on top of the covers. Neither did he need to tangle his fingers in the silky tresses escaping from her bandeau. But he did those things too.
“What else do you need?” he asked. “Shall I fetch your nightcap?”
“You think my nightcap is silly.”
“I think it is adorable.”
He leaned over her, brushed his knuckles over her petal-soft cheek, and willed himself to get up. This wa
s becoming torture. He had to pull away. He could not move.
“You never even kissed me,” she said.
Leave the bed now, he yelled at himself. Get out now. But for once he was too slow.
She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his.
The pure soft sweetness of her slid right through him, burning through his chest and emptying his head with the potency of a thousand brandies. His hand found its way behind her neck, sliding into her thick, soft hair, cradling her head so he could have more. Their lips moved together, exploring, opening, and when he tasted her with his tongue, she made a small sound in her throat that shot straight to his groin. She arched up into him, and he tasted her again. Deeper. More. And she—so generous and warm—welcomed him. She tasted like brandy and woman and hope and flowers, and he could not think how she might taste like flowers or why that might be a good thing, but she did and it was. He could melt into her, into her generous warmth, surrender to the thud of his heart and the urging of his cock, melt into her and have her melt into him, and all their heartache would melt away too.
He dragged his lips from hers, gently pushed her back onto the pillows. She smiled up at him and it took all his strength to keep his distance.
“There,” he said. “Now we kissed.”
“That was lovely.”
“You’re drunk. You think everything’s lovely.”
“Even your scruff is lovely.”
Her palm rubbed his cheek and he resisted the urge to lean into her again. He lowered her hand, tucked it by her side. In the candlelight, he could not tell the current color of her eyes, but it didn’t matter because her eyes made up their color as they went along, and that was only one of the delightful things about her to discover.
He needed her to fall asleep so he could escape this madness.
“Close your eyes,” he said. She did. He stroked her hair back from her face, stroked her forehead, stroked her cheek. He longed to stroke every part of her. “Breathe in now,” he said. “And breathe out. And in, and out.”
She obeyed and then she was asleep.
Thank God. Now he could escape.
But not yet. That would not be right. She was upset, and he was sure it was wrong to leave someone who was upset. And it was the first time she was drunk, and she might be frightened, if she woke alone to a spinning room. So he should stay a little longer. Until he was sure she was calm. Until the feel of her lips had left his. Until his urge to weep had passed.
Cassandra awoke. There was almost no light in the room. She had a touch of nausea, a touch of headache. Her bed was warmer than usual. She was not alone. She was too sleepy to be frightened, and it was Joshua anyway. The weight over her waist was his arm. The heated wall at her back was his chest. She listened to him breathe: He was sleeping. She had kissed him. His lips had been warm too, and surprisingly soft. He had touched his tongue to hers. She should have been disgusted but instead a raw pleasure had shot straight down her center and all she had wanted was more. And the things she had said! She must never drink again. But he had not judged her. She did not move. She did not want to disturb him, or face him. Besides, it felt so lovely, to be wrapped up in this man. She closed her eyes and enjoyed it.
When she woke again, he was gone.
Chapter 11
The next afternoon, Mr. Cosway, who bore the cumbersome title of Secretary In Charge of Everything That Happens In London, showed Cassandra to the empty office that Joshua used when he was at the dockside warehouse. Dominating the small room was a desk crowded with dossiers and yard-long rolls of paper, as well as a globe and items of equipment she could not begin to name.
Also present: a cravat strewn over the chair, a coat tossed onto the table, a hat balanced on the globe. Joshua could not be far, as he had, yet again, left half his clothes behind.
Cassandra tucked away her rosewater-scented handkerchief as Mr. Cosway crossed to the window. The secretary was approximately the size of a carriage, with a shaved head, battered nose, and a peg where his left hand should be, but he spoke incongruously like a gentleman and treated her with every courtesy.
“He’s on the dock with the children,” he said, tapping the thick, greasy glass.
“The children?”
She hastened to the window. There was Joshua, clean-shaven today, in his shirtsleeves and a plain black waistcoat, crouching on the dock, talking to two boys and a girl. The children, who were no more than eleven or twelve, were simply but neatly dressed, and all were looking at him with enthralled faces. A woman who bore the air of a governess and whose features hinted at African heritage watched from nearby.
Cassandra pressed a hand against the window pane and leaned in. Her bonnet bumped the glass and she impatiently shoved it off her head so she could see.
Joshua’s buckskins were pulled taut over his powerful thighs. The breeze ruffled his hair and toyed with the billowing sleeves of his shirt, teasing her with glimpses of the body within. Her palm recalled the tickling sensation of his scruff and she wondered at the smoothness of his cheek now.
One of the boys, the small, red-headed one, said something and Joshua nodded. He sketched a diagram on the wooden dock with his finger. The three children gathered closer, blocking her view.
For a man who declared children to be a nuisance, he seemed fond of these ones. For a man who claimed to be busy, he seemed to have time for them.
“What is going on?” she asked.
“The children are supposed to be working, but Mr. DeWitt, he likes to talk to them sometimes.”
“What about?”
“Whatever’s on his mind. Which could be anything. Always a thousand things on Mr. DeWitt’s mind.”
His expression was rueful, but he spoke with admiration also.
“He employs those children?”
“More like practical training, although they get some wages too. There’s some orphanages that work with him, where he pays for the children to learn things, reading and writing and arithmetic. Most children like that, if they get a job, it’s in the factories or in service, but Mr. DeWitt says if they have the aptitude to do something different, then they ought to get to use it. Says aptitude matters more than birth. So some train here, and when they’re ready, we help them find a job.”
“Who is the woman?”
“That’s Miss Sampson. The training was her idea, so now she’s the Secretary In Charge Of Organizing The Training And Education. She’s a good sort, Miss Sampson.” His battered face broke into a smile and Cassandra couldn’t help but smile too; perhaps Mr. Cosway thought Miss Sampson was more than just a good sort. “She taught me to speak prettily. Lots of people think that if you don’t speak English the way they speak English, then you’re not as bright as them. I don’t mean Mr. DeWitt, though,” he hastened to add. “Most people, they wouldn’t give me a job, because some greedy pirate made off with my hand, but I said to Mr. DeWitt, ‘I know shipping, and I don’t need my left arm to think,’ and he agreed.”
Down on the dock, a clerk came to speak to Joshua. He looked up and their eyes met through the thick glass. He shook his head, then he nodded at the clerk, and gave her another look. She backed away.
Not so courageous now, was she?
She hardly noticed Mr. Cosway leaving, as she placed her bonnet on the table, folded her hands, and composed herself. She would not mention last night. She would not mention children.
She would not mention the dream that had blossomed overnight, delicate and pale, like a tiny wildflower poking up amid the ferns on the forest floor. She had thought she had buried the dream two years ago, given it up for lost along with so much else, but it had bloomed anew.
Children would bring pain, of course: She had lived long enough to know that whomever one loved would cause hurt, sooner or later. But they would also bring joy. Any pain could be borne if one had joy and love and laughter.
And her body was ready. That’s why it turned so silly around him. It was the only explanation, given that he
was so dreadful and infuriating and not at all what she wanted in a husband.
Except that he didn’t want children, and he didn’t want her.
Which is why she would not mention it.
“What the blazes are you doing here?” he said as he hurtled in, shrinking the room to half its size. “Docks are dangerous places.”
“It’s interesting to see where you work.”
Their eyes met, and something shot through her, like a bolt of that lightning that bounced around inside him, like that jolt of pleasure when their mouths met last night.
She could have sworn he felt it too, that something leaped between them, a shared memory, a shared emotion, a shared desire, but he immediately bounded over to the window to check something outside. She remembered the moment when she thought they might be friends; even that seemed impossible in the light of day.
“Work being the operative word,” he said. “Not chatting with my wife.”
“You were chatting with those children.”
“Which was work.”
“You seemed fond of them.”
“They’re potential employees. So stop getting ideas.”
“Ideas?” Her heart thudded. He knew. He knew what she wanted. “Whatever do you mean?”
He picked up a dossier, flicked through it, tossed it back on the desk. Papers slid wildly and he lunged to stop them falling to the floor. “I am busy, Cassandra. I don’t have time for this.”
“It will take less time for you to talk to me than it would for you to remove me. I am feeling particularly tenacious today. Barnacle, remember?”
He folded his arms. She lifted her chin. He narrowed his eyes. She raised her eyebrows. He scowled at her. She beamed at him.
He groaned and ran his hands through his hair, which she knew now was absurdly soft. “I liked you better when you were nice. So what is it? What? What?”
Cassandra dragged her eyes off his hair, pasted on her cheerful, sensible expression, and focused on the matter at hand.