Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  Resplendent in the customary voluminous bombazine, black skirts she’d begun wearing before their father’s death, since the age of five, a combination of sick morbidity and her own conviction that she, too, would die young, she plopped herself onto the arm of the leather armchair across from him. The wide hoop under the dress flipped up, exposing equally ample layers of midnight crinoline underneath. “You’re working on the same assignment, too.” There was an accusation there. No one else would’ve gathered it by the absolute lack of variation in her tonality. He, however, knew her too well for her disappointment to be a mystery.

  He eyed her with a new wariness. “You know about the assignment?” Lord help him . . . Sylvia was going to admit all his sisters from four on to twenty-four.

  “Of course I know about it,” she said in that still deadened voice. When she’d first begun speaking in that peculiar cadence, it had been horrifying. Now, it was just part of who Daria was.

  Clayton reclaimed his seat. “And you disapprove.”

  “Immensely so. I should miss everything. I shouldn’t take part in any of the pleasures and experiences of my sisters that even you get to take part in.” Her brow dipped ever so faintly in the lightest wrinkle. “Why, even Eris has been to the society.”

  “Not really. She never made it through the front door.” He winked.

  Daria remained singularly unimpressed. “You think to make light?”

  Oh, hell. It was to be one of these somber sets with her, then. She alternated between carefree and fully consumed with the prospect of her own demise. “I would never presume to do so,” he said, altering his original course, and meeting her solemnity.

  “I shall never live life. I am destined to die experienceless.”

  From another girl, the words may have been melodramatic. But Clayton understood those fears. And the Kearsley experience was not the same as almost any other family’s. Giving up his seat once more, he came around the desk and knelt on his haunches beside her. “The days you live are only unfulfilled if you let them remain unfulfilled. All you can do is live.”

  “Pfft.” Her little features tightened. “That isn’t true, and you know it. Otherwise, you would have been married long ago. You always liked children. You would have had a babe by now. But you’re afraid about time running out, too.”

  It was a chillingly accurate reading that delved entirely too deep. “No,” he allowed. “You . . . are correct in some of that.” All of it. She’d been right about all of it. And yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to admit as much to his sister . . . or anyone.

  “What is she like? Lady Norfolk, that is.”

  It took a moment to realize the conversation had taken another turn. And ironically, it was more dangerous and more uncomfortable than all the talk of dying young and unfulfilled dreams.

  “She is . . . clever. And tolerant. And patient and kind. Willing to consider other opinions.”

  “If you’re going to marry, I vote you marry her.”

  He swallowed wrong, saliva going down the incorrect tube and promptly choking him on his own spit.

  Daria patted him quite sturdily and methodically between the shoulder blades. “Worry not,” she said in those haunting tones. “You shan’t die like this. I’ve already told you. It happens in a bedroom on a red blanket.”

  Yes, he was well aware of her prediction for how he’d meet his death. She was happy to inform each of her siblings as to how they would one day die.

  “Furthermore, after Father, I’ve done research on preventing a person from choking to death.”

  “Splendid,” he managed to get out, the word garbled.

  “Are you quite done?” she asked without inflection when he was again properly breathing.

  “If I say no, does that mean we don’t have to continue this discussion?” he asked teasingly.

  “Oh, this isn’t a discussion, Clayton.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Daria shook her head. “This is a lecture.”

  Yes, well, he wouldn’t disagree with her there.

  “It isn’t enough that I’ve agreed to marry? Now I have you ladies hand-selecting my bride for me?”

  His sister’s gaze remained the barely blinking, always wide one that it was. “I have decided that you should put a good deal more effort into the woman you take for your bride. Otherwise, you run the risk of saddling us, and yourself, with someone who will only bring further heartbreak . . . and the last thing a cursed family needs is more reasons to be sad.”

  That was certainly one way of looking at it. Someday, when Daria was older, perhaps when he was gone, she, with her knowledge of the Kearsley curse, would understand, in terms of matters of the heart, how and why Clayton had come to live his life the way he had. But he knew for her to have sought him out that this was a matter that troubled her. As such, he buried his smile behind proper somberness. “I promise to think on what you’ve said, darling.”

  “Very good. See that you do. Carry on.” With an almost ghostlike quality, she drifted to her feet and let herself out.

  The moment the door closed with the faintest click behind her, he shook his head.

  They wouldn’t be content until he was married. Of course, they weren’t wrong in the reasons they wished him to wed. Daria, however, had been the first to raise the very intimate and difficult-to-think-about question of who that woman would be. Because he’d always known who he wanted it to be. Just as he’d known all the reasons it couldn’t be.

  Sylvia.

  He buried his head in his hands and shook it back and forth. Mayhap he was already dead. He was dead, and this was his hell. A world where he was thrust back into close and daily dealings with Sylvia, wanting her so desperately, and knowing all the reasons she couldn’t be his.

  Taptaptaptaptap—taptap.

  That light, almost musical, rhythmic knock belonging to Cora served as all the announcement he needed for that particular sister. So Daria had sent reinforcements. “Enter. But be warned,” he said even as she opened the door. “Neither of you are discreet in your intentions for— Sylvia!” He remained kneeling on the ground, his head still cradled in his hands as he stared sideways at the visage of Cora and the woman beside her.

  “What are you even saying?” Cora exclaimed, her tones entirely put out. “What intentions can I possibly have for Sylvia? She just arrived, asking to see you, and I only offered to show her.”

  “No! That isn’t . . . I thought you were . . .” Yes, well, he couldn’t very well say something about the fact that Daria had just left, after she’d sprung the idea of marriage between Clayton and Sylvia. “Cora.” He cleared his throat before realizing he still knelt on the ground.

  Sylvia stood over him, one of her very many smiles on her lips. “Lord Clayton,” she greeted, extending a hand toward him, and he stared at those long fingers encased in a silvery satin that shimmered. And all he could think . . . All he could see was that hand pressed against his chest, curled in the fabric of his jacket as she keened his name.

  His sister snorted, yanking him out of that desirous reverie. “My brother is entirely too male to do anything as commonsensical as accepting a lady’s hand in help.”

  His whole face went hot, having been caught lusting after Sylvia as he had been. He gave thanks for his sister’s incorrect assumption. “Hardly,” he said, taking Sylvia’s still extended palm. That attempt to show Cora and Sylvia that he wasn’t such a pompous bastard proved the wrong decision.

  Heat. It fired up his arm. A lightning strike of tingles that radiated from where he and Sylvia touched.

  The moment he found his feet, Clayton swiftly drew back his palm and flexed his fingers, the feel of her too much. Every tendon and every muscle in his palm tensed with the need to again hold her.

  “Do you require anything?” Cora asked, so casual and innocent and oblivious to the undercurrents of tension thrumming in the air.

  “Refreshments,” he blurted. “Can you see that Cook prepares a specia
l tray?”

  “Of course!” Cora’s face lit as she gathered Sylvia’s hands in her own. “You are going to absolutely adore her chocolate biscuits. You shall never want to leave!”

  Sylvia slid her gaze briefly over to Clayton. “Between the chocolate biscuits and the company, I fear you might be right.”

  Clayton’s heart jumped a beat.

  Only to resume its very normal, very safe cadence at his younger sister’s next words. “We ladies do have the most wonderful time together, don’t we?”

  “Always,” Sylvia said, squeezing Cora’s hands in her own.

  He should feel only contentment that his sisters had so connected with Sylvia and the Mismatch Society. And yet, with the envy he felt for his sister, in that moment, Clayton, who had thought himself to be a rather good brother, realized just how much of a selfish bastard he in fact was. For a moment sprung of irrationality, he’d thought Sylvia had spoken about desiring to be with him.

  Clasping his hands behind him, he watched as his sister hurried off to see to the refreshments.

  The moment the door had closed, Sylvia smiled. “We’ve secured twenty-two minutes.”

  “No. Given Cora’s habit of sitting down in the kitchen to personally taste-test each of the dessert options, we have at least thirty-eight.”

  They shared a smile.

  “Please,” he offered, motioning to the leather seat previously occupied by Daria.

  Sylvia did so, removing her gloves and resting them on the arms of the chair. Instead of taking a seat at the head of his desk, Clayton claimed the one nearest to Sylvia. “I wanted to begin by thanking you for being open-minded enough to attend our meetings.” She reached for her gloves, toying with that fabric, revealing an unfamiliar uncertainty. “Since we’ve begun spending time with one another, I’ve had time to consider what you said back in Hyde Park.” Back when he’d made love to her mouth. “And you weren’t wrong. In fact, you were correct about much where marriage is concerned.”

  “I was?” He sat up a little straighter. “That is . . . I was,” he amended, altering that question into a statement.

  Another smile, this the ghost of one. “Marriage is a requirement for most . . . women, and as you pointed out, men, alike. But being an obligation does not mean that there couldn’t—that there shouldn’t—be more.” Her gaze grew distant, passing through him, so that he knew she wasn’t seeing him. Rather seeing another. The ghost of the man who’d betrayed her in every way a man could betray a woman.

  He went completely still on his seat, afraid that if he so much as moved she’d glance over and see the dreams he carried but had never allowed himself because of a damned curse. A curse he sometimes selfishly wished he could convince himself was silly to believe in so that he could pursue what he’d always hungered for—a future with her.

  Sylvia glanced briefly down at her lap, and beat her gloves together in a distracted little rhythm. Except, when she lifted her eyes to his a moment later, he may as well have crafted the imagining of her earlier melancholy. “It doesn’t mean that those who have to or choose to marry should not find a person who is perfectly suited for them.” He nodded as she spoke. “It does not mean they aren’t capable of forming a match with a person who brings them happiness, and who they might love and be affectionate with.” She inhaled quietly. “I confess, your thoughts on marriage have had me reconsider that state.”

  He was still nodding before that last statement registered. Clayton stopped midshake of his head. He froze. His heart did that funny little jump again. At what she said. At the implications. Only because she’d allowed herself to consider the possibility of the future that she’d wanted and dreamed of and deserved. Not because of the possibility that she spoke of him. Liar. “That is good, Sylvia,” he said quietly. “I would hate for you to not think of a different future for yourself.”

  Her bow-shaped lips moved, but no words were forthcoming. She recoiled and then found her voice. “My God. I’m not speaking about marriage for myself.”

  “You aren’t?” Then what . . . ?

  “No.” She laughed. “I’m speaking about you, Clayton.”

  All words but for one failed him. “Me?”

  Looking entirely too pleased with herself, Sylvia nodded.

  Yes, he’d already resolved that he would marry. But it was not a conversation he intended to have with this woman. He shook his head. Praying that negative gesture would be enough to end any further talk on this topic with Sylvia.

  Alas . . .

  She nodded once more.

  He sharpened his gaze on her. “Did you speak to my sister?”

  “Which one?” She did a search, and then when her eyes landed back on him, they brightened. “Has one of them had a similar thought?”

  “Never . . . mind. Just . . . no.” And that was the truth. Everything she spoke of and suggested and raised here was “just no.”

  Clayton should have known Sylvia would never be so deterred. Catching the underside of the chair, she dragged her seat nearer his, so close their knees briefly touched, and he was grateful when she edged away, as that physical contact proved a distraction he didn’t need through whatever this discussion was.

  This time when she spoke, there was an excitedness that lent a rapidity to her words, perfectly paired with the animated glimmer in her eyes.

  “After seeing you with Eris and observing the manner of brother you are to Cora, Anwen, and Brenna . . . that you aren’t one to force them to make matches, but rather to do so yourself so they might be spared that decision, it occurred to me that you shouldn’t have to settle into a cold union. That you should, in fact, be paired with someone who will be supportive of your sisters and the lifestyles you encourage them to live.” Her eyes grew solemn. “And then I heard you speak at the Mismatch Society. And I listened to what you were saying. And I really heard you. Your words resonated, here.” Sylvia touched a fist to her breast.

  Whatever she’d heard hadn’t been what he’d intended for her to hear.

  The George I striking musical bracket clock marked each prolonged passing beat of silence following Sylvia’s pronouncement.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  The clock proceeded to play a crisp, clear tune marking the start of a new hour.

  And yet, somehow, when two minutes later the song had ceased and silence remained, Clayton was as dumbfounded as he’d been since the lady had finished speaking. Sylvia didn’t press him through that protracted silence. Instead, she sat there, ever so patient and smiling, as if she’d just herself come up with the solution to achieving the world’s peace. “You are offering to play . . . matchmaker for me?”

  Sylvia beamed. “Yes!”

  “No.” Good God, no. A million times no.

  Her expression dimmed, stealing the light from the room. “No?”

  “No.” As in, absolutely not. Any closeness with her was too much. Allowing this woman to be part of his life in such an intimate way? In this way? Never.

  Ever.

  And damned by the lady’s hangdog expression if he didn’t feel like the very worst of bullies. Clayton tried again, softening his rejection this time. After all, this was Sylvia. “Let me begin by saying I am grateful for your offer to help.” He couched his reply in all the polite respect she was deserving of. “However, at this time, I am graciously declining.”

  “Why?”

  She’d ask . . . why? But . . . he’d been polite and gracious and very decisive. That had merited a surefire end to this discussion that was absolutely not a discussion. And yet, he’d long known Sylvia was unlike anyone and everyone. As such, her defiance in accepting “no” should have come as no surprise.

  He tried again, this time opting for bluntness. “I don’t wish for your help . . . in this, Sylvia.” He’d find a wife. But not like this.

  Her smile found its way firmly back in place, dimpling both of her gently rounded ch
eeks. “Ah, but not wanting my help, and perhaps benefiting from it, are altogether different matters, aren’t they, Clayton?”

  Yes, she was correct on that score.

  Once again, she tugged her chair closer to his, repositioning it so they faced one another, her pale-pink skirts against his sapphire-blue wool trousers, those colors clashing . . . not unlike they two as man and woman in this exchange, and so many times before. “What are you searching for in a wife, Clayton?” she murmured.

  He tried to attend to her, and yet, near as they were, the rosewater scent she dabbed upon her skin proved a dizzying distraction.

  “I don’t . . .” His voice emerged gruff and garbled.

  “A potential bride,” she clarified, as if his distractedness were a product of that particular word, and not because of the effect she had upon his usually well-ordered senses.

  It was a question that brought him up short.

  What was he searching for in a bride? He’d not given specific thought to that question, having just arrived at the conclusion that he’d dragged his heels enough. That he needed to at last do this. He’d known he would one day have to do his responsibility by the St. John line. He’d known it would be to a woman who valued his sisters, but a match built on convenience and mutual respect . . . and certainly not love. Not when he knew he’d die young and leave a family behind.

  It was what he’d known back when he’d first met this woman now before him.

  He knew it because it was the very reason that, wanting her as he had, Clayton had stepped aside so that another man could have her.

  When she’d always been all he’d wanted.

  His pulse hammered away in his ears, nearly deafening and dulling all sounds and senses. The longer he spent with her, the more dangerous it was. The more he recalled just how badly he wanted her. He didn’t doubt that he would spend his days making her as happy as he was able. But it was the uncertainty of their number that had always made her forbidden to him.