“Indeed, Mr. Haywood?” said Lord Winterly, cocking his head. So unexpected was this censure and skepticism that the unhealthful color instantly drained from her uncle’s visage. “I confess I happen to admire curiosity in a woman.”
If she was not still so cowed by his lordship, Milli would have kissed her hand to him. If only Mr. Valko had felt the inclination to intervene on her behalf.
“Well…I…that is to say…” Uncle Haywood mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “My niece seems to have grown morbid during her stay in London.” Her uncle then turned back to Milli; it was presumably far easier to bend a fell gaze at her than at his disquieting host. “You do realize what killed the cat, Millicent?”
“The dog?” said Emma suddenly, earning herself a dark look. The majority of their dinner companions, however, were much diverted by Emma’s impertinence.
“No, Emmaline. Curiosity, in fact, killed the cat.” That awful color was back in his neck. Uncle Haywood was manifestly restraining his spleen, but Milli could see how powerful was his desire to give them both a good tongue lashing.
Milli knew that he would be wroth with both his nieces for the next fortnight at the very least. Perhaps the rest of the season. She only hoped he would not take it into his head to pack them off back to the countryside. Mama would be most upset if Milli returned without a single eligible proposal of marriage. Perhaps it behooved her therefore to behave herself here on out; would that her sister felt obliged to do the same.
“Curiosity,” Uncle Haywood continued, “ought to be a deadly sin.”
“Then it is my favorite cardinal sin,” said Lord Winterly, raising his glass to Milli before flashing a very toothy smile at Emma.
“I thought it was pride?” said Mr. Grimm. It was the first time Milli could remember him speaking. His remark was so unexpected that at first no one stirred from their shock. Well, all except Mr. Black whose abrupt bark of laughter was almost just as surprising. That gentleman was slapping his friend warmly on the shoulder, but Mr. Grimm’s expression, despite the hearty slaps, remained impenetrable.
“You mean lust,” said Mr. Valko under his breath. It was not, of course, loud enough to hear above the laughter (no one but she ought to have heard it), but the comment somehow elicited what sounded to Milli like a firm kick beneath the table. So it had not escaped Victoria’s keen ears. The hostess bestowed upon him a keen-edged smile, whereupon Mr. Valko grimaced unrepentantly at her.
Mr. Haywood, meanwhile, deaf as ever, was unaware that the topic had digressed. Thus he went on to say to Victoria, “I have no opinion of young ladies who take an unhealthful interest in death.” His eyes narrowed. “Especially not those that are determined to misappropriate The Times for the purpose of slaying spiders.”
“It was a fly not a spider!” Milli thought it prudent to recall the minutiae of her lie. It lent such veracity. She gave an involuntary shiver at the very thought of seeing a spider, let alone braining one. “I detest spiders.”
“Especially vile white spiders,” said Emma, mirroring her disgust.
Much to Milli’s dismay, Mr. Valko appeared struck by Emma’s comment. Indeed, the entire room seemed affected, for everyone became oddly still. Why did Emma always attract their interest without even trying? It was devilish unfair!
“Yes, the white spider.” Lord Winterly’s fingers drummed along his crystal stem, wine still untouched, as the silence stretched. “And venomous withal.”
Milli bit her lip, uncertain. “Are we to suppose that English spiders, in addition to being as hideous as their foreign counterparts, are venomous too?” She snuck a peek at Mr. Valko, hoping her question was not a puerile one.
Lord Winterly gave a succinct nod.
“Bless me!” said Milli. “I wonder which of the venomous beasts I am to fear most?”
“The cardinal spider.” This from Mr. Valko who, consequently, earned himself some scathing looks, especially from the terrifying head of the table. It was all becoming very strange.
“Some venoms,” said Lord Winterly, “attack the flesh, and others the heart.” He then caught Emma in that steady black gaze. “And then there is that particular kind which preys upon the blood.”
The dining room was intolerably quiet after that. It was really all most unsettling, so Milli broke the strange spell with a cheerful laugh, if somewhat forced. After which she said, “Then it is a famous good thing the beast’s venomous little head is now smeared across The Times!” She gave her uncle a self-satisfied nod.
“I thought,” said Lord Winterly, “it was a fly you killed?”
Blast and blast!
Milli could not believe where the time had got to, for it was nigh midnight and they had only just sat down to coffee in the drawing room. Would that this night would never end!
It was with reluctance that she’d parted from Mr. Valko’s side so that Victoria could lead the ladies from the dining room, small though their number was. Now that she was no longer distracted by Valko’s strange beauty, she could attend the call of nature.
After being shown the way to the water closet by one of the dreadful servants, Milli was delighted to find that Winterly House had installed an honest-to-God flushing lavatory. A marvelous thing! It was such a divertissement that she could not forbear flushing it again. And again. Next she tarried in the powder room, tucking stray strands of hair back into place and inspecting her teeth for bits of fowl, lest Mr. Valko spy her looking less than perfect. Color was wanting from her cheeks, so she pinched them till they glowed.
When she emerged, it was to see Lord Winterly disappearing into the library. The door was shut firmly behind him. Milli tiptoed past it, fearful of disturbing that esteemed gentleman. But she soon discovered that she was being overly cautious, for she could hear him talking to someone within. Nevertheless, Milli quietly hied herself back to the drawing room, her excitement sending more heat into her cheeks. If his lordship had emerged from the dining room it stood to reason that the other gentlemen had done the same. Most especially Mr. Valko.
Once in the drawing room, she was gratified to find the face of the very gallant she sought. Blushing, she approached him. There was a wonderful petrichor surrounding him. It was a scent that savored of wild countrysides, and she was eager to lose herself in it. To lose herself in him.
If it were not for her ardent infatuation, Milli would have noticed that something was amiss far sooner than she did. As it happened, it was not until she was offered a second cup of tea that Milli remarked Emma’s curious absence. And that Lord Winterly too was still in absentia.
Chapter Thirteen
L’escholle des Filles
Emma had only meant to peek into the library; it was her errant sister she’d gone in search of. But upon passing the open doorway, the lure of those silent tomes beckoning her closer with their fragrant mystique was such that she entered without hesitation. It was not she but her wayward feet that bore her from her purpose.
She promised herself only a moment. Surely a brief examination of Lord Winterly’s treasure trove could do no harm? Already her curiosity was sparked by a small volume that, despite its excellent condition, looked very old and begged her touch upon its leathern back.
The temptation proved too much. She availed herself of its heft and, hugging it to her chest, skipped towards the nearest chair. It was a plush high back armchair that, to her delight, completely swallowed her up. But the room was too badly lit, this reading corner especially—not in the least conducive to reading; she found herself squinting at the title: L’escholle des Filles. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes tiredly. It was just as well, for she ought to return to the drawing room before her absence was wondered at.
It was so blessedly quiet in the library, however, that she indulged herself a few seconds more. The chintz curtains were slightly parted from the casement to reveal a glowing crescent above the buildings. Smiling, she turned back to her volume and pressed her palm against the first flyleaf as thou
gh to absorb the words into her blood with touch alone.
Somewhere in the house a clock was striking. On the twelfth and final strike Emma heard the library door suddenly fly shut. It so startled her that she froze and held her breath, her heart sounding a guilty tempo. It was so silent now she misgave herself she heard even the books bristling at the threatening presence in the room with her. She remained as still as the moon, the back of the chair concealing her from view. Maybe if she kept still, they’d leave and—
“Do not stop breathing on my account, Miss Rose.” Lord Winterly’s voice was so unexpected that she nearly shrieked.
She shot up from the chair, shutting the aged relict with a snap, her face already puce with mortification at having been thus discovered. “I was…I thought perhaps I might…”
He chuckled at her difficulty, his face in shadows. “Please—” he gestured to the book “—do not let me disturb you. Continue your study.”
Would that he knew just how much she was disturbed by him; no amount of his reassuring her to feel otherwise would change that fact. Or perhaps he was very well acquainted with his effect on her and thus used his presence only to torment her. Perverse man! “You are laughing at me, sir.”
“It only appears so because you will not laugh with me, Miss Rose.”
“Perhaps I do not laugh with you because…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I am never certain who it is I will be laughing with—the wicked viscount from the boot shop or the knight errant from the night before. You must have recognized me in the boot shop, so your coolness on our second meeting I cannot account for. What am I to make of you?”
“It seems I am more myself at night. What about you, Miss Rose? Are you a creature of the night or the morning?”
“I believe the morning is my best time.”
“Interesting,” was all he replied. The smirk, however, half obscured by darkness, implied he did not believe her.
She became embarrassed under his bold examination, realizing at last the impropriety of their being shut up together. Alone! What on earth did he mean by closing the door? “I had better return to the drawing room.”
“Stay a moment.”
It was not a request and she found herself rankled by his temerity. “I think that most unwise, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.” Unconcerned, he stepped closer, dropping his eyes to the volume. “I must confess, Miss Rose, your literary interests never fail to astonish me.”
Confused, Emma bent her eyes to the volume’s front board again, turning it this way and that so that she could read it in the dimness again. Directly below the larger French title was the English translation: The School of Venus. She gave a shrug. “You find my interest in Roman mythology astonishing?”
His lips curled into a predatory grin. “Turn to the frontispiece, Miss Rose.”
She did as he instructed. When she came to the illustration printed thereon, she squinted down at it with a puzzled twist of the mouth. Her glasses! She needed her glasses. They were on the floor where she’d dropped them when she’d bolted up from the chair. When they were resting on her nose again, she took up the book once more and studied the illustration with sharper eyes. In the meantime, Lord Winterly was lighting more candles from the single flame that had occupied the mantlepiece before, so the room was no longer awash in deep shadows.
“It is a group of women gathered in front of a stall,” she said, shrugging again.
“And what, pray, do you see hanging in the preceptor’s stall?”
“It does look like a strange sort of fruit. I wonder…” Her words trailed off as horror dawned. She gasped and dropped the book as though it had burned her fingers. “That is vulgar!”
Lord Winterly was laughing unrestrainedly, unconcerned with the maltreatment of his book. “Human anatomy? Vulgar? You would insult God’s own creation?”
“God,”she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the illustration, “had no part in the creation of that…pornography! They’re…male…”
“Privy members?” He said, brow arched. “Perfectly natural.”
She wiped her hand clean on the front of her skirt with a cross slap. “Why do you delight in my discomfort?”
“Because you find discomfort in a harmless book; it isn’t a snake, Miss Rose. Perfectly natural for you to be curious about the male—”
“You are disgusting.”
“And you are naïve. I think it a fine thing when a woman indulges her curiosity and seeks to enlighten herself; did I not already say so earlier? And if you should wish to pass your time schooling yourself in the ways of Venus, who am I to judge you? In fact I was about to commend you until I realized you were browsing unwittingly.”
“Yes, well, my pastimes and literary interests tend towards no such lewdness, I assure you.” She punctuated her statement by darting a hard look at the offending book. “But I do not wonder at your hobbies.”
“More’s the pity.”
“What is?” Her eyes popped wide. “That I have no taste for lewdness?”
“No, your tastes are unsurprisingly predictable.” He rounded the chair and leaned down, careful of not moving closer to her than was necessary to retrieve his book from the carpet. He somehow understood that her sinews were so taut she might snap at any moment and bolt if he came too close. He straightened and placed the book back on the bookshelf whence it had come. With his back still towards her he said, “But it is a pity you do not wonder at my pastimes, for yours never cease to interest me.”
In fact, she did wonder about him. Constantly. But that was not something she would ever admit to. “I know you like to shock your guests for one thing—a very unwholesome pastime.”
He faced her, head cocked with interest. “That is only my second favorite pleasure.” When she made no reply other than to fold her arms, he said, “Care to guess at the first?”
Emma glanced sideways at The School of Venus, scowling. “No doubt it is something lewd, so no, I don’t care to guess.”
“Really, Miss Rose, you give a man’s tarse far too much thought. I was going to say chess.”
“Chess?”
“Above all things, I enjoy a lively game of chess. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they play.”
Blushing, she peeked at the book again. “And you can tell a lot about someone by examining their library…”
“Indeed,” he said with a hearty laugh. “You are quite right.”
She lifted her chin and turned to leave. But he called out her name very softly and she paused, eager, despite herself, to hear what else he had to say.
“Miss Rose…” What followed was a heavy pause in which even the candle flames stilled a moment. Then he said, “I look forward to our game of chess.”
A premonition of sorts fluttered up her spine, finally impelling her with all haste from his library where the air had become altogether too warm and intimate. It had been a warning, those parting words. A gauntlet thrown down between them, and she feared that she had already taken it up in acceptance without ever knowing when or how or what she was in for. She had already passed the point of no return.
Not even upon reaching the drawing room did she feel herself safe from him. She wondered if she ever would. Something had shifted between them tonight and she found that she was anxious and thrilled and filled with a species of voluptuous dread, a species of fear, but not fear in its animal form. It was not fear that had kept her in the library when she ought to have fled the moment he shut the door; it wasn’t fear that trailed her now, but some divine and darksome thing. Fear not of him but of herself!
She’d tried always to think of him as Lord Winterly, not Winterly or Markus, injecting his title between them to remind herself to keep aloof. But slowly, everything was becoming blurred. How had Winterly got so deep under her skin? Winterly. Even his name held power over her.
Emma knew that she was flushed, for she noticed the curious glances she attracted upon joining the r
est of the party. Milli’s had been the sharpest look. God only knew what they were all thinking and suspecting of her! Winterly’s absence had also doubtless been remarked. Dear God! She wished the carpet would just swallow her up and spit her out in another time and place, she little cared where. Van Diemen’s Land was preferable.
Soon after she’d seated herself, Winterly entered the drawing room with a glass of wine so deep a shade of red as to be almost black. “Ah, Miss. Rose,” he said, “there you are. You looked a little under the weather earlier, so I took the liberty of having a palliative prepared for you.” His lineaments were now arranged in the most civil and impersonal assiduity. It was as though that interlude in his library never happened. “Under Dr. Wheatstone’s advisement, of course.” He lifted a brow at the good doctor who, after a pause, nodded like a gracious thespian.
“Yes, I remarked it too,” said her uncle, adding his nod for good measure. “You seemed most unlike yourself tonight, my dear.” Perhaps now he might forgive her her earlier impertinence if he thought her unwell.
Emma found herself taking the wine like a docile child, ready to play along, for Winterly’s demeanor implied to the world—should the world wonder at their absence—that naught but the most exemplary conduct had transpired between them. Quite possibly it suggested that they had only seen each other in passing.
“Thank you, my lord.” Emma peered down into the dark liquid. After the heat of the library she certainly was thirsty, but wine was the very last thing she needed just now to clear her head.
“Markus, is that a good idea?” Victoria had lifted herself out of her chair and was glaring at her brother. “I don’t—”
He merely lifted his hand to silence her. She obliged him and sat down again with a reluctant furrow marring her otherwise perfect countenance.
Emma peered around the room to find that all eyes were riveted either to her face or to the hand in which reposed the wineglass. Mr. Grimm’s eyes seemed to be glowing with anger. Mr. Black appeared to be whispering under his breath to Mr. Valko, the latter merely nodding gravely.
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