by Daria Vernon
“Beth.”
There it was again.
“Stop saying my name like that. Listen. I know—I know—the complications. You needn’t brace me for any lecture on them. But to me, they didn’t matter. It wasn’t fair. You knew where I was, but I didn’t know where you were. I’m not sure if I can ever be at peace with that distribution of information because it’s been my torment for three years.” The last few words left her shaking.
He took another step forward, and she retreated, but her back found the column.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. His hands reached out uncertainly between them, as though they had a memory of what it was like to hold her. She wished to be held.
“How dare you,” she said again, feebly. Her eyelids burned as fresh tears were manufactured.
“How dare—?”
“How dare you show up like this. Passing me a glass of sherry like an old friend.” The tears fell. “Giving me no way to—to be near you, to be reassured that you’re real, to be alone with you.”
He put a hand to her cheek and the spark of his touch threatened to collapse her. His thumb smoothed away a tear. “I’m sorry, I thought you would feel threatened if I caught you alone.” He bent in to place his forehead against hers. Their exhales mingled. “We’re alone now.”
The crisp silk of her skirt rustled between them as he pressed nearer. Her cheek pushed lightly into his hand.
“And I am real.” As he said it, his hand shuddered on her face, as though to force the idea into her, but it wasn’t enough.
She raised her eyes to his. “Then prove it.”
Her eyes.
A fierce pulse beat under the tip of his small finger where it touched the back of her jaw.
He needed the proof just as badly.
He leaned down to her wine-stained lip and tasted her, more softly than even he expected. As he drew away, she chased his lips with hers and all resistance between them fell. He crushed her against the column—unsatisfied until he was impossibly close to her. She gasped and stood on her toes to reach him.
His skin buzzed with memories as he moved against her lips. Flashes of loosened hair and of long legs wrapped around his middle. Fragments of lust, of affection—of dread.
This time, she was wrapped in swaths of crisp and frothy fabric. The night air didn’t send ceaseless chills along her limbs. She was fresh and bright, and the scent of her was masked by fresh gardenias in her hair. But as she enfolded him now, as her fingers curled into his shoulders like claws, he knew that she was still his panting, bedraggled witch. The same wild and filthy wolf-killer that had awed him in the forest. The survivor whose eyes sparkled with keenness.
The memories brought blood roaring to his loins, and he ground his hips against her. Her lips broke his to take a deep gasp of air.
“Is this too much?” he rasped against her ear.
“No. Never leave me, Rhys.”
But he could hear the break in her voice, the fevered sense of overwhelm. He slowed down and took her face in his hands, to brush his lips against her temple and eyelid, then kiss her nose and jaw. His hand slid down to her neck, where it brushed against the ribbon he’d bought for her so long ago.
Her body softened.
“Is the proof satisfactory?” he asked.
She quirked a smile at him before looking grimly down. When she looked up again, she seemed . . . wary.
“Someone will come looking for me soon.” She sidestepped, extracting herself from the narrow space between Rhys and the column.
She walked as though she meant to leave him. He caught her wrist loosely.
“Strange of you to walk away when you just told me never to leave.”
She looked at him squarely. “You know where I am. You’ve known this whole time.”
He stepped around to face her again. “Then it’s only fair if you know where I am too.”
“So then, where are you, Mr. Booker?”
He cringed at the sound of his alias on her lips.
“I’ve been mostly in London.”
“How’s the thieves’ work down there? Is it profitable?”
“Much more so, since I now work at catching them.”
Her narrowed eyes flashed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a Bow Street Runner.”
She pulled her wrist away from him. The familiar suspicion in her eyes cut him to his core. He had as little of her trust as he’d had the night he came upon her on the road. That was clear.
“You mean that Osbourne Booker is a Bow Street Runner? Because Rhys is still a thief.”
“Yes.” He could handle the barb. “A thief. But please, Beth. I can explain all of this if you’ll let me. If you doubt what I’m telling you now, you can ask Mr. Crofty. He got me the job at the Home Office.”
“I need to go. I’ve remembered something—” Beth turned away from him and began to take long strides down the gentle slope.
“Beth, wait.” His call was hissed out in a loud whisper, cautious of alerting any ball-goers that might wander near. He hurried down after her. “I’m sorry that we had no real goodbyes, but please, you’re not the only one who longed for one.”
“It isn’t just that.” She turned.
As he stepped forward, she stepped back. The woman who melted comfortably in his arms just moments ago, the woman who clawed at him to stay, was gone. A new expression crossed her face, an exasperated one that told him he was a fool for not understanding.
“I will never be caught off guard again.” She said it with all of the challenging conviction that she possessed the night they met on the road. The most fortunate and misfortunate night of his life.
She proceeded toward the house. The chamber music became less muddied as Rhys followed.
“Does the name Desmarais not catch you off guard?”
She froze but did not turn.
“He’s the reason I’m here.”
She didn’t answer for a long time and Rhys didn’t dare press her. At last, she turned her head only enough that he might hear her better.
“So it was no accident that we met tonight?”
“No, Beth.”
“And you knew that I would be at the Weldons’?”
Rhys had hoped he wouldn’t have to answer for that without a chance to explain.
“I’m here at your father’s invitation.”
Rhys watched as her fists curled into tight balls at her sides. Then she broke back into her fast strides toward the house. Her final words were cast over her shoulder.
“Stay back, Mr. Booker. We mustn’t rejoin the party at the same time.”
Chapter 18
By the time Rhys reached the stone steps, Beth had slipped back inside the ballroom. He caught sight of her silvery silks through the French doors. She now clung to the arm of a girl in a sap-colored gown.
Beth’s expression was quite in contrast to the one she’d been wearing moments before. It was now all wild-eyed smiles and congeniality. Rhys’ stomach turned over at the sight of her being anything other than herself. God, what she must be thinking. His hands shook and he stared down at them, willing them to steady. Seeing her again had exacted a toll.
He’d not spotted her for the entire first hour of the fête. He’d nurtured a bloom of anticipation in his gut all day, and its thin petals had quickly wilted. But then, he’d asked Lady Weldon if Beth were present, and she’d assured him Beth was there.
He’d first caught sight of her from a distance, down the length of the pond. Even by the faint torchlight—having forgotten so much and with her looking so different—he’d known instantly, it was her.
His heart had been at least three paces ahead of him as he’d strode down the path to reach her. He needed her to be real. Just the whisper of touch between them as he passed off the sherry glass was enough to fill up his
once empty hopes.
But she was correct about the imbalance between them, more so than she yet knew. Because he had come back. Once. He had to know that she’d recovered from her illness.
It was two weeks after he left her. He came in the early morning and fussed about on the fringes of Greenthorne before leaving his mount and stalking toward the house.
No candle flickered in her upstairs window. No aproned skirts fluttered past it. He must have watched for near to an hour, concealed behind a tree and feeling more like a blackguard than ever before.
He moved back at the first sign of activity—the clunking lock of a servants’ entrance as someone exited. Then his eyes could scarcely believe it—not a servant emerging, but Beth. Buttoned into a tidy redingote, she looked hale and bright.
That’s it. He remembered telling himself. You can go now. He had his confirmation. The only thing he’d promised to allow himself.
But as he’d watched the fresh and gentle snow alight on her black-feathered hat, he’d found it almost impossible to leave. He wanted to savor the way his soul soared at seeing her well. Her cheeks were rosy, and her back was straight, yet there was, tragically, no hint of a smile on her lips.
What would have happened had he made himself known then?
To learn tonight how she’d been hurt by it—would it really have been any easier on either of them? If he’d come out from the grove of trees and whistled a signal at her. If she’d lifted her eyes—would they have lit up? Would she have come running through the untouched snowfall to embrace him? Or would she have dealt with him as a visiting specter? Nodding once before looking straight through him and going on with her life?
Tonight, he’d seen her as he never had before. Wrapped in silk. Wrists, bare yet warm. He’d stolen glances at her décolleté, where a white scar danced jagged against her collarbone. Some part of him had hoped that it would vanish over time, in spite of its angriness.
Rhys turned his cheerless gaze back to the windows. Between the dancers, he could still catch glimpses of Beth clinging to her friend.
“She’s much older than she looks, you know.”
Rhys turned. It was Beth’s friend—the name escaped him—Herbert, Hen—, Hamish—
It didn’t matter. The snobbish officer only handed him a glass of wine and kept walking. Rhys narrowed his eyes at the man’s back and poured the wine into the urn of the nearest topiary.
Beth wished she were at home in Greenthorne. She needed the trunk at the foot of her bed. She needed to unwrap the cloak that had long been entombed within it. She needed to bury all of her questions in its answers.
Every moment since Rhys appeared out of the darkness had felt strangely, perfectly right. The dumbstruck awe, the dreamlike haziness, the anger, the eagerness to be embraced—and then, there on the hill, she had abruptly remembered a face—the man in town who’d had the vaguest appearance of Sol.
With that memory, a seed of doubt was planted. Looking into Rhys’ eyes, she could tell how much three years had changed her. She wondered about the ways it might have changed him.
His mere touch infused her with trust, just as it had three years ago, but now her wisdom warned her against that trust. What if it had been Sol in town? If both Rhys and Sol had resurfaced at once, did that not warrant caution? Her thoughts congealed around a conspiracy that she did not want to acknowledge. And then he he’d uttered it:
Desmarais.
She’d been certain Desmarais was still alive. Rhys gave her the confirmation she’d awaited, yet it did nothing but break her heart.
If Rhys were to be believed, then he’d returned to Yorkshire to warn her of something. A wish buried deep within her had only half come true. He’d returned. But he hadn’t returned for her.
She couldn’t sleep. The counterpane of the luxurious guest bed was suffocating. She retreated to a bench at the window, her knees tucked up to her chin, to keep vigil over her own thoughts.
If Allison had been aware that Beth’s Rhys was at the ball, she didn’t let on. She just steadied her friend for the duration of the night, asking over and over if she’d seen a ghost. In fact, she had. The one thing she was certain of now was that he wasn’t going to vanish into the ether. He’d come back for a reason, and she was certain she’d learn more of it.
It was evident from the sun’s punishing angle that Beth had slept much later than she was fond of. Her legs creaked out from beneath her as she unfolded herself from the tight position she’d fallen asleep in on the bench. Laughter fluttered up from somewhere downstairs.
The door to Allison’s room suddenly bumped open, and Allison came floating in like a fairy, already dressed and fresh. Her face screwed up when she caught a glimpse of Beth.
That bad?
“Good Lord, did you look even look this poorly when you were returned from the woods? I didn’t realize you’d had so much wine.”
“I didn’t,” said Beth. “I just didn’t sleep.” She looked Allison up and down. Her young face had returned to a portrait of joyful vigor. “And how did you escape the grip of the ballroom demons this morning?”
Allison shrugged. “I suppose I’ve just sacrificed enough hens to them lately.” Beth laughed, but the laughter died sharply as her cousin threw open the drapes. Beth’s eyelids clamped down against the searing light. A friend to demons indeed.
Beth fished beneath the bench for a robe she’d abandoned in the middle of the night. Her fingers found it and she stood tall to stretch before slipping it around her. Allison stopped her before her second arm was through the sleeve.
“Oh Beth, no. Breakfast is formal this morning and late because everyone else looks like you. Louisa is helping my mother with something at present, but I can help you dress.”
Beth allowed it, but she wasn’t feeling very formal. They compromised on a chemise gown with a soft lavender Robe à la Turque over top. Allison helped her with her underpinnings and then rubbed some sort of mint oil under Beth’s eyes. She swore it would make Beth look as though she’d “slumbered for a thousand days.”
“There,” said Allison. “You’ve been rendered presentable. No time to do more about your hair. May we please go eat now? I am starting to smell delicious things, and I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.” Beth nodded, but she didn’t quite make it to the door before turning around and hurrying back to her dressing table.
Gardenia blossoms floated in a bowl of water, leftover from those she’d plucked for the ball. She lifted one and without even shaking it dry, pinned it above her ear. Nodding to herself in the looking glass, she saw a face with too many stories. Beth ran to catch up to Allison, who had abandoned her to follow the wafting scent of Chelsea buns.
The Weldons’ new residence was grand and didn’t yet possess the warmth of being lived-in by its new tenants. Beth’s heels echoed in a lonesome way as she crossed through its high-ceilinged rooms. She neared the dining room, only to realize that it was not the origin of the breakfast aromas. A faint round of laughter went up from someplace beyond, and she turned her head to it. The terrace. She crossed through the ballroom, where two footmen were quietly disassembling some of the installations of the night prior.
The entire wall of French doors was opened to the outside, where a long table had been set up for near on twenty of the Weldon’s acquaintances. Soft chuckling and drowsy conversation lilted through the empty ballroom. It was a beautiful scene—like a painting—to see them, all smiles and crumpled silks, backlit as they were by the morning’s golden sun.
Beth recognized her father’s back as she approached from inside. He sat at the middle of the table, with an empty seat next to him for her. On the other side of the table, a footman held the tray of buns in front of a happy Allison. She didn’t notice Beth’s approach, fixated as she was on the food laid out before her. Beth put a hand on her father’s shoulder.
“Good morning, Papa.
” She kissed his cheek as he stood up to greet her.
“Beth, dear. Look who has joined us this morning.” He gestured across her, and she turned.
The seat to her left pushed out and there was Rhys, standing and bowing his head. His hair was unkempt, partly hanging by his eyes.
“Miss Clarke,” he said.
Her mouth opened in a stupor that she quickly clamped down on. She had said she wouldn’t be caught off guard, after all.
“Rhys,” she said, forgetting herself.
“Pardon, darling?” asked her father. “Do you not remember? I could have sworn you were re-acquainted last night? This is—”
Beth caught up suddenly.
“Mr. Osbourne Booker, yes!”
A fork from across the table came clattering down to its plate. Allison caught it before it reached her lap and held it to her chest like some memento as she stared wide-eyed and agape at Beth, then at the strapping man opposite her. A devious grin of realization stole across Allison’s face.
Rhys looked to Mr. Clarke in hurried explanation. “Rhys is my middle name.”
Allison gasped loudly.
Rhys’ lip kicked up into a smile that seemed all too knowing as he acknowledged the awestruck girl across the table.
Beth put a palm to her forehead, bracing herself to forge through the oddest breakfast of her life. Then she gestured to Allison. “Mr. Booker, my cousin, Lady Allison Weldon.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Allison. You look well this morning, considering the toll the festivities took on so many of us.”
Yes, her cousin did look well. Beth couldn’t say the same of herself that morning and suddenly wished that she could.
Allison straightened and blushed. “The pleasure is mine. I’ve heard so mu—” She looked to Beth for permission and saw none. “I mean, I am just so grateful that you brought my dear friend back safely those years ago.” Allison softened back into her seat and rearmed herself with a hot bun, but her smile did not relent.
Rhys pushed in Beth’s chair as she sat. When they were settled, he turned to her. “And you,” he said, in a private volume, “look very awake indeed.”
