Trimmed in Blue

by Sandra Sookoo

  She tilted up her chin in a gesture of defiance. “I would like to hire you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Annoyance flared once more. It wasn’t exactly what he’d feared, but it was even worse. “I am not that sort of man, madam.” He didn’t mind an affair or a one-off night of passion if he was inclined—which he was not—but he refused to have women think he was a for-hire stud service. Cold disappointment sliced through his chest. He’d thought she might be different. Damn his eyes for hoping.

  I know better. Hadn’t he learned the hard way? Besides, he had no idea who this woman was nor her reputation.

  “You have mistaken my intent,” she said with a fair amount of force in her voice. With trembling hands, she pushed back the hood of her cloak. Purple bruising decorated her left cheek, not deep enough or dark enough to suggest a full-on punch but perhaps a back-handed slap had occurred where knuckles had connected with her skin.

  “Good God,” he said under his breath. “Are you well?” Aside from the bruise on that high cheekbone, he took in her black hair caught back in a loose chignon. Baby-fine curls hugged the slender column of her neck and clung to her skin. Damnation. If anything about a woman was a lure, it was curls like those. Would they be as soft as they looked?

  Get a hold of yourself, Cecil. You do not need a woman. For anything.

  “For the time being.” When she caught him staring, she narrowed her eyes. Lightning flashed in those hazel depths, and he knew a strong urge to get closer and ascertain if there were gold flecks in those irises.

  “Ah.” Sweat trickled down his back. He didn’t need this. Not now. Not ever. No matter what. Why, then, was he experiencing an irrational reaction to her, however slight? And why the deuce did he want to know more? “Your purpose here?”

  A finely arched midnight eyebrow arched. “I want you to teach me how to properly fight, how to defend myself, how to make certain I can live my life and have a future where fear doesn’t factor into it.”

  Cecil opened his mouth only to close it again with a snap of teeth. What the devil could he say? Obviously, she was in some sort of peril, it would explain her skittishness. And damn it all if that bruise didn’t have his dander up. It marred the perfection of her round face. Any man who dared to lay a hand on a woman in anger was worse than a scoundrel indeed. His curiosity regarding her hit a new high.

  I need to ask many more questions, but what? His mind was a blank suddenly.

  He cleared his throat. In some puzzlement, he looked at Samuel, who took in the proceedings with shock on his face. He shrugged when he met Cecil’s gaze. It would be pure folly to align himself with this woman, for any reason, let alone give into her invitation. “That’s not exactly a request I field every day, so I’m not certain—”

  “Please, Mr. Carrington.” The plea in her eyes had his belly in knots. “I hate to say this and sound desperate, but perhaps I am. You are my last hope.”

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Chapter Five

  As silence pressed heavily into her, Louisa stood with a stiff spine and an uplifted chin as the two men in the glassblower’s shop stared at her. Had her question been that scandalous? She hated the fact her bruised cheek was on display, but it couldn’t be helped. They were strangers, to be sure, yet she didn’t feel threatened by either of them. At least not while they kept their distance. Worry knotted her belly.

  The mulatto gentleman behind the counter was uncommonly handsome. His eyes danced and sparkled as if he knew a secret that no one else did. Expensive clothes molded to his body. He certainly had a fine tailor, and he didn’t wear a leather apron like his partner. What was his story? No doubt there must be one.

  But he wasn’t the object of her focus. As the thrumming of her heart kept a steady beat in the silence, she contemplated the boxer. Mr. Carrington wasn’t bad looking, perhaps a tad ordinary and of average height, but he wasn’t a dandy, nor did he appear a fine gentleman like his friend. Something about his slightly crooked nose, his rugged jaw, and his disheveled sandy-brown hair set her at ease, for which she was glad. Handsome men were less likely to be trustworthy, but when he’d come her way a few minutes earlier, her mind had screamed a warning.

  Why? Her skin didn’t prickle in alarm like it did when the baron was in her vicinity, and neither did his presence urge her to run. She remained on guard all the same until she knew more about him.

  Questions roiled in his blue-gray eyes. The longer the pregnant silence stretched onward, the more the baby-fine hairs on her nape quivered. Oh, I can’t take the suspense! Louisa cleared her throat. “Did you hear me, Mr. Carrington?” What if he refused her request? Fear tingled down her spine. She couldn’t go back home without hope. Every mark the baron left on her person made him stronger and took a piece of her soul away. How long can I fend him off on my own?

  But she couldn’t think about that now.

  “Of course, I heard you,” Mr. Carrington snapped. His eyes met hers and then his gaze moved to her bruised cheek—again. Her face grew hot beneath his scrutiny. “You want me to teach you fisticuffs.” It wasn’t a question, but incredulity rang in his tenor.

  “Yes. Why not?” She raised a hand and briefly touched her cheek in self-consciousness. Mr. Carrington was the first person she’d let see her injury outside of her maid, whom she’d sworn to secrecy. Last night her stepfather had again sneaked into her bedchamber. He’d unlocked the bloody door, but she’d been ready for him. She’d brought her water pitcher down on his head. It hadn’t knocked his drunk self out, but it had made him irate. He’d lashed out, catching her with a back-handed smack.

  The baron had left then, for the commotion had brought a maid and her mother to the room. Of course, her mother chided her on being clumsy and dropping the pitcher which had broken, and water spilled all over the floor. Once she’d left, the maid helped Louisa clean up, but she’d known the truth.

  The servants always did.

  “Why not, what?” The sound of Mr. Carrington’s voice pulled her from her musings.

  She tamped down the need to sigh with frustration. “Why is my request so abnormal?”

  His jaw dropped. It wasn’t a good look for him, but she held her tongue. “You’re a woman.”

  “With a few more obvious statements like that, you might be labeled intelligent,” she shot off before thinking, so great was her annoyance with men in general. A strangled sort of laugh issued from the man behind the counter. She ignored him. The fact that Mr. Carrington would brush her off as irrelevant because of her sex sent a surge of hot anger rising in her chest. “What difference does it make if I’m a woman? I have two hands that can become fists, don’t I?”

  “That isn’t the issue.” The man blew out a breath. “Women are more fragile, too delicate, for such exercise.”

  She snorted. As did the man behind the counter. “That’s disappointing to hear, Mr. Carrington. I thought you might understand.” She took in his dusty leather shop apron, the long-sleeved lawn shirt, complete with black fabric guards that covered his forearms to protect the garment, the scuffed Hessians, the arrogant way he stood there with his arms crossed, and she frowned. “Women are also more exploitable and definitely more abused, correct? To your way of thinking we should take what’s handed to us without complaint?”

  “I said no such thing. It’s only that—”

  Louisa sailed on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “Why should a mere female not wish to defend herself against unwanted male advances and even outright attacks? Do we not have the right to refuse and have that refusal be obeyed? Or do you, in all your male wisdom, believe that we truly are the weaker sex and therefore are objects to be chased and used, thrown away when a male is finished with his pleasure?”

  Shock filtered over his plain face. Mr. Carrington put up one hand, palm outward. “I’m not saying—”

  It was gratifying to see a gentleman at a loss for words. “Oh, but you are in your wish to be noble and save me from what some might consider pedes
trian activities such as boxing.” Her temporary bravado faded, and her chin quivered. As she’d said before, he was her last hope. “In doing that, you are consigning me to a fate I would never have chosen for myself.” She captured his gaze with hers. “And neither would you if you but knew what my life has become,” she finished in a choked whisper.

  Drat. She hadn’t wanted to show any emotion, but she was unable to keep it at bay, so great was her dread that she’d be sent home without a solution.

  The man behind the counter laughed. “Good Lord, Cecil, how can you stand there without saying something?” When she glared at him, he coughed. “Uh, I do believe I have an errand to run. Shall I take young William with me? I think I heard him just return.”

  At least his interruption took away some of the terrible tension building in the room. Mr. Carrington cleared his throat and spared him a glance. “That might be best. Thank you, Samuel.” When he swung his gaze back to her, his eyes glinted. “You have my full attention, madam.”

  Louisa gave into a shiver. Not of revulsion. Oh, no. The rumble of this man’s voice sent curious gooseflesh over her skin that had nothing to do with fear or disgust. That didn’t mean she trusted him. He’d have to earn that, and he hadn’t started off well. “Good.” For several heart-pounding moments, she stood rooted to the hardwood floor, staring at Mr. Carrington, who balanced on the balls of his feet, his body tensed and ready for action—to flee or fight? How did one know the difference and what to do, when?

  Then he gave his head a shake and focused those intense blue-gray eyes on her once more. “I don’t suppose you’ll leave until we have a chat?”

  “I will not.” From the direction of the back room, a door slammed. No doubt the other shopkeep leaving. She was well and truly alone with this man—this stranger. Another shiver went down her spine. But she wasn’t afraid. No man with an honest face, for that’s what he had, would do anything untoward, especially not here in the place he made his livelihood.

  “Very well.” He executed a bow from the waist, the movements fluid with the ease of long practice. Obviously, he’d been bred to the manners, but he didn’t give off any more clues to who he was. The man might not be overtly handsome, but he was certainly charming—or striving to be. “As I said, I’m the Honorable Cecil Carrington. And you are?”

  “Miss Louisa Harcourt. My father was a country squire in Surrey, but he passed from a bad heart years ago.” Why had she said that? Was it a need to appear more legitimate in his eyes?

  “Yet you said you’re not of the ton.”

  “I’m not.” She pressed her lips together. How much more should she let him know? “However, shortly after my father died, my mother remarried... to Baron Althrop.” Even saying that man’s name made her want to retch.

  The skin beneath his left eye twitched. That’s when she noticed the bruises about his face, no doubt incurred during his boxing match. Oddly enough, they gave life to his face, even bestowed a certain rakish appearance she hadn’t noticed before. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “Oh, I imagine loads of people have, and not for good reasons,” she shot off without thinking.

  One corner of Mr. Carrington’s mouth quirked upward, but he didn’t outright smile. “Be that as it may, why are you in London? Surely you didn’t travel here merely to see me.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “This visit is a result of recent...difficulties.” Again, she touched her cheek and tried to stem the tide of memories. “It’s regarding my stepfather.” How to explain without seeming pathetic or a victim? Mr. Carrington didn’t look away as she struggled with her thoughts. “The baron doesn’t linger at his Surrey estate any more than possible.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.” His tone was patient, as if waiting for a child to arrive at the point of a story.

  “No, it doesn’t.” Every muscle in her body tensed, ready to run. “Perhaps it was folly to come,” Louisa whispered. What little courage she’d managed to muster slipped away. “I should go.” She edged toward the door, but Mr. Carrington nimbly stepped into her path, his movements as fluid as a dancer.

  “Running isn’t the solution to your current difficulties, Miss Harcourt. Lord knows I learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Did he have experience in the things she was going through? Perhaps not on the same level, or perhaps in a different way. As she eyed him, curiosity won, and she paused. “How?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Is someone threatening you, Miss Harcourt?” Mr. Carrington flicked his attention to her bruised cheek. “A husband, perhaps?”

  “I’m a widow. For a few years now.”

  Shock lined his expression. “Yet you call yourself Miss Harcourt.”

  “It was my maiden name. I like it better than the Widow Wiggenmeyer.” Even after all these years, she still couldn’t come to terms with the surname. It was ridiculous!

  “Ah. Now I understand. You have my sympathies for your loss... as well as the surname.”

  “Thank you. My marriage was... unremarkable. Let’s leave it at that.” The words hardly cleared her tight throat. It wasn’t grief for her husband that affected her, it was fear of saying the specific name of her tormentor, as if the man would suddenly appear from thin air. “As for who, I shouldn’t say. If he discovers... if he should find out I’m even here asking for assistance—” Her heartbeat accelerated as fear fueled the need to run, the urge to hide. “Oh, dear God, I have made a grave mistake.”

  “You have not.” A shadow clouded Mr. Carrington’s countenance. “It will help me decide how to handle your... problem if you talk honestly with me.”

  Louisa blinked to stave off the tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t wish to burden you.” And perhaps that was the biggest problem—not telling anyone of her troubles. Could she have saved herself months of anxiety if she had come to this decision sooner? There was no way of knowing.

  “Talking to ease your load is never a burden.” He didn’t move; neither did she.

  So much did she want someone to believe her, to side with her, but men often lied as part of their own twisted agendas. Her husband had when he’d kept the knowledge of a brief affair from her. When he’d finally been honest in a slew of letters that begged her forgiveness, there had been no opportunity to talk with him face to face, for he’d been killed in action two weeks later. “Do you truly wish to know or are you merely bored and curious?”

  Compassion lined his face. “I never say anything I don’t mean, Miss Harcourt.” Nothing but honesty shone in his eyes. He lowered his voice, and that thrilling timbre calmed some of her anxiety. “But one thing I won’t do is stand idly by while someone I know is being abused or threatened.”

  Her chin quivered. It was so easy, this talking to him. Was it all a trick? “You don’t know me.” Drat her voice that broke on the last word. I barely know myself. Who am I beneath the fear and loathing? “Perhaps I’m not worthy enough to find peace.”

  “Everyone is worthy of something, especially living their life the way they wish.” He continued to look at her. “And I know enough.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “I know your name is Louisa. I know you are afraid of someone, and that someone has struck you in anger.” Again, his gaze shifted to her cheek. “I know you’ve come to me to put a stop to it. And finally, I know you’ve struggled with this for a long time and you’ve finally reached a breaking point.” Mr. Carrington swept an arm toward the open door to the back room. “Will you talk with me in my work room? I promise you’ll have sanctuary here for as long as you need it.”

  A tear fell to her cheek from the kindness. He must think me a hysterical woman. Why the deuce must I turn into a watering pot so early in the conversation?

  Before she could answer, he said softly, “I imagine you’ve labored beneath this burden of yours for too long. Perhaps talking about it will help.”

  Oh, that voice sounded like melted caramel and a whispering river at the same time. A thrill d
anced down her spine, and despite the anxiety riddling her, the difference was... delicious. Her fingers itched to delve into her paints and easel to see if she could capture him on paper as he was in real life. “All right.” She followed him into the room and was given her second shock of the afternoon. It was a studio!

  At the rear of the space rested a large oven of stone divided into three parts. Wooden tables, scarred and battered, lay scattered over the scuffed hardwood. Some were covered with glass projects in various stages of completion. Others held bits and pieces of material, along with tools of the trade. Shelves were full of crates containing glass pieces, no doubt the material he melted down to craft such lovely creations as she’d seen out front. Because of the coals burning in the oven, the temperature was pleasantly warm.

  “Oh, this room is quite wonderful.” To think he made art from virtually nothing. It boggled her mind. In the strong morning light, it would be perfect for painting...

  “I think so too.” Another quirk of his mouth that didn’t bloom into a full grin. “This is where I follow my creativity and muse. If I’m working on a project without a commission, I never know what the piece will become until I’m finished.”

  “It’s full of possibility.” What must that sort of freedom feel like? To do what one pleased and let the mind guide the course? “I’m skilled in watercolor paintings, but I’m afraid nothing in my portfolio is as wonderful as what’s found in your shop.”

  “Art is subjective. All of it is beautiful to someone.” He picked up a sturdy wooden chair and plunked it in front of her near the doorway. “Please, sit here. It’ll allow you to see the exit in the event you feel trapped.” Then he leaned a broad shoulder on the door jamb and crossed his arms at his chest. Though he was barely two feet from her position as she squirmed onto the chair, he didn’t exude dominance. In fact, she didn’t feel anything in particular except perhaps... safety. How very odd. “Tell me all of it, Miss Harcourt. Leave nothing out. At the end, I’ll make my decision.”