Dominic stood and tossed down his linen napkin. The firelight, now behind him, left his face in shadow. ‘Very well. I have something I wish to show you.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Maud sat by the fire in Sir Dominic’s study.
The masculine room seemed so familiar to her now. The smoke from the fire, the leather scent of the chairs, the train timetable on the chimney piece and Sir Dominic himself. They had spent other quiet evenings in it, without needing to talk, her reading by the fire, him at the desk, running his fingers through his hair as he worked.
But tonight was different.
He had shrugged off his tailed dinner jacket, leaving only his white shirt with its black jet buttons and the loosened bow tie. He had built up the fire again, kneeling beside the grate himself rather than calling a servant in.
He had done it before, but tonight Maud had not been able to tear her eyes away from the scene. A simple task, deftly completed, the shift of his shoulder blades beneath the fine shirt, the tightening of trousers over his thighs. Now Maud no longer needed her lambswool shawl. She laid it aside over the edge of the leather chair.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as he lifted the brandy in an unspoken question. The hot scent of the spirit rose up as Dominic passed it to her. Her eyes lingered upon the fingers extending the glass to her, strong and lightly tanned from his daily rides, yet sensitive.
‘Are you regretting declining the syllabub?’
‘Not at all.’ She laughed. ‘But I am curious about the effects of saffron.’
Had she really said that? The wine must have loosened her tongue, or was it just the effect of his presence? She could get drunk on him. No, no, she must rein her unruly thoughts back. Who knew when they, too, might come tripping out?
‘Are you indeed?’ he murmured.
She looked at him over the edge of her glass.
That invisible connection flared between them again, hotter than the flames of the fire.
‘You said you had something to show me,’ she said at last, when she could bear it no longer. The intensity was almost overwhelming.
He seemed to hesitate, in a manner unusual for him. ‘Ah. Yes.’
He laid down his own brandy glass, untouched. The topaz liquid glowed.
The fire crackled.
He moved over to the desk, loosening his bow tie in what seemed to be a practised gesture. She remembered how the tie had been loose the night he had come and woken her from her nightmare. How long ago that seemed. Yet it had been the beginning of that powerful link between them, that sense of security and safety she had unexpectedly found in his arms.
Now she found herself watching his hands as he rolled back the upper section of the desk, after taking a brass key from a drawer underneath. It made a sound like falling dominoes, tumbling against each other as he rolled it back.
‘It’s in here,’ he said, ‘what I have to show you.’
He reached inside the desk. For another long moment he seemed to hesitate. Then he took something out—what it was she could not see—rolled the desktop down again quickly and locked it once more.
Tossing the key aside, he came back to Maud by the fire and sat opposite her.
He drew his leather chair closer to her. Their knees, hers clad in the dark green satin with its imprint of leaves and his in the black trousers of his evening attire, were now only inches apart.
In his hands he held a black felt box about the size of a watch case.
‘I found this yesterday,’ he said. He paused for a moment. Again, she sensed he hesitated. ‘I came across it while sorting some papers. I wanted you to see it.’
‘What is it?’ she asked. An indefinable jumble of emotions jumbled inside her as she laid down her brandy glass.
‘Open it and see.’
His fingers touched hers as she took the box from him. It couldn’t be construed as accidental, that contact. It was deliberate, though it lasted only a heartbeat. She had to school herself not to spring away like a startled hare—or let her hand linger in that warmth for ever.
It wasn’t covered in felted material, she realised as she stroked her finger over the surface. It was velvet, thick and black. It was the sort of case used to protect expensive jewellery. She had never held such a thing in her hand.
He noticed her hesitation. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It’s just I’ve never held a jewel box before,’ she explained. ‘Let alone opened one. I’ve only ever seen them in shop windows.’
‘Let me help you.’ He leaned in, ran his index finger around the edge of the velvet box and found the tiny gold catch that held it closed. It opened with a click.
Maud gasped. ‘It’s a Swallowtail.’
He chuckled. ‘I thought as much. I hoped you might be able to identify it.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Maud exclaimed. Nestled in white silk was a delicate hair comb, surmounted by a beautiful butterfly enamelled in creamy yellow and black, with a blue frill at the bottom. At the base, where the wings met, was a touch of red, shaped almost like a heart.
Maud peered closer. ‘It’s not precisely a Swallowtail, but it’s close. Did it belong to Rosabel’s mother?’
Dominic shook his head. ‘No, it didn’t belong to Sarah. It belonged to my mother and to her mother before, I believe.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘When you first started telling the story of Princess Swallowtail and described the butterfly, it enchanted me.’
Maud put her hand to her bodice. ‘It did?’
He nodded. ‘Indeed. I must confess that I have been most beguiled by your stories and now I realise that it was because it was as if something from my own childhood came to life in the telling of your tale. My mother often wore this butterfly ornament in her hair. I remember seeing it and thinking how beautiful it was when I was young. It seemed to dance and move and fly as she walked along. It captured her character in a way.’
He gave a half-chuckle.
‘Now I am being the fanciful one.’ He crooked a smile. ‘When I came across it yesterday it captured my attention. It reminded me of the happiness I had experienced growing up here as a child. You have brought that kind of happiness here again.’
‘Me? I have done so little for Rosabel so far. I have only been here three months.’ Or at least nearly three months. A little frown wrinkled her brow. Would Sir Dominic allow her to continue now, given this…feeling between them? ‘I have only done my duty.’
‘You have done a great deal,’ he corrected her. ‘Rosabel is a different child. Pendragon Hall is a different place.’
Dominic leaned in to lift the butterfly from the box. ‘I want you to have it.’
It was as well the leather chair held her up. Her legs certainly wouldn’t have.
‘You can’t give it to me,’ she whispered.
‘Why not?’ he replied lightly. ‘I want to show my appreciation for all you have done for Rosabel, but it is more than that. Consider it a token of friendship from the White Admiral.’
She had to smile. Still, she protested. ‘Surely it isn’t appropriate.’
‘What could be more appropriate? As soon as I saw it, it seemed to be made for you.’ His mouth curved into a smile. ‘Do you not like it?’
‘Of course. It is truly exquisite. But you gave me a fountain pen only yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes, the fountain pen.’ His smile twisted. ‘This is not a gift of that nature, Miss Wilmot.’
She held out the box to him. ‘I can’t accept it. It’s too much.’
He held up his hands, flat palms facing her. ‘Are you averse to receiving such a gift?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said frankly. ‘I have nev
er received such a gift before.’
She stared down at the butterfly. It was exactly the kind of ornament she would have dreamed of owning, if she ever allowed herself such idle dreams. The hair comb was the finest one she had ever seen. In London, in shop windows, she had seen combs made of silver and gold, or coral, or ivory. They were worn to balls, or fine dinners. She had even seen one in the figure of a jewelled bluebird on a fine wire, but she had never seen a butterfly. She’d certainly never held such a jewel in her hand.
‘It isn’t appropriate,’ she repeated, uncertainly.
‘I want you to have it,’ Dominic said. ‘Please. Do not deny me the pleasure of seeing you wear it. Will you at least try it in your hair?’
The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable.
She couldn’t resist. She gave a quick nod.
‘Here.’ He took the box and laid it on the table.
He reached out his hand and raised her to stand next to him, in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.
She could smell the woodsmoke on him from the fire he’d built in the grate, mixed with that freshness that clung to him from his rides, and now the scent of brandy.
‘May I remove your crown of leaves?’ he murmured. ‘Not that I do not admire it.’
In assent she lowered her head.
His touch was gentle, yet there was a firmness to it. He lifted the leaves from her hair, one by one, and laid them on the chimney piece. The leaves had been green and fresh when she had placed them in her hair earlier that evening. Now the edges were curling.
Without speaking he turned and lifted the jewelled butterfly from its box. She watched him in the mirror.
He turned back. His dark eyes were now opaque.
She bent her head further towards him.
She felt the touch of his hand on her neck, just below her chignon. Then it glided up, pausing as he deliberated, before he slid the comb into her hair, near the top. A tiny shiver ran through her as it went in. He halted, momentarily, then pushed it a little further. Then he took his hand away.
‘Look,’ he said.
She raised her head, angling it from one side, then the other. She gasped aloud.
The green dress with its imprint of leaves had always been a favourite of hers. She knew it made her look different, better than she did in her normal grey attire.
But the butterfly hair comb…
It sat high in her hair, glistening as if it were alive, as if it were real. It brought out the dark red depths of her hair, contrasting with the colour of her eyes. Surely her cheeks were not so pink, her lips so red, her eyes so luminous?
She had never looked like this before.
She caught his reflected gaze as it rested upon the comb in her hair, then travelled down, over her face, to rest on her lips.
She saw her own lips open, like a flower to the sun.
He didn’t move.
They were close, closer than they had been the night before in the woods, when she had realised the full force of her feelings for him.
She’d stopped then, stood apart from him.
But tonight, she would not.
Maud turned and lifted her mouth to his.
She felt his body pause, jerk, as he went to pull away.
But their lips had already touched.
Now she turned her body completely, lifting her arms to twine around his neck.
With a groan he pulled her to him, his mouth hard on hers.
She opened her lips, throwing back her head to drink him in. The taste of him, the brandy on his tongue and hers, the heat of his body beneath the white shirt, pressed against her satin dress.
He reached for her hair, curling strands of it around his fingers as he continued to search her mouth with his, in a wild, passionate discovery. She searched, too, for the truth of him, in that kiss, in that connection, that had flared between them for so long now.
Then, with a groan, he pulled away.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t intend that to happen.’
She drew in a shuddering breath. She could taste him still. Her whole being cried out for more. But would he give it?
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Her voice did not seem her own. It seemed to come from far away.
She hadn’t known it was inside her, that passion. It was still there now, crying out for his touch, his taste. She had thought it had been taken away, that it had been destroyed, by what had happened to her.
It had not. Not with him.
He moved away to the window and stared out into the darkness. She studied his back, the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? That she had thrown herself at him, wantonly, with utter inappropriateness for the governess of his child? That he would like to kiss her again?
When he turned back, he shook his head. Her stomach lurched.
‘This wasn’t what I intended when I asked you to dinner. Nor when I gave you the hair comb. I must ask you to believe that.’
She touched the comb in her hair with unsteady fingers.
‘You have captivated me,’ he said, low. ‘I have never had such feelings, even for Rosabel’s mother. This is so entirely unexpected.’
‘It is for me, too,’ Maud managed to reply.
‘Then you…’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
He reached out and cupped her face in his hand. His fingers were warm and strong.
He groaned. ‘This isn’t possible.’
‘Because I’m a governess?’
‘Because I didn’t know such sensations existed.’ He brushed a finger over her lips. ‘I want to explore what this is. I want to explore you. Can you believe that? Do you believe that?’
‘Yes, Sir Dominic.’
He gave her the half-smile that dented his cheek. But there was a light in his eyes, an expression she could not read. ‘You cannot continue to call me that. Not any more. Call me Dominic. Unless you want to call me by my other name.’
‘Your other name?’
‘In some nurseries I am known as “The White Admiral”,’ he said.
She laughed aloud.
‘Dominic.’ She tasted the name on her lips. ‘I prefer that, I think. Dominic.’
‘And by what name ought I to call you?’
She turned still, then drew back, out of his grasp.
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was a fearful wisp.
‘I cannot call you Princess Swallowtail,’ he said as he, too, stepped back. ‘Unless that is your wish, of course.’
She tried to laugh again, but this time it came out high and hollow.
* * *
Dominic moved closer. She looked so beautiful, just then, with the jewelled butterfly perched in her coppery hair. It suited her to perfection, even more than he had imagined. He felt as if he were near a winged creature that he had to ensure he did not startle, or it would fly away.
Now she was staring at him.
‘Well?’ he asked softly.
She backed away.
Fear had come into her eyes, as if she were trapped. As if he might cause her harm, catch her in a net and seal her in glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t accept this!’
She tugged the butterfly comb from her hair, so strongly that the chignon collapsed. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders.
She held it out, trembling.
‘Please. Take it! It isn’t right that you’ve given it to me. I—I don’t deserve it.’
‘Keep it.’ He raised his palms flat. ‘I want you to have it. It’s yours.’
‘No. I—I can’t!’
She released it from her grip.
The butterfly hair comb almost flew to the floor, but he caught it, just in time, as speedily a
s he had caught the butterfly in the woods.
But in doing so, he had taken his eyes from Miss Wilmot.
He heard the door slam.
When he looked up, she had vanished from the room.
He stared down at the hair comb.
His brandy glass was nearby. With his other hand he picked it up. Drained it.
Finding the butterfly hair comb had seemed to be some kind of strange sign.
He didn’t want to catch her in a net. He wanted her to come to him, to alight upon his outstretched hand. He truly was becoming fanciful now.
He stared at the ceiling, its ancient beams, the pale plaster.
That kiss.
He hadn’t planned on it. He would never have stepped over the bounds of propriety, lured her into his study for such a purpose. Yet when she had turned to him, reached for him, he’d been unable to fight the urge to take her in his arms. He had barely managed to hold back from seeking more when she’d kissed him, her full lips warm and soft.
Dominic unclenched his fist.
He dropped the jewelled butterfly from his hand.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
O young lord-lover,
what sighs are those?
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
‘Miss Wilmot! Miss Wilmot! You almost let the butterflies out of the vivarium!’
‘Oh!’ Maud exclaimed.
With a slam she closed the glass door.
‘They would have escaped,’ Rosabel said, reproachfully. Her ringlets bobbed. ‘And they have only just hatched!’
‘Oh, dear.’ Maud bent down and peered through the glass into the vivarium. The ferns they had collected had grown bigger, more delicate and beautiful, and most of the white chrysalises were open now. The newly emerged butterflies were still fluttering among the plants; the small and large coppers, the blues, the fritillaries with their multicolours.
‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Wilmot?’ Netta asked, from where she was seated by the window, mending one of Rosabel’s white ruffled pinafores.
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ Maud replied, flustered. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Thank you. I’m just a little tired.’
Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 59
