His smile widened. “I’d suspected it was meant to be. But you did a bang-up job of keeping me guessing.”
She laughed. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? And you lectured me for it.” She dropped her voice, imitating his gruffness. “‘People will think you intemperate.’”
His lips slipped into a more thoughtful curve. “Oh, yes, I was a terrible bastard. But you’d started to become a distraction. I felt I had no choice.”
“No, nor did I. Bonham,” she added, when he looked a question. “He was very determined to marry me. I was desperate to dissuade him, or to find an equally promising suitor whom Collins wouldn’t object to.”
A comfortable silence fell between them. Most of the attendees were on their feet, and a great many children were running through the forest of legs, screaming and laughing and ripping off great handfuls of straw to throw at each other. The bride and groom occupied a rude bench at one edge of the lawn; well-wishers were forming a queue to greet them.
“Is your curiosity satisfied?”
She sighed. “Actually, I doubt Mama ever visited such an event as this. She’s a great stickler for propriety.” Her mother had all but resigned herself to Mina’s wayward tendencies, but she would never be reconciled to them.
“Is America so different then? Can people behave without a care for their stations?”
She glanced at him. Apart from the wildness of his hair, one would never guess that he’d had such an interesting morning; his starched collar still stood at attention and his cuffs were properly pinned. It took some sort of talent to survive trains so immaculately; her own skirts were wrinkled beyond repair. But for all his apparent propriety, he sprawled casually across the bale, one hand propped behind him, his boot slung over his knee—not, she suspected, a pose he would ever employ in polite company. “Is it a question of how people behave?” she asked. “Or of how women behave? You seem perfectly comfortable here—but I suspect your countess would not.”
He smiled a little, as if the idea of his marriage were inherently amusing. “She might, Miss Masters. But the trick would be to enter the scene in a very different style. Sweep in as Lady Bountiful, condescend to greet the happy couple, hand them some coin, then depart as quickly as possible.”
“And you? What would you be doing during all this?”
The clouds were flirting with the sun, the light shifting rapidly across his face from a bright glare to a cool glow and back again. She could not tell if the shadow that fell across his expression was wrought by the light or by some dark thought of his own. “I suppose I will have to work on that. For so many years, the trick was to slip in without anyone taking notice. And now notice is precisely what I’m meant to demand.”
“Because of an accident of birth,” she said. “Yes, that’s why I can’t approve of this country.”
“And is it really so different in New York? Money or breeding…or beauty,” he added, with a brief nod to her. “What difference does it make?”
“Compliments,” she said suspiciously. “Ashmore, did that man on the train give you a knock to the head?”
He laughed. “I’m not blind. Only reticent to tell you what you already know.”
His frankness pleased her; he had managed to flatter her in a way that demanded no false modesty of her. If only others might learn this trick, her beauty might not be so tiring. Otherwise, she could not think of what pleasure it had ever afforded her. It drew attention from men whom she would rather have ignore her, and it put her at a disadvantage with anyone who complimented her, since in return they expected a show of humility or a simpering display of gratitude, both of which were hard to perform without feeling slightly diminished. “I thought about cutting it all off,” she said.
He frowned. “Your hair?”
“Yes. But it wouldn’t have served. New York isn’t an encouraging place for the female entrepreneur. It isn’t enough to have money; one must have allies. And a gentleman who would hesitate to associate himself with a mad bluestocking is more than willing to take on the role of mentor to some misguided, fluttering girl with more money than wits. Hair flutters quite effectively, you know.”
“I think even if you were bald, you could still manage to flutter,” he said dryly. “And wrap men around your finger as well. But it’s fortunate that you think otherwise.” He reached up and ran a finger over her hairline, from the crown of her head to her temple, lightly skimming down her jaw before dropping away. “I would miss it,” he said softly.
Her pulse tripped and her mouth went dry. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “At any rate, long hair. For the company.”
“Ridland mentioned your company. A considerable accomplishment for a woman.”
That made her sigh. “For anyone.”
“Yes,” he said. “But particularly for a woman.”
“But this goes back to my point about England versus America. Money is more egalitarian by far. If it doesn’t recognize breeding, it doesn’t recognize sex, either. Cleverness is what matters.”
“Cleverness,” he mused. “Oh, I think you’re more than clever, Mina. To accomplish what you have—it takes a real degree of genius.”
They were only words. She tried to focus on their workaday nature, to fight down the monstrous flush they occasioned. “What is this? Admiration?”
“And if it is? I think you do deserve a good measure of it.”
“Careful,” she said. “You don’t know me at all. Perhaps you’re admiring the devil.” She made a little grimacing smile as she said it.
But he did not take the invitation to lighten the mood. “I know enough, I think.”
“I’m sure you think you do.” They always thought they did. Marry me, Henry had told her, and your worries will be over. But what he mistook for worries were the reasons she rose in the morning. She did not blame him for it, not really. The world bred men to see a woman’s work, female pride and ambition, as threats to their own.
“I know that you want your mother safe so badly that you risked your life in Whitechapel to find her.” He paused. “I know that you sit here so calmly, waiting for a country wedding to finish, despite your fear.”
She hesitated. These were not the reasons she had expected—indeed, she could think of no reason for such generosity. “Why are you speaking to me like this?”
He smiled a little. “Because I am selfish. I’m wondering what your secret is. I could find a use for it myself.”
“You?” The exclamation sounded rude, and when he laughed, she could not even blame him.
“Yes, me.” He picked up a piece of straw, sticking it into his mouth as he surveyed the green. “Simple pleasures,” he mused. “The art of patience.” He glanced at her. “The gift, perhaps, for happiness.”
She pursed her mouth dismissively. But the silence that settled in lieu of her answer seemed fragile and charged all the same. It made her shift uneasily on the bale. She was not sure she wanted to share anything with him so complex as this silence. They were traveling to find her mother, and perhaps she would pleasure herself with him. That was all. And no doubt a good show of wantonness would put an end to his admiration. Sex and admiration did not walk hand in hand for very long, in her experience.
She turned her attention back to the bride and groom, who were circulating now through the crowd. “I will tell you the secret to happiness for a woman,” she said. “Never risk yourself where you don’t need to.”
He followed her gaze. “You mean marriage?”
“Among other things.”
“Never, then?”
She shrugged. It seemed to her that if she were ever going to take that risk, she would have done so in those early days in New York. She had received more than a few offers, and it would have solved all their financial problems. But the prospect had made her feel claustrophobic, as helpless as if she were still locked up in that room, listening to Mama’s suffering. She had told herself she would not make the same mistake her mother had; she would not count on a ma
n to play her savior. To do so would be tantamount to locking herself into another room, gambling her future on her hopes that the jailer would prove generous with his key.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Collins is a bastard,” he said gently. “He isn’t typical.”
She smiled. “No, not typical.” But there were lesser shades of him everywhere. “And you? I suppose you will have to marry, pass on the title.” He gave a curt little laugh, and she rolled her eyes, saying hastily, “Of course you will. Silly question.”
“No,” he said, “I was simply thinking that, by your philosophy, I shouldn’t.” His hand had been lying flat on his knee; he turned it over now, unfastening his cuff link. For the first time, she noticed a raised, reddened patch of skin that ran from the base of his thumb down his wrist, disappearing under his sleeve. “From a hot stove and a short round of ‘cry uncle,’” he said. “My father had a peculiar taste in humor, when drunk.”
She caught her breath. His smile bespoke no need for sympathy; he looked rueful, and a little apologetic. “That is different,” she managed.
“Is it?” He shrugged. “He was not so unlike Collins. Less deliberately malicious, no doubt. But he disappointed my mother no less than Collins did yours. The alcohol freed some demon within him. I will confess, I have felt it stir in me at times.”
“No,” she said. “You would do nothing like that. And of course it’s different. You were a child!”
“And so were you, when she wed Collins,” he said. “She had poor taste. You don’t.” He bent his head, refastening his cuff. She watched his brown fingers moving with such easy economy, and she wanted to touch his hand.
When he glanced up, he smiled again, as though startled to find her watching. “It’s all right,” he said, and lifted a brow. “I never did cry uncle, by the way.”
Nor did I, she thought. But she would not say it. She put her hand beneath her skirts, her heart suddenly pounding for no good reason, only that it seemed clear—thoroughly, irrationally clear—that if she touched him right now, their flesh would recognize each other. The wildest thought: these scars, his and hers, would speak to each other, communicating intimacies that could not be unshared.
Her fingers clawed into the scratchy surface of the hay. She wanted to touch him, simply for this: how casually he’d spoken of his suffering, and also how casually he dismissed it, returning to his ale as though he’d never mentioned it. He did not let the scar bother him. Why should he? It had healed into proof of his triumph. She had tried to feel the same, but Henry had never understood it. Your beautiful skin, he had whispered, his fingertips jerking away as if he could not even bear to touch them, those few little marks. She had told herself she should be reassured by his squeamishness; a man who balked at scars would not give her new ones.
Now she suddenly wondered if she’d had it wrong. A man without scars would always underestimate their value. He would not see them as marks of courage. What reassurance, then, that he would not also mistake them for fit forms of punishment?
“You’re very quiet,” Ashmore said. He gave her a smile, deliberately transparent in its attempt to lighten her mood, to encourage her to ignore what he’d revealed, if she preferred to do so.
She did not smile in return. All at once, it felt wrong to smile at him unless she meant it. He was helping her, and she felt that maybe she was finished now with her anger toward him.
He frowned a little. He was going to apologize for his honesty, she saw, which would be unbearable. She spoke quickly to forestall it. “So, yes, Ashmore, I highly recommend you marry.” She gave him a bright smile. “But do be kind to us poor spinsters.”
He tilted his head. For a second she thought he would push the other matter, but he said, “And what of love, then?”
She exhaled, glad for the return to simpler topics. “As a marriage does not require love, neither should love require marriage. In fact, it seems to me that marriage is the very antidote to love.”
“I change my mind,” he murmured. “Perhaps happiness was not the right word for you. You sound more like a cynic.”
She shrugged, although the little sting she felt suggested that, despite herself, she had rather liked his earlier view of her. “I learn from observation. And do you mean to say you’re not a cynic?” She glanced, against her will, at his wrist. Oh, she would not stop herself. She reached for it, her thumb finding his scar. “Can you be an idealist? When you found me in your study, was your first impulse born of optimism?”
“We’ve both walked a hard road,” he said slowly. “But I like to think I still believe in more wholesome possibilities than those I’ve been shown.”
“Wholesome?” She laughed. “I’ve heard it used to describe bread. But do note how fond everyone is of butter and jam; otherwise, the taste is too plain.”
His hand turned beneath her touch, his fingers threading through hers. “There’s no need to be flippant with me. You do realize, don’t you, that we’re both after the same goal now.”
She was sitting down, but her knees were beginning to tremble all the same. “You are determined to be frank today.” Her voice did not sound steady, either.
His dark eyes studied her face. “Perhaps I’ve decided not to be cynical about you.”
She mustered a weak laugh. “I would give it a few more days before you decide. You don’t know me at all.”
“You keep reminding me of that.” He smiled slowly. “But I have very good instincts.”
A nervous thrill chased through her. It was as if he had read her mind, and knew what she intended for him. She broke from his gaze. On the lawn, the crowd was arranging itself into couples. A small group of musicians stepped up onto the hay bales; the fiddler flourished his bow and began a reel.
A memory came to her, making her smile. She rose to her feet, still holding his hand. “Dance with me, Mr. Monroe?”
He set down his tankard. “By all means, Miss Masters.”
Chapter Twelve
As Ashmore’s warm hands spun and guided her, Mina was glad they’d never danced in Hong Kong. It would have ruined her for all the other dances that had come afterward, with men who did not move so lightly on their feet. He steered her with ease through the other couples, and after the first song, she stopped bothering to watch out for anyone; she shut her eyes to give herself over fully to him and to her ambitions.
If he looked for wholesomeness, he must look elsewhere—that, she meant to make clear. She lifted her arms over her head as she spun away from him, and he pleased her by whistling appreciation as he caught her up again. She liked him more than a little, not least because he’d compared her to a knife; he spoke of instincts, and hers had always approved of him. It would have been enough to make her wary, for she did not seek entanglements. But there was no danger of that. This wasn’t her country, and soon enough she would be gone.
Indeed, as they danced, she marveled at her lack of worries. Her spirits felt lighter than they had in so long. She was going to find her mother, and the joy that bubbled up within her was not only at the prospect of a reunion, of safety, but also at her own triumph: She was more capable than Ridland had realized. She had outwitted him and persuaded this man to help her, and very soon she would exorcise all her curiosity about him. Tomorrow, free, she would find her mother. Everything would be fine then, a tragedy turned into grand adventure. She felt empowered by the prospect; she felt aglow with her own capability. Put a mountain in front of her, and she would rip it apart with her bare hands. Ashmore’s admiring eyes announced it: she was a force.
When the dance was over, another villager pressed fresh tankards into their hands, and they drank the ale down thirstily before agreeing, by a wordless accord of glances, to return to the dance.
This time, something felt different between them. She had planned to work up to a seduction tonight, but suddenly patience seemed superfluous. Her strange exaltation transferred its focus from herself to him. How could she resent
a man who moved so beautifully, who did not fear being as graceful as a woman? A lion, a hunting cat, he had a talent for movement; his fingers were long and strong as they caught her and turned her by the waist, his teeth white and fine as they flashed at her. He looked boyish in his laughter, as though country dances and village scenes were his natural element; she could not square his face now with her old impressions of arrogance, although, when she thought on it, she liked his versatility, too. His body emitted a heat that called to hers when she came close to him in a figure. Her laughter was settling now into something deeper. She wanted to come right up against him. He had a great deal of potential, and her body wanted to realize it all for herself.
He seemed to feel it as well, for his hand began to linger and his expression grew sober, despite the merriment all around. When the fiddle slowed, his hands did not release her. In the small space between their bodies, a current was building that brought her closer to him; she could not move away even if the world rushed in between them. A warm breeze scudded through the crowd, perfumed with celebration: burnt sugar, the sourness of beer, the warm, golden scent of hay. Here was life in all its sweetness, surprising her when she least expected it, twisting forethought into revelation, reminding her that plans sometimes proved unnecessary, that occasionally everything came together spontaneously, as though the universe were an ever-resolving pattern that wanted to please her in the end.
They stared at each other, and as the music started up again, neither of them moved. He reached up to dislodge a strand of hair from her eyes, and for a moment, her stomach falling, she thought that his intentions ended there. But then the slow stroke of his fingertip traveled onward, past her cheekbone, down her jawline, along her neck to the edge of her bodice. Fire trailed in its wake, and a shiver broke across her skin. “You are a puzzle,” he murmured.
“I am,” she agreed.
“I give you fair warning, Miss Masters. I mean to unravel you.”
Later, she would think back to this moment and wonder at how easily she dismissed his caution, discarding so many years of hard lessons, so much wisdom so painfully accrued. But now the words made her breath catch, and she could think of nothing better than finding out how he meant to do it, knowing it would involve his lips and his tongue and other parts of him, wondering if he would speak to her as he touched her, the way he had in his drawing room, as though nothing were too shameful to be put into language.
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