No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  It was also the first day in weeks that she’d really see Simon, since neither Eleanor nor the maids could be her partner. Simon had spent the past two weeks mostly shut in his library or the study upstairs. Joan had passed by a couple times, felt the dull heat behind her ear that meant magic, and decided not to bother him. Not that seeing him mattered, really, Joan thought, but she wanted to impress him with her competence at something since table manners had been a bust. She was also looking forward to the lesson itself. The quadrille had been sedate, the grooms were still tentative with her riding lessons, and she wanted to move.

  “Have a look, miss?” Rose interrupted Joan’s thoughts. There were twenty or so little gray buttons at the back of Joan’s dress, and Rose had just finished buttoning them without swearing or fumbling once. Back home, Joan would have sent her down to sniper training ASAP.

  She turned toward the mirror, blinked, and blinked again.

  The dress was pretty: deep rose cotton trimmed at the cuffs and hem and collar with silver-gray ribbons. When it arrived, Joan had thought it looked good. Now she barely noticed it. She was too busy staring at her breasts.

  Great Powers, it’s like puberty all over again.

  The corset pushed up what she had and padded what she didn’t in a way that stood out even under the relatively modest dress. Joan had never minded being small up top—easier to run and shoot that way—and the corset was still a whole new level of impractical in a world that was full of impracticalities. Still, she could see now why women wore the things.

  ***

  The human mind adapted quickly. It was a bit sad sometimes, but everyone started taking things for granted eventually, no matter what they were. After two weeks, dinner was good but not mind-blowing, and most of the rooms at Englefield didn’t make Joan stop and stare anymore.

  The ballroom was still stunning. The walls were gold, or looked like it, though that was probably just fancy wallpaper, and darker gold curtains hung at the windows. Except for a black piano in one corner, the room was bare, and the wooden floor had been polished so much that it shone. Joan caught her breath as she entered. Then she heard Simon catch his.

  He’d been standing by one of the windows, talking quietly with Eleanor. Both of them had turned when Joan opened the door, but Joan met Simon’s eyes first and saw the look on his face—surprise, followed closely and unmistakably by lust.

  Heat swept over her, a wash of sweet white fire that pooled in her groin and left her speechless as Simon walked toward her. He moved smoothly, she noticed, not like a warrior but with a more unhurried grace. He’d be good in bed. Agile. She could imagine his body beneath hers, rising to meet her in smooth, liquid thrusts, his lips closing around one of her nipples—

  Joan breathed out in one unsteady rush. This was bad. She shouldn’t be thinking this way now. Maybe in her bed later, but not right now. She tried to remember the signs of radiation poisoning. Those were disgusting enough to turn anyone off.

  “Miss MacArthur,” Simon said, and bowed. “It’s always a pleasure.”

  “Good to see you, Mr. Grenville.” She wasn’t panting, at least, or drooling. “What do I do now?”

  “Give me your hand,” he said. His voice was lower than usual, more intimate, and the instructions sounded suggestive instead of annoying. “Fingers out—good.” Simon took her hand gently, bowed again, and raised the back of it to his lips.

  Oh, God. The kiss was very brief. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. She’d had much more contact with men back home, men she would never have thought of sleeping with.

  It was a bigger deal here. Maybe that was why she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and really kiss him, among other things that she wouldn’t let herself think of right now.

  She cleared her throat. “Will everyone do that?”

  “Probably,” said Simon. “It is gentlemanly behavior, after all.”

  “I’m surprised nobody’s lips get chapped. Can anyone just come up and say hello that way?”

  Eleanor actually giggled at the thought. It was the first thing like a real laugh that Joan had heard out of her, and Simon’s face visibly brightened when he heard it. For a moment, Joan forgot her desire in a mixed wave of relief and pity. Eleanor went on. “You’d have to be introduced first.”

  “Who introduces me?”

  “Any previous acquaintance,” Simon said. “You can hardly avoid the process.”

  The setup had potential. There were lots of toxins you could probably apply to gloves. Sad that she hadn’t brought any with her except for the stuff on the darts. Maybe a ring would work or a hidden needle—

  “If you’d care to begin the lesson,” Simon broke in dryly.

  “Sorry,” Joan said. “How do we start?”

  “Well, it’s a box step,” Eleanor said, and shyly demonstrated.

  Joan followed her movements, back with the right foot, back and to the side with the left, and bring them together. “Does this get tricky somewhere?”

  “The rhythm,” said Simon, “and the partner.”

  “Then we’d better practice those, hadn’t we?”

  “Precisely. Your hand?” He took it again and stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Up close, he was very big and warm, his hand smooth around hers. “Put your other hand on my shoulder, and keep your arms firm. I’m going to put my hand on your back.”

  There was pressure just above her waist. She couldn’t really feel anything else through the dress and corset, and that was probably good. “What now?”

  “Follow my lead.” Simon smiled. “As difficult as that may be.”

  His eyes really were very bright blue, and the lashes were thick and dark around them. And there was an interesting curve to his otherwise thin lips. Joan dropped her eyes, which didn’t help. It just meant she was staring at his chest. “So,” she said, a little faster than she’d have liked, “lead.”

  Dancing was surprisingly easy—of course you retreated when the other guy advanced, and vice versa—and fun, maybe because it was the closest thing to fighting Joan had done since she’d arrived. You had to wait and watch, alert to the subtle changes that told you what your opponent was going to do next. You had to be ready, moving at a moment’s notice but never too early. Like in a fight, there was energy in the back-and-forth of a dance, of the movement and tension between you and the other guy.

  Then, just when the dance started getting a little predictable, Eleanor began playing the piano. Now there was a third party to think about, something bigger than a person and with different cues to follow, and she and Simon were working together against it—or with it—as much as they were playing off each other. Sometime during the second song, she laughed from the sheer thrill of it.

  Simon lifted an eyebrow but smiled himself. “I somehow thought you’d enjoy this.”

  “You were right. You’re not going easy on me, are you?”

  He shook his head. “You catch on very quickly.”

  “Compared to company manners? You bet. I do better when there aren’t a million little details—here everything relates to each other, and I can see the shape of it. Besides, I’ve always been good at physical stuff.”

  Her thoughts shot immediately to one or two specific kinds of “physical stuff,” and she felt her nipples harden against her corset. By the way Simon’s eyes darkened, she knew his mind was in the same place.

  “Do they dance at all where you’re from?” His voice was thick.

  “Yes. But not like this.”

  There’d been one room in the tunnels, one dark room with a string of tiny red lights and music as loud as you could get from a dying tape player. One-Eyed Charlie ran it, and he’d sell you booze or stronger things when the raids went well and you had something to trade. She’d gone there to drink, but sometimes she’d danced too.

  “How?” Simon asked.

  “Less formal. Faster. And you don’t have partners. Well, not always.”

  With another rush of heat,
she remembered writhing forms pressed against each other, legs clamped around thighs, the smell of sweat and perfume and rotgut like an aphrodisiac. There were a lot of ways to release tension. Sometimes dancing had been one. Sometimes it had been a prelude, and not all that pre either.

  Simon swallowed. She watched his throat move. “Ah.”

  Back home, she’d have made him an offer, they’d have gone off to her room, and this crazy tension would’ve ended. It was just excess energy, really, and the presence of an attractive man, both easy enough to deal with back home. But here they assigned some sort of crazy meaning to sex, and she had to work with him. Even back home, she hadn’t slept with anyone in her squad.

  If a mission had ever been critical, this one was. She wouldn’t put it at risk to scratch an itch. No way. No matter how much she was tempted.

  Chapter 11

  At first, keeping busy had been easy. There had been the business of the estate, for one. As much as Simon had tried to keep up with things when he’d been in town, some matters really did demand his personal attention, and enough of them had piled up to keep him occupied for some time. He’d had to answer correspondence from his acquaintances in town as well and handle affairs there. And he’d certainly had plenty of research to do.

  Simon had welcomed all of it at first. In the days since Joan’s arrival, he’d felt the need to face the future with as much information as possible and with his affairs laid in order as best he could. He’d also wanted to build a wall out of fact and footnotes and duty, a wall between him and rash actions or unwise decisions, or simply to keep from looking too long at the task ahead of him.

  Joan had been part of what he didn’t want to look at. He was thankful for her presence with Eleanor and fascinated by the things she mentioned about her world, but when he spoke to her, he felt as if the world whose solidity he’d always taken for granted was as fragile as an eggshell.

  He retreated from that feeling to his books and his accounts, but the strategy didn’t quite work, because he found himself thinking of Joan anyway. When he read about breaking spells with salt, he wondered if her people had tried that. When one of his books described a man being turned into a dog, he imagined her remarking that it wasn’t really that much of a change. However he tried to blot her from his mind, she wouldn’t go.

  On a sunny morning, after he’d exhausted his own books and then posted discreetly pleading letters to magicians miles away, Simon discovered two things. First, he had nothing more to do. The accounts had been sorted and the tenants visited, and he’d searched every book in his library for references to geasa. Second, he was restless and utterly tired of sitting in small rooms reading or making respectable conversation with strangers.

  He dressed for riding. Then he went down to the dining room and joined Eleanor and Joan for breakfast.

  When he came in, Eleanor turned away from Joan and stopped whatever she’d been saying in mid-sentence. It stung to see that, but young ladies didn’t want to discuss some things with men, even their brothers. Besides, Eleanor looked decidedly improved. She had more color in her cheeks, her eyes were brighter, and the plate in front of her was well filled. He could certainly be content with that.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” said Joan, and grinned. “I’m glad to see you still exist.”

  She was quite altered. The hollows in her cheeks were much less pronounced, and her face itself seemed brighter. Her hazel eyes sparkled, and her lips were dark and sensuous. And with good food and Rose’s attention, her hair had become a gleaming reddish gold. She was still thin, and probably always would be, but she looked closer to slender than starved now.

  When she saw him looking, she smiled a little, knowingly, and Simon flushed.

  I’m just…noting changes, he thought, not—

  And then he was, because he saw her hair spread out over his pillows like a golden storm and thought of the way her face would look transported by passion. His cock jerked, hardening. Simon dropped quickly into his chair and hoped nobody had noticed.

  “I—hope you’re both well,” he said, collecting himself.

  “Very well, thank you,” said Joan.

  Her table manners were almost acceptable now, though absolutely mechanical. A little crease of concentration showed between her eyebrows whenever she held a fork or a teacup. Hopefully, that would pass with time.

  “Eleanor and I,” she went on, “were talking about riding. I believe they’ll let me head out on my own today. She was kind enough to suggest some routes.”

  “I see you’re going to go out as well,” said Eleanor. “Perhaps—if it’s not too much trouble—you could accompany Miss MacArthur? You do know the land better.”

  She looked back down at her plate after she spoke and not at Simon, but he smiled at her anyway. “I’d be glad to, Ellie. Will you come with us?”

  “Oh—no, no thank you. If you don’t mind, I have a few letters to write this morning. I’ve been very remiss about it, and my friends will be wondering.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

  “Then,” he said, “it would give me great pleasure to ride with you, Miss MacArthur.”

  ***

  When he came out to the stables, Joan was already there, a tall figure in dark blue, her hair brilliant gold in the sun. From a distance, she cut quite an elegant figure, though it would have been better if she hadn’t kept raising her hand to push at the brim of her hat. The gesture was appropriately equine but not quite appropriate to a lady.

  “It won’t fall off,” Simon said, as she turned to face him with a skeptical look on her face that set him grinning. “Really.”

  “You sure?” she asked and then shook her head. “I mean, are you certain?”

  “If Rose did her job properly, you have nothing to worry about. And it’s not as if you’ll be galloping or jumping.”

  “Mmm,” she said, looking down at the skirts of her riding habit. “Not in this anyhow, I’d hope. I like my neck whole.”

  The grooms led out the horses then, Aladdin and another gelding, a gentle, fat chestnut. Joan stood still for a moment looking at them. She concealed her feelings well, Simon thought. Even he didn’t know for certain whether she was nervous, and he alone knew that she might have reason to be.

  “You’ve been riding Gareth,” he said into the silence. “There’s a gray around here called Gawain. I’m afraid I was in something of a romantic phase when I named them.”

  Joan looked over her shoulder at him, lips curved a little. “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen, or thereabouts. My father wrote me at school and asked me what I should name the foals that year. I think he hoped to make me take an interest in the estate. Or in horse breeding. Something practical.”

  “Did it work?”

  He laughed. “As well as anything else did. It certainly gave us a generation of interestingly named horses. There’s a mare named Deirdre here, named for a tragic Irish heroine, and the most placid little thing you could imagine.”

  “Fate loves thwarting youth,” Joan said, pausing only briefly to substitute “thwarting” for whatever profanity had been in the original. “They’d be, what, ten years old now?”

  “More like twelve. Quite free of the storm and strife of youth, such as it is where horses are concerned.” He swung up onto Aladdin’s back and heard a whuffling sigh from Gareth as Joan mounted. “We’ll just take a short ride around the grounds today, I think. Nothing too strenuous.”

  “Worried about me?” It was a challenge but a playful one.

  “Worried about the horses.”

  It didn’t take long to get away from the stables and onto one of the paths that led around the lake. “It’s just women who ride this way, huh?” Joan said then, giving the sidesaddle a dirty look.

  “I can’t imagine that a man would need to. It’d be immodest for a woman to sit astride, you see.”

  “Mmm,” she said, unsurprised but dubious. “But it’s modest f
or you.” She looked down at her own skirts, then at the line of his legs, and he felt a brief but intense heat follow her gaze. Simon swallowed and looked between Aladdin’s ears, concentrating on the landscape ahead.

  It was a lovely day: clear, blue, and windy. Perhaps that was why Joan didn’t say half the things Simon knew she wanted to. When he got his urges back under control and looked over at her, she was studying the gardens off to the left. She was smiling too, a softer smile than he’d seen on her face before.

  “What are all those?” She didn’t let go of the reins to gesture, just jerked her chin. “I keep meaning to ask.”

  “Flowers,” said Simon, following her gaze. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you the names for most of them. There are roses, I’m sure, and larkspur and such. Other than that, you’d have to ask Hobbes. The gardener.”

  “Do they do anything? I mean, do you eat them or build with them, or do they protect against—things?”

  “Some of them, I suppose,” he said, startled. “White roses are good against demons, I hear, and there are herbs and such for different spells. But that’s not why people grow them. They’re just flowers. Pretty, you know.”

  Her eyes widened. “But there are so many.”

  There it was again, the sense that the world was very fragile and that darkness lurked just ahead. But it was a pleasure too to see how Joan reacted to such things and, through her eyes, to see them again as if they were new.

  “It’s the country,” he finally said. “Nearly everyone has something growing about the place, I’m sure.”

  “Oh,” she said, and looked at the gardens for a long few minutes before she finally touched her foot to Gareth’s side. “Would it be all right if I went in the gardens alone sometimes? Not to abandon Eleanor or anything, but—”

  “Good Lord, go wherever you want. We’ve no secret rooms at Englefield.”

  “No madwomen in the attic either?” Joan asked, one side of her mouth quirking upward. “Damn.”