He did not go to her that night.
As his body cooled, he admitted it would be both reckless and ridiculous to do so. The practical Miss Welbourne would never jeopardize her reputation, her situation, and her virtue, if she had the presence of mind to consider what she was doing.
Apologies were overdue. His behavior had become inexcusable. Although that continued to astonish him, he did not dwell on how unlikely the lapse at the theater had been. Further trifling with Alexia would be unforgivable.
It would take all the vigilance that Christian preached, however, because by dawn, lust still lacerated with its ragged knives. He lay abed past noon, debating his course, his honor dictating restraint but his body making primitive arguments with a louder voice. He finally found the discipline to rise and go to his City chambers, but he accomplished little there. Even his calculations could not distract him.
The next two days he did not bother being disciplined. He slept late, debated his course, concluded nothing, and haunted the house. Finally, on the fourth day he forced himself to the unwelcome task awaiting and sat down to compose a letter. Partway through he decided it would be cowardly to avoid a personal apology.
While he calculated how he could speak with Alexia alone, Elliot came into his chamber. He carried a letter.
“I see you are finally awake. This came for you this morning, Hayden. One of Aunt Hen’s footmen brought it.”
Hayden took the letter. In it, Henrietta managed to pout despite her flatteries and demurring words. She understood that he could not spend all his time with them, of course, and she did not want to impose or be a nuisance. However, he really needed to visit and have a good talk with Miss Welbourne, who was not making sufficient progress with teaching Caroline her French. She hoped he could make time this afternoon to do this.
“Whatever she wants, I could attend to it,” Elliot said.
“You are a rare brother, Elliot. You sense I am preoccupied and offer to throw yourself in harm’s way to protect me.”
“The recent change in your habits says I sense correctly.” He gestured to the letter. “You can just write and put her off if you think I’m not agile enough to dodge her snares.”
Hayden read again his aunt’s demands that he scold Miss Welbourne. He would have to see Alexia alone to do so. There was unfinished business between them that had nothing to do with French lessons.
“I will answer this summons on my own. The conversation that she demands I hold is long overdue.”
Alexia fussed over the green ribbon’s pleating on her first hat. It looked too even, too planned. She wanted a more careless and romantic effect, as if the sash had been tied with caprice, not calculation.
She carried the hat to the window to give it a good examination. Making it had been more difficult than she anticipated. Lacking a form, she had been forced to use her own kerchiefed head and a looking glass. Keeping it spotless meant she had applied the embellishments while wearing gloves.
Despite Phaedra’s admonishments, she had indeed toiled on this hat by lamplight. She had turned to it upon returning from the theater four nights ago. In a daze of desperation she had stayed up until dawn primping at ribbons and sewing crepe, hoping to make a hat of such superiority that it would buy her way out of temptation’s path.
She stilled with the hat in her hands as a presence entered her. His presence. Acknowledging their scandalous behavior could produce that in a blink. It horrified her that the sensation did not feel alien or intrusive, but warm and exciting.
Sounds in the street below drew her attention. She looked down to see Henrietta and Caroline entering the carriage. They went to fittings today at Madame Tissot’s.
She should be going too, but she had begged off, claiming to be ill. Nor was that entirely a lie. Anticipating the humiliation of facing Hayden again made her slightly nauseous all the time. He had not been to this house since that night at the theater, but eventually he would return.
She set aside the hat and sat down to complete a letter she was composing to Roselyn. She had much more important things to accomplish today than going to Madame Tissot’s. The wardrobe being made for her there would never be worn now anyway.
After sealing and posting the letter, Alexia hurried up the stairs to the servants’ floor. Henrietta and Caroline had already been gone an hour. She hoped she had time to conduct her little investigation. If she did not complete it now, she might not be able to for many days. She could not beg off on every outing.
The churning storm inside her had not only been caused by Rothwell’s advances at the theater. Their conversation disturbed her too. She had sought him out for reassurance about Benjamin. She had wanted to hear that Ben’s death was an accident and that her suspicions had no basis.
He had stepped away from the question, she realized now. Then he had swept her out of its path too, and into a river of passion.
It broke her heart to think Ben may have voluntarily left her forever. If love could not keep a man from killing himself, what good was it?
If he had, however, some indication of the reason might be among his belongings. If no such evidence existed, she would be more content about the peculiarities of that accident. She entered the attic space at the end of the corridor, hoping that nothing waited for her besides nostalgia.
She had to navigate past recent additions to the storage. Henrietta had sent up quite a few items, either brought from her own property or removed from rooms below. The marble columns from Caroline’s recitation flanked the doorway, their polish gently reflecting the light seeping in one small window. Several rolled tapestries had been brought here, the walls given instead to Easterbrook’s paintings.
She discovered Ben’s trunks against one wall. A frock coat lay atop one, as if someone had found an extra item and thrown it here rather than storing it properly. She dusted off the coat and folded it neatly. She dragged the trunks closer to the window. Unable to find a convenient chair, she pulled over one of the tapestries and made herself a nest on the wooden floor.
The first trunk that she opened contained clothing. She knelt and lifted each edge to see what lay below. She recognized most items and could picture him in these garments. She spied a silk waistcoat deep in the pile, one with blue and red stripes. She pulled it out and held it up.
He had worn this the day he kissed her for the last time. She felt again this silk under her fingertips and the pulse of his heart beneath her touch. Their embrace had been secret and brief, like all the others. He had been excited about his coming adventure in Greece, but she experienced a terrible fear. And a disgraceful resentment too that he was leaving her.
He had seen her grief. He had understood. I will return soon, you will see. We will be together forever.
She replaced the waistcoat and closed the trunk. Would he have said that if he intended to get himself killed? Or, worse, if he had intended to kill himself?
Her little investigation suddenly seemed almost traitorous. Rothwell’s questions had led her into inconstancy regarding Ben. He had planted seeds of suspicion about Ben’s death that were not warranted.
No, he had not planted them. His questions had only provided a rain of worry that allowed dormant seeds to germinate and grow.
The memories uprooted them now. The image of Ben in that waistcoat, so alive and excited, full of the happy optimism that returned spring breezes to her life—she need not fear finding proof he had wanted to go away forever.
Her search now made pointless, she opened the other trunk with a different purpose. She had been feeling strange and alone in this house for weeks. Embracing Ben’s memory, touching his possessions, warmed her. The glowing happiness was worth the ache of grief that flowed within it.
The second trunk held his personal items. She recognized the watch and its selection of fobs. Stacks of letters, his hairbrushes, a few books—the everyday possessions of a gentleman were piled within.
She lifted some letters to glimpse what lay beneath them.
As she did, the ribbon holding them together loosened. The pile fanned and fell, covering the contents of the trunk. She smiled as she recognized her own writing on some. Those were the letters she had sent to him in Greece.
A scent wafted to her, one sweeter than that on his garments. She began gathering the letters into a new pile and realized the scent came from some of the letters themselves. Interspersed among the others were some of similar size, with a similar hand. A woman’s hand, but not hers or one of his sisters’.
She lifted one and held it to her nose. She inhaled the remnants of rose water. A horrible stillness claimed her.
She looked at the letter for a long time, dazed with dread. She never really decided what to do. She still dwelled in a sickening limbo of indecision as her fingers unfolded the paper.
Benjamin, my love…
CHAPTER
NINE
Lady Wallingford is not at home, sir,” the footman said.
It was just like Henrietta to send that letter, then leave the premises.
“Fittings,” the servant confided.
“Then I can find them all at the modiste’s.”
“Not all. Miss Welbourne took ill and remained here.”
Hayden reconsidered his aunt’s absence, with new respect. She wanted him to address a governess’s performance and had left so it could be done privately. He intended a different conversation, but Hen’s delicacy would be convenient.
“Ask Miss Welbourne if she would kindly meet with me in the library. Unless she is so ill she cannot come down, of course.”
The footman left on his errand. Hayden went up to the library and sorted his thoughts, preparing for the great apology.
He trusted she would accept it quickly and they could be done with this. If she noticed he did not sound sincere, which in a large part he was not, perhaps she would not mention it. Then again, with Alexia’s tendency to plain speech, he might leave this house today as the one soundly scolded.
It took the footman a long time to return. Instead of causing annoyance, the wait produced a rising anticipation. He had not seen her in days, a long stretch while he hid from his worst inclinations. Now this pending conversation lightened his mood despite its sorry purpose.
The footman returned alone. “I am sorry, sir. She is not in her chamber or the schoolroom.”
“Has she left the house?”
“I do not think so.”
“Then she has to be somewhere.”
The footman hesitated. “I believe she is in the attic. A maid saw her going up to that level, and the door is a bit ajar. Someone is in there—a woman, I am sure. It is possibly she.”
“Could you not have walked in to see?”
“I thought not to, sir. I believe the woman in there requires some privacy.” He made a little face. “She was weeping, whoever it was.”
Alexia weeping? His imagination tried to reject the image, but one formed all the same. The same strength and intensity that made it unlikely also made it dramatic should she ever break.
“I will call at another time,” he said.
The footman wandered off to other duties. Hayden waited until he was gone, then climbed the staircases all the way to the top level. He passed the servants’ chambers, aiming toward the attic door at the end of the narrow passageway. It was indeed ajar. He stepped closer to it. Muffled sounds of feminine sobs drifted out.
He entered and closed the door behind him. He spied her through the furniture and storage, sitting on the floor near the one small window.
Even at the distance, he saw floods. Her body shook. She clasped her hands over her mouth, pressing hard to smother the sounds.
He went to her, astonished by her emotion, wondering what could have caused it. He looked down into a trunk and recognized the watch lying atop some books. Anger spiked through his sympathy. She had come here to cry over Ben. Perhaps she did this every week or even every day.
She noticed him and turned her head away. Her valiant attempts to hold in her emotion racked her with spasms.
He knelt beside her to attempt some comfort. He pushed aside some papers strewn on the tapestry. The writing at the top of one caught his eye. Benjamin, my love…
He lifted the letter and read it. He looked at Alexia. Her eyes held so much sadness that he fumbled for a lie that would explain these letters away.
She covered her whole face with both her hands and lost her fight for composure. Her sobs filled the attic. Touched more than he had been in years, he sat beside her and gathered her into his arms.
His embrace both comforted and weakened her. Do not try to be brave, those arms said.
She collapsed against him and gave up the fight. Disappointment and humiliation wailed inside and poured out. Beneath it all, the practical side of her soul nodded knowingly like the worst kind of governess, the type who took satisfaction at being right even if it meant her charge was pained.
A few lucid thoughts broke through the black madness. You always wondered. If he had been serious, he would have proposed before he left. You believed in him because your future was a blank if you did not. She gritted her teeth and clawed at the coats beneath her fingers.
The embrace tightened. A kiss of comfort warmed her scalp. “Try to calm yourself.”
The gentle command called forth the woman she presented to the world and not the fool who clutched at romantic dreams. Her heart calmed to a heavy pounding. The rivers dried to slow trickles.
A handkerchief materialized, held by a strong hand. She took it and dabbed her eyes and face. The blur of papers that surrounded them became crisp again. She brushed a few away from her skirt.
“She wrote to him in Greece, but there were others too, from before that,” she said. “He never intended—he behaved dishonorably with me.”
“Perhaps he behaved dishonorably with her, not you.”
A tiny flame of hope sparked. It did not grow, but it flickered, desperately wanting fuel. It could have been that way. Ben might have lied to this other woman, not to her, regarding his affections and intentions.
She was too spent to weigh it all. Even if he had not lied to her, he had not been truthful either. “It is kind of you to say that,” she said. “But the evidence is that I was a fool.”
“I do not think so.”
She should move away but could not find the strength. Once she left this embrace, she would be cold and alone and facing an empty past as well as a hard future.
“Did you know?”
“I knew there were women in his life, as there are in most men’s.”
“This one wrote love letters for years. This one wrote as if she also received love letters. Her name is Lucy.”
“Then I did not know about this specific woman.”
Another truth presented itself. One that her heart did not want to see. “When he spoke of me in Greece, it was not love or intentions that he revealed, was it? I was just another not too specific woman.”
Stillness permeated his whole presence. That was answer enough.
She could not believe how empty she felt. The shock had cut her loose from herself. She dreaded the pending loneliness that would lack even silly memories. It loomed large, pressing on her. She laid her head against his shoulder to rest before she gathered her courage and walked forward again.
His embrace held her and filled her. His scent and warmth and human touch poured into the void. A sensual disturbance trembled through the connection too. She lacked the will to reject the perilous vitality he incited.
It entered her, stirring alive the parts that had just died in agony. She did not move but just absorbed it, not caring about the danger it carried. He did not move either. The silence of their embrace grew heavy. She became unnaturally alert to every part of her being touched by him. She sensed the same awareness in him.
She tilted her head and looked up. He gazed into the attic, not at her. His expression held the thoughtful sternness she had seen before, and his blue eyes had the hot lig
hts that made him look angry.
She had misunderstood that face in the past, but she did not now. His hardness contained a fury, but not anger. He turned his head and looked down at her, and the source of those fires could not be mistaken.
He caressed her face, his fingertips lightly buffing away old tears. His attempt to soothe her made her heart rise. So did the desire in his hold and eyes. She could not piece together the reasons why she should reject that desire. All of that belonged in another world and life. She dreaded the end of this warmth he gave and did not want to face the lifelong chill waiting for the sensible Miss Welbourne beyond this dark attic’s door.
She did not even think. Her battered spirit grabbed the chance to drown the truth and flood the hollow disappointment.
She reached up and touched his face too.
Except for the way the fires darkened, but for a new, sensual hardness to his mouth, he barely reacted at first.
Then his hand covered hers and held it flat against his skin so his warmth flowed into her. His strong fingers enclosed hers completely, then lifted her hand away. He turned his head and kissed her palm and her pulse.
Butterflies fluttered from her wrist to her heart, then feathered their wings through her body. She closed her eyes to savor the lovely sensation. Its contrast to her numb emptiness awed her.
She opened her eyes to his direct gaze. She did not heed the warning that her heart whispered. She did nothing to help him win the battle she sensed in him. She wanted him to lose it. She wanted him to kiss her and fill her with the trembling liveliness.
He did, carefully at first, then less so. A leashed fervor called to her, demanding freedom in those kisses. With each response from her, it threw off another shackle.
The power of that kiss amazed her. The flutters entered her blood and gave rhythm to her breath. Their feathery titillation aroused her inside and out, and the excitement in her essence and on her skin merged, each thrill increasing the other.
His embrace moved, easing her down onto the tapestry. With one broad movement he swept the letters away, sending them beyond the trunks in a little gale of dismissal, removing the horrible discovery from sight and mind.
The Rules of Seduction Page 12
