by Mia Marlowe
“After all those curving stairs, I’m terribly turned about. Which way is south?” Miss Anthony asked.
He pointed to the North Star. “There’s Polaris, so”—he traced a finger across the sky in the opposite direction—“south is over there.”
She dropped the blanket and hurried to the edge of the parapet, peering at the southern horizon. There, winking at the edge of the earth’s curve, was a solitary star.
“Is that it?” she asked breathlessly.
He nodded, inordinately pleased that he could show it to her. “That’s Fomalhaut, the Lonely One. Seventeenth brightest object in the night sky.”
She looked up at him, her expression shrewd. “This star is special to you, isn’t it?”
He’d always felt an affinity for the Lonely One, but it wasn’t as if that information was tattooed on his brow. “How can you know that?”
“It’s like you.” She seemed to see right through him. “Set apart. In hiding for a good deal of the time.”
“I’m not in hiding.”
“When was the last time you were in the company of anyone besides your uncle?”
“Not counting you?”
“Not counting me.”
“It’s been a while.” Before he and Grigori had returned to Faencaern, they’d spent a Season in London where he’d been in more company than any mortal man should be forced to endure, but that had been ten years ago. She didn’t need to know that. It rather proved her point. He decided no further response was the best course and turned back to view Fomalhaut. As they watched in surprisingly companionable silence, the Loneliest Star sank beneath the southern horizon.
“What do you suppose Fomalhaut does when it’s gone from our view? Does it have friends in the southern sky that we can never see from here? A lover, perhaps?” she mused, leaning her elbows on the parapet. “Maybe that’s why it doesn’t stay up north for long, why it doesn’t seek the company of others here.”
“If that’s your way of asking if I have a lover hidden somewhere, the answer is no.”
“I would never ask such a thing!” Obviously affronted, Miss Anthony took a short side step away from him. “A lady wouldn’t even think it.”
“I ask your pardon.” Samuel ducked his head in a quick bow.
“Lady Easton would say that’s far too personal a conversation for an acquaintance as young as ours.”
“And she’d be right, of course.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not terribly ladylike.” Meg turned and smiled impishly up at him. “Because I’m glad to know you don’t have a lover.”
Then her smile changed. It went all soft and trusting. A smile that warmed his chest and made his heart gallop. A smile that made him want to open a vein to protect her. Why didn’t she recognize what a danger he was to her?
She cocked her head. “But truly, I was only speaking about why the star is so alone.”
“Maybe,” he said in a growling tone, “the Loneliest Star keeps to itself because it’s a monster and would hurt anyone who got too close to it.”
Even as he spoke, he found himself gathering her in his arms. It was almost as if he watched himself from outside his own body, unable to control his own actions. Yet he was achingly aware of everything about her, from the neat way her softness fit against his hardness to the faintest whiff of her sweet scent.
If he was offending her, she didn’t show it. Miss Anthony draped her hands over his shoulders and tipped up her chin so she could meet his gaze.
“I’ll never believe a star would be so cowardly. If there was danger, which I doubt, a fiery power like that wouldn’t allow harm to come to someone else, even from itself.”
He didn’t plan what happened next. Truly he didn’t. But he bent his head down so that the warmth of her breath feathered over his lips. God help him, she tempted him sore. “The star might not wish to cause harm, but—”
“The star should trust in his wish. I do.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. “No harm will come.”
He covered her mouth with his.
God help us both.
My dear Lady Easton,
I doubt I will ever send this letter. For one thing, I don’t know who would bear it to you since no one ever seems to come or go here. And for another thing, I would be embarrassed to have you know the events of this evening, but I need to get it all out, even if no one ever reads it.
Never think this is your fault. You could not have foreseen such a thing. I am sure I did not. After all, I am only a commoner playing at being a wellborn lady. The thought that I would actually pull off the ruse well enough to fool Lord Badewyn never entered my mind. Or perhaps he did realize what I am and that is why he felt free to take liberties.
Please do not see this as a criticism of you or your teaching. I would never dare such a thing. But I do wish, sometime in all your lessons, you had taught me what a proper lady is to do after a gentleman kisses her.
As Cadwallader, my abigail, might say, “Indeed, I do.”
Yours ever so guiltily,
Meg
~ a letter to Lady Easton from Miss Meg Anthony that was never sent
Chapter Eight
Oh, good heavens! How did I allow this to happen?
Meg had imagined being kissed in the chaste, foolish way young girls do. But that was only because she had no idea how powerful the force that draws a man and a woman together is and how irresistible its pull can be. Then when she grew older and her cousin Oswald began to pester her, she’d pushed away all thought of kissing. She’d stuffed it into the corner of her mind that held distasteful things like casting up one’s accounts after eating rancid beef.
Once she went to live at Camden House, she’d never imagined that a kiss might happen to her. She was far too cosseted and protected for anything as interesting as a kiss to befall her, so there was no point in considering it. But when she’d arrived at Faencaern Castle and seen Lord Badewyn for the first time, thoughts of kissing had leaped back into the forefront of her mind.
Of course, a real lady might not allow him to kiss her, but Meg was no lady. She wasn’t about to waste such an opportunity. She’d be pleased to allow it. Just once, mind you. Enough to say it had happened. A memory she could hug to herself in the cold winter of old age.
There. Do you see? I did that. I kissed a Welsh lord. I kissed him thoroughly and lived to tell the tale with my virtue intact.
Would it be so terrible?
Yes, she decided, now that his lips were pressed to hers. She’d never be satisfied with just one kiss.
Lord Badewyn’s kiss made her feel things. She suspected they were things that a lady ought not to feel. First, it was a yearning, empty sort of feeling. Then her insides became all jumbled and achy. Her skin prickled with the awareness of every scrap of lace against it under her stiff bombazine gown, every bit of pressure from his hot male body. She wanted him to touch her, not just his hands palming her cheeks as they were now, but all over. If only he’d smooth those thick capable fingers over her needy places. His kiss was beyond delicious, but she wanted so much more.
But even more than she wanted to receive from him, Meg ached to give.
She wanted to convince him he wasn’t that lonely star. He didn’t need to be alone. She accepted him. That’s what she wanted her kiss to say. She would be with him. Surely her lips were telling him that without the need for words.
But that sort of thing ought not to be left to chance. She wasn’t like Lord Stanstead, who could broadcast his thoughts into the minds of others. Lord Badewyn might be a man of few words, but she had rarely been at a loss for them. If she didn’t speak, he might mistake the message in her kiss.
“You aren’t like the Lonely One,” she murmured when he released her mouth and began kissing along her jaw line and then down her neck. Delightful little tingles trailed in his wake. She arched into him. “Not when you have me.”
Instead of drawing him closer to her, the words had the opposite effect. He pu
lled back, staring down at her as if he couldn’t believe what they’d done. Then he released her from his arms.
He retreated a step or two as if he’d suddenly discovered she carried the pox. “Forgive me, Miss Anthony.”
What had he done wrong? What had she? “There’s nothing to forgive. I wanted you to kiss me.”
“Please. I beg you to forget what happened.” He held up a hand that brooked no argument. “We will not speak of it. We must not.”
She realized her mouth was gaping like a cod. Quickly, Meg clamped her lips shut. Had her kiss been that awful to him? No, his breathing was still ragged. He’d been as moved as she. She was sure of it.
“Naturally, you will wish to return to your chamber now and—”
“Naturally, I will wish to do nothing of the sort,” Meg said in her haughtiest imitation of Lady Easton when she was on her high horse. It was a small shield for the hurt churning in her belly, but it was all she had. Meg picked up the discarded blanket and spread it on the flat roof. What was wrong with that kiss? It was easily the loveliest thing that had ever happened in all her life. “We have not yet had our picnic supper and even if Fomalhaut has disappeared for the night, there are undoubtedly a number of other stars you can point out for me.”
When he didn’t move, she added, “Or is Welsh hospitality so strained that a guest’s wishes are ignored?”
With obvious reluctance, he sat on the far corner of the blanket, folding himself up, knees raised, arms clasped around them, while Meg unpacked the meal. Lord Badewyn wouldn’t even look at her.
Merciful heavens, what’s the matter with the man?
If he could act as if their kiss had never happened, she could, too.
“Perhaps you’d care to make yourself useful instead of merely ornamental. Kindly light the lantern so we can see to eat.” If he was intent on behaving so oddly, she felt no guilt over chiding him. He didn’t seem to take offense at her words and, pulling flint and tinder from his pocket, had the lantern flickering again in a few moments. The homely chore seemed to steady him and he began to behave as he had before the kiss, distant but not unfriendly though he still seemed interested in her—in the same way a kestrel seems interested in the field mouse he intends to have for supper.
Meg pushed that disquieting image aside, blaming her empty stomach.
Lord Badewyn’s cook had done him proud. There was a pleasant selection of cold meat—sliced mutton, beef, and ham—cucumber sandwiches, a savory pasty for each of them and a variety of sweetmeats. To wash it all down, there was a jug of ale for his lordship and a container of cool buttermilk for Meg.
She’d rather have ale, too, but she sipped at the buttermilk dutifully.
“Have you always been interested in the stars?” she asked to fill the silence that yawned between them.
“For as long as I can remember.”
“Did your father teach you?”
A guarded look passed over his features. “It was Grigori who taught me.”
Well, that made sense. Lord Badewyn and his uncle had an unusually close relationship, even if it didn’t seem a terribly cordial one. He blew out the lantern and began to show her the same constellations in the heavens that they’d seen when they were looking at the star chart in the library. As he spoke, he relaxed, stretching out his long legs. Meg leaned back on her palms, letting his words, the deep rumble of his voice, and the beauty of the night sky wash over her.
“It’s ever so much better to see the stars for real instead of on a flat parchment,” she said. “They seem almost alive, don’t they? All twinkling and merry?”
“It’s strange to hear you say so. When I was a child, I used to imagine that stars were somehow like people. That they had loves and hates and could be good or evil,” he said softly. “It’s rubbish, of course. The stuff of bad poetry and far too fanciful an idea to share with anyone.”
“Yet you shared it with me.”
“So I did, Miss Anthony.” He smiled briefly for the first time since they’d kissed.
“In that case, perhaps it’s time you stopped referring to me as Miss Anthony.” After all, their mouths had touched. They’d shared a breath. He ought to call her familiar. “My name is Meg. I’d appreciate it if you’d use it.”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Nothing about this evening has been proper, come to that,” she agreed. “This time spent together is our secret. The names we call each other could be, too. Who would be scandalized if you were to use my Christian name when we are alone?”
“No one, I suppose…Meg,” he added, his low tone shivering over her. Her simple name had never sounded so good. “I am called Samuel.”
“It suits you.” She cast about for something that would keep this taciturn man talking. Mr. Bernard had told her that Lord Badewyn was something called a Watcher. It sounded as if he would fit into the duke’s Order easily. “I suppose you know about the Duke of Camden’s Order of the M.U.S.E.”
He nodded. “I do, but I am not a member. I cannot bear being in London long enough to be useful to Camden.”
“You wouldn’t have to be in the city. There are cells of the Order in other places. I should think your abilities more than qualify you to be one of his Extraordinaires wherever you choose to live.” She wondered why the duke had not recruited him. “His Grace trusts your warnings implicitly. You could be his Watcher.”
“I am a Watcher for many people, not only for the duke. I Watch whether I want to or not. Then if it’s appropriate, I warn of what I see.”
“Of course.” Samuel was the sort who’d never do anything that would be deemed inappropriate. More’s the pity. “How do you do that, the Watching, I mean?”
“In any still, shining surface, I see images of such things as I am allowed to see.”
“Things you’re allowed? So you can’t control your visions?”
“It’s best just to let things come. Sometimes, if I concentrate on a particular person, the images will be about them, but the clearest information comes when I don’t try to force it.” He sat up straight and turned his gaze toward the heavens. “I am able to see things from afar, things past, things present, and things to come. It makes me an object of fear, especially when I see the future. People always claim they want to know what’s waiting beyond the next corner, but that’s not true.”
“They only want to know about the good things,” Meg said.
“That’s right.” Samuel’s gaze cut to her sharply. “Most people don’t understand that.”
“But I do.” How often had she Found something that should have remained lost? Families had been destroyed because they couldn’t agree on who should have possession of a recovered object. However dear, a thing was just a thing, something that would eventually be dust, but things often had the power to upend lives and relationships forever. However, she refused to feel guilty over it or guilt was all she’d ever feel. “When you have a gift, you are only responsible for its use. You aren’t responsible for what happens after you use it.”
“Sometimes Watching doesn’t feel like a gift.”
She put a consoling hand on his forearm. “I know.”
“You do? I thought you were His Grace’s ward. Are you also one of his Extraordinaires?”
“One of his lesser ones.”
He cocked a questioning brow. “Are you an elemental?”
“No, nothing so powerful.” Meg was in awe of Vesta and her mastery over fire. Even though she’d never seen LeGrand use his gift, as a water mage, he had similar control over liquids. “For want of a better word, I’m a Finder. When something is lost, all I need is a description of the item and I can usually recover it.”
“Sounds very useful. Can you do the same with people?”
“Yes, but in that case, a description isn’t enough. I need their name, not necessarily their given name, but the name they are known by. People don’t generally realize how powerful their names are.” It was connected to
their essence. It was why she was so glad to be able to call Samuel by his Christian name instead of his title. “Once, using just a name, I located a little girl who’d wandered away from a village fair and was about to tumble into a river.”
Of all her Findings, that was her proudest moment.
“Your Finding sounds much more useful than my Watching.”
“Not always.” When she had worked for her Uncle Rowney, she’d had no shining times to remember. Either he’d been wringing an exorbitant fee from people who were desperate to find something they’d lost or she’d been forced to Find places for Rowney and Oswald to burgle more easily.
She shivered.
“The night has turned chill.” Samuel rose and extended a hand to her. She slipped hers into it. His hand was warm. “We need to get you back to your chamber before your absence is marked.”
“No one will miss me,” Meg said. Since she’d arrived at Faencaern, Samuel had often sent his regrets for dinner. She frequently ended up eating the evening meal only with his uncle. She hadn’t wanted to pique Mr. Templeton’s curiosity over her absence at table this evening, so she had made sure Cadwallader delivered the message to Samuel’s uncle that she was fatigued. She’d been trying to make sense of the Chaucer treatise and would dine in her room that evening. Grigori Templeton shouldn’t question that a bit.
Chaucer would weary anyone.
“I would miss you,” Samuel admitted. “I did miss you on those evenings when I didn’t come down for dinner.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“It’s complicated, Meg.”
He sounded so very lonely. Perhaps he was like Fomalhaut. “Tell me,” she said. “Maybe together we can make it simple.”
Samuel shook his head and began packing up the remains of their supper. “I will not allow my problems to become yours.”
Meg wanted to argue but Samuel wasn’t the sort of man to argue with if one didn’t have all the facts, so she simply folded up the blanket in silence.
