Miss Tate studied the miniature portrait inside the cover, a rapt expression on her face. Strong emotions swelled inside Garrick’s chest, a mixture of pride and longing and sorrow. “The likeness doesn’t begin to do her justice,” he murmured.
Miss Tate closed the cover and handed the watch back to him. “Were you . . . ” She hesitated. “Close?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, chagrined that tears had welled in them with a suddenness that prevented their suppression. After a moment, he gained control of himself and, nodding slowly, met Miss Tate’s gaze when he answered her question. “We were engaged to be married when she died.”
“I’m so sorry,” she replied quickly, then added in a whisper, “How?”
“Pneumonia.” He pocketed the watch, wishing he could as easily hide his feelings. “Jonathan blames himself.”
“Why?” She sounded genuinely shocked, which eased Garrick’s conscience for having revealed Jonathan’s deeply felt shame.
“The stress of his convalescence, her torment over the tragedy of his disfigurement. All that did take its toll.”
“Yet he cannot be faulted.”
Miss Tate uttered the pronouncement with an uncharacteristic fierceness that made Garrick wonder how she had come by her opinion. Not two weeks ago, she could scarcely hide her fear of Jonathan.
“Of course not. But they were close. Very alike in temperament.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I see so much of her in him.”
Garrick opened his mouth to say more, then changed his mind. He had already revealed more than was called for, especially considering his purpose for this meeting.
He reached into his pocket. “I have a letter for you.”
“From Jenny?” Miss Tate brightened with expectation.
“No,” he said, hoping her disappointment would not leave her indisposed to agree to Monique’s invitation. “From a friend of mine, actually.”
She accepted the letter, studying her name on the envelope with a concerned look.
“Go ahead, open it.”
As he watched her break the seal and remove the card, Garrick made the deliberate decision to continue to use Jonathan’s Christian name in their conversation. He had unconsciously fallen into the practice earlier, distracted by bittersweet memories. But if their relationship had indeed grown more intimate, referring to Jonathan by his given name should remind Miss Tate of the fact and, it must be hoped, make her amenable to Jonathan’s wishes.
“Jonathan asked that I arrange for you to visit a dressmaker in the city.” When Miss Tate looked up from reading the note, he hastened to add, “And my friend, Miss LaValle, kindly volunteered to introduce you to hers.”
She frowned. “He mentioned nothing of the sort to me.”
“Please don’t be offended, Miss Tate. He means it as a kind gesture.” When she looked unconvinced, Garrick decided to try a different approach. “It will do Jonathan good to please someone besides himself.”
When Miss Tate returned to reading the note without comment, Garrick sought to persuade her by pretending to assume her consent. “If you go on Thursday, Roger can take you into the city, then you may return with me. Such a plan will work to everyone’s convenience, as I need to return Jonathan’s carriage.”
Garrick watched her carefully fold the note. He wondered if she was considering how to phrase her excuse and had already begun to form a counter argument in his mind when she turned to him abruptly.
“Tell me, Dr. Garrick, if you don’t mind, is Mr. Nashe well enough to ride?”
Her unanticipated question, as well as its boldness, left him momentarily speechless. Whether from his silence or her embarrassment at asking an overly personal question, she blushed.
“I mean, he . . . ” She stumbled on the word, taking a deep breath before going on. “He seems very fond of his horse. It’s a pity.”
Miss Tate met his gaze with disconcerting directness. “Now that would be something to do him good.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” By now he’d had time to consider his words. “And no, to answer your question, other than the advanced arthritis in his hand, Jonathan is perfectly capable of engaging in the sort of physical exertion any normal man might undertake. Perfectly capable.”
Garrick stood, occupying himself with plucking a rosebud, and thus avoiding Miss Tate’s knowing eyes. “He has simply lacked the desire.”
Garrick threaded the stem of the rose through his lapel, then turned to face her. “Perhaps that will change.” He met her gaze, wanting her to see in his the meaning he could not state directly. “Perhaps you will succeed where others have not.”
To her credit, she did not look away, although his words brought a deep flush to her cheeks. Garrick nodded toward the note in her hand. “May I tell Miss LaValle to expect you?”
“Miss LaValle is very generous to offer her assistance.” Miss Tate spoke with such hesitation that Garrick thought she meant to refuse. “And a change of scenery would be nice,” she added, as if slowly convincing herself of the benefit of accepting the invitation.
“I believe you will enjoy Miss LaValle’s company.”
Garrick was about to take his leave when Miss Tate added hurriedly, “I would like to visit my sister as well.”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you might see her? To let her know?”
Garrick remembered his last meeting with Jenny and suddenly his collar felt much too tight. “I will send a letter to Mrs. Cooper to that effect.”
He bowed stiffly, thinking as he left that, however unintentionally, Miss Tate had succeeded in landing the parting blow.
* * *
Isabelle remained in the rose garden long after Dr. Garrick departed, considering their conversation. The sun had begun to sink behind the ruins of the fire scorched western wing before she finally made her way toward the kitchen. As she had hoped, she found Nellie there, and taking her aside where the others wouldn’t hear, posed her question. “Nellie, do you think Roger might teach me to ride?”
Chapter Twenty four
After Richard’s departure, Jonathan sat staring at the floor directly in front of his feet. He lost all sense of time, studying the muted reds and blues of the carpet until every dip and swirl of the pattern was etched in his mind. The laudanum sapped his will to act, leaving him content to passively lose himself in the maze like design. He preferred the puzzle of the intertwining Persian symbols to the conundrum that was Miss Tate.
Shamed by Richard’s disapproval, he had taken very little of the drug, with the result that his dull witted stupor gradually lifted, much sooner in fact than he would have liked. Though his thinking cleared, his attention refused to remain fixed long enough for him to follow even the simplest line of reasoning to its end. He found himself pacing the floor, unable to relax. Sleep was out of the question.
The grandfather clock at the end of the hallway struck the hour, reverberating like a gong in the silent house. He listened, counting the strokes until they ended. Eleven.
The servants never varied from their nocturnal habits. They retired at ten o’clock and rose with the dawn. It was safe to venture outside his rooms at this hour. He stopped long enough to slip the mask over his head, fastening the ties with an ease that came from long practice.
Jonathan entered the dark hallway and eased blindly along the passage, foregoing the light of a lamp to guide his way. Darkness allowed him the comfort—albeit a temporary one—of invisibility. He directed his steps toward the library, both hoping and dreading that she would be there.
Cornelius must be laughing in his grave, Jonathan thought. His weakling son, afraid. Afraid of a woman. Despite his fear, he had no choice but to continue. Because as much as he feared seeing her, he would have no rest until he did.
Ahead, a sliver of light cut a narrow swath through the darkness. The library door had been left ajar, which meant only one thing. She was there.
Jonathan slipped inside the room, careful to step quietly. Miss
Tate was sitting on the couch, reading a book. The scene made a pretty picture, one he could have contemplated indefinitely.
And if she looked up to see him silently staring? He imagined her terror, her startled scream. And his shame. He shut the door behind him, deliberately making a sound that would alert her to his presence.
She looked up from her book and met his gaze with equanimity. Though she was the one taken unawares, he felt a brief, sharp stab of surprise, as he always did when he entered a room and she turned eyes on him that were wondrously lacking in shock or revulsion.
“I hoped I might find you here,” he heard himself say, surprised at how nearly normal his voice sounded.
She moved to one end of the couch, a tacit invitation for him to sit. When he took his place at the opposite end, she turned to face him with an inquiring expression.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?”
His throat closed around his response. He nodded stupidly, flushing beneath his mask, embarrassed anew by Richard’s foolish idea. In the end, he had to force the words, the effort lending his voice a harshness at odds with the courtesy he meant to convey.
“I wanted to thank you for agreeing to my request.”
She arched a brow, the question forming on her face before she asked it. “Which one, sir?”
Damn Richard for his scheming. Damn his theories of contrition.
“Concerning the dressmaker.”
“It is I who should thank you.”
She had answered quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly.
“You are not offended?”
She drew herself up, clutching the open book in her lap until her knuckles bulged with the effort.
“Of course not. I understand that you are accustomed to beauty and elegance in your surroundings.” Her gaze swept the room before returning to his. “I have been keenly aware from the first that my shabby appearance must offend your sensibilities.”
Offend his sensibilities? Jonathan recognized the words as his own. But he had never meant her to apply them to herself.
“That was not my purpose. Not at all.”
She looked at him steadily, waiting for him to continue, while he searched in vain for a charming phrase that would conceal his embarrassment. When he could think of nothing better, he was forced to admit the unadorned truth.
“I simply wanted you to stop thinking of yourself as drab.” He started to gesture with his right hand, then caught himself before he thoughtlessly displayed his deformity. “A bird of paradise deserves the brightest plumage.”
Jonathan winced at his own trite hyperbole. What a stupid thing to say. Stupid. Too late, he remembered that bird of paradise was an old fashioned euphemism for a prostitute. He cleared his throat, then added lamely, “So to speak.”
Miss Tate studied him, her look so keen that he began to perspire beneath his mask. At last she spoke, uttering the words slowly, as if unsure of their validity.
“I believe that was a compliment.”
“Yes, I—” He stopped, realizing he had begun without knowing what he would say. “You must forgive me. I am unpracticed in offering such. What I mean as kindness too often offends.”
Her expression darkened immediately. “Kindness?” she asked sharply. “Save your insincere flattery—”
“No, not flattery,” he interrupted.
“Your insincere kindnesses. I have heard the truth often enough, sir.”
“Not from me.” He shook his head, unable to think of a rebuttal. “I mean . . . ” His words trailed off, and he laughed bitterly. “You see, I have offended you, when I only wanted—”
Jonathan cut himself off abruptly. The image of what he really wanted sprang to mind unbidden, confronting him with a truth that was painful to admit. I want to take you in my arms, to hold your body against mine, to press my scarred lips to your perfect mouth.
“Don’t concern yourself on my account, sir. I am too quick to speak out of line.” She paused, then added, “Too quick to forget my place.”
“Your place?” Addled by his own fantasies, for a moment Jonathan feared he had spoken them aloud.
“I am in your employ. I must concern myself with pleasing you, not whether your behavior is pleasing to me.”
He leaned away, recoiling from her words. “You make yourself sound like—” A prostitute. Like one of his father’s whores. The idea was repugnant. “I had hoped.”
He turned his back to her. This interview had gone badly.
No—worse. It had been a disaster. Did she feel obliged to endure his company, simply because he paid her wages? She had said otherwise, but had she done so out of expedience?
“I hoped we might be friends,” he confessed, and had the impossibility of that hope not come crashing down on him like an avalanche, he would have fled the room.
Her weight shifted on the cushion beside him. Jonathan held his breath, determined not to call out to her when she left, because his overwhelming impulse was to fall on his knees and beg for mercy. A profound silence enveloped him, the sort he experienced sometimes in dreams, when the dark, fathomless ocean swallowed him and he began to sink, deaf and mute and helpless.
Something alerted him, some primal instinct for survival that warned him to flee impending danger. He looked down, and every muscle in his body tensed. Her fingers were resting on his jacket sleeve. On his arm. The touch resonated to his depths, as if the cloth were his own skin, capable of sensation.
“Mr. Nashe?” Her fingers pressed deeper into his sleeve. “I had hoped as well that we might be friends.”
He repeated the words to himself, thinking somehow he had misheard.
“Mr. Nashe?”
He turned slowly, still unable to believe his own ears. When her eyes met his, heat surged through his body, and for a brief, panicked moment he remembered the fire and the helpless sense of burning alive.
The memory subsided as quickly as it had come. He managed to find his voice and heard himself ask the most unexpected question. “Will you call me Jonathan?”
God damn him for a fool. He would never have asked such a question had he given it any forethought.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean—” He caught himself before he lied.
She withdrew her hand. He could see the displeasure in her look. He had been too forward. It was he who did not know his place.
“Yes, sir.”
Her steady, solemn stare unnerved him.
“What did you say?”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. When she nodded for emphasis, he knew he must have sounded as incredulous as he felt. She added, “Very well, I shall.”
One by one, the fragile tethers of his restraint frayed and snapped. Unmoored, he was caught by the current of his own desires, and allowed himself to be carried in their drift. His propriety, or lack of it, no longer mattered. He wanted—no, needed to hear, with a savage urgency that superseded all else.
“Say it, then,” he demanded. His voice had grown so rough, he was forced to whisper. “Say my name.”
She blushed and looked down, bowing her head as if in prayer. This time, he had gone too far.
Then she raised her eyes and met his gaze with a slow smile that set his heart pounding. Her lips parted, they were moving—he shouldn’t stare, he knew, but he couldn’t keep from it. Briefly, delicately, the tip of her tongue touched her upper teeth and withdrew, an enticement that lasted less than a beat of his racing heart.
His hearing returned all at once, and he was aware of her voice, that she was speaking, she was saying his name. It was as if time had reversed to allow him a second chance, or the air had thickened and slowed the progress of the sounds, that completely out of the natural order of things, he had seen and next heard her speak.
His body reacted immediately, much too quickly for him to suppress it. He dropped his arms, covering his lap to spare himself the humiliation of displaying the growing bulge inside his trousers. Such a low carnal response was shameful, but the devil take h
im if he knew what to do about it.
Then he realized she was waiting for him to say something. That was how it worked, polite social discourse, one took turns. First her, now him. He had no experience with this sort of situation, no experience at all with women. Moreover, it was difficult to form a clear thought while his groin throbbed with such insistence.
“What are you reading?” It was a desperate attempt at conversation, the only thing he could think to say.
She blushed, which puzzled him. Surely the question had been a perfectly innocuous one.
“I’m studying the illustrations and wondering at the stories they depict.” She handed him the open book, adding apologetically, “I can’t read French.”
Jonathan recognized the book. “This was my mother’s.” He studied the picture a moment. “A collection of Greek myths.”
She leaned closer, pointing to a figure on the page. “Who is the cherubic young man with the bow?”
“Eros.” He glanced across at her and saw her color deepen at his use of the name. “Remember the statue of Aphrodite?”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the page.
“He was her son. The god of love.” It gave him a secret thrill to speak to her of love, albeit in a general rather than personal manner. “Anyone he struck with his golden arrow would fall in love with the next person he or she set eyes on.”
“Or creature,” he added as an afterthought. “Eros created a good deal of mischief with his power.”
“And the woman in the picture? Is she Aphrodite?”
Her interest eased his awkwardness. Discussing Greek mythology with Miss Tate was much more comfortable for him than engaging her on the subject of their friendship.
“No, her name was Psyche. Aphrodite despised her because people said this mortal woman was more beautiful than she.”
He ventured a look in Miss Tate’s direction, staring boldly when he saw that her attention remained fixed on the illustration. A lock of hair lay curled against her neck, bronze in the lamplight against the cream and rose of her complexion. Surely, Psyche could not have been more beautiful.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 19
