by Jane Feather
She blew on her hands and held them over the meager orange flame, the noxious fumes of the sea coal thick in her lungs. But at least they had a fire, unlike the majority of their neighbors, shivering in icy garrets and cellars. By those standards Oliver Morgan and his daughter were rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
The sound of his breathing, rasping but deep, came from the bed, and Octavia relaxed, wondering how to spend the few hours of blissful solitude. At Hartridge Folly she would have curled up with a book, or played the harpsichord in the music room, or walked in the shrubbery.
Vigorously she scolded herself for bootless repining. It only made the situation worse, and since this was now her life and it was unlikely to change, she’d do well to make the best of it. But it had become much harder to do since her adventure with the highwayman. Adventure—was that the word for it?
She gazed into the fire wishing she had more concrete memories of that night. She’d lost her virginity, and yet she had the sense only of a magical dream. The waves of pleasure that nibbled at her memory had no shape or reality. She couldn’t reproduce them because they had no reference to anything she understood. She knew only that a pair of slate-gray eyes and a rich, merry laugh accompanied her through the long night hours, and she awoke every morning to a sense of loss and acute disappointment, her body feeling alone and somehow wasted. The uselessness, the waste of her self in her present existence, overwhelmed her when she looked down the long, dark tunnel of the future.
Tea and toast, she thought with sudden inspiration. Not a terribly extravagant indulgence—a nursery indulgence. Mistress Forster would let her have some butter, and she could make tea and toast bread and slather on the butter so it melted and soaked into the crisp toast.
Her mouth watering, she leaped up and took the kettle downstairs to fill it at the water butt in the yard behind the shop. Mistress Forster was kneading suet pastry on the kitchen table, her muscular forearms bare, her hands caked with flour. She looked up and offered her lodger a nod of greeting.
“’Ow’s yer pa, then, dearie? Coughin’ somethin’ terrible ’e was in the night.”
“He’s sleeping now,” Octavia said. “The apothecary made up some more medicine for him. Do you think you could let me have twopence worth of butter?”
The landlady shook flour off her hands and took a wooden paddle to the thick golden pat on a dish in the middle of the table, slicing off a generous wedge. “This do ye?”
“Thank you.” Octavia put her two coins on the table. “I’ve a fancy for tea and toast.”
“Don’t go spoilin’ yer appetite, now. There’ll be a nice steak-and-kidney puddin’ for dinner.” Mistress Forster returned to her suet. “Ye’ll need to break the ice in the water butt, dearie.”
Octavia went out into the yard, shivering despite her cloak. She took a stone and cracked the ice on the surface of the water, making a hole big enough to dip the kettle, trying not to get her gloves wet as she filled it. Then she hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen and up the narrow stairs to her own chilly apartments.
Her father was still asleep. She put the kettle on the hob to boil and then threw off her coat, fetching a fur-lined wool dressing gown from the massive armoire that contained both their scanty wardrobes. She slipped the garment on over her thin gown and returned to the fire, where she speared a slice of bread on the toasting fork and then knelt to hold the fork to the spurting flames. Soon the delicious smell of toasting bread filled the room, and she allowed her mind to drift back into the past, to the warmth of nursery fires and the sweet taste of honey on her tongue … to the blazing fire in the Royal Oak at Putney and the rich aromas of roasting mutton and oyster soup …
There was a sharp rap at the door, and Octavia jumped, startled from her reverie. Mistress Forster, presumably. She bade the knocker enter, taking the half-toasted slice of bread off the fork, burning her fingers as she turned it over to brown the other side.
“Something smells appetizing.”
Octavia dropped the toasting fork. The voice was so unexpected, and yet as she heard it, she realized how it had been echoing, an ever-present memory, in her mind since she’d last seen him. It was a voice that belonged to the dream, and she had thought never to hear it again.
“You?” She stared at her visitor. He wore his own hair, unpowdered and tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. A high-collared caped cloak of dark broadcloth hung from his shoulders, opened to reveal a striped-green silk waistcoat and dark-green coat over britches of the softest beige kidskin. Simple enough garb, and yet in this drear room he looked as exotic as a tropical butterfly in an English meadow.
Rupert bowed with a touch of mockery. “Yes, Miss Morgan. At your service.” He glanced toward the bed and closed the door softly. “Your father’s sleeping?”
“He’s unwell,” she replied, still on her knees before the fire, still too astounded to absorb this visitation. “But he won’t wake for several hours.”
The lid of the kettle rattled vigorously as the water boiled, and she reached automatically to lift it off the hob. “Will you have some toast and tea?”
It struck her as a ridiculous offer even as she made it, but she could think of nothing else to say. She was overpoweringly conscious of the threadbare wool of her dressing gown, of the tattiness of the fur edging the deep cuffs. Five years ago it had been the most elegant garment of dishabille, and it was one piece of luxurious clothing she hadn’t sold after the catastrophe because it was warm and practical. But it was now no longer luxurious or even particularly warm as the fur lining grew thinner and flatter with continual wear.
“If you have a second fork, I could toast my own,” Rupert said, throwing off his cloak and taking a seat on the settle. “I trust this isn’t your dinner. It seems very insubstantial.” He had taken in the threadbare condition of the clothes she wore when not out about her street business, but he was more aware of the pale oval beauty of her face, the lambent tawny eyes, the thick burnished rope of hair hanging over her shoulder.
Octavia passed him a second fork. “We board with Mistress Forster,” she said with a touch of hauteur, carefully measuring tea into the pot and pouring on the boiling water. She didn’t add that they shared the landlady’s table only when they could afford the one and sixpence a day. Today they had it, but tomorrow she would have to venture into London’s West End to raid the pockets of the rich. Just the thought made her sick with apprehension, so she chose not to anticipate the terror.
“I see,” Rupert said neutrally, spearing a slice of bread and holding it to the fire. “Do you skate?”
“Skate?” It was such a non sequitur that she almost laughed aloud. “On ice?”
“Is there another kind of surface suitable for skating?” He turned his bread on the fork, raising his eyes to her flushed, startled face.
“I used to skate on the horse pond every winter as a child,” she said, passing him a thick china cup of tea. “Why?” It was quite ridiculous to be kneeling before the fire sharing nursery tea and discussing winter memories of her childhood. And yet, paradoxically, it felt natural.
“Well, I thought we might amuse ourselves thusly this afternoon,” he answered, blowing on his tea in a most inelegant fashion. “The Serpentine is frozen, and everyone who can beg or borrow a pair of skates is out there.”
“Unfortunately, I can do neither,” she said with constraint. “Skates didn’t seem a particularly useful item when it came to packing up to leave Hartridge Folly.”
“Your family home?”
“In Northumberland.”
“You must have been used to the winter cold.”
“It was a different kind of cold from London’s. This is damp and bites to the marrow,” she said. “I’m accustomed to a dry, bright cold.”
He buttered his piece of toast. “I have two pairs of skates in the phaeton. One will certainly fit your boots.” He took a bite, licking butter from his lips with an appreciative nod.
Oct
avia nibbled her own toast, forcing herself to recapture reality. An invitation to go skating on the Serpentine belonged in some other world; it had nothing to do with this dank, freezing room and her father’s stertorous sleep and the prospect of Mistress Forster’s steak-and-kidney pudding for dinner, followed by her own chill garret bed as soon as the light faded. Candles and fires after dark were a luxury they couldn’t afford.
Rupert leaned over, caught her chin, and wiped away a smear of butter with his handkerchief. “Well, what do you say?”
“I can’t leave my father.”
“Nonsense. You’ve done so before, and you’ll do so again. The estimable Mistress Forster will attend to his needs. Besides, I have a proposal to make to you … one that I trust will be to our mutual advantage.”
“A proposal?” In the light of their past dealings, Octavia could think of only one kind of proposal he might term mutually advantageous. Her eyes narrowed, their golden glow fading to be replaced by a cold glitter. “And just what might that be, pray?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Oh, please don’t stand on ceremony, sir.” Her voice was dangerously low, her eyes icy slits. “I’m sure I can hear it here as well as anywhere.”
Rupert stood up. “No, I don’t think so,” he said in habitual fashion. “It’s rather complicated.”
Octavia jumped to her feet, two bright flags of color flying in her cheeks. “I told you once, my lord, that I am not for sale. Perhaps you think I should be flattered, grateful even …” She gestured with expressive contempt at the room. “But I must beg to disillusion you. I want nothing of your proposals.”
“Even if you were for sale, my dear, I would not be buying,” he returned coolly. “I can assure you I’ve never had the need to pay for a woman’s favors.”
“Get out!” Octavia commanded with low-voiced ferocity. “You may think that whatever happened the other night gives you the right to insult me, but I tell you straight, sir, that you are a slubberdegullion whoreson and a pox-accursed cur!”
There was a moment of stunned silence; then Lord Rupert began to chuckle, his rich, merry laugh sending the dark shadows scurrying into the corners like bats escaping the light. “Well, that’s telling me!” he declared. “What an impressive vocabulary of insults you have, Miss Morgan.”
“Get out!” she repeated, folding her arms and glaring at him with an intensity of loathing.
“No, I don’t think so.” He glanced around the room, and his eye fell on the armoire. “You will need your cloak and muff—and boots … the ones you were wearing at Tyburn will do, I believe.”
He strode over to the wardrobe. Octavia bounced across the room in his wake, grabbing his arm as he moved to open the door. “Will you listen to me?”
“With the greatest of pleasure, when you start to say something sensible,” he responded equably, freeing his arm and opening the door. “But so far you’ve prated little but arrant nonsense. Now, let me repeat … and listen carefully.” He drew out her cloak. “I have a proposal to make to you, one that involves no buying or selling…. Put this on…. One that I trust will work to our mutual advantage.” He bent and lifted out her boots. “Put these on, the skates will strap to them easily. Now, where’s your muff? Ah, here it is.”
With an air of great satisfaction, as if he’d just found a treasure trove, he reached up to the shelf for her fur muff and gloves. “There you are. Now hurry and dress, while I go and explain to the good Mistress Forster that you will not be back until after dinner.”
“No … wait …”
He paused at the doorway and turned with an air of exaggerated patience. “Now what?”
Octavia stared at him, at a loss. She was rarely at a loss and didn’t care for the sensation in the least. “You cannot take over in this way,” she said finally, aware of how lame it sounded.
“If I don’t, my dear ma’am, it’s clear that nothing will be accomplished,” he responded. “Join me below stairs, please. I trust it won’t take you more than a couple of minutes.”
He was gone, pointedly leaving the door slightly ajar. Octavia chewed her hp, glancing at the still-sleeping figure in the cot. The opium had done its work well, and she knew that when he awoke, her father would be groggy and disoriented. Mistress Forster could attend to him perfectly well until she returned, and she would be able to pay her from the proceeds of tomorrow’s expedition.
If Lord Rupert wasn’t going to propose that she become his mistress, then what could he possibly have in mind?
A weak ray of sunshine crept through the grimy window, falling across her face as she stood in indecision and confusion. And suddenly she knew that it didn’t matter what he had in mind. Whatever it was, it was going to alter her present circumstances in some way.
And the sun was shining and the Serpentine was frozen and there was a long afternoon to be spent outside this drear prison.
She threw off the shabby dressing gown. Flinging the cloak around her shoulders, she slipped quietly from the room, closing the door gently behind her, then ran down the stairs, unable to control a surge of exuberance that seemed to belong to some long-ago and half-forgotten person.
Rupert was talking with Mistress Forster at the foot of the stairs as she jumped down. The landlady was looking gratified, and Octavia caught the glint of silver in her palm.
“You go an’ enjoy yerself, dearie,” Mistress Forster said, winking. “Yer pa’ll be fine wi’ me, never you fear. I’ll leave the back door unlocked fer ye, jest in case you comes back late, like.” Another broad wink.
Octavia winced, but an attempt to deny the construction the woman was putting on the circumstances would be pointless. She wouldn’t be believed, and, indeed, how should she be? What more natural than for a young woman down on her luck to accept the protection of a well-to-do gentleman? No one would think less of her around there—in fact, quite the opposite.
She followed Lord Rupert out into the street, where his phaeton stood, drawn by the same pair of chestnuts. He handed her up, springing up behind her, and within ten minutes they’d left the mean streets behind and were driving through the City toward the Strand.
“Of course, I’ll repay you whatever you paid Mistress Forster,” Octavia said.
“Of course,” he agreed affably. “I merely thought you might be easier in your mind if you felt you were not under an obligation to the good woman.”
“I expect to be in funds again tomorrow,” she said a little stiffly.
“Going apicking again, Miss Morgan?” He raised an eyebrow, turning his horses onto Piccadilly.
“I do what I have to,” she retorted. “You of all people should understand that.”
“Who said I didn’t? I do wish you wouldn’t keep jumping to conclusions,” he complained.
Octavia was silent for a minute, then said, “I can’t help jumping to conclusions when everything’s shrouded in mystery. What is this proposal, my lord?”
“All in good time,” he said, turning through the Stanhope Gate into Hyde Park. The park was alive with carriages, riders, and pedestrians strolling through the crisp air engaged in the vital society business of seeing and being seen.
If things had been different, she would have been part of this elegant throng, Octavia thought bitterly. She would have had her season, made a good, convenient marriage, and this would have been her world for life.
“I imagine your father lost his money before you had a season?” her companion observed, again evincing that uncanny ability to tune into her thoughts.
Octavia shrugged. “I don’t suppose I would have enjoyed it anyway.”
“Fibber,” he accused gently. “How old are you, Octavia? Twenty-one, two?”
“Twenty-two,” she answered. “On the shelf.” She laughed, but without humor.
“I doubt you’d have been happy with some fribble for a husband,” Rupert remarked, raising his hat and bowing to a lady curtsying to him from the path beside the road. “You’re too fond o
f asserting yourself, Miss Morgan, to make a compliant wife for a conventional husband.”
Octavia wondered if this was a compliment or a criticism, but it had the ring of truth. “You seem to have a great many acquaintances,” she observed, adding tartly, “An extraordinary number for a highwayman, if I might be so bold.”
He chuckled. “But here, Miss Morgan, I am no more a highwayman than you are a pickpocket.”
He drew rein on the bank of the Serpentine beside a small wooden hut where a man was dispensing mugs of chocolate and chestnuts roasted over a brazier. A group of lads stood ready to walk the horses of the skaters, swooping and dancing over the ice to the strains of “Greensleeves” played by a troupe of gypsy musicians.
Rupert sprang down from the phaeton, a pair of wooden blades in his hands. “Allow me, Miss Morgan.” Standing beside the carriage, he deftly strapped the pair of blades onto the soles of her boots, then reached up and lifted her out. He carried her easily to the ice and set her down at the edge, his hands still at her waist until she got her balance. “Tell me when you’re steady.”
Octavia stood for a minute, getting the feel of the blades; then by way of answer she gave an exultant little chuckle. Turning out of his hands, she swooped away on a one-foot glide that carried her almost into the middle of the lake.
Spinning, she waved at him as he sat on the edge to strap on his own blades.
She reminded him of a canary released from a cage as she swooped over the ice, and he could hear her joyous laughter as he skated over to her. “Isn’t it wonderful!” Her eyes shone, her cheeks pinkened with the cold, her lips parted in a flashing smile.
A current of desire shocked him, jolting his belly. He wanted her with an incontinent urgency he didn’t remember ever feeling for a woman before. But he wanted her like this, awake and laughing, glorying in the purity of physical sensation, not responding involuntarily to the dictates of a sensual trance.
