by Eva Devon
He’d heard it talked of in the coffee shops and the taverns he frequented. His sister was reading it as well. It was a work that straddled all walks of life.
Everyone was obsessed with Calliope and her flight from the notorious Lord Wakefield.
It was a bit of a surprise to find such a popular work in the home of the seemingly prudent Lady Patience.
She’d gone to bed. Early. Very early. Sending him up to his horrendous sleeping quarters after a very bad dinner.
The meat had been cold. The sauce had been dubious.
In fact, it was very possible they’d eaten horse. It had been impossible to tell.
The wine had been scant and tasted as if it had gone off.
Once again, Lady Patience was in for a long wait if she thought such tactics could send him packing.
He picked up the first leather bound volume in Calliope’s adventure and palmed it.
It was going to be a long night.
Perhaps he should stay in his room, but that would hardly aid him. If he went off in search of brandy and a better, hopefully warmer, nook to read, he’d have a good excuse for searching out clues to Lady Patience.
So, he headed out of his cold room into the ever so slightly warmer hall, his single candle in hand.
The house had to be nigh three hundred years old and it seemed that, for the most part, it had been kept up. . . Still, such places were disastrously difficult to keep warm.
Mayhap he would go in search of some servant to find something, anything, to keep him from shivering. He hadn’t traveled here with the intention of freezing to death. Spring or no, the old house felt largely like an ice cave.
It was completely understandable the wearing of furs and fear of drafts when one could turn a corner and see one’s breath. In a house like this, one could see one’s breath four feet from the fire, in all truth.
Still, in his experience, the English were a hearty lot who were accustomed to such things.
If he protested, he’d, no doubt, be solidifying his role as a delicate flower of a man to Lady P, but he was happy to do so if it gained him ground.
The single candle he bore before him barely cast a beam into the darkness but he made his way down the hall with a confident stride.
At the end, he found the beautiful, carved, wooden stair and headed downward.
If he was lucky, he’d find a fireplace with some fuel at hand. Unlike most nobles, he actually knew how to start a blaze.
But as he wandered into the grand foyer, he noticed a faint, glowing light coming from the central hall.
Charles blew out his own candle and quietly stepped along the floorboards which had a deuced inclination to creak.
But with a long ago developed skill, he made his way silently to the arched doorway and peered in.
At the far end, near the towering fireplace which was large enough to take a log that would burn for hours on end sat Lady Patience.
To his surprise, she wasn’t crouched over needlework or a bible. Oh no. She was scribbling.
Furiously.
She sat, not with perfect posture, but bent over the small desk, one arm resting on the wooden surface.
Her pen moved wildly and an intense energy engrossed her entire frame.
The perfectly austere chignon which she had boasted earlier was now loose, falling down. Tendrils of hair fell about her face, shadowing it.
Every few moments, she pushed idly at the stray locks, but each touch seemed to only make her hair wilder, more disarrayed as if whatever she was writing possessed her completely.
She dunked her quill in the ink well, gazed towards the dark window and muttered softly. Then with a huff of breath, she bent again, her pen scratching as she covered the page.
What the devil was she doing?
If it was a letter it was not the letter of a self-possessed young woman.
Was it a diary?
He knew many young ladies kept diaries, putting down their worries and secret longings onto parchment.
At face value, Lady Patience didn’t seem like a woman with secret longings. . . But she was a mystery, no question.
He cleared his throat.
She didn’t hear him.
Carefully, he strode into the room, wondering how far he could approach without her noticing.
He allowed his footsteps to grow heavier. Such tactics still didn’t shake her from her reverie.
The intensity of her form and the speed of her pen didn’t waver.
Her brow was furrowed in the most delightful way as she wrote.
Whatever could she be writing?
He knew he should make himself known with word, but he hadn’t exactly been secretive in his entrance and so, given her parsimonious assignation of his moldy room, he allowed himself the dubious action of peering over her shoulder and reading a few words of her pen.
Lord Althorpe shoved her back onto the voluptuous folds of the kingly bed, ripping her bodice with a bold hand. The fabric tore asunder with a vicious sound.
Melicent’s pale hands fluttered as she struggled to cover the pale swells of her bosom.
“Sir!” she cried. “Take not my virtue!”
Charles gaped. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t generally given to gaping but how could he not?
What the blazes was she writing?
A novel.
It had to be a novel.
He coughed loudly.
She jumped in her chair, sending jet ink splattering across the parchment.
Lady Patience grasped her pages, whirled around and spotted him.
Her hazel eyes were the color of amber in the firelight. Her eyes were glowing golden amber and her honeyed hair was wild now about her pale face.
He noticed she was not wearing her spectacles.
Her gown was opened at the throat, exposing the delicate flesh of her collarbones.
Oh, she was not pretty in her wildness. He knew in an instant that Lady Patience would never be pretty. No matter what she wore or how she dressed her hair. She wasn’t that sort of woman.
Lady Patience was beautiful.
Bloody hell, she was striking.
That was the kind of woman she was.
Her nose was a trifle too big, her mouth a trifle too wide, her forehead a smidgeon too broad. Point of fact, she was a little too everything and somehow it made her glorious. It elevated her above mortal women.
Without a touch of face paint or study to her hair or to her clothes. . . She was better than perfection.
She was a goddess.
And he found that instead of wishing to needle her, he wished to get down on his knees and worship her.
For truly, as the light of the fire cast her in a halo and she gazed on him with fiery fury, he found himself absolutely enthralled.
“Who the devil are you?” he breathed.
“What the blazes are you doing downstairs?” she demanded.
He grinned. “Do forgive me, was I to remain in my room?”
Her smoldering eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Whatever made you think I would do so?”
“Good manners,” she snapped.
“I don’t have them and, given your summation of my character, you knew that.”
She scowled. “I didn’t think you’d sneak about the house like a thief.”
“I am a master sneaker,” he said, barely able to contain his amusement.
“No doubt from all your years eluding husbands,” she accused, her shoulders squaring.
“I don’t deny it.” He shrugged. “One must rescue all those poor wives from their dastardly husbands.”
“You risk ruin with those visits!”
“What bliss does not have its risks,” he countered, enjoying teasing her far too much though he also spoke the truth.
“Ha.”
“Spoken as one who has not yet achieved bliss.” He eyed the pages she clasped so ardently. “Or so I thought, and yet. . .”
“You know nothing ab
out me.”
“I know you aspire to novel writing.”
She clutched the pages to her chest more tightly and her brows rose just a shade. “Aspire?”
“I confess to reading a few lines before I coughed.”
She stiffened. “They are merely the words of a bored mind.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He longed to put her at ease even though it was tempting to rib her. No doubt, she was exceedingly embarrassed. “You must be aching of it here in this gothic hall, away from all excitement.”
“It is not gothic. It is Elizabethan.”
“The age of torture and oppression,” he pointed out.
“Hardly. It was the Golden Age. Elizabeth was a great monarch. A great writer herself—”
“Ah. So you wish to be a great writer.”
She was silent.
“I think it marvelous if you have such an ambition.”
“Do you, indeed?”
“I do,” he replied in all honesty. “But if you love books, you really must take better care of yours.” He gestured to the novel in his hand. “Damp is very bad for books.”
Her lips pressed together as she stared at the novel in his hand. “Have you read it?”
“I own it, but no. Not as of yet. It is all the rage, is it not?”
She continued to stare as though stunned. “So I hear.”
“Is this the sort of thing you wish to write?” he asked, holding the book up.
“Yes.”
He took a deep breath suddenly driven by the wish to aid her. “Well, if you have any skill, I know several publishers.”
She blinked. “How kind.”
He grinned. He wanted her to think him not entirely nefarious. . . Which was quite odd. It wasn’t as if he planned to seduce her. . . Did he?
Oh God.
He did.
It hadn’t even truly hit him, but given the way he had just been completely bowled over by her presence and how we was now offering to introduce her to his publishing friends? Yes. He was hoping to have an affair with her.
After all, what man would turn from such a fascinating woman?
Many, actually.
But he wasn’t many and he reveled in the rare and she was rare, indeed.
Still, she was also, in a way, in his care. He should not be thinking of taking any sort of advantage but it struck him that Lady P could take care of herself.
Given her uncle and her demeanor, she’d been taking care of herself for years.
“You don’t think the idea of a lady writing abhorrent?” she asked flatly.
“Dear woman,” he drawled. “I find ladies in general to be abhorrent.”
She eyed him as though he were mad. “I don’t follow.”
“They are,” he explained, “through no fault of their own, often ill-read, without conversation, without experience, and interested in little that matters. Society makes them thus. A lady who writes is a lady who flouts society.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Well, I suppose it is no surprise you like women who are scandalous.”
Charles shook his head. “That isn’t just it. A woman who aspires to a profession aspires to independence and independent thought. Scandal is not interesting by itself.”
Her stance eased. “Perhaps you are not as trivial as I thought.”
A laugh burst from him. “I think I can say the same about you.” Charles stuck out his hand. “Can we not form a truce?”
She contemplated that hand as if it were a cobra, ready to strike. “I do not know.”
“I’m not going back to my mold-ridden room anytime soon but nor will I be leaving the house, if that was your wish.”
A smile tilted her lips, transforming her face into that of a mischievous sprite. “It was so very obvious?”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit.”
“Is it not?” she queried, lips twitching.
“Mystery? Yes. Subtlety? No.”
At last, her smile turned into a rich laugh. “Well then, let us form a tentative truce.”
He stuck his hand out further.
She eyed it again.
“I do not have the plague.”
Her laughter diminished and she grew serious. “That is not my concern.”
“Then what is?”
Whether she realized it or not, she licked her lower lip.
The room seemed to spin for him.
It was such a small, almost unnoticeable, gesture and yet it was undeniable.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly as she stared at his hand.
She liked his touch.
That was why she didn’t wish to take his hand.
But finally, she secured her papers in the crook of her arm then took his hand in a firm shake. “Allies,” she said.
“Allies,” he agreed.
He smiled. If she was so easily agreeable, as the vast majority of women were when he unleashed his charm, things were looking up. Yes. This was all going to go exactly as it should.
Chapter 4
Devil take it. Now, how was she going to get rid of him?
As she pulled her fingers back, trying not to shiver at the pleasure of his strong hand touching hers, she tried not to gape at him.
He was a conundrum.
Usually, she didn’t care for rakes beyond their role as material for her work. Rakes were self-centered, ignorant, trouble making fools. But Lord Charles was proving to be more than she had first surmised.
It had completely stunned her, his erudite and accurate description of ladies. It had also stunned her that he valued not scandalous women, but independent ones.
She would have thought that all he cared about was a voluptuary who was happy to hike up her skirts whenever he gave her the side eye.
His offer to assist her with her career was suspicious and inconvenient.
A naive person might think he would do such a thing out of guilt.
She was not naive.
Someone like Lord Charles would have intentions that were neither entirely good nor entirely bad. He might help her, but then he’d expect something in return.
And while the idea of slipping into his bed might not be so very terrible, she had no intention of doing so. Gentlemen’s beds, rakes or no, were off limits.
And just as his bed was off limits, so was his desire to be her ally.
Fortunately, she didn’t need his help.
Unfortunately, he was more intelligent than she had given him credit for.
Her usual tactics for convincing an unwelcome guest to depart hadn’t worked.
He was far too determined apparently.
But why the devil should he be so very nosy?
Finally she cleared her throat. “This is all well and good, Lord Charles, but surely you’ve an orgy to attend?”
To her surprise, he suddenly looked uncomfortable. . .
A laugh threatened to bubble from her throat. Oh goodness. He did attend orgies. That was why he looked as if she had called him out on the carpet.
He forced a smile. “I do not wish to be anywhere but here just now.”
“Do forgive me, but I fail to see why.”
His hard face softened. “Because you are alone in this world.”
The simple statement hit her like a knife through the heart.
She couldn’t draw breath and she hated him for it. For a moment.
How dare this debauched man show up on her doorstep and point out the loneliness of her existence. That even in her double life, the one she lived in London in the dark of night, she was alone. After all, when one had to constantly lie, one was always alone.
She narrowed her eyes. “How would you know anything about loneliness? Perhaps I love solitude.”
“You might,” he agreed. “Many do. . . But you don’t.”
“Don’t I?” she challenged.
“No,” he replied confidently.
“How do you know?”
“Because I am lonely, too.”
&nbs
p; It was a shocking confession and the moment he’d made it, a look of amazement crossed his face.
“You didn’t mean to tell me that, did you?” she asked.
“No. I did not.”
“Lord Charles,” she began carefully, “perhaps we can be allies, but I do not think we should allow this conversation to go any further.”
“Why?”
“Because as tempting as it might be to pretend an accord, we are nothing alike.”
That wasn’t true. To her horror, as he continued to insist on revealing things about himself, she was beginning to think that they were remarkably similar.
If she had been a titled man, perhaps she would have been just like him.
She hoped to think she would have made better choices, but her experiences had led her down dark paths. Paths which fascinated her. Paths which allowed her to glimpse lives she could only dream of even with her double life.
Lord Charles lived those lives.
He was not happy for it.
Of that, she was certain.
A relationship of any kind with him would be dangerous. Fascinating, but dangerous.
He was silent for a long time and then he asked, “Are you afraid I will tarnish your reputation?”
She considered this. Her reputation was always one step from utter destruction. If anyone found out about her alter ego, her life would be ruined. . . P. Auden was bad enough. However, the world might accept a lady author. But if anyone found out about her nocturnal research forays? She’d be run out of England.
So, she squared her shoulders and said, “Yes.”
“I suppose you are correct. But I feel as if I owe you something.”
“You do not,” she assured him.
“And then. . .”
She didn’t like the sound of those two words. “Then?”
“I think you have a secret.”
“What lady does not?” she asked quickly. No one thought Lady Patience had secrets. She was always for too terse, far too austere for that sort of thing.
“Too true. I am curious, even so.”
“If I do, a secret by its very nature is. . . Well. . . Secret. Why should you wish to discover it?”
A wicked grin tilted his lips. “So, you admit you have one.”
“No.”
His smile didn’t dim and a sort of devilish glint flashed in his eyes. “I like a mystery.”
She frowned. Deuce take it but why was he so difficult to manage? “And we have established that while not subtle, I am a mystery.”
