With This Ring

by Celeste Bradley

  After the first wary observation, Attie had apparently decided that this was not some plot to tempt her to lower her defenses and had, in fact, lowered them somewhat.

  When Elektra had asked her little sister to carry a single stack of books into the attic, Attie cheerfully—well, willingly—moved books for over an hour before she happened to open one and lose herself in it, plunked down cross-legged in the hallway so that Elektra had to walk carefully around her for the rest of the job.

  Her sister looked so intent upon her find that Elektra had not the heart to shift her. Instead she finished the job alone and silently, letting Attie read undisturbed until the job was done, still turning pages, a small figure in the oddly bare hallway.

  Now Elektra, truly physically weary, smiled as she descended the attic stairs. What would Attie say when she looked up from her book and registered her surroundings? Would she for a moment wonder if she was in the same house?

  I did this. I made this house—I made us—a little bit better. And then, a dangerous notion—I didn’t even have to marry a rich stranger to do it.

  Madness. An afternoon of tidying wouldn’t fix what was broken in Worthington House. Only a flawless match would bring it all back.

  After all, wasn’t that what she’d been born for?

  * * *

  From the shadowed doorway of his room, Aaron watched Elektra descend into the hallway from a small door set into the paneling, likely an attic.

  She looked a right mess, from the dusty smudges on her face to the smeared skirts of her wrinkled gown. Yet it was the soft glow of affection in her absentminded smile as she looked down the hall toward Attie, and the way her weary hand trailed on the railing … as light a touch as her tentative fingertips in his hair on that long-ago night alone in the ruin.

  Had it only been a few days?

  She was always stunning and vibrant, even when she driving him mad with her single-mindedness. Now, with her expression soft and kindly and her proud erect posture sagging a bit with weariness, she looked like an angel after a hard day’s work granting miracles.

  Only when she passed him and descended the stairs, leaving his sight, did he take in the changes she’d wrought.

  And stopped short in surprise.

  The hallway was entirely clear of books and clutter. For the first time he could see the gracious width of it and the elegant linenfold carved into the now gleaming wainscoting. Not only that, but the sconces gleamed and the shabby jewel-toned runner fairly glowed in the light of the newly brightened lamps.

  In the center of the hall, halfway down, sat a small, hunched figure. Bony knees jutted awkwardly through her crumpled skirts, and her unusually braided hair hung askew. Little oddity Attie was the only thing out of place in the long, generously proportioned hallway.

  Aaron walked closer, laughing inside as he observed that her skinny little bottom covered the only patch of unswept carpet in the long stretch.

  Attie finally blinked at the toes of his boots penetrating her field of vision and then lifted her chin to squint up at him. “I cleaned the hall for you. Say thank you.”

  Aaron thought that Attie made a very fine doorstop. Still, it was obvious that her efforts on his behalf had been unusual enough for her.

  “Thanks then, Miss Atalanta. I appreciates it, I do.”

  She shrugged and looked back down at her book.

  “Did you know that the African elephant and the Indian elephant have completely different ears?”

  Aaron smiled. “Yes. I did know that.”

  “Have you ever met an elephant?”

  “I have.”

  “They seem such odd creatures. Those long noses … what do you suppose they do with them while they sleep? I think they must roll over on them. I rolled over on my braid once and couldn’t move for an hour. I was stuck like a turtle on his back. Zander had to push me out of bed. I had to yell simply forever. Now I tie my braids to the headboard. It’s ever so much safer.”

  Aaron smiled down at the littlest Worthington. “Elephants are not the oddest creatures I’ve met in my travels.”

  He raised his gaze to look down the spacious hallway again. Something warm glowed deep in his belly He wasn’t an idiot. Obviously Elektra had done it for his benefit, and he didn’t think she was looking for praise. She had done it so that he needn’t fear for his life stumbling over books in the dark. She done it for Attie, to show her that there was another way to live—one that did not necessarily include clutter and obstacles and madness.

  He had been so wrong. She was not shallow, or selfishly ambitious. It was her family she climbed for, that she scratched and clawed and fought for.

  That she’d kidnapped and kissed a stranger for.

  What would it be like, he wondered, as a man who had been run from his home by his own family, to have that sort of loyalty and determination directed his way?

  * * *

  Dinner at Worthington House. Aaron thought that everyone should experience it at least once. It would save so much time in lengthy description.

  The food was not fine, first of all. It was well cooked, and it was filling, and there was some attempt to enliven the plainness with fresh herbs from the garden—which he’d seen, and which he wouldn’t brave without a machete and local guide!—but there was no hiding the pedestrian nature of the meal.

  Most of the Worthingtons partook heartily. The food disappeared from the platters quickly, and no one but Aaron seemed to notice that two of the elegant but badly chipped and crackled plates were scarcely sullied by contact with food.

  One belonged to the silent Lysander. Oh, he put on a decent show. Aaron saw him chewing and swallowing a few times, but for the rest of the dinner he merely moved items from one side of his plate to the other, cutting them smaller and smaller with each go. Clearly, he’d had a great deal of practice at this particular subterfuge.

  The other plate belonged to Elektra. This surprised Aaron, for he’d seen her tuck into the meat and potatoes at the inn on the road home. Neither Elektra nor Bliss had let a shred of that meal go to waste.

  Now, however, Elektra took no meat at all, and only a little of the vegetables and gravy and a single small chunk of bread.

  Vanity was his first thought. Then he caught himself in that uncharitable assessment as he saw her push another bit of roast onto Attie’s plate, urging her little sister to put down her book and finish her meal.

  She is too thin to pass her food to another.

  There was something going on here, something that had nothing to do with vanity or fitting into a ballgown.

  Whatever it was, it was not his concern. He would soon be on his way. The secrets in this house might drown a fellow if he hung about too long.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After dinner together, Aaron had supposed the Worthington family might gather in the drawing room for cards or some such. Instead, Cas escorted his wife to their chamber to rest, then took himself off to the workshop in the stable.

  Iris and Archie decided on a stroll about the moonlit garden, now that the rains had passed. Orion disappeared into his hellhole of a study, and Dade shut the door on his as well. Lysander simply disappeared, there one moment, silently gone the next.

  Bliss excused herself, pleading the need to see to Bianca. Aaron rather thought Bliss didn’t trust Lard-Arse. On second thought, perhaps she was wise not to.

  Aaron looked at the shattered mess of the dining table where Attie sat alone, her plate pushed back, her book open on the table, with scarcely enough light in the stubs of candles in the tarnished pair of candelabras to see the words on the pages.

  Elektra bustled through the room with Mrs. Philpott, stacking plates and platters. Aaron blinked. Miss Elektra Worthington did the washing up?

  Ten minutes later he found himself elbow-deep in hot water and potato peels, laughing at Mrs. Philpott’s stories of the Worthingtons as children and cherishing the wearily grateful look Elektra had given him when he’d ordered her from the
kitchen. He dared Attie to help him by implying that the water was much too hot for a child. She now stood next to him, enveloped in one of Philpott’s aprons, listening wide-eyed as Aaron repaid the housekeeper with tales of the Bahamas and the other strange lands he’d seen.

  It was fun, actually. As Lord Aaron, he would have scandalized the poor woman with his offer of immersing his noble hands into her soapsuds. Hastings, on the other hand, got a piece of toweling tied about his waist, a series of stories—although he didn’t believe the one about the flaming bird for a minute!—and a cup of strange-tasting tea pushed into his hand.

  He’d taken a single deep sip when Attie had leaned close and whispered in his ear. “I wouldn’t. I really, really wouldn’t.”

  He could hardly spit it out, so he swallowed manfully, smiled and thanked the woman, then left her to sip her own cup in her rocker by the fire. He dragged Attie into the larder.

  “What’s in the tea?”

  Attie gave him an arch look that reminded him of Elektra in a mood. Oh, hell. “What did I drink, Miss Attie?”

  She folded her arms. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Philpott’s Cure-All? It’s available all over England.”

  Aaron shook his head. It felt a bit disconnected from his neck. “I’ve been far away, haven’t I? What is it?”

  Attie wrinkled her freckled nose. “I think you’re about to find out. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t go riding or use sharp implements.” She held out her finger to show him a half-inch glossy scar on the tip. “I tried to touch the flames. Watch out for the flames.” She took her finger back and gazed at it with critical consideration. “It didn’t scar very much. It felt much worse than this at the time.”

  Aaron watched the little girl turn and walk down the hall away from him. Her light footfalls seemed to echo oddly in his mind. He turned back to the kitchen, determined to get a straight answer from Mrs. Philpott, but she only smiled dreamily as she rocked and rocked in her chair, her gaze locked on the fire in the hearth. On the little table next to her was a cup with dark leaves floating in the dregs.

  Aaron turned away, carefully not looking at the flames.

  * * *

  This time it was easy to find his way to his room. All he had to do was to wander down the only open, uncluttered space in the house. Aaron dreamily spread out his arms and let his fingertips just brush each wall. If he weren’t so weary, he would run down it, just because he could.

  His room was the end. Just as he approached the door, it opened and Elektra emerged.

  She was in my room.

  I wish she would stay in my room. Aaron smiled at his insane but lovely Elektra.

  Turning at his approach, she blinked at him in startlement. “Mr. Hastings! I was just—” She waved a hand at the closed door to his room. “Candles! And—and a fresh pitcher for your washbasin—” She stopped speaking and swallowed. Hard. He saw her throat contract. Such a pretty throat.

  “Thanks for that, miss.” He spread his arms again. “And thanks for this as well.” He gestured at the lovely pile of nothing in the hallway. “You didn’t need to do that for me.”

  Elektra didn’t smile, because then Mr. Hastings would have known that she thought he was adorable when he was trying to be nice. So she only nodded somberly. “Yes, I hadn’t realized it had become such a danger. Better you than Attie, I suppose.”

  He blinked at that, but could hardly disagree. “Aye, that wouldn’t ’ave done at all.”

  She tilted her head. “So you see, it is you who should be thanked, for revealing a dangerous situation to us before a Worthington could be harmed.” It was all she could do not to laugh when he twitched slightly.

  Best to leave while they weren’t yet arguing. Giving him a quick sisterly pat on the arm, she began to move past him.

  When his big warm hand covered her own, she halted in her tracks. His palm tenderly flattened her hand on his bicep.

  “Ye can let a bloke say thanks, Miss Elektra,” he murmured almost in her ear.

  The deep affectionate timbre of his voice resonated through her, vibrating down deep in her belly and making her heart stutter.

  He moved a step closer to her until one half of his chest overlapped one half of her bosom, separated by mere inches. “Ye can say yer welcome, or even ’twas nothing.”

  She parted her lips to give a breezy answer, but there was something wrong with her breathing and her mouth was just a bit dry—

  His warm palm slid slowly down her bare forearm, his long fingers wrapping around and warming her skin. It was a touch both innocent and intensely exciting. Elektra had read a great deal on human reproduction at her mother’s encouragement, but never had the words stimulate and arouse been so plainly defined.

  It was clear that more research was in order.

  She turned her palm upward, laying the back of her hand upon his sleeve to allow his work-roughened palm access to the sensitive skin inside her elbow. He took the hint quite neatly, but then, she’d never thought Mr. Hastings to be a stupid man.

  The heat from his palm warmed the pale blue tracing of veins there, flowing directly into her blood and coursing through her, a hot, sweet injection of desire, the perfect medicine for a chilled, lonely heart. She closed her eyes against the rich infusion and it felt like falling, or perhaps flying …

  His palm slid away and she nearly whimpered at the loss, until his warm fingertips began to stroke their way north along her upper arm, as if following that throbbing vein directly to her pounding heart.

  Oh, yes. Yes, please.

  Touch me. Feel me. See me.

  Know me.

  Here, alone in this crowded house, surrounded by everyone she loved to the point of hurting, her heart ached at the way this rough, outspoken man truly saw her.

  His breathing had deepened as well. She could feel the heat of his exhalations on her bare cheek and throat. She tilted her head slightly to allow the warm sensations to flow over her throat and collarbone. This seemed to affect the tenor of that breath. She felt a faint moan emanate from him, or perhaps it was a growl. Then he bent to press his warm lips to a point perfectly between neck and shoulder.

  Elektra couldn’t remember when she’d dug her fingers into his sleeve, or when she’d reached for him with her other hand. All she knew was that his hair was hot silk sliding between her fingers as she pressed his mouth to her neck, to her shoulder, to her throat—

  “No.” She’d meant it to be a shout. It came out a whisper. A plea. She swallowed and tried again. “No.” This time she managed a small step back.

  He lifted his head. His gray eyes focused on hers. “I see the flames in your eyes,” he whispered. “Attie warned me not to look into the flames.”

  Elektra froze. “Mr. Hastings? Did you drink the tea, Mr. Hastings?”

  He blinked. She peered into his eyes and saw the size of his pupils. Her breath left her in a sigh that was half laugh and half sob. A man in the throes of Philpott’s tea would likely kiss his own horse!

  Thank goodness she’d stopped him!

  I wish I hadn’t stopped him.

  The moment hung in the air. She breathed slowly and carefully.

  Then she swallowed hard. “Off to bed with you, Mr. Hastings. Sleep well.” She turned and walked toward the stairs. A strange ache bloomed in her belly at the loss of his warmth and shelter.

  Although the hallway was level, she felt as if she climbed a steep mountain, such was the pull he exerted upon her.

  Just keep climbing.

  Left alone in the dim hallway outside his room, Aaron blinked in an effort to focus his oddly distorted vision. No, she’d said. Sleep well, she’d said.

  Yes. She was right. He was … not himself at the moment. Even at his worst, he’d never been a man who would kiss a virgin in a darkened hall late at night. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  She was a lady. She’d been most proper to stop him.

  Or maybe she just didn’t care for him at all. And wh
at kind of well-bred girl toyed with a servant?

  He shook his head, confused. Wait … was he angry because she didn’t kiss him or because she almost did?

  I have lost my mind in this madhouse. I have become just another inmate.

  * * *

  Elektra made it to her own room and closed the door softly before she allowed the trembling take her over.

  Off to bed with you, Mr. Hastings.

  Her own bed mocked her, for she knew she would not sleep well tonight.

  You have no right to turn to him. You have no freedom to break convention and choose a man like that. To let him think anything else would be cruel beyond measure!

  There were women who did. Not simply the ones taking a commoner as a secret lover, which according to Philpott’s gossip happened every other Tuesday, but the other sort—the women who turned their backs on their worlds, who chose to be shunned by society, who gave it all up for the love of a man with rough workingman’s hands and muscles not rendered by fencing practice.

  Mr. Hastings would make a fine husband for any woman, she had no doubt. He was strong and chivalrous, in his irregular way, and he fulfilled his smallest promises as if they were holy vows.

  If she became one of those women, she need not fear the loss of her family’s regard. The Worthingtons might be irresponsible to the point of madness, but they only wished her to be happy, not titled or wealthy.

  And what of Attie? If you allowed yourself to be as mad and irresponsible as the rest of them, what sort of options would that leave Attie?

  A family already notorious, thrust into true scandal by her eldest sister wedding a strange, albeit wealthy, hermit. Her twin brothers recently involved in a scandal with a wicked widow—only Miranda wasn’t wicked. Only a bit unwise, although that had come out all right in the end if one didn’t count the loss of Miranda’s large inheritance and the estrangement of Poll, who was everyone’s favorite of the twins—

  No. It all hinged upon her, Elektra. The family teetered on the edge of financial and social ruin, yes, but it had not passed the point of no return, not yet. She could bring them back, lift them up, return them to their past unity and happiness!