With This Ring

by Celeste Bradley

  Or she could plunge them into an inescapable abyss of ruin. Her ill-considered choice could tip that crucial balance. Orion, Lysander, Poll—what decent woman would have them then?

  Despite her doubts, her long journey and subsequent adventures, not to mention countless trips up and down the attic stairs, caught up with her in a tide of weariness that left the room spinning when she closed her eyes.

  As she fell into the blackness of an exhausted slumber, she heard those words again.

  I see the flames in your eyes.

  His voice. There had been something different about his voice …

  * * *

  Elektra spent the early hours of the morning restoring her bedchamber to order after her adventures in Shropshire.

  Adventure. Shropshire.

  One didn’t connect those two thoughts every day.

  She didn’t smile. Her mad mistake and subsequent acquaintance with Henry Hastings aside, that journey had cost her a prime opportunity to reach her original goal.

  A goal only reinforced by last evening’s lapse of judgment.

  His touch. His heat. His mouth on her skin.

  She put it firmly from her mind. No more of that nonsense.

  When she had sorted out her dressing table, which she had left in a mess during packing—livid because some stranger cousin was on her way to parasitically attach herself to Elektra’s Season!—she found a thick envelope addressed particularly to her.

  An invitation. It must have arrived while she was gone. Philpott wasn’t one to recall events of even a few hours past, so it was no wonder she hadn’t mentioned it. Elektra slid her ivory opener beneath the wax seal, admittedly without any trace of excitement, to discover an announcement.

  Lord Neville, Duke of Camberton, entreats your presence once more at his birthday revel, which has been regrettably delayed by inclement weather for those traveling from far parts to attend. The event has been rescheduled for Wednesday Night. His Grace begs your forgiveness for the inconvenience.

  Today was Wednesday. She had not missed it, after all. There still remained time to fix matters. For Attie’s sake. For everyone’s sake, including that of Mr. Hastings, who deserved better than to get himself into some impossible situation, fixing his attention upon her.

  I am not free to suit myself.

  If you were, are you quite sure a valet would suit you?

  Yes. No.

  Yes. She shook her head sharply. I don’t know—and there’s no point to wondering, because I have no choice.

  Elektra lifted a book from her night table. From between the pages, she slid free a sheet of foolscap and unfolded it.

  Lord Aaron Arbogast, heir to the Earl of Arbodean.

  Underlined three times. The List.

  She had missed her opportunity with Lord Aaron, of course. That entire debacle was best not thought on too long. Slowly her gaze moved to the next name, which had once been the first name.

  Lord Neville, Duke of Camberton.

  How could she have lost her focus so completely?

  Of course, Bliss’s arrival had interrupted all of Elektra’s carefully laid plans to entrap … er, interest the duke. However, now that she thought about it, Bliss might very well serve a higher purpose indeed.

  Elektra put all thought of Mr. Hastings from her mind and strode purposefully from her bedchamber. Bliss had taken over the larger room that had once been Callie’s, two doors down on the left.

  The door stood open and Elektra saw Bliss, who was of course an early riser, sorting hatboxes onto a teetering pile already atop the wardrobe, humming contentedly.

  Without preamble, Elektra narrowed her eyes and pounced.

  “I don’t suppose you brought something suitable for the Duke of Camberton’s ball?”

  Bliss turned to her with a serene expression. In her hands she held two perfectly perfect bonnets, each more cunning than the other. “Why, cousin—”

  Elektra closed her eyes. “Sorry. Silly question.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aaron rolled over in his sleep and there was room. He stretched his legs out long, and there was room. The simple luxury of sleeping with a straight spine made him want to laugh out loud in purest gratitude.

  A real bed. A true night’s sleep. He stretched again, luxuriating in the length and breadth of an actual bed.

  Oddly, he had no recollection of going to sleep.

  He opened his eyes to gaze about the small chamber, still dusty and cluttered as it had been yesterday afternoon when he’d woken from his book-avalanche-induced nap to see Elektra and the cleared hallway …

  Elektra in the hallway.

  Oh, God. He sat up straight in bed. That had been a dream, hadn’t it? It had a sort of smeary fog to it, like a dream …

  Except he could still taste the silken skin of her neck.

  He swung his feet to the floor and noted dully that he had lain down fully clothed, right down to his once fine but now much-battered boots.

  The damned tea.

  He didn’t know what was in that abominable brew, but a single sip had hit him like a brick to the skull. He recalled the floating, unreal quality to his vision … and the incredible sensitivity of his other senses.

  He could still smell jasmine.

  So, it was real. He had accosted the daughter of his host in a darkened hall. The gentleman’s code of honor demanded that he confess at once and fling himself upon the mercy of Archimedes Worthington. That wouldn’t be so bad. Archie was a good sort, if a vague and dreamy patriarch.

  It was Daedalus who would muck it all up. Matters would definitely come to blows—if not swords or pistols! Aaron rubbed his face, recalling Elektra’s ancient pistol, the family heirloom. It threw a huge lead ball with great force but poor accuracy.

  If he fired it, he might be able to intentionally miss Dade. Or he might kill him.

  Hell, by the look of the thing, he’d be lucky not to take out two or three witnesses!

  Or you could just marry the girl.

  Aaron swallowed hard.

  Marry her?

  Wed Elektra.

  Wake up to tropical-sea eyes and sunlight hair every morning of his life, until time transmuted the gold to silver …

  Yes. Oh, yes please!

  It would cost him. God, would it cost him. A quick, scandalous match with the First Family of the Peculiar would erode the last thread of possibility of reclaiming his inheritance from the highly conservative earl. Aaron tried to imagine introducing rumpled, Shakespeare-spouting Archie and dreamy, paint-spattered Iris to his haughty, patrician grandfather. Your new relations, my lord.

  Oh, hell. Attie. Would she curtsy with a scowl, spreading the skirts of her too-large dress, dipping her jumbled tassel of braids to the floor? Would his grandfather freeze like a block of ice, as Aaron had seen him do from time to time—too highborn to overlook such oddity, too well mannered to show his disdain?

  Protective anger surged through him, directed toward anyone who would pour scorn upon Attie’s tangled little head. Or would it be much worse than that?

  Grandpapa is still fragile. Any upset could set him back.

  Well, this ought to do it. Aaron fought the slightly hysterical need to laugh.

  In his incompetent hands, Arbodean might very well crumble into ivy-twined rubble, as Worthington Manor had. Perhaps, if he worked very hard for the rest of his life and had just a tiny bit of good fortune—no flood, flame, or pestilence, for example—it was possible that it would not happen.

  At least, not in his lifetime. Perhaps that was the best any man could hope for.

  Once he’d risen and made himself as presentable as possible, thankful indeed for the washbasin Elektra had so thoughtfully provided, Aaron set out to throw himself upon the mercy of Mr. Archimedes Worthington, patron saint of madwomen and hooligans.

  Oddly, he found himself whistling.

  * * *

  Aaron opened his door and turned down the hall toward the stairs.

&nb
sp; He stopped at the sight of a rolling ball of skirts coming down the hall in his direction.

  It was a lumpy sort of ball, the kind with bony knees and pointy elbows and the odd red-amber braid trailing behind upon the elderly carpet.

  Attie’s somersaulting path led her nearly to Aaron’s feet. This left her sprawled on her back at his feet, gazing up at him. He blinked down at her in silence. He’d already come to understand that, as with a cat, it was best to let Attie begin each encounter on her own terms.

  She considered him for a long moment. Then she wrinkled her nose. “You sleep quite late for a servant.”

  Heaven save him from an observant child.

  “Had a rough day, didn’t I? You stepped on me, you know.”

  Attie scowled fiercely at him. It was quite an intimidating glower, or it would have been if not for the ridiculous angle.

  “It’s rude of you to remind a lady of a mistake.”

  Time for a subject change. “Where is everyone?”

  “You mean, where is Ellie?”

  Aaron didn’t deny it. Those otherworldly green eyes saw far too much as it was. He didn’t care to try her perceptiveness further.

  Attie rolled her eyes dramatically and flopped back on the carpet in abandoned boredom. “She and Bliss are getting ready for a ball tonight. Ellie is scouting out some duke she’s had her eye on, I suppose. I was not invited.”

  A ball. With a duke.

  “A duke beats an earl.”

  Attie smirked. “My sister will be the most beautiful duchess in England.” Then her odd little pointy face fell. “Does that mean she’ll have to go live in some old stinky castle? I wouldn’t go, if I were her. Castles have bats. And … and…”

  “Ghosts?” Aaron offered helpfully, though for the life of him he didn’t know why. Of course, Elektra would be flinging herself back into the breaches, eternally ready to sacrifice herself for her family’s return to glory.

  You won’t give her glory. You have a title and a doomed estate—and enough notoriety to drown even Attie’s chances of that golden future.

  Aaron swallowed. Perhaps, before he made his confession and forced Elektra’s hand, he ought to consider her wishes.

  If he cost her this chance, she would never forgive him. A lifetime with a happy Elektra was a tantalizing vision. A lifetime with a furious, betrayed Elektra?

  Aaron shuddered. Then he noticed Attie’s gaze sharpening on his face. Subject change. “Are you trainin’ for the circus, then?” I hear they can always use more monkeys.

  Her expression soured as if she had heard his thought. “I believe there is a slope of at least five degrees from this end of the hallway descending toward the stairs.”

  “Hm.” Aaron tilted his head severely to squint down the hall carpet. “I don’t agree. It looks entirely level to me.”

  Her green eyes took on an evil tint. “Opinion is worth nothing. Where is your evidence?”

  That was how Aaron came to be somersaulting up and down the hall just when Elektra mounted the stairs with her brothers Orion and Dade.

  Aaron froze in the middle of a roll, which only had the unfortunate effect of toppling him sideways—quite possibly the only way he could have looked any more ridiculous at that moment.

  Daedalus Worthington had obviously spent some time perfecting his expression of exasperation, for he was very good at it. He turned on the spot and walked away, returning down the stairs whence he had come.

  Elektra’s mouth quirked in amusement even as her brows rose in disapproval at Aaron’s antics. Orion merely gazed at him as if he were a not-particularly-interesting insect.

  Yet Aaron couldn’t help grinning as he rose to his feet, dusting off the seat of his trousers and running his other hand through his tousled hair.

  “It’s the ’allway—” he began, but Orion turned to Attie.

  “I perceive an altitude variation of four degrees,” he stated to his youngest sibling, just as if debating with someone of his own scholarly stature.

  Attie shook her head. “Five, at the very least.”

  Aaron, who had indeed observed that it was slightly more difficult to tumble up the hall than down, nodded sagely, but had nothing more specific to offer to the discussion, which quickly became heated when Attie dared her elder brother to produce his own evidence.

  Elektra stepped forward and tucked one hand through Aaron’s arm. “Mr. Hastings, why don’t we step aside and let them thrash it out. It could take hours, or even days. I daresay we’ll find them rolling down every hallway in the house for the next week, plotting out the altitudinal variations of the scullery versus the kitchen hearth.”

  Aaron laughed and willingly allowed himself to be led away. “I was afraid to tell ’em that I only noticed a three-degree drop!”

  Elektra flashed him a smile of such mischief and laughter that Aaron found himself descending the stairs quite short of breath, dizzied not by the height but by the new, playful Elektra.

  Would he never plumb the depths of this unexpected creature?

  Er, perhaps he ought to rephrase that thought, even in the privacy of his own mind!

  “I have a favor to beg of you, Mr. Hastings.”

  Aaron inclined his head. “Anythin’ for you, miss.”

  “I must visit my dressmaker and I cannot seem to dislodge any of my brothers from their activities to escort me. Would you mind terribly?”

  Since he rather thought he’d be willing to face a dragon or three to see that smile again, he nodded mutely. His reward came at once. There it was, like a wash of light on a diamond.

  She left him at the bottom of the stairs, begging his patience while she fetched her wrap.

  As Aaron blinked away the visual afterimage of that fey grin, he wondered how many times Elektra had been left to fend for herself by her brothers.

  * * *

  Elektra found she actually didn’t mind having Mr. Hastings’s company on her errand. When he wasn’t waxing judgmental, he could be an interesting and amusing companion. The fact that he was handsome—and broad-shouldered, and rather deliciously tall, and that she continued to have startling memories of his hot, exciting mouth on hers—well, that had nothing to do with it.

  He was a convenient escort, one who did not seem impatient as her brothers so often did, and she was able to go about London without waiting for Orion to finish his dissection of something with too many legs, or for Lysander to snap out of his brooding, or for Dade to find the time out of his busy, busy day.

  They had nothing to fear. They were men. They could simply stand up and walk from the house on a whim. They needn’t change their clothes or consider the propriety—and danger, for this was London!—of going about alone.

  And she didn’t wish to take Iris, who would dawdle endlessly and flirt with every male above the age of—well, her mother had a way with men of any age, frankly. They seemed to find her either adorably helpless or adorably dotty or in the case of Elektra’s father, Archimedes Worthington, simply adorable.

  Elektra had never quite managed to carry off adorable. She always seemed to garner adjectives such as striking or stunning or other such faintly violent words—not that she read any such thing into the world’s opinion of her. What should she care?

  If something wasn’t going to help her achieve her goals for the Worthington name, she refused to waste a single second of her life upon it.

  Still …

  “Mr. Hastings, if you were to define me in one word, what would it be?”

  “Complicated,” he replied absently. Then he seemed to truly hear the question and, subsequently, his answer. His expression took on a sudden pallor and she could have sworn he flinched a bit.

  “I’m sorry, miss. That weren’t very gentlemanly of me. I mean to say … er … multifaceted. Yes, that’s the very word, it is. Multifaceted, like … a diamond!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You think I’m hard.”

  He blinked and seemed inclined to move away a step, althou
gh he staunchly stayed by her side, just with a slightly larger space between them.

  “Not the hard part—I mean, you see, the shiny part.”

  “So you think I’m gaudy? Obvious?” Now she was just having fun with his visible terror. Men were so easy. “Sharp?”

  He must have had enough at that point, for he stopped cold in the middle of the walkway and turned to her.

  “You aren’t any harder than a soldier in a war and ye aren’t any more obvious than a diplomat fighting for peace. Ye may think you’re foolin’ the world with this, this…” He waved his hands about her. “This façade, this foolish, shallow, social-climbing veneer—”

  Elektra’s belly went cold at his words. Could it be that this man, this irreverent, poorly trained servant, could see what she’d ensured that no one else in the world could perceive?

  Her chin went up and she was about to cut him dead, but then he said the single thing she’d never, ever heard from anyone’s lips in her life.

  “But, well, I think it’s just plain magnificent the way you look after that house of bedlam and everyone in it!”

  He nodded as if he’d finally said something he’d been dying to get off his chest, then he bowed and gestured her onward, following at the discreet distance of the perfect manservant. She had no choice but to breathlessly turn and continue her errand, as if the world had not just upended itself and the sky turned green and the trees blue!

  How could this be?

  If anyone had told her a month ago that she would meet a man who truly understood her, she would have laughed bitterly and assured them that they were soon for the madhouse. No one but her dressmaker grasped her real reasons for the devastating wardrobe, for the haughty demeanor, for the practiced perfection of her face and form.

  When one had a purebred horse for sale, one groomed it within an inch of its life. When one had a pretty daughter and an empty bank account, one—if one were not Iris or Archie Worthington—dressed her up for market and displayed her to her best advantage.

  To everyone’s best advantage.