The Writer and the Rake

by Shehanne Moore

  What had she thought about that strange sound coming from the back of her throat? Well, thank God it appeared to have stopped. She should really have kept the sex with Mitchell Killgower out of this, especially since the tenderness had crept in. It was plain nothing else kept her here. She had confused it, confused herself, obviously. But, now, now she knew how to get home, finally—as simple as clicking her heels three times in the ruby slippers really—she’d be there in no time.

  Fortunately her feet were killing her. She wasn’t about to make a complete and utter tit of herself leaping about shouting yes. The wave of relief almost bowled her over. She reached out her hand.

  “Thank you for that shining enlightenment. Now, I will have that drink.”

  “As with everything else, the choice is yours. Just whatever you do, don’t get trapped between the two worlds, otherwise the only way to be free is to curse someone else. And believe me, the day will come when you have lost everything you ever cared about, that ‘otherwise’ will become a reality.”

  “I’m having a drink, Mort. I don’t see how that is going to cause me to live between two worlds, or curse anyone, unless this champagne isn’t very good.” The coolness of the stem sent invigorating ripples through her. The sip—all right it was a slug—was even better.

  “Now.” She wiped her mouth. “As I understand it what you’re saying is Mitchell is a little bit in love with me which actually, given his bloody moods, I very much doubt. But, if I was to do something to stop that, I could get back to my world?”

  Mort furrowed his brows. “Be careful what you wish for and drink to. I can’t tell you what to do here or where your future lies. That’s a choice only you can make. But I can tell you if you decide to stay in the future and don’t found this dynasty with Mitchell, I will never exist. How can I?”

  “Really? And you don’t think that’s a blessing? From what you say you don’t seem to want to exist anyway.”

  “Only because I’m tired. Scenes like the one I’ve just shown you take their toll on the human soul, the body too.”

  “Really? I mean you don’t look—”

  “Once I landed naked on the top of Mount Everest for all of ten seconds.”

  “I won’t ask. But, I’ll certainly think it over. You may rest assured.”

  That was just something she said to get rid of him. She didn’t want him producing that piece of paper and then going up in flames when she signed it. That could be inflammatory for her—pardon the pun. Besides, she needed to get back home.

  “Brittany—”

  “Who says I am thinking of going? I could just as easily be asking you what I need to do to stay here.”

  “Because that’s not you.”

  “Oh? You know me better than I do myself now?”

  “What I know—”

  “Just whose choice is this? Hmm? May I just say if there is a mistake to be made here, I will make it, not you. Whatever happens, once I do, I will also sign your little bit of paper. Now, will you please be so kind as to leave? You have absolutely no idea how jealous Mitchell gets.”

  “That’s because he cares about you. Why do you think he was awkward earlier?”

  “Because it’s his middle name. Along with bastard.”

  “Because he looked at that woman, the one who made eyes at him as you walked up the stairs and he realized, with a start, you were so far under his skin, he didn’t want her. He should but he didn’t. He just finds it difficult to square up to the fact when he can’t make head nor tail of you, and he thinks he’s incapable of loving any woman, which is probably why I bet he doesn’t ask any questions about me. He could, you know. He could have asked you a lot. Why do you think he doesn’t?”

  “I said—”

  “Fine. I can take the hint.”

  He rose, bowed. She could tell he hadn’t the least willing intention of going, but she’d no more to say. Mitchell Killgower had fallen a tiny bit for her. So what? It was all sex and nothing else.

  She slugged another mouthful of champagne, let her gaze linger on Mort’s retreating back. A mistake to consider that there was something she’d miss about him, when she needed to remind herself he’d landed her in this mess without qualm, without conscience.

  She had her way here. She must take it. Mitchell Killgower, who wasn’t the kind of man to give his heart to anyone, who hadn’t even given it to his wife, who couldn’t possibly have given even a tarnished blood vessel of it to her, hadn’t fallen for her.

  And she? All right, she might as well admit it. She had had the odd rogue thought about his suitability in bed, about his general drop-dead gorgeousness and then there was the fact that these last few days had been all right at times. She wouldn’t like to put it stronger.

  But, she did put it stronger. The thought of these nights in his bed, the searing tenderness of his touch, the way she sometimes caught him looking at her. She slugged the last mouthful—she needed a drink after all and a fag and all the things she couldn’t get here, would never get here—so she couldn’t even light up a fag while she considered this. Did she need to?

  By the time the day fell into dust, so would any trifling thing he felt for her. Anything she had for him too. She wasn’t that desperate for a man. Oh, all right, she was. Who was she kidding? But, look where desperation for a man, a half-decent one had landed her. Here.

  She set the glass down. Her shoe was there on the rug. If she didn’t do something practical, like putting it on, other thoughts would creep from the dark bushes in her brain, race like field mice from the twisted briars. They’d overrun her.

  Fame, success, riches. She couldn’t let these things go. And not just that. This wasn’t her life. She’d be choosing to live here when she couldn’t. Then, what happened when the headlong plunge stopped, when Mitchell Killgower, or she, hit the ground with a resounding smack and decided it was over? As things were always over for her?

  She’d be zoomed back to her time, but that could be at any point in the future. She couldn’t take that risk, live that kind of shattered life.

  No. She just must get the damn shoe on her damn foot and go pick a fight with Mitchell, so he hated her. Before another evening went by, leading her, leading him, into territory neither could occupy. Hardly difficult. The picking a fight bit wasn’t. Shoving her foot into her shoe though? She cursed twice beneath her breath then tried stabbing her foot into the shoe. How the hell had her bunions gotten like onions? Pretty obvious when the shoes in 1765 were so dreadful, narrow, pointy, paper thin on the soles, vicious on the sides. Another reason to get back to her boots, to shoes that bloody well fitted.

  “Do allow me.”

  The voice, laced with the kind of refinement that irritated the hell out of the hairs on the back of her neck, was unfamiliar. She shook her head to gather herself. Allow its male owner what? To goggle at her desperate attempts to shove her foot into the shoe.

  “No. really. I can man . . .”

  She hesitated, staring at the carpet. Actually, where was Mitchell? When he’d said glass of punch she’d never envisaged him going to the orchard to trample the bloody grapes, put them in a bowl, add the contents of the booze cabinet, refine the sugar.

  She’d thought five minutes or so. She definitely wouldn’t need to be dying of thirst, a lonely traveller in the desert, plodding ever forward beneath a scorching sun. Wasn’t his absence, her chance though? If he now deigned to stick his nose in here, was it her fault that she just happened to be deep in conversation with some other man? Some delectable creature it might conceivably cause a huge public row to be seen warmly chatting away to, after he had first helped her on with her shoes and felt her feet? Choice? She flicked her gaze upwards through her downcast eyelashes. Then she flicked them back. On a sliding scale? Quite an achievement.

  Delectable creature
? She might have known her luck with men would hold bad.

  Francis Dashwood, that corpulent, copulating corpuscle, stood there, his beady eyes crawling in his simpering face, like beetles in pastry. Still, she could mask the revulsion clawing its way up her spine and speak to him, for the thought of fame, success, riches. For that she could speak in tongues of rubies, diamonds and pearls, garnets, opals, jade.

  “I am sure I can do it myself and not trouble Your Grace with my—”

  “No, please do trouble me. Feet that are more beautiful than Solomon’s temple is surely what you meant to say.”

  Trowelling it on a bit, wasn’t he, when she’d feet like a fig. Feet an elephant might have sat its unseemly backside on and flattened. Please tell her, women didn’t fall for this. Gabriella must have obviously. Had her head zipped up the back?

  “I—I—”

  Yet here she was, robbed of words as surely as if a thief had popped up on her tongue and stolen them.

  The floor creaked. Francis Dashwood got down on one podgy, bursting out of the breeches of his bottle green, knee. It could be worse—the floor had only creaked, it could have broken.

  “Yes?”

  “Find it somewhat hard to believe my feet are that.”

  The words were the best she could manage, the pained smile was too. She needed to cause a row with the ‘Killglower.’ Just not like this. She edged one foot beneath the other.

  Francis Dashwood beamed. “That depends on the owner.”

  “Yes. Well. The world is full of many owners and many fe—”

  “You’re Mitchell’s wife.”

  It was a statement, not a question. When she was in the middle of her fancy speech, her sort of borrowed speech too. She shrugged.

  “Well, I’m not his clergyman.”

  “Oh, we’ve all been that at times in our order. People have quite the wrong idea about it, you know?”

  She didn’t want to know. She did however muster a smile, despite the rancid fingernail Sir Francis ran like a spider up the bare bit of her arm.

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Fun. Bacchanalian worship, that’s what we do best.”

  “How very nice for you.”

  To think there had been times when curiosity had thumbed its nose at her. Now, this fat worm reached for her shoe she saw there was being curious and being silly, although she was curious. Was this why Christian had asked him here tonight? To discomfort Mitchell? Show the world Brittany was some slut Mitchell had hired to pose as his wife? And did Christian actually think she, Brittany would be bowled over by all this? With all her experience of Skinny Joe’s.

  She eyed her shoe. If this man thought he was putting it on her foot, he was in big trouble. For one thing, it took her to do that. And yet, if Mitchell was about somewhere, the trick was to inflame him. Money. Success. Fame. For that she could endure a worm’s slitheringly boring touch.

  “Mitchell used to come along, you know? Or maybe you didn’t? Oh, do please let me put this on for you.” He reached out his be-ringed hand.

  “How kind of you, Your Grace. It’s just—”

  She refused to flinch further as he tried to slip the shoe on her foot. As she had often noted in life, trying was not succeeding. No bloody wonder when he was grappling with her foot. The shoe was too small. Why had she ever removed it?

  “You know I hear you are a bit of a worshipper yourself.”

  This was like being at the dentist’s. These moments reminded her of times when they asked you how your holiday was, then shoved a drill down your throat before you could say awful. Despite almost headering the potted palm, she managed to cinch her lips, say sweetly, “Of the angelic kind.”

  “Yes. Christian said as much. I must say I found it hard to believe with a face like yours.”

  “Really? Well, that’s just Christian for you. A nasty, unforgiving cow.”

  “Anyway, whatever is said of us, we’re not as bad as all that.” Sir Francis’s muddy brown eyes held a slimy twinkle. “Just different. There’s one shoe on. Let’s get the other one for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Mitchell thought you had come to us?”

  “What? When?”

  “Recently. He seemed to have trouble finding you.” He lifted her other foot. “Do you know he virtually accused me of stealing you?”

  “Real—? Well.” She cleared her throat. “He was probably just . . . desperate. I left him a note because I was in such a hurry, but obviously it never reached him. The servants Christian sent are so unreliable.”

  “Christian?”

  “Lazy, lying, conniving. What? You didn’t know she sent them to spy and report on everything we do, to her? They probably hid that note on purpose from him. She had to know though. She went and arranged this whole evening the second I was gone, in the hope I wouldn’t be here and Mitchell would be left high and dry. You have no idea of the spite of that creature.”

  “Hmm. Well, I daresay it’s something we’re all capable of.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, didn’t I, that he used to come to our humble, little meetings?”

  “I’m sure they’re anything but humble.”

  “Well . . . Anyway but then he stopped. Maybe, you’ll be the one to bring him back?”

  She might. But then again she wasn’t staying. She rose above her agony to fix on her warmest, most ingenious smile.

  “Who knows what the future holds for any of us, Your Grace.” Unless you were Mort. Then it probably did hold certain non-existence. “But, who is to say indeed?”

  “Of course he never really forgave us for Gabriella as such. The fact she preferred others to him. Silly, when he preferred so many to her.”

  “You’re not saying that Gabriella pretended all that in order to make him jealous?”

  “If she did, she did it well. Nor would you ever call Mitchell the jealous kind. No. That was a forced marriage of the worst kind. Still, why don’t you ask him?”

  She offered her most enigmatic stare. “Why don’t you?”

  “I would like to, my dear, but Mitchell and I don’t really get along any more, which was why I was so surprised he abased himself by visiting me. Here is your dear husband now. If you don’t mind, I shall make myself scarce.”

  “You mean . . .”

  She jerked her head around. Mitchell Killgower, looking anything but dear—certainly not to her—strode through the frothing gowns in the next-door room. For a second she was torn about making herself scarce but she wanted that little express train of fame, riches, success, to chug back into her life.

  This was her chance to arrive at her destination Famesville. To leave everything she thought about him, unspoken. Just so long as he didn’t find a handy water pump to dunk her under, she’d be home. Even if he did find one, all she’d be was home and drenched instead of home and dry.

  “Mitchell . . .”

  She’d like to have risen but the bolt of agony that seared her right bunion nailed it to the floor. At least she wasn’t going to have to cheat on him because really, truly, seeing him there at the door, it was as if she’d never seen him before. He was everything she wanted and nothing she could have.

  “Goodbye, my dear.” Sir Francis vanished onto the terrace.

  “A word, dearest wife.”

  “Certainly.”

  She strove not to flinch, as he set the glass of punch down on the side table, without spilling a drop but then his icy control was formidable. This was the man who had dragged her down the stairs and held her under a water pump without breaking breath, a sweat either, remember? “What one would you like?”

  “Whichever you want to give me. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to have that word outside? Not in here in front
of Christian’s crew.”

  “Fine.”

  She let her gaze skirt the glass of punch. When she’d have to leave that too? After waiting at least twenty turgid minutes for it? What was more important? The express train was chugging. She had the ticket. There was nothing to keep her here.

  Despite the agonizing feeling she’d thrust her right foot onto a brazier, she stood. She even bent down and picked up her other shoe. “You first.”

  Across the floor, out of the double doors, her only thought being this was the avenue of trees she’d seen herself lying in. These were the steps he’d come down. She imagined the words as if she’d written them, read them. ‘It’s her ladyship, drunk again.’ Such stoicism, such cynicism. Because he’d been there before. The piercing cold in her bones, icy, shivering, as he fought desperately to warm her, this man who was a mere step ahead of her, iced as a silver pond that glittered in the moonlight.

  How could she do this here? Because she must. It was the only way home for her now. Of course her sacrifice was great, as was the pain in her right foot. In fact, that was being made worse by her attempts to sweep, not hobble, down bleached white stones, onto the mossy carpet that lay between the towering trees.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but just how far are we going? I mean I don’t know about you, but my feet are killing me.”

  He stopped.

  “And that was why you allowed that tedious old bastard to feel them, was it? Did you think it would make them feel better?”