by Rose Gordon
“Here’s the deal,” he said in a sharper voice than he intended. “Every page has a date on it. It starts with today and goes until February thirteenth next year. The one, two and three you see on each of the pages,” he pointed to one of the pages that had a one on the first line, then a two written a few lines down and a three a few lines after that, “are so you can write in three incidents during the day that made you smile. Therefore, each and every day you must find three things that make you smile and record it.”
“And who are you to say what I must do?” she demanded. “Maybe I don’t want to smile.”
“I don’t care,” he said fiercely, although he cared very much that she didn’t want to smile. “You’ll find three things about which to smile each day and record them.”
“And if I don’t?” she challenged.
“I think you will,” he said with a slow smile.
“You’re awfully confident, aren’t you,” she countered. “What makes you so sure I’ll do what you want? How do you know I’m not going to toss it into the fire like you did all my books last night?”
Paul got up and strolled to the other side of the room where he’d left his satchel. “Because the fate of this book,” he pulled her “favorite” propriety book out of his bag, “depends on the fate of that book,” he said, pointing to the book she held in her hand. “If that book goes in the fire, then so does your misbehavin’ book.”
“It’s Miss Bea Haven,” she corrected through clenched teeth. “All right, I promise not to throw it into the fire. Now give me my book back.”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “That’s not good enough. I’ll let you have it back after I know you’re doing what you’re supposed to.”
“And how are you going to determine that?”
“By reading your entries, of course,” he said with a wink.
“And how will you know if I make things up?” she asked tartly.
Paul shrugged again. “I won’t. But I don’t care because I’m sure you’ll smile about it later that night when you think you got away with tricking me.”
“You’re absurd.”
“That may be,” he allowed. “But either way, I think you’ll do it. You don’t want anything to happen to Miss Bea, do you?” He tossed her propriety book into the air, letting it do a flip before catching it in the air.
“I suppose you better toss that book into the fire,” she said, sounding resigned and pointing to the book he was holding.
His eyes shot to hers. “Why?” he inquired softly.
“Because there’s no way I can do this. It’s time for bed and I just now got the book. It appears that I’ve already missed a whole day’s worth of entries,” she said, her voice sounding a bit sarcastic.
“Nice try,” Paul said, stepping closer to her. “But I know for a fact that you’ve met your quota for the day.”
“And how would you know that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“First, I know you smiled when you were laughing at me when I was suggesting ways to fix your tooth. Second, I caught a glimpse of you smiling when you walked out of the dining room, thinking you were pulling one over on me. And third, when I told you that you could have your misbehavin’ book back.” He smiled at her, daring her to deny his charges.
“I did not smile when you brought out Miss Bea Haven’s book,” she countered, crossing her arms defensively.
“Then what would you call it?”
“I don’t know, a smirk. But it certainly was not a smile,” she said defiantly.
He shook his head. “Fine. I bet you smiled when I tossed my clothing over the screen,” he teased and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
She glowered at him. “Absolutely not,” she declared, shaking her head for emphasis.
“All right,” he conceded. “But we agree on the other two incidents?”
She nodded.
His smile turned wolfish. “Then, I guess that just means I need to stay until I can make you smile again.”
“Th—that won’t be necessary,” she stammered.
Paul brought his free hand up to her face and tilted her head up so he could look into her eyes. His thumb rubbed a light caress on her soft cheek, causing her lips to part slightly. He watched as her pink tongue peeked out and moistened her lips. He slowly ran his long fingers along the edge of her jaw. Looking at her thus, he could actually see a very attractive woman. A woman who let society’s dictums and her own foolish notions control her. If she’d learn to let go of all that and relax, she would be very beautiful indeed.
Paul leaned his head down, closing the space between them. Then, before he could stop himself, he gently pressed his lips to hers. Her lips felt soft and lush under his. He stayed there for just a brief few seconds, but it was enough to know that she’d enjoyed the kiss as much as he had.
He pulled back and looked at her face. Her traitorous lips were having the hardest time not curving into a smile. He was tempted to point out that she’d just smiled again. But decided to act the role of a gentleman just this once and said, “I know just the thing to put a smile on your face.”
Her eyes flew open and two patches of pink spread across her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak—some scathing retort, if he had to guess—but he cut her off by putting a finger to her lips. “I brought you something else,” he said simply before walking across the room and grabbing the trifle he’d hidden from her view. He walked back across the room to her and handed her the dish, saying, “Perhaps this will help.”
She took the dish from his hand, her fingers brushing his as she did so. “Thank you,” she murmured, favoring him with a small, shy smile.
“You’re welcome,” he said softy.
She looked down at the trifle, then back at his face. “Did you eat some of it?” she asked blandly, her lips twitching.
“Not exactly,” he confessed, “but not for lack of wanting to.”
She looked like she wanted to ask him where the missing spoonful was; fortunately, she didn’t. Instead, she just eyed him skeptically and took a big bite.
“I should be going,” he announced abruptly, walking away to pack up his things. “Don’t forget to make your entries.”
Paul walked numbly out of her room and down the stairs. He knew she’d laugh at him. He’d actually hoped she would. That was half the reason he’d concocted the whole scheme and gone through with. What he hadn’t counted on was kissing her. He still couldn’t describe what had possessed him to do so. Perhaps it was that blue silk gown and how it exposed the tops of her luscious breasts and clung to her curvy body, tempting him to look at what he wasn’t allowed to have. Or perhaps it had to do with the expression on her face at the time. She’d been completely relaxed and still. He’d only seen her that way once before: the day of her accident. The only reason he’d seen her that way then was because she was unconscious. Or perhaps he kissed her because as much as he’d tried to deny it to himself so far, he was becoming besotted with her.
Just acknowledging the thought made his body tense. If she were to ever discover his true feelings and realize how much power she held over him, he’d be in deep trouble.
Chapter 16
Liberty felt utterly confused as she stared at the door her husband had just gone through. The man changed moods more often than she changed drawers. One minute he was doing something nice, and the next he was barking out orders. He was definitely a mystery.
She scribbled in her entries. Not because she wanted to please him, but because she wanted to ensure the safety of her favorite (and last) propriety book, or at least that’s the reason she told her herself while scribbling down her entries. This morning she’d snuck into his study to grab her books and hide them before he could destroy them. Unfortunately, once she opened the door, she soon discovered he’d already destroyed the rest.
Thinking on it now only served to remind her of her new mission. Perhaps she’d find something of his to heartlessly destroy. Searching his ro
om tonight wasn’t possible, but perhaps tomorrow before she left to go tutor above the tavern.
The next week passed by with no opportunities for Liberty to search his room or study, but she hadn’t forgotten her plan. Each night she’d remind herself of it when he’d come in dressed in his shirtsleeves with his top button undone and scan her made up journal entries. During which, she’d bite her cheek so she wouldn’t crack a smile at the expressions on his face and simultaneously plan when during the next day she’d snoop.
During that week she’d discovered he was right about something, and it almost killed her to admit as much. He’d said she’d smile when she pulled one over on him, and undeniably, she did. Each night after he leave her room after reading the nonsense she’d made up, she’d bury her face in her pillow to muffle her laughter as she thought about his facial expressions while he read the malarkey she’d written. He was right about something else too. She rarely smiled.
Perhaps he was right about yet another thing when he said she let her insecurity surrounding her teeth get the better of her more than she knew. Maybe knowing they weren’t perfect and having been criticized for them was the reason she didn’t smile. She’d told him as much that night in his study, but hadn’t really believed it herself until just now.
Sighing, she pushed her thoughts aside and snuggled more deeply into the pillow. Tomorrow was a new day. Perhaps it was time she took her task seriously. Truly what would it hurt if she smiled more? And tomorrow would be a good time to start. Tomorrow was her day to help out the literacy group. Which, despite the leering, drunken men, had become her favorite pursuit she’d taken up since coming to live here, thus providing an excellent opportunity for her to smile.
The next morning she once again had difficulty getting into her husband’s room. Why did the man suddenly decide that the kitchen was no longer a suitable bathing room, she wondered a tad irritably when she stood outside the door for the eighth morning in a row and heard the distinct sounds of a person bathing. Oh well, there was always the afternoon.
They ate their morning meal together in silence, only saying the obligatory lines of greeting and departing. That’s how it had been all week. He seemed to be avoiding her, except when he came to her room to bring her water for her morning bath or read her entries. Other than that, it would seem the man ceased to exist.
Liberty rode in her carriage to Gray’s Tavern the same as she did every week. However, unlike the previous weeks, she was greeted by Mrs. Jones, the director of the organization, as soon as she stepped out of her carriage.
“I have exciting news,” Mrs. Jones exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “New literature has been donated. Someone donated literally hundreds of books to our cause. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes,” Liberty replied, matching Mrs. Jones’s level of excitement. “Do you know who?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “No.”
Liberty nodded. “You didn’t talk to them when they dropped it off?”
A strange look came over Mrs. Jones’s face before she said, “Actually, the books were not given to us directly from the donator. They were originally given to Mrs. Weslen’s group. But she didn’t want them. She said they were droll and boring and that her students had no interest in them.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “If you ask me, a book is a book and a free book is the best kind.”
“True,” Liberty agreed. “Let’s go have a look at these.”
Together they made their way upstairs and when Liberty saw the stacks of books on the table, she almost fainted on the spot. Paul had donated her propriety books to her literacy group! Why? She thought he’d destroyed them. She didn’t know whether to be happy or upset. She suddenly found herself fighting off embarrassment when Mrs. Jones said, “I don’t know who would have so many books about manners in their personal library, but as I said a free book is the best kind.”
Liberty mumbled something that could pass as an agreement.
“This was with the books when they were left for Mrs. Weslen.” Mrs. Jones handed her a slip of paper.
Liberty’s hands trembled as she grabbed the piece of paper that she knew would have a message from her husband on it.
I hope the books bring about a smile.
The words seemed quite simple. Of course Mrs. Weslen and Mrs. Jones probably just saw it as face value. Liberty knew that wasn’t the case. He’d written that sentence specifically for her. Although, for the life of her, she still couldn’t fathom why he’d left the books with the wrong organization.
Once the students were all assembled and in their seats, Mrs. Jones announced to the group about the donation of new reading material while Liberty and the other volunteers handed out the books.
She couldn’t stop her smile when she handed some of her favorite volumes to the students. She’d never tell them the books were hers of course, but she couldn’t deny the pleasure it gave her to use them for a good cause such as reading rather than as a replacement for firewood.
Her pleasure came to an abrupt halt, however, when one of the men spoke up. “These books are about manners. Who reads books about manners?” he said, flinging one of her most expensive volumes on the floor, causing a loud echo.
“Hear, hear,” said another. “The title of mine is A Dinner Party with the Gently Bred. Hell, if I was to go to a dinner party, I ain’t gonna eat my bread gently.”
A round of laughter erupted at his ridiculous joke.
“Listen to this,” cut in a twenty-something year old woman who Liberty could have sworn was a prostitute at one time. “'If a gentleman touches the hem of your skirt be sure to gently, but firmly, tug the skirt from his grasp without letting any part of your body touch his, or exposing yourself to his view.’ If all he wanted to do was touch the hem of my skirt, I’d be disappointed. Then, I’d firmly grab my skirt and reposition it making sure to give him a peek of what he could have had.”
Another round of weak laughter broke out before Mrs. Jones quieted everyone down. “Very good, students. Your reading skills have improved greatly in the past few months.”
Liberty shook her head. She couldn’t blame them for making jokes of the books. To some—all right, most—the books were just a bunch of nonsense, she couldn’t fault them for thinking so.
“All right,” Liberty said. “Perhaps for those of you who can read the print well enough to make jests about it, you should work on your writing skills and rewrite the passages so they read how you think they ought.”
“Splendid idea, Mrs. Grimes,” Mrs. Jones said. “How about if everyone works on that for an hour, then we’ll have some volunteers to read them to the class.”
There were a few giggles, sighs and groans, but all the older ones complied while Liberty made her way to go join the group of small children who still needed help learning to read.
After being begged and pleaded with, Liberty took a seat on the floor with the little urchins. They passed one of the volumes around, each child trying to tackle reading one to two sentences before passing it on to the next child in the circle.
“This book is boring,” one of the little girls declared after the book had made one complete pass around the circle.
“Yeah,” another agreed. “Why would anyone buy this book?
“Or write it?” a dirty little redheaded boy asked with a yawn.
“Because it helps people to know how to behave,” Liberty supplied, feeling a bit defensive having to explain about her favorite hobby to a group of mocking children.
“Do people get taken to the woodshed when they don’t follow what’s in this book?” a little boy who always wore tattered clothes asked.
Liberty looked at him curiously. “No. Why?”
The boy shrugged. “Father always takes me to the woodshed when my mum tells him I didn’t behave,” he said as a shadow that spoke of many trips to the woodshed with his “father”, who was actually his grandfather, crossed his face
“
Well, if that were the case, both of my older sisters would have spent half of the past six years in the woodshed,” Liberty said dryly, causing all the children to giggle.
“But not you, right, Mrs. Grimes?” Seth asked hopefully.
Liberty blushed. “Well, maybe a few times,” she told her favorite student as she remembered all the unladylike encounters she’d had with Paul.
“But not as much as your sisters, huh,” he said to clarify she was indeed the angel he had built her up to be in his mind.
“Exactly so.”
The boy gave her a wide grin and scooted a bit closer to her side.
After a few more of the children read sentences from Cordial Encounters with Crotchety Countesses, it was time to listen to the rewrites of her books. Liberty warned herself she probably wasn’t going to like what she heard, but willed herself not to let it show.
Even after she’d steeled herself for more crude remarks, she was pleasantly surprised when a good portion of the students had actually taken the task somewhat seriously.
The first woman to read was a buxom blonde who was well known for her straightforward approach on life. “Mine read, ‘One should never use a gentleman’s given name without his permission, and never in public.’ I think it should read, ‘One should use whatever name the gentleman asked you to call him by, otherwise, it’s just plain rude.’”
There were a few claps and snickers, but Liberty didn’t pay attention to them. Instead, she thought of Paul. How many times had he asked her to call him by his given name? More than she could count. Perhaps it was time she started. She could no longer deny she thought of him as “Paul”. What would be so bad about calling him by his Christian name anyway?
Lost in her thoughts she missed the next few. Then she saw a volunteer named Richard stand up.
