by Lisa Cach
Chapter Twenty-nine
“No more than three,” Valerian insisted.
Nathaniel gave a beleaguered sigh. “Three, plus the one that you will leave here wearing.”
Valerian tightened her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Only if I make all the choices in material and style.”
“You can choose colors and styles, but the material must be of silk.”
They locked eyes, judging each other for weakness. “You will wait in the corner; you will not sit here and argue with me as I choose?”
“I will leave the premises entirely if you wish,” he finally gave in, his voice turning soft. “I never meant outfitting you with suitable clothing to be a source of contention between us.”
Valerian was not so quick to be wooed. “But you do understand how I feel about this?” she asked in the low, intense tones she had been using throughout, aware of the seamstress waiting several feet away, face turned away but ears listening. The dress shop had only one other patron, paging through designs, and doubtless not nearly so interesting a focus of attention as this little disagreement.
“I suppose I do, although I do think that you are being entirely unreasonable.”
Valerian just stared at him until he gave a shrug of his shoulders and went to go sit down in the chairs provided for long-suffering males accompanying their women on shopping expeditions.
She could understand a bit of his confusion. After all, he was paying for her room and board, the wages of the two servants he had hired to tend her, and would be paying as well for any entertainment or transportation. So why quibble at a new wardrobe?
The answer was clear enough to her: because it made her a completely kept woman, and because she would be leaving him. It bothered her to accept tangible things from him, in a way that accepting the room and board did not.
Valerian let herself be led by the seamstress into a more private area, to be shown drawings and fabrics. “A relative has recently died,” Valerian told the woman. “So I will be wanting dark colors, and simple dresses devoid of decoration. Can you do that?”
Nathaniel sat and mulled over the past couple of weeks, resigned to several hours in the dress shop. He had shopped with his sister Margaret on more than one occasion, and knew that even the purchase of a single item could take well over an hour. It was beyond him how a simple task could be turned into such a torturous endeavor.
But it did give one time to think, provided one had a quiet corner in which to do so, as he did now.
Valerian was holding up much better than he had expected, but there was a distance between them now that he did not know how to bridge. He had not slept with her since before the night at the millpond, the night that her aunt had died. It did not seem right, somehow, to ask that of her now, when she was mourning. And then there was also the issue of this newly recognized respect he had for her.
He wanted to give her everything, to see her living in beautiful surroundings, with clothes made of silk. He wanted her never to have to worry about money, or about who might try next to attack her. He wanted as well to have her in his bed every night, and see her face across from him at the breakfast table each morning. And he could do all of that, it was true, with her as his mistress.
She could be his mistress, and all that he gave her would be seen as an exchange for her sexual favors. He would make of her a high-class whore—but that he could not do. His own feelings for her demanded he do better for her than that.
The only solution was to marry her, only now she seemed further away from him than she ever had. She was quiet much of the time, her thoughts turned inward. She had hardly spoken during the entire journey to London, except to ask a question about a passing sight or to talk to Oscar in his cage.
She felt so distant, it had been a relief to have her argue with him about the dresses. There had been a spark of fire in her eyes during that exchange, and a connection with him, even if of anger. He almost wished she had tried to limit him to one mud-brown wool dress.
He would not have let her win that argument. There were reasons he wanted her clad in silk, and they were not solely to increase her beauty or appease her long-ignored vanity.
His thoughts went to his family. He had been in town for nearly a week now, and he would soon have to call on them. He had, in fact, chosen rooms for Valerian directly across the wooded park from his parents’ house, to make it easier to visit them.
He loved his family, and had no wish to hurt or upset them, but he would not allow them to dictate his actions, either. When it came down to it, his “banishment” to Raven Hall had been voluntary, and the choices he made now would be his own, as well. It was his hope, however, to accomplish his ends gracefully, with the minimum of familial pain and disappointment. He knew that in this world appearance did matter, and his family would more easily accept Valerian as a lady if she dressed as one.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of silk, and he raised his eyes to see Valerian approaching, sheathed collar-bone to floor in a dark royal blue gown without so much as in inch of lace. No ribbon, no trim, not a single contrasting border or falling ruffle. The tight, narrow sleeves reached all the way to her wrist, the outside edges of the cuffs slightly elongated, concealing part of her hand and making her white fingers appear all the longer and more delicate. The smooth bodice ended in a sharp point, the material of the skirts falling in neat pleats over her hips.
“The woman who originally ordered the gown decided she did not care for it before the trim and decorations were added,” Valerian said with a touch of defiance. “But I find it suits me.”
Even he could see that it was not a fashionable gown, and the only hint of expense was in the dull sheen of the silk. A careless glance might mark her as no one of import, but Nathaniel doubted that anyone seeing her would find it possible not to stare.
The very simplicity of the dress made it striking at a time when even the common city folk embellished their clothing with designs of flowers, and collars and ruffles of lace. The dark color set off her pale skin and blue-black hair, and intensified, if that were possible, the blue of her wolfish eyes. If she had looked like a country witch before, with her rough purple skirts and black bodices, she looked like a sorceress now, fit to cast fortunes for the king.
She looked elegant, and intimidating. And completely Valerian. He felt a slow smile spread across his face, and he rose, taking her hands in his and holding her arms wide so he could better see the gown. “Stunning. Simply, elegantly, stunning.”
The questioning, uncertain wrinkle of her brow amused him. “If you had let me interfere,” he said, “I doubtless would have chosen something brighter, with embroidery and lace, and a neckline that showed at least a hint of what lay beneath. And I would have ruined the gown entirely.”
“I am glad you like it,” she said uncertainly.
“If I did not know better, I would think you were lying.”
She gave him a crooked smile, and shrugged one shoulder. “I had expected another argument, or at least displeasure.”
“Perhaps if we put our minds to it, we can find something else to fight about.” He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, and felt his heart trip when a true smile came to her lips. She tugged one of her hands free to push him playfully on his arm.
“Rake,” she said.
“Prude.”
“I take offense at that.”
“As well you should, you heartless wench.”
She laughed at that, and he wanted nothing so much as to seize the moment and hold it tight, and forever keep the shadows from returning to her eyes.
If he could not do that, he could at least hold her safe from the world.
“I hear there is a wonderful production of Volpone at the Athenaeum. Would you like to go?” Nathaniel asked, as their carriage rumbled by the theater in question.
Valerian yawned behind her hand. The fittings at the dressmaker’s had been more tiring than she had expected, and truth be told she had a
bout had enough of the sights of London. Nathaniel had delighted in showing her the palaces, cathedrals, shops, galleries, and entertainments of his city, but it was all beginning to wear on her. “Would you mind terribly if we stayed in tonight? I do not feel quite up to another evening out.”
“No. No, of course I would not mind,” he said.
“Unless you are eager to see it yourself,” she offered, thinking she had sensed a trace of disappointment in his answer.
“We can see it another night.”
Valerian smiled and took his arm, leaning into his side, feeling closer to him than she had for weeks. “Good. I find I miss quiet evenings at home. We have not had many chances to talk since coming to London. We are always racing about from one place to another, or you are out running errands, or whatever it is you do. You do not have another mistress stashed someplace in town, do you?” she teased, hiding the suspicion that he kept her busy with public amusements because he no longer enjoyed her solitary, depressing company.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his tone telling her he did not take it as a joke. “Of course not. Whatever made you suggest such a thing?”
Valerian frowned up at him. “It was but a jest, Nathaniel.”
“And not a very good one.”
She pushed back from him, sitting up straight so she could see him better. “Nathaniel, has something been bothering you lately? You do not seem like yourself, and not once have you . . . well, you know.”
“I have not what?”
“At night. You know.” She rolled her eyes, then looked at him expectantly. He met her gaze only briefly, then looked away. She sighed, and made herself say it. “You have not slept with me.”
“I spend every night in your bed.”
“You know what I mean,” she complained. She screwed up her courage for the next question she knew she had to ask. It was what she had planned for, but still she had delayed seeking confirmation. “Have you lost your desire for me? You can tell me if ’tis so.”
He finally met her eyes, gazing at her for a long moment, and she could see that the fires of desire still burned in their depths. She felt her own body’s answer, and the yearning of her skin for his touch. She slowly leant forward, brushing her lips softly against his. He sat still, motionless as a stone as her lips played gently upon his, and then his arms came around her and he dragged her onto his lap, his lips taking charge of hers, then moving to caress her cheeks, her jaw, her ears.
He sucked at the bend between shoulder and neck, making her arch towards him, her breasts aching, her limbs weak with growing desire, and then he suddenly stopped. She felt him press his face into her neck, his arms still hard around her.
“Nathaniel?”
He raised his head, his face close to hers. “I will not do this to you. I will not!”
“Do what?”
“Keep you as my whore,” he rasped.
“Since when has making love to me been equated with whoredom?” she asked, anger and hurt flaring in her voice. “Do you think I care about money?”
“I know you do not.”
“Then what, Nathaniel? Why has what we do together suddenly made me a whore in your eyes?”
“You are not a whore!”
“Thank you for that, my lord.” She tried to shove her way off his lap, but he would not release her.
“I know you are not a whore, but I would make one of you if I continued this liaison as it is. You deserve better. A husband, a name for your children when they come.”
“You still want me to marry you,” she said, stunned. With the careful way he had been treating her, she had thought his determination had been tempered by sense. Had thought, in fact, that he had wanted to rescind the offer, and had been at a loss for how to do so.
“Have you considered it, Valerian? I want you as my wife. You deserve more than to be a man’s plaything.”
“Thank you very much again, for telling me how you have thought of me all this time,” she snapped. All this time, lying beside him at night, enjoying the comfort of his arms but briefly until he would roll away, his back to her. All the little hurts she felt, all the small rejections, had been because he was saving her from his desires in the perverted name of honor? Because he wanted to marry her?
“Do not pretend to misunderstand me,” he said. “The truth is subjective, it always has been. You know I could never think of you as a whore, but neither do I want others to think of you that way. You deserve a place in society. You deserve respectability, and it is my duty to give that to you.”
“So it is guilt that prompts this,” she said. Just as she had always thought!
“I have made mistakes in the past,” he said, his voice low. “I have caused harm to many people, not only Laetitia and her family, but my own family as well. I want to do this right. I do not want to see either you or my family hurt.”
“Not making love to me now does not change what has been.”
“Perhaps not to the outside world.”
Despite herself, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “When I ask you to make love to me, you do see a whore now. Everything you have said confirms it.”
He grasped her face tight between his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I see the woman I want to be my wife.”
She sniffed back tears, and pulled her head free of his hands, sliding off his lap and back onto the carriage seat beside him. She wanted nothing more than to have him hold her, to feel him wrap his arms around her and soothe the hurt of his words away, but she could not. He did not want her as his mistress, and she could not be his wife.
As she had known but had chosen to briefly forget, there was no future in this world for two such as them.
Chapter Thirty
“Oscar, I want you to pay attention to where we are. I do not want you getting lost. Someone might mistake you for a real raven and force you to live in the Tower with the others. You would not like that, I promise you. The food would not be half so good, for starters.”
Oscar ignored her, his talons sharp on her shoulder as he shifted about. She was frightened that he would lose track of her if she let him fly free here in London, but the guilt of keeping him trapped indoors, and his new trick of gnawing on the furniture out of boredom, had finally outweighed her worries.
She kicked at her grey silk skirts, and swished through the gates to the park, the maid Nathaniel had hired for her following behind. The girl, Tilly, had yet to grow accustomed to Oscar, and started each time he spoke. Her skittishness was getting on Valerian’s nerves, and if she could have gone to the park without Tilly, she would have. Unfortunately, Nathaniel had made her promise not to venture out unaccompanied, and as unfamiliar as she was with London and its dangers, she had thought it wise at the time to agree.
Where he was, she was not quite sure. He had mumbled something about business that needed attending to, and disappeared early this morning. The silences between them had been growing longer since their talk in the carriage, and her “quiet evenings” alone with him were anything but cozy.
Valerian ignored the eyes she felt on her as she walked through the park. To be sure, there were no other ladies about with ravens on their shoulders, and she supposed she made something of a novel sight. The park was surrounded by one of the better districts of town, and it served as a public garden for those who lived there.
Valerian led Tilly away from the main carriage way, where well-to-do residents rode or drove in their afternoon finery, and they wandered down a path away from all the people. The path led into a shaded, wooded area, with a small clearing dappled by sunlight. The oaks stretching their gnarled limbs overhead reminded her of the woods around the cottage, rousing a twinge of homesickness. London might be the most marvelous city in the world, but she could not imagine permanently exchanging the forest and cliffs of home for the city’s man-made wonders.
“Here now, Oscar, this looks a likely spot.” She transferred him from her shoulder to her hand. “You go have fu
n. Get some exercise for those underused wings.”
Oscar cocked his head at her, and ruffled his feathers. “Go on,” Valerian urged, giving him a boost with her arm.
“Rrrraaa, go for walk,” he said.
“Yes, go!”
At last he extended his wings, and with one mighty beat downwards, rose off her hand. He flew up into the branches overhead, settling on one and watching as Valerian directed Tilly to spread out a blanket on the grass.
“I shall stay right here,” Valerian told the bird. “You go for a nice flight, but behave yourself.”
Valerian was aware of him flitting from branch to branch, watching her settle onto the dark green blanket, reassuring himself that she would not go off and leave him. At last he flew off, and Valerian sighed and tried to get comfortable, the stays of her gown stiff around her body, her mind aware of the dangers of creasing the costly gown or staining it on the grass. She wished she were in one of her country skirts, and could take off her shoes and dig her toes into the grass.
“Your book, miss?” Tilly asked, holding out the small object.
“Yes, thank you. Will you not sit here, too, Tilly?” she asked, taking the book.
“Thank you, miss, but I could not.”
Valerian watched the girl spread out her own small blanket, more a towel, really, several feet away and sit down upon it. Valerian made a face behind Tilly’s back. Sometimes it felt she had been less alone in Greyfriars than she was here, surrounded by thousands of people.
She had to stop thinking like that. Greyfriars was no longer home, and never would be again. Soon she would have to pick a new place to live, and leave Nathaniel, for the longer she stayed with him, the more she felt her resolve waver, and the more tempting agreeing to marriage became. She needed to leave for her own sake as well as his, before it became impossible for her to say good-bye. That is, if it were not impossible already.
She picked up her book, a romantic novel that she had found at a bookseller’s stall. She blinked away her tears and began to read, trying to lose herself in the story.
She did not know how much time had passed when a God-awful screeching pulled her out of a particularly riveting scene involving villain and virgin in a haunted castle.
