Removing the widow’s hand from his sleeve, he lifted it to his mouth for a kiss. “You deserve a man who isn’t distracted by business matters.”
With that, he turned and left, leaving their arrangement an open-ended conversation for another time. Down the way, he met up with Everhart, who was now standing alone outside the shop window to Gravett’s Emporium.
“One day, you’ll have to show me how you make these wonders, Danvers.” Everhart pointed with the tip of his walking stick to the crosscut carafe and matching goblets that Rafe had delivered a mere hour ago.
“You know I never let anyone watch me work,” Rafe said. For him, working with glass was a way to pour himself into each piece. It was almost a religious experience that filled an empty place inside of him.
Even so, he managed to separate his attachment to some of his art and sell them off. Yet there were a few pieces with which he couldn’t part. Somewhere inside his mind, he planned on leaving a legacy. The notion had become more prevalent in his mind after he’d held his new nephew in his arms.
Everhart turned. “Calliope loves the vase you gave us for a wedding gift, but now I must warn you that she has asked for several small vases as well.”
“I doubt I could create enough vases to sustain our strange abundance of lilies of the valley,” Rafe said with a laugh. “If she manages to purchase more of those biscuits from Mrs. Dudley, however, I might be persuaded to try.”
“That is precisely what she thought. Calliope is in the shop this very moment, collecting pastries in order to persuade you,” Everhart answered. “It’s a pity that you just missed our new neighbor. Apparently, Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park just sold a cask of small bottles at Lynch & Twyck, which is the very reason my wife is determined to have a collection of bud vases.”
Rafe abruptly became aware of a slow, radiating heat at the mention of their neighbor. At the same time, his sweet tooth—and tongue—felt an inexplicable pang of longing for a specific confection. “Why doesn’t your new bride simply purchase the ones that gave her the notion?”
Everhart grinned, his gaze veering across the way toward the teashop window. “She was rather embarrassed at a failed attempt to bargain with Mr. Lynch. Nevertheless, she is determined.”
“And now you are determined, as well.” Rafe didn’t bother hiding his amusement. Of the three of them who’d declared never to marry, Everhart had fallen within the first month after their wager. The poor fool.
Yet he was a poor fool who had a beautiful woman in his bed every night . . .
The wayward thought took him off guard. Rafe quickly shook it off. He could easily have any number of beautiful women in his bed. Settling on only one wasn’t necessarily appealing. Or at least, it shouldn’t be . . .
“I would consider it a favor,” Everhart said, drawing Rafe away from the disturbing direction of his thoughts.
“A favor?” Rafe almost laughed. The look in Everhart’s face stated clearly that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Rafe hesitated before responding. Since the wager was a constant presence in the forefront of his mind, the opportunity of using any possible advantage against Montwood was too appealing to pass up. “Then in repayment, perhaps you could assist me in a certain matter.”
Everhart lifted his brows. “I can only assume you’re speaking about the wager. I was wondering when you would approach me.”
Did that mean Montwood already had or had not? “The stipulations of our wager dictate that if you remain the sole loser, you will have to pay out ten thousand pounds. However, if you could convince Montwood to marry, then your debt would be reduced by half.”
“And if you both marry, then I will have no debt at all.”
Now, Rafe did laugh and clapped Everhart on the shoulder. “You’re deluding yourself, my friend. Is that what happens to married men? Their minds slowly turn to mush? Or quickly, in your case . . . ”
“Be careful, Danvers. For one day, you may very well dine on those words.” Everhart smirked. “My only hope for you is that they are sweet.”
Sweet. A slow shiver cascaded over Rafe’s tongue, sliding down his throat and through his torso and limbs. It lingered, and for a moment, he could almost taste Hedley’s kiss once more.
“I have no appetite for marriage, but perhaps with your assistance, Montwood will.”
Everhart offered an absent shrug as he began to walk across the way. “Valentine informed me that you met with our new neighbor the other day. He also mentioned how it wasn’t your first meeting with Miss Sinclair.”
“And how would Valentine know that?”
“He said that not only did you need no introduction to our guest but that you had a parcel for her, as if . . . ” Everhart glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. “As if you’d been anticipating seeing her again.”
Rafe tried not to let his friend’s smugness needle him into offering a reaction. “I had merely been interested in discovering who was trespassing in Greyson Park.”
“Hmm . . . And the parcel?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “I recall, not so long ago, an instance where you accused me of fishing for information regarding your interest in Calliope. Of course, in that circumstance, I happened to be correct. You, however, have no bait on your hook and a hole in your net.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Irrefutably.”
“Then it is strange, indeed,” Everhart mused, his gaze bright with speculation. “I received a letter from our friend, Weatherstone. He referenced how he’d spent an afternoon with you, visiting no fewer than seven shops, where you were determined to find a shawl in a particular shade of pink.”
Rafe scoffed. It couldn’t have been seven shops. “Nonsense. Weatherstone was . . . was exaggerating.”
“Ah, yes. Our friend, who keeps a ledger with him at all times and values the precision of numbers, clearly embellished this one time.”
Everhart was right. Weatherstone had never been one to overstate. Seven shops?
As if he noticed precisely how disturbed Rafe was by the realization, Everhart grinned and sketched a bow. “Now, who is the fisherman, Danvers?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Over the years, Hedley had learned to avoid horses and coffins—or carriages, rather. Although one was the same as the other, in her opinion.
Since an encounter was one of the hazards of traveling into the village, however, she’d carefully planned to skirt through narrow side streets to avoid traffic altogether. Unfortunately, at the final turn on her path, she found the avenue blocked by a wayward flock of sheep. Distracted by his conversation with a rosy-cheeked girl, the shepherd seemed in no hurry to move them along.
As a whole, the village was built in a somewhat twisted fashion. Therefore, the prospect of going back the way she came would only put her on the path of the main road or return her to the market. If she chose to forge ahead through the sheep, she would soil her shoes irreparably.
Hedley drew in a deep breath, deciding what to do. She would chance walking a short distance on the main road until she reached the rolling and somewhat rocky hills that would lead her to Greyson Park.
Keeping her gaze down, she reached the main road. She hurried along, hoping to avoid the thing she dreaded most. Yet that was not to be. In the next instant, she heard the harsh clink and jangle of a carriage coming up behind her. Hedley’s skin grew clammy and icy cold. Beside her, the wheels slowed, keeping pace with the quick steps of her red shoes, the spokes turning in a deadly spiral. She turned her head, blocking the carriage from her peripheral vision. Each breath she took felt as if hundreds of barbed icicles lined the inside of her lungs.
She could never forget the last day she’d been inside a carriage or the nightmare that had followed. Even now, she could hear the high laughter that had swiftly turned to screams. She could still smell the pungent scent of terror combined with fetid offal. Could still taste the harsh, metallic flavor of the blood that had coated every inch
of her.
Shaking, Hedley turned her back on the road and stopped walking.
Unfortunately, the carriage stopped as well.
“A nice day for a walk, to be sure,” a stranger said from behind her. “But a far fairer prospect from the carriage.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Then, after clearing her throat, she tried again. “Thank you. No,” she rasped.
“Come now, pet. Where do you live? It cannot be far. After all, not many a young miss walks along the road alone. Not for long.”
Shards of alarm broke through her frozen terror. Yet instead of it spurring her into motion, it only compounded her inability to move. Her mouth was dry. Her tongue thick. She couldn’t swallow. And when she breathed she could only smell the horse . . . and that reminded her of the blood.
Move, Hedley. Lift your feet. Stop your shaking. Leave at once, she silently pleaded. Her head was filled with those screams again. And her heart pounded in a terrible cadence that sounded like the rush of horses hooves.
She was frozen. Useless. “Afraid of her own shadow,” as her mother had said to the servants before the lock in the attic door had clicked into place.
Please, Hedley, she urged again. Only the voice in her mind didn’t sound like her own anymore. Shockingly enough, it sounded like Rafe’s.
“What have you done?” that voice shouted.
She, however, couldn’t answer.
The voice of the stranger in the carriage came instead. “Nothing more than ask if she’d like a ride home. Didn’t say much else. Girl just sort of stood there, all-trembling and such, and for no reason at all.”
“Hedley?”
Hedley, say something.
“Leave here. Your manner of assistance is not required.” The voice that sounded like Rafe’s growled. “And if you should ever approach her again, I’ll mount your head on my wall.”
“You can have that one. A right solid loon is what she is.”
A right solid loon. Yes, she was that, wasn’t she?
But gradually, she heard the sounds of the carriage drift away. Breathing became easier. She felt warmth on her shoulders and then hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Can you hear me, sweeting?”
Sweeting . . . Rafe had called her that, she thought as her mind slowly started to thaw. “Rafe?”
He released a lengthy exhale. “Aye. It is.”
She blinked several times until his face came into focus. When she saw his brows knitted in worry and his eyes squinted with apprehension, a wave of dread and nausea turned in her stomach. She’d never wanted to be invisible more than she did in this moment.
When Rafe had spotted the pink paisley shawl, along with the stopped carriage, he’d known instantly that something was wrong. Even from a distance, he could see Hedley shaking. Spurring Frit to a full gallop, he’d stopped amidst a cloud of dust and leapt to the ground.
The driver had been up to no good—that much was certain. However, Rafe’s instincts told him that it wasn’t only the driver who’d frightened her. And Hedley was clearly terrified.
Her skin was paler than usual, her lips white with fear, and her eyes even more haunted. As if she were living a nightmare that very moment. It took an eternity before she finally responded to him. He felt aged in a matter of moments.
“Rafe,” she said again. Although, it still sounded hoarse, like his name was being dragged out of her lungs.
He’d never felt such relief. He wanted to pull her to him and embrace her, right here on the side of the road. Instead, he settled for chafing her arms up and down, warming her until the color returned to her face. “Why did you not ride with Everhart and Calliope? They told me they’d met you.”
“I do not ride in”—she swallowed—“carriages.”
She trembled from head to foot. Even the fringes of her shawl were quivering. Puzzled, he studied her. Had it been some sort of fit? If so, how often did these occur? Seeing her this way, he was more concerned than wary. In fact, knowing that she was suffering made him feel completely helpless.
“Then allow me to see you home. We could ride together. I’m sure Frit wouldn’t mind,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.
“R-ride?” She turned just enough to see the swish of Frit’s tail before she snapped around again. Tears began to gather along the rims of her eyes. “Please. S-send it away . . . ”
Rafe didn’t hesitate.
“Home, Frit,” he commanded and accompanied it with the whistled melody he’d used to train him. Another melody would bring him back. And yet another would entreat him to bend a foreleg toward the ground, as if he were bowing. All these tricks had been designed for the purpose of either hunting or gaining a young woman’s favor.
Strangely, Rafe was standing with the one woman who likely wouldn’t appreciate any of it.
As the sound of Frit’s plodding disappeared, Hedley’s shoulders began to relax beneath his hands. Her lashes were damp and clumped together in brown spikes that resembled thorns around her cornflower eyes. He had a peculiar compulsion to tilt her face up and press his lips there.
Instead, he withdrew a handkerchief and dried her eyes. “What happened, sweeting? Was it the driver? If it was, I will run him through this very instant, and you will never need worry about him again.” The tender vehemence in his tone, and resolve to do exactly as he promised, surprised him.
Some of the color returned to her face, but her lips were still pale, unripe berries. She lifted that unforgiving chin as if in challenge—and likely not knowing how that one action tempted him beyond reason to place a kiss right on that dimple. “You witnessed my madness.”
At the mention, Rafe heard Weatherstone’s voice in his head. Many hide their less sound-minded family members from society out of disgrace. Some even lock them away. A sickening feeling filled him. “What we overheard from your sister about being locked . . . ”
He couldn’t even say the words. The idea appalled him.
Hedley looked down, as if she were ashamed. “That is why you’ll never find me venturing into the attic at Greyson Park.”
Knowing that his family’s legacy in the attic was safe should have filled him with relief. Yet all he felt was anger—no, rage—for what she’d suffered.
“And you may run off to London and inform my family’s solicitor what you witnessed and try to use it to gain Greyson Park,” she continued, “but he already knows. In fact, I imagine the only reason my mother allowed me to inherit was because she believes I could never survive living there.”
“She is your mother. Surely . . . ” But even as he started to form the words that might provide a semblance of comfort to Hedley, he refused to lie. Claudia Sinclair was not prone to bouts of tenderness. She was shrewd, calculating, and cold. And she’d hidden the existence of her daughter from society.
“Since you’ve met her, you must know that I am neither exaggerating nor suffering from hysterical delusions. At least, not right now.”
What he’d witnessed wasn’t hysteria. It had been pure terror.
Rafe stared at her for a moment, filled with an overwhelming urge to . . . protect her. It was the only way to describe this inexplicable reaction she kindled inside him. Typically, this basic response was something reserved for his closest friends and family.
Feeling it with such intensity now honestly frightened him.
He let his fingers skim down her arm and took her hand. “Come. I’ll escort you to Greyson Park.”
“I do not expect it of you. The road only lasts a little while longer.” But she curled her fingers around his palm nonetheless.
They walked for some time in silence, simply holding hands. She wasn’t wearing gloves—neither the new ones he’d purchased for her nor her old ones—and he had removed his when he’d dismounted Frit. More than anything, he wanted to keep her close, skin to skin. Yet this purely chaste contact would be viewed as scandalous. Unfortunately, the sound of another carriage off in the
distance reminded him of that and of her innocence. This simple, albeit public, gesture could condemn her in the eyes of society.
Reluctantly, after a few more steps, he released her. “Forgive me. I am not being much of a friend to you at the moment. Your reputation would be in tatters if anyone saw me holding your hand. The gesture suggests an intimacy between us.”
Which wasn’t entirely untrue, he thought.
“You’re saying that if we are caught holding hands in public, society will imagine that we’ve”—she paused long enough to cast him an impish grin—“kissed in private?”
Damned if he didn’t feel challenged by that grin. But no, he told himself. She was someone he needed to protect. Like a close friend or family, he reminded. A young woman whose reputation would be ruined if I gave into impulse . . . again.
“That happened once and will not be repeated.” He shook his head to make sure both of them fully understood.
“Of course not.” She turned her gaze toward the curve at the end of the road. “I am a Sinclair and the woman standing in the way of your possession of Greyson Park, after all.”
The sound of that carriage drew closer, though remained beyond their sight, hidden in the copse of trees a short distance away. Rafe saw Hedley stiffen and glance over her shoulder toward the sound.
“I’ve known many people who’ve developed a fear of horses after a fall, myself included,” he said, wondering if that was the root behind hers.
“While I imagine it was simple for you to overcome your fear, I did not fall from a horse. So that ability is something I lack.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant. You are fully capable. You have your wits about you—”
“At the moment,” she interrupted and glanced once more to the path behind them. “But I know very well that whatever sense or wit I might have will abandon me once that carriage comes close. My body will seize, and I will have no control. I will become a prisoner inside my body, as if someone had locked the door to my mind.”
The Devilish Mr. Danvers Page 9
