Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  Faint shuffles in the hall told him all he needed to know. This house was not safe, not safe enough for a schoolmaster’s son to make love to a Duke’s daughter. If he did what his body urged, her reward would be humiliation, harassment, and hurt. He wanted to protect her from it even if she wouldn’t protect herself.

  Andrew picked up the pen and began to write. His entire body betrayed him. His eyes refused to focus. His hand wrote shaky words on vellum, but his mind gave no meaning to them. The rest of him, body and soul, yearned with an ache that destroyed all rational thought for the woman who stood across the room as still as marble. Her indignation filled the air as thoroughly as her lilac scent.

  Chapter 16

  Georgiana heard the sound, the scurrying of mice feet, the telltale rustle of an eavesdropper, the traitor, the spy.

  Andrew bent over his writing. He picked up a passage in Greek and pretended to study it. She could see the pretense in the quiver of his hand.

  He had almost kissed her again. He came so close she felt his breath hot on her mouth. He stopped when she pointed to the door. He stopped—drat him—and he probably thought it noble. Nobility was cold comfort, no use to her whatsoever.

  Andrew. She spoke, but no sound came out.

  “Andrew.” She managed a hoarse whisper. He kept his eyes down and pretended not to hear. Resentment began to build in the pit of her stomach. She cleared her throat and attempted hauteur. “Mister Mallet, you—” You pigheaded beast.

  “You are quite correct, my lady. We have overrun our time.”

  Hauteur failed; resentment rose, built stone on stone with rising anger. She was beyond speech.

  Andrew shuffled papers into a haphazard pile, a sham of order. He still wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll call for my chaise and—”

  The slap startled Georgiana. She felt her hand, hard against his ravaged face, so hard the ridge of his scar left a line across her palm. One moment she stood still, the next her hand stung with the pain of her attack. She remembered no thought, no intention, only violence, and the rage that drove it. The silent echo of the slap resounded in the workroom.

  He looked at her now, unable to ignore her, but he didn’t speak. His crooked mouth, with its scar-torn corner, pulled tight with emotion, but no reprisal rose in his dark eyes. Deep pools of sadness filled them. She thought she might drown in them. She wished he would answer her anger with anger of his own to feed her hurt, to justify her rage.

  Andrew took a step, his uneven gait more pronounced than she had seen it in days. Her heart drummed against her chest until her throat hurt from the pounding. Fear compounded her anger.

  “Andrew,” she said in a shaky voice when he took one step closer and then two. He looked at her but didn’t speak. “Please,” she begged.

  He slid past her, the rich wool of his jacket brushing the front of her dress, and walked toward the door. She heard him whisper, “Not here. Not now.”

  The hard pound of his boots echoed in the hall and then she heard no sound at all. She stood for a moment, willing him back, willing him to speak to her, and knowing it was futile.

  One explosion of movement, one sweep of her arm, sent papers, books, and other tattered remnants of their shared labor flying across the carpet to lie in ink-splattered disarray. Pens scattered in three directions, and a bottle shattered against the hearth tiles, staining them black. If not now, Andrew, when? If not here, where?

  There was no one to answer. She heard only the gasping of her breath and the pounding of her heart. In suffocating silence, anger drained from her body. Her hand, fluttering in the aftermath of rage, blindly sought the back of a chair and gripped it for support.

  In one long silent minute, the stillness of her perfectly run establishment reasserted itself, wrapped itself around her, and began to squeeze the life from her lungs.

  A voice at the door spoke in tones that left no ripple in the still pool of order, “Chef Henri informs me that tea is ready, my lady. Miss Williams regrets that she is indisposed and begs permission to remain in her quarters. Does my lady wish to take tea here or in her sitting room?”

  Georgiana heard Chamber’s voice as though it came from a great distance. For a moment she couldn’t respond.

  “What does my lady wish?” Her butler expertly skirted a narrow line between subservience and disapproval. He would brook no disorder in a ducal household.

  Georgiana called on seven hundred years of aristocratic breeding, raised her head slowly, and stood erect. If the servants could act as if she had real power, she could maintain that pretense also. She turned with exquisite slowness and stared down her regal nose.

  “I will take it in my upstairs sitting room. You may inform Miss Williams her presence is not required.”

  Chambers gestured to an unseen footman.

  “That will be all, Chambers.”

  Chambers hesitated, eyes scanning the room, and began to bow out. She interrupted him.

  “One other thing. There has been an accident here. See that all sign of it is removed.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Georgiana walked from the room, head high. Her graceful, steady tread would have made her governesses proud if they had witnessed it. Even her mother might have approved. Feet of lead, however, and the weight of silence made her performance miraculous. She managed to sustain the illusion of control during her entire walk across the parquet foyer and up the swath of marble stairs to her sitting room.

  Two footmen, alerted by Chamber’s gesture, appeared from the servants’ stairs, bearing her tea. The Duke of Sudbury’s servants were trained to be invisible. Neither man spoke to her; neither looked at her. One held an enormous tray while the other laid the table with fine linen. They worked with economy of movement and were done within moments, leaving her with pastries baked by the finest chef in Cambridgeshire, a tea service worth a small ransom, and solitude.

  She took a bite. Chef Henri’s masterpiece crumpled on her tongue like sawdust. Thick suffocating silence choked her. She heard only the voice of Nossis of Locri singing in her head.

  “Nothing is sweeter than desire.

  All other pleasure is second to it.

  Even honey I spit from my mouth.

  The one whom Aphrodite hasn’t loved,

  So says Nossis,

  Cannot know what sort of roses my flowers are.”

  No comfort there. She put down the tiny silver fork, stared out the window, and waited for darkness. Then at least she could sleep.

  Hours passed. Servants moved on quiet feet, cleared her tray, and brought endless tea. They helped her dress for bed and then they left her alone.

  The despond that replaced her anger gave way, in turn, to doubt in the still hours of night. His Grace was a generous donor to Trinity and perhaps others of the colleges. She feared that her behavior might have put Andrew in jeopardy. In Cambridge, as everywhere in England, her father’s influence loomed. He could make it uncomfortable for Andrew.

  She knew that Andrew didn’t fear the whispers of her servants. She hoped that he didn’t fear the opinions of his neighbors. She suspected he thought his behavior was noble. He was puffed up with honor and some misguided notion of protectiveness.

  Botheration but that man is stubborn! When will he ever let me decide for myself. The thought echoed in her mind.

  Georgiana snuggled deeper into the luxurious coverings of her lonely bed. Moonlight filtered through her broad windows, casting shadows through her intricate lace hangings. It brought with it the voice of Nossis.

  “‘The ones Aphrodite has loved,’” she sighed. That most certainly does not include me, more is the pity. She wondered if she should feel guilty for associating herself with a pagan goddess. She didn’t.

  Georgiana attempted prayer, not knowing what else to do, but God felt far away, as far away as Andrew. She couldn’t believe that it was truly her fate to be alone her entire life with no one to talk with, laugh with, or work with.

  “If You intended
eros only for marriage as the clergy preach, didn’t You allow something for a freak like me, someone no one–no one acceptable–would want, ever? Someone with no hope of marriage at all?”

  She waited for an answer. None came. Georgiana sat up.

  Can God, who is in his very nature love, be so unfair? Does He mean for me to lead a loveless existence? No answer broke the silence.

  She padded to the window on bare feet. The full moon, viewed from her window seat, lit the Cambridgeshire countryside with pale blue light. It was bright enough to walk outside safely. She could be to Andrew in an hour, get her kiss, and be back long before the servants woke.

  She had endured thirty-five years without affection, but now she knew better. She refused to go back to her half-life.

  She arrived in Cambridge even sooner than she expected to. Less than an hour from the time she hastily dressed and pulled on her half boots, she turned into Little Saint Mary’s Lane. Clear of the river and in the gloom of the lane too narrow to be illuminated by moonlight, the exhilaration she felt faded and her courage began to fail. She didn’t know if she’d be able to find his door in the dark.

  Steady, Georgiana. You’ve come too far to turn back now.

  It wasn’t yet midnight. She was sure of it. There were six hours before sunrise–five before the kitchen staff arose–in which to get home and slip back into her room. She had time but none to waste. Her hand slid along the rough bricks of the row houses while her eyes examined the dark façade and she estimated the distance to his door.

  Several moments passed in agony before she noticed a light just where she thought his windows must be. It flickered from the upper story behind diamond panes. His study–she was sure of it.

  He can’t sleep either. Serves him right.

  The thought gave her courage to knock at the door. No response came. She reached over to pick up a handful of pebbles, but the door opened before she could toss them at his window.

  Harley, disgruntled and disheveled, looked her up and down irreverently. He gave the street an irritable glance as if to look for her servants and turned a thunderous expression to face her again.

  “He’s up. Honest man can’t get a good night’s sleep around here.”

  Harley shut the door behind her and disappeared into the kitchen. She stood alone at the foot of the stairs in the darkened house. She guessed Harley had gone back to bed as no light appeared in the kitchen.

  She removed her half boots and cloak and began to climb the stairs in her stocking feet. Giggles bubbled up at the oddity of it, and a nervous twitch bedeviled her belly. She ignored both.

  Dim light shone under the door on the landing; a gentle touch opened it.

  “What now Harley? I thought you went to bed.” Andrew’s deep voice sounded weary.

  An oil lamp burned brightly on the worktable to Georgiana’s left. She could see Andrew in the shadows to the right. He slumped in a wingback chair, an unopened book in his lap. He stared at the fire. A candle burned low on the table next to him; it illuminated a half-finished glass of brandy. She hoped that that glass was his first. For a moment, doubt paralyzed her, but the sight of him half-dressed drove doubts from her mind. His jacket, waistcoat, boots, and neck cloth were nowhere to be found. He wore a bright white shirt open at the throat with its sleeves rolled above strong forearms. She turned the lock behind her with a firm click. Andrew rose to his feet at the noise. Too late to back out now.

  A growl brought her eyes higher to study his face, once gloriously handsome. She found that face ravaged with scars, but no less beloved. She knew him well now and could read emotions he could no longer mask. She saw longing quickly replaced by fear and concern. She assumed it was for her and thought him foolish for it. She saw irritation, too, indecision, determination, and, again, longing. The last gave her courage to walk across the room, to pass the chair, to stand in front of him.

  “The door is locked.” She handed him the key. “It is locked this time, Andrew.”

  Honor be damned, Andrew thought, staring at the vision that had invaded his sanctuary.

  He wanted to take the foolish woman on the floor of his study. He wanted it. She wanted it. He knew he couldn’t do it. He had loved her too much eleven years before to offer her a shabby relationship; he couldn’t do it now. One night would never be enough. Unless he could have her honorably, he wouldn’t do it.

  “We can’t do this, Georgiana. You shouldn’t be here.”

  She stood close enough for him to feel her heat. He could pull her to himself if he reached out. He wanted her with every part of his body and soul. He mustn’t reach out.

  She looked adorable in her stockings. She obviously dressed in a hurry, her rumpled clothing testimony to haste. He wondered if she remembered her stays, and he rather hoped she hadn’t. If he reached over, one touch would tell him. He ruthlessly suppressed the thought. He would not reach out.

  “We can’t do this,” he repeated.

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t be here?” she asked.

  Of course I am, you dratted woman. He didn’t answer her.

  “Are you one more person who wants to keep me prisoner at Helsington, Andrew? Am I to be condemned to thirty more years of solitude?”

  She was an idiot, an infinitely desirable idiot. She leaned inches closer to him. He need only raise a hand to touch her. Everything in him longed to do just that. He wouldn’t.

  “Is that what you want, Andrew?” she continued, angrier when he didn’t respond. “For what crime should I be so punished?”

  She moved abruptly but stopped a foot away. “What is it you want then? Shall I be the marble goddess, cold, hard, and artistically arranged for you and Richard to admire? Is that what you want? How will you label that tableau? ‘Propriety?’”

  “Merciful heavens, Georgiana, is that how you see your life?” He should comfort her. If he touched her, he could comfort her. If he touched her, he would take her there on his study floor. He groaned in frustration; he held back.

  “How else is there to see it, Andrew? I live surrounded by people trained to be invisible when I pass, not one of whom will talk to me. Even my ‘companion’ is invisible. Cambridge derides me. London despises me. My parents and sisters prefer to forget me. My brother, my most loved brother, the one person who cares for me at all, gives me no voice in what is good for me.”

  Shame forced him to look toward the fire. Those words–her anger at Richard–were for him also. He didn’t want to see the anguish in her eyes. He and Richard had done what was right. He refused to believe otherwise.

  “You arranged it between you, didn’t you? You condemned me to solitary confinement at Helsington Cottage. Don’t even try to deny it! You knew that no one wanted me. Once you left, I was completely alone.”

  “Don’t speak of yourself so, that isn’t—”

  “True? Isn’t it? Please, Andrew, let there be honesty between us.”

  Her eyes burned blue fire, a cauldron of fury and need. He couldn’t hold against it.

  “You deserved better,” he began, voice thick. “Your father wouldn’t have permitted it. We could have run, bolted for Scotland or the Continent, but what then? Poetry in a hovel? That kind of romance dies in a day.”

  “‘Poetry in a hovel,’” she repeated. “If that’s what I escaped, what did I get in return? Glorious solitude? No one suitable, no one acceptable to the Duke of Sudbury wanted his eldest daughter, the daughter too tall, too lacking in grace, and too eccentric in her conversation to ornament an aristocrat’s home.”

  “There is nothing wrong with your conversation, Georgiana. Don’t deride yourself.”

  “No? I never learned to find a man’s waistcoat more fascinating than his politics. I never learned to pepper my words with on-dits rather than the books I read. No man wanted me, not one. Even Lord Pfeil—old, bald, and smelling of horse—acted as if he had been asked to do a favor for my father, and a distasteful one at that.”

  Her eyes burned into him. �
��That is one fear you can lay to rest,” she said.

  The workings of her mind were complex tonight; she had lost him. “What do you mean ‘fear?’ What are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t that what your ‘honor’ is about? An honorable man–and Andrew Mallet is a very honorable man–does not ‘ruin’ a woman because no respectable man will want her for a wife. You needn’t fear it because it’s too late. No man wants me.” Her eyes defied him to deny it. “Not even you.”

  He thought he must not have heard her correctly. He wanted her with an intensity that bordered on lunacy.

  “Not true.” His voice thickened. “I want you as I want air to breathe, Georgie. I have wanted you since I was seventeen years old, a foolish lovesick boy unable to sleep with the pain of it. I want you so badly that just being with you, working with you, has been a physical ache. You have no idea how badly I want you right at this moment.” He watched hope flare in her eyes, and he had to step sideways when she moved toward him. He raised his hands to fend her off.

  “It won’t do, Georgiana. It’s impossible. Your family will never tolerate it.”

  “My family?! What do they have to say about it? My family doesn’t care about me.”

  “They would care if you attempted to marry someone unsuitable.”

  “Did I mention marriage? I don’t remember discussing marriage.”

  It appalled him that she valued herself so cheaply. “It’s the least you deserve—not some shabby affair.”

  “Ah, nobility again. The noble man decides what I deserve, what I need. Take a look, please, at how little I actually have. I have wealth, or use of my father’s wealth. Since I have none of my own, I have none of the power that makes wealth worth having. I have status …”