A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  As a child, she had apologized to pets, to birds or bees she had unintentionally disturbed, even to objects she’d bumped into such as tables and chairs. Mama had done that, too, she remembered now, but not apologies as much as conversation. She’d spoken aloud to many things, animate or inanimate, and perhaps this was why people had thought her mad.

  She wasn’t mad. Andromeda clutched the locket. She was lovely and very dear, and I miss her so much.

  Even if Andromeda was a complete fool, even if Cuff the hobgoblin wasn’t real, the thought that she might have wounded him made tears burn behind her eyes and her insides cringe with misery. She simply couldn’t help herself; she had to apologize to him—just in case. She eyed the sad little beignet again and whispered, “Cuff, I’m sorry. It was very rude of me to take a bite of your beignet. Please forgive me.”

  Nothing happened. Well, what had she expected? Hobgoblins didn’t exist. Not only that, if she were Cuff, that meagre apology wouldn’t be enough.

  She tried again. “They told me you weren’t real, but I should have known better,” she said. “I should have stuck to what I believed. I’m trying very hard to believe again now.” Immediately she’d said that, she knew it was true.

  Still nothing happened, but a weight lifted from her chest all the same. She had done what she could, and if he was real, he would forgive her or he wouldn’t.

  She sighed. She measured with a piece of string and cut a section of wallpaper to glue onto the screen. And another and another, until she had a variety of shapes and sizes to form a pattern.

  The glue had gelled into a thick lump. She should have started a fire and left it on the hob while she prepared the wallpaper. She had managed to kindle a fire last night and could do it again now. She cleared away the ashes and started over with the tinder box. “Please light quickly for me, like you did last night,” she said, and the spark leapt obligingly to the tinder. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could just say, ‘Glue pot, kindly warm yourself’!”

  The fire caught on merrily, as if laughing at her little jest, and soon crackled around the kindling and licked the coals. She reached for the glue pot to hang it on the hob, but snatched her hand back with a yelp of pain. The handle of the glue pot was hot—burning hot!

  She blew on her fingers and leapt up to immerse them in the tepid water of the wash basin, wishing it was colder to take away the pain.

  Oh, but it was cold, delightfully so.

  She withdrew her hand, patted it dry on her shirt, and tiptoed back to the glue pot as if it might suddenly leap at her. How could it possibly be so very hot? It wasn’t closer to the fire than she had been—less so, actually. It sat innocently enough before the hearth. She took the potholder, gingerly pushed the handle to one side, and opened the lid. A puff of steam rose out; the lump of glue had melted. How very odd. She replaced the lid and carefully wrapped the potholder around the handle. She moved the glue pot over next to the screen, opened it again, dipped the brush in the glue, and set to work.

  Soon several pieces of wallpaper were stuck securely on the screen in what seemed to her to be a more interesting pattern than what she’d scraped off. I could be content doing this sort of work, she thought.

  But now the glue had begun to thicken again. Perhaps she could get the last few pieces stuck on before she had to cut some more. She picked up the brush and dabbed it in, but the glue was already too hard. “Come now, don’t gel yet. Let me finish what I’ve started.”

  The glue pot gave a cheerful little puff of steam.

  She stared into it. The consistency... was liquid again. She dipped her brush in to make certain. Sure enough, the glue which a few moments earlier had been half-solid, now flowed freely into her brush.

  Her mind reeling, she forced herself to glue the last few pieces. The very last one was a struggle, as her hand shook a little, but she managed to maneuver it into place. Then she wiped as much glue as she could from the brush onto a scrap of wallpaper, set it down, and put the lid on the pot. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m finished for now.”

  When she picked up the lid of the pot again and peered inside, the glue had congealed once more.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FEN ESCAPED THE dowager after a full hour of torment. He’d somehow managed to follow the woman’s meandering discourse—about one-third related to furniture and the rest vulgar speculation about Andromeda’s whereabouts. He’d taken notes on what she wished to purchase and set them aside for later. The urchin returned, having given Fen’s note to the butler at Overwood House, who’d told the boy the marquis was not at home, which could mean anything from still abed to gone on a jaunt to the country. The butler would give his master the note, but what if the marquis ignored Fen’s findings once again? If only Fen had a friend or two to call upon, reliable witnesses whose testimony his father would take seriously. Then he and Harry mightn’t need to resort to murder, and Harry’s name would be cleared.

  But he didn’t have any friends of the sort his father would approve. There was no point wishing for what would never happen.

  Thoughts of Andromeda kept shoving their way into Fen’s mind. Maybe he could win her first and then explain. Maybe if she knew how much he loved her, she would forgive him more easily. Maybe she would gradually come to believe in magic again—but if she didn’t, he wouldn’t love her any less.

  She would have to adjust to a new life one way or another—either with him as an outcast, or banished to the country as a bored, lonely... outcast.

  The day wore to a close. Harry left to check on the urchins and pick up some supper from a nearby inn. The cabinet makers went home. Fen shut the shop and made his way upstairs. The bedchamber door was slightly ajar. Andromeda was on her knees before the screen, smoothing a rectangle of wallpaper. She had completed three of the panels and almost finished the fourth.

  He couldn’t help drinking in the sight of her—her slim hips, feminine even in the breeches; the complete concentration on her face. She took another rectangle of paper and dipped her brush in the glue.

  It must have congealed, for she tsked. “We’re not done yet.” She withdrew the brush again. “Please warm up for me just one more time.” She peered into the pot. “Thank you,” she said, dipped her brush and, like magic, the brush was coated with hot glue.

  No, not like magic—it was magic.

  Joy coursed through him. If they married, he wouldn’t have to defend his own magic or his beliefs or practices. What a relief, and yet...

  Why had she lied to him this morning? She knew perfectly well that magic was real—she was performing it here and now. He stiffened, shoving the angry words down. He didn’t have time for this or for her or for thoughts of marriage right now, and yet he lingered, watching as she pasted the last patch of paper.

  “Thank you, I’m finished now,” she said. She wiped the brush on a scrap of paper and stood back to look at the screen as a whole.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, he took it!”

  Now what? A tear trickled down her cheek. What the devil? After a few moments’ internal struggle, he tapped on the door. “Andromeda?”

  “Come in.” Now she knelt on the floor, clearing up the wallpaper scraps. The short, brown curls suited her, although he preferred her hair its natural gold. The breeches suited her too—a little too well. He dragged his eyes away from the curve of her arse, but when she sat back, the apex of her thighs tantalized him.

  He forced his eyes elsewhere—to the empty saucer by the wall—and back to Andromeda. Had she eaten the damned beignet? Her eyes glistened with more tears. “What’s wrong?”

  “The beignet is gone,” she said. “I apologized to Cuff for not believing in him. I haven’t seen him, but he did take the beignet. Do you think that means he forgives me?” A tear fell. “It wasn’t my offering, so taking it may have nothing to do with me.”

  “Time will tell.” Fen’s heart squeezed with too many emotions. Would she forgive him? He took out his handkerchief and han
ded it to her wordlessly.

  She wiped her eyes. “I owe you an apology, too. Papa and Aunt Mattie insisted that fairies and hobgoblins and magic weren’t real, and I believed them.”

  Maybe she had just come into her powers. Maybe that explained her ease in lighting the fire last night. Maybe she hadn’t been lying at all. And maybe he should have learned his lesson about making hasty judgments.

  “You were only a child,” Fen said. “It was natural that you should believe what your elders told you.” Whilst he had no such excuse for believing his scum of a friend.

  “Perhaps, but it was exactly the opposite of what my mother taught me.” She heaved a sigh. “Believing in magic again is... oh, such a relief. And it’s thanks to you that I knew.”

  He squirmed inside. The last thing she should do was thank him. “In what way?”

  “When Mr. Witherstone told me you eat the offerings yourself, I knew that wasn’t possible. Anyone who believes in the fairies knows better, but more than that, I know you would never, ever take back what you had already given them. So since you didn’t eat the offerings, it had to be Cuff.”

  Fen’s heart twisted with love. She was his dearest Andromeda again, wild and part-fey, and now with her own, personal magic.

  She dabbed away the sparkle of new tears. “I apologize to you, too, Fen. I should have believed you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fen said awkwardly. “Andromeda, I―speaking of apologies, I was unforgivably rude to you last night. I apologized once and must do so again.”

  Her confiding expression vanished. “Apology accepted,” she said, but he didn’t think she quite meant it.

  At least she was speaking to him. What a treasure she was; what a delight to have her here with him, and what a loss he faced if she refused him. Those big fairy eyes would flash with disgust, and her sweet rosy lips would never kiss him again, and...

  He pulled himself together, trying to gather the courage to confess. “That’s a pretty pattern you’ve made. Unusual, too.”

  “I did what I could with the scraps.” She stood and tossed the remnants into the fire, which flared up to devour them.

  He wanted to devour her. “You’re very pretty, too.”

  Now she blushed. “I’m not supposed to be pretty. I’m a boy.”

  “Unlike fairies and hobgoblins, your disguise is only make-believe. You’re very much a woman.”

  She blushed even more and looked away. “Mr. Witherstone said I must throw myself wholeheartedly into the part.” She picked up the pot of glue. He sucked in a breath, fearing she might burn herself, but evidently the glue had cooled obediently when she’d said she was done. He wondered what her personal magic entailed. It seemed she had some command of fire, like her mother... His eyes wandered helplessly to the delicious curves of her bum.

  She set the glue pot by the door. “I’m a surly boy who swears.”

  “Yes, I heard you,” Fen said with a grin. “Most unladylike.”

  “I’m tired of being ladylike,” she retorted and immediately paled. “What I mean is, I enjoyed swearing.” She ran her tongue across her lower lip.

  “Understandable,” he said, more enchanted by the second. And aroused. “Swearing comes in handy when one is frustrated or upset.”

  “I’m tired of trying to be the perfect lady,” she said. “Now that I’m ruined, I shan’t bother with it anymore. In fact, I shall―”

  “What?” He needed to come closer; needed to touch her.

  “I don’t quite know,” she said slowly. “But now that I believe in magic again, I can’t go back to what I was.” She gazed past him into some unseen distance and then met his eyes again. “I’ve changed, Fen. I have to go forward, even if I’m not sure how.”

  “You’re so lovely,” he blurted, and bent to kiss her.

  His lips touched hers, sparking a rush of pleasure so powerful that her knees almost gave way. But his arms went around her, holding her tight against him, and her mouth parted instinctively under his. She succumbed with a tiny moan of delight.

  He broke the kiss. “Oh, my love, my sweet, you set me afire, too.” His voice was husky with desire. She put her arms around him and pulled him down to kiss her again. Oh, God, how she had missed this; how even while denying it, she had longed for it in her heart of hearts.

  She hugged him closer, relishing the pressure of her breasts against his firm chest. She ran her fingers into his hair. Each time they broke the kiss, she inhaled his scent, and hot thrills ran through her. She wanted to climb all over him, to wrap herself around him, to feel his skin smooth and hot against hers. He was hers again, her very own Fen who loved her with all his...

  No. She mustn’t allow herself to be swept away by desire as she had at the age of seventeen. Now, she knew better.

  She broke the kiss and laid her head on his chest, trying to think.

  Last night he hadn’t wanted to touch her. What had spurred this unexpected passion on his part?

  His large hands roamed her body and settled on her derriere, and suddenly it was all too obvious. She thrust herself out of his arms. “No!” she cried, gasping to get the words out. “I already told you this won’t do. Just because I’m ruined, it doesn’t mean I’m no longer respectable.”

  His chest rose and fell; he was as breathless as she. He reached for her. “Andromeda, I―”

  She put up her hands and backed away. “No, you mustn’t. When I said I was tired of being ladylike, I didn’t mean I would become your mistress.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But you might consider becoming my wife.”

  Stunned, she could do nothing but stare.

  “I understand if it’s not palatable, but you can’t marry Slough, and being ruined will severely limit your options.”

  “I know that,” she said, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it had last night, before she knew about her magic.

  “At least I love you, which is more than any man your father pays to marry you will do.”

  “You... love me?” I love you, too.

  “I have always loved you,” he said.

  She longed to believe him, but... she didn’t. She couldn’t, because it made no sense. “You didn’t behave as if you loved me.”

  He bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I—I should have known better. I was... misinformed.”

  “Misinformed,” she repeated. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He raised his eyes and blew out a long breath. “There’s no good way to say this.”

  “Then just get on with it!”

  “I will, I will, but I’m trying to savor the last few moments while you’re still speaking to me.”

  “I’ll never stop speaking to you.” Even if you were fighting over some other woman, she thought recklessly.

  “Ah,” he said, putting up a hand, “I don’t deserve such tenderness, so I must savor that, too.” He took a deep breath. “Remember when you were seventeen and driving me mad with desire?”

  She’d driven him mad? She’d thought she was the one maddened by passion. “You gave no sign of desiring me more than a little.”

  “Ah, my sweet love, you have no idea what you did to me. They say that when a woman of fey blood sets her sights on a man, he hasn’t a choice.” He paused. “Add love to the mix, and it is pure torment.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And yet you rebuffed me.”

  “Because I didn’t see how I could marry you. I knew I would go into trade. I had to find a better use for my magic than duels and tavern brawls. I’d harmed too many people, killed some, and it couldn’t be allowed to go on.”

  “I heard about that,” she said. “I found it hard to believe. It seemed so unlike what I remembered about you.”

  “I hadn’t learned how to control my magic. I came into it young, but at first it was quite harmless. You remember how I used to whittle all the time? The little tables and chairs I built?”

  She nodded.

&nb
sp; “The knives and other tools seemed to take over my hands, and it was fun, but as I grew, it wasn’t enough for me or for my tools. I didn’t know what to do. A boy may construct doll house furniture for his sisters, but a gentleman cannot be a cabinet maker, or so I thought.”

  “I understand that it must have been difficult for you, but—”

  “Not difficult,” he said. “Impossible. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I went on sprees in Town, doing anything that would suppress the longing to work with my tools, but it was never enough. I always ended in one sort of fight or another. Sharp implements are attracted to me, you see, and they need to be used. If they aren’t employed in a satisfying way—such as with wood—they will inevitably draw blood. Magic was making me into a murderer.”

  She shivered. “Surely those fights weren’t entirely your fault.”

  “The duels were entirely my fault.” He didn’t need to explain why—everyone knew he’d bedded other men’s wives. “As for the tavern fights—often I was defending someone weaker than I, but I had an unfair advantage. I knew that going into it, but my knives took over...” He shook his head. He took a breath. He ran his hands through his hair.

  “I still don’t see why you rejected me,” she said.

  “I’m trying to explain. Maybe when you’ve had your magic for a while you will understand. Just as my blades crave blood, your fire has a powerful desire to burn and must be controlled.”

  Now he was lecturing her! She began to be seriously annoyed.

  “I hope whatever struggles you encounter will help you understand my dilemma,” he went on. “Your father wouldn’t have permitted our marriage, so it would have been wrong of me to bed you. I had to become a cabinet maker—I had absolutely no choice about that—and you would have hated me for bringing you down in the world.”

  “How do you know? Despite my ill-mannered behavior last night—for which I am ashamed—I’m not much enamored of the beau monde.” Besides, something about this explanation made no sense. “You should have let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you―” She almost choked up at the memory. “You wouldn’t even speak to me anymore. Why didn’t you explain?”