Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3)

by Baird Wells

  Her fingers pressed reassuring warmth into his when he handed her up, and Spencer held on longer than he needed to. Alexandra's gaze was questioning, and then she patted the seat beside her. He understood.

  He couldn't explain it in words, but he understood.

  * * *

  Spencer pressed beside her in the carriage, silent and patient. She held some distance between them, despite their proximity and the carriage's bounce conspiring to make them touch. Alix wasn't certain her heart, red and raw from the afternoon's misery, was in proper shape to handle more complex emotions.

  And there was a line between them, for days now, that she was hesitant to cross. Not her scheme, not even Paulina; it was something more profound and filled with risk that gave her pause. Despite that, she appreciated the comfort of just being in Spencer's presence. Deciding she was overthinking the whole thing, she turned to him. “I wish you could spend the evening at Broadmoore.”

  He jerked beside her. “Why?”

  It was not the response she'd hoped for. Alix swallowed, finding her nerve. “I need your company.” She met his eyes.

  “May I confess that I dared not hope that was your reason?” His gaze was steady, measured, and it stole any reply. Spencer cleared his throat. “I'll speak to John when we arrive.”

  “You will?” It was her turn to admit a fear of hope.

  He inched closer along the seat. “You will have whatever you wish, anything you need.”

  She breathed deeply and turned away from him, and tried to sort her roiling emotions. She watched the scenery pass outside without blinking, afraid to invite tears that had threatened all afternoon. “Where is the line?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Fornication is condemned, adultery. Yet plenty of people do so, even those who claim to revile it.”

  “They damn it in one breath and indulge it with the next,” he agreed.

  “What are the differences between the Greys, George’s lies and Amelia’s humiliation, and the Jerseys, who don't trouble themselves about infidelity? Is there a possibility in every union, no matter how joyful, for one to stray?” She sighed and pressed her eyes, wishing she could press the flood of thoughts back into her mind. “Where's the boundary line for hurt and derision?”

  “I keep thoughts to myself on Jersey's peculiar arrangement. For my part the line looks distinctly like a wedding band. But you're a woman of business, Mrs. Rowan.” His acknowledgment cheered her. “Marriage at its most base is a contract. No party wishes to sign their name only to discover they've been swindled.” He was quiet, but she felt a weight to the silence. “And no, I do not believe broken-heartedness is a foregone conclusion. Some men’s character is molded from sturdier stuff.”

  His character. She thrilled at his sentiment, and Spencer's words put her at ease.

  She dared to rest her hand atop his on the seat, studying her pale fingers against his darker ones. Something in the way he made her feel recalled the woman she had been once, vibrant colors instead of muted grays. Alix rested her hand completely against his and looked up to find his eyes on her. The rise of his chest quickened, timed with her own, and a spark in his hazel eyes made her believe he could read her thoughts just then. She tried and failed avoiding a glance at his lips.

  “Paulina is going to be furious.” Furious at what she had said, what she had done in the drawing room. At what she was doing now, wherever it led.

  His jaw twitched, and he shifted eagerly against the squabs. “Leave Paulina to me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A pink cast from the sun, now well below the hills, danced above copses beyond Broadmoore’s garden wall, fading to orange and up into a spectrum of blue where the first evening stars winked down. Alexandra had gone to her room, as much to rest as to avoid Paulina’s wrath, but she needn’t have. Spencer had enjoyed dinner with John and Laurel, Paulina choosing to stay in her room and Chas, he guessed, mandated to join her.

  “One hell of day,” muttered John, putting the whiskey between them atop the garden wall. It was hard for Spencer to listen or to feel much empathy at John’s words. He had fond memories of the wall, and despite his best efforts, they occupied a good measure of his attention just now. He shouldn’t have kissed her at Oakvale. He ran a hand along the wall’s crumbling stone. Or he perhaps he shouldn’t have stopped.

  “Grey,” began John. “You really mean to call him out, Reed?”

  He nodded, downing his second glass.

  “Make a widow out of Lady Grey?”

  “No.” Spencer grimaced at the burn and spilled more whiskey into his tumbler. “Make a point.”

  John shook his head, then raised his glass. “If I treated Laurel thus, you'd rip my bollocks off.”

  Now he turned to face John. “You wouldn’t treat her thus, so it’s a moot point.” He leaned back and stretched tight muscles in his neck. “Besides, unlike Grey I'm reasonably certain of your having some bollocks, given Lady Hastings’s present condition.”

  “God,” groaned John, chuckling. “Broadmoore, a baby. Can I tell you how bleeding ready I am for the Patons to be gone? They've been nothing but a rash on my arse for weeks.”

  Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but John's flailing hand cut him off. “Mrs. Rowan I except from that. She and Laurel are fast friends now. And the stones on that woman! Tell me that even you, Reed, didn't applaud her tirade in the drawing room.”

  He would not tell John that, no matter how true it was. It was hard enough admitting to himself the heat that had raced through his veins at her shredding of the other ladies. Her confidence mixed with a dose of righteous anger was more arousing than he might have guessed. She was a formidable woman. A beautiful, tempting, haunting, formidable woman.

  Spencer cleared his throat. “On that subject, I have a favor to ask.”

  “About Mrs. Rowan?”

  “Ah...” It was the closest he ever came to stammering. “Indirectly.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “I had originally intended to be in London this week on business, and gave Bennet leave of the house. Oakvale now resembles the temple of Bacchus and shows no signs of improving. For my sanity I hoped to impose on you and stay the week at Broadmoore.” He clanked his glass to John's. “I know your rooms are crowded as it is.” Spencer held his breath.

  John tapped back. “It’s not imposing when it's company you can tolerate.”

  “You tolerate me? Hastings, that is the most endearing thing you've ever said.”

  “Don't let it go to your head, Reed,” John slurred. “You’re not pretty enough for my taste.”

  * * *

  A rapping at the door brought Spencer from his book, surprising him because he’d been certain almost everyone had long gone to bed. He was more surprised to find Mrs. Paton hovering in the library doorway.

  Sliding up in his seat, he gestured to an arm chair across the desk.

  Paulina, on the rare occasion she wasn't sniffing or scowling, was an attractive woman, thoroughly Dutch. She had a broad mouth with a long nose and almond eyes, features that were enhanced by a smile more than her usual perpetual glare. He noticed it now, catching her face at rest for the first time.

  She perched her long frame on the edge of her chair, hands folded primly. Spencer wondered if she ever did anything that was not tailored for appearance or for an audience.

  “How may I be of service, Mrs. Paton?”

  “I'm concerned.” She pressed a hand over her heart, “Deeply concerned about my sister-in-law. And you as well, Lord Reed, if there is cause.”

  Bristling, he straightened in his chair. “I'm not certain I comprehend.”

  She reached for him, then drew back her hand. “Alexandra is not a well person. I know that you have observed what must appear to be my heavy-handedness with her during our time here. It is regretfully necessary where she is concerned.”

  Crossing his arms, he studied her and kept silent. Whatever she was peddling, he was not buying.

&nb
sp; Paulina shifted in her seat, meeting his eyes again. “She has likely told you a story about being manipulated. How she has been ill used by us.” She buried her face in her hands. “If I could express to you the humiliation we suffer. Her loose talk, her impulsiveness. She claims to care about family, our business, but...” Her hands raised, pleading. “We tread lightly with her. How many stories have we been forced to tell our neighbors? There are times she is so irrational, so unaware of how dangerous her choices. You witnessed her outburst in the drawing room; so forceful and edged with violence over the affairs of a stranger. I fear she will be a candidate for the asylum one day.”

  Spencer thought he had already found the most likely asylum candidate. “Why share all of this with me, Mrs. Paton? I too am practically a stranger and this can only add to your humiliation.”

  Paulina's spine snapped straight. “Let me be frank. She has attached herself to men before, and money is always her primary object. I would be on guard against her advances, Lord Reed.”

  She had been watching, hawkishly observing, he realized now. Their attempts to dodge Paulina, even his excuse for staying the week at Broadmoore had not escaped her notice. “Allow me to put your mind at ease, Mrs. Paton. Mrs. Rowan has not approached me in an untoward way. And even if she had, marriage is so far beyond my horizon that her efforts would be fruitless anyhow. Bachelorhood has suited me for four decades.”

  Paulina deflated, pressing cool fingertips to his hand. “That relieves me sir, more than I can say. Please do not judge us, for Alexandra's behavior, or our own in protecting against it.”

  Scooting away from her touch and eager for her departure, he offered a nod. “I bid you goodnight, Mrs. Paton.”

  “Lord Reed.”

  To her credit, Paulina got up with composure. His silence hadn't unsettled her, and he grasped how her story must have easily influenced others. Even he had tested, fit the pieces together as she wove her story, curious for any grain of truth. Alexandra's relief any time Paulina left the house might have been an eagerness to run wild, except she never had. Her rebellion had manifested in the form of perusing a near empty library. His attention in the garden might have been an unimaginable boon to the sort of woman Paulina had described, but Alexandra had never capitalized on it.

  He had underestimated Paulina’s level of calculation, underestimated the woman in general. He would fare better from here on out, applying every caution Paulina had offered, but to her rather than to Alexandra.

  * * *

  Alexandra waited, making absolutely certain that Paulina had gone to her room and was in for the night before slipping downstairs. By the silence blanketing the house, she feared that Spencer had also turned in. She rounded a corner and her worry receded at the lamplight spilling from beneath the library door. Holding her breath, she turned the handle and stepped in.

  Poor Spencer had clearly not expected any more intrusions after Paulina's departure, probably assuming she too was asleep. Deep in his chair, boots up on a little wooden stool, he startled at her late appearance. “Mrs. Rowan.”

  She rested a finger to her lips, seating the door in its frame without a sound and twisting the lock. Pressing her back to the door, she looked him over. “Are you ready?”

  The speed with which he sat up, nodding, was her answer.

  “Me too.” She indulged a smile, welcome after a long day of misery, and her breath gained a pace. “Where should we…?” She raised her hands.

  “Here,” said Spencer. “Here will be fine.” He patted his coat. “I have the cards.”

  “Perfect. I'll get the brandy and you deal.”

  While he moved a side table from under the window and repositioned their chairs, Alix fished along a bottom shelf for the liquor which Laurel had admitted John kept tucked away, handy for when he was avoiding Chas and Paulina. The drawing room boasted a little sideboard and cabinet with other delicious temptations, but it was too close to the foot of the stairs. They risked being heard anywhere beyond the library, and she wasn’t willing to give up the next unhindered hour with Spencer for a few treats. Smooth glass met her fingertips; she gripped the bottle, palming two thimble glasses beside.

  “Have you found it or not?” he demanded, failing to sound the least put out.

  “Hush.” Laughing, she settled at their makeshift spot and drew the cork with a satisfying pop.

  “Look at that.” He leaned down, peering at both their glasses as she poured, then tapped his own. “That is the most imaginary quantity of spirits I've ever beheld.”

  Snatching her own from his reach, she shook her head. “Drink from the bottle then.”

  “Tempting invitation.” He held her eyes until she looked away and then fished a slender silver case from his coat. He flipped it open with deft fingers and produced an expertly rolled cheroot, and raised a brow.

  “No,” she replied to his silent question, feeling tempted by Lucifer himself. “Never once.”

  “Hm.” Next came a thin red wooden box, easily lost in his palm.

  No idea what to do, she stalled. “I had no notion you took tobacco.”

  “Only with brandy,” he clarified, nodding to the bottle, “and only occasionally.”

  Spencer struck the match. It sputtered, then blazed, its light catching in the gray-green depths of his eyes and hypnotizing her a moment. The rolling paper glowed and then smoked, and he held out the cheroot. Alix claimed it, feeling young and wonderfully nervous.

  “Slow,” he cautioned, grinning. “On account of your delicate lungs.”

  “Hmph.” She pulled warm smoke first into her mouth, letting it billow to the back of her throat and burn her nose. Then she dared a hint into her chest on a slow breath. She felt a fullness and a sensation between her temples, and that was all. It was nothing more illicit than standing too close to a campfire. She shrugged, blew out a breath and handed it back with a smile. “Safe from yet another of your temptations.”

  He winked. “Trial by fire.”

  Made bold by the moment, Alix studied him in the dim amber light. “How long is your brother in London?”

  He snuffed the cheroot, cutting a hand through its smoky protest. “Three days. Army business.”

  “Three days.” She slid her glass in a circle for distraction. “Must be hard for Bennet to entertain his houseful of guests from so far away.” Alix lifted her gaze.

  He shrugged, caught, and relaxed in his seat with a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Perhaps I fibbed in order to make a little time with you.”

  She fought to keep her expression placid against a thundering in her chest. “How long?”

  “A week at least, save my trip to London tomorrow.”

  The duel had occupied her mind all evening and somehow she'd still managed to forget. Now it erased her joy at Spencer’s stay. “You're truly going?”

  “I am. I must.”

  Her heart lodged in her throat, and she could barely speak. “Can we play cards some other night?” she managed.

  His hand was abandoned on the table, and he leaned forward. “Of course. What would you rather we do instead?”

  “What we're doing now.” In case you don't come back.

  “Always agreeable.” Spencer scooted his chair around the side of their table, his long legs nearly brushing her skirts.

  Now that she had her opportunity, Alix had no idea where to begin. She fumbled for something neutral to get them started. “How long has Bennet lived with you?”

  “Nearly his whole life. My father died suddenly when Bennet was three. It was January, damp and frigid. Bennet's mother hadn't been well. A chill became pneumonia and she never recovered. I was...” He looked to the ceiling, “Twenty? Returned home from the army to a strange, sad, irrational little creature. No memory of our father and too much want of his mother to be consoled. He pleaded for warm milk. 'You won't drink it', I’d say. Then he'd cry and I'd warm the milk and he would fall to the floor wailing that he didn't want milk.” Spencer rubbed his head,
chuckling. “And so he didn’t; he simply wanted my attention. Hasn't changed a bit in two decades. Anyhow,” he slouched, lacing fingers over his chest, “We get on all right.”

  Her heart ached at his story. “Better than all right, in my estimation.”

  Spencer nodded. “Very perceptive. Bennet is my brother and my child, in a sense. A strong reminder of our father. I love him fiercely for all those reasons and more.”

  The picture was endearing, and Alix couldn't help the pang of jealousy at their bond. “I've never been close with Chas,” she offered. “We had entirely opposite temperaments as children, and after our mother and sisters died, he fell into a melancholy which he took out on the rest of us. When my father fell ill, he truly began to struggle...” She closed her eyes, trying to think back that far. “I have no idea where he was for those years. I can't recall his ever being there. I took care of father round the clock at the end. After father passed, Chas devoted himself to Paulina, and you see how that's fared for us.” Alix sighed, resting an elbow on the table and cradling her chin. “Chas can go days on end with the tedious work, but the truly difficult tasks?” She shook her head. “He vanishes.”

  “You must have missed out on a great deal, with your father's illness and your brother's absence.”

  She hated admitting to anyone, especially Spencer, how sad and humbled she'd become during those days, how she had made it near effortless for Paulina to sweep in and take over. “I did miss out. My courtship ended. I couldn't bear to leave my father and Edward tired of waiting. I suspect he also tired of Chas, who nattered Edward to death every visit. I stopped taking much of a hand in our company. The world passed by outside and suddenly I was twenty-six. Weddings, babies, funerals; they all kept time and I had missed out.” She answered Spencer's frown with a smile. “I set out to do plenty of other things. And I did, until Paulina truly dug her claws in.”

  He frowned. “A common theme where she's concerned.”