by Amelia Hart
But no, she only smiled at others, not at him. With him she pulled back into that perfectly correct, upright stance and her eyes went cool and distant. It piqued his curiosity. Not that the disapproval of women was completely foreign to him. As many turned up their noses at him as allowed themselves to be charmed, and that had never bothered him. Too well he knew how easily an offended frown could become sighs and surrender with the right application of flattery and seductive certainty. It was an ability he had honed to perfection, for both his pleasure and his amusement.
There was nothing like a challenge.
She was a challenge, perhaps a little more intriguing than most. Too quick-witted to dismiss; sharp-tongued as an adder. No one said such things to his face as she had, whatever might be said when his back was turned. But she, all courage and fearlessness, spoke as she pleased when there was no one else to hear her.
No, she did not care what he thought of her, since he had already lost her good opinion before he even noticed her.
It was not a harshness in her character. She was poised and pleasant to others, with a natural dignity that made her perhaps a little difficult to approach. Now he was watching her he saw no one sought her out, particularly during these evenings of sociability. He wondered if she was lonely. He had always felt a little sorry for governesses, when he thought of them at all.
Mr Scott finished his turn and Colin picked up and discarded with careless disregard, then went back to staring at her. Miss Preston. Julia. She had been summoned from upstairs to make up numbers for cards, and he had seen the faint dismay flicker across her face when she realized the empty seat designated for her was directly opposite him. Poor woman. Perhaps he should not hound her.
No, he would not pretend to a nobility he did not possess. He was intrigued and would find out the secrets of her. When she lay lax and pleasure-dazed in his arms, no different from the rest, then he would be satisfied. It was a new thought and a little surprising - she was very far from his preferred type - but the prospect pleased him.
He felt his lip curl as he pictured her there, naked and supple, a willow wand of delicate femininity, blue eyes unfocused and happy. At that precise moment her eyes flicked up to meet his and it was almost a physical touch, the intensity of that connection, the snap of it.
She was angry again, her nostrils flared, and he found himself smiling wider and giving her a promise with his own eyes:
I will have you. I will know you. You will flower for me.
She drew in a sharp breath as if to reprimand him, and Mr Scott and Mrs Bower each turned their heads to her in polite attention at the small sound, caught her look and followed it to Colin.
"Sorry, whose turn is it?" he asked as if in innocent confusion. "Is it mine?"
"No, still mine," said Mrs Bower. Sorry. Just . . . there." She threw down her discard with an air of exasperation at her options, and Miss Julia Preston lowered her gaze back to her own cards, which trembled ever so slightly in her slender hand.
CHAPTER SIX
Julia gritted her teeth when little Sarah the maid knocked on her door and, in her timid little mouse voice, passed on the message Miss Preston was required at the pianoforte.
"Thank you, Sarah," was all she said, but when the serving girl was gone and Julia's bedroom door closed behind her, Julia glared at the wood panels of it. What rotten luck. Was it so much to ask of life, that she could stay peacefully hidden away upstairs for just one evening? It had been such a terribly long day, with the children squabbling and refusing to settle to work, a spilled inkwell to clean up and Sophie's tears over another ruined dress, this one splattered with indigo ink.
With grim fortitude she went to peer in her small, speckled looking glass. Should she take down her hair and pin it anew? Undoubtedly. And put on one of her two drab evening dresses, solemn and sensible as they were. It did not matter which she wore. With this the fourth evening she had been pressed into duty, all the guests would have seen each already, if they had taken the trouble to notice her at all.
Still, she put on the one she had not worn last night at cards - when she had unaccountably fascinated Mr Holbrook. Wretched man.
It was one thing to feel out-of-sorts when he ignored her, but truth be told she had never expected his regard, either. She knew her own worth, but also knew with solid certainty that it was not a thing a man was likely to appreciate, since she could not dress it up behind a softly-rounded limbs and a pretty face.
Yet he sought her out to talk, and stared at her through the evening, until she did not know what to do.
She did not admire his character, but oh, there was still a little tug of yearning within her for his attention. He so epitomized the perfect man, in looks at least, with such a square jaw, straight nose, his thick, wavy black hair and warm blue eyes under mobile eyebrows. He had a way of tilting his head and listening to a woman that made her feel she was the only one in the room. A useful trick, that, when he was besieged by two or three women at a time. He was so relaxed, in everything he did, as if mastery came easily to him and he need never strive. A small curl rode often in one corner of his mouth as if he laughed inside at them all, or at life itself.
He was tall and broad and leanly muscled, the exact shape to suit fashion, and while he wore his coats a little looser than true dandyism dictated he set them off so well no one could find him lacking.
Now it seemed she had caught his eye, she feared he played some trick on her for his own amusement. Was he so petty? It was hard to guess. Possibly, if Mrs Langston and her ilk were failing to keep him busy in the bedroom.
She fumbled at her task, sighed, and began again more carefully. The lacing of her dress was awkward to tie alone, but she was accustomed to managing without help. The dress had been made loose enough she had space within to contort to button it up the back. Perhaps when she had finally scraped together enough money for the material for another evening dress - in some far-distant future - she would make it to button up the front. A lowering concession that, to make it obvious she must dress without a servant. But sometimes practicality must win out over pride.
Braiding and pinning her hair did not take long, with the simple style she had adopted. A soft nautilus bun then two thin braids coming from beneath, one to wrap the edge of the bun, the other to form a headband. She debated over whether to put her single strand of pearls around her neck or in her hair again, and settled on her neck. The pin curls around her face and neck had very little spring in them after the day of wear, but she had no curling iron and was not deft with the tool anyway. Singed hair was hardly a charming scent to have drifting around a woman.
There. She looked respectable enough. She would do. And if she played only quiet, sedate melodies she might spend the entire evening hidden at the instrument without Mrs Trent shifting her on. That, then, would be her goal.
The drawing rooms were crowded, the company in good humor. There were card tables in the corner and she could smell the faint scent of tobacco from the open doors so no doubt more of the men were out on the terrace. Now she was here it was pleasant enough, and she took her seat at the piano and opened one of her precious folios of music with a faint smile. She liked to play.
She started softly so as not to startle the company, a gentle air by Charles Dibden that made her think of lilacs in a spring garden, sweet and fresh. This one she played from memory. Then she moved into a sonatina by Ignaz Pleyel, closing her eyes to better enjoy the soft, lilting qualities of it. The Irish air by Hadyn that she chose next, she did not know so well, and followed the music she had carefully written out by hand from a copy owned by the Trents.
"May I turn the pages for you, Miss Preston?" said Mr Holbrook, speaking from behind her right shoulder.
She faltered, missed a note, recovered and went on. "Thank you, but I think I can manage alone."
He came to stand where he could see her face, and leaned against the piano. "You play extremely well."
"You are kind to say it."
"It's no more than the truth. I wouldn't have thought you'd have much time to practice, you are kept so busy."
"I play in the evenings after the children are in bed."
"I haven't heard you."
"I played the other night for the company." She said it very steadily, hoping to embarrass him with the lapse. He only smiled and shrugged.
"I didn't realize. I must have had my head in the clouds."
"Or perhaps in someone's bosom."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I beg yours. I didn't mean to say that." She hoped he had not caught the words, though the faint look of incredulity that came and went on his features, replaced by laughter, told her he had.
"Well, however I was occupied at the time," now he grinned openly at her, "I'm sorry to have missed the moment. I've been enjoying watching you play. You seem transported by the music."
"This is a very good instrument."
"And you handle it so masterfully."
She looked back at the music, realized she was lost, and turned a page. After a moment she found her place again. He stood there, watching her until she wanted to squirm with self-consciousness.
"You're not playing cards tonight?" she said, to break the tension he made her feel. Even talking to him was not so bad as wondering what he was thinking as he watched her.
"I'm a very indifferent card player."
"You seemed skilled enough." She switched to a piece of music she knew so well she could play it automatically, without thought. It was too difficult to play and talk to him while watching her music.
"Then you can't have been concentrating last night," he said. "I lost nearly every hand."
"It is you who were not concentrating."
"That's true. I had something much more fascinating on my mind." His tone caressed her, and a shiver traveled down her spine.
Inside her dress her nipples drew tight, and she closed her eyes in an anguish of embarrassment. "Oh, I wish you will not."
"Will not what?"
"Say such things to me, in such a tone of insinuation." She tried to make herself sound merely exasperated, and did not know if she fooled him.
"How would you like me to say them?" He made the words soft and intimate as if he longed to please her, and needed only for her to give him the knowledge of how.
She shuddered. "Not at all. I wish you would say nothing to me."
"How very grim. Shall I restrain myself to silent admiration?"
"I cannot believe that is what you are feeling."
"Why not?"
"Men such as you, do not stand and admire women such as I."
"Do they not? I can't imagine why you'd think so."
"Mr Holbrook, I am well aware of the sort of women you prefer. I conceive - since I hardly seek out information about you - it must be well known to all. I know equally well that I am no great beauty, nor widow, nor married, nor voluptuary. So I know you do not admire me. Plain spinsters form no part of your . . . I shall say diet, for lack of a better word."
"You accused me of far worse, the other night. Ruining young girls, was what you implied."
"Yes, well I'm sorry for that. I have no proof that you did any such thing. It was supposition, and I was annoyed, and I said what was imprudent. My apologies."
"Nobly said."
"You seem determined to flatter me. There is nothing noble about admitting one is wrong. In fact it is lowering. Far better to have never made the mistake in the first place."
"And never be wrong, or make a mistake? That is your standard? It is a lofty one. I fear you set yourself up for disappointment."
"To live by lofty ideals can never be wrong."
"To live constantly with the regret of one's inadequacies must always be wrong."
"Then don't be inadequate, Mr Holbrook."
When she looked up, full of trepidation over her own insult, she saw his face brimming with mirth. "I am generally not held to be inadequate."
"Are you held so often?" It came out without conscious thought. Oh, her awful tongue.
His eyes widened a little, then crinkled at the corners. "I was very gratified to be held only three nights ago, by such gentle arms that I will not soon forget their tender clasp-"
"I did not hold you! You held me."
"Did I? I'm afraid I was so swept away by the moment I retain only impressions. The scent of you, and the sound of you catching your breath in shock, and your sighs as we kissed. I formed the distinct idea you held me. I remember the brush of your fingers here," her eyes followed his hand as he touched it to his shoulder, then his chest, "and here. And of course other parts of your body held other parts of mine."
"They did not!"
"As you sat upon me, I was most delightfully cupped."
"Mr Holbrook! I will not stand for this."
"Caution. Mrs Trent is watching you at this precise moment."
She glared at him, her cheeks blazing with heat. "You are very cruel."
"Yet I am generally thought to be very kind. Will you not try me, and see how kind I will be to you?"
"There is no consideration that could possibly tempt me to accept."
"That is unfortunate. It seems I have not presented sufficient evidence for my case. I'll have to show you you're in error."
"I am not in error."
"And yet we both know you make mistakes of judgment and are swayed by bad temper. Best to give yourself a little more time to make up your mind." He tilted his head sideways as he made the suggestion, his eyes open very wide and innocent. It made her want to laugh with him, which was foolish. She hardly wished to encourage him.
"Obviously," she said in the same tone she sometimes used with little Elizabeth, "you are having a tedious time and you are looking for something fun to do. But it is cruel to poke fun at others who can't escape your malice-"
"Malice? This is dire."
"You would do better to go chat with some of those lovely, willing young ladies who held your attention before."
"I find their conversation bores me, now I have tried something better."
"I- Pardon?"
"They are boring to speak to. You are not."
"Oh. I- Uh . . ."
"Don't you find them very tedious?"
"Well I- I couldn't say, precisely. I don't spend much time with them."
"Ever? What a relief that must be. All this gushing on about the weather, and the company, and the exciting game of cards or rounders or how pretty the park is or their dresses are or my waistcoat is and I want to pass out from boredom."
She frowned at him, examining this idea and finding that - at least for her - it rang with truth. Society conversations were unvarying and tedious. That was the nature of things, when one knew everyone superficially, and no one to any depth. It was all that or gossip about the other people one knew, or talk of the food or the wine or what one had done yesterday, today or tomorrow. Nothing new, or significant or likely to extend the mind.
"What would you prefer to talk about?" she asked tentatively.
"Music? I notice you move from one piece to another to suit your mood. That militant march has passed and now we have a slow fugue. Fascinating."
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Music. That is what suddenly fascinates you." Her flat tone was disbelieving.
"No, in truth it is you who fascinate me. And evidently you are moved by music. Thus I am intrigued and want to know more of it."
"I think this is merely another technique of yours, Mr Holbrook. You are very smooth at this. You observe your quarry, you determine there is something I care about, then you pretend to share an interest in it. I see now how you are accounted such an outstanding success with women. At least a success when it comes to seduction. You think this is appealing, don't you? You think you only have to act this way to a woman and she'll swoon at your feet. You're beyond wrong. This set of mannerisms sets my teeth on edge. I hate it. I hate this falseness you create. It's paper thin, and it disgusts me. Be
real, Mr Holbrook. For once in your paltry life be real."
His nostrils flared. "You must give me a chance to prove myself to you."
"Why? Do you think you have some right over me? You have dismissed me, teased me, kissed me - little more than an assault - completely disregarded my own clearly expressed wishes, tried to manipulate me and now you say 'You must' as if I owed you something. I do not."
"Goodness, Miss Preston, you look very fierce," came Mrs Trent's falsely cheerful voice as she bore down on them. "What are you saying to Mr Holbrook with such ferocity?"
Julia turned cold, and took a deep breath, trying to think.
"Miss Preston is a passionate crusader, it seems. I spoke slightingly of the education of young women, and she defended her cause most vehemently. Your own daughters were held up as examples. I think you must be very proud to have such clever girls."
"Oh, I hope you will not think they are bookish," said Mrs Trent, sounding vaguely alarmed, "for they are nothing of the sort, whatever Miss Preston may say. They are accomplished in music and embroidery and watercolors, and Amy is a credit on the pianoforte. But really, Miss Preston, you must not talk out of turn. Thank you for attending us this evening, but I'm sure you would prefer to take some rest in your own room."
"You are too thoughtful, Ma'am," Julia murmured, and waited.
But Mrs Trent waited also, obviously determined to see the misbehaving Miss Preston out of the way rather than monopolizing the dashing young Mr Holbrook. Julia stood and gathered up the pages of her music folio with unwilling hands. Still Mrs Trent waited.
"Mr Holbrook, goodnight," said Julia, and curtsied. He bowed. Julia left the room feeling very disgruntled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"When will they leave? Surely he . . . they don't intend to stay out the summer?"
Mrs Goodall shot her a look, and for a moment Julia had the sinking feeling she was the subject of gossip among the staff. Had someone noted Mr Holbrook's unwelcome attentions? But the doughy housekeeper only shrugged a single shoulder and continued to pull drooping blooms from the flower arrangement on the table.
