Painted Trust

by Elsa Holland

  She swished her foil.

  Walked back to her end of the mat and looked over at him. His face was hidden behind the mesh of the fencing mask. She could not see the tight line his jaw was dragging his face into.

  “I accept. But I want an undisputed point,” she said.

  A clear win, not two hits, one after the other where it would be unclear exactly whose point landed first. Most points were like that, both opponents hitting each other in the same second, only microseconds between them. The observers along the mat made the call but it was unsatisfying to the loser. It would mean more than one bout until a clear indisputable hit was made.

  “Agreed.”

  The next three bouts had no clear winner and the ferocity increased from both of them with each round.

  His thighs were burning, he was sweating under the mask, breathing heavy, yet all he could see was that look of distaste as it had twisted her beautiful face. As each moment passed, as she fought with such passion to shake him out of her life like a city fought to rid itself of pestilence, he grew more determined to have her.

  The world narrowed into two simple actions, thrust and parry; his will to have her and hers to evade him. He focused on every nuance of her body as they clashed. She should be tiring, she had been practicing before he arrived.

  There was one move he could make, one that could break the stalemate. It was risky, flamboyant, and would require making himself vulnerable for just a second—a second where the foil could strike him. The tip of a foil was considered the fastest point in the Olympics after a bullet. He’d dodged many a bullet.

  He drew her in, maneuvered her to lunge forward in just the right way. She thrust, he parried then she lunged.

  He leaped.

  Her foil missed him by a whisper as he launched himself up into the air above her. She was totally unprotected, all her offensive directed in front of her. He had clear access to her whole back. He thrust.

  His foil stabbed her, bending in a tight arc as his momentum took him back down. He landed and she dropped her foil. The white card was raised on his side of the mat.

  Elation raced through his body in waves of glorious heat. He left his mask on even as she pulled hers off. He didn’t trust himself not to show what this meant to him.

  She panted. Bent down and pressed her palms on her thighs. He stepped forward and she raised her hand to stop him, her head still down.

  Another tug at his mouth. He was tired, but fitter than her; stamina alone may have gotten him that last point anyway. The fact that he hadn’t seen how close she was to breaking, that she’d held the strain back making him think she was not ready to break, showed a breathtaking amount of discipline.

  This was not a woman who went through the world as lightly as her occupation may indicate. But then again, her file had hinted at that.

  She straightened and pulled her shoulders back.

  Blackburn slowly slipped the mask off his head. His breathing was ragged, his hair damp and pressed to his forehead.

  “What time would you like me to be ready for our outing?” her voice was clipped and her head held high.

  “I’ll call on you in the early afternoon.”

  He turned to the tutor and handed him the mask and foil then started for the door.

  “And the blue ottoman . . . ?”

  The blue ottoman—he would ask the Hurleys for it. Cloister it away for a time that would give him the most satisfaction.

  “Eager are we, Miss James?” He didn’t wait to hear her response. As he closed the ballroom door on his exit the aggressive clash of foils with her instructor was a perfectly clear communication of her thoughts.

  Chapter 4

  Her appearance was ridiculous. Elspeth felt like some trussed up debutante. She did not want to go out, did not want to get to know him better, and she certainly did not want to be dressed as if either of those actions were of interest to her.

  The girls were gushing over the ‘romance’ of it all, and no amount of counter argument could dissuade them. It was ‘love at first sight’, ‘a passion to be written about’, a ‘real life Cathy and Heathcliff’. When the dress had arrived from the Hurleys, it was the perfect cut and color for her. The girls had screeched and clapped hands as it encased her in pale stripes of yellow and cream. Underneath, she was made to wear one of the viewing corsets, which pressed her breasts up and out like two white doves’ chests. As if she would start cooing at any moment at the sight of him.

  Her hair had been turned into some fashionable coiffure, her face, in fact everything, had been scrubbed, rubbed, and preened for the last two hours!

  The man had no idea the hell he had unleashed into her well-ordered, if somewhat constrained, life. She wanted freedom, yes, needed something more, but not this!

  Blackburn was responsible for embarrassing her with her physical response to him, with corralling her into this ridiculous proposition that she become his Painted Sister; something she was not suited for no matter what either he or the Hurleys thought.

  But more importantly, she worried about maintaining her position as governess to the canvases because of all of this. The Hurleys, once they set on a particular direction, were very difficult to dissuade.

  How had she ever softened when she read his file?

  His lack of a past had the Hurleys hire their man at Scotland Yard, a dogged investigator, an Inspector Morrison, then Agatha, one of the Hurley’s staff, to review the inspector’s findings. A young woman who never took to the feminine graces the Painted Sisters needed, Agatha’s talents of observation and deduction had ensured she kept a place in the household as she did investigations of her own. She was an integral part of the vetting procedures for enquiring Collectors, and part of a process that simply collected knowledge for the power it gave the Hurleys.

  In spite of Inspector Morrison’s and Agatha’s skills, there had been conjecture regarding the opacity of Mr. Blackburn’s background. There were all kinds of explanations, but one, only barely suggested and quickly ruled out, had caught her eye—that he had come from the poorhouse. Or worse, that he was part of the unruly and ruthlessly-used street youth.

  The idea had lured her to gaze at his photograph thinking he was hungry for love like the children she’d worked with in India. Hungry for a little tenderness.

  What an idiot she was; thinking Blackburn was like a little Ramu. That he had once been lost and on the street fending for himself in the unholiest of ways had made her soft on a man that didn’t deserve her tenderness. He was clearly a man who knew how to get what he wanted and enjoyed the process.

  All of that foolishness was out of her mind now.

  What had Agatha said? ‘Considering his lack of background and fast ascent, Blackburn is a man to be careful of. No man rises so fast and so far without being ruthless, manipulative and cunning.’ She agreed with Agatha’s assessment and added her own lists of Mr. Blackburn’s shortcomings.

  All of this made what she was wearing even more unpalatable.

  “The weather is unusual for this time of year.” This was the first thing Blackburn had said to her since escorting her from the Hurley’s house. Elspeth looked up at him and scowled. Best he understood her ongoing lack of interest.

  “Let’s not play at courting,” she replied. She was not interested in filling the silence, and instead counted the seconds until she could go home and tell what a resounding failure the day had been, ending this ridiculous charade.

  His carriage had dropped them off in Bond Street to promenade the street and look at the shops. As if she was remotely interested in shopping when her life was being utterly unraveled.

  “You haven’t said anything since we left the house,” he said.

  “Was that after I told you I did not wish to leave the house? Or after I said I didn’t want to spend time with you?”

  He didn’t respond, his hand hovering behind her back. It wasn’t touching her, none of him was, but it was as if he were embracing her, his body a
cocoon as they walked. A protective shepherding as if she were already his. As if she were more than simply an acquisition.

  “I have always found that losing and then fulfilling the bet’s obligation under demonstrated sufferance shows a lack of character, Miss James.”

  The remark pitched at her pride. He was right. He knew she didn’t want to be here, but the honorable, mature thing to do was to fulfill the bet without sulking.

  Elspeth pulled herself up, turned to him and gave him a beaming smile.

  “You’re right. You wanted an outing and we shall have one. I really want to learn that fencing move of yours,” she offered, by way of a conversation starter.

  His eyebrows moved together fractionally, then he looked ahead, guiding them smoothly through the oncoming traffic.

  He didn’t look at her, simply the street and their surroundings as they walked.

  “You don’t have the aptitude for it,” he replied.

  Her brow creased. All the annoyance she was working solidly to place aside rushed back in at his implication.

  “Don’t even think to suggest my form is not adequate. You had to work hard to win.”

  He clucked at her. “You were on the brink of breaking. I could have continued and won without the theatrics. Besides, what I am saying is that you simply don’t have the will to jump.”

  She stopped and looked up at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Jump.” His command barked at her.

  Her muscles froze.

  A few people turned and looked at them.

  “Jump!” His voice a command of unexpected intensity. He suddenly seemed to towered over her, chest impossibly broad shoulders powerful wide.

  “I will not jump in the street like a trained dog,” she hissed.

  He cocked his head to the side, in a relaxed manner as if he wasn’t trying to humiliate her in the middle of London’s shopping district.

  “You see? You will not do what is necessary to win. I, on the other hand, have no such fear. That jump could have ended in my losing the point, perhaps even looking remarkably foolish, yet I jumped for the chance to win.”

  An unwelcome ripple of understanding made her huff. “Nonsense. If I knew the move, I’d have used it. Jumping in the street is no comparison.”

  She started walking again.

  “You miss the point. If you had jumped right now, onlookers be damned, you would have won by proving me wrong. Instead, you have reinforced your commitment to mediocrity.”

  Irritation prickled over her skin. Reinforced her commitment to mediocrity? There was nothing mediocre about her life. But arguing the fact would be humiliating and would not change his mind. Determination to honor her bet rose. She would be pleasant and courteous, no matter what he said to her.

  “I’d wager you’ve never taken a risk in your life. And it’s painfully obvious why,” he continued.

  She bit her tongue. She would not ask him what he meant, yet the desire to know beat at her temple like a drum. She marched onward, the question why, why, why pounding with each step on the pavement. Suddenly his proximity was too much.

  “Will you drop your hand?” Her jaw was tight as she spoke. Every part of her was ridiculously aware of him.

  People milled past. Women with their children, prams and nurses. Men in bowler hats and silver-tipped canes striding with purpose. Blackburn ignored her, instead touching her lightly on the back, and clouding her frustration with odd sensations. He guided her towards a confectioner.

  “Stop doing that.”

  The heat of his palm pressed at her lower back as he guided her out of the way of a gentleman hurrying past, the gesture creating an alarming and misleading sense of being coveted, of being protected and valued.

  “I am not sure what you are referring to,” he said.

  She stopped and he moved to ensure that the flow of pedestrians did not disturb her.

  “I can walk down a London street.”

  “I have no doubt you can.” He motioned to the shop in front of them. “Can I tempt you in a sweet?”

  Memories crashed around her: spring leaves as the sun shone through them, the smell of vanilla as it filled the hot kitchen air, fresh sponge between her lips and the tang of grated lemon rind on her tongue.

  “No . . . I’m not partial to sweets.” Her heart clenched.

  Something changed in his face, a subtle shift in his countenance…

  “I see.” He looked around them then back at her. “It may surprise you, given that I am such a ‘surly man’ and—what else did you call me? Ah yes, ‘rude, arrogant and self-aggrandizing’. The Hurley’s were most thorough in updating me. Yet it seems even the most undeserving of men can have a sweet tooth.”

  Her mouth opened but she had nothing to say. She snapped it shut. So, he had a sweet tooth.

  “I see. Well, let’s have a look,” she conceded.

  His see everything eyes held her for a moment longer than needed. “Entrée.” He opened the door and waited for her to step in.

  The luscious scents of caramel, suggestions of butterscotch and the after-note of anise accosted her as she stepped through the door; invaded her so fast and so intimately that she drew the airborne promise into her lungs. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart took up a hammering pace.

  Pull yourself together.

  Pull yourself together.

  She chanted the words internally, pulling back her shoulders and raising her chin against the onslaught.

  Blackburn stood patiently behind her. He must think she was an idiot hovering in the door like this, but it wasn’t just a sweet shop she was stepping into.

  Elspeth took a deep breath as she stepped gingerly into the space and was enveloped in the past.

  Glass jars lined the shelves filled with bon-bons, raspberry drops, ju-jubes, toffees and licorices. Silver trays shone in the display cases, one next to the other, beautifully arranged with the sweets ordered by color, shape and size. They filled every surface except for a section of the countertop.

  Her mouth watered, and memories she had done so well to keep away rushed forward, hankering for attention.

  The walls were painted pink and candy stripes filled the skirting boards and cornices. Her mother would have loved a shop like this.

  “Is there anything you’d like to try?” His voice, deep and low, was right next to her ear. For a moment she forgot the man he was, her body working of its own accord; her head nodded without her permission and her tongue slipped out to lick her lips.

  “I want to taste the sweet this shops smells like.” Her voice was suddenly uneven, nothing like the temperate intonation she had cultivated it to be.

  Elspeth turned to look at him, to see if he was going to make fun of her. However, he simply gazed back at her, impassively.

  Blackburn motioned to the girl behind the counter. “We’d like to taste things that smell like the shop.” He made the absurd request with all the authority of a parliamentary address. What would it be like to have a man like him clearing life’s path for you?

  “I know a few things you can try straight away,” the girl replied. A few minutes later, the girl placed a small silver tray in front of them, samples of the shop’s specialties sitting upon an intricate lace doily.

  His body blocking the rest of the shop in that odd way of his, Elspeth waited for Blackburn to offer the tray to her, hand poised to pull off her glove. However, he simply looked at her, leaned fractionally closer so that her heart started beating extra hard for no reason what-so-ever.

  Blackburn pulled off his glove and picked up a piece of caramel.

  “Open up, Miss James.”

  Color flooded her face at his unexpected request, yet her mouth was open before she knew it. She snapped it shut and pulled herself up.

  “No, thank you.”

  He looked at her with his usual stoic regard. “Here we are again—the reason why you can’t jump.” he said, then popped the caramel into his mouth.

 
The irritation his words should have produced was halted as she watched him eat the sweet. A subtle and mesmerizing change washed over his features; a softening in the usual hard lines around his eyes and mouth, a relaxing of his whole face. Heat rippled through her chest as she watched how pleasure affected him. Her breath deepened, became irregular, somewhat awkward.

  She looked at the slight movement of his lips as he ate. They were a wonderful balance of firmness and fullness. A strangely gentle feature in a face that was all shapes and angles.

  A rumble came from deep in his throat, a sound of genuine desire. Images seeped into her mind; aside from sweets, what else could cause him to make those sounds . . .?

  Her skin tingled.

  Blast him! Her gaze dropped to the tray. Could it really taste so wonderful?

  She knew it did.

  Elspeth pulled off her glove and picked up one of those seductive caramels, brought it close to her nose and breathed it in. His dark, unreadable eyes followed her movements as she raised the caramel, watched as she opened her lips and put it in her mouth.

  The impact was immediate. The muscles in her face took on a will of their own, moving and showing things she didn’t want to reveal.

  Her heart beat faster and her throat tightened as the exquisite flavors flooded her mouth, her eyes welling up as her tongue danced with the taste of memories finally unleashed; of summer falling through a small cottage window, her mother, so young, laughing as her father spun her around, grabbing the freshly-made caramel out of her hands. The warmth of the kitchen, the smell of fresh baked sweets and the purr of the cat on her lap, laughing at her parents while the sugar dissolved on her tongue.

  It was the taste of happiness, of a time free of the pressures of the world. They’d been evicted a month later, debts to Gutter-Rat-Jack; the kitchen as they were ushered out was turned upside down, pots thrown around in anger. Her favorite teacup, the one with the single red rose, a scream as it hit the wall and shattered. Her cat, neck broken, hanging on the back of the chair. She hadn’t eaten a caramel since. Hadn’t wanted to be reminded of what pleasure felt like, or the inevitable loss that followed.