by Erica Ridley
“Lord Carlisle grabbed you by the hand?” Grace’s stomach soured. She was jealous of Miss Downing. Over a man she couldn’t have. “He calls you Jane?”
“It is my name,” Miss Downing responded primly.
It was all Grace could do not to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Whatever news she’d come to impart, she was dragging it out a-purpose. But why? No matter. If Grace was angry and hurt and jealous, she would have to endure.
After all, she had no grounds to be displeased about whatever had just transpired in the library. No grounds at all for the bile in her throat at the thought of other women’s fingers in the palm of Lord Carlisle’s hand. Or for the blow to her chest at the realization that Lord Carlisle felt intimate enough to first-name Miss Downing in a private setting, when he wouldn’t be able to pick Grace’s given name out of a hat. Oh, stuff it all. Miss Downing would answer Grace’s questions, or Grace would drown her in the ratafia bowl.
“How do you know him?” she demanded. “How does he know your name? Why did he grab your hand? Are you enamored of him?”
Grace’s questions only served to stretch Miss Downing’s smile even wider. Her grin faltered when she finally realized the depth of Grace’s distress.
“Oh! Miss Halton, no. Not like that. Well, I mean, at one time, I had thought perhaps… Years ago, when Isaac took him to task for bending heads with me over a book, we discovered—to my utter humiliation—that Lord Carlisle’s interest in Sophocles’ Elektra was not, in fact, feigned.”
“Elektra?” Grace echoed blankly.
“None other. What had caught his eye wasn’t the new feather in my bonnet or the lace fichu upon my bodice, but the uncut pages of a classical volume in original Greek text. I might have been a bookshelf for all the interest Lord Carlisle paid me.”
Grace tilted her head. “You thought…”
“Only for a second.” Miss Downing’s sad smile brightened. “But now we are friends. Nothing like a blistering Isaac upbraiding to bond two hapless bibliophiles together, if only for one small moment in time. Besides, Isaac was right to be suspicious. If Lord Carlisle had but wished, I would happily have let him ravish me right there between Euripides and Aristophanes.”
“What?” Grace choked on the word.
“Of course you couldn’t understand. I imagine back home you must beat off the beaux with a broom. I don’t have that problem. I’m shaped like a pear. The only thing I beat is dust from my bookshelves.” Miss Downing’s eyes darkened as she added fiercely, “I do not fear the Sword of Damocles. I long for it. But ’tis not the life I am given.”
Grace toyed with her empty glass, suddenly uncomfortable. It was not fair for Miss Downing to judge herself lacking in comparison. Grace was no prize. She held up her wrist, displaying the empty dance card. “You’re not the only one with a significant lack of suitors.”
“Sure, suitors. You’re quite infamous now that you drove an uncatchable man to fisticuffs in your honor, and while you quite correctly feel it has brought you all of the wrong kind of attention, I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
Grace’s sympathy turned to fury at Miss Downing’s casual dismissal of the hell Grace lived in. “Rubbish. You offer to trade places without knowing the first thing about me, or why I am suffering through these balls to start with. I—”
“I have no clue why you’re still in this ballroom. Not with the dashing Lord Carlisle awaiting you in the library. Impatiently, I am sure.”
Her heart stopped. “He’s what?”
“That was the rest of the story. Lord Carlisle grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘Jane, please fetch Miss Halton here without delay. I’ll be forever in your debt.’ Imagine! An earl begging a bluestocking ‘Please’!” Miss Downing winked. “He must like you very much.”
Grace stared back wordlessly. Her fingers trembled. Was this secret rendezvous in the library an attempt to avoid further damage to her reputation? Or was it something more? She twisted in her chair to scan the shadows. Where the devil did Peggy run off to this time?
“What are you looking for?”
“My maid. I have no idea where she is, but I can’t leave the public eye without—”
“You can and you should. Perhaps you can win Lord Carlisle’s love! I’d come along to chaperone you, but I have to wait for my brother.” Miss Downing patted Grace on the hand. “Don’t worry so much. It’s a library. He’s not the only one in there, anyway.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “More’s the pity, if you ask me. You might’ve had a chance for romance. But you’d better make haste. Who knows how long he’s willing to wait?”
Nodding, Grace pushed to her feet. And realized she still clutched her empty cup.
Miss Downing held out her hand with a sigh. “Give me your glass. It’s fine. Everyone expects the plump girl to consume at least two of everything anyway. Now go take advantage of that delicious man before he discovers the complete set of Plato’s Dialogues on the third bookshelf from the right and you lose his interest forever.”
Chapter 11
Out in the main corridor, Grace realized she hadn’t the foggiest idea where the library was even located. Miss Downing might have memorized every title on every shelf, but Grace had been so focused on finding a suitor that she’d never bothered venturing outside of any of the ballrooms and their attached gardens.
After several false starts and one whispered exchange with a hall boy, she was finally pointed in the right direction and closing fast on the correct room. She could only hope Lord Carlisle had not already left in frustration.
A thin strip of warm light flickered beneath the library door.
She turned the handle and stepped inside.
A stiff, mottled-purple wingback chair stood before the fireplace. An equally stiff, pallid-faced gentleman with glossy Hessians and glassy eyes sat upon the chair. Perhaps “sat” was the wrong word. It was more like he had been propped there.
Unmoving.
Despite the chill seeping through the windowpanes or the fire crackling at his feet, not a hair on the gentleman’s head dared to ruffle, nor did any movement of his chest indicate he was still breathing. Were it not for the very occasional sluggish blink of his eyes, she could easily have imagined him lifeless, or carved of marble. Even now, he was little more animated than a corpse.
“Miss Halton?”
Lord Carlisle. She spun to face him.
He was even more beautiful than she remembered. Soft brown hair, curling above his ears and across his forehead. Golden brown eyes framed by dark, curling lashes. Wide lips, straight white teeth, a faint scent of mint on his breath.
Tonight, he had not been drinking. He smelled of lemon and soap and sandalwood. It made her want to step closer, to feel his muscles bunch beneath her palms as she stroked his arms. To push her fingers into his hair and open her mouth to his.
He was staring at her as if he could subsist on the sight of her alone. His lips curved, his eyes shining with promise. If the strange man weren’t a few feet away, if she and Carlisle weren’t in someone else’s library, where anyone could walk in at any moment… Grace forced herself to tear her gaze from his parted lips, from the thought of what he might do with them.
What had Miss Downing said? If Lord Carlisle had but wished, I would happily have let him ravish me right there between Euripides and Aristophanes. Yes. Grace knew that feeling far too well. It took all her willpower to fight it.
“Why did you ask me here?” The words came out breathier than intended. She was furious with him—or should be, anyway—but the warmth in his eyes made her want to bury her face in his cravat and let him comfort her.
He took a step back. “Where the devil is your chaperone?”
Grace’s smile was brittle. She’d have to let Miss Downing know that she wasn’t the only one Lord Carlisle was immune to ravishing. It was fortunate she hadn’t given in to her desire to throw herself into his arms. “My maid is attending to other matters.”
&nbs
p; “Nothing is more important than you or your reputation. I’ve done enough harm as it is, and I shan’t compound it. Should we postpone our conversation?” He motioned toward the fire. “Xavier is harmless, but hardly a chaperone.”
“Let’s just be brief.” Grace recalled Miss Downing’s advice to seize the moment, but could not help sliding a doubtful glance toward the man in the wingback chair. He still hadn’t moved. He might not even be breathing. “This is… Xavier?”
“Xavier, meet Miss Halton, the lovely young lady I’ve told you so much about. Miss Halton, meet Captain Xavier Grey. We have been the best of friends since we first escaped our leading strings, and recently served together in the King’s army.”
She took a longer look at Captain Grey. The impression of a marble statue did not lessen. Despite the fire, he emanated an eerie emptiness. Dark black hair. Stormy blue eyes. Lax features. He looked as though he’d drunk an entire bottle of laudanum. Or as if he simply had nothing left to live for.
Was Captain Grey grieving? Or was he no longer inside his head at all?
Her gaze flew back to Lord Carlisle. He rushed to take her hands, apparently misconstruing her concern over Captain Grey’s mental state to be maidenly offense that the gentleman in question had not acknowledged the introduction.
“It’s not that he’s ignoring you,” Lord Carlisle murmured in a voice so low Grace had to strain to hear him. “He hasn’t spoken a word since before we were sent home. Please don’t hold it against him. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever had the privilege to know.”
“I…” She let go of Lord Carlisle in order to step closer to the captain. His blank eyes showed no sign of recognizing her presence, no indication he realized he sat before a blazing fire in the sumptuous Seville library. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain Grey. I hope someday we might be friends.”
No response. Not even a blink. She turned back to Lord Carlisle with a question on her face. He shook his head. Grace’s heart ached for them both. That handsome, empty husk had once been Lord Carlisle’s best friend. Though he might technically still be here, there was no doubt Carlisle knew he had lost him. But like Grace, Carlisle clearly was not one to give up easily.
He reached out for her, then shoved his hands behind his back.
Grace swallowed. She wished he had touched her, wished he had pulled her to him so they could hold each other tight. But it was good he had not. She might never have let go, and that was something she simply couldn’t risk.
He cleared his throat. “Did you bring a letter for me to post?”
She smiled, surprised he had remembered. And very grateful.
“Many. I have a dozen letters. One for everyone I know.” But she did not immediately pull them from her reticule. Touching them, handing them over, somehow made the questions written inside all the more real. How is my mother? Am I too late? What if I can’t bring the money home?
Grace’s throat swelled tight and she swallowed hard. She must relinquish them. This might be her only chance.
Her shaking fingers dug the folded pages from her reticule. She pushed the missives into his gloved hands before she could lose her nerve. Did she still have any nerve left? Hot pinpricks stung the backs of her eyes and she blinked hard to clear them. The world was closing in on her from all sides, burying her alive in a world of glitter and silk. Had she wasted the last months of her mother’s life, chasing an impossible dream? Was all this effort for nothing? Would she ever see her mother’s grave, or was she stuck in England forever?
She fumbled with her reticule, trying to close the drawstring with her trembling hands. She was not too late to save her mother. She was not. But she needed to know for certain. Needed to know that when she got on that boat, her mother would still be waiting on the other side of the ocean.
Lord Carlisle tucked the bundle into a breast pocket. “I will frank these for you this very evening. I am sorry I was not able to do so the last time we met. I should never have leveled Mapleton before so many people, although he quite deserved it, and worse.”
Grace set the reticule on the edge of a shelf before she dropped it. As apologies went, this one was…unexpectedly honest. He was not sorry to have struck the man that insulted her. He was sorry that his defense had brought more trouble than peace.
She motioned him to join her among the bookshelves for a little more privacy. The man before the fire might be silent, but she did not wish his eyes upon her when she asked Lord Carlisle her next question.
“You smelled of wine,” she said quietly, her face as serious as her tone. “Were you drunk that night?”
The corner of his mouth quirked, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Regrettably, no. Perhaps then I might have something to blame besides the flash of my own temper. When I overheard your name being spoken in such a manner… I’m afraid I reacted with my fist rather than my brain.”
His fist, yes, but also his heart. He had been offended on her behalf, had wished to avenge her honor.
If only society worked that way.
She took a deep breath. “When I smelled the alcohol on your breath, I…I’m afraid I may have overreacted.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “I’m the one who got blood on my gloves. What the devil do you have to apologize for?”
“I’m not apologizing,” she said quietly. “I’m explaining why I cannot bear to be around someone who drinks spirits.”
His knuckle forced her chin up so her gaze met his. She shivered. His eyes had gone cold. “Did someone hurt you?”
“Irrevocably,” she admitted, “but not the way you think. I was a baby at the time. Everything I know, I was told later. Back then, my mother was barely as old as I am now. My father was a physician, attending to a sick child in Bower Hill.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Have you heard of the Whiskey Insurrection?”
Carlisle shook his head, his eyes dark. He had undoubtedly guessed how the tale would end. “Your father fought against the rebels?”
“My father was a healer. He was unarmed, save for his leather pouch of willow bark and cold compresses.” Her voice wobbled. She forced herself to keep talking. “Ten army soldiers came to aid the house under siege, but by then almost six hundred armed rebels surrounded it. They wanted to kill General Neville. The general wasn’t even inside.”
Lord Carlisle pulled her into his embrace. “Never say they were at the wrong house.”
“He was hiding in a ravine. It was the right house.” She shuddered and closed her eyes tight. “It just had the wrong man inside.”
“Six hundred to ten. It’s not even a fight.” Lord Carlisle’s voice was hard, his body a rock. “There’s no honor in slaughter.”
“There was no honor at all,” she said bitterly. “Only men and their whiskey.”
He laid his cheek against her forehead and cradled her close. His heartbeat sped beneath her ear. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“After several hours, they let the women and children go.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “But not the men. Not my father.”
“His patient?”
“Eight years old. Dead within a week. The rebels hadn’t let the women and children take anything with them, for fear one might smuggle a weapon to use against them.”
“The child’s mother couldn’t return for the medicine the next morning? After it was all over?”
“Return where? As soon as the women and children were gone, both sides opened fire. When the rebel leader fell, his troops set the house ablaze.” She had seen the site, years later. She wished she hadn’t. It was worse than a grave. “There was nothing left to come back to. Everyone was dead. Everything was ashes.”
“All that destruction,” he said slowly, then pressed his lips to her hair. “Just for some whiskey.”
“Exactly.” She shuddered and clung to him. “That’s why I… If you…”
“I won’t ever drink spirits around you again, and I promise to never drink to excess.” His eyes burne
d into hers. “I swear it on this kiss.”
Her mouth parted in surprise.
He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to pull away, the chance to reject him.
She could no more resist the allure of his mouth than the sea could resist the pull of the moon. She might end up leg-shackled to some dusty old roué, but she would go to her grave with the memory of this man seared into her soul. She, too, swore it. On this kiss.
His lips brushed hers. Light. Feathery. Still giving her a chance to say no, to turn away.
She would not. She would have this moment, every bit of this moment, because it would have to carry her through the rest of her life. This was Oliver. In her heart, he was hers. If only for this moment.
The next time his lips brushed hers, she suckled his lower lip into her mouth to taste him. She had dreamed of their lips, together. When he nipped at her lips, she eagerly opened her mouth to his.
His tongue swept inside, teasing gently. She gasped, grateful for the strong arms cradling her close. Her nipples tightened as if they could feel everything he was doing to her mouth just as clearly as if he were doing it to her naked breast. Swirling. Tasting. She swayed at the thought.
He suckled her lower lip into his mouth and she imagined he did the same to her nipples. How might it feel? Her nipples were taut against the thin linen of her sheath, the translucent silk of her dress. Her heart raced. Could he feel them through his waistcoat? She would die if he could, die if he could not. She wanted him to touch them, to ease the yearning ache building in her breasts and her belly and between her legs.
Gasping, she jerked her mouth from his before she gave into the temptation to have it all.
His mouth was only inches from hers, his breathing as irregular as her own. His smile was slow and full of sensual promise. “If you like, I can swear it on two kisses. If you’re not convinced by the one, that is. I could probably even be talked into swearing on three kisses. Just this once.”
She smacked his shoulder but didn’t let him go.
“No? Are you sure?” He affected a very serious expression. “Promising is easy because I don’t have any whiskey and I’m too poor to buy some. You’re awfully fortunate I haven’t a penny to my name. It’s a blessing, really. Often I espy myself in a puddle of rain—I haven’t a looking glass, you know—and I say to myself, ‘Self, how dreadful it would be to actually have money. If you had the blunt, you’d waste it on foolish things, like a greenhouse full of jasmine for a certain young lady, or perhaps a thick woolen fichu for her gowns so less savory gentlemen are not tempted by the succulent curve of her breasts.’” He made a wolfish face in the direction of her bosom.
