Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01]

by Touch of Night

  “Aye, she might scream,” Niclas said consideringly, then came to his senses. “No she wouldn’t. Miss Linley is a calm and sensible young woman. Did you see her at the inn this afternoon? She didn’t so much as turn a hair in dealing with young Mister Larter. No, our trouble with Miss Linley would be alarm and confusion, possibly trying to run away, but not fainting or screaming.” He absently rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think so, at least. Oh, very well, give the accursed powder back to me, then.” He stuffed the pouch into a convenient pocket. “I shall both look and feel a fool trying to get it out without her seeing, should I need it, and only a complete boor would throw something into a lady’s face. Especially a forgetting powder.”

  “I’ll strive to remain in the room as much as possible,” Abercraf said, reaching to straighten the folds of Niclas’s cravat. “I would advise only a pinch to start. A small pinch.”

  “Yes, that seems best,” Niclas agreed. “I suppose I can make additions if she appears to remember too much.”

  “And sir,” Abercraf added more delicately, “there is one more subject that, though I am loath to mention it, I believe you must discuss with Miss Linley.”

  Niclas already knew what his manservant was referring to; he’d been trying very hard not to think about it since they’d left the Hound and Hare.

  “I should never mention such a thing without very good cause, sir,” Abercraf went on, “but you were holding her hand, in public view, for a great length of time and, although your reasons might be perfectly sensible to those of us who understand extraordinary powers, the common world views such matters with certain . . . expectations.”

  “God help me, I know.”

  Abercraf had understated the matter. For a gentleman of birth to be so familiar, in public, with a lady of birth was, in the eyes of the ton, the closest thing to an outright declaration of betrothal. Except far worse, for a betrothed couple possessed of even the slightest amount of good breeding wouldn’t be so vulgar as to hold hands in a public place.

  “I don’t know what came over me to lose every shred of common sense in such a dismal manner. Not even the weariness can account for such a foolish lapse. I suppose she’ll be expecting a proposal of marriage now.”

  For a fleeting moment Niclas tried to imagine what marriage to Miss Linley would be like, and was surprised to find the idea rather appealing. Unfortunately, unless he was able to lift the curse, marriage to anyone was impossible. He’d managed to maintain his sanity during three years of sleeplessness, but he could not forever stave off a slide into madness. Only a cruel or unspeakably selfish man would bind a woman to himself, knowing what kind of suffering she had to look forward to.

  “Not if you can explain, sir,” Abercraf said encouragingly. “Society may feel differently, but if Miss Linley is possessed of magic then she’ll understand, and forbear.”

  “Yes,” Niclas said, tamping down a sense of unease. “And if she doesn’t possess magic, then what? Never mind.” He cut the other man off impatiently. “Let’s not delay the matter. Miss Linley must be wondering whether I’ve forgotten her entirely.”

  “Hurry, Jane,” Julia pleaded. “Mister Seymour will think I’ve forgotten him. He must have been waiting for well over a quarter of an hour.”

  “I don’t believe he’s left his room yet, miss,” Jane said calmly, deftly looping a few last strands of hair into a curl. “You have enough time to finish dressing.”

  Julia gazed at her reflection and felt, not for the first time that night, a stab of panic.

  “I’m overdressed,” she told Jane. “This is a very nice inn, but it is an inn, nonetheless. And Mister Seymour and I are not sitting down to a formal dinner. I’m terribly overdressed.”

  Jane smiled. “You look beautiful. Mister Seymour will be pleased.”

  Julia’s face flamed red. “Mister Seymour doesn’t care anything about my appearance.”

  “Every man admires a beautiful young lady, which is what you are, miss. And Mister Seymour has already admired you, if you will pardon me saying so, for I know it’s not my place. But it’s true, for all that. And he did hold your hand today. Her ladyship would have died on the spot to see it, but I thought it most romantic.”

  “Oh, dear,” Julia murmured, and felt her stomach twist with nerves. “It did seem that way, but I promise you it was nothing of the kind. He seemed to need a measure of . . . support . . . and holding my hand appeared to help. I’m not entirely certain that he even knew what he was doing.”

  “I’m sure no one looking at the two of you would have thought wrong of it, miss,” Jane said, fussing with the elegant lace on Julia’s collar, “but I confess it did surprise me. I think he must be sweet on you, for no gentleman would do such a thing otherwise.”

  Julia’s heart might wish that it was so, but her mind, as rational as ever, told her otherwise. He was drawn to her, she sensed, but not for any romantic reason. When she’d instinctively touched his hand this afternoon, he’d grabbed hold of her as though that connection had been utterly vital to him. And he had kept holding on to her until their conversation with Alexander Larter had come to a successful end. He hadn’t even seemed to realize how inappropriate their situation was until Mister Larter had at last agreed to Niclas Seymour’s terms. Then, when they meant to shake on the bargain, he’d stared down at their joined hands with something akin to horror, and had released her so quickly and with such stammering apologies that she’d felt as if she’d somehow been at fault.

  Had she been? That was the question burning in her mind. Had she so desired his attention—even that simple touch—that she’d not pulled away or drawn his notice to the impropriety of even such innocent contact?

  “Oh, lord,” she murmured again. “I hope he won’t be so foolish as to propose marriage. Not because of that.”

  “I’m sure he won’t, miss,” Jane said, “but if he should, I hope you won’t mind me saying that I think it would be a lovely match. He’s quite the handsomest gentleman, and so kind and considerate. He was so thoughtful about my suffering earlier today, and Mister Abercraf tells me that Mister Seymour is a very fine employer. I’m sure he’d make a fine husband, as well.”

  “Jane,” Julia said reprovingly.

  “Oh, I know I shouldn’t speak so freely, miss,” Jane admitted. “But you would make such a handsome couple—”

  “Jane.”

  Jane sighed and finished fussing with the lace. “Very well. I know my place, and won’t say another word. But if he should ask, I do think you should at least consider it. Her ladyship and your dear parents would see you dead first, most like, but even that would be worth having a gentleman like Mister Seymour for a husband.”

  Julia didn’t need anyone to tell her that; she’d known it since her first season in London. But the idea of Niclas Seymour wanting to marry someone like her was ridiculous. And that wasn’t why he’d clung to her hand so firmly. She had no answers for that yet, but she knew that whatever his reason had been, love and desire had nothing to do with it.

  “Do you find the soup to your liking, Miss Linley?”

  “Very much.” She glanced at him and smiled fleetingly, then turned her attention back to the bowl set before her. “The food is wonderful. And the inn is exceedingly fine. Thank you for being so thoughtful in our arrangements.”

  “There’s no need to thank me,” he said, wishing that both she and her maid would stop being so grateful. It was his duty as a gentleman to provide for guests, especially for a lady.

  “I know,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “But I do, regardless.”

  Something was wrong, he thought, giving his own attention back to his soup. She was too quiet, too reserved, as if they were suddenly strangers. But that was impossible, considering the afternoon they’d spent together. They had shared an understanding, had helped that boy together. They couldn’t go back to pretending that they were merely acquaintances journeying to Wales with a common purpose.

  Or coul
d they? She certainly seemed to be trying.

  He wished that he could read her emotions for a few moments. It occurred to him how soft he was compared to other men; he had become far too dependent on feeling emotions in his dealings with women. He’d never really had to exert himself to understand the female mind.

  Until now.

  He didn’t know quite how to proceed. Glancing at her, he saw that her expression was polite, void of any anger or coldness, but he knew that was the mask all those who were well bred put on to cover every emotion under the sun.

  It had to be the hand holding. Either she was expecting him to propose or she was concerned that he would. If she was of his kind and already understood why he’d held her hand, then it was probably the latter—which, he admitted, wasn’t a very cheerful thought.

  “Miss Linley,” he began, then stopped when Abercraf appeared to remove their now empty bowls. They sat in silence as the manservant expertly carved slices of beef and arranged them on plates, then set them on the table. Moving back and forth from the sideboard, he brought other various offerings for their consideration. Roasted potatoes, overcooked carrots, a fine Yorkshire pudding, and a slightly lumpy gravy to pour over it all. When their plates and glasses were filled, he bowed out of the room, leaving them alone once more.

  Neither of them ate, but sat gazing at their plates.

  Drawing in a breath for courage, Niclas tried again.

  “Miss Linley—”

  “Mister Seymour,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I know what you wish to discuss, and hope that you will believe me when I say it’s not in the least necessary. The circumstances that we found ourselves in this afternoon were most unusual and not entirely without strain. Mister Larter’s situation was worrisome and both you and I were fixed upon solving his troubles. If you found some comfort and help by holding my hand, then neither I nor anyone else can argue with the rightness of it. There was nothing wrong or insulting in your behavior, and therefore no need for you to make amends or even to apologize. Please, I beg, let us put it aside and speak of other matters.”

  Resolutely, she picked up her knife and fork and gave her attention to her meal.

  Niclas sat in stunned silence, simply staring at her.

  She looked amazingly beautiful tonight, dressed in an elegant rose-colored gown that would have been well suited even for a ball. Upon seeing her, he’d felt the shabby condition of his own clothes even more keenly. And her shining brown hair, thankfully, hadn’t been stuffed up into one of those awful turbans, but curled softly down about her cheeks, framing her elegant, elfin features in a most attractive manner. His gaze moved to her bare hands, busy now as she ate. They were small and delicate, utterly feminine, as she was, and yet they held so much power. There was no need for him to touch her now, for he was at peace with her, and Abercraf, serving them tonight in place of the inn’s servants, knew how to keep his emotions calm and quiet so as not to distract his employer. Despite that, Niclas felt an alarming urge to touch her anyhow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, surprised to hear his own voice. “I know you don’t wish to speak of it, but there’s something I must know.”

  She finally looked at him, fully in his face, and held his gaze. Slowly, the knife and fork were lowered back to the plate. Taking up her napkin, she dabbed lightly at her lips.

  “Yes, Mister Seymour?”

  He didn’t know how to say it, how to ask the question without sounding like a complete fool. He was famous for his ability with words, but he’d never before had to speak on his own behalf. Sliding a hand into his pocket, striving to make certain she didn’t see what he did, he curled his fingers over the velvet pouch. Something cold pressed against the back of his hand—the Tarian, which he’d earlier left safe in Abercraf’s care. Drat the thing. Why couldn’t it stay where he put it?

  “I need to know,” he said slowly, “about your gift.”

  She blinked. “My gift?”

  Niclas drew in another steadying breath.

  “Or gifts. There’s no need for you to keep it from me, for surely you know that I’m of your kind.”

  It was difficult to read her expression; she didn’t appear to be alarmed, but she didn’t appear to understand him, either.

  “My kind, Mister Seymour? In what way?”

  In for a penny, he thought, in for a pound.

  “In the way of magic. I was born with the power of perception. Of feeling the emotions of others,” he clarified at her blank look. “Except for those who are kin to me. But you must know that already. Our powers and gifts don’t affect our own kind. Generally. There are exceptions, of course.”

  “I see,” she said, considering this for a moment before asking, “And you can’t feel me? I mean, my emotions?”

  He nodded. “But there’s more to it. When we danced at the Dubrow ball, your nearness dimmed what I was feeling from those around us. And this afternoon, when I touched your bare hand, all outside emotions stopped for me completely. I was able to concentrate on Mister Larter’s problems without being distracted by what those around us were feeling.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Because you held my hand?” She looked at her hands with some wonderment. “My hand?”

  “You find that odd?” Niclas asked, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy.

  “I confess, sir, that I find the whole thing odd,” she said, though she didn’t appear to be in the least distressed by it. “I didn’t know that I possessed any kind of . . . gift, did you call it? Are you quite sure that it was touching my hand that caused this wonder?”

  “Yes.” He looked closely at her. There wasn’t any sign of guile; she appeared to be truly baffled. “Is this a surprise to you, Miss Linley? Did you have no inkling that you possess such powers?”

  “Why, no, I haven’t.” She looked at her hands again, as if she weren’t certain what they were. “I’ve never done anything unusual before. Not with my hands, at least.”

  “But you are aware of your other gift. The gift of persuasion? You mentioned it to me this afternoon.”

  She uttered a laugh. “I suppose that I am rather gifted in being able to persuade others to my way of thinking, sir, but I don’t believe that could be considered anything extraordinary. It’s a talent honed by managing my family through many failed Seasons.”

  Niclas sat back.

  “But you used it on Mister Larter. I saw you with my own eyes. You persuaded him not to commit suicide.”

  “If I did, which I pray is so, it wasn’t because of any special powers. I simply listened to him and then discussed the situation in a calm and reasonable manner. And, in all truth, sir, you had as much, if not more, to do with his change of heart than I did.”

  “But you must possess some kind of magic, whether you’re aware of it or not,” he insisted. “I stopped feeling all those emotions the moment I touched your bare hand. And I cannot feel you at all, which is very strong proof that you have magic in your blood. Even if just a little.”

  “I believe you must be right,” she said, giving a little shake of her head, “for I’m sure you know of such things. But I certainly have no knowledge of it. I’ve never done anything magical before, and my family—well, you’ve met my Aunt Eunice. She’s extremely practical, is she not? That’s what Linleys are. Practical. Not magical.”

  Niclas stared at her.

  Oh, gad. This was the worst of all possible outcomes. Julia Linley was a mystery even to herself. How on earth would he or Malachi or anyone be able to solve it if she, too, didn’t know who or what she was?

  But now she did know about him and all the Seymours, and, though she clearly wasn’t bothered by the discovery (a fact he was going to ponder later), he would have to make sure that such knowledge was erased. Carefully, hand still in pocket, he began to widen the loosely tied opening of the velvet pouch.

  “Are you quite certain, Miss Linley?” he asked. “Can you think of no family member in recent—or even past—history who has,
or had, a reputation for being . . . different? Some crazy uncle or odd aunt? A great-great-great-grandparent who’s still spoken of as being a black sheep?”

  But she wasn’t listening to him. She had lowered her head slightly, her expression thoughtful.

  “You said that you can’t feel my emotions,” she murmured. “Then that must be why... all those years—” Her brow furrowed and then, slowly, a smile grew on her lips. “Yes, of course. I’m sure that must explain it.”

  “Pardon me? Explain what?” he asked distractedly, concentrating on getting his too large hand inside the too small pouch without letting her see what he was doing. He forced his expression into a polite mask, while inwardly he was cursing the earl of Graymar for not putting the dratted powder into a more convenient container.

  “Why you don’t remember me,” she said happily. “And why you never once looked my way during all those seasons.”

  Niclas wasn’t paying attention. His fingers at last made contact with the cool, grainy powder. A tingling sensation coursed over his fingertips and spread up into his hand, heightening his anxiety.

  “You danced with every other girl,” she went on, looking at him so directly that he had no choice but to give her his attention. “Especially those who were usually ignored. But you never danced with me.”

  “What?” Niclas was caught off guard by her words. Never danced with her? When? He’d not even met her until a few days before. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you—”

  But he could say nothing more. A soft scratch fell on the door and in the next moment Abercraf entered, bearing a tray upon which several small bowls of condiments lay. He stopped briefly to survey the occupants of the room and, reading his employer’s expression rightly, walked over to stand on Miss Linley’s side of the table.

  Niclas wished fervently that his manservant had chosen a better moment to appear, for he would have liked to know what Miss Linley meant by her last comment. Surely he’d never known her before their introduction some days earlier. He might have been distracted a great deal of the time during those years when he’d gone out in society, but he hadn’t been blind. Never would he have forgotten having seen a woman as beautiful as Julia Linley.