Daniel shrugged.
“Maybe, but it means you can go fencing. You are bored in London, that much is obvious,” he added.
“And why are we still here?” she shot back, knowing the answer. He was trying to bore her into breaking society's rules again, she was sure of it.
“I like London. I find the cloying, gray, coal-filled air to have a mystifying effect, like it came from some far-off, romantic place,” Daniel replied, holding out a hand over his desk like a player in a hopefully ill-attended theater. “The streets, the crowds, the shops, the women, they all have this certain sense of...” he continued, rubbing his fingers as he thought.
“Disease?” Mr. Charington drawled from his seat by the fire, glancing up from his book.
“Yes, precisely,” Daniel laughed, leaning back into his seat. “It must be the bile,” he agreed.
Jac laughed quietly and tied off her embroidery. She took it off the circle clamp and folded the embroidered napkin into the basket on his desk. They had twelve, now, a full set. She needed a new project, Jac thought, placing the empty circle clamp on top of the finished fabric.
“That looks like the most mindnumbing task on the planet,” Daniel stated, picking up the finished napkin and examining her work.
“It is,” she agreed and he laughed, throwing it back into the basket as he stood up.
“Oh, come on,” he cajoled and stood up from his desk, presumably to fetch her pair of breeches. “Henry has accepted our idiocy,” he pointed out, gesturing to the man.
“Resignation and acceptance are not synonymous, Daniel,” Mr. Charington replied without looking up from flipping the page of his book. Jac bit her lip and looked down at the empty circle clamp.
“It's not over, Jac,” Daniel called. Jac shook her head. Aspen had ruined too much. She couldn't even touch the pianoforte without thinking of him, much less play a game of chess, and boredom only made her think of him more.
“Oh, hell,” she cursed aloud. Daniel grinned.
“Oh, hell,” Mr. Charington muttered to himself.
~~//~~
Aspen concentrated on the background, coloring the whole canvas a quiet, dull gray, remembering the way the air had clung to everything and blocked his sight. He inhaled slowly, trying to bring back the way the air had felt and smelled, trying to picture it around him again.
“Aspen?” his mother called. Aspen opened his eyes, the vision breaking. His mother hovered in the doorway, glancing about the room. She did not comment on the papers scattered about the floor, simply stepping over one of his quick sketches and taking her seat on the model’s stool again. Aspen set down his brush and started mixing more oil into his paint so it did not dry.
The duchess watched him, her expression guilty, apparently guessing that he was preparing to be thoroughly interrupted.
“Aspen… what happened with Miss Holcombe? You came back very soon from helping her in London and I have heard little word of her since. Is her brother’s fiasco such an impediment?” she asked. Aspen exhaled heavily, annoyed.
Avoid the machinations of women. They’re terrifying to behold, he remembered, his mouth quirking lightly. It was Miss Holcombe saying that, he reminded himself, though he couldn’t call up the same ire about it.
“She’s the sister of a friend. That is all,” he lied and his mother pursed her lips and clasped her hands in her lap, not looking convinced.
“Is this about her brother’s recent foray into public scandal?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Aspen stayed silent and toweled off his mixing spatula with a rag. “Aspen, one’s reputation is only a measure of how much one has been able to conceal. What would Mrs. Clarence say of your painting of a whore in our downstairs hallway?” she argued. Aspen took a step back from his easel and pretended to examine it. “Miss Holcombe did not even seem surprised by the painting,” she added, her voice heavy with meaning. Aspen turned and blinked at her, torn between anger and exasperation. Was Miss Holcombe to insert herself into every part of his life?
“You showed her that?” he asked and his voice came out too angry. His mother blinked back at him.
“You’d already told her of your art,” she replied. Aspen shook his head in annoyance, remembering that ill-thought trip with ‘Jack Holcombe’ to his favorite coffeehouse.
“Not intentionally,” he bit out and the duchess’ frail-looking eyebrows rose. She did not appear to believe him.
“I apologize. I did not think you’d mind,” she said and Aspen wanted to curse.
“No, I don’t, I -” he started and her eyes lit with triumph.
Oh, damn it all, Aspen growled to himself. But, odd as it was, he’d spoken honestly. He did not mind Miss Holcombe seeing his paintings.
They’re like getting a moment of history handed to you in full color. He’d wanted to know what she’d thought of his earlier work. Aspen flushed suddenly and turned back to his easel, cursing himself again. She’d known what that painting was about, he thought, flushing.
A woman was gripping my arm, telling me not to worry about my affliction, her girls would take the risk for a reasonable price.
“Well. I’m glad you do not mind,” the duchess commented, curiosity and amusement warring in her eyes.
“Yes. Yes. It’s… it’s fine,” Aspen said idly, turning to stare at his canvas again as he thought.
“I’m glad,” his mother answered, getting up from her chair. Aspen ignored her as she left, deciding resolutely to throw all thoughts of Jacoline Holcombe out of his mind.
He inhaled slowly, trying to remember the bitter cold biting at his face, the scent of crisp, fallen leaves. He remembered Miss Holcombe’s face as she met him in his drawing room, white with cold and fear for her brother. He exhaled, frustrated, and inhaled again, thinking of the way the cold grass had felt, crunching and giving way beneath his boots. "Jack" had looked scared as he’d followed him through the bowels of the theater. She was a woman, of course she’d been nervous there. But her face had cleared, her eyes steadying. She’d decided to trust him, he realized, feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut with the thought.
Aspen opened his eyes, already turning away from his painting.
“Damn it!” he cursed aloud. He had to clean up his paint. He’d get nothing done now.
That was a lovely allegretto, Jack had said.
You know music. He’d been surprised. Of course she did.
“Damn it,” Aspen muttered, scraping the too-wet paint into a pig’s bladder to keep it away from the air.
~~//~~
Aspen stopped short at the entrance to Lady Longbourne’s parlor, staring at where Miss Holcombe sat at the pianoforte. It was inevitable they would run into each other again, Aspen told himself. The woman hardly had any obligation to avoid him and Daniel still had friends amongst the ton. Aspen knew he was fortunate that he’d been able to maintain his distance as long as he had.
“His Grace, the Duke of Aspen,” the footman announced loudly and Aspen crossed the room to greet his host. Miss Holcombe practically buried her face in the music sheets in front of her and began a new piece, the notes ringing loudly in the small room. Aspen pulled his eyes away from her to face Lady Longbourne. He was grateful when Lord Monson shuffled his way across the small room to trap him in a boring political monologue. The old man kept talking, oblivious to Aspen's distraction. Daniel sat on the other edge of the parlor, caught in conversation with Miss Charington. His friend looked up, meeting his eyes briefly, his good humor restored. Aspen relaxed at the friendly look and nodded back, but frowned when he saw Daniel’s gaze linger on Lord Candrow, his delighted expression fading rapidly. Lord Candrow was settled on the other side of the room, glaring at Miss Holcombe and Daniel in turn.
Aspen glanced at Miss Holcombe despite himself.
I had only Lord Candrow showing any interest in me. It looked as if that interest had died with Daniel's good reputation.
Aspen ran a hand down h
is face. He would guess that Miss Holcombe had not been smitten with the elderly baron. He was neither a wastrel nor a drunk, but that was about all that could be said for him.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, my lord, but I was wondering if you could relate that long winded story of yours about the gray haired man you met at the tavern last year. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it entirely,” Daniel interrupted, suddenly popping up by Aspen’s shoulder. Lord Monson stuttered to a halt, looking flummoxed, and Daniel beamed at him.
Bless you Daniel, Aspen thought, and Lord Monson turned toward the viscount, rolling back on his heels and launching happily into the story. Aspen happily ducked away and headed for one of the empty chairs.
Aspen clasped his hands on his lap, berating himself. He could not stop staring at her. Miss Holcombe flitted about the room, never drawn into any conversation near her. She played piano but there was no spirit in it, the crowd ignored the music easily and he couldn't help feeling a jolt of pain at the thought that he'd hurt her. She'd wanted him to court her. Aspen winced when Daniel smiled at her and she tried to smile back. She looked rabid for a moment, before the smile melted off her face and she just looked lonely.
He wanted her. Aspen tried to smile when Miss Musgrave approached him, tried to focus on her discussion of furniture styles, of all things, but knew he was failing miserably.
She was Mr. Jack Holcombe. He still hadn't finished reviewing his memories, substituting her face. Of course she'd almost curtseyed to him, meeting him as Jack. Of course she'd blushed when he'd taken off his waistcoat. Yet she'd teased Daniel like a man -like a sailor, he corrected, grinning to himself and Miss Musgrave smiled back at him. She'd gotten out of the carriage like a man at his home, Aspen remembered, pinching his lips so he did not laugh aloud. Miss Musgrave nattered on, apparently not needing his input about armchairs.
Miss Holcombe got up from the piano finally and wandered about the room. She settled finally, staring out the window, her gaze blank and empty. She looked stunning, standing with the light hitting her face and brightening her blue gown. Lord, but Miss Holcombe was utterly mad and not a soul knew about it. They thought her a boring, obedient sister to the very eligible Viscount Holcombe. Nothing more. And she was likely the smartest person in every room she entered.
She was wasting away, Aspen. He thought he was beginning to understand why Daniel had let her speak her mind, just the once, to let her breathe. Though why he'd chosen such a strange and risky outlet he did not know. And it had ended so very poorly.
My fault, he thought, wincing. It was only too obvious that Lord Candrow was not speaking with Miss Holcombe at what would be an opportune time. That suit had died thoroughly, then.
Daniel’s reputation, he thought, feeling sympathy for the spinster who stood so very straightbacked by the window.
“Do you agree, Your Grace?”
Aspen jerked his head back to see Miss Musgrave staring at him, her eyes narrowed.
“Sorry, what was the question?” he asked, stumbling over his words and the girl’s eyes widened with affront.
“I was speaking of Mr. Beethoven’s latest,” she huffed.
“Ah, yes, yes, I quite agree,” he said, trying to figure out when she’d switched subjects. “The allegretto was lovely,” he said and swore he saw Miss Holcombe’s eyes jerk toward him.
Listening to him? Aspen wondered, something like hope flashing through him. He pushed it down. Miss Musgrave was scowling now.
“I was saying how it was his worst yet,” she growled.
“Ah…” Aspen said slowly, unsure how to recover.
Christ, I am not skilled with women. But Miss Holcombe bit her lip, looking quietly amused and Aspen gathered himself.
“I apologize,” he said evenly. Miss Musgrave sniffed daintily and continued her tirade against the symphony. Of the two, Aspen was inclined to believe Miss Holcombe’s take on the music, but he did his best to listen politely and stop staring like a fool at the spinster at the window.
~~//~~
Aspen could scarcely believe his ears when he walked into his fencing club and heard Jack Holcombe's voice, laughing with his cousin's. Aspen started to smile, glad his new friend had returned to the city, whatever the reason, before he remembered the reality of the situation. And then he was just flabbergasted that Miss Holcombe was actually in the next room, dressed in breeches, holding a blade. After she'd been caught, no less. It had been two months since he'd seen her last; he was convinced she'd left the city.
Curiosity overwhelmed him and he moved as quietly as he could, following the voices past his usual practice room into the next.
Daniel was pretending to hack at some enemy with his blade, slashing back and forth in a parody of fencing and Jack had his head thrown fully backwards, laughing heartedly. Not Jack – he corrected himself again, staring at the woman. Miss Jacoline Holcombe.
He didn't know how he'd ever been fooled. There was nothing to suggest a man except the clothing. Everything else, her figure, her laughter, her face, was all Miss Jacoline Holcombe in rather ill-fitting clothing.
“You seem less masculine now than how I've ever known you,” she said, a wide smile stretching across her face.
Oof, he thought, but of course Daniel didn't appear affected at all.
“And you, madam, about as unfeminine as they come,” he replied, swishing his sword up and down in a knight's challenge.
“Is it the wig?” Miss Holcombe asked sweetly, touching the white wig clipped to her scalp. Aspen had to smother a laugh.
“No, no, it really is your face,” Daniel replied, sounding reassuring, “the wig is fine.”
Miss Holcombe laughed again, like she'd never think to be hurt by their bantering. Aspen was struck by envy, watching Daniel share in her laughter. He thought of all the spinsters he'd met over the last week, wanting to determine which could give him that freedom, and couldn't remember their names.
Damn you, Aspen. You cannot court this woman. What kind of father would you be, granting your children such a mother? He told himself. An image burst into his head of Miss Holcombe with his daughter in her arms, teaching her the basics of fencing and aggressive chess and he felt a smile twitch at his face before he snorted and pushed the thought away. A second image followed it, of the woman laughing with him in his home, how he would scoop her up and carry her away, and he felt his loins tighten. He shifted as quietly as he could. Her neck was long and lithe, its skin pale and soft as it dipped beneath her collar.
She’d taken off her waistcoat to fence for the first time. Aspen found himself almost proud of her, seeing the coat hanging beside Daniel’s at the side of the room.
It's not proper, he told himself, but he could not bring himself to care, watching as Miss Holcombe started advancing across the room, practicing her footwork. She'd see him surely, when she turned around and Aspen started to pull away from the doorway.
“Retreat back,” Daniel ordered. Aspen paused, knowing Miss Holcombe would not turn. Daniel turned his head fully and met his eyes, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
What are you going to do? Aspen read in that gaze and faltered, glancing back at the modern woman in men's clothing, retreating down the fencing strip. He pulled away from the doorway, unsure what to do, and leaned against the wall next to it.
He missed his friend, he realized, jerking his head back at the thought and cracking it on the rough wall behind him. The woman had been his friend, and he didn't make friends easily.
Hang it all. Aspen turned the corner into the fencing room again. Miss Holcombe froze, holding a lunge, and just stared at him. She stood up slowly but she didn't look particularly happy to see him. She looked almost scared, he realized with an unpleasant jolt. And Daniel was standing with his arms crossed, looking as serious as he'd ever seen him.
“I -” he started, but he did not know what to say.
I should have planned this. Miss Holcombe stood in a man’s breeches,
in his gentleman’s club, her blade hanging limp in her hand, scraping it against the floor. He was not a particularly spontaneous man. He stared at her, feeling like his stomach was attempting to rise up through his throat. Miss Holcombe started to blush and looked down at her breeches, her fingers pleating the fabric. Daniel eyed him unhappily.
“Jack?” Daniel asked and Aspen jerked, wondering for a moment if he'd made a humiliating mistake, before he remembered. Jacoline. Daniel called her 'Jac'. That, at least, hadn't been a lie. Aspen blew out a quiet breath, somehow relieved by that tiny bit of truth. The name was deceptive, but not a lie.
Miss Holcombe nodded quietly and Daniel strode out of the room, likely not going far.
“I can barely believe you're dressed as a man,” he said suddenly, hating the silence and Miss Holcombe choked out a laugh.
“Yes,” she said quietly before looking up to meet his eyes, her jaw set bravely, “though in my defense you would look just as foolish in a gown,” she said. Aspen coughed out a laugh despite himself and stared at her again, remembering Jack’s wry humor.
“Let us not discover that empirically,” he said and Miss Holcombe's eyes lit up with amusement.
“It seems only fair,” she said and Aspen covered his face with a hand.
“Oh, hell,” he said, allowing himself to curse in front of her. She laughed again and Aspen felt his heart rise, glad to have caused it.
Until he figured out what he was going to do about it and felt his heart leap further up to join his gut in strangling him. Miss Holcombe’s eyebrows rose slowly, her eyes sparkling.
“Miss Holcombe,” he started, before clearing his throat. It didn't help. “I cannot offer you much. I know I am..scarred,” he rasped, hating his burns more than he ever had. “However… May I call on you tomorrow?”
He opened his eyes, not remembering ever closing them, to see Miss Holcombe staring at him, her eyes wide. He had played his hand; he was going to court her. She did not answer and Aspen felt humiliation wash through him yet again.
Spinster's Gambit Page 21
