"Ah, splendid, Sims. Thank you." Deverell took the tray and set it down on the ottoman. "I thought we might enjoy a late repast in the manner of a casual picnic tonight, Mrs. Monday. Food helps the brain cells, so I'm told."
She looked doubtfully at the overloaded tray, spectacles clasped in one hand.
"Don't be timid," he added, once Sims had left the room, "Dig in at the trough. I shall. In my world, Mrs. Monday, if you don't eat when the opportunity arises you might be the one that gets eaten."
It would have been unthinkable in Chiswick. Occasionally she'd sat up late to help her father with work, or to assist her last husband with a listening ear when he composed a particularly important sermon, but never had she sat on the floor and eaten a picnic by the fire. With a man who seemed to think— and celebrate the fact— that he'd been raised by farmyard beasts.
She must not be misled by the easy informality with which Mr. Deverell treated her. He had hired her for one purpose only and liking him at all was not necessary.
"Try this," he said, cutting her a large slice of pie and passing it to her with his own fingers, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to do. "Mrs. Blewett makes an excellent pork pie. I would wager you've never tasted anything like it. Ah, but I forgot - you don't wager." He held it out for her lips, but Olivia carefully took the slice in her own hand before she tried a timid bite. "Well?" he demanded impatiently, eyes gleaming in the firelight, jaw thrust forward as if daring her to criticize his cook's endeavors.
I wish he would tie his cravat, she thought anxiously. It hung loose tonight and his waistcoat had a few buttons undone. Just a few. She hadn't counted how many.
Three. Three were undone, actually.
It was a black silk waistcoat decorated with raised gold thread. Not too fancy a pattern, but very rich and quite beautiful when one saw it at close range. He wore it with casual disregard, however, treating it the same as he did the simpler, stained and worn corduroy waistcoat in which she often saw him.
"Well?" he repeated. "How is it?"
"Good," she replied, finally remembering the pie.
"Good?" He sat back, forearms resting on his parted knees, long fingers hooked together between them. "That's it? That's the best you can do?"
"I...I like it."
"Good lord, don't overdo it! The superlatives are killing me."
"It's very well seasoned," she added, hiding a chuckle at his frustration.
"It's the best pork pie you've ever tasted. Say it. I demand that you say it!" From the look on his face anyone would think no one had ever failed to be intimidated by him before.
"Well...I would hesitate to make such a sweeping statement. I've tasted many good—"
"You're remarkably hard to please, woman," he exclaimed gruffly.
"I did say it was nice."
"Nice? Nice?" He snorted. "Is that what passes for praise in Chiswick?"
"Mr. Deverell, it is possible to be pleased with something and not feel the need to leap up and down, shouting it from the rooftops. I told you, I like it."
"I suppose I must be satisfied with that then." A lock of dark hair fell over his brow, making him look somewhat like a crestfallen puppy, much to her further amusement. How easily he changed from fierce, surly beast to a naughty boy at whom one should be cross. As he swept that stray wave of hair back with the fingers of one hand she felt a shiver run down her spine. It was almost as if he had stroked her with that impatient hand.
She took another bite and stared into the fire, glumly thinking of what William Monday would have to say about all this. His advice was silent this evening and Deverell's presence dominated her thoughts. Even when they weren't in the same room. When they were, it was like being intoxicated— as she was once when she drank too much sherry before Sunday luncheon and then couldn't stop giggling at the Brussel sprouts.
Olivia could well imagine how young Deverell had swept through the halls of his infamous club as an ambitious, vital, mysteriously handsome figure, and secured the attention of Lady Charlotte Rothsey. As well as many other women, and men too. He could not be ignored or pushed away into a corner. If he took the last rout cake, no one would dare reprimand him.
"I can assure you it's the best pork pie in the county," he grumbled. "Mrs. Blewett has won awards at the county fair. I'm surprised she has not told you, but perhaps you spend your time in the kitchen prying for information about me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I wondered what could possess you to spend so much time in my kitchen, when it's not part of your duties here. But Sims told me he caught you on the very first day, prying for information about me. You were, weren't you? And that's why you spend your time with Mrs. B, listening to gossip."
She wiped her fingers on a napkin and watched him pour two glasses of wine. "I was making conversation with Mrs. Blewett on the first morning, and since then I've been trying to help her, although I'm afraid I've been more hindrance than anything. And I'm not interested in gossip."
"Of course you are. You're a woman. But if you want to know something, ask me in future."
When he passed her one of the very full glasses, she mumbled, "I really shouldn't ...this late at night." Not that she had any idea what the time was. That fact was almost as unsettling as his proximity.
"But you will. I insist."
"You cannot insist that a person drink wine."
"Yes I can. My rules, remember? And I'm paying you well to be an obedient subject on my island." He frowned. "Don't fret. I don't plan to get you inebriated and senseless. You need a steady hand to write."
With a deep sigh she took the glass. "While we are on the subject of my role here, sir, I would appreciate it greatly if you could assure your staff that I was engaged as your secretary only. There seems to be a general assumption that I am here to serve you in some other capacity, and they won't listen to me."
"Some other ...capacity?" His eyes twinkled at her.
"I believe you know what I mean, sir."
He muttered gruffly, "Well, that's your fault. And Chalke's. If he had sent me someone closer to what I expected there wouldn't be any misunderstanding about your purpose here. No one would suspect us of anything like that, if you were different."
"What precisely about me would lead anyone to think I could be your ...your..."
"Mistress?"
She took a hasty sip of wine. "I would imagine I'm the last woman in the world that could be confused with that."
"Hmm. On the surface, you don't look like my usual company, I'll grant you that." He tilted his head, considering her through narrowed eyes. "There is something impish about you though."
"Impish?" A little wine spilled over the rim of her glass and wet her fingers.
"Naughty. Something you're trying to hide."
She huffed. "I am exactly what you see. What could I have to hide?"
"I know not, Mrs. Monday." A slow smile made him intolerably handsome suddenly. "But I will find out. I'm very good at uncovering ladies’ secrets."
Oh, she had no doubt of that. "You don't know an Inspector O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police by chance, do you?" she asked wryly.
"No. Why?"
She shook her head.
"Now try another bite of pie with some pickle," he exclaimed, swiftly diverting the subject. "Perhaps you found it too dry before." He was already cutting another slice for her. "And you look hungry."
"Mr. Deverell, no one has ever been quite so solicitous of my appetite."
"Damn shame. They should have been. Perhaps you'd have a bit more bloom to your cheeks."
Had he just moved even closer to her across the carpet? Olivia glanced sideways toward the sanctity of the chair and little writing table, which were several feet from where she now knelt. Her skin prickled with tension, as if it expected to feel his scandalous touch. "Shouldn't we get on with the work, Mr. Deverell?"
"Plenty of time for that. A man's got to eat, keep his strength up. Woman too
."
The way he said the word "woman" was quite fierce— like a pinch or a bite.
"Give me your spectacles," he demanded suddenly.
"Why?"
He held out his hand, palm up. "Do not question your employer, madam."
Tentatively she passed the spectacles to him and watched as he began to press the wire about with his fingers.
"There!" He reached over and put them on her face, his fingertips skimming her ears. "That's better. I'm surprised no one did that for you before."
The fit was much improved. No sliding or pinching. "Thank...thank you, sir." She had meant to do that herself, but whenever she had them on her face there was always something much more important to be done. And once she took them off again, she forgot about it. Then they were often sat or stepped upon, or lost.
Deverell was studying her intently, with a knowing look. Olivia quickly removed the mended spectacles and set them aside.
Perhaps she was too close to the fire, which would account for her heightened temperature, so she slid back a little and felt a lock of hair tumble down her cheek as the sudden motion disturbed a pin. She wanted to fix it, but it felt improper to fuss with her hair in his presence. Was it more improper to leave her hair in disarray?
Did "improper" really count anymore at this stage, since she was seated on the floor with him? At some point good manners, as dictated by proper society, probably became moot.
He dug a silver spoon deep into the little dish of pickle and dropped a generous dollop onto the newly cut slice of pork pie. It was done hurriedly, but even as some pickle fell to the tray, he still spooned more onto the slice. Did the man do nothing by halves? He was all about excess it seemed. From one thing to the other he veered, his moods inconsistent and unpredictable. But always moving quickly.
"I learned recently that my daughter is getting married, Mrs. Monday," he muttered, his conversation flying off in yet another new direction. Olivia felt dizzy trying to keep up with him. "What do you think of that?"
"I would think it good news, sir."
"Why?"
"It is surely every young lady's hope to be married, and the desire of every father to see his daughter well married."
"Is that what your father wanted?"
"Yes, of course." She knew her father had once worried she would never marry. She'd seen the fear in his eyes, but only in a rare, unguarded moment. And that was all her fault, because she once made the mistake of telling him she hoped to marry for love. It was a foolish thing for a plain, clumsy girl with a very meager dowry to say. A girl who sought out dark corners, too reserved and bookish to catch anybody's eye. Her father— poor fellow— hadn't known what to reply, although his expression had safely discouraged her from mentioning it ever again out loud.
Looking at Deverell, she read anger in his face and something else too. Hurt. "What did you expect for your daughter, sir?"
"That she'd stay here to look after me in my dotage," he snapped.
"I'm sure that's not what you wanted." Olivia couldn't imagine this man wanting anyone to nurse him in old age. When he went to his maker it would be sudden and dramatic, she thought. He was unlikely to let his body fail in a lingering, weakening illness.
"My daughter is too young yet, only seventeen, and this man I haven't even met— chosen by her mother, no doubt..."
Olivia waited, but he left his sentence unfinished, as if that should be enough explanation. Eventually she said, "There are many reasons for a woman to marry. I don't know your daughter, sir, but I cannot think she would make such a commitment without good reason. I'm sure she has intelligence enough to know that her future happiness and contentment are at stake. Hers. No one else's."
His head came up again, his eyes fixed upon her face. "Why did you marry your parson, then?"
"Because he promised me a secure home and he was kind. Always very... kind."
"And?"
"Isn't that enough?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Save me," he muttered under his breath.
"You have some objection, sir, to kindness?"
"I'd be distinctly disappointed, if I died tragically and my clever, witty young widow found it a challenge to describe me by any other word than kind."
"I don't suppose you'll need to worry about that."
He laughed pleasantly. "Indeed. My own impression of marriage has been very different to yours. My wife will have many more colorful words to describe me."
Chapter Thirteen
Wait. Had he just called her clever and witty? It happened so fast, she couldn't be sure. Olivia stared at the strong column of his throat as he tipped his head back and tossed a grape into his laughing mouth. He'd thrown those words at her in just the same way— casually— as if they barely mattered and were a mere morsel. As if she must have heard their like many times before.
She had let him lead her into a conversation that was becoming dangerously intimate. The worst thing she could have done. Although she knew they'd taken a wrong turn, Olivia could not stop her worn boots from venturing down that dangerous path.
"Why did you marry your wife then, sir?"
* * * *
"Lady Charlotte Rothsey announced that she was with child," he replied. "So I married her. Does it surprise you that I did the honorable thing, Mrs. Monday? Even after the dishonorable way in which our affair began? After all, I could have let her marry her fiancé."
"But I suppose you wanted your child to know you, because you did not know your own father."
"Yes." True took a steadying breath. "Unfortunately, after the wedding it turned out there was no child. Charlotte had resorted to a desperate deceit. I know not— still to this day— why she wanted the marriage so badly. She had suitors with more to give, titled, respectable men with estates. But she chose to cast her net for me instead."
Mrs. Monday watched him unblinking, eyes wide and so receptive he felt he could tell her anything. Anything. No woman had ever paid attention the way she did. Usually they were too busy thinking about something else, anxious about their appearance, or what he had to give them.
She had not drunk any of her wine except for a sip. Instead she set her glass down as if it was a precious relic entrusted to her care. "Perhaps Lady Charlotte was in love."
"Hmph. Charlotte has never loved anyone as much as herself."
Her gaze had not left him. "And you claim you are not capable of love yourself?"
"The word is thrown about with little care, overused and cheapened by tawdry sentiment. It is nothing deeper than a word penned in haste on a lacy valentine. Just as fragile and worthless."
"Although you have never felt it, that does not mean love cannot exist, or bring happiness to others."
"Did you love your husbands then?" he demanded. "All three of the unlucky fellows?"
"Of course."
She answered that too quickly, he thought, and without the slightest warmth of memory on her face. Another ripple of annoyance stirred his blood. She'd called the parson "kind" for pity's sake. Kind. Just as Mrs. Blewett's delectable, unequalled pork pie was simply "nice".
"What makes you think you loved them? How did it feel?"
"I ... felt useful."
"Useful?" he repeated, astonished.
"I am not here, sir, to talk about me."
"But I should know something about the woman to whom I'm giving food and board for so many months. Especially since I was deceived about your age. If you don't tell me the truth about your husbands I might imagine all manner of wickedness hidden in your past." He squinted at her, noting the slightly heightened color in her face. It was no good; he couldn't resist. "I must know all about you. Every little thing." True reached over and moved the loosened lock of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. When his fingertips brushed her skin he felt the heat. It shot through his body and started a low, heavy pulse, a needy hum deep inside. "You must be running away from someone... an illicit lover perhaps? Something has chased you away from your safe
, familiar comforts and brought you here. To me."
"Clearly you have a good imagination," she replied, hastily reaching for her glass again and spilling wine on her skirt. "After all, you believe in mermaids."
He released that stray curl of hair. "And you do not."
"No."
Now he knew how her skin felt, he wanted to know how it tasted too. True licked his lips, impatience making his mouth water. "But you do believe in that thing called love, madam? Three times you've believed in it. Odd. Still, you are a female— if Chalke hasn't lied about that too— and I daresay you have the same weaknesses that plague the sex in general. You just keep yours hidden under that cheerlessly grey suit of armor."
She set her glass down again without sipping from it, looking confused and then staring in despair at the stain on her skirt.
Before she could grab her napkin, he seized his chance, took her hand and brought the wine-dampened fingers to his mouth. There was a moment when she tensed, tried to tug her hand away, but he pulled back, insistent. Her eyes widened. "Mr. Deverell—"
True licked the wine from her fingers.
He heard the breath catch in her throat, saw her pearl earbobs tremble. She closed her eyes, but they fluttered open again almost immediately when he drew her fingers further into his mouth and sucked.
The taste was every bit as sweet and enticing as he'd anticipated.
"Sir!" she gasped on a rushed breath. "Please..."
He released her fingers. "Yes?"
She stared, eyes huge, lips parted and damp. In that moment he expected a slapped cheek. At the very least.
Ignoring his actions as if they never happened, she said, "Perhaps Lady Charlotte married you for rebellion then. Her family could not have approved her choice."
"That was a part of it, to be sure." He studied her face, more curious now than ever about his odd little secretary and her determination to pretend certain things hadn't happened.
Or were not about to happen.
Blood raced through his veins as desire mounted. Another lock of hair had fallen to her shoulder, but she made no move to pin it up again.
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 12
