Silence Is Golden

by Sara Ackerman

  “You have done no wrong, Evie.” The deep baritone of his voice rumbled over the syllables in her name. “There is no need for you to apologize.”

  There was, but she was a coward. How could she tell this beautiful man, a man who kept her safe and sacrificed his own journey to ensure her safety, she had laughed when she heard how Lord Newgate had tormented him?

  Her other hand crept up and rested on his upper arm. “I know I don’t need to, but please accept my apology anyway.”

  He studied her for several minutes, the swirling blues and grays in his eyes intensifying the longer he assessed her. He leaned in so his mouth brushed the top of her ear.

  “If you insist on apologizing, do so for the kiss you stole from me. I never got a chance to steal one back.” His whispered words were a fiery caress on her already sensitive skin, and gooseflesh dotted her arms.

  “I-I don’t take your meaning.” Even as she feigned ignorance, she could not ignore the low ache building deep in her abdomen. “But I want to return to my seat.” She unlaced their fingers and scooted back to her own chair, careful to keep a watchful eye on him lest he surprise her and take the kiss he wanted.

  “Are we going to avoid talking about it?”

  “About what?”

  He raised his eyebrows and took a bite. Watching his teeth capture the morsel of meat, she sighed as his mouth wrapped around the tender bite. She licked her lips and caught him staring at her. Her face warmed as much from her wayward fantasies as from his predatory gaze.

  She knew, all right. He wanted to talk about their kiss.

  “Perhaps the breakfast room is not the most appropriate place to discuss this, Mr. Coombes.” The familiarity of formal names eased some of her discomfort.

  “Meet me in the greenhouse later this afternoon, and we shall discuss it in depth.”

  “Let’s meet somewhere more public, like the front parlor, or my uncle’s study.”

  He laughed, a hollow, humorless sound at some unknown joke. “By all means. Let’s hear what your uncle has to say about it. I’m sure he will find it as enlightening as I did.”

  “Mr. Coombes,” she scolded. “I didn’t mean—”

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  She ignored him and poured herself another cup of tea.

  “Maybe you could show me. Your actions are far more truthful than your words.”

  Clear memories of her desire to grab and hold onto him resurfaced. Within the intimate embrace of the carriage, she had acted on instinct, letting her desires overrule her reason. Though she had tried to convince herself no lingering passions remained, the air crackled when they were near each other, and her blood hummed in her body, singing a song of want and longing. It wove a seductive web, fogging her brain and urging her into impulsive actions, urging her to reconsider ignoring her body’s wants.

  Another kiss from him will do no harm. One more taste.

  “All right, Mr. Coombes, I shall meet you—”

  Lord Newgate burst into the room. “I swear I heard a woman’s voice in here, but where is Lady Diane?”

  “Lady Evelyn was speaking, Newgate,” Alfred said, a scowl marring his handsome face.

  “Impossible.” He filled a plate from the sideboard and sat next to her. “She does not speak.”

  Alfred took a bite. “She does to me.”

  “Is this true?” Newgate demanded.

  Before she could open her notebook to reply, Alfred answered for her. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’d like to hear it from her, Coombes, not you.”

  She wrote, “I can speak to Mr. Coombes.”

  “Speak to me. Go ahead. Speak,” he ordered.

  What she wished to say was, “I am not a dog!” but panic made her throat swell shut, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” she wrote.

  Picking up his fork, he stabbed his food. “Why can you talk to him?”

  “Perhaps she trusts me, Newgate.”

  “I am her fiancé. She trusts me!”

  “Formerly affianced, remember?”

  Newgate turned an alarming shade of red, and Mr. Coombes smirked, enjoying his discomfort.

  Newgate sneered, grabbed Evie’s hand, and squeezed it until she winced. “Wrong, Coombes. We are engaged to be married. I spoke with his lordship last evening after you and the ladies had gone to bed. We will be married.”

  He was lying! Uncle had no right to arrange a match for her. It was her father’s duty, and he had done it. Her fiancé had thrown her over, and his presence here did not change anything. They were not engaged.

  She opened her notebook ready to write a scathing retort when her pad of paper was ripped from her hands. Lord Newgate had taken it and thrown it into the fire!

  No! Now how am I to correct Lord Newgate’s erroneous assumption we are to be wed? Words boiled in her throat, but no sound emerged, and with her means of communication gone, she didn’t have a way to express herself. She watched her beloved notebook disappear while tears pooled in her eyes.

  “What game is this, Newgate? Afraid she was going to call you a liar?”

  “I wished to spare you any discomfort when you read she has chosen me.”

  “She may have chosen you, but she will be married to me.” The two men stared at each other, the tension so thick it choked her. Stop this! I am not a toy to be fought over! But she remained trapped in her silence, a lump of pain and betrayal caught in her throat.

  “Let us not be hasty, Lord Newgate,” Lady Diane interrupted as she walked into the room on a cloud of rosewater and lavender. Her mellifluous voice ripped through the building tension and calmed the assembled party. It also gave Evie the chance to wipe those treacherous tears from her eyes. “You may have spoken to my husband about a renewal of your betrothal, but nothing has been decided.”

  She knew it. Though her uncle enjoyed tormenting her, he would not have made an engagement for her without first consulting her. She resisted the urge to cross her arms and gloat at Lord Newgate, who, in spite of being caught in a lie, maintained a cool mask of his patented blend of condescension and arrogance.

  Lady Diane sat at the table and poured herself a cup of tea while a footman brought her a tray of toast and jam. “My husband has sent a letter to my brother asking whether he should allow my niece to become engaged with you again, Lord Newgate, or had you forgotten from your conversation with him last evening?” She sipped her tea and arched an elegant eyebrow in Lord Newgate’s direction. A ruddy flush suffused his cheeks, and he cleared his throat.

  “Forgive my presumption. I let my excitement over the prospect of our renewed engagement run away with my tongue, and I spoke prematurely.”

  Lady Diane gave the briefest of acknowledgements to his mumbled apologies before she turned to Mr. Coombes. “Pray, tell me, Mr. Coombes, how do you find your rooms? Are they comfortable?”

  Mr. Coombes responded, but Evie didn’t hear. Lord Newgate had grabbed her wrist and was holding it in a tight grasp underneath the table. Leaning near to her, he hissed into her ear, “You will be mine. I don’t care what your uncle or father says. You will be mine.”

  He released her arm and smiled to Lady Diane, praising his own rooms and thanking her for her hospitality. Evie rubbed her wrist and shuddered, praying her uncle would not make her marry against her will.

  Chapter 13

  The rain was relentless. It had been almost three weeks and there seemed no end to the constant deluge. Evie flipped back the sitting room curtains and blew out a loud sigh. The depressing sight of pooled water, flattened plants, and downed trees did little to cheer her gloomy mood. She dropped the curtains and wandered away to meander about the room, boredom prompting her to pause here and there to examine the furnishings. The sound of approaching voices halted her steps.

  Uncle and Lord Newgate! As much as she had desired Lord Newgate’s company mere weeks ago, she now had no wish to see him. Spying another door on the far side of the room, she lifted the hems of her ski
rts and scurried through it, closing the door just as she heard the other open. The men’s voices floated across the room and through the side door where she waited, afraid to move lest they hear the sound and invite her in. Straining her ears, she heard their footsteps as they trod across the floor before all was quiet. They had not seen her hurried flight out of the room.

  Thank goodness. One awkward encounter averted for now. She backed away from the door and turned in to the library, a room whose existence she had been unaware of until now. Several years had passed since she had last visited her aunt and uncle, and at that time she had remained abovestairs in her room. Her uncle’s off-color humor and penchant for teasing ensured she came below only on rare occasions other than meals. Aside from the breakfast room, the dining room, and the sitting room she had vacated moments ago, the manor was unknown to her.

  Her uncle Kendrick had an impressive library, the size as impressive as the fact her uncle owned a room dedicated to books. She had always disliked his provincial and rustic tastes, but this boasted of a man who was well read. Judging by the titles on some of the worn leather bindings, there was more to her uncle than she had credited. The spacious room housed a large fireplace flanked by tall cases of books. There were two large armchairs and a comfortable-looking chaise lounge arranged by the fireplace. Grabbing a book at random, she made herself comfortable on the padded seat, turned to the first page, and read, “The rain had not let up in days, and Madeline grew weary of the ceaseless beating of raindrops on her small cottage roof…”

  “For heaven’s sake!” She slammed the book shut and dropped the offending tome on the floor. “Even in a book I can’t escape the rain!” Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back against the curved arc of her seat and gave up trying not to obsess over her current problems—Mr. Coombes and Lord Newgate. For a woman who had had no entanglements mere weeks ago, having two suitors was overwhelming, even for her, and it necessitated the employment of some fancy maneuvering to keep the two men separated, or at least at peace when society dictated they be in the same room.

  The two men hated each other, which had been obvious the other week at breakfast when they had used her to air their animosity.

  “Treating me as if I were a toy they both coveted. Men are ignorant clods sometimes.”

  Lord Newgate’s defection she had expected. After all, hadn’t he thrown her over because it suited him? She was more surprised Uncle had agreed to a renewal of their engagement than when Lord Newgate had taunted her with it. Alex was conniving and behaved as he wished regardless of the consequences. A match between the two of them was impossible.

  Alfred’s betrayal, though, upset her. Both men were hurtful and demeaning, but the sting of Alfred’s falseness was much worse. She had trusted him, and he had abused her trust and debased her worth as if she held no value other than as a tool for the two men to wield their anger.

  “A week later and I am still angry at him. The next time I see him, I’m going to—”

  “I didn’t see you in here, Lady Evelyn.”

  She straightened and peeked over the back of the chaise lounge to where Alfred stood in the doorway of the library, an expression of pure happiness on his face. She knew he loved books and had spent most of their journey together with his nose in one. Had she stopped to consider this, she would have guessed he’d find his way to the library, and she’d have chosen to seek refuge in a different room rather than staying here.

  Silly man, wanting to read. Her secret hiding spot had been compromised, and that irked her. Because she could, and he wasn’t looking anyway, she stuck out her tongue, turned around, and crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

  “Go away!” she hissed, and clamped her mouth shut when she remembered she wasn’t speaking to him.

  He ignored her terse command and sauntered farther into the library. “I wanted to find a book to pass the time. My room came furnished with several engaging books, but I finished the last one yesterday. Today, your aunt suggested I look in the library. What with all the rain, the days have been a bit long.”

  She remained resolute in her silence.

  “My, my, what an impressive collection your uncle has. I would never have guessed he was a man of such refined taste.”

  Though she had thought the same thing minutes earlier, she resented the insinuation her uncle lacked good taste. He was a relative, and she alone reserved the right to remark on his boorish mannerisms. Gritting her teeth, she resisted the urge to call him out for his rude remark. She wished he would leave.

  “Chaucer, Shakespeare, Radcliffe.” He snorted. “Bought for your aunt, no doubt, and some Byron? Why, this tome by Byron is rare indeed.”

  Genuine interest replaced the gentle mocking of his earlier statements, and she glared at him over the back of her chair. He thumbed through the pages of the book, absorbed by the contents within. “Byron published so few of this title before suppressing it for its, ahem, highly erotic overtones.” He ran his finger over a passage, mouthing the words, and she watched, fascinated by the red tinge suffusing his face. “Highly erotic, indeed,” he said in a prim voice. With a snap, he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. She giggled and turned around in her chair, hoping he hadn’t heard. Her Mr. Coombes had the sensibilities of an old spinster at times.

  “What a fine collection of atlases with exquisite detail. I’ve never seen artistry to rival this.”

  She was intrigued. An artist herself, she enjoyed art in any form. Maps were a particular favorite because she loved perusing foreign locales, imagining she was there having an adventure of her own. She gripped the sides of the chaise lounge to prevent herself from running to his side and snatching the atlas from his hands.

  “I take back the discourteous comments I made about your uncle’s taste, my lady. This masterpiece alone redeems him for all time.”

  Her fingers ached to touch the pages and run her fingers over the lines herself. Before she could stop herself, she was off the lounge and over to him, peeking around his side at the opened atlas.

  He was right. She had never seen its match in skill or artistry. The coloring alone was enough to make her weep. The blues of the Aegean Sea were so vivid she could almost hear the roar of waves crashing onto shore. “Beautiful,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the delicate ridges of the Alps in northern Italy.

  “I agree. No other beauty can compare.” She jumped and looked up, having forgotten he was there beside her, but he wasn’t staring at the map. His eyes were focused on her.

  Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips, where he placed a soft but lingering kiss. “Hello, my lady. I was hoping to speak to you today.”

  Several seconds passed as she debated whether to acknowledge his greeting or to remain in stubborn silence. She was, after all, still angry at him, though he had made an effort to find her and engage her interest. Curiosity overcame her wounded pride.

  “Good day, Mr. Coombes.”

  He smiled, offered her his arm, and led her over to the chaise lounge she had vacated moments ago. When seated, he thrust a small package wrapped in brown paper under her nose. “I wanted to give you this.” Still not ready to forgive him, she refused to take it, so he untied the string himself. “It’s a notepad to replace the one Newgate tossed into the fire.” Despite her pique, she was too curious a creature to resist glancing at the gift he had brought her. Plus, she loved receiving presents.

  He placed the paper on her lap. It was beautiful. Covered in a soft blue fabric, someone had lovingly stitched her initials onto the cloth—EGW. The interior held pages of blank paper, each one sewn into place with large, uneven stitches. A faint floral scent wafted up from the pages as she examined her gift.

  “It was badly done of Newgate, and I take responsibility for his poor behavior. I know how he is and what he is capable of. If I had kept quiet, maybe he wouldn’t have been as cruel. Regardless, I resolved to make it right, so I scrounged around and found some odds and ends,
and I made you another one.”

  “You made this?” No one in her family or circle of friends had ever put as much effort into a gift for her as he had done.

  “Yes, and it took some doing, too, but your aunt helped. She did the stitching on the front, and she gave me some pressed flowers to place on the pages.” He flipped to a page where a small dried cornflower nestled in the upper right-hand corner. “I used some glue to adhere it, so you’d have something pretty to look at when you were writing.”

  She stroked the small flower, tracing the fragile petals, which were the same color as her eyes. “Mr. Coombes, I don’t know what—”

  “I have this for you, too.” He rummaged in his breast coat pocket and produced another wrapped package, smaller in size and oddly shaped. This time she did not hesitate to take the gift from him. She ripped into the wrapping and had to swallow several times to avoid crying and embarrassing herself.

  “Pencils.” She held the slender length of wood and graphite in her hands. “And drawing pencils, too?” With loving hands she smoothed her fingers over the tapered shaft, more touched by his gift than had he given her all the jewels in the world.

  “You needed another pencil if you’re to use your paper, and your aunt mentioned you liked to draw. If you’re like me and have been bored having to stay indoors, these will help to pass the time while we wait out this weather.”

  “But where did you get them? Hasselworth is at least two miles away, and the roads are impassable.”

  “By carriage, my lady, yes.”

  She caught his meaning at once. “You walked? In this weather?”

  “I needed an excuse to stretch my legs.”

  The roads were obstructed, and according to the upstairs maids, the main bridge leading out of Hasselworth was unstable from all the rain. Villagers were expecting the river to breach its banks any day now. His journey to town had not been as easy as he would like her to believe, and she valued her pencils all the more for his sacrifice.