by Elisa Braden
All the while, she’d laughed and clapped her hands in delight as the dice had tumbled and the cards had flashed.
And he had craved more. More of her laughter. More of her glow.
So, he’d told her tales from his days with the East India Company. How an entire crew had been struck low, leaving only him and Captain Tully to man the sails, tossing lines to one another over the backs of the poor wretches lining the rail. Of course, he’d told her a far more amusing and pleasant version of the story—his intent had been to make her laugh, not cast up her accounts.
Now, he looked down into blue eyes, soft and bright, and felt again the need. To hear her laugh. To make her smile. To please her.
“It should not be me,” he repeated.
“Nonsense,” she said, inching closer. “Come with me, Mr. Shaw. Surely a breath of air would be refreshing for you, as well.”
A lovely innocent from Hampshire should not have to learn the realities of his world. He wished it were not necessary. But, as he’d realized countless times through countless experiences, one was better off seeing the jagged rocks before one ran aground.
“I cannot accompany you,” he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he grasped her shoulders and leveled his gaze with hers. “If others see us together, they will not take it kindly.”
She frowned as though puzzling through the strategy of vingt-et-un. “We shall bring a chaperone, then. Perhaps Edith could—”
“I am Indian, Miss Phoebe.”
“You are also English.”
“I do not appear so, whereas you are a perfect English rose.”
Her frown deepened, her mouth tightening. “And you are quite the handsomest man I have ever seen. If others cannot abide the sight of us together, then let them look away. They are blind, in any case.”
Warmth filled him, unaccustomed and breath-stealing. She was a brave girl, but he suspected most of that bravery stemmed from naivety. She simply had no idea how cruel the world could be.
He dropped his hands and stripped off a glove. Next, he lifted her wrist and removed one of hers. Then, he held her bare hand in his and directed her gaze downward. “You see?” he said, enjoying the softness of her silken palm far too much. “This is why.”
Her fingers intertwined with his, forming a weave of dark and light. “This is lovely,” she whispered.
God, she was innocent. And a pretty, blushing temptation. He tugged his hand away, donned his glove, and returned hers. “I shall come with you,” he said, his voice a bit raspier than it should be. “On the condition we take a carriage.”
“Oh, but—”
“That is my condition. I won’t have you catching your death. Neither will I risk your reputation after going to great lengths to protect it.”
Grudgingly, she agreed, and a half-hour later they rolled along Piccadilly, rocking each time frigid gusts battered the coach. Edith sat alongside Phoebe, tense and watchful as rain slammed the window. Phoebe, by contrast, remained wide-eyed and smiling, seemingly delighted by the numerous shops, from booksellers to grocers.
“Mr. Shaw,” she murmured between gusts. “I wish to walk.”
“I wish to remain dry,” he retorted. “You agreed to the carriage, if you’ll recall.”
Although she did not argue, her mouth turned mutinous—an increasingly familiar expression. Her hands worried at the edge of the blanket he’d also insisted upon.
Another blast of rain hit his window, drawing his attention to the team of horses struggling with a heavy load beside them. The horses balked and shied, taking the cart around in a circle. The disruption created havoc, and their carriage slowed to a rocking stop.
Distracted by the scene out the window, he felt a blast of cold air moments before he heard Edith’s gasp. “Mr. Shaw! She—she is …”
“Bloody hell,” he gritted, leaping through the open carriage door and chasing the escaping Phoebe Widmore out into the icy rain. He spotted her ten feet away, her pert little backside twitching this way and that. By heaven, he thought, tugging his hat lower and his greatcoat collar higher. He’d thought her biddable. Sweet.
Pure rubbish. She was a hoyden.
He trotted to catch up, his eyes scanning the busy street for potential problems. Fortunately, most Londoners were sane enough not to go out in such conditions, and if they did, they were too busy trying to stay dry to take notice of an English rose and an Indian chap.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed as he reached her side.
She didn’t answer.
“Phoebe, I am warning you. I will lift you in my arms and carry you back to the coach.”
“No, you won’t. You shall walk beside me.” She looped her arm through his as though they went strolling together through horrid rain and wind every day. “Because to do otherwise would draw too much attention.”
She was right, of course, which did little to ease his temper.
“Stubborn chit,” he muttered, cringing as a blast of rain slapped him in the face.
Before long, they arrived at Green Park, and he sighed in relief. He saw only one or two other idiots braving the conditions for a chance to enjoy the park’s dubious charms. This time of year, the few trees were bare, the skies dark as iron, and the turf sodden as a washrag.
He glanced down at the mud. “These are my best boots, dash it all.”
Her bonnet tipped closer to him. “They will come clean.” Droplets flew upward as she raised her chin. “So will you. So will I.”
“For God’s sake, Phoebe, let us return—”
“I was suffocating,” she said softly, periwinkle eyes calm and defiant. “I needed to breathe.” She released him to turn in a circle, ending with her back to him. Her shoulders heaved. One hand braced on her hip. The other settled over her belly.
A particularly strong gale thrust her skirts sideways, flattening along one leg and ballooning out along the other. She did not budge. Every so often, her slender shoulders would shudder and sigh.
He hadn’t the faintest sense of what to do.
“Adam,” she said, her voice nearly carried away by wind and rain. “Have you ever felt … trapped?”
He didn’t know how to answer. Firstly, she’d used his given name. A woman shouldn’t do that unless she wished to give a man notions. Secondly, she’d asked a question with a much longer answer than yes or no.
Adam Shaw had seen everything once. Everything vile and hellish. Everything wondrous and fine. He’d seen a man flayed to death for spilling his ale. He’d seen his mother turn cold and lifeless in the thick, living heat she’d despised. He’d seen the sun rise out of endless water into an endless sky. He’d seen Phoebe Widmore laugh.
“Yes,” he answered, moving closer, angling his body to protect her from the worst of it. “I have. The trick is not to let the trap spring fully.”
“How do you escape?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you live through it. Then plan.”
She turned her eyes upon him. They were swimming. “And sometimes you’ve so thoroughly trapped yourself, there is nothing more to plan.”
“Phoebe …” Frowning, he inched closer, watching her fragile shoulders begin to shiver. “Why this despair?” he murmured.
She sniffed, smiled weakly, and shook her head. “Perhaps it is the weather.”
As though it had been waiting to be announced, the weather shoved at his back, necessitating the bracing of his arms around her, the gathering of her close and tight. Her bonnet scraped his chin, and her warm, slender form tucked in against him like she was made for that very purpose.
“We should return,” he murmured, stroking her back and trying to ignore the way she clutched at his lapel. “Mustn’t give the staff reasons for speculation.”
Another sniff. “Speculation?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you know of their habit of making absurd wagers. I shouldn’t be surprised to find Duff collecting a shilling or two when we return before dusk.”
She giggled. “Should we—”
“No. That would generate a new set of wagers. And likely a scandal.”
Sighing, she pulled away and started toward Piccadilly, leaving cold wind and empty space where she’d been. As he walked by her side, he was struck by a peculiar sensation. A charged chill over his skin. A warm flush beneath it. Deeper still, it was earth, flat and solid, rooted and certain.
He’d felt it only once before—the day he’d met Reaver.
Then, as now, his heart had begun to race, his hands and arms tingling. He glanced down at Phoebe. Her little red nose. Her soft lips. Her pale, milky skin. Wisps of hair had come loose, plastered across her cheek and chin by the damp. She didn’t bother to brush them away. Instead, she strode on across muddy turf toward the bustling street, her gaze distant and bothered.
“One day soon,” he said quietly, “when the weather eases, perhaps we could ride in the park. The club has a fine mount or two in its stable.”
She glanced his way, her smile oddly sad. “Perhaps.”
Her diffidence disturbed him. He could only guess she’d had time to realize the implications of being seen at his side. Flexing his jaw, he bit back old bitterness and offered, “If you prefer, I can wear livery.”
Her steps halted. “I beg your pardon?”
Having passed her by several paces, he turned. Blue eyes previously dulled by despair now fired with indignation.
“Why should you wear livery?” she snapped. “You are not a servant.”
“It would go easier for you if I were.”
She stomped toward him, small, gloved hands clenched into fists. “Listen to me, Adam Shaw. You are neither my footman, nor my nursemaid, nor my butler. You are my friend.”
Bloody hell, she’d struck him square in the heart. The damned thing ached and pounded. He tilted his head. Brushed the wet strands of hair from her cheek. Swallowed against a tight throat. “As your friend, I wish to protect you.”
“I do not need protecting.”
His smile felt bittersweet upon his lips. “A statement which only proves that you do.”
She released an exasperated breath. “The prejudices of others are their shame, not mine.”
“My mother said the same. She was a strong woman.” Remembering the determined tilt of her jaw, the challenging lift of her brow whenever anyone cast them an untoward stare, he chuckled. “Never gave an inch. Remained adamantly English in every respect, of course, yet she rejected just as strongly the notion that one’s origins matter more than one’s character.”
Phoebe’s expression softened. “She sounds sensible. How did she come to live in India?”
“I shall tell you the story if you will resume walking. It is too dashed cold out here, and your luncheon is waiting.”
She clicked her tongue but started forward again.
He fell in beside her and continued his tale. “My mother traveled to India to marry her first husband, a clerk with the East India Company. When he died, she moved heaven and earth to return”—he shot a wry glance skyward—“to her beloved, rain-soaked isle.”
“What happened? Why did she stay?”
“Moving heaven and earth takes time. In that year, she met my father.”
Her mouth quirked knowingly, as though his mother’s reasoning was obvious. “He looked like you, I take it.”
“So she said. I do not remember him well. He died when I was still a boy.”
“But she stayed.”
He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and glancing briefly at his boots. “For my sake, at the beginning. Company men often took bibis—”
“Bibis?”
“Indian consorts or wives. The children of these unions were better accepted in India than here. My father was the product of such a union, and my mother believed I could more readily carve out a place for myself there. As it happened, the opposite proved true.” Indeed, their lives had been hell, complete with murderous heat and desperate poverty. No, India had not been kind to him. But it had killed his mother, and for that, he bore his birthplace scant affection.
She drifted closer, brushing another strand of hair away from her lips. “So, you came to England.”
“Mmm. After she died. Upon my arrival, I met Reaver.”
Her lips formed a moue of disapproval.
“He is not the villain you have judged him, Phoebe,” he cautioned. “Your sister is safe, I assure you. Safer than with somebody of Glassington’s ilk, that much is certain.”
She jerked. Stiffened. Drew away as though he’d struck her.
What the devil had he said?
Moving faster as they reached Piccadilly, she marched onward past numerous shops, huddling against a blast of rain and ignoring him entirely. He didn’t blame her, of course, despite a twinge of disappointment. Being seen in his company was not to her advantage.
Suddenly, a dozen yards later, she halted like a bird colliding with a window. Her eyes went wide, fixed on the area in front of Fortnum and Mason.
He frowned, wiping the dripping brim of his hat so he could see what had startled her so. Scanning the post-chaises and hacks rolling by, examining the various pedestrians along Piccadilly, he demanded, “What is it? Did someone see us together and—”
“Nothing. It is nothing.”
He spun to meet her eyes, but she was already striding past, white as chalk. Again, he followed her gaze, determined to identify the fool who had given offense. Ahead, there were only three groups and one lone man ambling past the grocer’s windows. The man was old, walking with a cane. One group was a pair of plainly dressed servants, another a middle-aged woman accompanied by her footman. But the third, pausing to gaze through the shop window, was a couple—a man in a finely tailored greatcoat, and a woman with an oversized ermine muff. The man held an umbrella above the woman’s head. They were followed at a discreet distance by a shivering lady’s maid.
Squinting through the driving rain, he tried to see the man’s features, but the couple turned toward the door. As Adam kept pace with Phoebe, the set of the man’s shoulders, his height and frame struck a note of familiarity, but he couldn’t place him.
Then, the wind caught the man’s umbrella. He turned to retrieve it, laughing as he managed to wrestle it closed.
Adam blinked. Glanced at Phoebe, whose arms crossed over her middle as though she were cold or sick.
Past the brim of her bonnet, all he could see were her lips. They had gone bloodless. “You were right, Mr. Shaw,” she said, her voice thin and choked. “We should not have come out today. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He wanted to question her further, but they had already reached the carriage, and the footman, Edward, opened the door. Edward and the coachman both appeared stoic and miserable. So, rather than demanding answers, Adam helped Phoebe into the coach and climbed in beside her, ignoring Edith’s long-suffering sigh.
Instead, he collected the lap blanket Phoebe had abandoned and spread it over her. She didn’t respond, merely sat still and stared out the window as the coach lurched forward.
Time enough later, he told himself. Later, when she was warm and well fed, he would discover why Phoebe Widmore had looked like death when she’d set eyes upon the Earl of Glassington.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWELVE
“A lady may signal her interest in a multitude of ways. I have long favored the direct approach. In the time required for a man to decipher the secret language of handkerchiefs and fans, fluttering lashes and discreet smiles, a cleverer woman could have married him thrice.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the subtleties of courtship.
Seven days after Sebastian’s kiss, Augusta still hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep. How could she, when every time she closed her eyes, she felt his hands upon her, his mouth upon hers, his body pleasuring hers?
Not that he was present, of course. He hadn’t so much as touched her in a week. It
was both misery and pleasurable tension.
Even now, as she watched five burly footmen and three of Mr. Beauchamp’s deliverymen carry the dining table through the entrance hall, she effervesced with anticipation.
How she longed to see him again. Despite his sudden spate of gentlemanly restraint. And his long absences. And his burning watchfulness.
He continued sleeping at the club, much to her consternation. Had she not sufficiently conveyed her willingness to be kissed?
She nibbled her lip and marked a mahogany secretary as having been delivered. “Upstairs on the first floor,” she directed the footmen absently. “First set of doors. West wall in the drawing room.”
Perhaps Sebastian needed encouragement. Nothing about him suggested a lack of intelligence or capability. No, indeed, he was most certainly capable. Astonishingly so.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly.
The problem was clearly unrelated to his … capabilities. Yet, he avoided her company for reasons she hadn’t quite puzzled out. She must be bolder, she decided. Yes. If she assured him his ungentlemanly attentions were acceptable to her, then he might overcome whatever misgivings prevented him from taking action.
Action that was necessary. And desired. And well past due.
“My word, he is a wily one, is he not?”
Augusta blinked at Anne, who was helping her direct the deliverymen. The maid had been elevated to housekeeper and was now known as Mrs. Higgins, though she remained unmarried, and Edith continued referring to her as “Big Annie.”
Seeing Augusta’s confusion, Anne clarified, “Our little mouse. He spent this morning persuading John to show him the ‘proper way’ to clean a horse stall.” She nodded toward a strapping young man tracking mud into the house while holding one end of a settee. “By the time John finished his lesson, the task was done. Now, the mouse is nowhere to be found.”
