Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  “Is reading your favorite pasttime?” Mr. Ravensdale stepped in without invitation.

  She had enough lecturing for one day, but even he should know not to step into her quarters. “One of them,” she managed, her eyes focused on the page in front of her.

  She did not have to look to know that Mr. Ravensdale was standing by the writing desk in the middle of the room. She felt him in the most disconcerting way. It was similar to the look he flashed from time to time that felt akin to him undressing her.

  “Pamela, Wuthering Heights, Lady Audley’s Secret. Reading seems frivolous,” he said, leaning up against the desk.

  “No doubt.” With the way Mr. Ravensdale behaved, it seemed entirely plausible that he had been raised by a pack of wolves.

  “You’ve a very sharp tongue,” he observed with a dry laugh. He stalked closer as she pressed against the window to escape his searching eyes. They were bright, vivid, and burning. “Where’s your bloody etiquette manual? I’ve come to destroy it.”

  She dropped her eyes and turned the page, unsure of what was happening to the heroine now as she was suddenly being chased down by her own villain.

  “The doctor paid me a visit today.”

  “Is that so?” Clara grasped onto the book a bit tighter.

  “It’s curious because I hadn’t sent for him. Do you know who did?”

  “Why would I know? I am only the governess. I am expected to be in the schoolroom each morning and have been given leave each Tuesday and Sunday afternoon.” Clara could not resist taunting him, although she should have as he took another step closer. She looked from her book, darting a nervous glance in his direction before diverting her eyes back to the page.

  “I see. Then perhaps you will be happy to learn that I shall survive.” When she did not answer, he took yet another step, setting her nerves on edge. “Or perhaps you wish I would expire.”

  She faced him finally. “Stop talking nonsense.”

  “So,” he said, dropping his voice to a smooth whisper. She noted the small upturn at his lips, only lofting her nose at his irritating invasion, effectively putting them in a standoff. He grabbed her book and tugged, forcing her to look him in the eye. She pulled back, but he was too strong.

  “You looked feverish yesterday,” she rushed out, her voice barely a whisper. The heat of embarrassment colored her cheeks. For her to notice such things meant that she had watched him closely and she despised having to admit as much, especially to him.

  His smile grew ever so slightly at her admission. “This has caught your attention I see!” He pulled the book from her hands and paused in the middle of the room.

  “Give that back!” she cried, jumping to her feet and balling her fists. It was unladylike, but there was a strong possibility that if he continued to torment her, she would finally lay a fist into his nose. Perfect face or no.

  He held the book high above his head, well out of reach, and began to read.

  “‘Marigold gasped as he clutched at her bosom.’” Mr. Ravensdale paused and quirked an eyebrow at Clara before continuing in a high, breathy voice, “‘No, Riccardo, this cannot be!’ Marigold cried, attempting to pull away from the dashing highwayman.”

  Clara jumped for the book, but he held out his other arm and blocked her feeble attempt, laughing. “Stop tormenting me, you insufferable lout!”

  “‘I assure you, it can happen, my lady, the highwayman sneered, dragging her against his body and pressing his lips upon hers in searing lust,’” Mr. Ravensdale continued, turning suddenly to Clara. “I thought you were a cold prude, Dawson.”

  Angered beyond measure, Clara threw a fist in his direction, which he neatly dodged.

  “Tut, tut,” he scolded. “I see I’ve come to the wrong conclusion. I believe you have some fire within you after all.”

  “Leave! This is my bedroom and I did not give you an invitation to enter…or to read my personal belongings…o-or to address me by my Christian name!” She jumped again, aghast, as his eyes filled with lust as she stretched upward for her book.

  He froze. “I think I’ve developed a fondness for tormenting you,” he said with a wink.

  Clara huffed and stomped squarely on his foot. He lowered the book as she jumped, clutching it protectively to her chest once she tore it out of his hand. She turned back to return to her window perch and glanced her shoulder. “You may leave now,” she said in her iciest voice.

  “What an interesting read,” he drawled lazily, walking toward the door. “I understand now why you were so captivated.”

  Clara paused with her back to him, completely mortified.

  “Don’t waste time lusting after false heroes. I make them look like schoolboys nearly every day…Clara.”

  When she moved to counter, she discovered the room empty and that strange flutter in her chest had returned, except now it resembled a drummer boy marching onto the battlefield.

  Blast.

  *

  The sudden change in the wind meant there was a storm marching upon Burton Hall. Bly gave the sky a discerning glance as he strolled from the stable and dragged in another burning puff of his cigar. He wasn’t ready to return to that insufferable makeshift office of his just yet. After the meeting he had in town with some local tradesmen about further repairs to the house, he should have kept riding and taken the first boat off the godforsaken island.

  Day after day, he found himself deeper and deeper in the management of the house and its full restoration for the sake of his nephew’s legacy. He hated it. All of it.

  James was born with a title and, by birthright, was a member of the aristocracy. Bly found the whole thing antiquated and foolish, but he was honoring his brother’s wishes, even if Walter had turned his back on the very same so that he could play with his plants and mistresses in India. His brother always had been a hypocrite.

  With a large swish, Bly cut his riding crop through the tall grass as he strode through the overgrown garden, deciding to visit the old remains of his family’s ancestral home.

  Before his grandfather leveled the crumbling relic for a more extravagant estate in honor of his new bride, Burton Hall was known as Murdoch House. It was nothing more than a medieval fortress, built with stacked stone and leaded glass windows. There was a crumbling foundation left behind that his grandfather had incorporated into a garden upon the request of his wife, Ophelia.

  He commissioned Burton Hall as her wedding gift and took his bride with him as he fought his way across the continent. They returned upon the birth of Bly’s father, and his grandfather retired a happy and young officer, set to enjoy life with his wife and son. Three years later, when Ophelia was with child again, she drowned in the pond on the estate one summer day. In another twenty years, it was Bly’s mother who walked into the pond with weighted skirts and ended her life.

  The sudden remembrance of which, stopped Bly in his tracks.

  The pond must be filled.

  He would not allow James the knowledge of the lives that small body of water had claimed. With those two lives lost, the Ravensdale family crumbled and there seemed little hope of redemption. Like the house, little left stood between him and complete ruin. The children deserved the chance to reestablish the Ravensdale family in England as honorable. Bly would work hard, no matter how tedious the task became, to set the course right for his charges. He owed them that, at least.

  He took another vengeful swing of his crop and surged forward, aware that the longer he hesitated, the more likely it was that he would be caught in the storm brewing in the clouds above. His mind drifted to Clara once again.

  When he sought her out two days earlier, he simply meant to see if she would like to join him and children for a walk through the park. Instead, he found her reading at her window, looking saintly in the early autumn’s golden light. He could not bring himself to behave. He taunted her to glorious affect, bringing a heavy blush to her face and an answering response to his own body. His eyes were quick to dwell on th
e perfect proportions of her lithe body stretched out before him as she jumped to retrieve her book. Wickedly, he thought of her stretched out, naked in his bed. He tried to shake the lovely image out of his mind only to be confronted with Clara walking in the walled garden by the old tower in front of him.

  She had perfected the art of being a ghost, haunting him always.

  “Dawson,” he greeted her, halting his steps. He nodded but remained still, unsure of where to move so that he did not frighten her away. For all her might and repressed fire, Clara preferred to fade into the background. That is, when she was not busy cleaning it.

  She curtsied, the damn woman, and continued to her right so she could make a hasty exit. “Good day.”

  Her hair was down and tussled by the storm’s approaching winds. Even in her drab gray dress, she was winsome. The breeze wrapped around her, and for a moment, she looked as though she belonged in a museum with her proud face tight as if etched into fine marble.

  “I was just returning for afternoon lessons.”

  “I believe you’ll get wet,” he answered, feeling the tension ripple between them.

  She looked up to the skies for herself and bounced backward as the first drops sputtered from above.

  “Come. Over here.” He pointed to the large stone arch dug into the earth by the tower. Clara did not move as the rain fell harder, as if the wild vines had claimed her feet and had taken root into the rich soil. “Suit yourself,” he grumbled, running for cover.

  She rushed to the garden stairs and stopped, changing direction and running to join him under the archway. “I hope you will not make me regret this.” She ran her fingers through her hair, sliding a cold glance his way.

  “Of course not. I will be a complete gentleman.” His eyes fell upon the freckle that dotted the high ridge of her left cheekbone. His thoughts plummeted to the one hidden beneath the collar, the one that made his hand burn with remembrance.

  “That is precisely what I am afraid of,” she said softly, gazing out over the garden. “I hope the rain lets up soon,” she added, this time a little louder. “I was only enjoying a short walk. Please do not think I have abandoned the children.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He laughed, tapping the riding crop against his boots in a nervous rhythm. “I wish to be out of their company most of the time myself.”

  “I do not believe that for a moment.”

  It was best to avoid giving her the impression that she was correct in her presumption. “Why are you out in the gardens?”

  “I was out for a walk, as I mentioned and—”

  “—what’s troubling you?”

  She stepped forward. For a moment, he feared she would run out into the pouring rain and return to Burton Hall. She remained though, keeping a weather eye on the horizon, her body turned away.

  “You and I have more in common than you think,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “We have something in common? What would be the fun in that?” She turned to look at him with steely eyes, catching him off guard with the small smile that played at the corner of her lips. He wished to see her smile fully. At him.

  “I believe that you were running from something when you took the position here.”

  He watched her body stiffen at his accusation. Her so-called “fall” was sign enough. Bly had wielded enough knifes in his lifetime to know that she had been attacked by a blade.

  “Well, that is…I am afraid you’re incorrect.”

  Bly shrugged. He would allow her the grace of winning today for the sake of her pride, but eventually he would uncover the truth.

  “Since we’re waiting for the storm to pass, should we be friend or foe?” He leaned against the stone wall, savoring the taste of his cigar.

  “That decision is yours. You were the one who entered my room and sought to amuse yourself by tormenting me.”

  He stopped then, watching as she sank to the ground and folded her hands primly in her lap. Clara peered up with an arresting smile filled with sadness, further punctuated by her piercing eyes. A sweet, beautiful sadness that he wanted to erase from her face.

  “Your eyes are green today.” As soon as he spoke it aloud, he felt his ears redden, almost matching the red that rose to her cheeks.

  “Do they change color, Mr. Ravensdale?”

  They did in fact change color. Most days they appeared gray, but today, they were an icy green. Bright, verdurous like the fresh bud of an apple blossom in spring when the surrounding world was still brown and waking up.

  “Then we shall be friends,” he continued, brushing past his foolishness, pretending she gave the answer he craved to hear. “We’ll need to be friends when my aunt arrives. She’s a dragon of a woman.”

  Bly held his palm out, motioning for her to wait as he rushed into the rain. He returned a few minutes later, wet and a little out of breath, but with a smile on his face nonetheless for the prize he held in his hand—a pink rose, the last of the season, but still in its best bloom.

  “A peace offering, my lady,” he said, bowing.

  She drew in a breath and hesitated before accepting his courtly gesture. “Thank you, good sir. I accept,” she whispered as he backed away to the opposite wall.

  “Are we friends now?” He stretched his arms beside him and tapped his fingers against the rough stone in a busy rhythm.

  “I suppose.” She tucked the rose behind her ear, making the pale bloom stand out amongst her windswept locks.

  They fell into an easy silence for a time, listening to the steady pattering of rain against the browning leaves of the autumn foliage.

  “Your hair is down today,” he said finally.

  “The pins give me a headache.”

  “Then don’t pin your hair back so tightly.”

  “It is the proper hairstyle.”

  “A governess with a loose chignon must be the ultimate disgrace of society,” he mocked. “I never put much thought into the devastating effects improperly pinned hair had on the fate of the British Empire before now.”

  He expected her haughty stare, and smiled as she lofted her nose to him.

  “It is improper for a woman of my age to wear her hair down, regardless of her station in life.”

  He was decent and did not call upon her age, although he found himself curious to learn that fact. He guessed she was younger. With her hair down, she did not look the role of spinster after all. “And why is that?”

  “I can only say that if one is a governess, she must blend into the shadows of the household or risk losing her position. And as a spinster, I am to accept my age and not enjoy any last claim I possess on youth. I am forced to be ugly, just as I am forced to live life alone. The fate of the British Empire, as you so mockingly tease, relies on a sense of honor and propriety. I do my part without protest, almost as vehemently as you have chosen to ignore yours.”

  “Hang honor and propriety!”

  “Can you never speak your mind without using such vulgarity?”

  He leaned forward, arching a dark brow. “Minding my speech is trying, even in mixed company. Present company included. I’ve never been one to follow the dictates of a country I have never felt a part of.”

  Clara lowered her gaze and ran her hands over her skirts, smoothing them needlessly as if she would brush out the tension growing between them. She always fussed with her hands when she grew nervous. They were beautiful hands, with long and elegant fingers made for playing the piano. He had the pleasure of overhearing her play the morning before, humming as her fingers danced over the warped ivory keys. She deserved to play something better than an out-of-tune artifact.

  “Clothes may make a woman appear plain,” he began, “but you’re far from it.” Her fidgeting hands stilled. “You try to look so, but you’re the most envied sort of beauty, I think. The one who needs make no effort to be breathtaking. Try as you might, you fail, and I find myself selfishly thankful for it.”

  Bly slipped down the wall, s
itting with one leg extended and the other folded against his chest.

  “You have commented twice on my appearance today, Mr. Ravensdale. I ask that you refrain from making a third.”

  A rosy blush sat on her cheeks as she brushed back her hair and sat a little straighter upon hearing his frank speech. There was something about her unkempt appearance that coerced him into making a fool of himself.

  “I find myself in need of issuing an apology then.” He smiled at her, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s been a long while since I’ve found myself in company that demands perfection.”

  She laughed. Damn it all, he had insulted her again.

  “And I apologize for that last comment as well.”

  “Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Ravensdale. Two apologies in a matter of minutes.” She shook her head. “Perhaps we should return before you find yourself issuing a third.”

  Cheekiness suited her. He chuckled, ducking his head down for a moment.

  “Ah,” she whispered when he said no more. Her fingers fluttered up to the rose resting behind her ear. She plucked it free and twirled it in her lap, temporarily lost to some daydream. He waited for the sweet sounds of her humming, but she regretfully refrained.

  “Your tattoo,” she said, still gazing down at her lap, “what does it mean?”

  He stopped from commenting on the propriety of that statement to ire her further. She was hell-bent on being proper and he was hell-bent on not being tamed—it would be a constant battle between them. He saw no need to continue any further this afternoon. There was always tomorrow.

  Bly looked down at the ink drawing on the inside of his right forearm. “This is from my time in the Indies,” he said. “It’s the coat of arms for the Windward Islands. I believe.”

  “But you’re not certain?” she mused. “I find it strange that you have something permanent on your body and can’t recall its meaning.”

  Truth be told, he tried not to think of his time in the Indies. He had been a fool then, at the age of eighteen. “I wasn’t in my right mind when I received it,” he confessed.