Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  “Will you take a sip of the damn claret?”

  “I wish you would stop speaking with such vulgar language.” She shook her head, knocking away an image of him leaning forward to kiss her with that dirty mouth of his. Those novels of hers had rotted her brains.

  He placed two pieces of meat in a sizzling skillet with a pad of butter and some herbs, taunting her no more. The kitchen filled with a wonderful smell and Clara found herself with the glass at her lips, pausing to acknowledge the corrupting influence of Bly, and more importantly, her own secret wickedness. Because in truth, Clara harbored her own wildness, her own desire to live and be a woman free from the cage the men of her life had locked her into.

  She took a sip and made a sour face. Without making her distaste known, she drained the glass and set it onto the counter next to her.

  “Thirsty, Dawson?”

  Clara licked her lips. Her body, her mouth, her heart hummed with anticipation as Bly’s breath caught in his throat. “Apparently so.”

  *

  A log on the fire fell, sending a sparking shower of embers up the chimney flue. Even in the dim light of the drawing room, Clara glittered like a Roman coin in the sun. Her hair was falling out of its pins, framing her face with twisted wisps. Bly wondered if she would reach up and release the rest of her tresses, but it remained pinned, just as she remained on the cusp of propriety and free-will—half undone.

  Clara was a mystery he did not understand. She was like the Aka-Bo dialect of the Andaman Islands. It was similar to Ongan, but they did not translate at all. He could identify the sounds and listen, but he would not comprehend the words unless someone taught him the dialect. He would never learn Clara unless he studied her. He could never put her out of his mind if he did not kiss her.

  He was losing his touch as a thief and had all but lost his edge as a spy. He couldn’t get a slip of information from her about what had happened before she arrived at Burton Hall.

  “Bly?” she asked, as they sat picnicking on the floor of the laughably empty library.

  He blinked a few times before clearing his throat. He no longer had the upper hand. Clara had stolen that from him earlier tonight by agreeing to his invitation. No, if he was being completely honest, she had taken that from him some weeks ago. He could not remember when exactly, but it was too late to matter now.

  Bly pulled at the collar of his shirt. The damn thing was choking him. The sight of Clara licking her lips after another bite of dinner left him undone, as though he were hours deep into chasing after the dragon. She erased the world around him; she erased the thoughts swirling in his mind, as well.

  “My compliments to the chef,” she said, wiping the crumbs at her mouth away with the back of her hand. It was so unlike her to do something so…impolite.

  He smiled.

  “I was much hungrier than expected. Thank you. I should not eat like this in front of you, it is—”

  “It’s improper.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, stumbling a bit with her answer. She took another sip of her claret, shuddering as she swallowed. He knew she did not enjoy the taste, but she carried on as if she did. He wished he understood her and all of her contradictions.

  “I think you’ve lived your whole life afraid of opinions. I’m telling you that it doesn’t matter to me. Any of it.”

  Clara set down her fork, a pinched expression settling over her face. “I am only mindful of the rules of society. That is partly why you hired me, is it not? I’m here to teach your nephew and nieces right from wrong.”

  “Do you have to live it every moment?” He balled his napkin up, throwing it to the ground. “You must be exhausted.”

  She stood onto her knees. “Are you finished?” she asked, pointing to his empty plate.

  “It can wait.”

  Bly noticed her furrowed brow and the small crease that formed between her eyebrows when something troubled her. He troubled her.

  “I just meant I’m in no rush to leave if you would like to stay.”

  “Very well.” Clara looked down at the claret resting by her fidgeting hands and sighed. He did not mean to nettle her, not always. She sank down to the carpet and neatly tucked her feet under her skirts. “Your accent is muddled.”

  He was surprised her eyes looked green this evening.

  There was truth in her statement. How could someone sound as if they belonged when they never truly had a home? He had travelled half the globe and had spent more time in India than he ever had in England.

  She caught him at a disadvantage again as he confessed, “I left Burton Hall when I was very young to live with my father and his mistress in India.” He meant to keep that to himself. Bly hated speaking of his past, not that he was ever asked much about it. He was crucified for it often enough, though.

  He expected her to blush at the mention of a mistress but she gave no sign of disgust. That seemed like a topic a refined lady would find vulgar; certainly improper.

  Clara took another sip of claret instead, studying him over her glass. She was watching him just as he was her—with vested interest.

  A drop of wine clung to the corner of her lips, reflecting the fire’s light. He could not draw his eyes away, fighting back the barbaric urge to clean off her lips with a swipe of his tongue.

  “It’s growing late,” she said, tossing him a forced smile.

  “Yes.” He leaned back, digging his fingers into the worn fibers of the old carpet. He could pretend to be patient, but he was far from it as she rose and grabbed her plate. He needed to know who it was she ran from. He needed to know her secrets so he could continue with his plans to travel to India. He couldn’t leave a mystery such as Clara Dawson unsolved.

  When she curtsied and turned for the door, Bly jumped to his feet. He had enough of her bowing to him, especially as she limped. He raced up behind her and held his hand against the door. “Who are you running from?”

  Clara turned, her face masked with indifference. “At the moment,” she paused, her eyes searching his, “you.”

  “I need to know. Who shot me, Clara?”

  She did not fall back, not an inch. “I do not know. You said yourself you have kings and nations after you.”

  He leaned closer, his nose almost brushing hers. He could smell the claret on her breath and inhaled it in. Lemons, too. She would drive him mad, always smelling of lemons and a life that could be more than the Yorkshire moors.

  She could duck and move away, but she remained, leaning slightly toward the arm he held to the door.

  “Clara.”

  “A man,” she rushed out. “I don’t know who shot you, but I took the position to escape a nasty man. And I must—”

  “The one who attacked you?”

  “I fell.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his free hand rising up to the wisps of hair framing her face. He twisted them around his finger. Silk, just as he had guessed. “I know you didn’t fall.”

  Bly leaned closer. Candlelight bounced off her perfect face, her strange eyes glinting with a desire that beckoned to him like the promise of land to a wayward ship.

  “I meant what I said. If you think you are in danger…”

  Clara nodded and swallowed, swaying closer.

  He cupped her face and touched his lips to hers, breathing in her surprise as their lips met. He expected her to pull away and demand he let her out of the room. He expected anything besides her brushing back the few locks of hair that had fallen over his eyes, but she did just that. She pulled away slightly, her warm breath caressing his lips as she looked up at him from beneath long sandy-colored lashes.

  This is where she would run. Clara would pull away, run out of the room, and call him a monster. Bly knew it was coming. He was a monster for even attempting to kiss her, for being foolish enough to think she would allow him kiss her, that he was worthy of her kiss.

  Bly traced the pad of his thumb over her lips slowly, waiting for her disgust. She reached for his
wrist, her fingers as good as a hot brand as they drew his hand away from her face. Just as he feared, she was pulling away.

  He dropped his hand and waited for her to send a hand across his face and give him a lecture on propriety. He waited, alone and adrift, but nothing happened. Clara remained, watching as if he were the one who would turn and flee. If he could think straight, that would be best. Yet she leaned forward and kissed him back soundly, tracing her tongue over the seam of his mouth until he awakened from his shock and kissed her back like she deserved to be kissed.

  His need became as heated as hers, but he slowed his advance, drinking in the taste of her. Bly felt Clara’s smile spread against his lips, so he continued. He heard the soft sound she made when he nibbled on the swollen flesh of her bottom lip and shuddered. Her sweet moan was far better than he imagined.

  It was not until he reached back and unpinned her hair, letting the honey locks flow down the length of her back, that he lost his better reason to slow, to not frighten her and chase her away.

  His lips brushed over her jaw, her throat, and the delicate skin above the high collar of her dress. Bly wanted to slip the buttons of her dress free and expose the length of her neck and lay his lips over the freckle he discovered when they met in the conservatory that night weeks ago. He wanted to further his exploration after that and discover the other mysteries she hid, until Clara lay before him without a stitch of clothing on—naked and bared to him.

  A delicate tittering sounded on the floor as her body melted against his. Her hands threaded through his hair while the dinner plate she dropped danced at their feet.

  Bly pulled back and searched her eyes, shocked by what he had just felt. Was there a word to describe it? He had certainly never experienced it with another woman before.

  “What’s the man’s name?” he asked gruffly, desperately trying to get back to his inquiry.

  Clara’s hand tightened around his neck at the question. He would ruin this moment if he did not keep his mouth shut, but he could not stop from asking. Bly wanted to hunt down the man who took a knife to her and flay him open until he begged for the mercy of a knife.

  Her fingers fluttered along the line of his jaw, drumming his fall into madness. No, Bly did not understand Clara at all, especially as she brought her wine-stained lips to his, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth once more.

  That gesture, however small, however innocent, was still fueled with a certainty that silenced his hesitation. The sky could have fallen, the sun could have grown cold, the world could have flooded—Bly would not have pulled his lips from hers for anything.

  Her touch was an invocation, sweeter and more addictive than any of his wicked vices. Bly bent down and hooked his arm under her knees, keeping his lips over hers, afraid that if he pulled away, he would discover her touch was just a cloying, tormenting effect of an opium dream.

  He levered over her as they fell back onto the sofa, slipping a button free from her collar, then another. His fingers were greedy for her skin against his fingertips. Her body arched under his hands, urging him on as he slipped yet another button free. Bly ran his tongue down the graceful line of her neck until he arrived at his destination—that enticing freckle at the base of her throat. He carried on, as her racing pulse beat against his lips. The sweet press of her hips against his made him fevered. More so, as her fingers raked against the line of his shoulders and pulled his shirt from his waistband. He slipped another button free on her dress and unearthed the swell of her breasts from beneath the top of her corset.

  Clara sighed as his hand moved lower, cupping her breast. His hand brushed against the chain of her necklace and he moved to pull it free, but her hand caught his and he stopped.

  The madness, the windswept force that had so quickly gathered them up into passion, ceased just as quickly as it had begun.

  Bly bowed his head to her chest, moving with her rushed breath, up and down, until it lulled his nerves to a dull roar. Nothing would quiet what she had just ignited within him, but he could appreciate the calm that washed over him as her lips pressed against his cheek in a chaste kiss.

  “B-Bly?” she finally whispered, their breathing still harsh and rapid. He looked up, lifting himself to his hands. He did not want to separate himself from her. It was like severing a limb.

  Clara looked incredulous and flushed, her lips swollen from kissing. He smiled at her, for once truly happy. “I’m sorry. I won’t kiss you again, Clara,” he said, his voice still haggard. He wanted to kiss her again and more.

  She shook her head slightly. “That would be best. We cannot…”

  They slowly untangled from each other, painfully so, until she sat at one end of the sofa, he on the other, unsure of what lay ahead. Bly stared at the wall as she buttoned her dress and righted her hair, putting herself back in proper order. He liked it better when she was undone.

  Not a word was spoken as she walked behind him and headed for the door. He was a monster and she was leaving. He had ruined everything between them.

  It was the sound of claret filling glasses, not the turn of the doorknob, that flooded his ears. She was not leaving after all, as he expected. Clara walked in front of him, handing Bly a glass.

  “Let’s have another drink,” she said demurely, her fingers resting on his.

  She sat beside him on the sofa. He wished to hold her, but that would be unwise. Instead, he pulled the glass from her hand as she rested her head against his leg. He raised her glass to his lips and emptied it, his free hand hovering over her shoulder, unsure of what was between them now.

  “Tell me about India, Bly.”

  *

  In the morning, Clara awoke back in her cage as if the magic of the previous evening was all but a dream. Yet her head ached as she shifted over the musty mattress. She attempted to sit upright, but the sunlight burned her eyes, even through the filthy glass of the small window. She burrowed beneath the moth-eaten blanket and groaned, wishing the room would stop spinning and the metallic taste in her mouth would vanish.

  It was…she smiled at the thought of his name.

  Her fingertips danced over her lips, remembering the feel of his mouth against hers, the way he tasted. Last evening was most likely a mistake, but she could not bring herself to believe that, not completely. Especially not after receiving such a sound education on kissing.

  There was only one moment where her conviction had faltered. He had looked down at her with an honest smile, the first she had ever seen on his face. Panic had gripped her then, because she could handle Bly acting jaded and mocking. She had grown used to that Bly. But to see him act in earnest, well—it caused her heart to sputter, her mind to cloud, and her nerves to catch fire. His touch made her want for something she did not understand. What she felt for him was not proper, and now that he was leaving, it was impossible.

  There was a knock at her door and she sat up, wincing as her head started to thump with a new ferocity. The door pushed open before she could answer.

  “Your breakfast, miss,” a young girl said, one of Lady Margaret’s servants. “When you finish, Lady Margaret wishes to see you in her parlor.”

  “Thank you. What’s your name?” Clara asked, but her question was ignored as the door closed quickly. She wrinkled her nose at the girl’s put down.

  Clara eyed the toast and tea on the floor, and sighed. She would be forced to have her meals alone on her room, which was finished sparsely, with a small and sagging bed, and a window with a rusty hinge. This was to be her new cage. The only difference was that now she answered to a woman who wished to keep her locked away, and not a man.

  Scowling as her swollen ankle throbbed in pain, she changed and left to start a day she wished had never arrived.

  *

  Clara knocked on the door of Lady Margaret’s parlor, and waited. A lady’s maid answered, glaring at Clara as if she were a beggar pleading for scrapes of bread.

  “Lady Margaret has asked to see me.”

&
nbsp; “I have been waiting all morning,” spoke a voice from within. “Such terrible manners.”

  Clara flashed a nervous smile to the maid who refused her entry. It had been only twenty minutes since she was brought breakfast. It was not as if she had wasted her morning away obliging her pounding head, although Clara wished she had.

  The maid opened the door wider and allowed her inside. Lady Margaret was lounging on a velvet chaise by a large window, a black and white cat purring heavily on her lap.

  “I expect that when I call on you, you arrive immediately and not waste my time,” Lady Margaret barked as the door as closed behind Clara.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Walk closer. I want a look at you.”

  Clara obliged, stepping further into the room, painted the dark color of a peacock’s tail. It was rich and extravagant, even without being fully furnished. Trunks upon trunks were stacked in the corner waiting to be unpacked, but it seemed Lady Margaret was perfectly at home.

  She was a thin and fragile woman. Someone lucky to have escaped the passing year, as there were few wrinkles on her face, her skin like glass. Her emerald eyes held not a drop of kindness in them. Her slight lips, a pale berry, were pressed into a hard line. The only true sign that she was in fact older was the silver laced throughout her ebony hair.

  “Hmm,” Lady Margaret said. A cruel turn of her lips spread as she glanced away from Clara and ran her hand over the back of the cat. “I find I need to have a discussion with you which is quite inconvenient. There is much to do and managing the governess should not be a task I need to see to.”

  There was nothing to say that would be polite, so Clara clasped her hands and met Lady Margaret’s icy glare with a demure nod instead.