Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  The paper and her shawl fell to the ground beside her feet. The words burned her throat as she asked, “What more do you want, Mr. Graham?”

  “I want Bly on a boat within a week and I want you to have nothing further with him. Is that understood?”

  “So it’s to be blackmail?”

  “It could be worse, Miss Emsworth. It could be the noose.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  There was a knock on her door that evening just as she had snuffed out the candle and prepared to climb into bed. She hesitated, wondering if Bly had come to issue an apology. But she did not want to hear anything he had to say. There were no excuses for his frightening behavior. He nearly drowned her and she still felt the pressure of his fingertips against her mouth as he stifled her panicked screams. Memories of his hands tenderly cupping her face were merely that—memories. All she had left now was his cruelness and her bruised lips from his fingertips.

  She pulled a shawl tighter around her shoulders and cracked the door open, surprised to find Beatrice, one of the maids, holding a folded note.

  “There is a matter that has come to our attention downstairs. We thought it best not to disturb Lady Margaret at such a late hour.”

  “Lady Margaret has made it clear that I am not to have any say. There must be someone who can handle the situation properly. Mr. Ravensdale, perhaps? Good night,” Clara said, starting to close the door.

  Beatrice fidgeted, her big owl eyes blinking rapidly. “No, miss.”

  Clara reached for the note, her eyes scanning the missive before she promptly folded it once more. “Is there a carriage ready?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I will be down without delay.”

  She closed the door in haste and searched for a dress.

  *

  Bly landed himself in a cage, and this time, it had tangible bars.

  He grunted and dropped his head to his knees as a mouse scurried over his boot. His skin crawled and tightened, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. He had to get out.

  A door opened and Bly heard the shuffle of feet stop in front of his cell.

  “Someone has seen fit to post your bail,” the constable said. With a click, the metal bars opened and two wiry-looking men rushed in, hauling him to his feet. “The village will not tolerate indecent behavior like yours, even if your family owns most of it, Mr. Ravensdale. Public drunkenness and brawling are not events that happen in this village. Not unless you’re around, it seems. And now there is word that you’ve injured a man today.”

  He squinted, finally placing the man. The years had not been kind to the constable since he had last hauled Bly away for poaching on a neighboring estate after he had been kicked out of several boarding schools and forced to live with his mother at Burton Hall.

  “It’s a lesser offense than poaching.” The quip fell dead. He could smell the constable’s dinner on his breath. “I’ve heard that my whole life.” He spoke with a sharp cruelness that sliced through the constable’s bristling pride. “I’m unfit for the civilized world,” he continued, but he was a moment too late in issuing that last barb. The men conveyed him outside at a speed faster than his slurred thoughts could keep pace with.

  They hefted Bly into the carriage without ceremony, tossing his large body forward. He groaned as his head bashed the opposite wall. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling himself to sit somewhat straighter as the carriage rushed away.

  “I assume you’ve had a trying day.”

  Rage boiled up inside once more, but he remained silent, unsure of what to say to her. She was the last person he wanted to see. He took out his handkerchief to stem the blood flowing from his nose. “What gives you that impression?”

  “I just collected you from the goal.”

  “Let me ride back to Burton Hall in peace.”

  “Gladly,” Clara replied tartly.

  He pulled the flask from his coat pocket and took a long swig. He was drunk already. Even his teeth were numb. More could not hurt. It wouldn’t help either, but he must do something, and flinging himself out of the carriage would require too much effort.

  Clara leaned forward, the moonlight striking her face in a way that made it luminescent. Her eyes however, were piercing gray, lit with condemnation and disappointment. The look disarrayed everything beautiful about her face. Her hand wrapped around his and removed the flask, which was far easier than it ought to have been as he froze under her touch. Clara was silent as she threw his flask out the open window of the carriage.

  A dry, empty laugh escaped him in place of his complaints. Giving voice to those would only encourage her further. There were not enough curses known to men that would sufficiently quell his anger toward the prim Clara Dawson as she receded back into the shadows, remaining quiet for the rest of the journey.

  One of the footmen hauled Bly out of the carriage and saw him to his room. Much to his aunt’s displeasure, he still refused to take on a valet. No doubt, his aunt would know all about the trouble he caused in the village by morning.

  The fight he caused in the Bee and Thistle caused some damage to the establishment. Restitution would be demanded. Then there were the men he fought. They all survived the scuffle, but he had been too deep in his cups to remember if he left them within an inch of their lives or just sporting black eyes.

  “Are you in need of anything else, sir?” the footman asked, setting Bly at the edge of his bed.

  “Get out!”

  The door promptly closed and Bly was left alone, except he no longer wished to be. He reached inside his coat and pulled out his last cigar, struggling to light it with his trembling hands as the cigar bounced between his lips.

  This is what England reduced him to! The same man who conquered savage jungles, fought off scores of men with only a dagger—the impervious Bly Ravensdale. The world would laugh to see him cut down to a trembling drunk and opium fiend.

  Pacing, he fought the remembrance of what started his rampage in the village—the sight of Clara floating in the pond.

  It was no ghost. Clara’s body was almost bare and pale, and to his great discomfort, motionless. He called out to her and when she did not answer, panic rippled through his body. She was not moving—that was the final thought that roared through his mind as he raced to her.

  Bly dove into the pond, slicing through the water. He had grabbed hold of her ankle and dragged her back to shore, relieved as she fought him the entire way. Once she screamed, Bly had been sure she was safe, but he could not look at her and explain why he behaved as he had. Then he had sped off through the woods, heaving into the bushes until his stomach was empty before rushing into the village to seek refuge in the tavern filled with people who hated him and his family.

  He had feared that she had drowned—another victim claimed by that small body of water. He had thought he had been robbed of his very heart as he saw her there, lifeless in the water.

  And that fact made it evident that he must leave Burton Hall without further delay. It was not his wicked vices that had cut him down, it was Clara. He was controlled enough by such wicked things; he could not give in and submit to a woman’s love being the most powerful of all.

  He blamed everything on those damn eyes of hers.

  *

  Clara could not silence her mind.

  She dropped into the chair by the crackling fire, pulling the quilt tighter around herself in hopes of steadying her nerves. She felt foolish riding back with Bly, behaving like a scolding schoolmarm. Worse, she feared Lady Margaret’s reaction upon learning of her interference in the matter. She did not wish to hear another lecture. One day, another lecture would lead to her dismissal and she could not leave the children.

  Bly had been dreadful. At his best, he was aloof and sometimes charming. But the day’s events revealed his crueler side, a side that was a menacing beast, ill-tempered and determined to chase her away. Clara hated that side of him and she hated the bit of herself that allowed her hatred of him. She pi
tied Bly too as she watched him stumble into the house with the footman when they arrived back from the village. She knew he was someone who never wished to be pitied. Worst of all, Clara discovered that she truly cared for Bly. Not in a superficial way, something deeper, a feeling that had rooted itself in her heart and blossomed before she knew how to handle such feelings. So now she sulked by the fire, wishing sleep would come and ease the uncomfortable pain in her confused heart.

  The knock at the door sent her lurching. “Please, it’s late,” she called out. The knock sounded again, a slow and persistent thump against the wood. Low. Rumbling.

  Resigned, Clara shuffled to the door. Bly leaned one arm against the door frame, his face inches from hers. It took all of her courage not to fall back.

  “I thought you were dead,” he whispered in a haggard voice, his head hanging low, his shoulders sagging forward. Bly slowly moved his eyes from the threshold up to hers.

  “Leave.”

  “Today,” he continued, ignoring her protest.

  “You should not have come.”

  He did not move.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered harshly, afraid others would overhear.

  “I thought you were dead today when I found you in the pond.”

  Clara swallowed, silently pleading with him to leave her alone. But he stared back with a pained expression she did not understand.

  Bly sank to his knees and rested his forehead against her waist. His hands held her onto her hips.

  On instinct, she curled her fingers into his hair, massaging his hot scalp as she peered into the hallway. “Come inside,” she said quietly.

  He stood and wavered until he steadied and he brushed by her, pacing by the fireplace. “I thought you were dead,” he repeated.

  “I was only enjoying a swim.” Clara held onto the doorknob as she rested against the door. The quilt fell and draped at her elbows as the room’s chill quickly settled in, sending a shiver down her spine.

  “Never swim there again.”

  She yawned and walked across the small room, carefully approaching his restless form.

  “You have my word.” It was a foolish promise but she would say what he needed to hear.

  Clara placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, but withdrew her touch as his head snapped up and looked at her despondently. “Sit down, Bly,” she whispered. If only he could be still, maybe she could quiet her own nerves.

  “I thought you were—”

  “Hush now,” she said, framing his face firmly in her hands. She forced a smile and a cheery tone, but both were a lie. She was weary and terrified of the broken man collapsing into the chair by the fire.

  Clara sank to the floor and lifted his left boot in her hands. “I am well,” she insisted, shaking his leg free from the boot. “Look at me.”

  His eyes slowly met hers.

  “No harm was done.” She pulled his right boot free and placed the boots beside the tattered chair. She had no plan as what to do next, but Bly was hurting so she would try to comfort him. “Does any of this hurt?” she whispered, reaching up to run her fingers over the bruises. His skin spoke of another life, the faint trace of scars of another lifetime, a part of him she would never know.

  “No,” he whispered back. His reddened eyes, burned her.

  She rose to her knees and planted a gentle kiss on his tip of his nose. “Just to be sure.”

  Time stopped as they dared the other to move or speak. Her hands still cupped his roughened face as she knelt between his knees. Bly pressed his face into her palm and something slipped inside her, something that left a painful slice through the middle of her heart. Clara’s breath caught in her throat and she uttered a small sigh as the pain began to radiate through her body. She felt as if she was suddenly drowning.

  Bly’s arms slid under hers and he gathered her onto his lap in a quick movement. She pulled the quilt free from her shoulders and tucked the ends around his, avoiding his watchful stare. She pulled her knees close to her chin and leaned into the warmth of his body, trusting him, trying to lessen his pain.

  “Be still.” She reached an arm around his shoulder and rested her head against the other. With a few jerky movements, he wrapped his arms around her underneath the quilt. Clara hummed, listening to the rhythm his breath sweeping over her hair until her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep in his arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was his warmth that woke her sometime later.

  His lips brushed against her temple as Bly pulled her closer, drawing her from dreams with his languid voice. “You always smell like lemons.”

  “You smell like whiskey and autumn,” Clara replied, sleep heavy in her voice.

  “I was riding earlier,” Bly answered, as if that was explanation enough. She could smell blood and sweat on him too, but it was the harsh autumn winds that clung to his skin the most. It was the smell of decay and fire—the frightening reminder that winter would settle in soon and everything would grow dark. Clara hated winter.

  “I know.” Her head rode the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath. “I know you.”

  Bly remained silent.

  “We made a vow to be friends,” she said in a quiet, shaky voice.

  “Are we still?”

  What a ridiculous word for them to be. She pulled away enough to look him in the eye. “Of course.” Her voice quivered, and it took all her strength to press forward with the truth, but she did. “We are friends even when you are a burly bear and growl and pace and try to frighten me away.” She traced the crease lines crowding around his eyes and wiped away the tears.

  “I thought you were…” His voice stuck in his throat.

  She nodded. He was such a beautiful man, looking back at her with sad hazel eyes. “What happened?”

  Bly let out another haggard breath, a tear escaping the brim of his eye. She reached her lips up to the delicate skin and kissed away the salty wetness. All she wished in that moment was to bring him peace, to quiet his soul, to reassure him. Seeing him upset hurt her more than words could describe. Why did it unsettle her so?

  She reached for his hand and held it between hers, pulling his bruised knuckles up to her lips. Clara kissed each with an intentional slowness, not removing her gaze from his. She would kiss him again and again until his hurt vanished. She needed him to understand.

  Clara held onto his fist, larger than her own delicate and shaking hands, unsure of what to do next. When he withdrew his hand, she panicked. If he withdrew now, she had lost him. But his hands cupped her face with measured gentleness. His fingers slide back behind her ears, twining into her hair. He opened his mouth to speak, but he quickly leaned closer and sealed his lips to her.

  At first, his kiss was urgent and searing, desperate even. It robbed her of breath. Clara let out a small whimper, her lungs burning and angry for air, his grip loosened. Bly’s lips softened to a lingering sweetness that played at the plump cupid’s bow of her upper lip. The whiskey was still strong on his breath and it burned her throat as his tongue slipped against the seam of her mouth, taunting her with the promise of another hardened kiss. She opened herself to him, sighing, as his tongue teased the delicate skin of the underside of her lip.

  Clara’s torrid books had never prepared her for this. She had grown into adulthood without the guidance of another woman. She knew nothing of what happened between a man and woman, only that if she allowed herself to follow her desire, she would be damned. She would be wicked and wanton; a selfish woman who threw caution to the wind to run after a man who never wished to be caught.

  If Bly was going to pull her out of her depths, kissing her into sweet oblivion, Clara would follow as he did so.

  “Don’t ask me to leave,” he said, pulling away to whisper into her ear.

  There was that word again—leave. She did not wish to think of it because he was leaving. He would ride away soon and leave her behind. A new fear crushed around her heart and she gasped, fresh te
ars pricking her eyes as words escaped her. Clara dropped her head to his shoulder, unable to speak. She trembled as her breath started and stopped, unable to steady itself even as she willed herself to be strong for the both of them.

  “Clara?” His hands moved down her back, their heat penetrating the thin linen of her nightgown. It was then that she was first aware that was all that separated her body from the full warmth of his.

  Tears clouded her eyes as she looked up, his still red. She shook her head. Clara would not turn him out, nor tell him to stop, not when she wished he would continue. Bly released another shaky breath, his hands reaching up to cup her face again and kissed the underside of her chin, sucking a little until she threw her head back, feeling as if she finally broke the last shackle of propriety from around her ankle.

  He leaned over her, his hand bracing the underside of her head as he continued to kiss the length of her neck. He paused when he reached her collar. She threaded her hands into his hair and pulled, willing him to continue.

  His hand rested upon her sternum, its heavy weight settled against the violent storm surging inside her chest. It was not a calming touch. It incited something within her. She liked the way he called her body to act a certain way with just the barest touch.

  That much made sense to Clara. They had danced and boxed and vaulted around each other for weeks. Bly kissing her as he did now was the natural progression of their relationship, however improper it was. It felt right and true.

  He moved his palm slowly down her chest before he hooked his thumb over her nipple. Her flesh responded, a sweet pain coursing to her middle as her nipple tightened, issuing a small moan from her lips. Clara grabbed his hand, moving it to the buttons of her collar. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin, for him to undo her. She was desperate for it.

  Yet, he didn’t move to undo her collar. Instead, he snapped her upright so quickly she swore she was suddenly on the moors, staring up at an inky night pierced with thousands of stars. She sat astride him, her nightgown gathered above her knees. Again, his hands moved over her, searching for something she did not understand, but she was not sure she needed an explanation either.