Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  The smell of alcohol filled the room, rolling toward her in in relentless waves as she watched, nauseated, blood dripping from his hand onto the carpet. He did not bend to help her stand or look at her overmuch.

  “You can keep thinking me a monster if that’s easier. Just know I wished to come back. I knew my mistake and I have to live with that every damn minute in this house.” He bent for some of the large pieces of glass, hesitating with them in his hand. “You deserve better,” he whispered to the floor. Bly shot up and threw them into the fireplace as Clara scrambled to her unsteady feet. “You and the children deserve someone infinitely better than me.”

  “Your hand,” she protested. Her own, outstretched, trembled.

  “I have to leave.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and she noticed the soft glistening there, which matched her own. “I have business in London.”

  “You can’t leave.” Clara choked back the lump in her throat.

  “I must. I’m expected.” His foot shuffled the other broken pieces. “Four, I’m sorry for this mess.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with the glass,” she said, feeling her temper flare again. “I’m quite competent at picking up after your messes.”

  His words meant nothing, and he was leaving anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I will be up shortly, darling,” Clara said, landing a kiss onto Rhys’s warm forehead.

  She untied the ribbon beneath her chin and pulled off her hat, watching the children run after Molly. They had a lovely afternoon in the sun during lessons. She felt like spoiling them with a story before dinner.

  Her slippers clicked against the gleaming floor as she proceeded to the library. She closed her eyes and remembered when she had washed the hallways clean years ago. Clara had done so to spite Bly. She had woken the next morning in her bed with one less reason to hate the man.

  She stopped in front of his office door without a thought of doing so. Her feet simply stopped, just as her heart managed an uncomfortable tug, her body winning that incessant battle she fought against her mind. Her hand became the next traitor as she reached for the doorknob. The door swung open and the air crushed out of her lungs as she noticed the empty chair behind his desk.

  Bly still had not returned from London.

  She should be angry. She had every right to be, but in light of the news clipping she had tucked safely between the pages of her newest novel, she was only full of a muddled feeling between pride and longing. She could be mad at him another day. Clara only wished her husband, the new Baron of Westchester, was seated behind his desk just now. It seems the business he had to see to in London involved him receiving recognition for his bravery while in Afghanistan, as well as an honorary title.

  Perhaps he would not be back. It would be understandable. She had said terrible things before he left. They both had not been nice and he had sent no word of his return.

  The discomforting thing was she actually missed the blasted man.

  Clara pulled his coat from atop the chair and circled it tightly in her arms, dipping her head to inhale the lingering scent of sandalwood and earth. The cloth was absent of his warmth, and she stumbled across the carpet, wondering if she would ever feel his arms wrapped around her again.

  Dust motes floated in the beams of sun that cut through the bank of windows behind the desk. She bit her lip as she stepped closer, noticing the tall stack of opened crates on the far side of the room. Straw scattered around their bases as a strange wooden figure jetted from the opened container. The figure’s eyes were as large as her hand, leering back at her as if it would betray the secret of her trespassing. Clara pushed the figure down and pulled the cover closed. She refused to be chased out of the room because of an odd relic, although it did capture her interest. Everything in the room did, in fact, as she took in the odd bits of the world collected along the cluttered surfaces.

  It was unlike Bly to have things scattered about in such disarray, but as she lifted the page of a journal, she remembered he likely left in a state.

  The leather of his desk chair was worn and soft as she sat on the edge of the seat. Papers were haphazardly stacked and journals were open and piled around the stained blotter. She traced her fingers over the hurried script, not solely reading, but rather soaking in the image of how his hand moved over the page with each upstroke and dash.

  Hotter than hell. Bezmen’s taken ill. Malaria, we think. We’re still too far to get him the help he needs. I hope I’m wrong.

  We’re still in search of the source of—. Yesterday we dodged fire from angry locals along the river. Lithurst took an arrow to the shoulder and is fighting a fever today. Still days away, lost in the bloody jungle.

  She thumbed through pages of his adventures as it struck her then that she cared for a man she did not know. Clara knew of how he staved off his temper with angry fists, or how he never slowed his pace for anyone, and even how his eyes softened just before he smiled earnestly. Those bits of Bly meant nothing significant. They were parts of a whole.

  The man bound to those weathered pages, who held those esoteric interests, was why she continued to push him away from her heart. Those words were of a man who set in like the fog over the moors, all-enveloping. As often as she tried, he shifted and surrounded her again, only to vanish.

  It was hopeless.

  Clara unwrapped the coat from her arms and draped it over the back of his chair, slowly trying to pull herself away from his memory. A flash of gold caught her attention as she turned to stand—an elaborate gilded book. The writing was the strangest she had ever seen. At least, she guessed the lines were some sort of script. The paper was thick and stiff, as if it had been over-starched, and smelled heavy of oil.

  She leaned forward, drawn in, and turned the page. Color flooded her cheeks as she stared at the painting of two people tangled together. Tangled in that intimate way. Clara craned her neck, trying to make sense of the indecent act. Surely, that sort of joining was from someone’s imagination. She wished she knew what the strange writing said as she flipped the page and a found a similar painting, the vivid colors drawing her eyes to the most indecent place on the page. Clara laughed and turned the page again.

  “I’ve been offered a fair price for that book so—”

  Clara jerked and slipped off the chair, falling squarely on her back, hidden from view.

  “—don’t rip it.”

  Blast.

  Her hand clasped tight over her mouth in horror. This was just her luck. Then the book fell from the desk and landed soundly on her chest with a punctuated thud. No, that was just her luck.

  The deep rumble of Bly’s laugh filled the room. She was tempted to crawl under his desk and hide until he left. Footfalls shook the floor and she knew that hiding was no longer possible. She removed the book off her chest and opened her eyes to the man who loomed overhead. It felt as if the book landed on her chest all over again.

  The man who stood above Clara was a gentleman through and through. Bly was in full morning dress—a beautifully tailored gray suit. He tipped his top hat in her direction and her heart sputtered again, helpless as a smile spread to her lips.

  “I was just leaving. I mean I was on my way to the library—”

  “Hello, Clara.” Bly had stopped laughing, but the resonate warmth still hung on his greeting.

  “My Lord,” she said after a long and awkward pause with a slight bow of her head. Her heart would not steady itself. Clara pushed herself up onto her elbows, humiliated at being discovered on the floor in such a state, caught peeking at an indecent book. This was not how she wanted their reunion to be.

  Blast.

  “You look well,” he said.

  She mumbled a reply and stared at the worn canvas bag at his feet.

  “My Baroness shouldn’t be on the floor.”

  “Baroness?” Clara blinked back her surprise, reeling as his hand reached for hers. Of course, she was a Baroness now. “Why, yes. Thank yo
u, I—”

  Her apology fell from her lips as the pad of his thumb swept over the sensitive skin of her wrist, his hand wrapping around hers to pull her to her feet. Clara stood too close and felt a little as if she hadn’t eaten in hours. Her head swam, her fingers trembled. Yet, Bly smiled as if he were happy to see her.

  The room shrank around her as she focused on his lips and thoughts of kissing him clouded her head. She could not allow herself to resort to something like that. Clara backed away, tripping over the carpet’s edge, and grabbed onto the chair. She was behaving like a fool all because her husband had returned. A husband, who until recently, she did not wish to have.

  “Stay a minute,” Bly said as she backed away to the door. “Please.”

  “I promised the children I would read to them before dinner.” Clara took a step forward before guilt washed over her. “Welcome home,” she said in a quiet voice. The desk was between them now, breathing became a bit easier. “Have you been back long?”

  He shrugged out of his morning coat, cutting the streams of dust motes, stirring chaos, as always. His shirt was fancily tailored, as were his pants. His hair was brushed back, the sharp plains of his face were cleanly shaved.

  “Not long,” he said, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves to expose his muscled forearms. “Though I went for a walk first.”

  A long section of hair draped at her shoulder, having come undone when she tumbled from the chair. She quickly felt for the pins and attempted to right herself as Bly opened a window.

  “I was getting you this,” he said.

  Her mouth was full of pins as she looked to the pink rose in his outstretched hand. She closed her eyes on a long exhale, that sharp and uncomfortable pain wringing out her heart once more.

  Clara pulled one pin from between her lips and curled her hair into place, jamming the pin in, thankful for the distracting source of pain. The next pin, then another, and another. “Thank you,” she said, when her mouth was free of pins. She pulled the rose from his hand, sure that if she looked into his eyes, she would fall into his arms. “The children—”

  “I don’t mean to be cruel,” he rushed out. His voice lost its friendly cheer, growing somber. “I’m sorry, Clara.”

  The ache in her chest blossomed and burst. Her arm wrapped around her middle as her hand clutched the rose, even as the thorns speared her skin at her carelessness.

  “I am sorry as well,” she said between deep inhales of the rose’s dusky myrrh scent. “Perhaps you should apologize for running off to London to become a hero without telling anyone as well.”

  Bly sank into his chair and threw the lewd book onto the desk, scattering a pile of papers to the floor.

  “I’m no hero.”

  “No? There seem to be a great deal of people who think otherwise.”

  “Do you?” His voice was like the sharp knife he hid in his boot. She bent forward to retrieve the papers, thankful that the desk shielded the flush that scolded her cheeks.

  *

  God, he missed the sight of her.

  What an idiot he had been, storming off to London, without giving reason.

  His question hung heavy in the air, but the pregnant pause was answer enough. “Tell me about London,” she said, snapping up to hand over the stack of papers.

  He tossed them onto the desk without pulling his eyes away from her. What he would give to pull her forward and kiss her. Fully. Bly would become penniless for just one sweet kiss. Just to hear that sweet sigh of hers when their lips met.

  He rubbed the dream of it out from his eyes as he asked, “How are the children?”

  London had been London. He did not wish to speak of it. It was an endless string of meetings, lies, and needless ceremony.

  Her eyes softened. “They’ve missed you.”

  He suspected Clara did too, even if she would not freely admit it. Bly had missed her as much as if his heart had been carved out of his chest and locked away, kept a secret. But he had to leave and take that meeting at the Royal Geographical Society. Leaving her as he had had been his only mistake. He should have been truthful; he should have trusted that she would wish to know the reasons that drew him away.

  “I was thinking of holding a ball in a few weeks’ time. Have the Ravensdales make a proper entrance back into society.” Those were words he never thought likely. They felt false and hypocritical. He never cared about London society, but with Clara and the children, suddenly having them accepted was vital. “I would like your help, if you’re willing.”

  “As your Baroness?” she asked, brushing past his desk to sit at the opened window. She tilted her head back toward the sun, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. Everything about her was washed in gold—from the summer sun that slipped over her skin, to her hair, even the yellow day dress. She was always bathed in light.

  “Yes,” he said greedily.

  The petals of the rose were bruised from the rough way she handled the flower. It fell to her lap as her eyes shut and took another deep breath. In the distance, birds sang, but the rest of the house was silent, save the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  Bly pressed his handkerchief into her palm, blotting away the blood left behind by the thorns he carelessly left on the rose stem. “We’re not going to be great at this,” he said, “but we can fail together. The others don’t matter. Nothing matters unless you’re happy, Clara.”

  “But a valet and a lady’s maid? A properly staffed house?”

  “No one said anything about proper.”

  Clara let out a dry laugh and shook her head. “The idea is ridiculous. You and I have always done things for ourselves. A title will not change that. We will always be a pair of misfits. You will remain the ill-tempered wild man and I will remain the prudish governess. We will never manage to shed those versions of ourselves.”

  She was right, of course. The idea was absurd, but he owed it to them all to try. “You’re not prudish, Dawson.” Bly expected a smile or a small laugh, but he had lost her again to that place she pulled herself into. Her face was inexpressive as he folded the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “We don’t know each other. Not really.” She spoke to the crumpled flower in her lap, her head low as if the confession cut her low.

  That was foolish, because Bly knew her well—like the aches in his bones, the way he bled when he was cut, the way his heart beat and he breathed. She was just as much as part of him as all that was necessary for him to live. He knew that without her, he was hopeless. He knew with her happy, he found peace. If ever Clara came to love him, then Bly would be saved.

  “I know you.”

  Clara tapped her fingertips along the plump line of her lower lip, studying him. “We barely had time.” Her face grew red and she turned, shrinking into herself as she pushed further against the window ledge.

  His hand traced the line of her jaw until his fingers curled under her chin and drew up her gaze. He disliked when Clara looked down. He wanted more for her than to live half-hidden from the world.

  “We can have time,” he said in a whisper. “If you allow it, we could come to know each other.”

  She leaned into this touch, closing her eyes. “Oh, Bly” she sighed. That was all. His world hinged on that sigh. He would wait forever if only she gave a hint of a ‘yes.’

  “I would like to take you to London for a few days. We never had a bridal tour.”

  “There’s no need for one.”

  “Am I so bad that you could not bear to spend a few days in my company?”

  Her fingers ran across the rough skin on the back of his hand, drawing circles before she looked up. “What of the children?”

  “They’ll be fine with Tilly and Molly.” He stopped short of telling her Barnes would be there as well and perhaps a few of his other ‘friends’ to make sure the children remained safe. He had no wish of frightening her, especially when she was within his reach. He could feel it. He could see it there in her eyes.
/>   “What will we do?”

  “Anything at all.”

  Clara eyed him warily, as if his promise of a trip was an elaborate ruse to pry her from Burton Hall when Bly simply wished to spend time with her. He missed his wife and the woman she kept hidden. Even if she did not feel the same way, he thought that perhaps she could if he could free her from whatever private hell she tortured herself with.

  Her hands pulled his away from her face, the sadness fading to the quiet strength he admired. “Very well. I will go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Clara fluttered around their shared sitting room of the hotel suite like a bee collecting pollen. She searched the tables and sofa cushions, humming while she made her explorations, cursing under her breath when her search turned up empty.

  From the doorway, it looked as if she would never still, and Bly was sorry for that. She looked resplendent in her new gown. He did not know anything about fashion, nor did he care to, but she wore the dress well. Too well. He would prefer to see her out of it now that she had it on.

  She glanced up, her eyes wide, before her cheeks flushed. “I can’t find my gloves,” she mumbled, continuing her flight about the room.

  “Do you need them?” he asked, putting on his cufflinks. The air was stifling.

  She stopped, bracing her arms in the doorway. “Yes. It wouldn’t be proper.” Clara disappeared into her room.

  “I have something for you,” he yelled from his room, slipping on his jacket. Why anyone insisted on formal attire in the dead of summer was a mystery. This from a man who spent most his life in tropical locales.

  “Oh?”

  He smiled when he heard her slam the dresser drawer. She never had the talent for hiding her nerves, but even this was beyond her precious manners. Clara must be in a state.

  He paused in her doorway, feeling as if he was about to cross the border of a hostile country. She had been tolerable of him during their stay in London, even smiling, but Clara had developed the frustrating habit of pulling away at the most unfortunate moments.