Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  “Close your eyes,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “We will be late.”

  “Close them.”

  She did so, but not without a frustrated sigh. His shook out his hand in hopes of stopping the tremors, and flipped open the box top, holding the fine chain in his hands. “Stand still.” He slipped the necklace around her neck and fumbled with the small clasp, but secured it and stood back, unsure of what she would do.

  Clara’s hand flew up to the familiar pendant and gasped. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. “I thought this was lost. This was…this belonged to my mother. It was all I had of her.”

  “I had the clasp fixed. I hope you don’t—”

  “I don’t u-understand,” she stammered. “I thought this was lost. I haven’t seen it since…” Her eyes widened then as she solved the mystery behind its disappearance.

  Bly shifted on his feet. If she knew the real reason why it had gone missing then she would discover just how foolishly in love with her he was, always had been. He scratched his neck and averted his eyes. It felt as though he would cook alive if he stood a moment longer in her room.

  “Bly?”

  “We’re going to be late,” he said, bending down to fetch her gloves. He shoved them in her general direction and turned quickly on his heels.

  “Where did you find this?” She charged after him like an angry bee. He had struck close to the hive; her response was to be expected. “Are you going to answer me?”

  He opened the door and waved his arm for her exit into the hallway, but she stopped and crossed her arms over her body. “I took it when I left.” His voice was far more heated than he wished it to be, but he was embarrassed by the sentimental confession.

  “It was not yours to take.” She rushed at him and stabbed a finger into his chest. He cracked a smile then, happy to see a glimpse of his feisty fighter returned.

  “It was all you had that I could carry with me.”

  She dropped her hand then and shook her head. “I d-don’t…why would you do that?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, pointing to the hallway again. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Tell me, Bly.”

  He pulled her out into the hallway with a jerk and closed the door with a resounding thud. She stiffened, trying her best to thwart him and remain in place. Clara rose an eyebrow, ushering on a confession he did not wish to make. Not like this. He laughed in spite of himself.

  “I took it because…”

  “Why?”

  Bly leaned closer, purposefully invading the precious space she had carved out between them until she was pressed against the locked door.

  “I took it because,” he said, dropping his voice to a husky whisper, “I didn’t wish to be parted from you.” His voice slid from composed to uneven as a small sigh befell her lips.

  Clara pulled at the lapels of his dress coat, drawing him closer until his mouth brushed the perfectly placed curls framing her face. Her hands did not let go, not even as his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck.

  “If only you would believe me,” he whispered.

  Her hand slipped from his lapel and brushed beneath his vest, until her fingers played at the pleating of his dress shirt. Bly battled to keep his breathing level as she touched him, afraid that if he moved he would break the moment between them, but surely, Clara was aiming to kill him. Forget the men hunting him, his wife and her guarded attentions would be his deadly end.

  She flexed her fingers, stroking the skin over his heart as if she were pulling invisible threads that caused each painful beat. When it grew too much to bear, he dropped his nose against her forehead, his lips toying at the idea of kissing her. He ached to kiss her. She nuzzled against his jaw, her body melting against his.

  “Clara.”

  “We are going to be late.”

  Her tender touch stiffened as she clenched her hand and pushed him away. She broke apart from him as if she did not just have his heart in her hand. In truth, she still did, even as she rushed down the hallway and pulled on her gloves.

  *

  It surprised Clara when Bly’s hand wrapped around hers in a perfectly respectable kid gloves as he handed her down from the carriage.

  She felt as if she would shatter to pieces if he continued surprising her tonight. First the necklace, then that hushed confession, now his effort to be a proper gentleman. And then there was the undeniable fact that he was so perfectly handsome in his evening attire. If the ground opened up and swallowed her, she would be thankful for the escape.

  Clara dropped Bly’s hand as she took in the crush in front of the opera house. She had never seen such a sea of finery in her life. The finest dressed ladies and gentlemen swarmed around her, hungry for the greetings of others. Feathers and silks, jewels big enough to blind the sun paraded by as commonplace. This is what she had dreamt of, wasn’t it? She looked down at her own dress and ran her gloves over her skirts in a nervous flutter.

  The heat would surely melt her. How everyone remained looking so cool was a mystery. With each hurried flutter of her fan, she caught a glimpse of her husband from behind the lacy veil. The fan did nothing but push the hot air around her face, but as least she did not feel as if she could not breathe any longer.

  His eyes scanned the crowd as his hand draped hers over his elbow. Again, respectably. He stood a bit straighter, his face a little softer, his pace a little slower. He appeared impervious to the sweltering heat. Bly nodded his head to the few who turned and watched as their entry into the most beautiful building Clara had ever stepped into. She snapped her fan shut and looked up at the magnificent columns that stretched on forever. An elegant stairway curved around the edges of the room as golden cherubs held globes of light.

  “Oh,” she whispered, soaking in the grandeur. She felt rather foolish as tears filled her eyes, overwhelmed by the evening, but she had never seen such splendor. She ducked her head away as Bly looked to her, snapping her fan open to hide her tears.

  Clara waited still for the whispers. She waited for someone to call her out for not belonging. All she found was Bly’s hand pressing onto the small of her back as he led her up the stairs to their private box. His touch was oddly reassuring, even if it made her blush. He held her hand as he peeked behind the curtain of their box. The answering tug pulled her forward, away from the crowds of people, suddenly on an island of their own, high above the stage below.

  A large chandelier hung from the center ceiling, hanging below the billowing clouds of heaven and hovering over the full audience of the opera house. The rest of the theater was grounded in deep burgundy and gold, much too rich, which must have accounted for the way her mouth dried as she took her seat. Or maybe it was the way Bly’s smile appeared to stretch further as he took his seat next to her.

  “These are lovely seats.” She snapped her fan open once more.

  Bly leaned forward, resting his arms onto the balustrade, and scanned the crowd down below. “It’s Barnes’s.”

  A burst of hope spread through Clara’s chest. “Oh, is he joining us? Is he in town too?” The evening may be bearable if someone joined them.

  “No.” His voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed toward the doorways below, watching the last of the guests arrive.

  The way Bly had managed to get so close yet pull away all night was troubling. There was something on his mind. If she was not so nervous about being at the opera, she would have asked.

  Once the opera began, Bly leaned forward, bracing his arm around the back of her chair. He translated the Italian into her ear, a warm murmur that pushed her to the present. Every small detail of the way he spoke, of how his lips brushed against the lobe of her ear from time to time; the smell of soap and sandalwood. She was fluent in Italian, but she could not ask him to stop because a large part of her wanted that small moment of seduction. When that dizzying catalog grew to such a pitch, she thought she would jump to her feet and dash off the balcony, the most be
autiful voice began to sing.

  Clara pulled away and brushed off Bly’s hand that settled onto her arm. She knew it was not proper to sit as she was, but she folded her arms over the balustrade and rested her chin there, mesmerized by the woman’s voice, so familiar.

  The orchestra swelled as the aria soared high and higher—a vertiginous string of notes that built to a peak and broke, washing over the quiet audience.

  It was strange to think Clara had been one person before that moment, and another afterwards, but it was true. She felt changed, as if something finally made sense that had not before.

  A man’s throat cleared somewhere by her side. Clara turned to find the occupants of the neighboring box staring back. It was all too much. She settled back into her chair instead and opened her fan, brushing the lace close to her face to deter Bly from whispering into her ear. When the curtain dropped and the crowd erupted in polite applause, Bly stilled her fan in his hand.

  “Come with me,” he said quietly.

  She pulled the fan from his hand and opened it again with a frenzied flutter, desperate for air.

  “There’s someone I wish you to meet.” His lips caressed her ear, rather indecently, in fact.

  Clara rushed out into the hallway, desperate to get space from Bly before she did something regrettable like push him against the wall and kiss him soundly.

  He must have guessed her discomfort, because when he emerged from the box, his face pulled tight in concentration. He seemed nervous. “Follow me,” he said as he surveyed the hallways.

  Clara whirled around, trying to discover the source of his discomfort, but he was walking much too fast. She lifted her skirts and dashed after him, down the dim hallways and stairways of the opera house. “Where are we going?” she cried, throwing down her skirts in a huff. Clara was not about to been seen by all of society running after her husband. The gossip would be rabid in the morning.

  He stopped suddenly and knocked on a door. It was then that she noticed that the end of the hallway was the stage. Singers and dancers moved about, a jolly tableau playing out as giant set pieces were rolled about.

  “Bly,” she whispered harshly. “Why are we—” The door opened a sliver as a cloud of cigar smoke billowed out and filled the hot, musty air in her lungs.

  “’Scuse me, miss,” a man said, bristling by with a large papier-mâché mountain. Clara pushed against the wall as more stagehands filled the hallway.

  “I was expecting His Grace,” a voice said from behind the door.

  Bly rumbled a hushed response and the door opened wider. A man whistled lewdly at Clara as he walked by. Bly reached behind him and pulled her against his back, not letting go.

  “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” he said with a heavy sigh. He kicked open the door to a large dressing room, where a woman stood with her back to the pair. “Go ahead,” he urged, “I’ll be outside.”

  Before she could object, his hand left the small of her back and the door closed, leaving her alone with a woman who refused to turn around.

  “Your husband is persistent.”

  “Yes,” Clara said, shifting on her feet. Sweat beaded at her brow and she hastily wiped it away before the woman faced her. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I expected the Duke of Ashbornham. He was the one to find me. Charming man.” The woman smiled with a large cigar between her painted lips.

  There was something vaguely familiar about the woman. The scent perhaps. It brought back a memory that she had long since tucked away. “Please excuse me, I fear this is terribly rude, but do I know you?”

  “I’m your mother, child.”

  Clara drew in a breath, her hand resting at the necklace that hid beneath the neckline of her gown. She saw the likeness now, the same eyes as hers, the same dark markings spotted here and there on creamy skin. The woman was a shorter and curvier; the years had not been entirely kind, but she was still remarkably beautiful.

  “Victoria Pennyhurst,” she supplied as Clara froze. “I have a busy evening, so if you’ll excuse me, I would appreciate you leaving.”

  She had dreamt of this moment but it went differently, much differently, in fact. There were no hugs or happy tears as she imagined, no stories of what happened to cause their separation, or any signs of motherly love. “Did you love my father?” Clara burst out, her heart beating in her chest. “I never knew anything about you. I would like to know…”

  Her voice trailed off at the woman’s heartless laugh. Clara only wished to know if she could believe in happy endings.

  Victoria peeled off a long glove and tossed it behind her on the crowded vanity. “I was young and had nowhere to go. He was a man with money and you were a consequence I could not have.” She paused as she smeared off her painted lips with a handkerchief. “Not if I wanted the life I dreamed of. I did my best in finding you a home to grow up in—”

  The illusion that Clara harbored in her heart for years, shattered. “I never had a family,” she said softly. “And now I understand truly that I was never wanted, even by my mother.” Somehow, the word mother felt dirty on her tongue as she said it in relation to woman in front of her.

  “I’m not maternal,” Victoria said, swiping an opened bottle of champagne from the vanity and taking a swig.

  “But you have a beautiful voice,” Clara added knowingly, the bitterness dripping from her voice. This woman, whose voice was that of an angel, was anything but. “I am sorry to have caused so much trouble for you. I must apologize for the good intentions of my husband and His Grace for trying to reunite us.”

  Tears at such a time would be perfectly acceptable, but oddly none came. Clara nodded her head and turned, ignoring the woman’s plea as she shut the door behind her and grabbed Bly’s jacket. “I wish to go now.”

  His eyes searched hers, his hand tenderly cupping her chin. Perhaps someone else would have avoided giving her such an uncomfortable reunion, but Bly had given her something far greater by doing so. The illusion of the woman she dreamt about as a little girl, the mother she longed for, the delusional story of love she had weaved in her head, did not exist. The man she tried pushing from her own heart, the man she loved so dearly, did. Bly was her family. She had found what she had always thought missing with the Ravensdales.

  *

  The very last place Bly wished to be was sitting on the floor, propped against the door of the hotel suite. It was a short list to begin with. He wished to be in bed with his wife—whether his room or hers, the sofa, the chair. The location did not matter much.

  If it meant he could have her body beneath his, he gathered he would even come to appreciate the floor. But sitting there alone, holding a pistol, as a summer thunderstorm roared through the city, was certainly not on the list. That much was certain.

  As for the rest, it was nothing more than a game of chance. Either he would confront those chasing him to an early grave, or the threat would hang over his head as he waited.

  Now that he was titled, he could continue his efforts in being a better man for Clara and the children, or he could ignore his responsibility and flee. As for Clara, well, that was no longer a matter of chance but rather luck. As in, he was lucky she had agreed to come to London. He was lucky she was sleeping a room away, close but still out of reach. It could be further by now if she wished it.

  His bare back stuck to the door. The room was an oven. There was melancholy and misery in what he found himself stuck in now—a verifiable hell.

  A spark of light flashed across the room before another crash rumbled the empty tea set on the table. He did not flinch, but his muscles tensed as the smell of lemons filled the stagnant air.

  “What’s wrong, Clara?” His voice was a rough whisper. He felt her standing in the doorway without having to open his eyes. It was as if she had him by the throat. He heard the forced breath of her surprise over the rain battering the window.

  “I can’t sleep with the storm,” she replied. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know you would
be out here.”

  Bly heard everything—the brush of bare feet across the carpet, the whisper of satin, even the trace of discomfort in her voice as she turned to retreat. But lemons. Always lemons. She did have him by the throat, not that she ever noticed.

  “Why are you on the floor?”

  His eyes opened in surprise just as lightning struck. It was a brief, white-hot flash, but she stood there in the doorway, with her hair tumbling down her shoulders. The light illuminated the space around Clara and her thin peignoir, the remaining silhouette the fleshy form he longed to touch. He closed his eyes tight, and exhaled.

  The room was growing smaller by the minute.

  “Bly?”

  Maybe she would leave if he remained still. That would be the kind thing to do. Lately, she had not been kind, but acted rather like a shrike, spearing the leftover pieces of his heart onto thorns. Clara came back, again and again, picking and pecking, pushing him to near sainthood. That had been her mistake. She should know by now that he was no saint.

  “A pistol?”

  She was all but touching him now, he could sense it as if Bly held a compass in his heart. Clara was near and he lost all sense of direction; even if she could point him home, he was lost.

  “You’re dangerous enough to me without it, love. Don’t touch.”

  Bly tightened his hold around the grip of the pistol as her hand hovered above it, testing his patience. She never listened, though there was cause for it now. The gun was loaded and primed, ready in case someone tried to enter their hotel suite. He had sat in front of the door every night since their arrival. He would do so tonight if only she would return to her room.

  “I believe I should be the one asking what’s wrong,” she continued. “I don’t know that I like finding you in our parlor holding a pistol. It makes me think you’re keeping a secret from me.”

  He had several, but she was clever nonetheless. She always had been, except when it mattered. The matter of trusting him came to mind.