Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  “In China.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “Nothing important.”

  Clara nodded, biting down at the corner of her mouth as she traced the width of his sharp hipbone. “And this?” she asked, her voice a dusky whisper.

  “You’re a bluestocking. I suppose you know.”

  She met his stare and nodded that she did know the meaning of that word. It was solely because of him that she understood its lofty weight. “Diabolus.”

  “Say it again,” he said in a husky voice.

  “I suppose it’s too late to reform you now. You have the name etched into your flesh.”

  “It’s hard to change who I am, Clara.”

  “Yes, but the devil?” She sat up straighter and looked him in the eye, trying to ignore the body beneath hers, eager with desire. “You have a good heart. You are not as terrible as you want me to believe.”

  His head fell back into the pillow as his eyes squeezed shut, his face washed with pain. “Yes, I am.”

  “I suppose now would be a good time to tell me why you were watching our door with a gun last evening.”

  “No.” He grimaced, looking as if the hands of truth were strangling him before her eyes, but he made no answer. “Were you ever going to confess to why you ran away to Burton Hall?”

  She drew back.

  “Graham told me. I told you if you were in danger…”

  “Mr. Oscar Shaw attacked me after my employer died. That much you guessed. He came after me and cornered me, after I refused to sign over the inheritance she left me over to his control.”

  “That bloody—”

  “I did what was necessary. I injured him, and fled. It wasn’t until Mr. Graham arrived and blackmailed me with his death that I knew…I’m a criminal, Bly.”

  Clara shifted over the mattress, attempting to untangle herself.

  He reached out and circled his fingers around her wrist. “I’ve known because he told me before I left. I knew that first night when I saw you in the hallway. I knew by the way you hedged around the house, trying to slip away and disappear. I’ve known and it makes no difference to me that some blackguard got what was coming to him.” Bly sat up and kissed her collarbone. “But I hate that I haven’t been able to protect you. And I hate that I’ve allowed Graham to ruin the happiness we found.”

  “I don’t want to alarm you,” he said. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” The edge to his voice was cause for concern enough. “There are some men after me an—”

  “And that doesn’t concern me?” She pulled to free herself again, but his grip was firm. “You wish to shelter me from everything, but what of you? Who will shelter you?” Clara laid her face to rest on his chest, her lips kissing the scar from her terrible handiwork. “You promised you wouldn’t leave.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Bly, I can see it in your eyes. You are terrified.”

  “Only of losing you. Of losing the children and Burton Hall.”

  “And what of me? Can I not fear for you?” An unnerving silence fell between them. “You are a selfish man,” she finally added.

  “I’ve never hidden that from you.”

  That much was certainly true. She sat up, prepared to leave so her maid could ready a bath. Surely, some breakfast was in order, too. Then she wished to go home and see the children.

  “I’m an agent of the crown, Clara. Was,” he quickly corrected as she straightened up.

  “You said you were an antiquarian.”

  “I also said I was something like a thief. After I left the army, I was recruited by the War Office to go to the places others were too fearful of because I had a certain reputation. I charted the wild and I lived in the wild. I stole things from men with the wildest of spirits. They sent me because they thought I was fearless. But I was only a man who didn’t wish to live.”

  “I don’t believe that. You live—”

  “I met you,” he said, pulling her close to kiss the tip of her nose, “and eventually, I found that I no longer wished to die.”

  She thought perhaps he would say something more, something she longed to hear, but the words never came. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know, love. I wish I did.”

  “I won’t let them take you away. You only just returned to me.” Clara collapsed against his chest again and listened to the beat of his heart. It was steady and reassuring. She hazarded a guess that it beat for her. “Take me home, Bly”

  “I’m not leaving this bed while you’re in it.”

  She pressed her lips against his chest, softly laughing.

  “If you want to go home, we will go home today. But first,” he growled, pulling the hair away from her neck. “I believe I haven’t finished saying good morning to my wife yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bly was not convinced he had truly succeeded at winning his wife’s heart in London, but he had come close.

  At least now, as they stood in the doorway of the music room, she did not flinch as his hand wrapped around her waist. Clara leaned against him instead, wrapping her hand over his as they spied on the children and Isaac.

  Grace sat at the piano, her small legs dangling from the piano bench as her hands moved over the keys without the clumsy rhythm of a new player. She did not play like a child; in fact, she played better than Clara. How such tiny fingers could play without flaw drew Bly’s attention away from the way Clara’s hair tickled the underside of his chin.

  Barnes swung Minnie around in the clumsiest of waltzes while Molly sat in the corner and clapped, cheering on the pair’s performance. Bly looked to Rhys and Theo, who both danced by the piano bench, captured with the tenor of the cords.

  Minnie tripped over the duke’s feet and the two came to a stumbling halt. Grace stopped playing and turned on the bench. A small crowd of eyes fell upon Bly and his bride, surprised.

  “Hello.” Bly stood there, waiting, suddenly uneasy at the thought that all of this was his. He had built a home and now there was a family there for him if he wished.

  “Don’t stop for us,” Clara said sweetly. “Keep going.” She waved her hand to usher them on, but a thunder of feet sounded and soon they both were overcome with hands, arms, and messy kisses.

  Bly swung Rhys high above his head, smiling up at the boy who looked back at him as if he were king. None of this made sense. Bly did not deserve the love of these people, yet here they were, welcoming him home.

  He sat Rhys on his shoulders and grabbed Grace next and Minnie and kissed both on the cheek, and asked what he had missed as Rhys reached for Clara. It was a human octopus of children. Words were quick and hurried, and there were happy shrieks and excited stories.

  “I think we were missed,” Clara said, leaning in close to issue him a coy wink.

  “You’ll squeeze all the air out of them, chickens,” Barnes said, walking forward through the crowd of children. “I hope you had a nice time in London.” He reached for Clara’s hand and gave her a courtly kiss. If Bly had not just had the pleasure of thoroughly kissing her in the morning room, he might have been a jealous man.

  “It was pleasant,” Clara said. “Thank you.”

  “Come along, children,” Molly called out. “Let’s ready for dinner. You can share your stories then.”

  A chorus of whined protests followed, and it took all of Molly’s strength to pull Rhys off his mother, but soon there were just three standing in the quiet room.

  “I did not know you would be here, Barnes,” Clara said. She sat at the piano and traced the lightest of touches over the keys as if she stood on the edge of a looming decision.

  “Yes, well—”

  “I can guess the reason for your visit after noticing that you also have a pistol under your vest. I feel left out, Bly.” She looked up at him across the piano and fluttered her eyelashes, but her glare was deadly. This—the woman daring him on now—was the woman he had long since forgotten existed within Clara. That would be
his downfall.

  Barnes laughed nervously and walked over to the windows, keeping his back to them both. “I don’t wish to intrude on a lover’s spat,” he said, parting the gold curtains, “but you both have a visitor waiting upstairs.”

  Bly’s hand moved to his pistol instinctively and he turned to storm out of the room, but Clara’s hand crashed onto the low notes of the piano, halting his exit.

  “Details would be nice, Isaac. It seems someone is trigger happy and I would prefer the shooting stay outside.”

  Bly smiled, admiring the revived pluck of his wife as she began to play softly.

  “The dreaded aunt is back from Italy,” Barnes said, spinning around. He swatted at the oversized tassel and leaned his arms against the piano.

  “Well in that case,” Clara said, stopping her hands and turning to Bly, “go on, dear.”

  Barnes barked out a laugh.

  “I’m sure she can wait until dinner,” Bly said, forcing as smile as he holstered his pistol.

  “Very well,” Clara said, standing in a rush. “I have a social call to make. Excuse me.” She walked out, leaving Bly and Barnes staring at one another.

  “I see London went well,” Barnes said with a smirk.

  “On most accounts.”

  “You should,” he said, wildly pointing his arm toward the door, “go.”

  “I’m learning that,” Bly grumbled. He turned and chased after his wife. Again.

  She was halfway up the stairs when the sound of a door crashing open rang upstairs and stopped them from their pursuit.

  “Blythe Everett Ravensdale!”

  His fists clenched at the sound of the woman’s grating voice. It was his own fault for relying on another to care for his family. He was disappointed enough in himself on that count. It was only how she behaved while he was gone that angered him. Anger was too light of a word. It was more like bloody furious.

  Small and petite, his aunt shot to the balustrade, wearing another absurd hat of feathers and ribbons. “How dare you!?”

  Clara moved to take another step but Bly’s hand pulled her back. “I want you gone,” was all he said, addressing his aunt. That was all he could say that was decent. His fingers itched to pull out the pistol and fire a warning shot. But he was a better man now. There were rules, he was sure, on ridding one’s house of someone unwanted. That was, at least according to his wife and her precious etiquette manuals.

  Clara pulled forward, straining, as he pulled her backward.

  “Lady Margaret,” she bit out, her tone like that of a snarling dog. “I can guess you had a lovely time in Italy. Your niece is well now, in case you came back out of concern. She has been for some time.”

  “Don’t start with me, Miss Dawson.”

  “Mrs. Ravensdale,” Bly and Clara said in unison. They looked to each, both grinning.

  “She’s a Baroness now as well. Mind your tongue, Aunt.”

  “I have never,” his aunt exclaimed, snapping a fan from her waist and spreading in a great exclamation of disgust. “To be treated as such…”

  Bly pulled Clara close and whispered, “Ready her carriage.” She turned to protest but he narrowed his eyes. She threw her arm to rid herself of his touch but she walked down the stairs, her head high, even as his aunt carried on with her tirade.

  None of his aunt’s words mattered. She was a foolish and cruel woman who would finally answer for what she had done. He would see to that. He owed that to Clara and the children, and he supposed in a sense, himself.

  He did not remember taking the rest of the stairs; he only remembered being pelted with a fan as he dragged his aunt into her parlor.

  “Unhand me, you wicked man!” she shrilled. Again, she whacked him on the head with the fan until he snapped it off the chain attached to her dress.

  “No more,” he warned, taking the fan in hand and snapping it in half. “You are in my house, but not for much longer. I want you gone. You won’t be living off my money any longer.”

  “After the kindness I did for you…” She drew back, her hand clutched tightly at her throat.

  “By kindness I assume you mean my generous spirit in handing over my pocketbook to you.”

  “I gave up my life to look after those children.”

  “Those children are family, yet you’ve treated them no better than a factory overseer. As for looking after them, that would require to be living in the house, which you did not.”

  “They are only children. The remaining staff saw that they were fed and clothed.”

  “That is where you are wrong, and no wonder. You thought you deserved everything instead. I’m far from hurting for cash, even after your wasteful expenses. My wife cared for those children with next to no money.”

  His aunt blew out a noisy breath and stared back, blinking rapidly. “Your mother would be ashamed to see the man you’ve become.”

  “My mother has nothing to do with this. You can’t hide behind her forever. It was you who convinced me long ago that I killed her. And I believed you,” he roared, throwing the fan pieces against the wall.

  His aunt flinched back.

  “I believed you,” he continued, “but it was you that played a role in her death. You knew of her condition. You always knew, yet you did nothing, then played victim when the truth ruined your chances at securing that duke. No one wants a wife who has madness in her family, do they, Aunt?”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “And I was tired of being in her shadows. She ruined my life. I did not care when she finally lost hers.”

  “Nor did you care for the fate of your nephew, who no one wanted to claim.”

  “I believe no one still does, Blythe. You are a terrible man. Cruel and unfeeling. Do you mean to toss me out?”

  “Yes, I mean to toss you and that would be doing you a kindness.”

  “Am I to be…am I to be cut off?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “I do not deserve this!”

  “No? My son spent the first two years of his life in a drafty attic because his mother was shunned and ridiculed by the rest of the staff. My wife was left for dead by your servants when I arrived.”

  “She is a fallen woman.”

  Bly brought his hand to his forehead, taking in a deep, steadying breath. If he had not arrived when he did, Clara would be dead and his son—well he did not want to think of what could have happened to Rhys. “Clara is no such thing,” he said in a low rumble. “And my son deserved better treatment from his family.”

  “His father saw fit to run off. Why should I assume responsibility for another mouth you were responsible for?”

  Bly picked up the trunk on the floor and tossed it into the hall. “Shall I help with the others? We’re through here.”

  “Your son was born a bastard and he will have the same wicked spirit as you. He will bring shame to this family—”

  “There’s no need to continue. I’ve heard that speech my entire life and for the longest time, I believed it. I’ve been given a chance to change, and I have and will continue to do so. Rhys won’t know any of what I suffered and he’ll be a better man because of it.” Bly reached into his pocket and threw a wad of bills at his aunt. “That’s for your travel.” He paused with his back to her in the door. “I don’t want to hear from you again.”

  *

  This was not the welcoming Clara thought awaited her when she returned from London with Bly. There was not much time to think, really. They had spent most of the journey kissing and doing all manner of things that were better left to the bedroom behind closed doors, not a train and a carriage. The memory of their afternoon brought a crimson flush to her face.

  “Unless you plan on throwing that pot in her face, you’re not obliged to do her a kindness,” Bly warned as she approached him on the stairs.

  “A cup of tea won’t do any harm. You are tossing her from the house. I expect that is a difficult thing to hear when one considers herself indestructible.” Clara looked at t
he trunk that had been tossed against the balustrade, upended and partially opened.

  “She deserved every word.”

  “Undoubtedly. Excuse me,” she said, purposely pushing forward.

  “You are the most st—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” Clara warned. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before spinning around him. “The carriage is waiting, but I would like a word first,” she whispered harshly. “I deserve that. I’m not asking permission.”

  “Did I—”

  “A few minutes,” she insisted. He bit at his lip, observing her. She thought he was fighting back a smile. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said with a saucy wink, pushing the door open to the last woman she ever wished to see. Clara had not received many opportunities to have a say in her life, but she would have her say with Lady Margaret. That, she was certain.

  Clara was surprised to find the dragon on bended knee, gathering up a fist full of bills from the floor.

  “I don’t wish to speak to you,” Lady Margaret said in her cold voice.

  “Seeing that I am the lady of the house now, I think I shall ignore your wishes because I wish to speak with you.”

  The woman looked up, all sharp angles, her eyes still filled with that unfounded hatred that had always unnerved Clara.

  “I brought you some tea before you go.”

  Lady Margaret stood and opened her purse, stuffing bills in unceremoniously while avoiding Clara’s watchful gaze. When she was finished, Lady Margaret pushed by Clara and bent to gather the fan that was snapped in two on the floor. “I have never been treated so poorly,” she hissed, gazing down at the broken pieces. “After all I have done…”

  There was no point in wasting breath to set all those wrongs right. There would be no right, not where Lady Margaret was concerned.

  “I knew you would catch him. I knew from when I first saw you.”

  “Some tea before you leave?” Clara asked again.

  “I don’t want your damn tea!” Lady Margaret’s meticulous up-do loosened. Silver and black tresses spilled over her dress. “You will die at his hand,” Lady Margaret continued. “Ravensdale men excel at only that. They drag their women down until the despair is too much. He will kill you. At least you’ll be spared of seeing your son continue on the family tradition.”