by Pendle, Eve
“Wardian case?” he interrupted.
Oh. She forgot that people didn’t know about all the tools of a pteridologist. “It’s like a miniature indoor glass house, for keeping ferns warm. Plants from the tropics can’t survive in the English climate.”
“And how many of these delicate tropical green things do you have?”
“Only a few dozen tropical specimens. I have around two hundred different ferns in my collection, either dried or as plants. Most also have accompanying drawings, often drawn from the glass microscope slides I made myself.” That was boastful, but she was quite proud of her collection. “And of course, I have the usual fern patterned plates, vases, fabric and that sort of thing.”
“A large collection of expensive toys.” The blanket over them both felt like an extension of his teasing warmth. “You certainly sound like a spinster. Or a man.”
Her mouth twisted involuntarily. “They are not toys.” Wardian cases and microscopes weren’t playthings. They were critical objects for scientific horticultural inquiry.
“You make it sound like you’re very dedicated to this dull pursuit. Don’t you ever pine for something more… Exciting.” He’d lowered his voice but must have leaned closer.
Her heart was so loud, she was surprised he didn’t mention it. Her breaths weren’t coming out quite even. Even in the dark and the cold, he was undeniably exciting. She needed to stay calm. One breath, two breaths. He was insulting her. She must focus on that or she’d say something silly. Three. Four.
Ferns. She could talk about ferns. “I’m sure the only reason you don’t see its merits as an activity is the wonder of the objects is not in front of you. They are extraordinary things, ferns.” Yes, this was safe and familiar. Ignoring innuendo and taking the most prosaic interpretation. “Each leaf is a little world in itself, a delicate leaf within a leaf. Beyond that, it is an appropriate and genteel activity for a lady. It gives me air and exercise. The Lady Hunters are excellent and improving company.” All this was true.
“Really.” He drew out the word. “Because when you were speaking about fox hunting at the Waddington’s dinner, I rather thought that was more your preference. Or shooting. You were advising the Curate on how to improve his aim, were you not?”
Her mouth was dry but when she swallowed, the sound seemed to travel in the small dark space. That evening she had been so focused on not paying the handsome man next to her any attention, she had been rather carried away. She had forgotten that perfect ladies ought not to know about shooting guns. They ought to not know anything about guns, in fact.
“It was just the wine speaking.” Which was more or less true. “I don’t know about hunting.” Which was not at all true. Well. Perhaps it was now. It had been four years since she had been anywhere near a hunt or a gun.
Fern hunting had filled that place in her life. Ferns, after all, did not need to be shot. They didn’t run away, and they were quite robust, especially the English ones. Good things, ferns. She liked them.
“That wasn’t what I gathered from your conversation.”
She felt him move and half saw, half felt him stretch upwards.
“I thought you might prefer a more physical sort of activity.” He made the word physical sound downright erotic. Especially when he was right next to her and they were snuggled underneath the blanket and completely alone. Her palms began to moisten with sweat, even as she felt herself leaning into his voice and his heat, away from the cold that was descending into their hole.
“I do–” Her voice came out high and breathy.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he interrupted her. His arm came down slightly onto her shoulder, both unexpected and inevitable.
“I do not know what you mean.” That was what she’d been saying.
“Admit it.” His arm nestled into the crook of her neck, urging her closer. “You do prefer physical activities.”
She did, entirely. But she repressed every urge out of habit now. Activities involving their tongues stroking and hands roaming in the dark invaded her thoughts. She’d been thinking of this fall as a liability, but maybe it was an opportunity. A kiss here, alone, couldn’t damage her good standing, could it? No-one would know unless Oscar or she told them. Her character was already decimated if anyone ever found out they’d been stuck together overnight.
“Yes. But I can’t…” She’d been so careful of her reputation, this was insanity.
“So why…” he whispered.
She turned her head towards his voice.
“Did you give up… physical activities, for a life of spinsterhood and ferns?”
And there again was the image of Lord Markshall, Oscar, lying motionless, and her heart thudded uncomfortably. Her bustle was digging into to her lower back, and her arms were suddenly cold to the bone.
“It’s just as I said. Ferns are a much more appropriate diversion for a lady.” She meant to elegantly dismiss him, but instead, she sounded petulant. “This bustle is uncomfortable,” she excused herself as she extricated herself from Oscar. Then she leaned back against the stone.
There was a long silence. So long, she thought he might not have heard her, or perhaps he was slipping into sleep. Or unconsciousness. “Oscar?”
He sighed deeply. “Yes.” The flirtatious, teasing tone was gone from his voice.
Who knew what the time was. It had been black now for a long time. Despite the cold, or maybe because of it, she felt her limbs grow heavy. “Are you tired? Shall we try to sleep?”
“Of course. Come back near me for warmth. I won’t do anything. You have my word.”
She hesitated.
“You have my word,” he repeated.
She eased closer to him until her arm brushed against hers. Briskly he folded the blanket back around her, his hands only momentarily on her legs through the blanket and her thick skirts. The little muscles of her shoulders relaxed a bit when his hands left her.
“Now, sleep.”
Emily closed her eyes, but it was the same either way. They lay next to each other in the dark. The sound of his breathing was even, but not deep or slow enough for him to have fallen asleep. Her mind, over-active at the best of times, flitted around.
Her reputation. James. Oscar. Connie’s debut. Ferns. James.
“Oscar, I can’t sleep.” She mustn’t think about James.
“I have very soporific tales of the House of Lords,” he answered immediately. “I find such arguments very slumber-inducing.”
“Yes, that sounds ideal.” Something that wasn’t about her. Anything to take her mind off her reputation. Ruined. Again.
“Last week, I slept through a very dull debate.” He started to tell her about an argument regarding mining.
His voice was deep sound, almost like a purr. His body emitted heat next to her, enough that she was comfortable. As he detailed the debate about the bill that had ensured children couldn’t work down mines, she found her muscles easing.
Relaxing into him, her head found his shoulder, padded only slightly by his coat and beneath, just warm muscles.
It was a relatively recent change, he said. He ran his words together smoothly, and Emily found her eyes falling shut.
“And really, it’s only right,” Markshall finished with a sigh. “It’s much more suitable for adults. As you are experiencing currently. It is really, ideal conditions for anyone over the age of twelve.”
It was so dark, as dark as a mine. She slumped a little more against his warm body. And then she allowed herself to drift away.
* * *
As she relaxed into sleep, Oscar shifted over so that her head fell against his shoulder. Her hair was fragranced with the scent of lemon, sharp and sweet. The tickle on his nose reminded him that she aroused as well as interested him. She was soft and innocent and delicate.
Emily slept easily, shifting occasionally, for hours. He didn’t sleep. Cramps through his back and a nagging headache made it impossible for him to be comfortable. But he didn
’t want to move and cut the fragile connection between himself and Emily that kept her warm and made it feel as though he was defending her.
Eyes closed, he thought about the upcoming debates in the House of Lords. He worried about Fanny. He tried not to allow himself to think about his daughter, Annie.
When Emily stirred, he gathered her infinitesimally closer into his arms, easing her to him. And his chest tightened with longing. It had been years since he’d been so close to a sweet smelling, high-born lady. Or any woman, really. He didn’t avail himself of what he paid for when the invitation to accompany others to a brothel was unavoidable. It had been even longer since he’d had a lady, soft and pliable in his embrace. The feeling was unfamiliar and yet achingly it seemed like home.
Every now and again, he twisted awkwardly to reach into his pocket, pulled out his watch and clicked open the glass lid. Then carefully he felt for the hands to feel for the time. Not because he wanted to know, but because some devil instinct demanded that he find out how long this blissful purgatory with her would continue.
Not long enough. In the morning, this would all be over. She would again be a stranger.
* * *
It was autumn. The smell of wet fallen leaves was all around, mixed in with the scent of heather. Bright purple heather and vibrant yellow gorse surrounded them, then the red-brown-green woods beyond, a riot of color. The beaters were loud, forcing the pheasants out of the cover and onto the open moor.
And there was James, her childhood sweetheart. In front of her, someone raised a gun to shoot one of the birds. His checked woolen cuffs were fine quality, moss green with thin stripes of red.
James was still far away but walking back towards them, a smile on his lips.
“Emily,” James called across to her. “I can’t find it, pretty girl.”
That’s always what he called her. Her heart swelled.
“You will have to shoot another, fatter one.”
She tried to call back to him, but no sound came out.
“All right,” shouted the man in front of her to James. He refilled the ammunition, putting in two bullets. He raised his gun. He cocked the safety.
But his aim was off. Too close to James. It was too risky.
“No!” She shouted, but the man didn’t hear her and neither did James. “Watch out!” Reaching out, she couldn’t grasp the man or reach James. She was trapped and couldn’t move. Her arms were bound, and her mouth gagged.
In the distance, someone called her name.
The man’s aim was not straight toward the main flock of birds, though it was close to one lone bird that had flown in the wrong direction. He was going to shoot James, she knew it. She fought to get out and push the man’s aim off. She struggled and pushed, but she couldn’t get free.
“James!” She shouted louder, straining against the gag, again and again. “James, get out of the way!”
The man took aim, straight towards James, and squeezed the trigger.
“No!” Her scream was strangled.
“Emily!”
* * *
Her eyes flew open into darkness. Her chest was tight but shuddering, like she’d breathed in dark particles and might choke. She clenched her hands into fists to try to stop her arms shaking, but her torso and legs were tangled in fabric. The air was clotted around her, imprisoning her.
“Hey, hey. It’s all right,” a deep voice reassured her. His voice rumbled against her cheek. She was suddenly aware of his body next to hers, even through their clothes and the blanket.
Oscar. She was stuck in a mineshaft with Lord Markshall. It was 1875. She had to feel the present, the here and now, not the past that wouldn’t release her.
“It was just a dream.” He was stroking her shoulder. “Tell me about it.”
She sucked in a breath. “No.” She wasn’t going to drag past terror into this disaster any more than it already was.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered even as he continued to caress her back. “Trapped with an irrational female.”
She reached toward him, thinking to cover his mouth. But her hand caught on his hair and she twined her fingers into the strands, holding onto him. He wasn’t the bloody past. He was vivid and hot, even in the dark.
“Emily.” He was pulling away. “What’s the matter?”
She had to stop him talking.
“That dream was–”
Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his. For a moment he was still, then he was kissing her back, deepening the kiss, his tongue demanding on hers. It was like she’d surfaced from a freezing pond into the summer sunshine. His mouth was stroking her lips. He was heat, gentle but confident and the feel of his lips sent tingling through her body, to her breasts, and between her hips. His mouth toyed with hers, pulling her lip with his teeth then touching his tongue to hers, mouths pressed together. He gathered her to him, pulling her close, so her corset and dress and his coat were layered with no space for cold air between them.
Her fingers explored his hair, relishing its silkiness. Her palm slipped down to cup his jaw, firm under her touch. He was delicious, his mouth sweet and fresh, his skin a mixture of softness and the pin-pricks of stubble on her fingertips. This desperate measure to distract him was the best kiss she’d ever had. This was the only kiss she’d had for four years.
His hands ran down her back and she arched into the caress. It had been so long, and she so desperately wanted to forget herself, the dark, and everything in the past, present, and future. She moaned her assent as he tightened his grip on the small of her waist.
He stilled. Then with a groan of frustration, he eased her gently away from him. “That’s enough.”
A tepid bucket of disappointment rinsed over her. “But…”
“Let’s not do anything you would regret.” His inflection spoke of his remorse.
Her dizzy lust was washed away. She had her pride. If he didn’t want her, she wouldn’t force herself onto him.
“You’re quite right.” She slid to the side, so they were sitting next to each other again. Wanting to be away from him didn’t mean she wanted to freeze outside the blanket. If she was going to be ruined, she was going to be warm and ruined. And perhaps he could keep the gloom at bay. She cast her mind around for something to say.
“Tell me something then, if you don’t want to kiss me.” That was abrupt for the most tactful lady of the ton. But then, how was one supposed to act when a libertine rejected one’s attempt at seduction?
* * *
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you.” The hardness between his legs was evidence of how much he wanted more of Emily’s unexpected and overwhelmingly passionate kiss. He gentled his voice. “You had a dream. A bad dream. What was it about?” That sounded childish, but it hadn’t felt like a childish dream.
She settled back, not into the space she had occupied pressed to his chest while she’d slept or when they’d kissed, but beside him, where she’d started the night. Still companionable and warm, but distant. “It was nothing. Is that the sound of the dawn chorus? I heard owls earlier, but I think I can hear a blackbird now.”
He hadn’t suggested that it was anything. She didn’t say anything more, and he listened. It was still entirely dark, but she was right, there was the fluting warble of birds.
“You have that dream regularly.” If it was just a common-or-garden bad dream, why change the subject? Why not just tell him it was a dream about a green monster chasing her, or whatever it was?
She didn’t say anything, and he took that as an affirmative.
What would give a gently bred young lady like her a terrible dream like that?
Well. Death of her lover, obviously. That would scar anyone. Especially if there was some foul play involved. Maybe her brother, or perhaps her father had ‘intervened’. Or perhaps a rival for her affection. Duels were outlawed and uncommon these days, but such things did happen, very quietly.
She was scared by whatever had happened to her
late fiancé, and by him, as only an innocent would be. That purity and goodness had captivated him from when he’d first seen her. A blameless maid who would have nothing to do with him. He hankered after that rejection and had sought it time and time again.
He didn’t usually chase women. He allowed their snubs to fill the dark place inside him. He relished the absolute rightness of his being shunned by beauty and virtue. He was, after all, a debaucher. That was the image he nurtured, tending each flower of vice and displaying it for the world to see.
He failed occasionally. Sometimes, a lady, quite a few ladies actually, would believe he could be redeemed. They thought the love of a good woman could save even a hardened rake. That was when he brought out his test. He was damned to a loveless life, by his own actions. He couldn’t love any woman who could love him.
“What do you have nightmares and dreams about?” Emily’s voice cut through his thoughts, jerking his chin up.
He’d thought she’d fallen back asleep, but she’d been awake, thinking, as he had.
“What are you scared of?” She was too close for safety. “What do you regret?” He heard the vulnerability through her bravado. She was looking for a way to reduce and share her weakness by having him confess some character flaw.
This was his opportunity to warn her off. He needed to scare her and prove to himself that she was wrong for him, or he would find himself completely in her spell. The gossamer delicate purity of her was much too good for him.
“I don’t regret anything.” He shrugged. “I’m a rake.”
“They all say you’re terribly wicked, you know. As though that were a good thing.” It was quite clear she thought it was a very bad thing. A pang went through him.
“Whoever they are, they know nothing about it at all.” Anyone who knew him, who knew everything he’d been and done at nineteen, should not say wickedness was attractive. If they knew about Lydia and her daughter Annie. His bastard daughter.
