by Martha Keyes
She took in a breath and entered the private parlor.
Miss Perry was in the process of making a pile of flour, frowning in concentration as she packed it into a bowl and then flipped it over in an abrupt motion. With painstaking care, she removed the bowl, revealing a mound of flour that retained the shape of the container. “Ha!” she cried in victory. Her maid, who was stitching something in the corner, startled and then went back to her work.
“This” —Miss Perry held up a small marble— “I was able to acquire from the young boy in the stable yard. I believe he assists the ostlers.”
Edith shut the door behind her, then walked over to inspect the mound. “I am surprised he surrendered it to you.”
Miss Perry smiled, brushing off her hands. “He was loath to part with it until I offered him tuppence—and a promise of the marble’s return with another tuppence. We are all ready now. Is Mr. Abram to join us?”
“Yes, he shall be down shortly.”
“I have a feeling he shall be a skilled competitor.” Miss Perry pursed her lips as she slowly set the marble atop the pile, letting out a relieved breath when nothing disastrous occurred.
“Yes, I imagine so, for he hates to lose.”
“Does he? Yes, I suppose I can see that. But, then again, none of us likes to lose. Have you played very many games like this with him?”
Edith thought over the time she had known Elias. There had been plenty of evenings together, for he often joined Matthew at Shipton House, but they had never done anything more exciting than playing whist. “No, but that is only because my father abhors such pastimes and always has.”
“You have a long history with Mr. Abram, then? One cannot help but notice how close you are.” She let out one of her soft laughs. “If you hadn’t told me you were not married, I should likely have gone on believing it forever.”
Edith felt a blush creeping into her cheeks and was only glad Miss Perry was too focused on putting aside the extra flour to notice.
Miss Perry looked up at her hesitantly. “I hope it is not terribly forward of me to ask, but why aren’t you married?” She rushed on, as if to defend her asking. “I obviously am not so very well acquainted with you, but it seems a smart match.”
Edith forced a laugh. “A fatal match, more likely. Elias and I never meet without coming to dagger-drawing. We are too alike. And somehow too different as well. Besides, I have no plans to marry.”
Miss Perry blinked twice. “No plans to marry? Why ever not?”
Edith had always been more than happy to enlighten anyone who broached the subject on her views of marriage, but she hesitated now, reluctant for some reason to thrust her cynicism on the young woman. She smiled wryly. “My views on marriage and love would shock you, I think.”
Miss Perry’s brow furrowed. “What are your views?”
“Not positive, I fear.” Seeing Miss Perry look nonplussed, Edith shrugged. “I have observed it to end unhappily more often than not.”
“But marriage doesn’t end—at least not in anything but the most extreme cases.”
Edith brushed at a bit of spilled flour on the table. “Yes, that is part of the problem, though, isn’t it? Two unhappy people unable to escape one another.”
Miss Perry’s head tipped from side to side. “I suppose it is a problem in some cases. But in others, surely the fact that there is no end is cause for hope? If something has no end, it can always be improved and become better, don’t you think?”
Edith could hardly argue with such a rosy view. The last thing Miss Perry needed was for someone to give her another reason for sadness or despair. Edith lifted a shoulder. “I imagine you are right, but the long and short of it is, I haven’t ever met someone who made me wish to marry.”
“Not even Mr. Abram?” Miss Perry asked incredulously. “But he is kind and amusing and very handsome and—”
“And unbearably arrogant and terribly aggravating—”
“Do I hear my virtues being extolled?” Elias entered the room with an amused smile, his eyes lingering on Edith for a moment before moving to Miss Perry. “I cannot go anywhere without her insisting upon doing so, you know.”
Edith hardly knew whether she was glad or embarrassed at his timing. It was one thing to hurl insults at a man to his face and quite another to speak ill of him when he wasn’t there to fight back. She hated the feeling that he had discovered any pettiness in her. She played fair, and she took pride in that.
But there was no helping it. Besides, it was better that he know there was nothing to that moment in his doorway a few minutes ago. They were as they had always been: rivals of wit. “I wouldn’t want anyone to remain in ignorance, of course. But I was hardly done extolling your virtues, as you say.” She smiled at him. “There are so very many to choose from.”
“Yes. I believe such virtues are most easily recognized in one who also possesses them. You are very fit for the task.”
Miss Perry was looking back and forth between them. “How fascinating. I am now more than ever excited at the prospect of this game, for it is apparent that you are well-matched in one another. I only hope that you don’t find me aggravating, for I am quite slow, I fear.” She clapped her hands together once. “Come, let us begin. Perhaps it is only the moisture in the air from all the rain, but this flour seems to be stickier than I am accustomed to, which shall make for a very thrilling game, since the mound isn’t likely to fall over as easily as usual. I assume you are acquainted with the rules of play, Mr. Abram?”
He bowed, setting out a hand to welcome the knife. “May I do the honors?” He glanced at Edith, the familiar challenging gleam in his eyes, and put a hand below his face as if to display it. “Behold, ladies. A clean face” —he looked at Edith significantly— “which shall remain clean.”
“What is the saying, Miss Perry?” Edith asked, moving to make way for Elias to begin the game. “Ah yes, pride goeth before the fall.”
“Undoubtedly very familiar to a woman who has spent all her life falling.”
They locked eyes, and she raised a brow at him. “Shall we play, or do you insist on delaying the inevitable as long as possible?”
He dipped his head and set to cutting the mound of flour.
Edith always sought victory, but for some reason, it seemed more important today than ever, as if she needed to prove her mettle not only to Elias but to herself. She was still in command of herself.
Chapter Nineteen
There was an intensity to Edith’s play that surprised Elias and drew him in, sparking his own competitive spirit and sharpening his senses.
It was just a game. He knew that. Yet he sensed that there was something else at play for Edith, and he couldn’t help responding in kind. He needed to win. He didn’t know precisely why, but he needed to.
Miss Perry had been right about the flour. The grains seemed to adhere more tightly to one another, making for cleaner cuts—and stiffer competition. Miss Perry was no less determined than the other two to come off conqueror, and her strategy was to slice the smallest possible section from the flour pile, while Elias and Edith were more daring in their cuts, anxious to prove their skill.
Miss Perry’s calculated and careful efforts were rewarded by the mound’s collapse on her third cut, drawing irrepressible laughter from Edith and Elias. She clasped her hands behind her back and took a deep breath before plunging her nose and chin into the toppled remains, fishing for the elusive marble in its depths. She emerged twice with nothing, finding her mark on the third dive. Face caked with flour, she held up her hands in victory.
The flour was packed down again and the mound resurrected. With each cut, Elias’s heart quickened pace, and he drew nearer and nearer as the mound became smaller and smaller. He watched unblinking as Edith held the knife above, shifting it around as she decided where to make the next cut. There was hardly an inch of flour left around the marble on every side, and Elias tensed as he saw her position the knife to slice away at what little
remained.
The flour collapsed into a heap, and Elias cheered.
Edith whipped around. “You nudged me!”
He reared back, knowing a moment’s misgiving as he realized how near he had been to her.
“Did you not see it, Miss Perry?” Edith cried.
Miss Perry bared a mouth of clenched teeth, clearly unwilling to be cast as judge.
Edith gave Elias a little shove. “Only look how near to me he is and ask yourself how easy it would have been for him to bump my arm. He is no better than a cheat.”
Elias threw his head back. “Take no heed of her, Miss Perry. She is a poor loser, nothing more. Come, Edith. No more of these excuses. You must find the marble now—though it shall be much easier thanks to all of the flour I cut away for you.”
Edith glared at him, her chest heaving. He didn’t even attempt to suppress his grin—it would have been entirely futile.
She shook her head with eyes that promised vengeance, then turned back to her task. Lowering her face so that it hovered above the mound, she sent another spiteful sidelong glance at Elias before turning to the flour. A wavy strand of hair dropped near her mouth, and she brought up a hand. Without even thinking, Elias snatched her wrist.
Edith’s head whipped around in disbelief.
Feeling some sort of explanation was warranted, Elias lifted his shoulders innocently. “No hands allowed!”
She rose so that she stood straight, and the lock of hair stubbornly stayed in place, covering one eye. “May I?” she asked in an acid tone. She wrested her wrist from his grasp and, in an exaggerated gesture, tucked the strand of hair behind her ear.
Elias’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as he watched Edith’s face rove about in the flour, eyes closed and brows knit in concentration. She was quick to find the marble, emerging with it tucked between her powdered lips.
“Bravo!” cried Miss Perry, who had managed to wipe away the majority of the evidence of her own time spent in the mound.
Edith took the marble from her mouth and dipped into a grand curtsy, but her gaze met Elias’s as she came up. “I demand a rematch. Without you hovering over me or knocking me about.”
Elias scoffed. “Knocking you about? What exaggeration is this?”
“What? Afraid you shall lose if we play another round?” She leveled her most challenging gaze at him, and he had to put a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Hardly,” he managed. “I merely can’t imagine that there is much flour left for it with how much remains on your face and clothing.”
She glanced down at her dress, and her mouth twisted to the side, but she was unable to suppress a twitch. She said nothing for a moment, then, before Elias realized what she was about, snatched a handful of flour and threw it at his face. “Now we are even,” she said.
Elias had blinked just in time to spare his eyes, but in his surprise, he inhaled, and he coughed and coughed, doubling over. One fist covered his mouth, the other resting on his thigh.
When he was finally able to compose himself, tears were streaming down his face, and he was sure he was red as a beet. He felt Edith’s hand on his back and took a moment, hands still on his thighs.
“Are you all right, Mr. Abram?” Miss Perry’s voice was full of concern.
“No,” he said, still hunched over as he caught his breath. He glanced at what remained of the flour, then pretended to stumble slightly, feeling Edith’s hand grasp at his arm to steady him while he reached for the edge of the table to do the same. In a quick motion, he snatched whatever he could manage to gather up in his fist, rose to a stand, and tossed it at Edith, who blocked the attack with an arm in front of her face. She reached for more flour—what little remained on the table, and Miss Perry cried out and ran for the door. “Not on my dress! It is my only mourning attire!”
“Miss!” Miss Perry’s maid—all but forgotten till now—hurried after her mistress. Puffs of flour hung in the air, descending slowly as the door shut behind maid and mistress.
Elias and Edith looked at each other, both standing prepared for attack. Her eyes moved to the bag of flour Miss Perry had set aside, and she made to grab it.
But Elias was too quick for her. It only took two long strides to bring him beside her, where he flung an arm at the bag, sending it sliding to the edge of the table. He snatched at her wrists, pulling them behind her and smiling down at her in victory. Their bodies pressed up against each other, chests rising and falling.
“You, madam, are without scruple!” he said, though his mouth was pulled into an irrepressible grin.
“Says the cheat!” She strove against his grasp on her wrists, and he laughed as he saw her eyes flick toward the flour again.
“Don’t even think about it. I should wrestle you to the ground before you took your second step.”
“Bully,” she breathed, her chin raised defiantly, and her eyes blazing with energy and fire like he’d never seen them. Flecks of flour hung on the edge of her lashes and brows, and her face was sprinkled with a white mask, thicker at the nose, cheeks, and chin, fading near her hairline. There was a streak across her mouth where she had wiped at the flour with a sleeve. She was ridiculous. And yet captivating.
He took pains to calm his breathing, knowing it would drive her mad to see him calm when she was so worked up. “Let’s see. Arrogant. Cheat. Bully. Just how many insults do you have stored up for me this evening?”
She tugged at her hands again, but he regained his strong hold on them. Her nostrils flared. “Even more than you have for me, I assure you.”
He chuckled. Insults? She had him completely wrong.
She misinterpreted his reaction. “Would you care to test me, then?”
“Go on,” he said, pulling her closer as she again attempted to free herself from his grasp. But this time there was less will in the attempt. Or perhaps he was merely seeing what he wanted to see, but he was not holding her wrists so tightly anymore. She could certainly have escaped if she’d had a mind to.
She looked into his eyes, and he found himself back in the library at Shipton House.
“I have already offered the three you mentioned,” she said. “And unlike you, I play fairly. It is your turn. So tell me—tell me what you really think of me.”
His heart thudded against his chest, and her eyes dared him to insult her. He could easily offer a list of adjectives he might have used to describe her a few days ago: haughty, cold, heartless. For some reason, he thought it might satisfy her to hear it. She was in a strange mood.
“Very well,” he said. “Firstly, I think that you are not who you pretend to be.”
“Oh?” She was all feigned curiosity and skepticism.
“I think that Matthew was more right about you than I believed.”
She let out a small scoff. “A helpless kitten, am I?”
“And I think”—he slowly released his grip on her wrists, leaving his arm draped around her so that his hand slipped down to cover hers softly.
Her breathing stilled, an arrested look in her eyes.
“I think that you are not as anxious to leave my arms as you would have me believe.”
He hardly believed his own audacity. And yet he couldn’t stop there. He had come too far to turn back. He brought his other hand up and brushed at one of the thicker spots of flour on her cheek. It sprinkled onto her chest, which rose and fell against his. “I think you are beautiful, Edith Donne. Inside and out.” The edge of his lip pulled up into a half-smile, a nonchalant gesture entirely at odds with the tension he felt inside. “I’ve cheated again, haven’t I? That was four things.”
Her cheeks were red under the mask of flour, her nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Elias had released her hands, and he didn’t know whether she wished to embrace him or slap him. But she hadn’t moved away from him. Certainly that was something.
Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, and, needing no more invitation than that, Elias dipped his head until their lips met.
>
It was everything her eyes had been: fire and passion and anger, as if revenge could be taken through a kiss. He pulled her into him, pressing on her hands, which still hung at the small of her waist. With his other hand, he took her cheek, anchoring her lips to his. She pushed her lips more firmly against his, as if it were a battle and she on the offensive. He responded in kind, bringing her toward him with the arm at her waist, even as he pressed her away with his lips. There was no retreat, only attack and counterattack.
And then resistance.
She pulled her arms out from under his hands and pushed away from him, their lips breaking roughly apart. She stepped back, and he blinked, bewildered at the abrupt change, his breath ragged.
“You are a knave,” she said, her voice level but shaking as she wiped her red mouth with the back of her hand. She turned on her heel and made her way toward the door, which opened just as she stretched out a hand toward the doorknob.
Miss Perry appeared, her head peeking in hesitantly. “Is it safe now? I thought I heard enough silence to indicate—oh dear.” She looked at the mess of scattered flour that covered the floor around Elias.
Edith said nothing, merely opening the door wide enough so that she could pass through.
“It is safe,” Elias said, brushing a hand against his lips while his eyes lingered on Edith’s retreating form. He hadn’t any idea what to think. He had been certain she had yielded—even returned the embrace. Had he imagined it? Had she truly been resisting the entire time? “I should change.” He dipped his head and strode from the room.
Chapter Twenty
Edith wiped at her lips again with the back of her hand, trying to erase the lingering memory on them. She had seen the alarm in Elias’s eyes when she had pulled away, and the guilt at her behavior stung. She had welcomed the kiss, much as she might wish to convince herself and Elias otherwise. Being so near to him, she hadn’t been able to keep their last kiss at bay. She wanted him to kiss her. And she had enjoyed it when he had—so much that it terrified her—the feeling of desiring him more than she had desired anything in her life.
