“I’m writing a book about the Wars of the Roses. Murder, treachery, all those good things. But Edmund Tudor is the worst.” She was braced for questions about titles and plots. Her books weren’t a secret; they were written under her own name—at least the three that wouldn’t get her brought up on obscenity charges. It was just that she preferred not to talk about it, because she did not know how to explain that writing a three-volume history in which Margaret Beaufort went on a murder spree was the closest thing to personal fulfillment she feared she was presently capable of. She did not know how to talk about it without announcing to the world that she was deeply, irretrievably odd.
“They were all pretty bad that century,” he said. “I imagine you’re spoiled for choice as to villains.”
“I know!” she said, delighted. “That’s why I’m writing about it. Do you have a bit of extra time this morning? There’s a spot I’d like to show you.”
“I have all day,” he said, and she felt his cheek warm under her touch. What must it be like, to have your emotions rush to the surface like that? Amelia couldn’t even imagine. It must be like living one’s entire life behind a window. “Let’s be off, then,” he said, and offered her his arm for the first time yet.
Chapter Five
Sydney had been looking forward to seeing Amelia since parting with her the previous day. He woke with her on his mind, and seeing her in person was as much of a relief as he had hoped. This was dangerous, he knew. Being with her, touching her, felt the same as nearly falling through the attic stairs due to his own poor planning. He was proceeding without a shadow of forethought; it was exhilarating but also more than a little terrifying.
Her hand rested on the inside of his elbow, and their sides frequently brushed against one another as they walked. She occasionally tilted her head up to look at him while she talked, and he caught himself helplessly gazing down at her. It was a wonder they didn’t tumble headfirst into a briar patch.
When they reached the place she had wanted to show him, she kept her hand on his arm even after they stopped walking. It was a prominence with a good view of the valley below, and a conveniently placed boulder from which to watch the clouds make shadows on the opposite hillsides. But instead of looking across the valley, she looked up at him, which he knew because he was already looking at her, because his brains were completely addled by sheer proximity to her. Then, God help him, she licked her lips. When her tongue darted out of her mouth and moistened her lower lip, Sydney thought he might freeze to the spot.
“Sydney,” she said, her bare hand resting on his arm. “Are you quite all right?”
“Look at that very interesting sight over there,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the hills on the opposite side of the valley.
“It’s . . . sheep,” she said. “You’re familiar with sheep?”
“They seemed fine specimens,” he managed to say.
She smiled a particularly wolfish smile, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to his powers of thought.
“I’m wondering,” he said, after they had sat on the boulder and passed his flask of ale back and forth a couple of times, “whether you plan to continue looking or if you have any further plans for me.” He told himself he said the words to put her off, to let her know she was not being discreet and shock her into behaving in a more prudent manner. But he knew that wasn’t the truth. He was goading her, daring her to do more.
“Well,” she said consideringly, “I daresay that depends on what you’d like.”
His mouth went dry. “Oh?”
“I’m hardly an expert but I believe the general belief is that best practice is for there to be two participants. Possibly more, in theory, but I don’t see anyone else nearby.”
“Participants,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. Of course he knew what she meant. All morning she had been looking at him as if he were a table laid out for a banquet. She wasn’t making any secret of liking what she saw, and he knew that she was capable of making her face keep any secrets she wanted.
She waved her hand impatiently. “Use whatever words you like.”
He made a strangled sound. “I take it back. There are to be zero participants. You can’t carry on like this.”
“Like what? And why not? I daresay I can carry on precisely as I please.”
His cheeks flamed with heat. “I can’t—you are an unmarried girl—”
“No.” She wrinkled her noise in disgust. “Do better. I mean, if you’d rather not kiss me and so forth then I’d be pleased to learn more about steam engines.”
“Pardon?” he asked faintly. He was unaccustomed to approaching sex without a healthy dose of anxiety. With a man, he worried about being caught; with a woman, he still worried about being caught but also about pregnancy. In short, he worried.
“Do come up with a better excuse. Even if the reason you won’t . . . participate with me is that you don’t want to sully my honor”—here she made a particularly unladylike gagging sound—“do come up with a more creative reason.”
“More creative.” This was perhaps the least sensible conversation he had ever participated in, and he was certain he should not be enjoying it.
“I suppose you could say you don’t fancy me, but we both know you’ve been looking at me as much as I’ve been looking at you.”
“Impossible. Nobody has ever looked at anyone as much as you’ve looked at me. I feel quite cheapened.” And then, because he was an idiot, he glanced at her chest, then hastily glanced away. Oh, hell. In for a penny. He returned his gaze to her, starting at the top of her head, then down to her forehead, where one eyebrow was arched in wry amusement. Then he traveled down to her lips, pale pink and quirked up in the beginning of a wry smile. He could lean in and kiss her—but no, now he was only looking. With his gaze, he traced the column of her neck, then the long sleeves of her gown, and back up again. He took in every curve, watched the way her chest rose and fell with every breath, and for one moment he let himself imagine what it would be like to let himself really want her, what it would be like to stop checking his admiration and fully experience it.
When she spoke, her voice was low, a bit throaty. “You owe it to yourself to invent a better excuse for not touching me. A vow of chastity, perhaps. I assure you I would be most respectful of any vows you’ve taken. A rare condition that causes you to lose consciousness when you become aroused. An insurmountable fear of redheads with ample bosoms. I could list a dozen more.”
The woman was pathologically averse to the truth. Surely Sydney should not be so charmed. “I can’t,” he rasped. “I . . .” He swallowed, and she watched his throat work. “I took a vow of chastity,” he blurted out.
“What?”
“As you said earlier. I took a vow of chastity and that’s why I can’t touch you.”
“As long as it has nothing to do with my virtue.”
“A pox on your virtue. It’s my virtue, by which I mean my vow of chastity, that I’m concerned with.”
“What kind of vow?” she asked promptly. “Are you in a monastic order?”
“Damn it, Amelia.”
She shook her head as if he had let her down. “You can’t have thought one line would be good enough. Do better.”
He buried his face in his hands. “I swore an oath to my liege lord that I wouldn’t lay a hand on any woman until I had brought back a holy relic.”
“I thought Quakers didn’t swear oaths.”
He looked up at her in outrage. “I’m making up a story!”
She nodded approvingly. “Well done. I expect you to tell me more about your liege lord and the nature of your knightly quest at some other time, but first let’s discuss the specifics of your oath. Are women allowed to touch you or did you swear to prevent them from doing so? If so, that would be a very comprehensive vow. Quite unprecedented.”
“Amelia, are you looking for a loophole in my fictional vow of chastity?”
“Obviously,” she said. �
��So we’ve established that you are a noble knight, unable to touch any fair lady, but also unsworn to defend your own virtue against any feminine explorations. Is that so?”
He blinked at her, dazed. Her lips were slightly parted, and he could lean in and kiss her. She was all but asking him to do so, or maybe asking for permission to kiss him herself. “That’s right.”
“Are there any restrictions as to how a lady might touch you?”
“A lady might take care that we’re very nearly in public,” he said with an effort at asperity.
“A gentleman might notice that we’re on an isolated hilltop. The sheep will keep our secrets. May I touch you, though?”
“Be my guest,” he managed.
“I’m going to start with your beard.”
“No, you can’t,” he said. “You can only touch over my clothes, otherwise I’m technically touching you and I’d be in defiance of the—” He broke off, realizing what he was saying. “Amelia, you’ve addled my brains.”
“I know,” she said delightedly. “Well, I’ll start with your arms, then.” She stroked her hands down his arms, slowly, as if relishing the solid feel of them under her fingers. He shifted under her touch, muscles bunching and rippling. He was suddenly very glad he had dispensed with his coat today.
“You’re showing off for me,” she said.
“That isn’t against my vow.”
She snorted in amusement. Excellent. She stopped just short of his cuff, then slid her hands back up the length of his arms and onto his shoulders. “Goodness, you’re very large.” She slid her hands down his chest, over the linen of his shirt and the wool of his waistcoat, over the muscles there. He groaned and let out a shaky breath.
He liked her. He liked her nonsense stories even though he was certain he ought to disapprove. He liked that she didn’t make a secret of wanting him and didn’t seem to think that their wanting one another meant they needed to do anything dramatic about it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed being in the same space as someone, and it must have been longer still since anyone returned the sentiment.
“Oh. Look at that,” he said, gesturing at the sky. “It’s noon.”
“So it is,” she agreed.
He liked her. He wanted her. She liked and wanted him. It was as easy as that, and was seldom so simple. He cleared his throat, but still when he spoke his words came out hoarse and thick. “Did you know that I get a dispensation from my vow each day at noon? Very brief. Only two or three minutes.”
“Better hurry.”
He took her chin in his hand, feeling how soft and smooth her skin was under his calloused fingers. “A kiss?”
“Clock’s ticking,” she said, and it was little more than a breath. She held herself perfectly still, waiting for him to make the decision.
He leaned in, let his lips brush over hers. He had forgotten how sensitive mouths could be, and was taken by surprise by the sparks of sensation awakened in him. He moved to the side and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her hand came to his jaw at the same time he deepened the kiss, testing the seam between her lips. She made a satisfied little sound that went straight to his groin. Then she pulled back, and for the merest instant he saw her discomposed, he saw what she looked like when she was honest. Eyes unfocused and hungry, lips pink and parted. Then she gathered herself up.
“My mother always said to leave people wanting more. Usually she was referring to when to leave a tea party, but I suppose it applies.”
That brought him up short. Was that how she was raised? If so, it explained a lot. Sydney’s mother was wont to say things like “waste not want not” and “don’t buy cotton unless you know it was grown by free labor,” and Amelia’s mother was telling her when to leave tea parties.
“I couldn’t possibly want you more,” he admitted. “Even if you had kissed me for another half hour.”
“Perhaps we could test that principle. Tomorrow, even.” She bit her lip and looked up at him with laughing gray eyes.
“I leave tomorrow for Manchester.”
“Oh! I see.” She looked so openly disappointed that he nearly kissed her again.
“For a fortnight.” He had to meet with the railway backers and then hire a house that would be suitable for Leontine. “Then I’ll be back for a little while.” He’d only be back long enough to collect his niece and take her to Manchester, but he didn’t want to say so. “I’ll look forward to seeing you,” he said. And then, because that wasn’t enough, he brushed his lips across her forehead. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too,” she whispered, and looked startled to have said it out loud. “Write me,” she said. “You know where I live. And I’ll write you back.”
Even as he said yes, watching the smile spread over her face, he knew it was a bad idea. And he knew he would enjoy it anyway.
Sydney was more than a little surprised to find Leontine sitting on the gravel drive in front of Pelham Hall. Before her was spread a motley array of treasures: a bottle cap, several springs, a lump of sealing wax, some string. What was not present was the nursemaid who was supposed to be minding her.
“Where is your nurse?” he asked, before remembering that the child could not understand English. Or maybe she could, because she gazed in the direction of the house and gave a very Gallic shrug. If she were the sort of child who lived to escape supervision, as her father most definitely had been, she would need a trained governess, not a village girl who had been pressed into service. Perhaps she also needed a dog. Something that could follow her around and keep her safe, like Amelia’s dog did for her.
“What are you building there?” he asked, crouching down beside her. She made a circular gesture with her hand and a buzzing sound. “A whirligig,” he said, comprehending. She laughed and attempted to repeat the word, which made Sydney laugh as well. “I agree, it’s a silly word. But your father and I used to make all manner of these. Here, let’s look at what you’re doing.”
For the next half hour he watched her work, only contributing some conveniently sized sticks and congratulatory sounds. When they had a finished object, they brought it inside.
They found Lex sitting once again in the great hall, alone. He spent a great deal of time alone in the ruins of a house that had once been a happy place, and Sydney didn’t quite know what to think about it. After he had admired the buzzing sound the whirligig made, and the maid had finally come along to bring Leontine to her tea, Lex tapped his cane on the floor. “Off to catch the stagecoach back to Manchester?” he asked, an odd edge to his question.
“You know I am. I need to arrange for a house and a maid, to say nothing of a governess for Leontine.” He had run through the numbers last night. He’d need to use the money Andrew left him—rightfully Penny’s, and only Sydney’s due to the fact that the couple had wed so hastily there had been no time for settlements or wills. Sydney hadn’t wanted to touch that money, it having all the taint of ill-gotten gains. But for Andrew’s child, it felt almost right. “I need to do my duty.”
“Of course,” Lex said. “Your duty. How you make caring for people sound like such a chore, I’d like to know. Like emptying chamber pots.”
Sydney strove for patience. “All I meant is that I’m all Leontine has in this world, and I’ll do right by her.”
“No, you aren’t. She has you, me, and Pelham Hall.”
“Pardon?”
“Really, Sydney, do keep up. If she’s Andrew’s child, this place ought to be hers.”
That brought Sydney up short. The prospect of passing Pelham Hall and all the memories and guilt that were tied up with it off to someone else felt like a millstone lifting from his neck. “Surely an illegitimate daughter has no claim on his property.”
“Not legally, of course, but since when do you give a fig about that? Surely, if she’s Andrew’s daughter she has a claim to his property according to some principle you hold.”
“Yes, principles, that’s what they’re called,
Lex.”
“Are you smiling?” Lex asked. “It sounds like you’re smiling. Haven’t heard that since I got here.”
“But how do we go about proving she is who we think she is? How do I give it to her? Do I need to set up a trust?”
“You’re being very tedious today. Were you always this tedious? I dare say you were, and I let your physique distract me. Nobody needs to prove who she is. Just give her the house. You clearly don’t want it. Let the solicitors sort out the details and the child can stay here.” He yawned. “Meanwhile I require dinner. You really ought to hire a cook. I’m very disturbed by the lack of hospitality I’ve received here.”
“Dégueulasse,” Leontine said agreeably from the doorway. She had evidently escaped her nurse again. “C’est une vraie porcherie, ça.”
“Utterly dégueulasse, ma petite,” Lex agreed. “We must get your uncle to do something about it.”
Sydney knew it was useless to argue with Lex when he was in a mood like this. Or really, ever. Amelia, for all her missing shawls and her levity, her insistence upon fictional vows of chastity and her too-sweet cakes, was a sensible person, and he had a sudden urge to turn to her for confirmation that Lex was being impossible. He could go to Crossbrook Cottage now, he supposed, but that seemed like a violation of their rules of engagement. They had only ever seen one another alone and outside and altering this made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t identify.
Instead he climbed the stairs to the attic. Perhaps he’d find a doll or a couple of books that Leontine could amuse herself with while he was away, so that she needn’t spend all her waking hours attempting to flee her nurse.
Along one side of the attic were a series of rooms tucked under the slope of the roof, nestled into the eaves. He suspected these had once been servants’ quarters or lumber rooms. When he tried to open a door, he found it stuck, either the result of wood swollen by water damage or a hinge rusted in place. Pressing his shoulder to it, he jammed it open. Inside was an assortment of old furniture: a clothes press, a bedstead, a couple of chairs in need of mending. There was the baby’s cradle Andrew had built himself—no, he would not look at that. He worked his way along the series of doors, shouldering each one open and examining the contents within. None of the windows up here were broken, and the contents of the rooms were safe and whole. He felt like he was snooping in another person’s house.
A Delicate Deception Page 7
