A Delicate Deception

by Cat Sebastian

  Yours,

  Amelia

  13 September, 1824

  Dearest Amelia,

  I’ve gotten the post and am now the head engineer of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, despite having sat through the interview with a dog asleep at my feet. Look forward to my building a scale model of how one goes about laying a road over a bottomless pit.

  I spent the morning inspecting the new whitewashing at the house I hired the last time I was in town. The house is neat and clean, with flowered wallpaper in the dining parlor and a tidy nursery for Leontine at the top of the stairs. There are no mysterious noises in the dead of night, no creaking floorboards, no leaks, no damp, no hedgehogs. I should be quite pleased. I can’t understand why I find the place entirely unlivable.

  That’s a lie. I know why I find it unlivable, and it’s because I can’t quite imagine you here. I’d ask you to tell me this is merely a failure of imagination on my part, but we both know it isn’t.

  Yours ever,

  Sydney

  13 September, 1824

  Dearest Amelia,

  Damn it, I went about that all wrong. What I’m asking is—oh, never mind, there’s a reason this sort of thing is done in person, isn’t there?

  S

  Chapter Nineteen

  As Sydney descended from the coach at the George and Dragon in Bakewell, he felt that he was in a strange in-between space, straddling two separate lives, two different versions of himself, and he didn’t want to choose between them. He wanted to live in this liminal state, like dusk or dawn, neither here nor there, but temporary, transient, never quite real.

  He tried to imagine Amelia as his wife. That was what he had been getting at in his last letter, unhinged and illiterate as it was. There really was only one thing to do with a person one loved, and that was marry them. Well, unless they didn’t want to marry you, in which case you left them in peace. And this was all supposing one was legally able to marry the object of one’s affections—he supposed the case would alter if he and Amelia had been of the same gender. But the fact was that they were both free to marry, and fond of one another, and Sydney was conventional enough to think this settled the matter. Except, he was starting to suspect that it didn’t. Maybe they didn’t need to let convention settle their fates for them.

  He readjusted his satchel across his chest as he passed the stile and made his way along the lane towards Crossbrook Cottage. The only time he had ever proceeded beyond the gate was when he attempted to apologize to her, and he had been too angry and ashamed to get a good look at the place. It wasn’t a proper cottage, he saw at once, but what had once been a farmhouse or a small manor house. It was made of the pale honey-colored limestone that was common in the area. Morning glories climbed up one wall, and the path to the door led through an artfully chaotic flower garden. Sydney smiled to himself as he realized that this was exactly what a pair of gently-reared London ladies would fancy as their country cottage. He peered around the back of the cottage and saw a small stable, a neatly trellised kitchen garden, a well with what looked like a new pump, and outbuildings that were decorously screened by a shrubbery. Yes, this was the precise level of rustication that he expected from Amelia Allenby and Georgiana Russell. He imagined Amelia choosing this house—near her friends, accessible by good roads, modern roof, newly glazed windows. He really wanted a closer look at that pump handle though. It had an unusual design. Was it cast iron? Wrought iron? He stepped closer. “Come, Fancy,” he said, not even bothering to check over his shoulder for the dog he knew to be in his shadow. “Let’s have a look.”

  “Stop there,” said a gruff voice.

  Sydney turned to face a man of somewhere between forty and fifty, with close-cropped gray hair and the attire of a groom or stable hand. Amelia had referred to a Keating—an old family retainer or something of the sort.

  “I’m here to call on the ladies of the house but I’m afraid I got carried away admiring the garden. Are you John Keating?”

  “Depends on who’s asking.” He had his hand on the hip in a way that made Sydney strongly suspect that he had carried a sidearm or at least a knife of some kind. He ordinarily didn’t much appreciate encountering rough-looking men who carried weapons but he found that he was glad Amelia had on hand a man who was willing to spill blood for her.

  “I’m Sydney Goddard.”

  “The duke’s friend,” Keating said suspiciously. “You’re supposed to be in Manchester.”

  “I only now returned.” He gestured to his satchel. “And I have parcels for the women.”

  “Miss Allenby’s indoors,” Keating said, with a strongly implied I’ll be watching you.

  “Keating,” came a high, clear voice. “I found this interloper being frightened out of his wits by Georgiana’s cat.” Nan trailed rather sheepishly behind her mistress. Beside Sydney, Fancy’s ears pricked up. “She was hiding under the sofa.”

  “Not my dog, not my problem, miss,” Keating said, very much with the air of a man who has had the same conversation many times.

  “Keating,” Amelia protested, laughing, “she has to be somebody’s dog.” She was dressed in one of her plain walking dresses and her bonnet was under her arm, her hair in a neat knot at the back of her head. He wanted to memorize the sight of her, learn her entirely by heart, so he could think of her the next time he was away.

  “She’s her own dog,” Keating said, but the dog had already gone to hide behind his legs. “You’ve got company.” He shrugged a shoulder in Sydney’s direction.

  Her face broke out in a smile before Sydney could explain that he was only stopping by and would leave if she didn’t like it. He had seen a dozen varieties of her smile and knew them all by heart, and he knew this one to be genuine. He smiled back.

  “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said. “And what have you done with your face!”

  “I shaved before my meeting,” he said, absently running a hand over the stubble that had already grown in on his jaw. “I finished my work early and—” And he couldn’t stay away, that was the bare fact of the thing. “I have half a bolt of nankeen and three books,” he said, taking off his satchel.

  “Bring it indoors,” she said. “Georgiana’s at Pelham Hall and I’d love to give you tea instead of doing any work. I have scones! Janet made them with the good sugar. The fair sugar. Free sugar? The sort that’s mentioned in your mother’s book.”

  Sydney let out a totally unexpected burst of laughter, not only at the idea of Amelia reading his mother’s book and taking its lessons to heart, but at the unvarnished thrill on Amelia’s face at having found the right sugar. “I’ll be sure to let her know in my next letter.”

  And it occurred to him that his mother would like Amelia. They would disagree six times out of ten, but they would both enjoy doing so. They would respect one another. It also occurred to Sydney that this mattered to him more than he could have anticipated.

  When they stepped into the cottage, the room Sydney saw before him was very much of a piece with the outside of the house. Mismatched chintz furniture, books scattered in a somewhat even layer across every surface, vases of flowers wedged in between the books, a fine dusting of cat hair throughout. Sunlight streamed in through a large window. Fancy promptly hopped onto the sofa and shut her eyes.

  “Is this where you write?” he asked.

  “No, that’s upstairs. Do you want to see?”

  “Of course I want to see. I need to know where the muses live when they whisper murderous nothings into your ear. Lead the way.” He was dimly aware that this was inappropriate, but then he remembered that things between them had progressed quite beyond the stage where traditional concepts of propriety were even remotely applicable.

  Her writing room was a small, low-ceilinged garret at the top of the house, into which an improbable quantity of furniture had been crammed. There were a desk and chair, two bookcases, and a sofa that he guessed was deemed too shabby for downstairs. There was an abundan
ce of blankets and cushions throughout. The result of all this—he hesitated to call it clutter—was that he and Amelia were standing very close.

  “It’s a mess,” she said. “Always is, no matter what I do.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.” The words came out gruffly, and she turned towards him in question. “I missed you,” he said. “But I missed you even before I left. I missed our walks and”—he swallowed—“all that, and I suppose it stands to reason that I’d miss you even more not even being in the same county.” She was looking at him with an expression that shifted from confused to pleased to something heated and hungry. “In any event—”

  She shut him up with a kiss, rising onto her toes and meeting his mouth as if they had done this a dozen times, as if they had spent half a lifetime doing this. And when she licked into his mouth, that’s how it felt—like she had always been there, like she would always be there, like they had been waiting and looking for one another without realizing it.

  “I missed you too,” she said, pulling away enough to speak the words. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him close, and he staggered under the force of it, accidentally pushing her against the wall. The memory of the last time they had been in this position, their hands all over one another, their breaths coming hot and fast, made his desire coalesce into something urgent and needful.

  “Amelia,” he said. He thought that maybe he ought to step back, stop pawing at her, but she didn’t seem to want him to stop and God knew he didn’t either. So he hauled her into his arms and deposited her onto her desk.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to sit me here and then go away,” she said, laughter in her voice, the sunshine from the window behind her making her hair into a fiery crown.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “I’ll stay as long as you want me.” He almost believed it was true.

  It was extremely gratifying to be hauled about as if she were no more substantial than a cup of tea or a bunch of grapes. It was also gratifying that Sydney seemed utterly unconscious that he had knocked over a stack of books and sent a sheaf of papers floating to the floor. All he seemed to care about was touching as much of her as possible, and as that aligned nicely with her own interests, she did not protest.

  Sitting on the edge of the desk did nothing to level out the difference in their heights; if anything, it exaggerated the difference, so that Sydney had to bend over her to properly kiss her, and it seemed only logical for her to wrap her legs around his waist for leverage. His mouth was soft on her own, a pleasant contrast with the coarseness of his stubbled jaw. One of his hands was at the small of her back, holding her in place, and the other cupped her breast, his thumbnail sliding across the fabric that covered her nipple. He bent his head and kissed that place, biting gently until she gasped.

  “This gown has to go,” he said, his voice rough. “God help me, get it off before I tear it off.” The hand that fumbled at the buttons and tapes at the waist of her gown was shaking, and she put her own hand over it, holding it steady against her waist.

  “The fastenings are at the back,” she said, “but really I wouldn’t mind if you tore it.”

  He set her on her feet, then with a firm hand on her hips, spun her around so her back was to him. “Another time,” he said. “Another time I’ll tear anything you please.” And that almost made her laugh because it was a thoroughgoing lie—he’d never ruin her gown.

  As he worked open the fastenings, he pressed a kiss over each inch of exposed skin on the nape of her neck down to the middle of her back. She expected him to whisk the gown over her head, but instead he shoved it down a bit, then unlaced her corset. She let out a shaky breath when she felt his hands slide purposefully under her dress, then tug the corset down, letting it fall in two pieces to the floor. Now his hands were on her breasts, thumbing over her nipples, as he kissed the side of her neck.

  The hardness of his erection pressed against the small of her back, and she pushed back against him. His arm came around her middle, pressing her to him. And then, with a groan that sounded like capitulation, he eased her forward, so her hands were on the desk before her. The hem of her skirt brushed against the back of her thighs as he lifted her shift, the air suddenly cool against her skin. She looked over her shoulder and watched him looking at her, his eyes frantic and hungry, his body totally still, as if paralyzed by want. She knew she was exposed, she knew he liked what he saw. He unfastened his trousers and took himself in hand.

  “What are you going to do about that?” she asked, and with a helpless laugh he passed his hand over his jaw.

  “Amelia,” he groaned, “you’ll be the death of me.” With a steadying hand on her hip, he slid between her legs, hot and close but not actually entering her. Instead, he got his hand under her skirts and touched her clitoris. She held on to the edges of the desk, wanting to push forward into his hand and back against his erection, but at the same time wanting to rub her breasts on the smooth surface of the desk. She was made of sensation, her nerves on fire. He was kissing the back of her neck as he touched between her legs, his erection hot and heavy, and she wanted it inside her.

  “Please,” she said, rocking back into him.

  He laughed, a warm burst of air at the nape of her neck. Then he shifted his stance, widening her legs with his knees in a way that made her groan with anticipation. He slid into her, filling her, stretching her, and—this was what all the fuss was about. The first time had been good, but now there was no sting to undercut the pleasure, only the sensation of it being too much and just right all at once. She understood how people could make terrible choices, decisions that would alter the course of their lives, chasing after this feeling.

  He entered her slowly, building up to a steady rhythm that she felt she knew by heart. As she edged closer to her climax, his breathing grew ragged, and it was the knowledge that he was barely holding on to control that pushed her over into her orgasm. Her fingernails dug into the varnish on the desk as the wave of pleasure crested over her. And then his hands were covering hers, his lips on hers as she turned her head, and he thrust a few final times into her before he withdrew.

  Without the solid presence of him behind her, she sank to her knees, but he caught her and hauled her to the sofa. He sat sideways, and pulled her against his chest.

  “Be careful,” she said, “it’s an old sofa.”

  “I noticed,” he answered. “That’s why we used the desk.”

  She didn’t know why, but this foresight—he had bent her over the desk so as to spare her sofa a misfortune—made her laugh. “How chivalrous,” she said. And maybe the orgasm had made her giddy, because another inane thought occurred to her. “Was that meant to be my tearful deflowering?” she asked.

  “What?” He sounded gratifyingly dazed.

  “Did this qualify?”

  He gave a helpless little laugh into her throat. “You’re mad and I adore you.”

  She thought her heart might burst from happiness. Maybe she was mad, maybe he did adore her, maybe those facts weren’t connected by a despite or an even though but a simple and.

  “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to dedicate ourselves to doing it right next time,” she said. His cheek was scratchy against her own and she wanted to nuzzle into it like a cat. “We could even do it in a bed. I hear that’s considered de rigeur in some circles.”

  He laughed, a rumble she felt against her back, but then went still. “Look, I’m about to make history’s worst marriage proposal, so I apologize in advance.”

  “I’ll try to withhold judgment,” she said, her mouth dry.

  “I work fourteen-hour days for weeks on end and then sit idle for a month or longer. When the railway is completed, I’ll likely go to an entirely different part of the country and repeat the process. I can’t imagine that this life would appeal to anyone, and I’m mortified that I’m asking you to share it. I’ve already canceled my lease.”

  “You did?”

  “I told you, it was unlivable
. But what if we took a house in the country outside Manchester proper. I’d take the knockers off the door and, I don’t know, put up quarantine signs or surround the house with skulls on pikes or do whatever it took to keep people away.” He made a frustrated sound into her hair. “I told you this would be a bad proposal but I didn’t really foresee decapitated heads coming into it.”

  “That was a nice touch,” she said. “But here’s the problem.” She had been thinking about this in the days since she had received his last two letters. “I don’t think I can move to a town, or even reasonably near a town. I would effectively be trapped inside the house.”

  “We could live even further afield,” he said promptly.

  God, he was trying, and somehow that made it all worse. “So, after I learned that a duke was moving into Pelham Hall—weeks before that debacle the first time I visited—I began to suspect that Crossbrook Cottage might not be isolated enough. Even the prospect of meeting with people who belong to that world is enough to make me want to bar the doors and draw the curtains. I have a nice collection of advertisements for houses to let in places like the Hebrides. I haven’t entirely ruled that out, but for now Crossbrook Cottage feels safe again. Pelham Hall even feels safe. And I think that given time I might be able to expand that circle a little bit, but not so far as Manchester.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Without turning around, she knew his eyebrows were in a deplorable state. She stroked his arm. “This is my home, Sydney. I’ve worked hard to get to the point where every day isn’t a disaster, where I’m glad to know that there will be a tomorrow. And while I’d like my tomorrows to include you, they won’t be in Manchester, or Liverpool, or Edinburgh, or any city at all. There are days when I feel like I can barely even manage this much.” She shifted so she was facing him, then cupped his cheek in her hand. “I don’t expect you to understand, just to believe me when I say that I know my limits. I’m done thinking it’s my fault, or that I can make it go away by ignoring it. You’ve helped with that.”