D2D_Poison or Protect (6 page)

Mr Jackson was not to be taken from his ladylove so soon after reuniting, but Captain Ruthven seemed eager to freshen up as well.

Together they followed the butler. Jennings was respectably stiff but near a hundred in attitude if not actual age. It took him a full ten minutes to hike the stairs. Preshea found herself exchanging amused glances with Captain Ruthven behind the poor man’s stooped back.

Their rooms in the guest wing were across the hall from one another.

The butler left, tottering slowly away.

Before shutting her door, Preshea said, testing Mount Olympus, “Enjoy your dainty sandwiches, Captain?”

“’Tis a pain to be a big man in a world made for tottie folk. Miss Pagril frets about her wide skirts, yet I knock things over constantly, skirts or no. My hunger should inspire sympathy, not ridicule.”

“And thus I am both chastised and reminded of my own stature.”

“Oh, aye, such a wee thing – leastways, you fit into chairs.”

Some devil seized her tongue. “Captain, you’ve no idea! Can you imagine, on more than one occasion, my feet have been known to
dangle
? This very moment, I note that such a large bed graces my delightful room – my only avenue of approach is to run at it and leap in order to gain the top.”

He let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I’d offer a boost, but it might be taken as an insult to your good name.”

“Or to yours, Captain.”
Don’t you know? I have no good name.
“To have sunk so low as to be groomsman to a diminutive lady who needs aid not in mounting her steed but her counterpane.”

He gave her a sharp look, unsure as to the nature of her teasing. To mention
mounting
and
counterpane
in the same sentence? Preshea was delighted to see him flush about the ears. Perhaps he was not so indifferent to her charms as she thought.

Preshea could not quite countenance her own daring. She was not one for jocularity, but it seemed deceptively easy with him. She was used to gibing at those around her, seeking weakness. So far, Captain Ruthven seemed to have nothing more than a delicate stomach, a supposed clumsiness of which she had seen no evidence, and a delight in dainty sandwiches. To all of which he admitted so readily, they could not be used against him. He was comfortable in his own skin and did not flinch when she ribbed him. It made her quite long to do so.

He gave a little bow, ending their banter. “Weel, lass, I’d be happy to play groomsman if you’ve need of my services. It wouldna be a hardship.” Before she could decide whether this was levity or a genuine offer of a more licentious nature, he left her in possession of the hallway and at a loss for words.

Preshea entered her own room, closing and locking the door behind her. She stood, struck by a sensation of wonder –
I am not opposed to such an offer.
She actually enjoyed imagining him there, bent, big hands cupped, at the edge of her bed. Although, he would need only one hand. She might place her stockinged foot into it, and he would lift her up to the bed with ease. He would be gentle about it. She could tell. That made her shy away. She was not prepared for gentleness.

I am only curious,
Preshea told herself,
because I have never before had kindness from a man in my bedchamber. And because gentleness is so alien to my own nature.

She forced herself to focus, undoing the many buttons down the front of her dress with small, nimble fingers. She should summon one of the upstairs maids, but she needed time alone.

She hung up the green gown. Her trunk had been unpacked, the clothing pressed. The duchess ran a tight ship. Her outfits hung, a cluster of dark dramatic colors. The last husband was three years gone. She was not required to wear mourning, but Preshea liked dark colors. She looked well in them. Plus, they reminded people that she was the Mourning Star.

Abruptly, she shut the wardrobe door and went to perch on her bed. It was high. Her feet did dangle.

For longer than she ought (given the coldness of the room) she sat in her underthings, shoulders hunched down into her stays, arms wrapped about her tiny waist. Mentally, she stripped herself of the longing, bit by bit, as she had stripped herself of her traveling gown.

He would be no different from the others. His tenderness was a front to hide angry force. He was a soldier and he had killed, like her. Once bare of society’s trappings, he would be as demanding as any man, as ignorant of her needs, as cruel in his desire. How
dared
she want? To forget the past so easily?

For shame, Preshea Buss
.
There is no hope to be found in a man. I am done with wanting anything but control.

I will break his heart,
she decided.
That is the only way to expose his brutality. Then he will lash out at me as they all do. And I will have my reason for never trying at all.

It occurred to her to be sad, that she equated her power with his pain. She forced herself to imagine his face if she let him love her and then spurned further advances. She did like him, pathetic creature that she was, and she should suffer for that weakness. She welcomed the bitter pill of self-loathing as an antidote to lust. She would not expose herself again. She would not risk her heart or anything else. Better to be alone.

And yet.

And yet. She could not stop imagining his big hands under her foot as he lifted her. For he would be gentle. She
had
to believe that. Some man, somewhere, had to be gentle. Why not this one?

I am such a fool.

Dangling Feet and Participles

What on earth just happened?
Gavin wondered as his valet helped him into a fresh cravat.

Mawkins was a dab hand with the length of cloth and would have taken care with the tying of it, but Gavin grumbled his usual refrain. “I’m a simple man – keep it simple.”

Mawkins tutted but did as requested. “Which coat, sir?” He hadn’t asked about the waistcoat. Mawkins had stopped asking about waistcoats years before. Gavin was hopeless with waistcoats.

“We’ll be at cards all afternoon.”

Mawkins selected a refined charcoal frock coat, cut in such a way as to make Gavin’s shoulders seem even larger. Gavin thought it a bit much, but Mawkins was never wrong about frock coats.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Can you explain to me the workings of one wee assassin’s brain beneath the blackest hair I’ve ever seen? Would it be soft, that hair? I’ll wager it’s soft. And springy.

“Nay. Thank you, Mawkins. Everything solid belowstairs?”

“Nothing of consequence to report, sir. The odds are against Mr Jackson.”

“I ken that’s the truth of it.”

“Would you like a flutter in favor of his suit?”

“Nay.”

“Sir? You know something of consequence?” Mawkins was never one to turn down a wager, especially if he might benefit from inside information. Since he’d started out as Gavin’s batman, he enjoyed a level of familiarity with his master unprecedented amongst his peers. Thus, he was wise to the aristocracy.

Gavin explained, “I’m thinking Jack has more than just family set against him.”

“Poor Mr Jackson.”

“Aye, indeed.” Gavin didn’t explain further. He didn’t know why Lady Villentia was intent on Jack, nor what relationship she had with Snodgrove. He was beginning to doubt she was there to kill the duke. But that might be wishful thinking.

He must conclude that his own feelings regarding Lady Villentia were too confused to relay anything further to Mawkins. The valet was in favor of matrimonial bliss and could prattle on at the slightest whiff of interest.
Sir is such a nice man – why hasn’t sir found himself a wife?
Gavin would not be beaten down by his valet. No matter how old a friend.

“Find us a mourning band for dinner tonight, please? There’s a household ghost. It wouldna do to be disrespectful.”

“Very good, sir.” Mawkins collected the travel-soiled garments. “Will there be anything else?”

“You’ll manage the claret for later?”

“As always, sir.”

Gavin retrieved his current book, in case card games or conversation lulled over the course of the afternoon. He was back downstairs a mere fifteen minutes after having left.

Jack was hovering over his lady, who was busy with her scandalous flower sketching. They were discussing the finer points of herbaceous borders. It was a subject about which Gavin was certain Jack knew nothing. However, ignorance had never stopped Jack from waxing poetical on any subject.

Of course, he searched the room for Lady Villentia, pretending that he was getting a feel for the gathering and watching out for Snodgrove’s safety. The resulting spike of disappointment at her absence was ridiculous.

She’d surprised him in the hallway. She’d flirted with him, and not in the calculated manner she threw at others – with those sharp, careful smiles. No, she’d forgotten herself for a moment and given him insight and delight without caution.

He had to wonder. Did her inclinations match his own? Did she wish to be cared for in the way he preferred?
His sexual experience was limited to ladies of a professional nature. Yet even the most experienced of his partners had been startled by his requests. As a result, he’d given over finding a lass who might answer his desires in kind. Yet Lady Villentia had appeared almost eager. Should she like it, to be cherished?

He forestalled his thoughts – not right in polite company.

He was disinterested in the game of whist between Miss Leeton, Lord Lionel, Lord Blingchester, and the duke. The two matrons were gossiping softly about who was to be presented at court, a conversation in which he would be unwelcome.

With no other option, he approached Lady Florence and Miss Pagril, who, while disinterested in him as a marriage prospect (thank heaven), seemed pleasant lasses.

They occupied a window seat together and were not averse to his company, if their smiles were any indication.

“Captain Ruthven,” said Lady Florence, “are you refreshed from your journey?”

“Aye, Lady Florence. The sandwiches were verra helpful.”

Lady Florence hid a smile.

Miss Pagril did not. “Should you like more?”

Miss Florence joined her friend in teasing. “Shall I ring for Jennings? It would be no trouble.”

Gavin chuckled, delighted that they were relaxed enough in his company to mock. “I’d as lief na trouble Jennings. He seems the type to mock a lad who canna resist a sandwich.”

Both ladies laughed.

They chatted amiably, Lady Florence and Miss Pagril disposed to be charming both to him and to each other.

Lady Villentia took longer than Gavin expected, even for an exquisite. When she finally appeared, she had changed into a dark blue day dress of watered silk. Again it was simple, decorated only with a little fringe about the bodice. His lass seemed to favor simplicity.
None of that, now, she isna mine. I need na pay attention to her preferences, much as I would enjoy it.

He noticed, attuned after her conversation earlier, that her skirt was narrower than any other present. It flowed out the back, emphasizing her curves. Never one for frills and puffs, he found the dress pleasing. Although he missed those jet buttons.

Lady Villentia circulated, as he had, and drew the same conclusion, joining them at the window. In the hallway, his paltry charm had brightened those sad eyes, but they were dulled once more. He was tongue-tied at the loss.

It fell to the daughter of the house to formulate a greeting. “Lady Villentia, welcome. Is your room to your liking?”

“Very much so, Lady Florence. It is pleasing in both proportion and furnishing.”

“Oh, Lady Flo, please.
Lady Florence
makes me feel like someone’s maiden aunt.”

“Lady Flo, then.” Lady Villentia gave a half-smile of genuine pleasure, as if she rarely experienced kindness.

“The bed isna too high?” wondered Gavin, testing.

“I did not try the bed, Captain.” Her eyes narrowed at him in warning.

The younger girls were rendered speechless.

Gavin realized his gaffe. “A wee joke from earlier. Pay me no mind.”

Lady Villentia’s attention was caught by something outside the window. “Lady Flo, your father wouldn’t set his staff to gardening in such a storm, would he?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah. So.” She said nothing more, but Gavin strained his eyes to see. Had she noticed someone lurking in the pouring rain? Had she spotted the real assassin or was she deflecting notice? He saw nothing.

“I was pleasantly surprised to find your father kept a dirigible, Lady Flo,” commented Lady Villentia.

“Oh yes, Father can be quite avant-garde. Not in his faith, of course, but he does have some progressive leanings. Hides them well, poor thing, but can’t seem to stop.” She glanced fondly at her father. “We’ve had members of the local werewolf pack to tea, and I know he meets on business with vampires in town. Of course, such interactions go hand in hand with the latest technology. Do you favor newfangled gadgets, Captain Ruthven?”

The Scotsman gave a rueful smile. “I too was surprised by the dirigible, but na pleasantly. I canna deny it – poor Lady Villentia played witness – I’m a terrible floater.”

“He was near as green as Lady Blingchester’s dress.” Lady Villentia’s tone said much on her opinion of said dress.

The girls tittered, raising their fans to look surreptitiously at the gown in question.

Lady Florence was sympathetic. “I understand your suffering, Captain. Brutal way to travel. And so slow.”

“Oh, but it’s such fun,” Miss Pagril disagreed.

“It’s unnatural, taking to the skies,” objected Lady Flo. “What do you think, Lady Villentia?”

The widow watched this mild disagreement with interest. She must be noticing the intimacy of the two lasses. The delicate little touches. The way they leaned into one another.

“Are you asking me to render judgment on floating as a practice, or merely my opinion?”

“Both,” said Miss Pagril, cheekily.

“Technology is difficult to pause, once it has taken flight. Only ask the Luddites. Floating is here to stay and cares not for my judgment. As to the other, I find dirigibles useful under certain circumstances, when one wishes to make a grand gesture, for example. I knew a gentleman once who floated up to a lady’s window, singing an aria, his arms full of roses.”