In Your Arms Again (15 page)

Beatrice ran her fingers over the edge of the vanity mirror, not meeting Octavia’s gaze. “But what about rank? Surely he must envy his brothers’ social standing.”

He did—or rather he had. “No, I do not think he cares anymore. He is happy where he is.”

Now Beatrice looked at her, driving her point home with her wide gaze. “Well, either way, it is just one more reason to make certain you do not form any attachments.”

“Yes.” One more reason not to form any attachments.

Too bad she was already attached. How fixedly, she had no idea.

W
hen North finally called to collect her later that evening, Octavia could scarce believe her eyes.

He stood in her parlor, dressed in a simply styled dark gray coat and matching trousers that, while far from elegant, fit and suited him perfectly. His waistcoat was a lighter gray, a subtle contrast to the snowy white shirt beneath, which was startling next to the tanned neck revealed by the open collar. He wore no neckcloth, no intricately tied cravat that so many gentlemen favored. His throat was completely bare, followed by a wide V of chest. She could see the jut of one collarbone and a teasing glimpse of the beginnings of his chest hair.

It was, she realized, shocking to her now to see a man without a cravat, when she used to see it all the time in the Garden.

It was then that she knew that wherever he was taking her, there was definitely no chance of them being spotted by any member of the
ton
. In fact, he might very well be taking her somewhere dark and dangerous—someplace where she would be totally at his mercy.

Nonsense. Beatrice might believe him capable of such deceit, but Octavia wouldn’t. She trusted him with her very life.

“Don’t you look every inch the rakish scoundrel.”

He grinned, a flash of straight, white teeth. “And you look like you should be selling cheese or something equally countryish.”

It was true. She wore her hair in a simple knot, with just a few tendrils wisping about her cheeks. Her gown was a simple design of dark blue muslin without a hint of embellishment or trim. She wore no jewelry and a pair of slippers that she should have thrown out long ago, but were too comfortable to give up. She had a serviceable shawl in her hand in case the temperature dropped as the evening went on. She hadn’t even bothered with gloves.

She felt sixteen again, and she and North were about to sneak out to somewhere they had no business going.

Yes, that was the reason for this tremor of excitement racing down her spine, the anticipation tightening her chest. It was that old feeling of being young and free. It had nothing to do with the way he was looking at her or the way she liked looking at him.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded, the butterflies in her stomach protesting fiercely. “I am.”

Another grin as he held out his hand. “Then let us away.”

Unable to keep herself from smiling, she took his hand and allowed those strong warm fingers to pull her out of the parlor, down the corridor, through the foyer, and outside into the mild evening.

A dusty black carriage waited for them.

“I hope you do not mind,” North said, as he helped her down the steps. “I hired a hack. I thought someone might recognize yours.”

“What about your own?” she asked as she climbed inside.
The hack’s interior smelled of tobacco—a little stale, but it could have been much worse.

Leaping in behind her, North made a scoffing noise. “I do not own one.” He rapped on the ceiling for the driver to move on.

Her eyes widened as the carriage lurched forward. He didn’t own a carriage? Everyone she knew owned at least one, preferably several.

“Whyever not?”

He pulled a face. “What would I want with a carriage? I walk everywhere I can and I have a horse for those places I cannot. A carriage would only collect dust.”

Not the words or attitude of a fortune hunter, she thought smugly. She would have to repeat his words to Beatrice later.

“Where are we going?”

“It is a surprise. You still like surprises, do you not?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I have not changed as much as you seem to think, Norrie Sheffield.”

The light of a street lamp shone through the window, illuminating his face as they rolled past. He was smiling, his eyes bright with mirth and something else—anticipation, perhaps?

“We shall soon find out. Within the hour I hope to know if you are still my dear girl.”

She arched a brow. Cheeky blighter. “Girl? Girls grow up, my friend.”

“What do they grow into, women or ladies?”

She frowned. “Can they not be both?”

“I suppose that is what we are about to find out.”

Was she a lady or a woman? Or both? It was a question he would dearly love to know the answer to. The girl he had once known—once loved—would have grown into a fine woman. A lot like the one seated across from him now, he’d
wager. But the other Octavia, the one she had lived as for the last dozen years, was a lady through and through. Perhaps it was possible to be both, but not in his experience. He had tried very hard to be a gentleman once upon a time, but eventually he realized what kind of man he wanted to be, and “gentle” wasn’t it. So who was Octavia, really? Was she the lady she tried so hard to project, or was she the woman he hoped she would be?

Perhaps she was someone else entirely.

The point of this evening was his own selfish wishes and desires. He wanted to spend time with Octavia—
his
Octavia. He wanted to give them both the chance to be themselves, without the fear of anyone seeing. He wanted a chance to get to know her again—the real her—and he wanted her to know him. She seemed to think he was that same romantic, horribly naive boy, and he wasn’t. Not anymore. Although sometimes he missed that young man. He used to think he could have whatever he wanted. Now he knew better. If that were true, Black Sally would still be alive and Harker would be locked up in Newgate instead of terrorizing what few people North knew had enough information to make certain Harker’s jailers threw away the key.

But Harker didn’t matter tonight. Tonight all that mattered was Vie and these few stolen hours. It was wrong, but he would absolve himself from the guilt for this one night. All too soon she would be gone from him again—for good this time. Lord Spinton would never allow his countess to socialize with someone of his ilk. It was only because he was useful that Spinton allowed him within twenty feet of Octavia now.

If Spinton only knew…but he never would.

“Will you tell me now where we are going?” They had been in the hack but a few moments and already she was asking questions, like a child on a long journey, eager to get to the final destination.

He smiled at her excitement. How young it made her seem. “Not yet. Soon.”

The party was at an old friend’s house on Half Moon Street—in the opposite corner of the Garden from where North lived. He would have hosted it at his own house if he hadn’t known how difficult it would be to clear everyone out when he wanted them gone. This way, if Octavia wanted to leave, or they decided to go do something else, he wouldn’t have to worry about all those people.

Octavia addressed him, her face bright with curiosity. “Will there be dancing?”

He nodded. “I suspect there will be.”

“And drinking?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And music and laughter and conversation about things that truly matter?”

Laughing, North rubbed his jaw. He should have shaved earlier. “Yes, yes, and yes. Are you happy now?”

“Oh yes!” She even went so far as to clap her hands, dear thing. “You have no idea how long it has been since I’ve had real fun. Will we have fun tonight, do you think, Norrie?”

Good Lord, what kind of life had she been living in that ivory tower of hers? The hopeful exuberance in her face and tone damned near broke his heart. “I will make sure of it.”

She bestowed a smile on him so bright it was almost blinding in the darkness. “I know you will. We always used to have so much fun. Do you remember those times?”

“Yes.” With painful clarity. He remembered being young and happy and free of any cares when he and Octavia were together. And although many years had passed and he had become a jaded and cynical man, there was an element of that feeling to this night. Even though the hack smelled and had seen better days, and was certainly too low for a countess, and their clothes were far from the height of fashion, North
was already having the best evening he’d had in the last, oh, eleven or twelve years.

Octavia sighed, leaning back against the dusty squabs, oblivious to the damage they could do to her gown. “I miss those times. Do you ever miss them?”

“I miss the good.”

“I do not remember the bad.” Her smile was saucy.

He raised a brow. “What about the time Jonesy tried to court you?”

She laughed. “He lit so many candles in the parlor, he almost caught his pantaloons on fire!” Her laughter faded to a smile. “Poor Jonesy. If it were not for the fact that he was already dead I might have suspected
him
of being my admirer.”

North smiled too, remembering the old man who fancied himself quite a Lothario.

“He was a good man.” So many of the men who hung about Covent Garden hadn’t been, but he didn’t have to say that. Octavia knew firsthand. She had seen her mother take lovers, seen some of them treat her badly. A few had even tried to take Octavia as their own, but somehow she avoided them all. Her mother managed to protect her, but then her mother died.

She had come to him that night, so sure of how her life was going to be. She was resigned to being a mistress, she said, but he saw the doubt and fear in her eyes. She wanted him to be her first lover, didn’t want some dirty aristocrat to have that satisfaction.

Dirty aristocrat
. Those were her words, not his. Now she was one of them.

They talked more about the past and the people they had known. She surprised him by knowing details about many of them. Obviously she had kept in touch with some old friends. Odd, he thought she would have given up that part of her life with all the others.

The carriage finally rolled to a stop a little while later. Be
fore he could stop her, Octavia had her face close to the dirty window, peering out into the darkness.

“We are in the Garden.” She turned to him with an expression of dazed wonder. “We are in Half Moon.”

Opening the door, North stepped out and offered her his hand. “Come.”

Octavia’s mouth gaped slightly as she accepted his help down. She glanced around at the familiar setting, her eyes bright in the moonlight. “This is Margaret’s house.”

So she did remember. “Yes. Shall we go in?”

“I have not seen Margaret in years.” Dear Lord, was she going to cry? She certainly looked as though she was.

“If you do not want to—”

“No.” She squeezed his fingers hard with her own. “I want to. I want to.”

Holding her hand, North walked beside her up the low steps and knocked on the door. Perhaps he had made a mistake bringing her here. Perhaps too much time had passed. Perhaps the past was all they had.

Perhaps there really wasn’t much of his Octavia left at all.

She was amazing.

Leaning against the wall, a glass of punch in hand, North watched as Octavia whirled about the floor with yet another partner, kicking up her heels and twirling her skirts as the band played a lively reel.

Sometime during the course of the evening—after several glasses of punch—her hair had come loose, great chunks falling around her face until she’d finally yanked the pins from the heavy strands and let it fall down her back in a great, wonderful mess.

Her gown was dark between her shoulder blades from perspiration. Her cheeks glowed warm peach from her exertions, and yet she looked perfectly content. No, she looked
happy
. So happy that just watching her made him happy—happier than he’d been in some time.

Wouldn’t Wyn have something to say about that? Wouldn’t Devlin? Wyn might be caustic, but Devlin was still in the early stages of marriage and believed a good woman to be the perfect source of happiness for any man.

And Octavia was a good woman, of that there could be no doubt. There was no hint of the lady about her at all as she skipped and whirled to the music. She was very close to being the Vie he remembered.

But there was more. She wasn’t that girl anymore than he was still that boy. The essence was the same, but she had grown, blossomed. There was no denying she was fully mature—her figure was as ripe as a midsummer peach, though all willowy grace. There were years in her face, though childlike joy shone in her eyes.

She was more beautiful now than she had ever been, even more so than the night he had given her his heart, his soul, his innocence. He had traded his for hers. And at this moment, his heart was so light, so content that he allowed himself to think that perhaps he retained some of that innocence still. Just a drop—not enough to matter, just enough to hurt.

It was lovely to watch her, but hell knowing that eventually this night would end and he would have to take her back to Mayfair. Eventually he would find out who was sending her those damned letters and then there would be no reason to see her again. This might be the only time he got to see her so unfettered, so alive.

So what was he doing standing against the bloody wall while some other bloke danced with her?

Tossing back the rest of his punch, he set the empty glass on a nearby table and walked out into the middle of the floor where Octavia danced with her young swain.

“My turn, Posenby,” he told the young man, tapping him
on the shoulder. Posenby merely grinned, bowed to Octavia, and went in search of another partner.

“Norrie!” Octavia threw her arms around him.

“No more punch for you,” he admonished with a grin, peeling her arms from his neck.

She grinned. “You think I have had too much to drink, but I haven’t. I’ve had just enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to have fun and not care about tomorrow!” She grabbed his hands in hers. “Dance with me.”

“With pleasure.” He didn’t bother telling her that had been his intention in the first place. It didn’t matter.

The music was lively and played with rural zeal. Some of the tunes they played were Scottish. North recognized them as melodies his mother used to hum. It had been a long time since he’d danced to such music, but that didn’t matter. All he had to do was be quick on his feet and he was as good as dancing.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked as he twirled her around.