In Your Arms Again (19 page)

“Are you?” She couldn’t help but ask it. The need to strike out in retaliation for his damned understanding was too powerful.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, regarding her with pale eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing. “What do you think?”

She didn’t have to think. She knew—just as she knew how patently unfair it had been to even ask.

She glanced away. “Mama kept several journals during her life. I will consult those and have a list for you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

Not looking at him was even more discomfitting than being pinned by that glacial gaze. She turned back to him. “I am sorry to have questioned your integrity, Norrie.”

“I know.” His hand brushed her cheek. The sensation was so acute it hurt. “I understand the thoughts you are thinking, Vie.”

“You do?” She didn’t even understand.

He dropped his hand. “I have them myself. Is this attraction between us built on memories of a sweet and awkward night, our pleasure in seeing each other again, or is it something different?”

He did know. He did understand. “I do not know.”

“Neither do I.” His smile was sad. “But it does not change anything between us. You are still my dear Vie, and even if you were not bound to another, I would never forgive myself for taking something you might not know the full consequences of giving.”

Consequences. Oh yes, she was well acquainted with those. Her life seemed to be full of them.

The consequence was that she had fallen in love with him.
The consequence was that she had never wanted another man since. The consequence was that she wanted more. That one time had not been enough. It only served to whet her appetite. She wanted him again and again until this awful yearning for him went away. Surely it would go away.

“I have to go,” he announced suddenly, jarring her out of her sinful thoughts. “I will see you later.”

Where was he going? And why did he have to leave so soon? “Very well.”

Halfway across the room he turned with a thoughtful expression. “You might want to find something different to read, Vie.” He nodded at the book on the table.

Octavia tilted her head. “Why? I thought you liked Shakespeare.”

“I do, but something a little happier perhaps.”

What would be his idea of “happier”? If anything, he seemed more hell-bent on self-punishment than she ever was. What did he know about being happy? How long had it been since he’d had any joy in his life? “I believe Romeo and Juliet are united in the end.”

His smile was almost patronizing in its sympathy. “People from different worlds never end up together, Vie. Not even in heaven.”

Her heart crumpled in her chest. “What if they started out in the same world?”

There was no answer. He was already gone.

O
ctavia awoke the next morning, vexed and restless. She hadn’t seen North again after he left her yesterday, despite his promise that he would see her “later.” And she had spent the remainder of the day thinking about all they had said to each other. Even as she drifted off to sleep, his words swam through her mind, as did memories from other days—memories not conducive to sleep. Thus, she did not feel very well rested.

Coffee did nothing to improve her mood, nor did a large breakfast with Beatrice. All her cousin could seem to talk about was the lovely time she had with Spinton at the park with their ices. The mention of her future betrothed needled Octavia in a manner she couldn’t quite explain.

“Oh, Octavia!” Beatrice trilled, “You never told me how amusing Lord Spinton is!”

Amusing? Spinton?
Just thinking the two words together made her head spin.

Octavia spread strawberry jam on a bun. “It must have slipped my mind.”

Her sarcasm was lost on her cousin. Beatrice looked positively sympathetic as she returned her delicate china cup to its saucer. “Of course it did. You have had much more pressing issues to think about.”

Oh wonderful
. Now she felt guilty. Perhaps if she remained silent Beatrice would take the hint and be quiet as well.

She did—at least for a little while. But after a few precious minutes, Beatrice spoke again, “You will be attending the charity event at Vauxhall tomorrow evening, will you not?”

Sighing, Octavia reached for more jam. It was either that or stuff a buttered roll in Beatrice’s ever-flapping mouth. “Truth be told, I had not given it a thought either way.”

Her cousin’s eyes widened. “But Lord Spinton will be there! It will be the perfect opportunity for the two of you to meet without jeopardizing Mr. Sheffield’s investigation.”

Octavia smeared the jam on another warm bun. “Well, that is reason enough in itself to attend, is it not?” She stuffed the roll into her own mouth instead.

This time Beatrice picked up on her tone. “You are very peevish this morning.”

Still chewing, Octavia merely smiled—insincerely.

Her cousin seemed not to mind the lapse in her table manners. “Has something happened? Is there something vexing you?”

She could hardly tell her cousin she was jealous, could she? Not jealous of her
amusing
afternoon with Spinton, but jealous of the fact that Beatrice managed to have fun with a member of the opposite sex without turning it into a lesson in rejection and wanton behavior.

“North wants a list of my mother’s protectors. He think it might lead to a clue.”

Beatrice nodded as if she somehow understood everything, which was, of course, impossible. “I understand that might be
difficult for you, given the fact that you have tried so hard to put that unfortunate business of your past behind you.”

Octavia frowned. “I am not ashamed of my mother or my past.”

“Of course not! I never meant to imply otherwise.”

Her cousin’s tone
did
imply otherwise, however. Octavia chose to ignore it. If she denied it any more, Beatrice might begin to suspect the truth; that Octavia sometimes envied her mother’s sexual liberation. She chose her lovers carefully, picking one man at a time from a sea of admirers who routinely vied for her favors. Whether she loved any of them remained a mystery, but as far as Octavia knew they were all very good to her mother—and even to her. Yes, it was embarrassing knowing that a man basically “kept” her and her mother in return for her mother’s companionship, but it was far preferable to going hungry. Still, she had envied North’s almost “typical” home. He had known his father—something she could never have. And he’d had his mother’s undivided attention—something else she’d wanted.

Not only did Octavia envy her mother in some ways, but she also respected her. She did what was necessary to provide for herself and her daughter. She made sure Octavia had the best of everything, including a tutor so she wouldn’t live her life ignorant of the world around her.

No, she was not ashamed. Any shame she felt came from her own inadequacies. How could she judge her mother when she was essentially whoring herself out to Spinton? He got her body to produce his heir, and she became the countess to a very wealthy earl. It was an exchange of goods and services, not a marriage. Not a real one.

“Well,” she said, unwilling to dwell on such thoughts any longer. “I had best get started. The day is wasting.”

Beatrice’s brow pinched. “Would you like some help?”

God no!
“Thank you, but I prefer to do this alone.” Was it her imagination or did Beatrice look relieved? Octavia was curious.

“By the way, what are your plans for the day?”

Beatrice blushed. “Oh. Uh…I have been invited out for tea later this afternoon.”

By Spinton, no doubt. Perhaps Beatrice was going to meet his mama. She hoped the old bat would be a little kinder to her cousin than she had been to Octavia herself. Maybe she’d try to talk her son into marrying Beatrice instead.

After telling her cousin to have a lovely afternoon, Octavia turned on her heel and left the dining room.

How long had it been since Spinton invited her to take tea with him and his mama? Perhaps a week or so, no more. She usually made certain she had a convenient excuse to avoid the meeting. The old woman was a viper coiled in a nest of silks and lilac-scented powder.

Lifting her skirts as she climbed the stairs, Octavia realized that Beatrice was quite possibly the only person cut out to handle Spinton’s mother. Beatrice was so good and so sweet, there was no way anyone could find fault with her—not even Octavia’s future mama-in-law.

On the top floor of the main part of the house, Octavia opened the door to the attic and began to climb the narrow stairs. Taking a kerchief from the pocket of her apron, she placed the square of fabric over her head, knotting it below the bun at her nape. Her gown was old and faded, her apron borrowed from one of the maids, as was the kerchief. The maid had been more than happy to lend them to her. Octavia prided herself on the way she treated her servants. It was the people close to her that she treated badly.

Look how she treated North. He was her friend, her dearest friend, and he was interrupting his own life to fix hers.
How did she repay him? By throwing herself at him, challenging his integrity by offering him a sexual relationship with no strings attached.

Oh, but there had to be strings. There were always strings—strings that she would twine around him deep inside, binding him to her no matter what the future held for either of them.

Regardless of what the future held, of how impossible it was for them to have any kind of relationship, she would make certain he never forgot her. God knew she wouldn’t be lucky enough to forget him. He would be the measure against which she judged every other man.

Would they all be found lacking?

Octavia knew exactly where her mother’s trunk was located, and she wasted no time in finding the journals—anything to keep herself from thinking about North. She hadn’t time to sort through the various belongings, nor did she feel like confronting the feelings and memories they might bring. Melancholy would just make things worse.

Balancing each journal on her knee, Octavia flipped through the pages until she found the entry where her mother talked about first joining the theater. Every man that was mentioned in a romantic context she wrote down the name of. Thankfully, there weren’t that many. Still, it took her some time to read through the books, her attention being snared here and there by thoughts and reflections that soon had her reading in an effort to feel closer to her mother rather than just for information.

Her poor dear mother. Selling herself so that she and her daughter might have a better life. Had her pride been worth not asking her father-in-law—Octavia’s grandfather—for assistance? And would the old earl have given it if she’d asked? As much as Octavia loved her grandfather, he hadn’t been a saint of a man. Perhaps her mother worried that he might
have tried to separate her and Octavia. Certainly he might have, and being a peer, he would have succeeded.

There were footsteps on the attic stairs, followed by a knock and one of the maids poking her head through the open door. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lord Spinton is here.”

Ah, he must be there to collect Beatrice. Had so much time passed already? That would mean she had been in the attic for at least two hours. “Thank you. Please tell him I will be right down.”

Smiling, the maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared. Octavia waited until the footsteps faded before folding the list and standing.

The paper and pencil tucked inside her apron, Octavia replaced her mother’s journals and closed the heavy trunk lid. Later perhaps, she would return for the journals. Despite the wish to respect her mother’s privacy, and despite her own wish to avoid depressed spirits, she had a need to feel close to her mother again. Reading her journals would ease the loneliness.

Spinton was in the parlor, waiting—either for her or for Beatrice, or both. He was dressed impeccably in biscuit-colored breeches and a dark blue morning coat. His sandy hair was artfully curled, his cravat perfect, his jaw smoothly shaven.

She had never seen Spinton looking anything but his best. He would certainly never be caught with stubble on his jaw. Perhaps he didn’t ever have stubble. Hair wouldn’t dare grow on his face—it was too barbaric.

My, wasn’t she in fine form today?

“Good morning, Spinton.”

He turned, his expression of pleasure turning to one of distasteful surprise. “You look like a scullery maid.”

Octavia shrugged. “I have been cleaning.” She didn’t want
to tell him the truth. Perhaps she was ashamed of her mother after all.

Or perhaps she didn’t feel like defending her mother to this man who had never known her and had no right to judge her.

He seemed surprised. “You have servants to do that for you.”

“Sometimes I like to do things for myself.” Could he understand that? “Do not you like to do things for yourself, Spinton?”

He stared at her as though she had two heads. “You are not saying you enjoy being dirty, are you?”

Sometimes she very much liked being dirty. What would he say to that? Down and dirty, foul and filthy. She liked to sweat, liked to feel her body heat with exertion.

“When we make love, are you going to insist on doing it in the dark with my nightgown hiked up to my waist and the blankets over your head?”

Poor Spinton looked as though he might collapse. He actually sputtered. “Dear God, what kind of question is that?”

She shrugged. “An honest one.”

“This is Sheffield’s influence isn’t it?” His face was flushed as he spoke. “He can be very crass and blunt at times.”

“Nor—Mr. Sheffield has nothing to do with our marriage, Fitzwilliam. Did you know the prefix ‘fitz’ implies illegitimacy?”

His expression was comical in its bewilderment. “What has that to do with anything?”

Another shrug. “Nothing. I just think it is very interesting. It is a family name, is it not?”

“My mother’s maiden.” He straightened his coat. “You know that.”

“Ahh, so someone way back in your mother’s lineage was a bastard then.” She nodded.

“Octavia!”

She pulled a face, waving her hand at him. “Oh hush, I meant no offense.” But she had, hadn’t she? Else why say such things to a man unaccustomed to such language from a “lady”?

He was visibly flushed and flustered. “I vow I do not know you sometimes.”

And you never will
. “I never would have pegged you for being such a prude, Fitzwilliam.” Now, that was a lie if she ever told one.

His jaw lifted, tightened. “And I never would have thought you capable of such speech, Octavia.”

Oh yes, she’d astounded him. Completely thrown him off guard. What else could she do?

Slowly, she prowled toward him. “I am capable of much more than speech, my dear.”

Spinton’s Adam’s apple bobbed as she approached. Was it her imagination, or did he actually take a step backward?

“What are you doing?” he demanded as she drew closer.

“I just realized it has been forever since I kissed you. Do you mind if I kiss you?”

It took him a moment. “Wh-why, no.”

She made him nervous. She could see the uncertainty and anticipation in his eyes. She was a very sexual creature to him, and for all his quirks and eccentricities, Spinton was a man like any other. He found her attractive, wanted to claim her as his, even though he must know as well as she how ill-suited they were.

Did she want to bed him? Not really. She could, but she didn’t want him as she wanted North. Then again, North had an unfair advantage over Spinton. She’d had him before, and she wanted to have him again.

But more importantly, she wanted to compare kissing Spinton to kissing North. She wanted—no,
needed
—to know if anyone could ignite these feelings within her or if it was
only her first lover that made her hotter than a crowded theater in the middle of an August thunderstorm.

And she wanted to make him regret telling her she looked like a scullery maid.

Her hands were dusty and grimy. The dandy in him would surely shrink from her touch, so she didn’t touch him. She simply lifted herself up on her toes, closing the distance between them, and touched her lips to his.

He was the one who seized her and pulled her to him. He was the one who shocked her by sliding his tongue between her lips. He kissed her as he had never kissed her before—with more passion than she had ever experienced from him.

And yet it did very little for her. In fact, he kissed her with such desperation that Octavia couldn’t help but wonder at the reason behind it. It felt as though he was trying to prove something. Whatever his point was, his tongue made it.

“Sorry to keep you—oh.”

Octavia jerked free of Spinton’s grasp, embarrassed, but oddly relieved that it was Beatrice who caught them rather than North. Of course, given her cousin’s hero worship of Spinton, it was unfortunate that Beatrice had to catch him at such a completely human moment.