In Your Arms Again (21 page)

“No!” Her expression was one of genuine horror.

“Yes.” He folded his arms over his chest. “He is very concerned for your virtue. Prepared to fight a duel over it, in fact.”

Octavia’s cobalt eyes blazed. “The idiot!”

“He is merely concerned for you.” How did he come to defend Spinton?

“Concerned about dictating my life, you mean.” Balled fists rested defiantly on her delicately rounded hips. “I am heartily sick of everyone deciding how I should and should not be living my life.”

“He has some right,” North reminded her. “He is your fiancé.”

“Not yet, he is not.”

“Close enough.”

She flashed him an annoyed glance. “No closer than a mistress is a wife—and you and I both know how that normally works out.”

North’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you saying you are considering not marrying him?”

She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. “No. I owe it to my grandfather and mother.”

He had a pretty good idea where her grandfather could go—if he wasn’t there already. “What about what you owe yourself?”

“Spinton is a good and honorable man. He will make a fine husband.” Which one of them was she trying to convince?

“He’d make a fine duck hound as well.”

She didn’t even crack a smile. “It was decided a long time ago that he and I would marry, and I will hold to my end of the promise.”

“So, you will not tolerate being told what to do, but you will tolerate being told who to marry?” He should just drop it. It was none of his business, he knew that, but that didn’t stop him from
feeling
differently.

“It is hardly the same thing. Marrying Spinton will combine our fortunes and ensure the continuance of the family. I am certain we will get on very well together. Marriages built on less have lasted decades.” Again, for whose benefit did she speak?

“Purebreds,” he muttered, rubbing his palm over his eyes.

“What?”

“Never mind.” He shrugged “It is none of my concern who you marry.”

Up went those sharp brows again. “It is not?”

“I only want to see you happy.” That was true at least. “If you believe Spinton can do that, then I wish you well.”

She stared at him, searching him with her bright blue gaze. What she was looking for he didn’t know, but he heartily hoped she didn’t find it.

“Why are you here, Vie?” After his bizarre hot and cold behavior yesterday he would have thought she’d wipe her hands of him.

“I came to bring you this.” She handed him a folded slip of paper from her reticule.

“What is it?”

“Another letter. It arrived this morning. I thought you might want to see it.”

He snatched it from her hand. “I do.”

“You are welcome.”

Quickly, North scanned the paper.
Sheffield’s not good enough for you either. Cannot you see you deserve so much better?
The words, no matter how true they might be, brought a familiar tightening to his chest. He wasn’t good enough. He knew it, everyone knew it. Probably even Octavia knew it,
but sometimes she didn’t seem to care. For that matter, sometimes neither did he.

He closed the note. “He has noticed us then.”

Octavia was watching him. Could she really see inside him as he sometimes suspected? Christ, he hoped not. “What do we do now?”

“We rub his face in it,” he replied decisively. “We flaunt ourselves a bit more.”

“Where? When?”

“The charity event at Vauxhall tomorrow evening. We will attend it together. That ought to do for a start.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You think he will be there?”

“Everyone who is anyone is going to be there. The regent himself planned this event to showcase some of his favorite artists. Even if your admirer does not go, he will hear about our appearance from the gossips.”

She tilted her head as she regarded him. “Do you know your eyes light up when you scheme and plot?”

He blinked. “They do?”

She smiled. “They do. Like two diamonds on pale blue velvet.”

His lips twisted. “How very poetic.”

She swatted his arm. “Do not make fun. Shall we take my carriage tomorrow night, or do you want to walk?”

“Now who is making fun?” He smiled despite her remarks, and himself. “I will borrow one from Brahm. I do not want people thinking you brought me instead of the other way around.”

She nodded, grinning. “Ahh yes, masculine pride.”

“I do have some, you know.” How easily they fell back into such comfort with each other.

“I know.” She eyed him as only someone who knew him inside and out could. “Obviously, Spinton knows now as well.”

“Obviously.” He wasn’t going to give her details. It wasn’t his place. “Now, do you have to leave immediately, or would you like to join me for luncheon?”

“That depends on what you are having.”

He rang the bell for Mrs. Bunting. “Since when did that matter? You ate anything that was not moving as a child.”

Removing the reticule from her wrist, she chuckled. “How impertinent of you to remember.”

He smiled as the bag landed on the desk with a heavy thump. God only knew what she had in there. “I remember everything about you.”

She stilled, then turned toward him, laying her hand upon his arm. “No matter what happens, you will always know me better than anyone, Norrie. You know that, do you not?”

He nodded, his throat suddenly tight. “I do.”

“Good.” It came out as a sigh, so blatant was her relief.

But what good would knowing her better do when he would have to spend the rest of his days pretending not to know her at all?

W
hen North went round to collect Octavia for their next excursion, he made certain he borrowed a carriage from Brahm rather than resorting to hiring another hack. Octavia’s roots might have taken hold in the same soil as his, but they had blossomed into something much different. She was used to having a fine conveyance, and even if he wasn’t, the least he could do was ensure her comfort.

It was what a gentleman should do, he reminded himself. Besides, that remark she had made about them walking to the event still stung. That was no doubt the reason for the strange sensation of having his guts tied into knots. He was doing his best gentleman impersonation that evening—a part he hadn’t wanted to play for quite some time.

Would Octavia, damn her eyes, notice that his jaw was freshly shaved? Or that his hair was newly trimmed and somewhat tamed by a tiny amount of pomade pilfered from Brahm’s valet? And if Octavia did notice, would she care?

Not that it should matter one bit if she did. In fact, it would be easier if she didn’t give a rat’s ass about his appearance.
He was no smarter than any other man when it came to the fairer sex, but even he understood what was happening between him and his childhood friend. The attraction between them was obvious—to each of them if not to anyone else.

The question was, how much more could he—or she—take before they gave in? It wouldn’t be as though she were being unfaithful to Spinton. Technically they weren’t yet betrothed. But it wasn’t so simple as that. Physical intimacy would make it that much harder to walk away when this was over. To entertain the idea that they might have a future was folly—and indicated a deeper commitment than he wanted to entertain. They were from different worlds now—she didn’t belong in his and he could never truly live in hers.

Sex would make the situation all the more complicated—and neither one of them needed
that
. But need and want didn’t necessarily always agree. He had wanted to be a part of his brothers’ world, but he didn’t
need
it. Not anymore. At least, he didn’t think he did.

Octavia met him at the door in a gown of bronze satin. It matched the shimmering depths of her hair and made her skin look like the purest alabaster, accentuating the delicate rise of her breasts. He took her gold silk shawl from her hand and placed it over her shoulders. Beneath his gloves, his fingers itched to touch the warm softness of her flesh.

“You look lovely, Vie.” Lovely didn’t even begin to describe it, but he had to at least try to tame his wild enthusiasm for her. He could feel it, but giving it voice was unwise and dangerous.

She gazed at him as though he had told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world, which he supposed he had. He wasn’t much on physical appearance, or complimenting it. She knew that, and she knew that if he noticed, she looked better than lovely.

“Thank you, Norrie. So do you.”

Inwardly he preened. He felt a little too starched, but it was worth Octavia’s praise.

A footman held the carriage door for them as they climbed inside, shutting them in once they were situated. North rapped on the ceiling and they were off. A little while later they were in a boat bound for Vauxhall Gardens.

Vauxhall at night was a sight to behold, and this night was even more replete than others. Tonight the regent played host to all London citizens who could afford the price of entry. Tonight the music would be that much better, the ham that much thicker, the punch sweeter, but no less strong. There would be acrobats, trained horses, exotic animals, and dancing.

And somewhere in the throng, North hoped Octavia’s admirer would be watching.

Entering the gardens was like entering another world. They passed the statue of Handel as they entered Vauxhall through the river gate, and North kept his eye sharp for anyone who might be paying them undue attention. He also searched for the men he had stationed nearby. Vauxhall was large—covering nearly twelve acres. There was no way he could watch it all by himself—especially not when the lady on his arm was such a delicious distraction.

Tonight the Grand Walk, with its bordering elms, sparkled like a crystal stream beneath the torch light as ladies and gentlemen, richly dressed and heavily jeweled, strolled along the path. This walk was always well lit, as were most, but there were a few that were deliberately kept dark. He would have to ensure Octavia didn’t happen upon them without him.

Then again, it might be safer for them to avoid such places altogether.

“I hear Prinny has arranged for a reenactment of Waterloo to take place this evening.”

Octavia’s breath was warm against his face as she turned her head to whisper to him. Fighting a shiver, North smiled grimly. “War is always so entertaining for those who were not affected by it.”

She stopped walking, and he had no choice but to stop as well. “You sound so grave. Was your brother Devlin not declared a national hero after his performance at Waterloo?”

North nodded, urging her into motion again. “He was, but the war changed him. I refuse to celebrate that.”

She said nothing, but he could feel the weight of her stare upon him for the next few beats of his heart.

“There is Brahm,” he remarked, itching under her gaze. “Let us say hello.”

Brahm seemed surprised to see them, which made North smile. Brahm had known they were going to be there—he had lent North his carriage, after all.

“Perhaps you can help me with something, Lady Octavia.”

North’s brows shot up as Octavia’s own rose delicately. “What would that be, Lord Creed?”

Brahm gestured at his younger brother with the head of his cane. “Help me convince this one to give up a life of chasing criminals for a career in politics.”

North kept his features perfectly blank as he met Octavia’s questioning stare. “Politics, Norrie? Do you think you could sit still long enough?”

Was that laughter in her tone? “I can sit still just fine, thank you.”

Brahm appeared amused as well—damn him. “I keep trying to tell him he could do more to reform our criminal laws from a higher position than he could running down the alleys of Covent Garden.”

“So he could,” Octavia agreed, an unreadable brightness in her eyes. It was as though she was seeing him differently. North didn’t know if he liked it or not.

They talked to Brahm for a few moments more—on a different topic, thankfully—before moving onward. Many people stopped to talk. They were more Octavia’s acquaintances than his own—just further proof of how different their lives were now. While his companion chatted about the inane topics that somehow seemed so compelling to the Upper Ten Thousand, North scanned the masses for anything, or anyone, unusual. When they began walking again, he paid little attention to where Octavia was leading him as he picked out his own men in the crowd. They nodded at him—the signal that all seemed well.

Then his men were gone, as were the other guests—and the lanterns that made it easy for him to search for predators. They were on one of the unlit paths. Not just any path, either. Unless he was mistaken, this was the Lovers Walk

It was dark here, in the infinite shadows between torches. Too dark. Too quiet. The breeze was warm as a caress, soft as a sigh. This was not a place they should be alone together—not if Octavia wanted Spinton to renew their understanding once this was all over.

Perhaps they weren’t alone. It was too dark to tell—another reason that they should not be there. How had they ended up there anyway?

“We should not be here,” he murmured. “It is too dark.”

Octavia’s fingers twined with his. “It is nice to have you to myself.”

His head turned. Her features were barely discernible in the murky light. “You always have me.”

“Usually we have an audience.”

They might have one now as well, but he wasn’t about to remind her of that. They should return to the relative safety of the crowd. They should keep to the light. It was safer where there were people. Being here made it too easy to forget what he was doing. It would be far too easy for someone
to launch an attack against one of them. Harker would love to find him in just such a situation. Unfortunately, where there was safety, it was also very public. Octavia was right, it was nice to be alone. Too nice.

He was supposed to be hunting the man bothering Octavia. He was supposed to protect her—at the request of her fiancé. Instead, all he could think of was the feel of her skin, the scent of her hair.

What was wrong with him? Had he learned nothing from Black Sally’s murder? He had become too arrogant, too relaxed in his methods. He didn’t believe Octavia’s admirer to be dangerous, but what evidence had he seen to that effect? None. He couldn’t make assumptions. Assumptions got people killed.

If he were responsible for Octavia’s death he could never forgive himself. He wouldn’t be able to go on with her blood on his hands. He’d rather go straight to hell and rot there.

“We should go back.”

She turned to him, so close that their torsos were almost touching. Her face—softly kissed by silver moonlight—was just inches from his own. For a moment, North’s heart ceased to beat. He ceased to breathe. This was death and he wasn’t afraid at all.

“In a minute.” Her voice was lower, huskier. She wanted to kiss him. It was as though the thought leaped from her mind to his, so certain he was of her desire.

What harm could one kiss do? Spinton never needed to know about a kiss. There was no harm in a kiss between friends.

His lips hovered just above hers. A little lower and they would touch. A little lower and he risked losing himself in her kiss.

But before he could claim the prize offered to him, a loud
cracking sound split the night. Instinctively, North shoved Octavia into the shadows as pain exploded in his bicep. It felt as though someone had shoved a hot poker through his flesh.

Rifle shot. He’d been hit. If he hadn’t moved his arm…

Suddenly Francis and two others were there with them. How much had they heard? How much had they seen? He’d never know unless he asked. And they would never tell either.

“Did you see him?” North demanded, ignoring the burning in his arm.

Francis’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the darkness. He pointed into the trees. “There.”

North stopped the burly man before he could pursue. “Take her to my house.” He shoved Octavia toward him. “Stay with her. No one gets near her.”

“Norrie!” Octavia’s frightened voice cut through him like a blade, but he ignored her. There was a man with a rifle out there. A man who would have shot her had North not moved, and by God he was going to catch the bastard—one way or another.

With one of his men hot on his heels, North tore off through the night, chasing the shadowy form threatening to outdistance him. His arm was bleeding heavily. Blood oozed down his skin in warm, sticky rivulets. He’d been shot at many times in his career, but this was the first time he’d actually been hit. It didn’t feel as though the ball was lodged in his arm, but it still hurt. No doubt it would hurt even more later, when the heightened emotions of the evening wore off.

He ran faster, leaping over rocks and bushes that impeded his pursuit. He was closing in, but not close enough. Soon, the culprit would reach the entrance, where he could easily blend into the crowd, and then he would either hide in plain sight or make his getaway in one of the many boats waiting at the dock. Either way, if North didn’t catch him now, he never would.

Having narrowed the distance between them considerably, North stopped and drew the pistol from his belt. He took aim—thank God it had been his left arm hit—and fired. His quarry staggered, but kept running.

An eye for an eye
. He’d winged his prey.

Lungs burning and straining, North forced his legs to pump faster. He almost tripped over something. Dimly, it registered. The rifle. His quarry had dropped his weapon. North ran faster.

The entrance was near. The edge of the crowd was thickening, beginning to swallow the man ahead of him. The spectators seemed to pay little attention to the heavyset fellow pushing his way through them, but unfortunately they noticed North all too easily. His frantic pursuit and bloodied appearance alarmed them, and instead of clearing a path for him as he hoped, they closed in with expressions of fear and concern.

“Out of the way!” he shouted, wincing as someone collided with his injured arm. “For Christ’s sake,
move
!” He shoved the butt of his pistol into a man’s shoulder, thrusting him out of his path.

How many precious seconds he’d lost reaching the gate, he couldn’t count, but it had been enough. Obviously his shooter had friends waiting, because he was in a boat being rowed with great speed across the river. There was no way North could catch them on his own, not with an injured arm.

He’d lost him. Shoulders sagging, North gasped for breath, sweat trickling down his face in the warm night. He shoved his pistol into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his left arm. He was still bleeding—bad enough that he could smell it.

But he had shot his opponent as well. And as soon as he could, he’d have Francis and the others questioning every
quack and surgeon in the city. Someone would have to tend to the man’s wound, and if North had been accurate enough to plant a ball in his arm, it would be easy to identify as his own. He marked all his shot.

He would catch him. It was a promise. And God help him when he did. The bastard would consider himself lucky the bullet hadn’t hit Octavia. But the intent had been there, of that North was certain, and for that, the shooter would suffer.

Suffer badly.

There was a lot of blood. North’s blood. North was hurt.

It was all her fault. Rationally, she knew better than to blame herself, but her heart refused to listen to reason. He had been shot in her company, possibly because of her or instead of her. Who else could be to blame?

Blast it all, where were his many minions when they were needed? They’d been crawling all over Vauxhall, dogging their every step. They’d no doubt been watching them on the Lovers Walk as well. If North hadn’t been shot, they would have watched them kiss.