In Your Arms Again (5 page)

Spinton flashed an endearing smile—one that made Beatrice blush sweetly. “Yes, I can imagine such diversions would hold some fascination for ladies.”

Octavia winced. She couldn’t help it. Thankfully Spinton didn’t see it. Here he was, the man she was expected to marry. A friendly, good-hearted dolt who obviously didn’t realize just how ignorant he truly was when it came to “ladies” and the diversions they found entertaining.

Thank God she was so skilled at hiding her emotions when she wanted. It was a skill she was going to have to depend on from now on. From her wedding night onward, for the rest of her days, she was going to be concealing more than she could ever reveal.

What a suffocating thought.

Fortunately, there was no more talk of diversions or the minds of ladies. The trio—Spinton in the middle with Beatrice on one arm and Octavia on the other—left the house in lightweight outerwear and climbed into Spinton’s well-appointed carriage. Octavia stared around the blind at the city drifting past as Spinton and Beatrice made small talk. How alike the two of them were. How much better suited than Spinton and herself. Wouldn’t her grandfather rather his heir be happy? Did it matter which granddaughter Spinton married?

Yes, it did. She knew it did. She was the oldest, the daughter of the old earl’s youngest son—his favorite—who had died before his time. He had decided Octavia would be the next countess, and he had made her promise to become so. She agreed because he was dying and it pained her to see him suffer. But why? Why did she condemn both herself and Spinton to a life of misery?

And why make herself even more miserable by dwelling on it? Marriage to Spinton would not be so bad. She was the stronger of the two of them. She would run their household, make all the decisions. She would live as she saw fit, and he would merely smile and find her “womanly ways” infuriatingly amusing. After she produced an heir he would no doubt take a mistress like other men to save her from the degradation of the marriage bed.

Poor Spinton. He probably wouldn’t even notice that she wasn’t a virgin bride. Her maidenhead had been taken—no, given—a lifetime ago, so it seemed. Even though her life had turned in a much different direction than the one she had
feared, she never once regretted asking North to be her first lover. To this day, the memory of that sweet, awkward fumbling brought a lump of emotion to her throat.

“Do drop the blind, Octavia,” Spinton requested. “We do not want to encourage footpads.”

Octavia did as he bid, even though she thought it foolish. Footpads wouldn’t be encouraged by an open blind any more than they’d be discouraged by a lowered one. Those who made their living from crime would attack whenever they felt like it. The only thing that discouraged them was a weapon—and a familiar face.

At one time she had run the streets around Covent Garden and its neighboring environs with North, safe in her familiarity with the people and the area. Safe with her champion by her side, even though there had been times when they were younger that he hadn’t wanted her dogging his footsteps. She wouldn’t be safe out there now—not with Spinton by her side.

They arrived at Eden shortly after eight o’clock. Octavia concealed her agitation as Spinton teased her about her hurry to get to inside. She couldn’t tell him that her anxiety stemmed from the fact that tonight was about so much more than an evening out. She could go out into society whenever she wanted. No, tonight Eden was playing host to a party she wanted to visit. A party for a young woman she had known at the theater—Madeline DuBois, a young actress who recently made her debut and set London on its ear. Tonight Madeline and her fiancé were celebrating their engagement.

Octavia avoided the theater now, afraid that someone might recognize her and say something to make the gossips’ tongues wag. There would be no one to be concerned about tonight, however. It was a private party in one of Eden’s suites, arranged because the club’s owner, Lady Lilith Warren, Countess Angelwood, was one of Madeline’s biggest fans.

When Spinton and Beatrice were enjoying the assembly rooms or the games tables, she would sneak off on her own—if only for a few moments—to join Maddie’s celebration.

Entering Eden was like entering another world. Lord and Lady Angelwood had designed the club to be the most elegant in all of London, and they had succeeded. Soothing colors and soft decor were set off by stunning works of art and muted lighting. Much of Octavia’s anxiety melted away as soon as she stepped inside. The majordomo approached to direct them to the dining room.

Another man met them inside the large dining area. Tables set with pristine white cloths and sparkling crystal dotted the Italian marble floor. Candelabras on each table gave off a soft glow, but were small enough not to emit too much heat in the warmer weather. Wall sconces lined the soft yellow walls, adding more light were it was needed.

A few heads turned as they were shown to their table. Octavia waved to acquaintances and Spinton did the same. Thankfully there was no one in attendance that she felt it necessary to stop and speak to—not because she was feeling particularly unsocial, but because they might try to seize her attention later, and she wanted to spend as much time at Maddie’s party as she could.

“What a lovely room,” Beatrice remarked breathily.

Octavia made a mental note to take her cousin to Eden at least once a month from then on. Beatrice didn’t get out of the house nearly as much as she should. That aside, Beatrice was right—it was a lovely room. And Octavia knew before the footman brought them their wine that the food would be just as impressive. She wasn’t wrong.

Dinner was sumptuous—quail in a succulent wine sauce with buttered vegetables; warm breads; crisp salads; a sharp, sweet wine; and followed by sinfully decadent chocolate-covered fruits for dessert. Eden’s chef was a master.

After eating, Octavia suggested that Spinton visit the gentlemen’s section of the club while she and Beatrice visit the ladies’. Eden was designed so that the sexes could spend the evening segregated or together, with a male side, a female side, and then rooms in the center where the two could meet. It didn’t take much prodding. Kind as Spinton was, he was still a man, and talking with his own kind would no doubt always be preferable to hanging about two ladies.

“I will not be long,” he promised.

Octavia smiled. “Take your time.”

Once he was gone, she turned to Beatrice. “I am going to one of the suites to see an old friend. Will you join me?”

Her cousin shook her head. “No, thank you. I see some acquaintances of my own here. But what do I do if Lord Spinton returns?”

Octavia shrugged. “Discreetly send one of the servants to find me. I am certain you can entertain Spinton until I return.”

“But what do I talk to him about?”

Good Lord, did her cousin have no imagination? Octavia was giving her time alone with an attractive man; certainly Beatrice could think of
something.

“Ask him about his new horse,” Octavia replied, already inching out of her seat. “He will talk until your ears fall off.”

Smiling at her cousin’s dubious expression, Octavia waited until both Beatrice and Spinton had been swallowed up by the crowd, before slipping off on her own. She wasn’t as familiar with the club as some of the other women there, but she didn’t want to look as though she didn’t know where she was going. Someone might think she was sneaking off for an assignation, and that was the last thing she needed the gossips to speculate about. Spinton might wonder as well.

A helpful footman discreetly pointed her in the right direction, and Octavia slipped through a doorway and up a flight
of highly polished stairs that led to the party rooms above. Appropriately enough, Maddie’s party was in the Green Room, no doubt in reference to her profession. The man at the door recognized her as soon as she gave her name—her old name—and let her inside without hesitation.

A few people recognized her as she entered the room—marvelously appointed in shades of sage and forest green. It wasn’t a large crowd—but it would definitely grow as the evening wore on. Octavia would no doubt be gone by then. She would not be able to stay as long as she liked.

Madeline’s eyes went wide as she saw her. Her little bow of a mouth dropped happily and she spread her arms wide. “Octavia!”

Grinning foolishly, Octavia allowed herself to be swept into the girl’s exuberant embrace. She didn’t care that they were being watched, that some onlookers even applauded. She was safe here. Her secret was safe here. These people would never betray her to the
ton
. They were more loyal than society could ever hope to be.

They laughed and chatted as they embraced, both gushing about how wonderful it was to see each other, and Octavia laughed in disbelief at just how lovely the young girl had grown up to be. A pudgy child, Madeline had blossomed into a full-figured, stunning woman.

“You look wonderful, Maddie!” Octavia took a step back and surveyed the younger woman head to toe. “Just wonderful.”

“I could not agree more,” came a voice from behind her.

Octavia didn’t have to turn to recognize the voice. Deep, a little rough, and oh-so-musical, with a touch of Scottish accent still clinging to every vowel. The very sound of it twisted her heart into a tight knot.

Madeline threw herself at him, and he laughed as he
caught her in his long arms, the dark fabric of his coat pulling tautly across the broad width of his shoulders. Octavia watched, a strange, prickling cold-heat shaking her entire body. She drank in every inch of him, committing him to memory, so certain she was that this was a dream and any moment he’d fade away.

But it wasn’t a dream. She realized that as Madeline released him and took both their hands, smiling happily as she stood between them, little and plump and oh-so-adorable.

“It is so wonderful to have both of you here with me,” the girl enthused. “It means so very much.”

Octavia’s smile faded as she lifted her gaze from Maddie to the man beside her. It seemed his expression became more hesitant as well.

Somehow, she managed to speak around the lump in her throat. “Hello, Norrie.”

Glacial blue eyes brightened, watching her with a nameless expression that made her knees quiver. And then he smiled—crooked and unsure.

“Hello, my sweet Vie.”

N
orth found himself embraced in strong slender arms, engulfed by the heady scents of clean, warm skin and lavender. Soft hair brushed his cheek seconds before lips, feather-light, whispered a kiss against his jaw. He closed his eyes, afraid someone—
she
—might see the longing there.

His best friend. His sweet, sweet Vie.

Madeline was drawn away by other well-wishers, leaving the two of them standing alone, surrounded by bodies in their own little world.

Jewel-bright eyes watched him thoughtfully, searching his face as Octavia took a step backward, her hand sliding down to his. What did she look for? A glimpse of the boy he’d once been? At one time he would have thought that boy well hidden, as distant as a dream, but he knew he was there. All she had to do was gaze into his eyes and she’d see him, terribly afraid of just how happy he was to see her—touch her.

Her fingers tightened around his. “So you are not ashamed to know me after all.”

Ashamed? Of her? “I would think you would not want to own to knowing me.”

Her head tilted to the right, those brilliant eyes of hers refusing to release him. “Only because I made a promise to conceal my past. I have no shame of where I come from, Norrie. Nor am I ashamed of my friends.”

His own eyes narrowed against the prickling there. “After all these years, what sort of friends are we, Octavia?”

Her thumb rubbed his, her skin velvet soft against the roughness of his own. “The dearest kind. The kind that cares not for how many years have passed or foolish promises made.”

His smile was genuine, but bitterness twisted the curve of his lips. “The kind who would try to greet you in a crowded ballroom, regardless of what questions that association might raise?”

Some of the sparkle left her eyes, replaced by a deeper understanding that sent a trickle of discomfort down his spine. “The kind who would stop you from committing such a folly even though he longs for the reunion as much you.”

He should have known she would see through him. She always could when they were younger, why should a dozen years change that?

A dozen years. She was thirty now, yet her features were unmarred by the passage of time. He had seen her a few years ago, at Garrick’s funeral, but she had been veiled, hiding her face, and her grief, from those in attendance. A quiet maturity had sharpened the bones, deepened the hollows, but the face was still the same. It was her eyes that had changed. There was a darkness to her gaze that hadn’t been there in her youth, a responsibility that weighed heavily. Despite the years that had passed between them, he wanted to take that burden from her and bear it as his own.

“You look wonderful,” he blurted, cheeks heating. Compliments were never his strong suit.

Octavia smiled. “So do you.”

North snorted. “My face has so many lines, I look like a map of London.”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she raised her free hand—the other still held tight to his fingers—to his face. The pads of her fingers stroked the skin between his temple and cheek, where the lines fanned from the corner of his eyes.

“You look like a man, Norrie,” she murmured, her gaze locking with his. “It suits you.”

What could he say to that? Even if he was able to speak, her touch had robbed him of all ability to think of a suitable reply.

“You are not wearing gloves.” Good Lord, now she was going to think he had become simple over the years as well.

Her lips curved in that mischievous smile he remembered from his dreams. “Neither are you, Mr. Sheffield. Mine are in my reticule. Where are yours?”

It didn’t occur to him to lie. “Home.”

Her laughter broke through the din around them, lighting her face with a glow that pinched at North’s chest. “Of course they are!”

Seconds passed, years perhaps, as they stared into each other’s eyes. Reaching down, he caught the hand that had touched his face just moments before, and held it tight in his own. The only parts of their bodies touching were their hands, and yet he felt her as surely as if he held her flush against him. Every fiber of his being was that aware of her presence.

“I’ve missed you,” he confided in a low voice.

He watched her swallow, the delicate column of her throat constricting as though the action took great effort. “I know,” she whispered. “I wish things could have been different.”

His smile was kind, despite the hollowness in his chest. “But they are not, and now you must go before your fiancé starts to worry.”

Was it his imagination, or did her fingers tighten around his? “You are right.” Slowly, she stepped back, easing out of his grip as reluctantly as he let her go. “It was lovely seeing you again, Norrie.”

Every time she called him by that nickname, the one that had driven him mad as a youngster, his heart squeezed painfully. She was breaking it, breaking it with nothing more than a reminder of what they once were to each other—and the regret that those days were so far behind them now.

“It was lovely seeing you as well.” His voice was undeniably hoarse, betraying his regret.

Opening her reticule—the same deep burgundy as her dress—she withdrew long, ivory satin gloves. She drew them on slowly, silently, unknowingly giving North ample time to commit the graceful lines of her hands and arms to memory once more. He burned as much of her as he could into his mind’s eye—the soft hollows of her neck, the gentle line of her collarbones, the smooth, unblemished flesh of her upper chest that gave way to the swell of a bosom more impressive than it had been when he last touched it. As a girl she had been sharp, lanky even, but now she was as elegant as a gazelle, as softly supple as a willow.

Her gloves on, she raised her gaze to his with a resolution that startled him. He couldn’t help but assume she had decided to never see him again—or worse yet, that she
would
see him again.

“Good night, Norrie.” Not the “good-bye” she owed him, not “farewell,” but “good night,” as though day might bring another meeting.

“Flights of angels, Vie.”

She smiled. Had she realized that he hadn’t said good-bye either?

She had taken but a few steps—almost to the door—when she turned as though a sudden thought struck her. Of course he was watching her, and their gazes locked once more.

“Spinton is not my fiancé,” she informed him. “Not yet.”

With that, she turned her back to him and left the room, her spine as straight and regal as a fine lady’s should be. She was a lady now.

But underneath all that finery, she was still his Vie.

His
Vie.

After congratulating young Madeline once more, North left the soirée himself. He needed to be alone—needed to play over his meeting with Octavia until it made sense. Twelve years since they’d last spoken and what had they discussed? How much they’d missed each other. It didn’t seem possible. Didn’t seem real. How could they still mean that much to each other after so much time? But it wasn’t a lie. He had meant every word he said—and many that he hadn’t. And he knew that Octavia had been honest when she told him how much she missed him, and that Spinton wasn’t her fiancé.

Hadn’t Spinton told him the same thing? So why did it mean so much more coming from Octavia? And why did it matter? As her “dearest” friend, her oldest friend, he should want to see her happily wed.

He did want to see her happily married, just not to Spinton.

A flash of movement caught his attention, and his gaze immediately followed. He saw a man disappearing into the crowd—an all-too-familiar man, even from behind. It was Harker.

What was he doing there? Certainly anyone with the means and proper attire could enter a public club, but Eden didn’t seem the kind of place Harker would frequent. Had the
bastard been spying on him? If so, for how long, and how much had he seen? Or was his mind, bent on revenge, simply playing tricks? It might not have been Harker at all.

Or his nemesis might already be trying to figure out the connection between North and Octavia Vaux-Daventry, especially if he saw their embrace. No matter, any attempt Harker made at blackmail would be easily brushed aside. No one would believe him over Octavia, or even North himself. No, Harker would not be a danger unless he found out the truth about Octavia’s past, and he wouldn’t put himself to that task unless North gave him reason. Harker had many flaws, but patience was his most prominent virtue. He wouldn’t take action until he was certain it was the best action to take. Avoiding Octavia would keep her below Harker’s notice.

How hard could it be to avoid her in this city? He’d been fairly successful at it these last dozen years.

North’s brother Wynthrope was waiting for him in the gentlemen’s club. North picked him out of the milling bodies easily. He simply looked for the haughtiest, the most impeccably dressed, bored-looking man there, and his gaze immediately fell upon Wyn. He was standing against the far wall, watching a game of cards with no more interest than he might watch dust settle.

Wynthrope Ryland was no more than an inch shorter than his illegitimate brother, and while their coloring was similar, Wyn’s hair was darker and shorter, and his eyes were a deeper, darker blue. The only real resemblance between them was the Ryland lopsided smile, but on Wyn it was a cynical, cool expression, while his brothers tended toward amusement.

In fact, Wyn was smiling at him in just such a manner as he approached.

“I hope you were not dallying with some actress up there while I stood here like a dolt waiting for you?”

Dallying? Perhaps. With an actress? No.

“I met an old friend,” he replied, nodding his head in the direction of the exit. “Ready?”

Wyn was obviously surprised as he shrugged away from the wall. “Not—?”

“Yes.” North didn’t even look at him as they walked through the club entrance and exited to the street. He and Wynthrope shared almost everything that happened in their lives. With only a few months separating their births, they had been friends as well as brothers. Wyn was the reason North left Bow Street, and never once did he regret the decision to put his brother ahead of his own career.

In fact, Wyn knew him so well, he didn’t ask any more questions about Octavia and their meeting. He knew that if North wanted to talk, he would. Ryland men were very particular about discussing their emotions—especially Wynthrope. He wasn’t very keen on discussing other people’s feelings either, which was just as well, since North had no idea in hell what he would have said if his brother had asked.

They talked of other things as they walked to North’s house. Wynthrope, from past associations, knew the market district almost as well as North did, and the darkened streets held little danger for two men whom the occupants recognized as men not to be trifled with.

They sat in North’s office, each with a snifter of brandy. North never worried about developing the same dependency on spirits as his father and eldest brother had. Wynthrope never seemed especially worried either. Their youngest brother, Devlin, rarely drank at all, and he was the one among the four of them who would have the most reason to do so, after all he had seen in the war.

But Devlin was in Devonshire now, happily married to a woman who suited him perfectly. North missed Devlin. Even though Dev was much happier where he was, North missed his steadiness, his naive notions of right and wrong. Things were always much simpler with Dev around. Not so gray as with himself and the other two—in fact, with Wynthrope, things were sometimes just plain black.

But enough about his brothers. He had something much more pressing to think about at the moment.

“Let me ask you something.”

Wyn eyed him suspiciously. “I despise it when you take that tone. It usually means I am about to incriminate myself in some way.”

North smiled. His brother wasn’t stupid—or gullible—enough to get himself involved in something unsavory again.

“If someone were to say to you, I have not read Shelley
yet
, would you take that to believe that they were planning to read his work, or that they had no intention of reading him?”

Wyn’s eyes widened. Obviously North sounded as idiotic as he felt. But Octavia had said that Spinton wasn’t her fiancé
yet
, and he needed to know what she had meant by that.

“I assume you mean other than the fact that this person is obviously a complete idiot, uneducated and unrefined?”

North nodded, fighting a grin. “Yes.”

“Well,” Wyn thought for a moment, swirling his brandy in the bowl of the snifter. “I suppose I would take that as an indication that reading Shelley was not that important to this person, else they would have already read one of his works.”

“Exactly.” How smug that sounded, but Wyn had confirmed North’s own thoughts—that Octavia couldn’t be that eager to marry Spinton, or she would have already. Why that satisfied him so, North wasn’t quite prepared to investigate, other than he would hate to see such a dear friend unhappy in her marriage.

“On the other hand,” Wyn added after a swallow of brandy. “The very use of the word ‘yet’ indicates that the person is simply waiting for the right moment.”

“Yes, but if they have not read it
yet
there is some indecisiveness there, do not you think? They may not read it at all.”

Wynthrope’s brows rose at the peevishness in his tone. “What are we really talking about? Call me dubious, but I have a suspicion we are not talking about poetry.”

“Nothing.” He was surly and foul and really didn’t want to discuss it anymore. Wyn would no doubt howl with laughter to discover that all these silly questions had to do with a woman whom he had not spoken to in over a decade.

Though when he finally had spoken to her, it didn’t seem that many years had passed between them.

“Well, if we are discussing nothing, can we change the topic?” That was Wyn. He never asked questions, never pried. To some it would appear callous and uncaring, but it wasn’t. He simply knew that if North wanted to talk about it, he would.

“What did you think of the play?” North asked, taking a drink. They had been to the theater before going to the club.