Lois Greiman (17 page)

She exhaled heavily. “’Twas a short-lived truce.”

“My apologies,” he snapped.

She shrugged as if uncaring, but there was something in her eyes. Was it pain? Had he caused it?

Unwanted regret rippled through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was sincere now. “I am in no position to judge.”

She smiled, but there was no honest happiness. Not anymore. “I’m sure you are.”

“I was married, before…” He paused, searching for strength to say the things he’d never said.

She remained silent, but scowled as she brought her gaze rapidly back to his.

“I had a child,” he added. “They needed…In truth, I never understood their needs. I only knew I couldn’t fulfill them.” He glanced out the window, unseeing, before realizing his cowardice and forcing himself to catch her gaze again. “But no. That’s not quite the case. ’Tis not that I could not, but that I chose not to.”

The carriage rumbled steadily along beneath them. “So you starved them?” she asked.

He started at her ridiculous assumption. “Of course not. Even my father…” He paused, gathering his wits.

“So your father was cruel.”

Memories crowded in. Secrets, sins, Caroline’s haunted eyes. “Worse to some than others,” he said.

“But he fed you. Just as you fed your family.”

“Yes, but—”

She shrugged. “Then you must have beaten them?”

He saw her ploy now and scowled. “Cruelty comes in many forms, lass.”

“So you humiliated them. Degraded them. Hated them.”

“I—”

“She probably cried herself to sleep each night.”

He said nothing.

“Did she cry, Dancer?”

He glanced out the window again.

“Did she?”

“No,” he admitted.

Their gazes clashed. “If I did not know better, I would think you know little of pain,” she said.

He tensed. “What do you know?

Silence crept in, tightening the tension, but finally she lowered her gaze to her hands. “Only what I see in your eyes.”

He had to force himself to speak, to dare ask. “What do you see?”

She seemed to struggle with the answer, but finally she raised her mercurial gaze again. “Not cruelty.”

He gritted his teeth, thinking back. “What of cowar—”

“I’ve seen cowards,” she snapped, then lowered her voice and her eyes. “You aren’t one.”

Something swelled in his chest, but he dared not acknowledge it. She was a thief, after all, and a liar. But she was beautiful. And phenomenally strong. He watched her. She had always seemed so distant, so cool, but what of her heart?
What risks had she taken? What danger had she withstood?
he wondered, and despite her words, he was certain she would not have failed in his place.

“Leave him,” he said, managing, just barely, to keep his voice steady. “I’ll pay for your passage. Anywhere you wish to go.”

Her nostrils flared, as if she had caught the scent of freedom, but then she smiled. “There lies the trouble,” she said and tilted her head slightly, as if she herself were baffled. “I don’t wish to go anywhere.”

“I don’t believe you.” Or perhaps he didn’t want to. Perhaps, after all his years of flagrant worthlessness, he needed to help someone and refused to believe his damsel in distress didn’t wish to be saved.

“Believe what you like,” she said, and looked away.

“Shandria.” He grabbed her arm. She turned with an expression of utter disdain, and he drew his hand slowly away, forcing himself to release her.

“Perhaps we’d best work alone this day,” she suggested.

Something akin to panic flared in his gut. Something he could neither understand nor condone. She had survived her entire life without him, after all, and yet the idea of sending her off alone…“Forgive me.”

“I have. I merely think—”

“Just…” He paused, blindly searching for words. “This once let us pretend we are naught but an average pair out to enjoy the day.”

She smiled a little. “But I am not average,” she reminded him. “I am a thief, and if I return to Poke without—”

“Don’t mention him.”

Was she holding her breath? Was she looking at him as if he’d gone mad?

“Let us make a pact,” he said. “We shall not refer to him this day. We shall pretend.”

“And what are we pretending?”

“That we are wealthy. That we are privileged.”

She stared at him for several breathless seconds, then, “’Tis easier for some than others.”

And watching her, he had to laugh, for though he knew she suspected he was of noble blood, it was she who exuded breeding and refinement.

“Something amuses you?” she asked.

“Do this for me,” he said. “This one favor, and I will make certain you don’t return to the Den empty-handed.”

Their gazes melded. “Are you such an accomplished thief then, Dancer?”

No, but he was wealthy, and he could not tell her. What a strange twist of fate. “Trust me,” he said. “Just this once.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes days slip away. Opportunities…” He fought the emotions that welled up in his throat. “Opportunities are missed. Chances to be happy.”

She merely stared at him, and he shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s a sin, maybe the worst sin of all.”

“To fail to be happy?”

Or to make another happy. To see her smile. The thought made his heart ache.

Silence stretched into eternity. Beneath them, the carriage slowed to a halt.

“Just this once,” he said, “we could be something different.”

“What?”

“Kind,” he suggested, and smiled at her raised brows. “To each other.”

“Rather a radical means of searching for happiness, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” he agreed. “But we could pretend we’re not ourselves.”

“We would be kind people.”

“Just so.”

“Very well,” she agreed, and shrugged. “But just this once.”

S
he was a fool. And fools died young. But when he reached for her hand, Shandria followed him out of the landau and onto the half-frozen mud of the street.

“This once,” he said again, and she nodded.

They dismissed the driver.

The cobbled walkway that ran parallel to the shops had been swept clean of snow, but a couple squeezed past, avoiding a frosty puddle as they laughed together. The man carried a bundle of parcels wrapped in paper and tied with twine. The woman held his arm. She was looking up into his face, and he was smiling. There was something between them, a contentment, a joy even. Shandria’s heart twisted.

“What first, my lady?” he asked, his voice quiet.

She tilted her head up toward him. Was he mocking her? she wondered, but his expression was somber, his eyes intent.

“My lady?” he said again, and cocked his arm. She slid her hand beneath his elbow with a thousand misgivings.

“’Tis entirely your decision.”

He waiting, watching her.

“My lord,” she added, and he smiled with his eyes.
One could not trust his lips, for they were wont to lie, but his eyes were hopelessly honest.

“Very well then,” he said. Squeezing her arm gently against his side, he steered her round a corner. “I think we shall have a chocolate.”

She stopped him, dragging self-consciously on his arm. “I have no money.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, and canted his head down toward her. “The gentleman always pays.”

She stared at him, feeling breathlessly foolish. It was all naught but a game to him. But it was a dangerous one. “In truth,” she said, fighting the web, “I know no gentlemen.”

His face was sober, his eyes dark and sincere. “Call me Benjamin,” he said, and gave her a truncated bow, never loosing her arm.

“Benjamin,” she repeated.

“And what shall I call you, my lady?”

She was almost drawn in, almost pulled under, but she shook her head and slipped her hand away. He caught it at the last moment.

“This once,” he murmured. “’Tis all I ask.”

Fears and uncertainties warred within her, “Rosalind,” she said.

His eyes smote hers, and then he smiled. “Have you ever had a chocolate, Lady Rosalind?”

It was difficult to breathe when he looked at her that way. As if she mattered to him, as if she were something of import. “No…my lord, I don’t believe I have.”

“Well then,” he said and settled her hand back in the crook of his arm. “’Tis well past time.”

A bell jangled merrily as they stepped inside the coffeehouse. The bustling proprietor glanced up, giving them a brief smile as he waved them to a table. It was small and
round and accompanied by a half dozen of its identical mates. There were several unoccupied, though more were spoken for. Near the door, an impeccably groomed matron glanced at Shandria’s shoes, then leaned toward her contemporaries. The trio shared a few hissed words and murmured behind their cups.

Shandria felt her face warm, though she knew far better than to care. God’s truth, her entire world was drowning in danger. Every breath might be her last. Every step might be fatal, and yet, her heart took the blow. Will handed her into a chair. That’s how she thought of him—Will—not Slate, not Dancer, though she insisted on calling him that, of reminding them both of the absurdity of his presence there. But in her heart he was Will—educated and kind, with a life far from Darktowne. A life filled with laughter and peace and warmth. A life where he would be perfectly comfortable visiting a shop exactly like the one where they now sat. But not with her.

Taking the chair across from her, he studied her face. Too closely. She dropped her gaze to the linen cloth and tried not to listen to the women behind her.

“Tell me…” William leaned forward with casual grace. His hands, she noticed, were perfectly clean despite the days he’d spent at the Den, and his fingers were long and well sculpted. “Do you cause such a stir everywhere you go, my lady?”

Their gazes smote and held, then he nodded toward the women gossiping behind her. “It’s difficult for them I suppose.”

She stilled the restless rustling of her hands with an effort. “Difficult?”

“They’re no longer young. Perhaps they were never beautiful. Certainly…” He paused. “They were never you.”

She scowled, far out of her league, and he smiled as he reached for her hand.

“Jealousy,” he said, “is a cruel master.”

She almost laughed, but her face felt flushed and her stomach oddly twisted. “I am certain they are not jealous.”

“Are you?” His expression was absolutely serious. “Shall I ask them?”

She did laugh now, but the sound was nervous. “Don’t be absurd,” she said, but he was already rising.

“Dancer!”

He raised a brow.

“Sit down. Please,” she hissed, flitting a glance toward the trio and tugging him back down. “Don’t create a spectacle.”

“I didn’t create it,” he said, and settled reluctantly into his chair. “I am but accompanying it.”

She stared at him. Something quivered in her chest, and she felt odd, short of breath, strangely weak.

“So…Benjamin, is it?” she said, nervously changing the subject and flicking her gaze to the tabletop. “Charm must come with the name.”

When she glanced back up she saw his surprise. She couldn’t help but wonder if he were such a phenomenal actor or if it were honest emotion.

“Am I being charming?” he asked.

She refused to allow herself to wriggle in her chair, but kept perfectly erect. “Yes, I believe you are.”

“Really?” His eyes had a faraway look. “I am never charming.”

“You are a hideous liar.”

He held her gaze in a gentle grasp. “Ask anyone,” he challenged, and the room felt strangely breathless.

“I don’t know anyone,” she said.

“I think perhaps…” He scowled a little, as if surprised by the truth of his words. “I could say the same.”

What did he mean? Secrets were hidden here, just below the surface, but she dare not delve into them, for with the secrets came emotions. She could feel them tingle beneath her skin. Best to keep it light, keep it careful, under the control of flippancy. “But if you did know…somebody…they would most likely find you crass?” she asked.

“And moody. Generally drunk. And not pleasantly so.”

“Most uncharming.”

“Decidedly,” he said, and glanced up as a waiter approached. He was short, plump, and apple-cheeked, with a white apron and a yellow waistcoat. “We shall have two chocolates,” Will said, “and some biscuits.”

“Very good, sir,” said the other, and after one quick, round-eyed glance at Shandria, hurried away.

And strangely, she found that she’d been holding her breath. Had it been that long since she had done something so mundane as place an order? So long since she had lived like a human being?

“Is something amiss?”

“No.” She shifted her attention back to the table. “Nothing.”

“Good. I’d hate for your ladyship’s first chocolate experience to be marred by any dark thoughts.”

Something sparked in his eyes. Was it mischief? “After all, nothing’s too good for the duchess of Blackfeld.”

There was a noticeable pause in the conversation behind her. Shandria shifted her eyes to the rear, but didn’t turn her head. William raised one curious brow as if wondering what she would do next.

“The duchess,” she said softly.

He smiled the slightest degree. “Of Blackfeld.”

She shuffled her feet, reminding him of her shoes. “My poor estate must be in dire straits indeed.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Not when it is governed by a lady who cares more for her people than for her footwear. ’Tis not always the case,” he said, and despite her cautious need to remind herself of the foolishness of this venture, she found herself drowning in his eyes, slipping below the surface. But she fought the suffocation just in time and straightened abruptly.

“I fear you’ve formed the wrong impression, my lord.”

“Have I, Your Grace?”

The waiter stumbled slightly, then bowed, nearly sloshing their drinks onto the table. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” he rasped, as wide-eyed as ever. “I didn’t realize…I…” He glanced at the tray. “Let me hurry back to make certain your biscuits are fresh. I feel foolish, after all, not knowing—”

“No.” She cleared her throat and strictly kept herself from glancing at the ladies behind. “I am certain they are fine.”

“But—”

“They look quite lovely. Really.”

“You’re certain?”

By the time she had convinced him to leave their order, the women had hustled out the door. Will smiled. She straightened her napkin and pursed her lips at the inoffensive spoon before raising her eyes to his. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely. And what of you?”

She wanted to say no. She should have said no. But it would have been a lie. Curling her bare hands around the chocolate mug, she took her first sip.

Nearly an hour had passed before they tripped back outside.

“What now?” he asked, hugging her arm to his side and looking into her eyes.

“More chocolate?” she suggested, and he laughed.

“I doubt there’s any left in the entirety of Skilan.”

“Wouldn’t you know it? Just when I have developed a taste for it.”

“A taste! You drank mine and yours and two more. ’Tis fortunate I stopped you before you grabbed the poor child’s at the next table.”

She laughed, and his steps faltered as he pulled her to a halt.

“What is it?” She glanced to the right, instantly cautious, but his gaze never left her face.

“Laugh again.”

She gazed around her. A pair of gentlemen watched from the doorstep of a milliner’s shop. She glanced down, nervous at their scrutiny, but more so by William’s steady attention. “You’re causing a stir.”

“’Tis not my fault,” he assured her. “Perhaps they’ve not heard beauty before.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The gentlemen had turned away, but seemed still to be listening.

“Your laughter,” he said, “is like champagne.”

“I’ve not tasted champagne.”

“Some would consider that a crime.” There was a sadness in his face, sadness and regret, deep-seated and scarring. “I fear I may have imbibed too much to feel the same.”

And suddenly she wanted to hold him, to wrap him in her arms and make the world better, but she was not such a fool. So she played the game. “Tell me, my lord, is this how you charm all your conquests?”

“Believe this, my lady,” he said. “I would be hard-pressed to charm a turnip.”

“Which makes me what?” she asked, though she knew she should keep her mouth shut. “A parsnip?”

“A duchess,” he corrected, and his eyes smiled again. Her heart hitched up tight, but she dare not pay it heed.

“Come then,” she said, her voice carefully flippant, “I shall allow you to buy me diamonds.”

Thus they strolled down the cobbled walkways, peering in shop windows and watching people watch them.

“Do I have my gown turned about?” she asked finally, for it seemed that every person they passed was staring at her.

“It wouldn’t matter,” William said. “if Your Grace did so today, on the morrow the entirety of Skilan would copy the effect.”

She stared at him. “You don’t really believe they think me a duchess?”

But at that moment a costermonger stopped his cart and dropped the shafts into the snow. Dipping into his rickety vehicle, he rummaged about in a basket, then approached Shandria with a bow and a flourish.

“Your Grace,” he said, and handed her a perfectly symmetrical orange.

“I…” Flustered and stunned, she reached for the reticule that hung from her wrist. “I’m not certain I have adequate—”

But the little man bowed again. “Please, my lady, consider it my privilege,” he said, and, smiling, tottered away, dragging his rickety vehicle behind him.

Will watched her in amused silence.

She stared after the man. “’Twas a fluke,” she said. “Surely the others would not believe such a thing.”

He canted his head at her, challenge in his eyes. “Shall we find out?”

“I don’t—”

“Come,” he said.

And so the afternoon passed as they went from shop to shop. The clothier draped her with a dozen rich fabrics, cooing over her trim figure and elegant lines. The cobbler all but cried when he saw the sorry state of her shoes, especially when William assured him, she’d given her best slippers to a poor street waif who needed them more.

As for the milliner, she rapidly trotted out a young woman with a vast array of silly hats, only allowing them to leave after they’d assured her they would return at a later date.

When they finally stepped back outside, the sun was a golden orb balanced between the slanted blades of the distant mill. Like a dollop of molten gold, it shone like the day just past.

Down the street, a lamplighter bobbled on his stilts as he touched a flame to a stubborn wick.

Shandria glanced down at the tiny silk flower the milliner had given her as a parting gift.

“Are you hungry?” William asked.

Dreams slipped quietly into the ensuing darkness. But perhaps reality could be held off a moment longer. “Do you suppose they’ve secured any more chocolate yet?” she asked.

Will tucked her hand under his arm. A pair of young maids passed to their right, glancing shyly at them before hurrying away, heads bent close together.

“I sincerely think you have consumed every drop in Christendom.”

She forced a smile. The sun had almost set. The day
was behind them. Reality loomed dark on the horizon. “If I can’t have chocolate, there is little reason to eat. We might just as well be about our business,” she said, glancing at the inn beside them. The thick, warbled panes of the windows glowed from the lights within. The mouthwatering scents of fresh bread and roast mutton wafted on the crisp air.

“Our business?” he asked.

She could feel him glance down at her, but found she could not meet his eyes, for he had carefully erected a dream, and she found it hideously painful to awaken. But she was nothing if not practical.

“’Tis late,” she said, “and I’ve achieved naught.”