Mischief by Moonlight (17 page)

It was an appalling thing to say to the memory of a dead man he'd loved like a brother. But it was the truth.

No thunderbolt hit him, no tree fell on him. Nothing greeted his words but birdsong and leaf-rustling. The sounds of life going on.

Was that in itself an answer?

Nick had died because of all the things humanity could not get right. Death and war and heartbreak dogged life, but life was also goodness and joy and peace. Nick had cared for Josie and Colin both. How could he not have wanted that to carry on?

A fat, warm raindrop hit his nose, followed by more as a late summer shower started.

He got up, more at peace than he'd been since he'd heard of Nick's passing, and headed back along the road to the inn where he was staying. As the rain drenched his hair and ran off his face, he allowed himself to think of Josie.

The carriage ride had been the wrong moment to do what they'd done, and he knew it hadn't been exactly wonderful for her, but touching her had been amazing for him. Considering the heat that had burned between them, he knew he could do far better with her. He wanted them to do it again and again, to get it right.

He'd not heard any news of consequences from their encounter. He was grateful—he didn't want her to feel forced into marrying him. But they had a solid foundation of friendship and a passionate attraction. What more could they need?

She was still grieving Nick, of course. Her last words had been said in anger and pain, but he would never allow those emotions to define what was between them. Time did heal.

The future suddenly felt so
possible
.

He'd go to her right away—today—and find a way to be a solace to her until she was ready to hear what he had to say.

But upon reaching the inn, he saw that his return to Greenbrier would not be immediate. A letter from Maria was waiting for him, telling of scandal for Edwina.

***

Dearest Josie,

I can hardly believe it, but I am not ruined after all! And it is dear Ivorwood who has rescued me.

He had been away, but he came back when Maria wrote to him. He drove me in his curricle on Rotten Row at the fashionable hour and greeted quite an amazing number of people, considering he is not what one would call gregarious. But he seems to know ever so many people, or at least, there are many who would like to know him.

Then he held a large dinner party and invited all sorts of important people. Viscount Roxham and his wife were there, along with a marquess, a bishop, and a number of people who'd been avoiding me.

Mappleton was there too, though he kept apart from me at first. But when we sat down to dinner and everyone saw the kindness Ivorwood and Roxham showed me, my scandal was forgotten. Mappleton sought me out after the meal, and I even heard one of the matrons saying that rumors from below-stairs can never quite be believed. Though I know it is wicked to be glad that Cook, who was not lying, is now considered a liar, I am glad.

Love,

Edwina

Josie couldn't have been happier for Edwina, and indeed all of them, as the scandal would eventually have reached Upperton, and no matter what her mother said, Josie for one hoped to get to know their neighbors. The Cardworthys might even become a real part of the Upperton neighborhood. Who knew but that they might even make some friends?

She wasn't surprised that Colin had come to Edwina's rescue. Just thinking of his many virtues brought a huge, unwanted lump to her throat, but she reminded herself of how painful it had been when he'd cut things off between them, how easy it had seemed for him to be so blunt, and that helped.

Still, they
were
deeply indebted to him, and she urged her mother to write to him. Mrs. Cardworthy, though, said surely it would be enough to thank him when he returned to Greenbrier. When Josie insisted they must write, her mother finally said, “Oh, very well, you write it and I'll sign it.”

Josie began and discarded five different letters and finally wrote a very simple note of thanks, which was duly signed by her mother and dispatched to London. Afterward, she took an extremely vigorous walk in an effort to settle herself, refusing the whole time to look in the direction of Greenbrier, though its dominating bulk required some effort to avoid.

***

Since her scandal had been brushed away, Edwina had been to several balls, and the day after each one the reception room at Maria's had been filled with flowers for her. Mappleton had renewed his attentions, and at a concert gathering the night before, he'd followed her onto the terrace and kissed her.

“I think you are a very, very interesting lady,” he'd said to her afterward. And kissed her again. Not only was this not as exciting as Jack Whitby's kissing, but she had the impression Mappleton thought she was in some way accomplished at kissing, that he expected her to take charge, and this thought didn't please her.

“Why?” she'd asked in a voice that was far more tart than it ought to have been. She'd found herself slipping at times into her former less-pleasing ways. “Why should I be any more interesting than the other ladies you know?”

A light came into his eyes. “You are bold.” Apparently he thought she was an adventuress, and that excited him in some way.

After the disaster caused by the kiss with Jack, she knew she ought to be glad for Mappleton's devoted attention. Nothing had been said by either of them about his absence during her scandal, nor was the scandal itself even mentioned. Edwina was happy to put it behind her.

Only…she felt different now. When the scandal had broken, she'd instantly gone from being the fascinating newcomer to being ignored, and it was hard now to be delighted by the attention of people who'd avoided her. She was utterly glad to be a pariah no longer, but now the idea of marrying into the fashionable world, with its glossy exteriors and hard hearts, didn't hold the same allure.

For the first time in her life, she craved the welcoming messiness of Jasmine House. But she told herself this was pure idiocy, and that she only missed Josie.

Over the next week, Mappleton lavished gifts on her. He took her to Gunter's for ices and invited her and Maria to join him in his box at the opera. He lingered in the dark outside the carriage when he was meant to be handing her in, blinking expectantly at her as though he was waiting for her to steal a kiss from him.

He began to truly annoy her.

She hadn't thought it possible that a gentleman could be
too
nice to her. But he was, and the more his niceness began to annoy her, the more difficulty she had being pleasant to him herself. And the more peevish she was with him, the more he seemed to be kind to her. It was almost as if he wanted her to dominate him in some way.

Then he proposed. Having begged a private word with her in the drawing room at Maria's, he briefly touched her lips with his cool, dry ones and begged her to do him the honor of being his wife. He told her he would make her his goddess.

Her stomach plunged at the thought.

The next day, as she took tea with Maria in her garden, she told her about Mappleton's proposal.

Maria raised her eyebrows at the resigned manner in which Edwina spoke. “And?”

“And I'm to think about it.”

“He is titled, well-to-do, handsome enough. He seems a very pleasant man.”

“He is. I suppose. Pleasant, that is.”

Maria waited while a footman settled a plate of cakes on a small stone table between them and then left. She gestured for Edwina to take a cake, a small crease deepening between her brows. Finally she spoke.

“And you don't want a pleasant man who is going to shower you with compliments and gifts.”

Edwina, who'd lost her appetite for cakes, sighed. “I don't understand it. He's just the kind of man I've always dreamed about. He says he wants to make me his goddess. And what woman wouldn't want to be treated that way?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Maria said. “There's appreciation, and then there's adulation. Adulation goes in one direction, generally, doesn't it? It's not really a basis for conversation.”

“He listens to everything I say as though each word is a pearl of wisdom. I even tried saying stupid things to him, as a test, and he loved those too.”

“Oh, well, a man in love…” Maria said.

“Is this love? Or is it only admiration? I didn't used to think there was a difference.”

Maria looked away, across the garden. “Admiration won't chew you up inside.”

Love. That was just it. Edwina hadn't expected love or sought it. She'd always wanted admiration, always felt that no one at home really appreciated
her
. Papa, especially, never had. And now here was a man who behaved as though she made the sun rise, and being with him was starting to make her feel she might cast up her accounts.

Edwina felt disgusted, with herself and with Mappleton. And what was most troublesome, she'd begun worrying about Whitby.

Almost from the moment she'd been discovered kissing him, she'd been able to push away thoughts of him. Nor had she allowed herself to worry about what had happened after he'd been sent away from Maria's. Being in the grips of scandal had easily filled her mind with panic and despair, so that she'd had no space for him.

But Mappleton's kisses—what they made her think of was not Mappleton, but Jack and the way his touch affected her so deeply. She asked Maria now, as nonchalantly as she could, what had happened to him. Maria gave her a penetrating look.

“After I sent him packing? He went back to his shop. I wonder how it will have affected his custom, though. His pieces were quite sought after, but the most respectable families won't want anything to do with him now.”

“I see. Of course that would happen,” Edwina said with a dry throat.

Maria nodded. “On the other hand, there are less respectable families with plenty of money. I don't think he'll starve, but as for the kind of patrons who commissioned him to make art, well, those may be gone for good.”

Edwina felt awful and guilty. All day, thoughts of Jack occupied her so much that she began to think she wouldn't be able to accept Mappleton until she saw Jack again and apologized. Surely it was only the wrongness of what had happened that was bothering her, and it was certainly no small thing.

Besides, he still had her jewel box. Unless he'd burned it out of vengeance.

And so she found herself the next day in a carriage en route to his shop. She'd gotten the address by snooping through the accounts on Maria's desk; she wasn't proud of having done so, but she could hardly admit she was going to see him. She'd been ashamed to find herself surprised that the address was quite respectable.

She brought no one with her but a coachman, and she had him stop two blocks from Whitby's shop and wait there so he wouldn't see where she was going.

The shop was at the western edge of Cheapside, next to a silversmith on one side and a furrier on the other. In the large front window was displayed a handsome chest of drawers and a small, round table. A neatly lettered sign hanging above the window read “Whitby, Cabinetmaker.”

A bell jingled as she opened the door, and though no one else seemed to be in the shop, an open doorway at the back and a tapping sound indicated someone was there. Inside, it smelled of the pleasant sawdust scent she associated with Whitby.

“I'll be with you in a moment,” came a voice from the back room.
His
voice, and it made her feel like a firecracker had just gone off inside her.

She forced herself to relax and wandered through the shop, where several handsome pieces of furniture were displayed. A pretty rocking chair with a slim spindle back and a satin-smooth seat made her want to test its motion. An exquisitely fashioned grand mahogany table conjured an image of a father and mother and several children happily gathering for dinner. Would Whitby create such beautiful pieces for his own family some day? Undoubtedly. Longing pierced her, and she knew she couldn't bear to think of such things.

She trailed her fingers over the pretty inlaid mosaic top of a desk, amazed by the smoothness of the joining, and acknowledged how much he'd achieved through his labor and artistry. Were these pieces here because he'd been abandoned by customers who'd once commissioned his work?

As she moved through the room, she saw two coffins, plain but sturdy, and she was afraid she had her answer.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention to the doorway, and there he was, wearing a dark apron across his front. He stopped when he saw her. He didn't smile.

“Miss Cardworthy.”

He'd called her Edwina once before, but there could be no more of that.

She cleared her throat. She'd forgotten how icy blue his eyes were, and though before they'd been so often lit with amusement, now they gave her a chill.

The sleeves of his coarse white shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and the sight of his bare forearms gave her a pang as she remembered how they'd touched each other. His brown hair was tousled and a strand hanging across his brow was dusted with a scattering of the wood shavings that also decorated his forearm. It wasn't hard to imagine him rubbing his arm across a forehead grown warm from work.

She swallowed. He looked very capable, very male, and not at all happy to see her. Now that she was here, she suddenly felt unsure of what she wanted to say to him.

“Mr. Whitby,” she began, and just speaking those proper words twisted her inside. “What happened at Mrs. Westin's house…we both know it wasn't your fault.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the door frame. Aside from the light coating of sawdust, his dark apron was tidy.

“Is that right,” he drawled. His eyes gave nothing away.

She'd never been much for apologizing, but she knew she owed him honesty. “I was as much a participant in what happened as you.”