Unlaced Corset (6 page)

11

Mary

Mary sat on the desk in the study and watched James walk away. Her breaths were coming in hard gulps and burned her chest, but that wasn't the hottest thing burning. Her chest burned, and she could feel a warmth emanating from deep down inside her, in places that she didn't want to admit existed. Not for a lawyer from London.

She didn't know what had come over her. She'd been working, and then he had been so close to her that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to stand up and her heart raced. It was impossible to think with him there, and when she turned and he was so close something in her had snapped.

When he had kissed her, it only served to cement that the feeling was mutual. She didn't need to hold back, because he wanted exactly what she wanted.

Now that he was gone, the room seemed to be chilled, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how full the table was. She tried to climb down as carefully she could, to avoid disturbing the piles of paper that had been roughly pushed aside by her bottom, but she was quickly finding that it was completely impossible to climb down elegantly from the top of a desk.

What had she been thinking? She'd only met the man a handful of days ago, and until the night before she had thought he would kill her. Surely she must have been disoriented by the sense of impending doom and near-constant danger, but that wasn't enough of an excuse. She'd almost made the biggest mistake of her life.

Deep in the pit of her stomach, though Mary tried to ignore it, she wanted another chance to make it again.

She stood up and tried to straighten her clothes, fix her hair. They'd been pushed out of place by their vigorous... Mary closed her eyes and tried to push the image out of her mind. Vigorous mistake.

Mary tried to ignore the loneliness she was feeling. It was just a side effect of the mood she had gotten swept up in.

James hadn't rejected her. In fact, she was glad that he'd done it. If he hadn't, then they might have both made a mistake they couldn't take back. It wasn't a comment on her, on his feelings about her. If it were, then it didn't matter. They weren't meant to be together.

That didn't sooth the pain that gripped her chest, Mary thought bitterly.

She took a deep breath and tried to think about what the right thing to do was. She should pretend it never happened. That was the right way to go. But she needed to clear the air with James and make sure they were on the same page. Surely he would understand.

She pushed her way through the study door. It would wait, though. It wasn't yet noon, and she needed distance from him, to re-center herself.

He offered, for better or worse, to cook her supper. He brought it on a platter like he had her breakfast, but he stayed outside her room and handed her the platter. Once it touched her hands, he turned on his heels and was gone.

It seemed oddly cold, and she tried to tell herself that it was just the same as it had been before. The excuse sounded hollow. If this had been how he treated her before, then that wasn't what she wanted from him. She had felt closer to him before their kiss, almost as if they were becoming friends.

But he was a man, she thought. She hadn't been able to forget it for a moment of the time that they spent together and it meant that whatever they were going to be, it wasn't going to be friends. Her greatest hope was to be his helper, now.

She walked back to the study, on the other side of the estate, when she had finished dining. She could hear him inside. He was pacing, and she could hear the turning of pages and shuffling of papers.

For a moment, her heart seized up. She couldn't go inside and be rejected. She realized with a sick feeling, that was the most likely outcome, and she couldn't bear it.

Then she shook her head. It wasn't a matter of rejection. She wasn't asking him to become her husband, or even her lover. She wanted to know if she could help him with his work, and if he thought that she couldn't then that wasn't any sort of criticism.

She took a deep breath of air and held it while she knocked on the door. A moment later, James Poole opened the door and silently watched her. Her chest burned, but she couldn't move.

Suddenly, Mary realized, she felt like a rabbit who had been caught by a dog. The way he looked at her was like a predator. If she let out her breath, he would make his move and she would be finished. She let out an unsteady breath.

"Mr. Poole," she said, but then faltered and took a moment to regain her confidence. "Did you... need my assistance any further?"

"No, Miss Geis. If there's nothing else..."

He waited a moment for her to respond, and when she did not he stepped back and closed the door. Mary felt the gap between them opening, and she couldn't explain why but it struck fear into her heart like a thunderbolt. The door seemed to close in slow motion as she watched.

She could feel her eyes stinging, now that the burning in her chest had subsided. She tried to tell herself that it was the pain of having held her breath so long, and the papers in the study had kicked up dust that was getting into her eyes. She hardly knew him, he didn't have power over her, to upset her like this.

It sounded unconvincing even in her mind. She felt adrift, and she struggled to think of how she could be of some use. She had been alone for so long with her fears, and now that they were confirmed, she had found someone to save her, but he was gone. She was alone again.

She thought back to the journal in her room. Why hadn't she told James about it? She closed her eyes. She didn't know, but she hadn't. If she wanted to do anything, then perhaps that was the right thing to do.

She went back into her room and shut the door behind herself. In the dim light of her bedroom, it felt like she didn't need to be so strong, and it only made it harder to keep her composure.

Did he hate her? Why was he acting like this?

She laid down and stared at the ceiling and tried not to feel betrayed by his distant attitude. She did her best to ignore the hot tears that fell down her cheeks. When her father had died, she had been afraid.

The fear had made it easy to cage her feelings up and throw away the key. She'd been stronger, been able to deal with the grief by putting on a flippant mask. It had seemed like nothing could hurt her behind the mask she had put up. It was like a shield against the outside world.

He'd gotten through, somehow, and now everything was rushing through the hole that he'd left in her armor. She rolled over and cried until it felt as if there were no tears left in her. Then she took one of the pillows and held it close until she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

When morning came she rose less because she wanted to than because she couldn't get back to sleep no matter how she tried. When she stepped into the hall, she was wearing her dress and perfume like a suit of armor against James Poole and the hurt he'd caused her.

Then she heard it. From the main hall, there was the sound of movement. She was struck by terror and nearly went back into her room and turned the latch. She took a deep breath and pushed her fear down into her belly, where it couldn't hurt her. She needed to be brave, now, and face whatever it was.

James never made noise. It seemed as if he prowled the halls like a panther, and she only heard him when she stood just beside him. The noise couldn't be him, she thought. It would have to be someone else, and if he hadn't had a change of heart then it was someone unexpected.

She didn't know with any certainty what she expected. A burglar or assassin, she thought, though the idea sounded absurd as soon as she had thought it. Oliver, back from the war front to claim the house as his birthright, perhaps.

Whatever she had expected, it wasn't what she saw. James stood by the door, beside a stack of luggage. They were all packed, and he looked ready to go at any moment.

12

James

When Mary came and knocked on the study door, James hadn't been working for the better part of an hour. He couldn't focus. His thoughts were disjointed, with the glue that should have held them together replaced by images of a young woman, her cheeks flushed, and both of them breathing hard. He shook his head to dislodge the thought, but it just rattled around.

So when the object of his affections came to the door and asked him if he needed any help with anything—of course he did. What he needed help with wasn't something that he was going to let her help with. But the words didn't sound like an offer for help, whether with his work or with... other things.

It sounded like an invitation.

He'd felt his resolve crumbling, and he'd had to refuse quickly, or not at all. When the door was closed, he knew that he'd been rude. Perhaps even hurtful. None of it mattered, because he'd done the right thing and she'd thank him in the end.

He didn't sleep that night; couldn't sleep. Even when he closed his eyes and turned over, it seemed like when he closed his eyes, she was there waiting for him. Their bedrooms were on opposite sides of the building, but he was acutely conscious of hers. He could have pointed to it, like a hound.

He couldn't bear it. The strain of trying to resist was too much. He needed to speak to Mr. Stump, as well. He'd assumed that Mary would know something about the situation, and she had known a bit. But now he needed ideas for who might know more.

It seemed as if Oliver was the only other person who would know it all, but he would be... indisposed to explaining. If anyone else could be put on the list, it was the man who had overseen his hiring, after all.

A few hundred kilometers between them would help to cool both of them off. Mary was grieving for her father, and he was going mad from their proximity. If they had a few days apart, then things would be back to normal.

He had his bags packed already. It made things easy for him in the morning. He would have to walk into town, which would be a hassle, but then he'd be able to get a cab back out when he returned in a couple days' time.

He didn't know why he had assumed it would be that easy, though. When Mary stormed into the room, he thought he could see a hurt look on her face that must have been his imagination. If it weren't his imagination... that worried him more. Couldn't she understand that he was doing all of this for her?

"Mr. Poole! What is going on here?"

"Mary," he began. He could already hear a hundred different retorts, each one more convincing than the last, but he continued anyways. "I have to go into London for a couple of days. I need to speak to your father's solicitor, and I should check on my flat, as well. I'll only be a few days."

She looked at him, her jaw clenching and unclenching. He watched her, trying to keep his distance. The first few days, he had been unnerved and frustrated by her temper, but now he saw that she could be quite pretty when she was angry. He blinked and tried not to be attracted to her, but he knew it was useless.

Then something in her face changed. For a moment he nearly felt relieved, but he knew better than that now. She was not a woman for whom things didn't work out, and if she wanted something then she was going to get it. It was only a matter of time. If she had decided to accept his decision, it wasn't because he was getting what he wanted. She'd figured out a way around him.

"Very well," she said, making a show of giving in. That sealed it, he thought. "I suppose I'll just have to go to London as well."

There it was. "No."

"I don't think you'll be able to stop me, Mr. Poole."

She made it sound almost apologetic, but he knew better than to believe that. He could see the triumph on her face, in the smile that she tried to turn down at her cheeks. He turned the problem over in his mind, trying to see it from all angles. What he saw was that she was going to get her way in the end, like it or not.

She was right, he wouldn't be able to stop her, short of bodily tying her to a chair for the next three days. If she decided to follow, she would follow. Her family was not as well-off as they had been only twelve months ago, but she could easily afford a train ticket. She had won, he decided. With a sigh, he looked into her eyes.

"You're right. I can't stop you, Mary. I still think you should stay."

"You're entitled to think whatever you like, James, but I'm coming."

His name sounded strange when she said it, and he couldn't put his finger on why. He wanted to hear it again to make sure.

When she came back with a small bag packed and wearing a dress that would be decidedly uncomfortable for a several-kilometer walk down the road, he asked her about it.

Apparently, he'd been wrong. They had a horseless carriage after all. It kicked and sputtered beneath him, but it ran first try.

The train ride itself was agony. They had been put into the same sitting room, and James hadn't been able to bring himself to protest it. It was getting harder and harder to resist his desire to be with her, and he could tell that it was chafing for Mary as well.

It was the right thing to do, to leave her alone. He tried to take some confidence in that. What did his feelings matter in that?

Her perfume, which seemed to fill the seats and created an intoxicating haze, begged to differ, and he struggled to think clearly. More than anything, he wanted to have her, and have her right there. He had to grip the seat of the bench so hard that it seemed as if his fingers might snap themselves in half.

But somehow, he managed to make it through.

They came out of the train, having spoken no more than a dozen words between themselves. James would be in London for a couple of days. Until then, he would do what he could to put as much distance between himself and Mary Geis as possible.

Still, they were a team in this. It was a struggle to balance that against his better senses, his knowledge that through her very presence he was seduced by her. It was time for him to start trying to shift the balance the other way.

"Mary—Miss Geis," he said. She stopped without turning to face him. "I should know where you'll be staying. So that I can keep you appraised of the situation."

When she turned to face him, he couldn't understand her expression.

"I'll be staying at Hyde Park, of course. My family always stays there. We have a regular room, so it should be no trouble at all. Just ask for me."

"Of course," he said. "You've seen my address, of course, but let me write it down for you. In case there are any emergencies."

He took a notebook from his jacket pocket and jotted down his address before tearing it off.

"There. I'll come and speak with you tonight, after I've had time to speak with Mr. Stump. Once he's told me what I need to know, we'll be able to make plans for what to do next."

"Very good," Mary said, and then turned and left.

James didn't have time to worry about why she was acting strangely. Before he had left, he'd sent off a letter to the hospital asking for only a couple of weeks' extension on his father's bills. With some luck, he would have an answer from them. With a little more, they would have agreed.

There was an envelope, stuck into the mail slot of his front door. He yanked it loose when he closed the door. It was marked as having been sent by the hospital. He tore it open.

It began professionally. They always did, particularly when there was bad news. They had considered his petition for an extension. Then they'd decided against it. When would be convenient for them to come and pick up the money he owed?

He let the paper drop onto the bedside table and laid down in his own bed. It was strange; he'd been gone less than a week, and it seemed like his bed was an exotic luxury. Familiar, pleasant, and at the same time, distant. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he closed his eyes and drifted off.