In Your Arms Again (9 page)

They heard voices as they approached the top of the stairs. One of them—the louder—was Spinton’s. Naturally inquisitive when it came to visitors to her own home, Octavia stopped Beatrice with a gentle touch on her arm. She wanted to determine who was there before she went down. She was not one of those people who liked surprises.

Spinton spoke first. “Thank you for coming. I do appreciate having your attention on this matter.”

“Thank you, Lord Spinton, for inviting me.”

Oh dear God, she knew that voice! Spinton had invited North for dinner? To her house? Without her prior consent?
Ah yes, but he had to have known she never would have given her consent.

Breath coming in short, angry heaves, Octavia turned to Beatrice. Her cousin would know what to say to keep her from acting out her anger. Her cousin would keep her calm, make her remember her station as the granddaughter of an earl. Her cousin would discourage her from making a scene.

Beatrice’s eyes were wide with astonishment as she met Octavia’s gaze. “Oh dear,” she murmured, “even
I
would want to flay him for this.”

S
he came down the stairs not like a graceful swan but like a vengeful hawk swooping down on its prey—magnificent in all her fury. Her eyes blazed and her cheeks were flushed high with color. It was all North could do not to smile at the sight. Spinton would undoubtedly die a slow and painful death later that night.

“I thought I heard voices. Forgive me for not greeting you properly, Mr. Sheffield, but Lord Spinton obviously forgot to tell me you would be joining us.” The gaze she shot Spinton would have withered even the strongest of men, and poor Spinton was not that strong.

North sketched a bow. “A lady as lovely as yourself need not apologize for anything, Lady Octavia. It is my pleasure to meet you at last.”

A visible change came over Octavia. All the anger seemed to drain from her, replaced by an effortless grace and charm. Her companion, North noticed, watched them both with a mixture of awe and incredulity as Octavia extended one gloved hand.

“The pleasure is all mine. It is not every day that one entertains the elusive Mr. Sheffield in one’s home.”

Her tone was all politeness, but she was teasing him, North could see it in her eyes. She might look as though she belonged in all this pale marble splendor, swathed in satin and laden with jewels, but underneath it all she was simply his Vie.

He took the hand she offered and brushed his lips across her knuckles. The fabric of her glove was thin enough that he could feel her warmth seeping through. Her fingers tightened—just for a second—around his before pulling away.

Straightening, North allowed himself one last glimpse before turning his attention elsewhere. In the golden light of fading day, Octavia was all peach and gold, the dark blue of her gown accentuating the brilliance of her eyes. Her rich, thick hair was piled artfully on top of her head, revealing the graceful column of her throat. Sweet and warm in the hollow between her neck and shoulder beat a pulse that had tasted like heaven on his tongue.

He licked his lips as a pulse in the vicinity of his groin jumped in response. How could his body remember a night from a dozen years ago? He’d had better, less embarrassing encounters since then, and yet he recalled very few details, even fewer sensations. He remembered every moment with Octavia—every sweet, aching, awkward moment.

And he was remembering these moments while her future husband stood not even two feet away from him.

“May I introduce my cousin, Miss Beatrice Henry?”

Ahh, the cousin. The companion. The confidante. How much did she know about Octavia’s past? If the way she looked at him was any indication, she knew most of it.

“Beauty runs in the family I see,” he remarked with a charming grin.

Beatrice blushed, but before she could reply, Spinton
clapped his hands together. “Well, shall we proceed to the parlor for a drink before dinner?”

North wondered at the edge of sharpness in the earl’s tone. Was his disapproval because he thought North was flirting with Octavia or Beatrice? Or both? Obviously Spinton wasn’t partial to sharing his hens with other cocks.

Spinton offered his arm to Octavia, which she took with only a second’s hesitation. North offered to escort Beatrice, which she accepted with a happy smile. Rank was rank and if there had been more people in their party, North would have been shoved even farther down the line. So, he assumed, would Miss Henry.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Sheffield,” she whispered as they followed the other couple down the corridor at a discreet distance. “I have heard so
much
about you.”

So she did know about his past association with Octavia. There was no denying the underlying message in her tone. “Then you have me at a distinct disadvantage, Miss Henry.”

“Not for long, I suspect. If you are indeed in earnest about discovering the identity of my cousin’s mysterious admirer, then I suspect you will make it your business to know everything about anyone who comes within a mile of Octavia.”

This round little rose of a woman was more intuitive than he would have given her credit for. No doubt many people dismissed her as inconsequential, which was all the more reason for North to not only earn her confidence, but to keep a close watch on her as well. It was obvious from the way she watched Spinton’s back that she had feelings for the man. Did these feelings run deep enough that she’d plot to ruin her cousin’s plans to marry him?

Was there anything he could do to help her in that quarter?

Now why would he think such a thing? He might have his doubts about whether Spinton was husband material as far as Octavia was concerned, but he had no reason to plot against
the man. He merely wanted to see his old friend happy. He wanted to see her living as she deserved—with a man smart enough to realize what a treasure he’d been given. Spinton did seem to realize his fortune in that respect, and he truly cared about Vie. Perhaps he would do after all.

In the parlor, a small but comfortable room decorated in shades of peachy pink and cream that made North think of the poached salmon his father’s chef always used to make, Spinton poured brandy for the men and sherry for the women. Well, that was one point in his favor; at least Spinton wasn’t one of those men who believed women incapable of handling spirits. Over the years North had seen women who could drink men three times their size under the table and ask for more.

Of course, if Spinton were truly open-minded, he would have offered the ladies brandy as well. Judging from the expression on Octavia’s face, she would have preferred it to the weaker sherry. What was she thinking right now? Was she happy or upset to see him? Did she fear he would betray her secrets? Was she afraid her admirer would take his hint one step further and actually resort to blackmail? Did she wish they were alone, so they could talk openly and frankly?

And most importantly, did she have the strange, overwhelming desire to kiss him as he had to kiss her? What was this between them that made him feel as protective as a brother one minute, as defiant as a rival another, and then possessive as a lover the next? In his head he called Octavia a friend, but in his heart—in his soul—he knew her true function was something infinitely more complex.

Octavia forced herself to take small sips of her sherry, rather than downing it in one swallow and going back for the rest of the bottle. What did Spinton mean going behind her back—against her wishes—in this fashion? Perhaps it was meant with the best of intentions, but it didn’t bode well for
Octavia’s future. Until now Spinton had been relatively easy to control, but this strange defiance made her wonder. What else had she been deceived about where he was concerned? Would his personality deviate even further once they were wed?

And why was North looking at her as though he’d like to dip her in cream and lick her clean? He had to know it unsettled her, in a warm, sticky kind of way. It was hardly the kind of gaze one directed at an old friend. Of course, they were old friends who had shared a night of intimacy together—some of which had been quite pleasant if memory served. Perhaps that was why she felt that delicious tickle between her thighs whenever she glanced in his direction. Did he mean it? Or was it simply a ruse to make Spinton reconsider trying to hire him?

The frightening thing was, Octavia didn’t know which she would prefer. In her youth she had loved North so dearly—not just as a boy, but as dearly as one could love another person. He had been everything to her, and later she had come to mean just as much to him. And was this what it was now reduced to, a tickle low in her body? A heated look? It was disappointing and exciting at the same time; as though something had changed between them and not necessarily for the worse, even though that old camaraderie was gone.

“Spinton, did you tell Cook to prepare enough for four?” Her tone was patently sweet, her question for no other purpose than to break the silence. Her kitchen staff always prepared more than enough food. It was as though the entire staff was on a mission to fatten her up. Either that or they were feeding orphans with the scraps.

As usual, Spinton pinkened at her reminder of his duplicity. Like most Englishmen, he flushed floridly. It made him look like a young boy. “Yes. Everything has been taken care of.”

Her faced stretched with a false smile, Octavia set her empty glass on a nearby table. “Then shall we go in?”

Everyone murmured in agreement despite the fact that Octavia was the only one who had finished her drink. Once again she and Spinton led the way, with North and Beatrice behind. A spot between her shoulder blades itched and burned. Was it Beatrice staring a hole in her back or North? Her money was on North. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since his arrival, even though he’d made a good job of pretending to. Why? The annoying male-female awareness aside, was there something awkward about her appearance that made him stare? Or was he simply making up for all those years of not being able to look at her? God knew she wanted to look at him, but there were very few women who wouldn’t want to gaze upon such unabashed male beauty.

He hadn’t shaved before his arrival, that much was obvious from the shadow on his jaw. Most hostesses would be insulted, but Octavia couldn’t bring herself to feel such a petty emotion where North was concerned. She couldn’t even be certain that he had brushed his hair, though the unruly waves were considerably tamer than usual.

But what did it matter if he was well groomed or not? He had eyes that were like a glacial pond, cheeks that were usually rosy even if his mood was foul, and lips that seemed perpetually poised on the verge of a smile—albeit a sometimes sarcastic one. He had seen and undoubtedly done things that hardened the boy he once was, but she didn’t mourn for that boy, not when the man he had grown into was so intriguing.

She wanted to get to know this man better and she couldn’t, because she wasn’t supposed to know him in the first place. It was not fair. And yet, she could say to perdition with it and break the promises she’d made to her mother and grandfather. She could toss their manufactured charade aside and be honest about who she was and her relationship with North. So why didn’t she? Was it honor or duty that kept her
silent? Or was it the fact that she was a coward, afraid to jeopardize the relative comfort she’d come to expect from her life?

Maybe it was easier just to go on pretending than to risk the consequences.

Regardless, she could carry on for this one evening. She had to. Just long enough to convince North that the letters were nothing to be concerned about, that she was in no danger whatsoever. That, she could do.

Dinner was hardly a grand affair. The walnut table was small compared to those in houses similar to Octavia’s. The silverware was simple, the china plain, the crystal elegant, and the food delicious without being pretentious. Her mother had taught her to appreciate simple things, things that didn’t go out of fashion as soon as one had paid for them. It was a practice that infuriated her grandfather, but one of the few things about herself she refused to change for him. Somehow he had managed to love her despite her many faults.

“May I ask what is so amusing?”

Octavia whipped her gaze around to Spinton’s. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled patiently. “You chuckled just now.”

She glanced away as her lips tilted upward. “I was thinking of my grandfather.”

“Ahh. Of course you would chuckle. He was such a jovial man.”

Spinton’s pleasantly caustic tone widened Octavia’s grin. There were times when she enjoyed his company and liked him very much indeed. He was a good man, and sometimes—like right now—he made her smile. Perhaps they could make a good marriage together. Yes, he was very amiable indeed.

When he wasn’t interfering in her life, of course. He clucked over her like he was her father rather than the man who wished to be her husband.

He held out her chair at the head of the table and took his customary seat at the other end. North and Beatrice were seated in the middle on either side. On a longer table it would have been ridiculous to seat a small party in such a manner, but around Octavia’s modest setting, voices would be able to speak in moderate tones and everyone would have plenty of room.

Conversation was polite, concerning mostly the weather, as the meal began. Then, while slicing into the pink, juicy beef on her plate, Octavia decided to take the charade to its next, and expected, level.

“I am surprised that we have never met before this, Mr. Sheffield.”

It was a good thing Spinton wasn’t looking at Beatrice, or her cousin would have given away that Octavia was lying through her teeth. North, on the other hand, had the exact countenance one would expect from a stranger.

“I am not one for society, Lady Octavia.”

“Oh?” she asked, lifting her wineglass. “Why is that?”

The briefest flicker of annoyance lit in his eyes before his mask slipped back into place. Was it not a question that someone who was in society might ask? Was it not something she herself had often wondered? She remembered a time when North very much wanted to be a member of the
ton
; now he seemed to avoid it as much as possible. Was it because of her?

“The Upper Ten Thousand does not look kindly on bastards.”

“Mr. Sheffield!” Spinton looked as though he might suffer an apoplexy. “I realize you are not accustomed to being in society, but to use such language in front of ladies—”

North looked first at Beatrice and then at Octavia. His features were emotionless, his gaze unrepentant, but there was
defiance in his tone. “Do you take offense to what I am, Lady Octavia?”

Offense? That he had made so much of himself was a marvel. Growing up in the area that they had, each of them had known numerous people born on the wrong side of the blanket. Few of them had gone on to make as much of themselves as North had—and to be so sought out by the very world that rejected him…

“No, Mr. Sheffield. I am not offended. Beatrice, dear?”

Her cousin flushed under the weight of their stares. She seemed torn between Spinton and Octavia. Poor thing. She really had no idea whom to give her loyalty to.