Kissed at Midnight (4 page)

Who had filled his mouth with sand? August rolled over
and groaned to himself as his head pounded. Dragging open his eyes, he peered
at the bleary light creeping in through the gap in the curtain. His head
thumped some more when he rolled onto his back and peered up at the burgundy
canopy above him. What had he been thinking drinking so much?

He tested the dryness of his
mouth again, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and transferred
his gaze to the slit of light streaming onto his bed. Dust swirled in it and it
made his eyes ache, but he forced himself to stare until the pain retreated.

Then he rolled the other way
and pushed himself up to pour a glass of water. He didn’t recall filling the
jug, but maybe he had not been entirely foxed when he had come in. Draining the
glass of water, he refilled it and took another few sips before swiping a hand
across his mouth. The thumping in his head refused to subside so he rested against
the headboard while the cool water trickled down into his belly.

His gaze landed on his
waistcoat and shirt, discarded in a pile on the floor. August lifted away the
bedding and discovered he still wore his trousers. He smirked. He scrubbed a
hand across his face in an attempt to rub away the foggy haze.

When had he last drunk so
much? He couldn’t recall. As a young apprentice probably. He supposed it being
his first night of freedom since adopting Elsie had meant he had indulged a
little too heavily. He certainly hadn’t meant to get thoroughly foxed.

A sting in his hand drew his
attention to a small cut on it. He scowled and stared at the red mark for
several moments. He hadn’t been fighting at the club, he knew that much. He
saved his punches for the boxing ring. Damn, he’d intended to visit the boxing
club tonight. He’d never make it in the state he was in.

Forcing his feet to the
floor, he pressed his toes into the thick burgundy carpet and drew in several
deep breaths before stretching his arms above his head and flexing them experimentally.
Yes, he’d definitely not been fighting. So how had he cut himself?

He stared at his hand for a
few moments and memories of blue and white fragments flitted through his mind.
Blue and white...? “What the devil...?” He scrunched up his eyes then hauled
them open. “Bloody hell.”

Miss Davis. She’d helped him
to bed. He’d broken a vase and he recalled being pressed against her now. He
considered his half-clothed state. She hadn’t undressed him, had she? No, he
didn’t believe so. He’d remember those hands upon him surely?

“Bloody, bloody hell,” he
muttered.

A vision of her in a white
chemise scalded his mind. If he thought about it carefully, he recalled her
lush dark hair in a thick braid over one shoulder with her curls tied around
her face in silly little bows. It had made her look youthful and wildly
endearing.

And then... then what? She
had helped him to bed and... He shook his head. Surely not? His scalp tingled
in remembrance. He felt like she had touched him, that maybe he had touched
her. The scent of violets, the warmth of soft flesh.

August pinched the bridge of
his nose. Whatever he had done, he had a few apologies to make. He only hoped
he hadn’t frightened her away and he’d be forced to find a new nursemaid.

Grimacing, he forced himself
up. He didn’t do apologies well. Too used to defending himself, he supposed.
Being relatively young in railway engineering meant many of the older men
didn’t trust him. Yet he’d proved himself time and again.

Would there ever be a point
where he didn’t have his every move questioned? Hell, even George Stephenson
would have to bow to him once this tunnel was finished. In spite of having
worked together in the past, the man still didn’t trust August’s vision for the
future. But, damn it, he’d saved the tycoons huge amounts of money and achieved
things no other man could.

Dread curdled in his gut. He
only hoped this tunnel didn’t prove a futile pursuit. He felt sure if he could
just complete this, he’d finally be regarded as one of the great railway engineers.
He’d show everyone who had doubted him exactly what he could do.

With a sigh and another
grimace, he drew off his trousers and flung them on top of the pile of clothes.
Then he made his way to the armoire and dug out clothes for the day. His mouth
still felt like the desert and some tiny person with a hammer inhabited his
head, but he felt better once he’d washed with the frigid water in the washbowl
and dressed.

He hunted for his favourite
cufflinks but was forced to use a set of garnet ones instead. He’d have to ask
Miss Davis where the other ones were. His father had given them when he’d first
apprenticed under Stephenson. He dreaded that conversation, but those cufflinks
were more important than his pride.

Damn it, as if he dreaded a
conversation with one of his staff. He pictured her wide, expressive eyes and
vibrant glow of her skin. In truth, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to look at
her. He’d be far happier if he could lock himself in his study and forget about
her presence. She did something disturbing to him, created some kind of
uncomfortable tension inside him.

Slipping the cufflinks
through his sleeves, he fastened them and drew on a deep red waistcoat with
gold embroidery before adding a necktie in a similar colour and pulling on his
jacket. He paused to eye himself in the floor-length mirror next to the armoire.
He didn’t look nearly as bad as he felt though there were certainly dark rings
around his eyes, and his jaw was rough.

He scrubbed a hand across his
chin. He’d visit the barbers for a cutthroat shave tomorrow. He hoped to visit
the site of the tunnel and check on progress now he could leave Elsie with Miss
Davis.

Finally slipping on his
shoes, he drew in a breath and smirked at his reflection. Scared of a woman.
Ridiculous. His stomach grumbled. Whether he wanted to face her or not, he
needed sustenance. Bile rose in his throat. And fast.

He opened the door
cautiously and peered out into the hallway. He’d have to talk to her eventually
and apologise, but he was half-hopeful he might at least do it on a full
stomach.

August hastened downstairs
to the dining room and found Jamieson laying out the final touches to the
breakfast table. Crisp linen was dotted with several plates—too much for him
normally, but this morning he felt as though he could eat an entire hog roast
to himself.

“Morning, Jamieson,” August
greeted the aged butler and winced at how gritty his voice was.

“Good morning, sir. You are
a little late this morning, but Mrs Cartwright kept the porridge warm for you
and sent me up with it as soon as she heard you rise.”

August swore that woman was
half-bat or dog or something. She heard everything.

“Thank you, Jamieson.” He
sat, flicked out the napkin and laid it on his lap before sliding closer.
“Could I get some more coffee?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Jamieson shuffled off at his
usual deathly slow pace and August was grateful for his own foresight in
sending the butler off now. By the time he had finished the pot of coffee on
the table, perhaps the butler would be back in time. He urgently needed
something to clear his head.

Drawing close the bowl of
porridge, he sprinkled sugar from the sugar bowl over it and ate several
spoonfuls before eyeing the five other empty chairs around the table. He drew
in a breath, closed his eyes and tried to savour the quiet.

Where was Miss Davis? Her
image fluttering through his mind broke his solace. He couldn’t remember the
last time he’d had breakfast without a squalling child in his arms yet he couldn’t
enjoy it. Instead of appreciating the peace and quiet, all he could think on
was what it would be like to sit opposite Miss Davis and to watch her endless
expressions as she spoke on whatever it was young women spoke on.

Oddly he missed the squalling
of Elsie too. To not see her chubby arms and the occasional beaming smile first
thing left a strange emptiness inside him.

Snorting at himself and his
idiocy, August finished his porridge and piled his plate with kippers, bacon,
sausages and mash. He dug into it greedily, breaking briefly to take great
gulps of coffee. Gradually the headache eased and he began to feel more like a
civilized human being again. He’d never been one for drinking huge amounts and
he swore he would never do it again.

By the time he’d finished
his breakfast, Jamieson had returned with more coffee. August was just rising
from his seat when the butler hobbled in with a fresh pot. August took the pot
from him before his shaking hands could drop it and prayed the old man would go
and sit down before he fell down. He didn’t think he was the most demanding of
masters so he tried to keep Jamieson’s duties light.

“My thanks, Jamieson.”

He made a show of pouring a
fresh cup and adding some sugar so the old stick didn’t feel useless. August
couldn’t help smile at the man who he remembered from his boyhood. Even then he’d
seemed old. If only the butler would take the hint and let August set him up in
a nice cottage with his own housekeeper. But the old boy insisted that he
wanted to continue working. He had spent all his days by an Avery’s side, he
said, and he would die by an Avery’s side.

August tried not to think
how soon that could very well be. Mrs Cartwright could hardly be considered the
friendliest of people and Tilly was always stoically polite. Jamieson was the
only member of his staff to whom he could have a grumble.

Draining the coffee and
masking a curse at the burning sensation the coffee created in his mouth,
August straightened his waistcoat and patted his jacket pocket. “Goddamn it.”

Jamieson raised a brow.
“Sir, there’s a child and a lady in the house now.”

August glowered at the
butler. Apparently because he had known him since he was a child, that also
gave Jamieson free speech. “She’s a nursemaid, not a lady.”

“She looks like a lady. You
really should watch your language, sir.”

He waved a dismissive hand
at the butler. “I shall try.”

He didn’t mean to be so
coarse, but the fellows working on the railway never watched their tongues and
it rubbed off on him. Nearly ten years of being around the kind of men who
travelled the country following the railway had erased some of the manners
learned during his upbringing. However, it was all very well talking like that
to oneself but he should watch his tongue around Miss Davis.

“Where is the lady anyway?”

“She’s in the drawing room
with Elsie. She joined us for breakfast this morning.”

August nodded and noted the
slight rise of the butler’s shoulders. The codger had enjoyed her company it
seemed. He fought the urge to press a hand to the man’s shoulder in case he
straightened himself so far up that he snapped his back in two and had to spend
the rest of his life laid out on a bed.

“Well, have these things
taken down please, Jamieson, and then why do you not polish my boots?”

There, that would keep him
sat down and quiet for a while.

“Yes, sir.”

Placing down the coffee cup,
August filled his lungs and tried not to recall the scent of violets. What a
fool. Frightened of seeing a damned woman.

With long strides, he left
the dining room and pivoted with all the mastery of a soldier. He paused
outside the drawing room door and listened. He must have been in quite the fog
if he had missed this when he first walked past this morning.

The girl was singing.

Beautifully.

Her voice was muffled by the
door but it was soulful and melodic. Surprisingly low for a woman too, but
simply divine. He loved music but rarely had time to listen to it. He certainly
never went to concerts, but something told him she would fit well with the
great singers on stage. A few words reached his ears, and he groaned to
himself.

“Home!  Sweet, sweet home!”

She hadn’t miraculously forgotten
his drunken stupor then. Hand to the back of his neck, he rolled his shoulders
and pressed open the door. Miss Davis sat on the floor with Elsie, who was
sitting opposite her clapping her hands. The child’s clothing looked a little
askew and her light hair was mussed.

Miss Davis looked similar if
he was honest. Her curls were pinned up haphazardly and a few spiralled down
her neck. Her dark green gown was crumpled and he spotted a little baby spit on
her shoulder.

He could well sympathise. He
felt crumpled himself and had spent most days with baby spit on his shoulder
but, still, should he be anxious? After all, she was a woman. She should be
better able to manage a baby without appearing as though she had thrown her
hair up in a flash and forgotten to use a cloth when she patted the baby’s
back. 

August cleared his throat
and her head spun in his direction.

“Oh.”

She scrabbled to her feet
and brushed down her skirts before glancing at Elsie. Her eyes rounded in
horror as though she had done something terrible and she bent to grab the child
but August put out a hand—not touching her but close enough for her to see it.