Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (12 page)

“Getting all honorable, eh?” Covington scoffed. “It seems your sister is not the only Danforthe with a taste for humbler dishes.”

“Shut up, Covey,” Sinjun muttered.

“Gentlemen,” exclaimed Skip wearily, “can we turn our attention to the game at hand?”

Carver shrugged it off and took his next shot. It failed, and the ball bounced off the side baize. Covington’s face was smug as he prepared for his own turn.

Molly Robbins, Carver realized, had affected him deeply. At first he’d thought this was merely a flirtation like any other, the thrill of a challenge and a chase, but he knew now it was something beyond that. Here he was standing up for her, wanting to protect her, defend her.

His anger had mounted not at Covington for the foolish wager challenging his pride, but at himself for letting this fancy get beyond his containment and his comfort.

He must get to the bottom of this fascination somehow, or it was in danger of making him look a fool. The dissolute Earl of Everscham had a reputation to maintain.

Hard at work by the light of two sad candles, Molly was almost startled out of her drawers that evening by another impromptu visitor.

Shown up to her rooms by a ghostly white, unusually mute Mrs. Lotterby, Carver Danforthe appeared in her doorway, fully clad in evening clothes. “Good God, woman,” he exclaimed, wasting no time on pleasantries, “how can you possibly sew by this light?”

She squinted at him until the black-and-white blur slowly transformed into his familiar tall shape. “I conserve candles,” she explained shakily. “Do come in, your lordship.”

“Can’t stay long,” he muttered, striding forward and sweeping off his hat. “Thought I’d better investigate the workshop in which I invested.”

“Well, this is it.” She waved her arm about. “As you see, it is quite ordinary. Like me.” Her pulse scattering like spilled pins, Molly made some attempt to tidy her table and then gave up, realizing the futility. This time, it seemed, the street outside was not enough for him, and he came all the way in. She could not keep him out.

He shot her a dark look and began a slow promenade of the room, his footsteps loud on the old wood and not much muffled by the threadbare carpet she’d purchased. He was too large for the space.

“Although I am not an expert in matters of propriety—being only a simple country girl—I have also been under your sister’s tutelage for some years now, and I do believe it would not be considered wholly proper for you to be here, your lordship.” Mrs. Lotterby had withdrawn, but there was no doubt she waited in the hall or at the foot of the stairs, listening for snippets of their conversation.

“What?” he snapped at her, still moving up and down the room.

“For you, a single gentlemen who is not a relative, to visit me alone.”

He gave a quick half shrug, half shake, dismissing her qualms as if she were being ridiculous merely to raise the thought. “Don’t you have help with the sewing? You cannot possibly manage every stitch yourself.”

“I can assure you I do manage.” She had no choice. An extra pair of hands would take money from the profits, and she was not yet making enough to afford it. Why try to explain, she mused. The Earl of Everscham would never understand the concept of working oneself into a state of exhaustion out of necessity. “Mrs. Slater, a lady who lives below, occasionally lends a hand.”

He didn’t appear to be listening. Finally he came to a halt and stared at her cluttered worktable. Then he looked at Molly, his hard gaze inspecting her so thoroughly she felt as if she’d fallen prey to an extremely effective pickpocket. “I thought this was a boarding house for young ladies only. It seems there are men residing here.”

She was surprised he’d bothered to find out. “Mrs. Lotterby was unable to lease all her rooms, and it left her purse light. When Mr. Frederick Dawes inquired about lodgings, he was quite desperate, so she took him in. He is a very kind and gentle man. He’s an artist, an excellent painter. The only other male here, excepting the landlady’s good husband, is the brother of another tenant.” Since she had nothing good to say about Arthur Wakely and his foot, she kept silent on that score.

He frowned. “I shall speak to Hobbs about this. What could he be thinking to send you here? Even worse to imagine I would condone it.”

“But you did.”

“Only because the situation of the place was misrepresented to me.”

The late hour, the shock of his visit, and a steadily increasing headache made her short-tempered. “Indeed it was not. How could it be misrepresented to you when you asked me nothing about it? You had ample opportunity.” She wondered why he made such a fuss about it.

“I asked Hobbs if it was all ladies, and he deliberately equivocated. Yes, now that I think of it, he was most evasive when I asked for details of the place. Acting very shiftily about it. Anyone might think he kept a treasure chest of stolen loot here and didn’t want me to find out.”

Molly decided she was too tired to argue further. “Whatever you say, your lordship,” she muttered wearily. “You are always in the right.”

“Hmmph. Don’t hurt yourself by admitting it.” He turned in a circle and then paused to give her another, louder, “Hmmph,” probably meant to curl her toes in her slippers. “Why did you call off that wedding, Mouse? I knew it was a foolish idea in any case, and I assumed you merely came to your senses finally. But did my sister have anything to do with it?”

The unexpected turn of conversation surprised her, shook her out of her drowsiness. “Not at all, your lordship. Indeed, she wanted me to stay and marry Rafe. She was most angry with my decision.”

“Are you certain?”

“I think I have known Lady Mercy long enough to read her moods, your lordship, and know when I have displeased her. As I always knew when I’d displeased
you
.” Both the earl and his sister made no effort to conceal their hot tempers when roused. She should thank him for the flowers he sent, she thought, following his gaze to the vase that brightened one corner of her room. But she was supposed to believe they came from the Baroness Schofield. Admitting she knew otherwise might lead to even further awkwardness. Better it went unsaid.

He fidgeted with his hat brim. “Did my sister”—he struggled, his voice full of tension—“converse with Rafe Hartley?”

Molly kept her voice low, sensing every ear in that house was listening. Even Mrs. Slater’s baby had ceased its wailing. “I asked her to speak to him for me, to explain why I couldn’t proceed. Lady Mercy has always been braver than I.”

Carver’s lips twitched in the slight spasm of a thwarted smile. “I wouldn’t say that. She’s just louder. True courage does not need to be bolstered with noise and bluster. But you know that, Miss Robbins.”

It felt as if he’d reached over, moved a curl of hair from her forehead, and stroked her cheek again.

“If my sister has embarked upon an ill-advised affair in the country with Rafe Hartley, what would you say to it, Miss Robbins?”

It took her a moment to recover her voice. “If she and Rafe…?” Such a strange idea! And yet, she supposed it was possible. Vastly different, totally unsuited people sometimes fell in love. Or one of them did. Stupidly. Knowing reciprocation was impossible.

Molly quickly shook off those thoughts about her own predicament and tried to concentrate on what he’d suggested about his sister.

She wanted Rafe to be happy, whatever he did with his life. The same for Lady Mercy. Truly, what right did she have to judge where others found love and happiness? She thought of Mrs. Bathurst across the landing, surrounded by her treasure trove of keepsakes, all she had left of past loves. Opportunity came and went in life. Before one knew it, old age descended. She supposed joy should be seized wherever possible.

Having thought for a moment, she said softly and earnestly, “I would say good luck to them, your lordship. Life is short and pleasure hard come by.”

She had an image, suddenly, of her mother pulling her up out of the long meadow grass by one hand.
“For pity’s sake, dozy child. Clouds are white, and that’s all there is to it.”
Poor woman, not being able to see the many colors around her, wearing blinkers like the plow horses, and bending under her yoke. Molly was sorry—bitterly sorry—for her mother now. If only she had been able to see and understand how much more there was to life. How much more color. All those different shades that made life interesting, challenging, and ever changing.

“Then you are not in love with him?” the earl demanded. “With Rafe Hartley?”

She swallowed. “No. Not in that way, but I hope always to be his friend.”

He was looking at Frederick’s two empty glasses on the window ledge. There was a little wine still left in one of them. “Are you content here, Mouse?” he asked, sounding strangely forlorn suddenly.

“Of course. This is my dream, and I am fortunate I have the chance to live it.”

He swept the small room with another doubtful frown.

“I know it might not seem much to you,” she added. “But to me it’s a palace. Truthfully, I am happy here, and the people are very kind.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”

Molly waited, hands behind her back, head on one side. “Was there anything else, your lordship?” Perhaps he thought there was more to look at, other than that one room and the dark cupboard beyond, which masqueraded as her bedchamber.

“No…no, just passing, and the thought occurred.” He stole another glance at those wine glasses by the window and then studied a sketch she’d been working on earlier, turning it toward him with one hand, his fingers splayed like a giant spider.

“I hope you like it, your lordship.”

His brows rose. “Me?”

“It is for the Baroness Schofield.”

She saw his jaw tense. “I see,” he muttered. “Very nice.”

“You approve?” Molly hoped he would realize it was her way of making an apology for the things she’d said about his morals and his mistresses. All things that were not her business. No one in this world could afford to throw stones, whatever their houses were made of, and she knew that now, having felt the intensity of temptation in his presence. Having let herself dream of him at night in her narrow, hard bed, keeping his borrowed silk handkerchief under her pillow. It smelled of him. And of cake. Two of her favorite scents.

Again he fixed her in a thoughtful stare that made her pulse falter. Despite her stout bones, she felt in considerable danger of melting whenever he looked at her that way. “I approve,” he said.

“I am glad of it, your lordship.”

He looked again at the design she was sketching before he came in. “I wonder where you come by your ideas, Miss Robbins.” His voice was halting, uncertain. Was it possible that he felt the awkwardness of this late, impromptu visit as much as she, the victim, did? She’d never seen him unsure before. “I know little about fashion, but even I can see you are talented,” he added.

This praise pleased her more than any other. “I never know from where the ideas will come or when. Inspiration can strike at the oddest times.” Here again, on this subject, she felt solid ground under her feet, and she was bolder. “I like to observe people, places, architecture…nature. There is beauty to be found in almost anything.”

He ran a fingertip along her line of charcoal on the paper and smudged it. “I see. That is why you stare at me with those searching, all-knowing brown eyes. You study me too, eh? Do I inspire you?”

“Sometimes. I suppose you do. Your sister, too, has been an influence upon me. She is a daring clotheshorse, never afraid to try something new.”

His eyes simmered. “You changed the subject deliberately to my sister.”

“No, I—”

“You said you find beauty in everything, Miss Robbins. Does that include me?”

On her windowsill, the candle flame fluttered, just like her pulse. His uncertainty before had turned now to silky surety, the flirtatious path he knew so well.

“Yes,” she said, realizing there was no point in denial. It was probably written all over her plain and silly face. “You do possess a certain wild beauty, your lordship. As you are, no doubt, aware.”

“Wild?” He winced. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“Me neither,” she confessed with a sigh.

He considered this for a moment, foot tapping against her worn scrap of carpet. “Will you not ask me if I find you beautiful, Miss Robbins?”

A half laugh, half gasp bubbled out of her. “I know what I am.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She looked down at her feet.

He had promised not to flirt with her. He’d signed that contract. But she might have known a promise meant nothing to Carver Danforthe. She gambled on a rake, and she was losing.

Molly wiped a hand across her brow, a weary gesture he must have noted.

“I will say good evening then, Miss Robbins. I’ve kept you too long.” He bowed smartly and strode out. How polite he was tonight, she thought, allowing herself a little smile. They could be civil now, it seemed. Even the wild beast made an effort.

She closed the door behind him and then, freshly inspired by his strange visit, she picked up the charcoal and began another sketch.

But scarcely a minute had passed, and he was back again, banging on her door. When she opened it, he stood there, his brow creased in confusion.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she blurted before he could even speak. It had been burning there on her tongue, her heart wracked with guilt for not acknowledging the unexpected thoughtfulness of his gift.

He seemed to be studying the charcoal she held in her fingers. Slowly his dark gaze lifted to her face. “Do you have my handkerchief? The one I lent you when I stole cake for you, madam?”

“No,” she answered so swiftly it took her breath away. “I lost it.” He wasn’t getting it back she decided in the blink of an eye. Besides, he had many handkerchiefs. Why would he need one back? It was all she had of him.

“I see. How careless of you.”

“If I find it, I’ll return it, your lordship.”
Oh, such a filthy liar she had become.

He half turned away and then back again. “By the by, you made a mistake on that contract, Mouse.”

She squinted. “I don’t think I—”

“Tomfoolery. You should have checked the spelling.”

“Oh?”

Towering over her in the doorway, he had to bend his head or else hit his brow on the crooked lintel. “Since it is spelled incorrectly, that makes the clause null and void.”

“I’m quite certain a word misspelled is not enough to—”

“You may confer with a man of the law, of course, if you don’t believe me.” He glared down at her, the challenge clear in his fierce expression. “Ask Hobbs.”

Naturally. Ask his faithful minion to confirm. Why not? “You came back just to tell me this?”

“I did.”

“It seems a dreadful waste of your time, when you must have more important matters to tend.” Her heart was overexcited, racing too fast.

“How I waste my time is up to me, Miss Robbins.”

“I suppose so. You must be very good at it by now.”