Season For Desire (18 page)

With a smile, he bit into the mealy nut. The smell was far better than the taste, but a chestnut could taste like dirt and he would still be glad to roast it for the sake of that heavenly warm scent.

Kitty handed him another, and he tossed it in Audrina’s direction. Her hand snapped up to catch it, quicker than a blink. She looked, bemused, at the nut in her hand, and then at Giles. “Thank you.”

“Good catch.” He lifted the remainder of his chestnut to her, a half-eaten toast. She smiled, accepting this silly praise as she would not take his thanks earlier.

Unaccountable woman.

He liked her. Oh, how he liked her. It was a promise and threat at once.

 

 

Only when he reached his bedchamber that night did it occur to Giles that his wrists and hands had not hurt while he was roasting the chestnuts. Balancing that long-handled pan for minutes on end—he’d felt fine.

His hands still felt fine. He tested them, flexing his fingers and wrists, fearing a twinge. It came, along with a prickle of numbness at his fingertips, but it was slight.

He could write a letter to his sister Rachel tonight. Before he left America he had promised to write her every week, and it had been too long since his last letter.

But there was so much to say that, once he lit a lamp, and gathered writing implements, he had no idea how to start.

I don’t know if you would love it here
, he could say.
You would miss the sun as much as I do. But the moon . . .

He had never known the moon could be so near. So big and imperfect and yet still reliable.

No, no moon, because then he’d have to explain the telescope, and
then
he would have to tell Rachel about Audrina, and what the devil ought he to say about her? That she was brave? That she was wounded and ungrateful? That he envied the promise of her life, but thought the circumstances of it a gilded cage?

That he couldn’t imagine staying in England, nor returning to America and leaving her forever?

He recalled how bitterly Rachel had cried when he and Richard left Philadelphia. How even before their carriage rolled out of sight—with Rachel and Aunt Mathilda waving wildly—he had felt the weight of being gone, of traveling into an unfamiliar world, like a stone on his chest.

The divide between Giles Rutherford and Lady Audrina Bradleigh was as wide as the Atlantic. Yet when she was as near as the next chamber, it was almost impossible to recall this.

No, no sun. No moon. He would not write to Rachel about that.

You would love seeing Father so happy.
He could tell her that instead.

He filled a page about the code in the puzzle boxes, the differences between each box. The three owners:
Mother gave these gifts to the girls who were precious to her.
Lady Beatrix had doted on her daughters, probably even more than her sons.

When he had filled the entire sheet, he wiped the pen and sifted through his papers for another blank page. He came across one of Sophy’s gridded sheets.

For drawing a map of the sky—or a brooch, or a building, or a building that looked like a brooch.

Hmm.

He could send Rachel a drawing of Castle Parr. She would enjoy seeing where they had stayed.

And he? He would enjoy drawing the place where he had forgotten himself, so briefly and sweetly. And then he would send the memory of it far away from him.

Eight days until the wedding; seven, perhaps, until Llewellyn sent the dreadful parcel to the Duke of Walpole.

Audrina hoped to distract herself from this thought in the kitchen of the Goat and Gauntlet. The leaven had risen nicely overnight; it was pale and bubbly and sticky as paste. With the help of the Goat and Gauntlet’s live-in maid, the exotically named Jeanette, she worked cup after cup of flour into it, then added warm water and salt.

Jeanette was a raw-handed slip of a young lady, with a light-brown tangle of hair tied back under a sensible dark kerchief. “This is a nice change from doin’ the fires, foor once. You’ll tell me if I’m mixin’ the dough righ’, m’lady?”

Her thick Yorkshire accent was a creamy lilt that took on the rhythm of her kneading hands. As flour blended with leaven, a look of delight perched on her delicate features.

Audrina shared the feeling, muddled and distracted though she was at the moment. It felt good to shove at something, to remold it. To make something new.

But it was not enough to still her whirling, wondering thoughts.

What was Christmas in London like for Audrina’s family? Was the stuffed goose being put into the oven, to be eaten crackling-crisp for dinner?

Had Charissa bought a gift for the Duke of Walpole? She had wondered whether that would be proper, but Audrina had left London—had been taken from London—before her elder sister came to a conclusion.

Were the earl and countess at church right now, their eyes roving the tall nave of St. George’s in anticipation of Charissa’s wedding? Or was Llewellyn meeting with Audrina’s father to work out a settlement?
Blackmail
; such an ugly word. She hated the idea of Llewellyn profiting from lies. She hated the idea of him profiting at all from what had been private.

Whatever the London Christmas might be, Audrina would have been barred from the kitchen. Cooking and baking was not romantic work, she knew. It was brutal and tiring and endless. But just once, just for once, she had a task to finish. Even though pushing at such a great quantity of dough made her hands hurt.

Which, of course, made her think of Giles.

“Jeanette.” Audrina hesitated.

“M’lady?”

“Did you ever know anyone with arthritis?”

“Ooh, yes indeed. Me grandmam had arthi’is soomthin’ terrible. Gave her the divil of a time findin’ woork wi’ them hands.”

“When she was young?”

“No, m’lady. It coom on when she was oold, p’raps sixty. She ’urt when she woorked ’ard, but she also ’urt when she di’n’t woork a’tall.”

“So rest did not help her.” Audrina shook her head. “There must be more than one type. Some people get it old, some get it young.”

“Can’t say, m’lady. I never heard of anyone gettin’ it young.”

“It happens. Sometimes. But how does one
know
if it’s arthritis at all, or—something else?”
Something that would not strip away one’s hope for the future?

Jeanette lifted one shoulder as she pressed at the dough. “That’d be a job for a doctor, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would.” She tossed a reassuring smile to the maid. “No matter. I was woolgathering.”

She was spattered with flour; Mrs. Booth’s capacious apron was daubed with sticky dough. But no matter how vigorously she mixed and kneaded and punched and shoved at the dough, she couldn’t stop
thinking
.

“M’lady? How loong do we mix the dough?”

Audrina blinked. The great mass of bread dough lay in a sad blob over the surface of the wooden table. “Oh, dear. Ah—until about three minutes before it looks like this.”

With a sigh, she used the back of her dough-sticky hand to push back hair that was threatening to fall loose over her forehead. “All right. Let’s add a bit more flour, a little warm water, and work the dough gently into a ball.” If it rose again, they would have fresh bread for dinner. If not, they would have to eat it as crackers.

Jeanette carried out these instructions with smooth efficiency. Setting the hopefully rescued dough at its corner near the fire, the maid then promised to tidy up. With thanks, Audrina stripped off the apron and wandered into the public room.

Lady Irving had just descended the stairs, and the countess cast a gimlet eye over Audrina. “You’ve got flour on your face and you look like a wet cat.”

“I have no idea what that means.” Audrina swiped at her face.

“No, the other cheek. It means you look tired and miserable, my girl. You need a distraction.”

“I probably do.” She swiped at her face again.

“Well, come and play cards with Richard and me. He only bets chicken stakes, but he’s not altogether terrible. I’ve come in search of a new pack because I suspect him of throwing the ace of spades into the fire.”

“How devious.”

“A bit, at that. There’s hope for him.” The countess’s mouth crimped tightly at the edges, which Audrina knew to mean
I can hardly contain my delight, though I regard that as a sign of weakness.

“I had best leave you to your own game.” Kind of the countess to offer, but she and Richard Rutherford would better enjoy their distraction—whatever form it might take—as a solitary pair.

Leaving Lady Irving behind, cursing and clutching at her turban as she searched a sideboard, Audrina mounted the steps.

Last time she had been here, she’d wished for time to flit forward. Now she wanted it to drag. She was too far away from London, and her head was too full: her distant family, the endangered wedding; Charissa’s happiness and the Duke of Walpole’s stern demeanor; the puzzle boxes and their codes. The Rutherfords’ inevitable departure.

Had she been able to lay down these worries, this snowbound sojourn would have been a respite. For these few days, Audrina had been just that: herself. No parties or falsehoods, no barbs from a disappointed parent or lover. Just good humor, and a bit of work, and—and Giles, who wondered why she did the things she did. Who told her she need not change who she was.

Intoxicating thought.

Already the snow was soft and heavy from sunshine upon it, and the unfortunate stableboy had been tasked with shoveling paths from stable to carriage house, from entrance porch to road. If the skies stayed clear, tomorrow the travelers would be on their way.

She was studying her boots as she mounted the stairs, each polished tip ink-black on the smooth stone-plated treads.
Bump
. At the top of the staircase, her head collided with a wall.

Which proved not to be a wall at all, but the chest of Giles Rutherford. Nicely clad in a waistcoat checked in dark blue and green.

“If you want attention, just say so.” He steadied her with a gentle grip on her upper arm. “No need to put your balance or your fancy coiffure at risk.”

“I was woolgathering.” Her cheeks warm, she used this excuse for the second time within a few minutes.

“About wanting attention?”

“Ha. No.”
Maybe. Yes
. She wished she had stepped into the retiring room to clean her face and set her hair to rights.

He stood aside and let her precede him into the corridor. “Did you get the bread pummeled into submission?”

“More than you know. Jeanette and I beat it so much that it might not rise at all. But if it does, we’ll feast on fresh bread this afternoon with our Yorkshire Christmas pie.” A thought struck her. “Were you about to go downstairs? If so, I warn you, Lady Irving will offer to play cards with you. But under no account must you say yes, because then you will have to watch her flirt with your father.”

He made a mock grimace. “That’s not something I want to witness, though I’m sure they’re having a pleasant time. No, I was coming in search of you.”

“Why?”

“To see how you were doing.”

“Oh. I’m—fine.” Again, she dashed a forearm across her face. Did she look as disheveled as she felt within? She’d had not a moment to compose herself, although a moment would hardly be enough.

“I don’t mean to imply that you’re lying,” Giles said thoughtfully, leaning against the plastered wall, “because that would be rude. But if you’re
fine
on Christmas away from your family, with as many worries as have been jostling for space in your head, then you must have turned into an automaton.”

“Not an automaton. I am merely a proper English lady of good breeding.” She held up a quelling hand. “I know, I made it easy for you to compare. ‘What is the difference?’ Ha ha. Let me pass, please.”

“Pass whenever you like. I’ve shoved myself against the wall so I’m not in your way. And no, I would never make that comparison in regard to you.” He folded his arms. “For one thing, you’re not as proper as you pretend to be. For another, I know there’s a big difference between not showing a feeling and not having one. And so no, I don’t think you’re fine. But if you want to act like you’re fine, that’s your business.”

She could not trick those blue eyes; she did not want to. And yet there was so much to say, or hide, that speech was impossible for the moment.

She shook her head.

His expression softened, mouth in a sweet quirk. “Come with me, princess.”

The corridor made a leftward jog, then extended straight to the north face of the building. Passing by the bedchambers flanking the corridor on the left, Giles opened a door on the right. “After you, dear lady.”

Audrina entered not a squat, dark bedchamber—scandalous thought!—but a great square ballroom that soared to the inn’s rafters, slicing through the attic story. The floor was oiled and painted a glossy brown; the ceiling in imitation of marble. Two rows of windows broke the outer wall: the lower of normal dimensions, the upper ones smaller to tuck under the roofline. Molding framed these stacked windows, striping the light-colored walls with chestnut brown.

“Fancy, isn’t it?” Giles said as the door closed behind them.

Quiet. Pressingly quiet, like wind in one’s ears muting all other sound, and empty. A puzzle box with nothing inside, but there was no guiding message scrawled on its inner surface.

“Look, we’re by ourselves now.” Giles seated himself against the far wall, across from the windows. “If you want to talk about what’s making you all twitchy and shy, fine. And if you want to just sit here and not worry that someone is going to try to extort money from you in a game of whist, or make you eat a pie made of five kinds of bird and a rabbit, that’s all right, too.”

Audrina hesitated. She should—she wanted to—she ought to—

Damn it all. She wanted to sit next to Giles.

So she walked over to him and did just that.

The ice that had coated the windows yesterday had fallen, heated by the sun. A cold but clear light filtered into the great room.

“Giles, is it possible . . .” She chose her words carefully. “Could it be that you do not have the same ailment as your mother?”

“That would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it?” His expression was wry. “I’ve often thought so. But no, it came on right about the same time hers got very bad. Pain in the wrists and forearms—it’s unmistakable.”

“Jeanette told me her grandmother had arthritis in her hands, and that it never got better with rest.”

“Different people feel it differently, I expect.” His tone was light, but its tenor was unmistakable:
That’s enough
. “I can leave you alone if you like.” Already, he had rolled into a crouch, ready to stand.

“No, stay. Please. I would like the company.”

He searched her for a long moment, eyes clear and piercing. The scrutiny was awkward yet pleasurable, a slow sweep of blue that made her insides clench and heat. She could not break the gaze, and yet to look at him for so long was a type of nakedness she had never felt before.

“All right.” He settled back into place beside her, close enough that his coat sleeve brushed the long sleeve of her gown. The fine hairs on her arm prickled. Her throat felt dry.

“We shall be leaving tomorrow, I think.” Her voice echoed with false brightness in the high-ceilinged room.

“In time to get you back to London for your sister’s wedding.” Giles folded one leg into a careless triangle and slung his arm over the top. The icy sun paled his skin against the dark green of his coat. “That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? To get back to London?”

“I want my sister to be married. Once she is, Llewellyn’s threats will not matter.”

“They’ll still matter to you.”

She clenched her fists in her lap, wishing for a shawl to worry at. “Maybe. Yes. But that is not the most important thing right now. Protecting my sister is.”

“From Llewellyn’s schemes? Or from that duke she’s going to marry?”

“Decidedly the former. If Charissa fears anything about the duke, it is that she may not enchant him as much as he enchants her.” Blithe Charissa desired her wedding day’s arrival with single-minded delight. They was no room for any anxiety in her mind, except a pleasurable flurry of nerves about pleasing her stiff-necked betrothed. “She . . . loves him,” Audrina added as though it were an afterthought.

When of course it was everything.
Loves
—a word of only one syllable, yet so weighty it was almost impossible for Audrina to pronounce.

For now, Charissa was happy, and Audrina must make sure her own actions did not endanger that feeling.

For that matter, their elder sisters Romula and Theodosia were happy, too. Quieter than Charissa or Audrina, once they had been scarred by smallpox, they were content to abandon society for a country life with men who loved them.

And then there was Petra, the fourth daughter, who had expressed such a strong desire to study art in Italy that she had retreated to her room, crying, for days on end. Finally, the earl and countess had let her go. For a year they had received chirpy periodic letters from her, and even a painting the previous Christmas.