Thief of Hearts (17 page)

"Certainly not." She picked up his hat from the hall table and fingered the brim, looking down.

"Has he done something? Said anything to make you—"

"No, no, of course not. I'd have told you if he had." She was grateful for the dimness in the foyer; it hid her guilty, crimson countenance. And yet it seemed impossible to her that Aiden could be oblivious to the almost palpable hostility that had existed between her and Brodie for the past week. There had been times when she'd hoped he would notice, and say something about it, so then
she
could say something and they could finally get this hateful situation out in the open! But she'd been too ashamed. Instead she'd been going through the motions of social civility with Mr. Brodie, feeling at all times as if she were on the verge of screaming.

The outlandishness of what had happened between them kept her from categorizing it. She had no place to put it in her experience, and no words with which to explain it to Aiden or anyone else. It was something she had to bear alone, conscious of a vast feeling of relief, of having avoided a truly dreadful fate, side by side with the most peculiar sense of anticlimax. For it had not escaped her notice that Mr. Brodie had touched her intimately, been on the verge of kissing her, and then drawn away when he'd found he didn't desire her after all. Thus along with everything else, she must live with the demoralizing realization that her feminity wasn't up to a common sailor's sexual standards. To anger and anguish, she could add humiliation.

O'Dunne took out his watch. He started to speak when there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs behind them. Anna turned around mechanically. Billy Flowers reached the last step with a house-shaking thump and stomped toward them. Behind him was Brodie. Anna pressed back against the wall instinctively.

"Sorry t' keep you whitin', guv."

"Never mind." O'Dunne took his hat from Anna's stiff fingers and fixed Brodie with a stern, unblinking eye. "We've been over everything that's expected of you tonight; I hope I don't have to go into all of it again."

"That makes two of us," Brodie agreed heartily.

"But I'll remind you of one thing, and I strongly suggest you take it to heart over the course of the next few hours."

"What might that be, your honor?"

O'Dunne frowned. "If you do, say, or even
think
anything disrespectful toward Mrs. Balfour tonight, I will learn of it, and I will take steps in reprisal against you that will make you very, very sorry. Do I make myself clear?"

"Clear as crystal." He flashed a quick glance at Anna, who was twisting her hands and staring straight ahead in a frozen way. "Mrs. Balfour's honor isn't in any danger from me tonight, and that's a promise."

"Good." The lawyer moved toward Anna and took one of her cold hands. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes, of course. Perfectly." She forced a smile and patted his arm. "Now you'd better go; they'll be here soon."

O'Dunne nodded. He frowned one last warning at Brodie and reached for the doorknob. "Let's go, Billy."

"Right you are." Billy squeezed past Anna, following Alden. At the door he turned back. "Boo-wona sera, signora," he said carefully, then grinned. "And you, Jack, mind yet business tonight, ay? I might be closer than you think, watchin', like. Ay?" He clubbed Brodie on the shoulder with a friendly, bone-numbing blow and hulked out.

Almost before the door could close, Anna whirled around and hurried away down the hall. She was heading for the dining room, Brodie knew, where the soft clatter of silverware and crystal could be heard as the servants laid the table for dinner. She thought she'd be safe there. Moving more slowly, he followed.

In silence he watched her take a handful of forks from a drawer in the sideboard and count them. She wouldn't look at him, of course. He could stand on his head and she wouldn't look at him. Her delicate profile was cool, grave, and completely closed. There was no point in trying an apology; she would laugh at him, and he was weary of her scorn. Still, he had to say something.

"Billy's been practicing '
buona sera
' all day," he opened pleasantly, moving closer but not too close. She didn't respond. "I've been practicing something too. Want to hear it?"

"No."

"
Non è colpa mia, non ho fatto niente
. Want to know what it means?"

"No."

"'It's not my fault, I didn't do anything.'" He chuckled, thinking she might join in. She didn't, and he remembered that in addition to everything else, she had no sense of humor.

"I've been learning a phrase myself," she mentioned a moment later, surprising him. "Would you care to hear it?"

"Sure."

"
Mi lasci stare
. It means
leave me alone
."

His smile evaporated. He leaned against the wall, watching her hold water goblets up to the light and examine them, for what? bugs? while she made a science of ignoring him. He thought again of apologizing, of blurting out that he was sorry he'd acted like an animal, it wasn't the way he'd ever treated a woman before, he couldn't understand now what the hell had gotten into him. But the inevitability of where that would get him nowhere stopped him again. He regretted his rashness now, his impulsiveness, he'd call it. She'd call it callousness, but that meant a lack of feeling. He was guilty of many things where Mrs. Balfour was concerned, but lack of feeling sure as hell wasn't one of them.

"This is a salad fork, Mr. Brodie," she was saying in her schoolteacher's voice, holding one up. He had the distinct impression that had it been a pitchfork she'd have heaved it at him. "It's similar to a dessert fork, but the tines are slightly different. See?"

He tried another smile. "Don't worry, I won't disgrace you in front of your friends. I've been studying up, Annie. I know all kinds of things you don't think I know."

Her upper lip lifted in pure disdain.

"You don't believe me?" He cleared his throat. "Never pick your teeth in front of a witness. Don't drink your soup, don't throw bones on the table, and don't fold your napkin after eating." He beamed; she frowned, and began to fidget with the flower arrangement in the center of the table. "Actually rocking in a rocking chair has been discarded by genteel people, except when alone. The proper hours for morning visits are between two and five. With regard to ladies' clothing, a great variety of colors is more suitable in a carpet."

Was she smiling? He bent low, trying to see. She turned aside; he followed, hunched over, peering. Yes! The tiniest of smiles pulled at the corners of her lips, all the more beguiling because she was trying so hard to conquer it.

"Tuning a harp in public is very tedious for everyone," he went on recklessly. "Never allow a gentleman to take a ring off your finger to look at it, or unclasp your bracelet or worst of all, inspect your brooch. Take your jewelry off
yourself
before letting a gentleman examine it. Never travel in white silk gloves, never."

"Thank you, that's plenty." She spoke sternly, but the fleeting light in her eyes was good-humored for once. He hadn't known until now just how much he'd missed it. For a fraction of a second they smiled at each other; then she recollected herself and set about refolding all the napkins.

"So." He fingered a butter knife idly as he watched her. "What do I call these people? How well am I supposed to know them?"

Her reserve had recalcified; she spoke frostily. "You call Mr. Middaugh 'Edwin,' and the others Mrs. and Miss Middaugh and Mr. Trout. They're neighbors in Liverpool. Mr. Middaugh owns a number of match factories."

"Match factories, eh? Is he rich?"

"I suppose."

"Did Nick like these people?"

"Yes; especially Edwin."

"Do you like them?"

She hesitated. "I don't really know them. They moved in recently and they're more Aunt Charlotte's friends than mine. The only one you have to worry about is Mr. Middaugh; he and Nicholas belonged to the same businessman's club. Oh, after dinner, when you and Edwin are alone, give him a glass of claret, not port."

"Why?"

"Because he's a conservative."

Brodie blinked.

Anna felt herself flushing. "Liberals drink port, Tories drink claret," she explained reluctantly. "In general."

"Which did Nick drink?"

A pause. "Claret."

Brodie shook his head in wonder. "Who's Trout, again?" he asked a moment later.

"Mrs. Middaugh's father. He lives with them. I think he was in trade before he retired."

"'In trade'?"

"I believe he kept a shop."

"Ah." He went to the mirror over the sideboard, bent his knees to see himself, and fussed with his bow tie. "Are you sure men really wear these things?" She didn't answer. He brushed a hair from his sleeve and turned back. "Why are they late? You told them seven o'clock, didn't you?"

"Yes. Which means they won't arrive until about seven thirty-five," she explained shortly.

"Why?"

"Because it's fashionable."

"Why?"

She sighed. "It just is."

He pondered that for a minute. "How do you know these things? I mean, how do you all just
know
them, and for the rest of us it's a complete mystery? Is it written down somewhere? Is there a book?"

A quick, facetious retort died on her lips. He wasn't being sarcastic, she realized, he was genuinely bewildered. He expected her to tell him the truth, reveal some esoteric secret. "It's just… I don't know how to explain it. It's something one learns over time, from being around other people who know."

"So it's passed down?"

"I suppose it is, in a way. Not that it means anything. It's all made up, it's all arbitrary. It's nothing to… to feel envious of." Why was she trying to save his feelings? His next words silenced her.

"Nick knew, didn't he?" He stared down at his elegant blue suit, his face unreadable. "He'd have known exactly what to wear tonight. No one would've had to lay his clothes out for him, like he was a child." Anna went still with confusion. But suddenly he smiled, and his pale eyes, solemn before, brightened.   "On the other hand, he wouldn't've been much help in a storm trying to rig a four-masted bark, would he?"

She let out a breath. Something Softened inside her; something in her chest felt oddly swollen. "No," she agreed quietly. "I expect he'd only have been in the way."

"
Signora
, your guests. They arrive."

"
Grazie
, Daniella." Anna tilted up her chin and straightened her spine. She smoothed her hair in its pretty French twist and put her hands together at her waist in a natural-looking clasp.

But Brodie wasn't fooled. With a gentle half-smile, he came toward her. "Don't worry so much," he said lightly; "I promise I won't even spit on the floor." Her frown deepened, but he thought her lips might have twitched. "I won't say 'aye,' like you told me. And I'll call you Anna, not Annie." He took one of her cold, damp hands and rubbed the palm on his lapel, drying it. Before she could react, he gave her knuckles a quick kiss and took her arm. "Shall we go greet our guests?" As he led her out of the dining room and down the long hall toward the foyer, he murmured, "Now, remember, Annie," his mouth close to her ear, "because I'm going to be keeping my eye on you. A hostess's first duty is to the comfort and serenity of her guests. In addition, a genteel lady doesn't touch spirits, and she never drinks more than two glasses of champagne… "

But a little while in the company of the Middaughs husband, wife, daughter, and aged parent would be enough to drive anyone to drink, he decided a few minutes later, no matter how genteel. He thought they were pulling his leg when he heard that the wife was Hypatia, the daughter, Constantia. Luckily formality was the order of the day, and he could avoid those mouthfuls with the handy expedient of Mrs. and Miss. Edwin shook his hand energetically and wanted to know where his beard had gone and where had he gotten that scar? Why, he'd fallen on the ship coming over, he explained, in a storm. Nobody batted an eye. Mother and daughter joked that Anna appeared to have "gone native," by which he guessed they meant she was only wearing about half as many pounds of clothing as they were and wasn't quite as bell-shaped. Mr. Trout was a very old gentleman, silent and morose, a bit cowed, but he carried himself with great dignity. Brodie overheard Mrs. Middaugh whisper to Anna that she was sorry they'd had to bring him along, but there was no one at their hotel to watch him.

They decided to have drinks outside before dinner. Anna led the way, down an ancient flight of stone steps edged with periwinkles, under a wisteria-covered pergola to a terrace. They sat on black iron furniture under the peach and cherry and olive trees, blooming white and deep rose against delicate green. The sun was setting, but the hot smell of pine needles still sweetened the soft air.

Miss Middaugh, a languid, inert young lady who wore her blonde hair in a net at the back of her neck, roused herself to remark that she thought Nicholas and Anna's elopement quite the most romantic thing she'd ever heard of. She had on a tight-sleeved olive green dress with ball fringe and huge gatherings of cloth at the rear end. How did women sit in something like that? wondered Brodie; what the hell did it feel like?

Her mother's lips pursed in a thin, disapproving smile. "Indeed, yes, it was quite a surprise to everyone. Not least of all your dear aunt."

Anna longed to know Aunt Charlotte's reaction to her hasty marriage, but she dared not ask. Mrs. Middaugh was not a close friend; it would be unseemly to try to pump information from her. Anna had written several letters home masterpieces of evasion and deception, but so far she'd received no replies.

"It's all my fault," Brodie said cheerfully, "I swept her off her feet. Wouldn't take no for an answer." She went stiff when he sat down on the arm of her chair and smiled down at her with husbandly affection. There was no room to move; try as she might, it was impossible to keep her arm from touching the side of his hard thigh. When he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a loving squeeze, she almost jumped.