Etiquette With The Devil (16 page)

She laughed. Damn it all, he had insulted her again.

“And I apologize for that last comment as well.”

“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Ravensdale. Two apologies in a matter of minutes.” She shook her head. “Perhaps we should return before you find yourself issuing a third.”

Cheekiness suited her. He chuckled, ducking his head down for a moment.

“Ah,” she whispered when he said no more. Her fingers fluttered up to the rose resting behind her ear. She plucked it free and twirled it in her lap, temporarily lost to some daydream. He waited for the sweet sounds of her humming, but she regretfully refrained.

“Your tattoo,” she said, still gazing down at her lap, “what does it mean?”

He stopped from commenting on the propriety of that statement to ire her further. She was hell-bent on being proper and he was hell-bent on not being tamed—it would be a constant battle between them. He saw no need to continue any further this afternoon. There was always tomorrow.

Bly looked down at the ink drawing on the inside of his right forearm. “This is from my time in the Indies,” he said. “It’s the coat of arms for the Windward Islands. I believe.”

“But you’re not certain?” she mused. “I find it strange that you have something permanent on your body and can’t recall its meaning.”

Truth be told, he tried not to think of his time in the Indies. He had been a fool then, at the age of eighteen. “I wasn’t in my right mind when I received it,” he confessed.

“Oh.”

He knocked his foot against her boot, trying to draw her eyes back to his. Clara jumped, a strangled cry hushed between her lips.

It was harmless what he had done, but her response felt like a warning, another small piece of her story that he did not know. “Sorry,” he said, biting back his questions.

She shrugged and muttered “three” just loud enough for him to hear across the short distance separating them. He was not in the habit of issuing apologies at such an alarming rate.

“It was a bet and I had been drinking heavily with the rest of my company. No need to be embarrassed.”

She fluttered a look back to him and once again, he felt as breathless as when he found her asleep in the hallway. Crushingly so.

Clara lifted the rose to her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled the sweet perfume clinging to the wet petals. He suddenly wanted to kiss her, though the idea made him uncomfortable. She was a governess in his employ and a spinster. Women like Clara were to be avoided like the plague.

“Do you have others?” she asked, breaking his spiraling thoughts.

Bly should avoid her, but heaven help him, she needed to stop looking at him with those devastating eyes. Calling to him. Haunting him. Always there, always tucked away in his thoughts.

“Several.” The rain was not letting up, much to his disappointment. “That doesn’t seem like a proper question, Dawson,” he added to nettle her. Perhaps if she were angry with him, he could think of something safer than kissing those lips.

“I think it is a question entirely appropriate for friends.”

“Are you asking so that I’ll show you the others?” He smirked, overtaken with the urge to kiss her thoroughly and without apology.

“I guess that depends on where the others are.”

“You’re much more than what you seem,” he said. Christ, that had been a private thought. Clara was not the icy woman he often found himself encountering most days. “I will gladly show them to you, if you will assist me in disrobing.”

She crossed her arms and kicked at his foot. “Insufferable.”

“I apologize.”

“Four,” she said with a frustrated laugh.

The sound of her laugh was intoxicating. He found himself willing to play the fool if only she would continue.

“You never possess the ability to control your tongue.”

“Are we friends still?” he asked.

“How can we consider our efforts successful if we don’t strive for a friendship that endures a full day?”

“Should we make a run for the house? Bly rose to his feet and grasped her hand in his, hauling Clara to her feet. She paused as they stood face to face, pushing them both dangerously toward something that had no word. None that he knew of.

She was searching for something within him. He was curious what she would find. He wasn’t sure himself. With a blink, she dropped her hand from his with a small sigh and hedged closer to the garden.

“Come here,” he said, trying to shake the emotion from his voice. She turned, the wind sending tendrils of hair across her face, her long skirts fluttering. Windswept and heavenly. He gave her his coat to hold over her head as she tucked the rose into a buttonhole on her collar.

Clara smiled. He drew closer, moving so he was only a small touch away. The space suddenly seemed both close and far all the same. He wished to close it and wrap his fingers around the wisps of hair framing her face. With a small flutter of her long lashes, she hid her green eyes and broke the moment, running out into the rain.

Bly watched, however foolishly, as she darted away, wishing she would stop and join him again. The wind carried the scent of lemons. There was no escaping her.

“Come on,” she yelled over the storm. Bly looked up, his hand stilling its search for another cigar, not believing that she had stopped for him.

“I can’t leave a friend behind. That wouldn’t be proper.” She waved her hand for him to run after her.

A friend indeed. At least it was a cold rain.

T
he misty morning clouded her view as she splayed open the hedge with her hand. The fog settled over the park of Burton Hall like a lumbering ghost.

Some distance before her, Clara heard Mr. Barnes. His footsteps were heavy, the swishing of a stick a mere whisper compared to his loud mumble as he hunted down James.

“I will find you, you sneaky weasel,” he called out. Clara squinted, finally pinpointing his dim silhouette. A biting autumn breeze brushed through her thin muslin dress. She shivered and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. October had arrived, and with it, a bitter chill.

“Ah ha,” Mr. Barnes shouted. “I found one.”

“Put me down!”

The flailing shadow of James cut briefly through the fog as Mr. Barnes swung the boy around. Why must men treat children like rag dolls?

The muffled laughter of Minnie, then the happy shrill of Grace, sounded somewhere behind her. Clara turned as scarlet ribbons fluttered through the fog, brief and cutting, before disappearing once more.

“I’ll find you two next,” Mr. Barnes shouted.

Clara released the hedge and slowly stepped away, searching the swirling mists for the taunting figure that darted around her all morning.

A whistle sounded from behind, and a smile floated to her face.
Bly
. He had been whistling to her all morning, signaling when it was safe to move and change her hiding spot.

She lifted her skirts and darted across the morning’s dewy lawn, dashing behind the giant silhouette of a tree. Clara peered around its width, narrowing her eyes to see if she was truly alone or if Mr. Barnes was close by. Heavy footfalls, the sounds of boots striding confidently across the lawn, told her she was being pursued. There no whistle signaling a safe escape, though she thought she saw a flash of white run past. Clara clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the nervous laughter, but the sound escaped and someone rustled the hedge. Mr. Barnes would discover her soon if she did not move, and there was still too much fun to be had to end the game.

She made a mad dash for it, becoming disoriented in the fog. She could hear the girls again, further down the drive, but nothing else. Then a whistle, a lovely homing beacon in the distance.

She started for the source of the whistle, but stopped as it suddenly sounded as though the entire British Army was marching upon Burton Hall.

“Someone has come to visit!” Minnie cried. “Uncle!”

Clara ran, stumbling over the dips in the park, tripping and landing in the overgrown garden with a twist and unnatural pop of her ankle. The pain robbed her of her breath for a moment as the thunderous sound returned to her ears, blocking out her own racing heart, drumming. She pushed to her feet and continued toward the drive, limping. “Minnie,” she cried urgently. “Hold Grace’s hand and bring her here.”

“I can’t see you,” Minnie said. The little girl’s voice echoed through the empty morning, disorienting Clara further.

“Over here,” Mr. Barnes called. “I have James.”

The rumbling grew louder, sounding as if the horses of Hades were rushing forward, invading their innocent game of hide-and-seek. Clara reached the hill overlooking the drive, seeing finally, as the mist lifted. The girls ran toward the house along the grass. Mr. Barnes stood with James along the opposite side.

Heavy footsteps followed behind her along with the predictable string of curses. She kept a steady watch toward the far end of the property, dismayed as a line of black carriages preceded up the drive in haste.

It was the dreaded aunt. It must be, judging by how Bly rushed forward. True, he was constantly moving, but he never rushed for anyone. The cold settled in, piercing through her shawl, or perhaps it was the sharp pain radiating up her body from her fall. Either way, she wasn’t convinced the pressure in her chest had anything to do with her, only that the arrival of these carriages marked an end. With his aunt’s arrival, Bly would be returning to India, no doubt soon. The happiness, that utter wonderful feeling of peace she had grown comfortable with these past few week since that afternoon in the garden, receded.

She hobbled down the hill, brushing the back of her hands against her eyes. It wouldn’t do to meet her new employer with red eyes. It wouldn’t do to meet her in rags either, but some things were beyond Clara’s control. She stumbled, launching into the solid back of Bly. The pair toppled over the stone wall, landing on the small grassy patch by the drive.

When Clara opened her eyes, she was met with a devilish grin, dangerous hazel eyes, and a body beneath hers.

“I seem to have broken your fall.”

Clara nodded, unable to speak. The fall was disorienting, she told herself, willing her limbs to move. But willing herself to move when Bly looked at her as he did was a fool’s errand, the feel of his body beneath hers so utterly foreign.

The sounds around them faded. She felt the small uptick of her lips as she pushed back to stand, his hand pressing on the small of her back, holding her firmly in place.

Wicked man.

“I’m not going to receive any scolding from you? I’m being
very
improper.”

She heard the rush of the carriages, the sounds of horses, and the running of little feet. She should be offended for finding herself held on top of him in front of countless witnesses, but she was not. She was wicked too.

“I will hold my lecture for another time. I am certain the opportunity will provide itself soon enough.”

He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “That’s unfortunate.” He gave her a devilish wink, before releasing his hand. “You’ll hate me soon enough once you meet the new mistress of the house.”

“I’m sure she is not half as bad as you are making her out to be,” she whispered, rushing to stand beside him as he scooped Grace up. Minnie grabbed hold of Clara’s hand and tugged.

“Who’s come to visit, Miss Clara?”

“My aunt, Minnie,” Bly answered. “And she is to live here with you and look after the house.”

“What a silly idea,” Minnie said gaily. “You look after the house with Miss Clara and Isaac.”

Bly opened and closed his mouth, his head tilting back to meet Clara’s suppressed smile. “She will do better than the three of us.” Judging by the gravel tone of his voice, the way the words were rough and lodged in his throat, it sounded as if he had swallowed some of the pebbled drive during their tumble. “We will discuss the rest later.”

Clara straightened Minnie’s bow and released the girl’s hand as they lined up by the front door. “You are a picture,” she said, smiling down at Minnie, who danced from one from one foot to another.

She turned and noted the grim looks of solemnity on James and Mr. Barnes as they moved to her right. It seemed the group was split along the border of excitement and responsibility.

The carriage door opened and an extravagantly stitched boot reached out to the gravel drive. Bly swung Grace up onto his shoulders as a somber woman wearing an overstated feathered hat exited the carriage. The eyes assessing them were a rare emerald color, void of warmth or affection.

“Nephew,” she said in a cold and calculated voice. “Couldn’t you find the decency to dress? Is there a need to be out in your shirtsleeves this morning, your hair not pomaded, your boots unpolished?” An angry puff of air left her pert mouth. “I am not surprised to see you look like a wild savage.”

“Aunt Margaret,” he retorted, just as coldly. “Lovely as always.”

“There is no need to be crass, boy. You wrote me, if I remember correctly. I am doing you a favor.”

“You are doing your sister’s family a great service.” He stepped out of line, walking closer to the woman’s side. “This is Lady Margaret Napier,” he said, addressing the group.

“Why is that child on your shoulder? Take that baby down at once. Where is her nurse?” Lady Margaret asked. The tone of her voice sent a shiver down Clara’s back. “Why are the children out of the nursery at all?”

Bly extended an arm to Clara, his face set in stone. “Miss Dawson is the children’s governess. Their nurse is in town on her morning off. We weren’t expecting your arrival today. In fact, I thought we had agreed that you would remain in London for another month, at least.”

The woman glared at Bly, her eyes filled with undisguised hatred. He might have been the devil at times, but his aunt possessed the chilling ability to steal a person’s soul with one level glare.

“The governess,” she said, turning her attention to Clara. “This is the woman I saw laying on top of you like a trollop?” Lady Margaret stalked closer, narrowing her eyes. “She is much too pretty to be a governess. Did you find her in a brothel?”