A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) (14 page)

Mrs. Porter hadn’t lied. The room was small.

The bed, in consequence, seemed enormous. Unless he stood in a corner, face to the wall, there was no way to avoid a view of it.

Or unless he went to the window. “There must be other beds in the house.” Andrew lifted the drapery and peered out into the dark. Ghostly snowflakes danced on the other side of the glass. He had a feeling he’d drunk too much.

“Why would Mrs. Porter have said there weren’t, if there were?” From the location of her voice, and certain rustling sounds, he could tell Miss Sharp had sat down on the bed. He had a feeling she’d drunk too much too.

“Something in the servants’ quarters, I mean. They found a place for John Coachman, after all. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to offer me one of those rooms. I’ll wait a half-hour or so; then go downstairs and look for a place to sleep.”

“No.” Her voice came delicate as the dancing snowflakes across the few feet of floor.

“Pardon me?” He summoned up all his strength, and what remained of his sobriety, before turning. If he saw even the smallest hint of invitation in her eyes… well, he would make sure she saw nothing but cold disapproval in his.

“No.” The word gained strength on repetition. “You can’t go downstairs.” She perched on the edge of the mattress, the dark red of her gown almost lurid against the pale linens and bed-hangings. The look on her face was nothing near invitation: rather, she had the appearance of someone girding herself for fierce argument. “If you’re found out, they might guess we’re not really married.”

“
If
I’m found out, they
might
guess. They might also think I’ve gone away to spare you from my kicking and crowding, as I said. And they might not find me out at all. I’d rather take that pair of chances than stay here in this room and
know,
no ifs or mights, that I’ve compromised you.” Inwardly he kicked himself. Of course she hadn’t intended any invitation. He’d heard her voice through the veil of drink and of his own guilty desires, which fact made a powerful argument for his spending the night somewhere other than in this room.

“But you won’t have compromised me.” Her hands made determined fists, fingers curling round the fabric of her skirts. “This is exactly the conversation we had in the barn. We didn’t choose what’s happened. We’re not going to do anything improper. Only if our acquaintances knew of our being here could I be compromised, and no one knows or will know.”

“No one? So you don’t intend to tell
this
part of the truth to your father.”

“No.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Does that not indicate to you that we cross the boundary of impropriety merely by passing the night in this room?” They’d crossed that boundary already, truth be told, by speaking so intimately out in the barn. He’d crossed it in a flying leap by raising his hand to her hair, and sprinted recklessly onward with the rum-fueled things he’d said of her downstairs.
I was hooked like a fish from my first sight of her.
God, where had his judgment gone?

“Perhaps. A little. But I’d rather commit this insignificant transgression, and carry it in my conscience, than have the Porters find out I lied to them.” She did look at him now, her dark eyes pleading. “They’ve been so kind. I don’t want them to think ill of me.”

If he hadn’t drunk that rum, and if he weren’t feeling tired, and occupied by more pressing matters, he might deliver a lecture on how those societal rules she so cavalierly dismissed were really but a codified version of caring what individual people thought. Of taking pains, and inconveniencing oneself, so that Porters near and far would not think ill of you.
Do you see now why we bother with propriety?
he might say.

But not only was he tired, and rum-headed, and busy trying to find a decent way out of their predicament… he also wasn’t so sure of his lecturing authority as he’d been even a day ago. So vividly he remembered that feeling of envy, in the barn, as she’d declared the fact of her father’s trust. He’d felt there might be things he was missing, abiding so carefully by rules as he did.

So he’d omit that lecture. He had something more pointed to say. “I might yield, if I shared your assessment of this as an insignificant transgression. But it wouldn’t be insignificant for me.” He left the window—he’d begun to be cold there—and went to crouch before the fire, moving the screen aside and holding his palms out to warm them. “There’s been too much familiarity between us. Much of it was forced upon us by circumstance; some by our own laxity. But all of it—make no mistake—changes the implication of our being alone in a room.”

“I don’t understand.” The waver in her voice told him that she did understand at least a little.

“I don’t mean that I would presume on that familiarity. I have sufficient command of my behavior to ensure you would be safe.” He turned his hands to warm the knuckles. His face was warm already, from the indelicacy of this conversation. “I have less command, however, of my thoughts. And if I were to spend the night in this room, that night would be filled with thoughts that did me no credit.”

“Surely you’d be asleep, and not thinking anything at all.”

“
Dreams
that did me no credit, then. If you must have that level of detail. And that’s presuming I was able to sleep.”

There was a silence. Perhaps she wasn’t familiar with the bodily manifestation of desire in men, and how it could distract to the point of discomfort. Perhaps she didn’t know what he meant about dreams.

Perhaps he oughtn’t to have let the conversation go quite so far down this path.

Finally she spoke. “As long as your behavior did you credit, I wouldn’t hold you culpable for your dreams or your thoughts.”

“You might not. But I would.” He twisted to speak over his shoulder. “Personal honor runs deeper than one’s actions. That I refrain from ruining you merely proves I’m not an outright villain. It’s a pathetically low standard by which to declare oneself a virtuous man. And though you may find it quaint, or frivolous, I do put some stake in virtue.”

She shifted her position on the bed, angling round for a more direct view of the fireplace and of him. “I’d think a man who has sinful thoughts, yet conducts himself decently, is a better exemplar of virtue than a man who’s never tested by such thoughts at all. But I suppose my understanding of sin and virtue must be rather simplistic. I don’t know very much of Scripture beyond what I happen to have heard in Sunday services.”

“It’s not even to do with church or Scripture, really. Not altogether.” He was lecturing again. He’d try to keep it brief. “It’s simply that there are things that are right to do, and things that are wrong to do. Thoughts and behaviors that become a gentleman, and thoughts and behaviors that don’t.”

“That’s rather like what Papa says. Like what Mr. Hume said, about morality and the smallest grain of natural honesty.”

No, it wasn’t. Not at all. That business about superstition and moral scaffolding was arrogant blasphemy, whereas the point he was making, about concepts of virtue that prevailed irrespective of one’s church attendance…

“There might be certain similarities, I suppose. Superficial similarities.” He pushed weary warm fingers through his hair. He had neither the energy nor the acuity for this conversation.

“Well, whatever the state of your thoughts or dreams, I think you have a better chance of sleeping here than you would downstairs. Only think of it: even if you can find a bed, it surely won’t be made up. And there won’t be a fire. You might freeze.”

Lord. She was right. He’d been too tired to think of that.

“Think of all you have to do tomorrow.” She’d slid to the very edge of the mattress, toes on the floor, as if at any moment she might spring up to give more force to her argument. “You’ll want to be well-rested for the journey to Downham Market and back, and all the business with the wheelwright. And think how disappointed your brothers and sisters will be if you arrive home for Christmas only to nod off into the pudding.”

For so slender an acquaintance as theirs was, she certainly did know his weaknesses. And hadn’t he had a lesson this very afternoon, when the carriage went over, about how a zealous devotion to honor and principle might leave him useless to the people who depended on him?

“It’s a large bed.” She gestured to its expanse, as though he hadn’t taken thorough note of all its dimensions during his first few seconds in the room. “Two people might lie near to their respective edges and have such a space in the middle as—”

“Miss Sharp, I am not going to sleep in that bed with you.” He took a breath. “Be satisfied with my abandoning decency so far as to remain in this room. I’ll be staying here by the fire, fully clothed.” The bricks were warm, at least, and the warmth would linger for some time even after the fire died out. He could use the nightshirt Mr. Porter had sent along for another layer. She might have something in her trunk he could use as a makeshift blanket, too.

He’d made his decision. Now, the awkward particulars. He turned to face the fire once more. “I’ll step out into the hall when you’re ready to dress for bed. You come tap on the door when you’re finished. Then I’ll count to thirty before I come in, to give you time to get into bed and draw the curtains.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that won’t work.”

“No? What part of it won’t work?” Besides the part that had him lying on bricks all night, tormented by her desirable presence in a bed mere steps away, that was.

“I’m sorry.” The fact that she apologized twice made it clear he wouldn’t like what was coming. “I can’t undress on my own. I’ll need you to unlace my stays.”

For a moment the room itself seemed to be holding its breath. Then a stick broke in the fire, and the flames leaped and capered, merry as could be at the mess he’d got himself into now.

Andrew covered his face with his fire-warmed hands, and prayed for strength.

* * *

He’d obviously never undressed a woman before. If his refusal to meet her eyes in the dressing-table mirror hadn’t made that clear, his befuddlement when confronted with her stay-laces surely did away with any doubt.

“Do I take the string completely out?” He frowned, his gaze running up and down her back as he puzzled out how to undo Perkins’ handiwork.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Be sure to take note of how it was threaded, so that you’ll be able to thread it again tomorrow morning.”

He nodded, ducking his chin far enough to prevent even a peripheral crossing of his glance with hers. They hadn’t spoken until now of the fact that he’d need to attend to her partially clad form again in the morning, and perhaps that fact had not yet occurred to him.

His fingers brushed over the linen of her shift as he began picking apart the knot near her waist. He scowled, his brow lowered in concentration and also no doubt in disapproval of this enterprise and his part in it. You’d never know, to look at him, that behind that stern face lurked wicked thoughts and dreams.

“Did I pinch you?” He glanced up, finally meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“No. Did I flinch?”

“You shivered.” His fingers worked on, teasing the un-knotted string through the lowest eyelet.

“Ah. There was a draft, I suppose.” Now she was the one to look away, dropping her gaze to the tabletop. “It’s a bit chilly, this far from the fire.”

“So it is. I’ll try to be quicker with this.”

“Not too quick, though, or you might not take thorough enough note of the threading scheme. Then tomorrow when it comes time to do it all up again you’ll be lost.”

“Of course. I’ll take note.” The shortness of his reply suggested he knew very well why she didn’t want him to hurry at his task, and equally well why she’d shivered. The set of his jaw, when she dared a glance at the mirror, told her such sentiments would receive no encouragement from him, regardless of the nature of his thoughts and dreams.

Well, she had those thoughts and dreams too, sometimes, though she’d never considered whether or not they did her credit. Anyone approaching the age of marriage must necessarily begin to contemplate the duties and privileges of the state. It was only natural, just as it was natural—and surely it must be—for a girl with the privacy of her own bedroom to acquaint herself with the places on her body she’d best like a husband to one day touch.

It had never occurred to her to count the backbone among those places. To number light accidental touches, through a layer of linen, among the rewards that awaited a woman after marriage. Perkins performed this same task every night, and yet it wasn’t the same at all.

“There’s the last of it.” He drew the laces through the final eyelet, wrapping them round his large hand as he went. He set the resultant coil on the table and stepped back. “I’ll be in the hall. Tap at the door when you’re ready.”

Disappointment, stupid misplaced disappointment, washed through her as he left the room. What exactly had she hoped would happen? She didn’t want to be ruined. Even a smaller liberty—a single slow kiss at the nape of her neck, for example, or some deliberate caresses up and down her spine, now that the stays had been put aside—would surely have led to such self-reproach on his part as would have rendered the remainder of their time together unbearably awkward.