Not Quite Darcy (11 page)

Cavendish laughed, though not impolitely. “I'm afraid not. Mr. Brown is our resident poet. I'm rather the resident…well, I'm not entirely certain.” He turned to face William wearing an amused grin. “What role would you say I fill, William?”

“Mr. Cavendish is our resident athlete.” William knew better than to mention fisticuffs in such a setting. And truth be told, Cavendish truly was a superior athlete. He would have been able to pound William to a pulp in the boxing ring.

“Surely even athletes can be fond of poetry, though.” Miss Shumway took another dainty sip.

“It is a failing of mine, I'm afraid,” Cavendish said. “One that I should see to setting right, upon your recommendation, Miss Shumway.”

The orchestra ended the song, which caused their conversation to pause while dancers slid past the trio.

“Miss Shumway,” Cavendish said, “may I request the honor of the next dance?”

“Certainly sir,” she said politely. She inclined her head toward Cavendish, but her eyes were on William. “Thank you so much for the punch, Mr. Brown. And for your charming company. Perhaps I shall see you again.”

“Yes, I hope so,” William replied. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to resist from tugging on his hair.

“Good evening,” Cavendish said, bowing at William slightly before leading Miss Shumway, and her fan, onto the dance floor. She cast a backwards glance in William's direction. He smiled and nodded in farewell. Once the couple melted into the crowd, William sighed, overwhelmed with relief.

What was wrong with him?

Miss Florence Shumway was a charming conversational partner. She had been polite and graceful. She'd talked about the loveliness of the room, the sorts of flowers that she adored. She'd inquired tastefully about his family. She even liked poetry, for god's sake. She did all those things a proper lady ought to do, damn her.

Why did he find it all so exhausting? Why did he long to be back home in his library?

He knew exactly why. That spark of bright light who was Eliza.

He drank his punch and placed the empty glass on a side table. Conversation with Miss Shumway was like taking high tea in a sunny room on a summer afternoon. Talking with Eliza was Guy Fawkes Day—an explosion around every corner.

It might have been the half flask of whiskey talking, but he was suddenly terribly fond of Guy Fawkes Day.

William smiled.

He was rather weary of enduring the ball's endless comedy of manners too. Life seemed far too short to waste his time in such a fashion. Decision made, he set out, skirting the dance floor, keeping an eye to the crowd in search of Perry. After two turns about the room, he finally found him engaged in a lively conversation with two dapper young gentlemen. Upon seeing William's approach, Perry excused himself and walked toward William wearing a large smile.

“Brown, old fellow.” Perry clapped an arm about his shoulder. “I believe I spotted you on the dance floor, did I not?”

“You did.”

“And with the lovely Florence Shumway.”

“You know her?” William was constantly surprised by Perry's vast knowledge of all things social.

His friend only shrugged. “Well, yes. Her family is heavily into railroads and mining.”

William didn't know precisely what to say. He'd never been involved in a conversation regarding the marriageability of a young woman before. He had no idea how to proceed.

“Florence Shumway is kind on the eyes as well.” Perry nudged William in the ribs. “Say, you'll never believe whose dance card I made it onto.”

“Queen Victoria?” William asked.

“Better. Jennie Jerome.” Perry laughed. “She's twice as rich as the Queen. And such a beauty! Have you seen her?”

“I have not had the pleasure.”

“Dark hair, lovely gray eyes. And her gown is most remarkable. A tad overdone, but then, if a woman looks like that, I should expect she has an obligation to sew diamonds into her bodice.”

“That's capital, Perry.” William felt a great deal more comfortable discussing Perry's dancing partners than he did his own.

“It's not for another three hours, but she's written me in. I imagine I should do my best to maintain my sobriety in the interim.”

“Wise of you.” William reached up to tug on his hair. “I was considering departing the ball, to tell you the truth.”

“Sorry to hear it. Are you feeling unwell?” Perry was so delighted by his good fortune that he had trouble focusing, which was just as well. William had hoped to slip away as unnoticed as possible.

“I'm quite fine,” William said. “Just not in the mood, I'm afraid. If I leave now, have you got a way home?”

“Oh, certainly. Cavendish is about and he doesn't tend to leave these affairs until the sun comes up.”

“Very well. Have a wonderful time and try not to break Miss Jerome's heart, won't you?” William turned and headed toward the exit.

“I'll do my best,” Perry called, “and do avail yourself of the flasks. They're just going to waste there in the carriage.”

It was as if Perry had read his mind. Though he'd only been at the ball for an hour, it felt like much longer. Sometimes a fellow didn't feel like sipping punch and making polite conversation with a graceful lady. Sometimes a fellow just wanted to sit quietly in his carriage and drink whiskey. Such a man might even write poems about a girl with green eyes who sang songs while she cleaned and who had a smile that shone brighter than the face of the sun.

There was nothing wrong with leaving a ball early in order to write drunken poetry. Nothing wrong at all. And if the flasks ran dry, he had a bottle in his desk drawer in the library back home.

Chapter Twelve

Mrs. Brown dozed off much later than her usual time. It was just after midnight when Eliza finally stretched out in her chair, book resting on her lap. She was in no hurry to return to her own room and decided to stay by Mrs. Brown a little longer. It wasn't like she was trying to run into William, after all. According to her romance novels, balls could carry on until sunrise.

Toying with the binding of the book she'd been reading to Mrs. Brown, she wondered idly what William was up to, right at that moment. Discussing poetry or politics with the gentlemen? Conversing with a coquettish female? Dancing?

Ah, she'd love to see him dance. He'd be so serious and sincere in getting his steps correct that it would be absolutely endearing. Not that she'd ever have the opportunity to see him in this element—nor should she, come to think of it.

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut. This was quickly followed by the sounds of
thud-thud-thud
up the stairs. William wasn't due back for hours. Besides, he always walked so quietly. She scarcely knew he was around half the time, which was why he was constantly surprising the hell out of her.

Footsteps approached the door of Mrs. Brown's room and Eliza tensed—too shocked to even search for a weapon. They passed by without faltering and she heard the library door open, quickly followed by the sounds of rustling paper.

A spider of fear skittered down her spine. If it was known that William would be out tonight, a robber might see the Brown home as easy pickings. Farfetched, perhaps, but what else would explain the heavy footsteps and the sounds coming from the library?

She looked around the room for a weapon and she quickly seized upon the brass fireplace poker. Thunking the heavy metal spear against her palm eased her, but only just a little. She moved toward the door with silent steps. Hearing nothing on the other side, she turned the handle ever so slowly and opened the door, just a crack.

A crackling sound came from the library. A fire? What kind of thief built a fire?

Silently, she crept down the hallway, the poker in front much like a blind person with a white cane. Inch by careful inch, she eased her head around the open library door.

The room was lit only by the fire blazing in the fireplace, and standing directly in front of it was William. His back was to her and dozens of papers were piled at his feet. She tucked the poker behind her back.

He'd removed his suit jacket and vest. His white shirt was untucked and his sleeves were rolled up. His left hand was curled around a whiskey bottle, from which he took a long pull. Bending over, he grabbed a handful of papers and fed them into the open flame.

“Bloody rubbish,” he muttered, weaving slightly as he set the bottle down, sloshing a little on the carpet.

Upright, respectable William was drunk out of his mind. How he'd managed to achieve this level of drunkenness in such a short time was a mystery. And kind of impressive, she had to admit.

Eliza stood frozen in the doorway, trying to decide what to do and feeling split down the middle. Half of her wanted to quietly turn and walk down the hall to her room. He would sleep this off, she reasoned. If she were to attempt a conversation with him, he'd be mortified in the morning. Besides, whatever her mission might be, she was pretty sure it wasn't sobering up drunks.

The other half of her said something else entirely. Since her mission here had to do with William, talking to him in an unguarded state might be her most direct path to figuring out the mystery. He always seemed so terribly in control. She couldn't imagine what might have driven him to drunkenness. Perhaps it was the mysterious American she was supposed to keep an eye out for.

But if he talked to her in this state, wouldn't she be risking one of Lancaster and York's rules? The one about not becoming emotionally attached?

Before she'd decided on a course of action, it was determined for her when William turned. He stared at her, his expression stunned. She stepped into the room and, not knowing quite what to say, she went with the obvious. “Hello William.”

“Elisha,” he slurred. “Oh god. You shouldn't see, ehm, that is—I shouldn't be, ah, well damn. I believe I'm not fit for comp'ny at the moment. I'm quite deep in my cups.” He reached a hand up to smooth down his hair and somehow only managed to mess it up further.

“What are you burning?”

“Rubbish. Twaddle. It's fit…only for burning.” He wove toward the fire and fed it another fistful of paper.

“William, please.” She moved closer to him, her eyes on the few remaining wads of paper crumpled on the floor. “Your poetry? Oh William, you can't.”

 She reached a hand down to rescue one of the papers, but he quickly snatched the scrap and tossed it into the fire along with the rest. “You mustn't look at them, Elisha. I insist upon it.”

“But your mother adores your poetry,” she said.

“She wouldn't adore these.” He stepped toward her and she held her breath. He reached out, his fingers warm and firm on the back of her hand. “Mind if I borrow this?” He removed the fireplace poker from her grip and walked over to the grate to poke at the embers there.

“You didn't have a very good time at the party?” she asked. “Did you meet anyone?” She hesitated, then forced herself to push on. It was her mission here, after all. “Any Americans, perhaps?”

“A few Americans, yes.” William rubbed his face. “A Miss Florence Shumway favored me with a dance.”

“That sounds nice.” Eliza had to think of something more substantial to say here. She'd been looking for clues about her mission for two long weeks. Now that an American had landed in her lap, with William attached, her mind was so flooded with jealousy she couldn't think of the right thing to say.

“Does it sound nice?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“You don't like balls?” she asked.

“I find myself terribly flummoxed around these types, Elisha.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It's all the witty banter and the ladies doing incomprehensible things with their fans. The dancing? I'm dreadful.”

“I bet you're not. I think you'd be a fine dancer.”

He shot her a look of incredulity, then looked down at his hand. He seemed surprised by its empty condition. When he spied the whiskey bottle on the floor, he snatched it up and took another swig.

“For you dancing would be just like boxing,” Eliza said.

“God, I should hope I'm not so dreadful that ladies confuse my dancing for a fighting bout!” He looked more than a little crestfallen.

Eliza laughed. “No, William. I mean that if you have the ability to box, you have the ability to dance. You started out badly at boxing and you got better. Remember?”

She reached out to touch his non-liquor-filled hand. Lightly, she ghosted her fingertips across the knuckles where his boxing injuries were beginning to fade.

At her touch, he inhaled sharply, his lips thinning to a line, eyes closed.

“How about you give the booze a rest and lie down for a while?” She carefully removed the bottle from his fingers and placed it on a side table.

“Yes, that sounds like a capital notion. I fear that the copious amounts of alcohol have made me—” He interrupted himself with a hiccup. “Not okay, as you put it in song earlier today. I'm not entirely certain what
okay
means, but I've a certainty that whatever the word means, I am not it.”

He'd let his mask slip before tonight, but never to this degree. He seemed an absolutely different creature, at once terrifying and thrilling.

“Even sober,” William said, “the things you say confound me. Simply being in your presence, I feel a strange dizziness. You are a mystery, wrapped in a puzzle, surrounded by a cryptic—did I say mystery yet?”

“William, the best thing for you right now is to sleep this one off.” She took his hand and tugged him toward the connecting door to his bedroom. He offered no resistance.

Once she'd led him to the bed, he sank down onto it, legs dangling over the side. It wouldn't do to undress him, even partially. No matter how drunk he was, his Victorian sensibilities would sound a full alarm should she do anything so scandalous.

She figured the least she could do was to remove his shoes. She slid them off and then swung his legs up onto the bed. Since he was lying on top of the covers, she retrieved the spare quilt from the wardrobe and tucked it around his still frame.

“I'm so dreadfully sorry, Elisha.” He looked up at her, embarrassment written plainly on his face.

“You've absolutely nothing to be sorry for, William. You got wasted and went a little emo. You're human. It's allowed.” She leaned over to remove his eyeglasses and place them on his bedside table. Without their usual glass barrier, his blue gaze was shockingly intense.

“I'm behaving like a perfect ass.” His unruly hair had fallen into his eyes again and he tugged it out of the way.

Eliza looked down at him, resisting the urge to soothe him. To smooth out his tangled mess of curls. To run her fingers along his cheeks and whisper that everything was going to be all right. She couldn't.

She balled her hands into fists and tucked them to her sides.

“William, I have to ask you something and I hope very much that you'll be honest with me. I'd like to know—is there a secret you're hiding from me?”

“A secret?” He blinked. “You know my secret, Elisha.” He held his fists up in a boxing position and grinned at her shyly.

Even wasted and miserable, he was absolutely charming. She couldn't help but laugh out loud. And she hated to take advantage of his drunken state, she really did. But if he was her key to this mysterious American and her mission here—this might be her only way of finding out what he knew. “I mean—another secret.”

He dropped his gaze in that typical way of his and tugged on his hair.

“It's just that,” she continued, “I get the feeling you're hiding something from me. There's times when you won't look at me and just…if there's anything you want to talk about…”

“There is nothing I can speak with you about, Elisha.” He kept his gaze on his bedspread. “Even in fan language, I could not say it.”

She couldn't fathom what he meant. He was too drunk. She knew the wisest thing to do would be to go to bed and she turned toward the door. “Good night then, William.”

He sat up suddenly, and leaned toward her. “Do you consider me to be a good man? Am I a gentleman, do you think?”

His expression was heartbreakingly earnest and she had to answer with raw honesty. “I have never met a gentler one.”

“I try to be a gentleman. I do what I ought and not what I desire. 'Tis the mark of a gentleman, Mother says.”

He startled her by reaching out as if to hold her hand. Her fist unclenched in anticipation of his touch, but he pulled away suddenly, tucking his hands under the quilt.

“Am I a gentleman to you, Elisha?” He looked up at her, blue eyes blazing behind a curtain of too-long lashes. “Is my behavior correct?”

She nodded.

“It's imperative to me that I am a gentleman to you. That I behave honorably. I cannot long to touch your hair, so vibrant. When I'm near you my hands tremble, longing to feel the strands slide between my fingers like a velvet curtain.”

His hand slid out from the covers and began pulling nervously on his hair. “If you state something as true, with enough conviction, perhaps that thing really would become true. If I told you that I didn't think of you at the ball tonight, perhaps you'd believe me. And that I did not imagine you, gowned and resplendent. You belong there, you know. More than any of those other females, ruddy peahens. When you speak, I would never consider your mouth nor think of your lips, how soft they appear. How those lips would feel upon my mouth, upon my skin. They can't feel as soft as they look, can they?”

Tears filling her eyes, Eliza could only look at him.

“A gentleman would never think these thoughts and so I—never think them.” He tilted his head and gave her a quizzical look. “Do you expect I will remember this in the morning? With all your strange accumulation of knowledge from the place that you come from that is
not
Yorkshire, nor do I think is entirely America—what do you know of drunkards and what they can remember?”

“I'm pretty sure you'll forget most of it, William.” She hoped she sounded more certain than she felt.

He sank into his bed, his eyelids falling down like window shades.

“Thank Christ for small favors then. I should think I would be mortified if I were to recall being so honest with you. To say nothing of all the fucking swearing I've engaged in.”

Quietly, she turned and let herself into the hall. She felt her way back to her room down the darkened hall. The world seemed to have turned on one end with William's words. She was torn between elation and fear and a thousand unanswerable questions filled her mind.

She had no answers, none at all, and only hoped that come morning he'd remember little of the night's confession.