7. Propositioning a Pigeon

7

Propositioning a Pigeon

Late, late that evening, much had been accomplished.

Not only had Harriet completed the 400 words dedicated to her mother (chosen to start with “because it is the second-shortest one you are making me do and the one I most dread”), but she and Aphrodite had nearly run holes in their slippers:

1. Jointly traipsing down to the ballroom (“only for another peek—pleeeeeeeeeease”).

2. Visiting the card room, Aphrodite waiting by the door as Harri flitted inside (“but for a moment to hug Papa goodnight— before he learns of my eee- greeee -gious behavior and forever banishes me to live in the stables”).

3. And, most recently, subsequent to completing the first fifty-seven of her lines, Harri had crossed into her mother’s bedchamber after scratching at the door and being bid to enter, while Aphrodite waited in the corridor (“not to leave the punishment note, not yet. Only to ask if Merry Anne truly did accept Lord Redford’s suit—which means I shall have a brother at long last! But also to make sure Mama isn’t yet aware of the Ruinous Ribbon Atrocity and to tell her I forgive her for eating Sir Gal”—huge sigh—“a”—and another that wafted the fallen curls near her face—“ had . Which I do not, in truth. But I shall pretend I have, so on the morrow, mayhap she will not be quite so angry with me.” “Oh, Harri.”).

Talk of big sighs heaving forth. From both of them by now.

Though they had interrupted scant minutes of writing (accompanied by an abundance of whining) no less than three separate times to satisfy, what was in fact, both their curiosities, for Aphrodite, naught had been becalmed.

Not appeased, pleased nor remotely satisfied. For a certain flirtatious gentleman remained least-in-sight.

Oh well. If wishes were horses, she still had no saddle to ride.

Though her duties typically ended far earlier each day, the plethora of guests, the boundlessly unique presence of musicians and the official announcement of Lord Redford and Lady Anne’s engagement, added to the revelrous season, ensured that today and the ones that followed would be anything but typical.

After Harri’s lady’s maid, the one shared betwixt the sisters, assisted the girl out of her finery and into her nightclothes, Aphrodite spent a few restful moments, more friend than teacher, as she and Harri took turns reciting their favorite parts of the day.

Once the quiet murmurs, that went on far longer than she’d anticipated, wound down, Aphrodite let herself out of Harri’s chamber. Walking down the corridor toward the lesser-used back stairs, she passed the maid (now awaiting Lady Anne’s eventual summons); they shared a few quiet moments of conversation before both went about their business.

Heart and mind equally full, stomach just this side of hollow—perfect for sleep—and still twinging with the odd tingle of losing her job. ( Not at the thought of black hair and gleaming eyes, of broad shoulders and?—)

“And stop that right now,” she chastised herself, trailing her fingers lightly against the wall as she descended the narrow staircase, “else I will set you to writing lines.”

I shall not covet nor think of nor remember anything about L— About a certain man I must forget.

Must forget.

If she had any hope of a settled stomach.

At some point during countless hours and drinks, Warrick stationed himself outside the ballroom. Not quite obscured in a small nook where, earlier, servants had traded full glasses for empty ones upon their trays before rushing off to either wash and refill or to deliver the full ones to those making revels inside.

Mulled wine or warmed wassail, even weak whiskey, he cared not as long as it was wet and within reaching distance.

As the hour grew later, closer to morn than midnight, some guests retired while others retreated to the card room, exchanging sore toes for partners at whist. Most? It seemed to him, and his inert feet and unresponsive legs, that most continued to delight in dancing about. Damn them.

Somewhere around his fourth or fifth glass since rolling off to ruminate alone, he’d aimed his wheels toward his room and emptied his bladder. No kick- thump s this time, so no dangerous sloshing—but no intriguing conversations to overhear either.

After debating bed for but a moment—hell, no. Not nearly tippled enough to sleep, not after that silent dalliance over dinner—he’d rolled back to his nook only to discover it void of servants, trays and booze. Blast it.

How was a man to get bosky enough to blot out all the horribly happy dancing within without a fermented or distilled beverage in hand? How was a not-quite sober?—

“Ah.” He heralded a passing servant. “I shall have another, if you please.”

And…twenty minutes later, “Another!”

Watching everyone dance had just invited sorrows, encouraged regrets and welcomed the dismals to take hold. All things he did not need.

At least his head now floated pleasantly. Too bad his feet couldn’t do the same.

Or mayhap his soul. Some days, the burden of disappointing his mother, of not being able to carry out the responsibilities of the title on his misbegotten shoulders and broken body weighed heavily.

Mama had been gnawing, cajoling and irritating him to visit some newfangled doctor she knew of. Irking him until he finally agreed. So he had that to look forward to upon his return to London. Another doctor? More poking, prodding and pronouncements of “Never will you walk again”.

How blissful moments await! his mind trilled with more mocking melody than his talented fingers could ever pull from a pianoforte.

“Putrid. Pigeon. Dress. Miss. Prim. Rose…”

The unexpected rumble stopped Aphrodite’s feet as though she’d stumbled into a boulder. A boulder intoning her name as Moses might before casting forth the Commandments.

“You need not fear me,” the rumble continued, speaking from the shadows. “Anything shared between us will no doubt trickle from my memory before it can gain hold. But really, your attire galls. Who would not dance until he could not stand, that had a sweet pigeon by the hand. ”

Pigeon? The last was recited like a verse, but none she claimed familiarity with.

Astonishment held her in thrall as both eyes and mind grappled.

Had her rebellious, not-to-be-subdued thoughts conjured temptation? For here sat Lord Warrick, in a seldom-used recess, more than half hidden in shadows where he would have gone unnoticed—had he wished.

Every bit as compelling as earlier—though instead of half a dozen feet distant, only two or three separated them now.

From exchanging clandestine secrets over dinner, with nearly a hundred others present, to engaging in a private, one-on-one rendezvous? Dare she be so bold?

Without quite meaning to, she edged toward him. “Lord Warrick,” she acknowledged, relieved her voice conveyed not how her entire body had taken to thrumming with an odd heat. “Is there something I might assist you with? Are you lost? Need, mmm, help getting somewhere?”

His laconic posture straightened. “Perish the thought. I reside exactly where I wish to be. Nay,” he said quickly, when she fidgeted, debating whether or not to heed the proper urge to leave, “stay. Visit with me a moment?”

Before she could accede or decline, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at her, his intent gaze appraising her from toes to nose. As her vision adapted to his dark nook, she saw him more clearly than was wise.

“Aye…” he mused, “beneath the pigeon wear, lurks the beauty of a peacock, I do believe. One might wish you were another sort of female.” His shadowed gaze inspected her as though she were on display—and for sale—like a piece of ripe fruit. “I daresay, if you were that other sort, I would be remiss if I did not entice you to sit upon my lap.”

Cursed compliments.

There was so much to contemplate in his racy words. A peacock? Her? A beauty? No one was supposed to see beneath the tightly pulled-back hair, bound breasts and heavy, unadorned attire. Even given their earlier, most unusual… accord outside and then again during those near magical moments in the dining room, this sort of verbal “greeting” only proved that beyond his appealing exterior and astute mind, Lord Warrick boasted horrendous manners and appalling behavior.

Just like those other titled lords.

But unlike those two others, attention from this one didn’t send her scampering as it should have.

Sit upon his lap ? Another sort of female?

How would she sleep a wink the next sennight, contemplating either?

Nor did she know what to address first. “You, Lord Warrick, appear deep in your cups.”

“Decidedly so. And you, Miss Primrose—traipsing by stiffer than a hedgerow—appear deeply stuffed into your dress.”

“I liked you better silent.” A lie.

“Pity, for I find your spirited responses worthy of my lap indeed.”

Worthy? His lap again!

“Do stop pinching your face, Peacock. ’Tis quite unbecoming. Unnecessary as well, for did I not admit I am likely tippled beyond recollection? Ergo, you may keep a poor cripple company without concern over your reputation. I assume you haven’t ruined it yet?”

“Or had it ruined for me?” Her tart reply surprised them both.

“We shall be eminently grateful neither is the case.”

“ We shall?”

“Aye. I will join with you in valuing your reputation.”

“You will join with me not at all!”

Smile-inducing laughter barked from him. “Yet with every sentence, you make me contemplate it more.”

Knowing she should find everything he said disagreeable and offensive, but oddly…not, she sputtered, “I do believe your mouth would be better served glued shut.” There now, that sounded appropriately disdainful. “As each time it opens, more inappropriate drivel babbles forth.”

“Inappropriate, eh?” The wicked Warrick appeared flattered by the insult, giving a low chuckle that did only inappropriate things to her middle. “Are you unaccustomed to the silver tongue of an admirer?”

Laughter burbled from her then, self-directed more than not. Admirer? “What taradiddle! You had best halt— Ack!” Quickly did she step aside, to avoid the reach of his hand, when he maneuvered the chair closer with the opposite one. “Come now,” she said severely, “do stop trifling with me.”

“Miss Primrose, in whom my interest only grows, a trifle does not begin to approach how I think of you.”

Hearing voices exiting the ballroom, as the music grew in volume until being abruptly cut off once the door thumped shut, she scuttled past, hiding herself in the deepest part of the shadows surrounding him, pressing into the corner and sucking in her stomach as though to make herself invisible to anyone who might chance by. Bending toward his ear, she gave a harsh whisper, “You should not be thinking of me at all.”

He turned his head until his lips were but a kiss away. “ Merciful powers ,” he intoned in a very stately manner at odds with how many servings of spirits she suspected he’d downed. “ Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that my lusty nature might bring about. Stifle ? — ”

“Nay, you stifle and stubble it.” She gave the side of his head a light shove, nearly groaning when her fingers fisted against the urge to delve through his thick hair. “Misquoting Macbeth in the dead of night? You should feel a double portion of shame for that, my lord.”

As she straightened, he lightly clasped her nearest arm, trailing his fingers down until they brushed hers. “Would I not have to feel a single portion of shame first?” Her fingers fluttered against his. “Which I assuredly do not.”

Lusty lords and midnight mayhem, her saner side asserted, get thyself away from this one lest you be tempted further by what his naughty nature might bring about. Before your willing nature has you falling prey to his.

Right. A proper governess—a moral woman—would be protesting. Ah, but an immoral one?—

Aphrodite!

Reluctantly, very much so, she retrieved her tingly fingers, wrapped her other hand around them and squeezed. “Why waste your time dithering about with me when you should be”—her eyes glanced beyond their shadowed, private nook toward the ballroom and card room beyond where the season’s revelries continued—“in there . Discoursing and such.”

He stuck out his tongue and blew on it.

The sound, loud and childish, surprised a laugh from her.

“Aye,” he huffed. “Because one on jolty, creak-laden wheels belongs in a ballroom full of dancing debutantes.”

The scorn in his tone vanquished her lingering smile.

“In truth, my dear…” His voice growing hushed, intimate, he “jolted” and “creaked” closer again. This time she stayed in place, curious, interested, attracted , despite every reason why she shouldn’t be. “I would much prefer to dither about with you. Come to my chamber later?”

He had not just proposed a tawdry tête-à-tête between them.

He had not .

This wounded gentleman, though she was coming to realize the term gentleman scarcely applied…this astute, amusing, possibly anguished man, one she admitted to vast curiosity over, one who had nearly lost his life fighting for England and freedom, had just doused any dreams she might have foolishly nurtured.

Because, upon uttering that last sentence, he had moved beyond ribald flirtation into downright insultation.

She bent at the waist and glared in his face. “With that, my lord, you have stepped over and beyond any bounds of propriety that you might have held on to by a mile. Were?—”

“ Stepped? ” One haughty brow arched to a point, a move she was certain he had perfected in a mirror. “Nay, my shrouded peacock, for I step nowhere these past months. Which is why you must rouse yourself to step—preferably hasten—toward my room this eve.” The scoundrel gestured toward his lap. “Whilst I apply myself to rousing other things just-for- you .”

How could he so ruthlessly destroy any remaining hint of girlish infatuation? Of preposterous dreams? Ones she had been relying on to entertain and comfort (if not arouse) every time she closed her eyes for weeks to come?

She hated him, then. Hated.

“Were you not seated indefinitely,” she said in a harsh whisper approaching a shriek, “a clout it is I would deliver, and hard to the side of your face for speaking thus to me, servant or no.”

Her breath heaved when she finished, and it had naught to do with the scents of wine and wassail that invaded her nostrils from his proximity. She hauled back, upright, constricted breasts protesting each painful inhale, her feet rooted in place though they should have already fled.

Because she fully expected him to summon his host—her employer—and have her chastised if not outright dismissed for speaking to him so.

Instead of taking offense, of being abashed, ashamed or appalled at his own behavior, the rotten lout only smiled. A devil’s smile. A tempting, sinful smile full of sadness and, yes, yearning—which made her want to hate him more.

A smile that reached past the bonds tight across her breasts, reached past the ugly brown fabric that made her perspire more often than not, reached beyond the practiced air of serenity she wore like a cloak every waking moment and touched her soul . Blast him.

“Ah, but were I not seated in this chair—indefinitely—I would stand on my own two feet and whisk you within my arms and into the ballroom . I would sweep you onto the floor, so we could move as one to the music of the season, scandal-mongers be damned.

“And if retribution was to be had? A clout from your flesh to mine?” He brought one hand up from his chair and clapped it resoundingly against the side of his face. “I would welcome it from you.”

His voice grew ragged, as though confessing so much at once wore on him. “Would welcome the touch of your skin—even in anger—upon my own. Should you, perchance, see your way to changing your mind and altering your opinion of me, my door shall remain unlocked.”

“Do not,” the warning hissed from her unbidden. “Lest you desire a wife by scandal, one you have no say in, you will not leave your door unlocked at any point during your stay.”

He acknowledged her words with a hardening of his expression, a nod of understanding. “My thanks.”

He angled his upper body as though intent on leaving, only to jerk back toward her. “Lest you be concerned for your virtue, dear one…” His voice lowered, grew not bolder but instead now lacked the bravado she’d heard from him thus far.

He gave a mocking laugh and angled the chair away from her, guiding it slowly away from their alcove and toward the inner reaches of Redford Manor, requiring her to follow on slippered feet in order to hear the rest of his softly spoken words. “Do not. I vow, you would leave as chaste—or nearly so—as you arrived. For you see before you a seated man with a broken prick. I would bid you au revoir ”—he cast a brief look at her over his shoulder, and she could see a hint of red above the bristle on his cheek where he had slapped his own face—“but after becoming so intimately acquainted with French blades, bullets and cannon blasts, I cannot. For I can no longer tolerate anything French at all. Goodbye.”

Goodbye.

So very final.

It should be a relief.

Why was it, then, when he was the rotten, filthy-mouthed inappropriate one… When he was the one rolling off in a creaking Merlin’s chair—rolling away from her…

Why was it she was the one who stood there, mired in place and trembling in the aftermath of their encounter?