Chapter 10

Three days of not kissing Mr. Bailey had not proved enough to banish the ghost of his lips from Prudence's own. And three days of waiting for him to knock on their locked doors and interrupt their conversations had worn her down.

Because the knocks never came.

He'd let them be. For three days. Dinner almost approaching on the third, and he'd not sought her out once, not strode into one of their gatherings to poke his long nose about and send them all spinning into a panic.

It should have been a lovely reprieve.

But Prudence sat in a too small chair in a dark corner of the library, legs swung over one arm, back resting against the other, and bit her thumbnail, tore it ragged with her teeth.

The book they'd been discussing lay forgotten on her lap.

She'd never bitten her fingernails before. But if she didn't do that, they'd notice what she'd been doing before—touching her lips, smoothing her fingertips over the remaining sensation of Mr. Bailey's kiss.

She'd been sitting just so in his lap that day, hadn't she? Yes, draped across him as she currently found herself draped across the chair.

What did he mean by staying? But by keeping his distance? He wanted their secrets, and he did not yet have them, so why had he not pushed and pried as he had upon his arrival? She'd seen him at dinner, of course, in the hour before and after when they all gathered for drinks and conversation. He'd been polite, civil.

Entirely unlike himself.

"What trickery is he up to now?" She let her head fall back with a groan.

A book snapped closed across the room. "You've been pouting for three days, Pru," Cora said. "Will you tell us, finally, what happened in the portrait gallery?"

Prudence swung her feet to the floor and hid her face in her hands. She'd not told them because she'd not wished them to know she'd been the one distracted, not him. And after those kisses, he seemed to have gotten what he wanted. And lost interest.

And that bothered her, turned her usually perfectly organized mind into utter chaos.

Three more books snapped shut outside the darkness of her palms. They waited. They'd been waiting.

And she needed them to help reorganize the chaos into order.

She let her hands fall to her lap. "What does it mean when a fellow kisses you, then ignores you?"

Cora cleared her throat. "I'd like to know, too, actually."

The three older women sighed as one, shared looks with sad eyes and raised brows.

"Very well," Lady Templeton said. "Listen up, girls."

"We'll reveal all." Lady Macintosh nodded with the slow, ponderous tilt of the chin downward gained only by years of experience churned into sage wisdom.

Silence.

Then Cora demanded, "Well?"

"If a man kisses you," Mrs. Garrison said.

"Then ignores you," Lady Templeton added.

"It means he disliked the kiss," Lady Macintosh finished. "Or…"

Lady Templeton inspected the cuff of her sleeve. "He liked the kiss so much it scared him."

"Or," Mrs. Garrison said, rising to her feet and marching across the room, "he's not thought about it at all, and it is something else entirely distracting him from what, to you and possibly to him, was a memorable occasion."

"So, none of you have the foggiest," Prudence said.

"That hardly matters." Mrs. Garrison stopped before her, standing tall as a general. "What matters is your answer to this question: Do you think it was a memorable occasion?"

Prudence looked away. The rug possessed a rather nice design. Floral, lovely color, thick—

"Do you?" Mrs. Garrison barked.

Prudence jumped, answered without thinking as if the bounce of her backside against the chair had sent the answer flying out of her mouth. "Yes!"

Mrs. Garrison smiled. "Excellent. Now, would you like it to happen again?"

"It should not happen again."

"Not what I asked, girl. Do you want Mr. Bailey to kiss you again?"

She closed her eyes, felt still, the sensation of his large body cradling hers on the sofa in the sunlight three days ago. "Yes, I would like that. But…" They waited a long time for her to continue speaking, and in the generosity of that silence, she found the right fear to wrangle forth. "I've… I've never wanted to kiss a man before." She winced. "I've read all the same books you have, but never felt… motivated by them until… until recently." Until she saw Cora and Norton in the garden. Until she felt Bailey's heavy arm around her, felt his breath hitch as he watched them, too. Only an odd little seedling of an idea then, but one that bloomed full flower as they'd traipsed the stairs together three days ago.

"What changed?" Cora asked.

"I've never felt as comfortable around a man as I do around Mr. Bailey. At first, I did not mind his presence because I knew he did not mean it. To court me, that is. He posed no true threat. And then I grew to understand him better. He's…" She remembered the way he'd scratched the marble dog's head. "Amusing."

Mrs. Garrison marched back to her chair and sat. "Is he now?"

"Yes, but it does not explain why I want Mr. Bailey to think I'm quite perfect, and why I fear he does not." That fear sat like a boulder in her belly. She hated it, wanted it gone. But how did one move boulders? Too big. Too eternal.

"Because his thighs are quite perfect in his breeches?" Lady Templeton asked.

"Because he possesses a perfect smile without that beard?" Mrs. Garrison offered.

"Or perhaps, Prudence," Cora said, her expression unreadable, "because you found his kiss quite perfect?"

Yes, yes, and yes, but not entirely. She stood. "I can stand the uncertainty no longer. He's no doubt attempting to drive me mad so I break down and give him what he wants."

"Marriage to you?" Cora asked, coming to her feet.

"Of course not!" Awakening attraction did not mean marriage. Surely not. If that were so, nearly every young man and woman in London would be engaged before the end of their first ball. Besides… "He has ulterior motives, remember?"

The ladies groaned.

"I thought we were making progress with the chit," Lady Templeton mumbled.

"Are you going to refuse to play his game?" Mrs. Garrison said. "Remain here and unaffected by his absence? A solid strategy, that. Remain behind your defenses."

"No." Prudence strode to the door. "I'm going to confront him."

"Ah." Four voices together, a doubting chorus.

No matter. She needed to see him again to ensure this buzzing feeling he'd put inside her was not fatal. Surely it would disappear once they spoke alone again, once she found more reason to believe he chased her only for nefarious reasons.

A knock on the door.

She'd been waiting for that knock for three days, and now she hardly knew what to do next.

Cora knew, though. She sailed to the door and unlocked it, opened it, revealed Mr. Bailey, grinning with his hands behind his back and his cheeks newly shaved.

His gaze found Prudence like a bird finds warmer climes in the winter, and he looked only at her as he spoke. "Lady Norton, I hope everyone is enjoying themselves this morning."

"Yes, thank you." Cora retook her seat, her gaze darting between the man and Prudence.

"I came to ask a favor of Lady Prudence," he said. "Norton has given me a drawing room to use as my own, for business matters and correspondence while I'm here. Will you join me?"

"She'll need a chaperone!" Lady Templeton's voice sounded like a cock's crow on a silent morning—sudden and much too loud.

"Of course," Bailey said.

But how would Prudence strangle answers from the man if one of her friends sat pesky in a corner? She looked to Cora for help. Any help.

Cora shook her head, then rolled her eyes and said, "Oh let us not worry about such matters. The room you are using is just down the hall. Norton asked my permission first. And if you keep the door open, we can all stay quite cozy as we are without a bit of impropriety."

Bless Cora straight to heaven.

"Excellent idea." Bailey strode across the room, grasped Prudence's wrist, and hauled her toward the door. Apparently, gentlemanly sentences did not extend to actions. He'd speak nicely, then haul her about.

She didn't fight it. She saved her energy for later battles and merely waved at Cora and the others as he swept her from the room.

Very few of his very large steps brought them to a small parlor Prudence had not yet visited. He left the door open as he dragged her toward a small writing desk near the windows across the room.

He released her only to pull a chair out from under the table. Then he plopped her into it and scooted it forward so hard she lurched backward, gripping tight to the arms to stay steady.

"Here." He waved a hand over the top of the desk. "What do you think?"

She blinked at the large ledger open before her, at the smaller notebooks piled beside it. "What is it I'm having thoughts on?" She turned to look behind her.

He paced back and forth, his hair falling over his forehead. "My books. For my papers. My notes. My calendar and schedule. Everything. I am attempting to buy out Kingtson and… other investors to be sole owner of one of our printshops, but I clearly cannot manage on my own." He growled, ruffled clawed fingers through his hair, stopped and faced her, though he would not hold her gaze. "I clearly need help. You'll help me?"

Oh. Oh no. The buzzing he'd settled into her skin when she'd sat in his lap… it dug deeper now, right into her heart, and that organ glowed, grew too large for her ribs to possibly contain. She swallowed, turned back to the paper. Better looking there than at him and his ruined hair and his face filled with doubt. And hope. Where was the grumpy beast from London? If only he'd return, she could resist him.

Blast it all.

"It took me three days to have all this delivered from London. Should I have asked your permission before bringing it all here?"

She shook her head, unable to speak, working through the lump in her throat to do so because if she did not speak, he would continue doing so, and she could not withstand those raindrops of his any longer. They melted her entirely. She'd be a puddle on the floor soon.

"No, no," she managed to say. "I'm happy to help. Delighted. This is just what I adore."

He strode to stand beside her, the warmth of his body like a fire-warmed bath, smelling of a bright summer morning—grass and sunshine. "You enjoy fixing the mistakes of clueless nodcocks?"

"I enjoy ordering chaos."

"Ah." He disappeared while she flipped to the front of the ledger, and when he returned, he dragged a chair with him. Once he'd placed it right beside her, he flung himself into it, propped an elbow on the table, and smiled at her. "Bloody good way of putting it. More complimentary to myself. Barely. But I'll take it."

She wanted to kiss him. More than she wanted to order the chaos he'd plunked before her like the most delectable of treats. But he wanted her brain, not her lips, and she could not think of a logical reason to do as she wished—climb from her chair to his and devour him with as much gusto as she'd set about organizing his life. More, even.

Odd, that.

Instead, she turned the pages slowly, taking in every number, every entry, acutely aware that he watched her, not the pages of his ledger.

"You must stop looking at me like that."

"Am I looking at you?"

She looked at him, her head tilted, the smallest furrow between her brows.

"I suppose I was. What should I look at instead?"

She pointed to a page. Ink spilled across in every direction, random numbers and names, dates and times. "What is this?"

He leaned over, straightened back up. "My schedule for May of this year."

"No." If so… the horrors.

"Yes. See?" He pointed at the scrawl of dots and lines. "That's the monthly meeting Kingston and I have with our investors."

She leaned so close to the book her nose almost touched. "At a coffeehouse?"

"We have few investors—your brother, Noble, sometimes a soldier fellow called Duncan—and we prefer comfort to formality."

She turned. Their knees almost touched, and the almost-touch scorched her through skirts and shift and stockings, but she ignored it. "Why do you not write such things in neat, ordered lines across the page? And in order by date? If this is an important item for your month, why is it cramped into a corner?"

He shrugged. "I dump everything in my brain down onto the page when I remember to. More often than not I'm distracted before I've written it all down."

"You need a secretary, Mr. Bailey."

"You'd be perfect for the job."

He wanted her. As his secretary. She wanted to delight in that. Somehow couldn't. Much.

"Thank you," she said. "It's not often a woman is praised or desired for her mind." Had that been his reason for courting her?

"My mother helped run our printshop. In Boston. Kept the books. Bloody good at it, too. Was a great boon after she passed, having her notes all in perfect order. Not that it helped. I still ran the damn thing under."

She pulled another of his notebooks on top of the open ledger and flipped through it. "Is that why you've gone into the printing business? Because of your parents?"

"I…" He tapped the top of the table, each tap a drum beat in the silence stretched between them. "Yes. There's a shop. On Fleet Street." He stretched back in his chair and a grin stretched itself across his face. He seemed to see all the way to Fleet Street from Norton Hall. "It looks just like the one my parents owned. It's the first one I bought with Kingston and your brother. And it will be the first I run on my own. I'll rename it. So, there's a Bailey's Prints in London. To keep the memory of my parents alive. The door's just the shade of blue my mother loved most."

He'd woven his hands together across his abdomen, and he'd popped the front two chair legs off the floor so he balanced. She could not look away from the lean, stretched out length of him.

"You miss her," she said, pausing in the middle of turning a page.

He slipped a hand into his breast pocket, pulled out the miniature notebook with the stubby pencil stuffed between its pages, and tossed it onto the table. "Yes. My pa, too. Good people. They brought joy with them wherever they went."

"My parents, too. They loved each other terribly, and you could see it. I think… I think their love made everyone love more. Or want to love more. Were your parents in love?"

He chuckled. "My ma's the biggest reason my pa stayed in the States. He couldn't give up his heart, and she had a home there."

Her hands stilled on the notebooks, her vision blurring on the present, sharpening on the past, on golden days at her parents' side—the laughter, the full-heartedness. She swallowed a lump in her throat and said, "You know what it feels like, then."

"I do."

The present moment came careening back, sharp as a knife's edge. "Do you… are you waiting to marry for that? For love?"

"I don't know why I'm waiting. No one's felt right yet. I've not even really given it a th—" He let the front chair legs fall, and he snapped his mouth shut.

She jumped to her feet. "I knew it!"

"You tricky bit of baggage." He chuckled, pushing his palms into the table to stand. "You should let me finish my sentence."

She made for the door. He stalked after her. And before she could sail through it, he reached over her head, caught the door's corner, and slammed it shut. He pressed his body against it, blocking her entirely.

"You should let me finish my sentence, Lady P."

"I don't need to hear it."

"Until recently. I've not considered marriage much until recently."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "If that were true, you'd not have left me alone for three days after kissing me."

The corner of his lips tilted up. "Missed me, did you?"

"Let me pass."

"I don't think so. You're not done with my books."

She glanced at the cluttered desk behind her. The books were a temptation. He was a villain most likely, but that didn't mean she had to leave his life in chaos. She returned to the desk in what she hoped came across as dignified silence.

He opened the door, then returned to his seat. "I truly need your help."

"Clearly." She ignored him and opened each book, an easy plan formulating. "Now you must listen clearly to me, Mr. Bailey, or you'll be in another mess before the month is out."

"Yes, my lady."

She'd also ignore the tease in his tone. "This small one that fits in your pocket. It's where you dump your thoughts, everything in your head. Write it down immediately there. You must get into a habit, Mr. Bailey."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you must transfer the contents of this small notebook into the larger schedule which, I assume, remains in your office." She finally looked at him, found him entirely engrossed, frowning a bit, as if he worked to memorize her every word. "As soon as you enter your office, transfer it all. Put them in order by date, please. And in neat rows across the page. Do you understand?"

"Another habit?"

"Precisely. Every time you enter your office. Rows by date. And hire a secretary." She looked out the window. "I could see one hired for you. Or ask Andromeda to speak with Kingston about it. Those three things should straighten you out. But I'm afraid no one but yourself can help you when you're out and about. Oh!" She tapped on the miniature notebook, picked it up, and flipped it around backward, upside down. "Use the backside for writing down each day's important meetings and any pressing, timely matters you shouldn't forget. One side to dump your brain into and the other to serve as a reminder."

"Brilliant. Though I doubt I can live up to such a perfect system." His eyes were as open and blue as the summer skies outside the window. Not a hint of impish trickery in the corners of his kissable lips, though she could not help but wonder if that's what his compliments were—manipulations. Nothing he did made sense. Because…

Because a man could not truly want her. Plain, boring Prudence. He'd kissed her, brought her his books, asked her advice, called her brilliant… all of it added up to make her feel wanted.

Trickery or…?

"Prove it to me, Mr. Bailey," she said, folding her hands together on top of the books.

"Prove I'm going to muck up your system?"

"No. Prove you are courting me for me."

Even behind the knot of his cravat, she could see his Adam's apple bob. A swallow of indecision, hesitancy. She'd not truly wished to be right.

The paper beneath her palms was cool as she flattened her hands against it and pushed to standing. But the air around her warm as she made for the door.

A light tug stilled her, and she turned to find Mr. Bailey just behind her, a head and a half taller than her, something unreadable in his eyes. He pinched her skirts between thumb and forefinger. That pinch became a fist as he crumpled her skirts in his hand to pull her closer. She swayed into the heat of his body as he bent his tall form around her, his gaze flicking to her lips.

He lowered. He stopped. Inches from her. "I can't kiss you again. Already kissed you too many times. Your brother's Guide says—"

"Curse the Guide. Toss it into the lake. Fling it into a bonfire. Kiss me or I'll know, Mr. Bailey. Kiss me or—"

"I-I-I can't."

She wrapped her hand around the one still clutched in her skirts, and one finger at a time, she unballed his fist until he had nothing to cling to and his hand dropped heavy to his side.

"I know, Mr. Bailey." She left him but stopped in the door frame, spoke without looking back at him. "I've always known." The kisses from three days ago tricks to acquire… something. And now that he had it, or thought he did, no need for kisses. Not any longer.

There existed few reasons a man would court her, and love or something like it was not one.