Chapter Three

Emily slumped to the floor, uncaring of her bustle and dress. Tiredness hit her like a stallion at a gallop. Her throat was hoarse from all the shouting earlier and her shoulder ached. She needed a bath and to sit in front of a fire that would envelop her in warmth. Miss Green and Mrs. Burnham had left and there was nothing to do but bear the chilly night. Markshall was just across the small space, but she couldn't remember the last time she was so frozen and alone.

Well, she could, but she pushed the memory away with the most distracting, irregular part of this whole escapade. "Were you following me?"

"Is that a sensible thing to ask, Lady Emily?" His inflection sounded amused, but there was a hint of warning too.

"Probably not." It wasn't sane when they were in a dark place, on their own, for hours and hours until morning and rescue. But it was better than ruminating on James and she didn't want him to re-open the topic she had been so ill-judged as to begin. But they must talk about something while they were stuck together.

"You know the answer anyway. Don't you." It was a statement, not a question.

Yes, then. She had known he was following her, pursuing her even. "Why?"

"That is an even more unwise question." He sounded like a stern teacher. "Do you really want me to answer?"

A shiver went down her back. No. "Yes."

He sighed, as though resigned. "Perhaps you don't remember our first encounter."

She did. It was at the Waddington's dinner and ball, a large and glamorous affair. They had been seated together, and she had tried to ignore him and speak to the sensible married men around her about matters like whether a Midlands hedge was superior to a Devon hedge.

"When we met, or more accurately when I first saw you at the town square a week or so before we were introduced by the Waddingtons, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

Her mouth opened in a little ‘o' of surprise. He had seen her before they'd met at the Waddington's dinner? And he'd thought her beautiful? "I don't believe you."

"Well, that is the interesting thing about the truth," he said. "It doesn't matter if you believe it or not, it remains the case. You cannot change it, and neither can I. It keeps on being true, even if you refuse to acknowledge it, because it's a matter of fact rather than opinion."

Emily laughed shortly. "Are you haranguing me for finding it incredible that you say you found a spinster, of only ever middling charms, the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?" She wasn't under any illusions about herself. A doll-like beauty she was not. "You might as well chastise a fox for running from the hounds."

"You have a remarkable purpose in the way you walk. You have long, striding steps that say, ‘I am going to achieve something'. That attracted me first. When you turned, I saw a stray strand of your hair, escaped from your bonnet. It glistened in the sunlight."

Emily felt his words like the caress of warm water, smoothing over her, seeping into her cracks of vulnerability. He sounded sincere, impartial almost. His tone said it wasn't that he found her admirable and lovely, but that he simply observed it, able to see her when no-one else could.

What else could he see about her?

"A moment later, you smiled." He paused. "It was like I was looking straight into the sun. It was unbearable and perfect." He sounded wistful.

Her breath was shallow in her chest and quicker than it ought to be, and she was leaning forward, toward him. He was seducing her with mere praise, at her own request. She ought to be able to see through it and be immune to such easy flattery, but instead, she was entranced.

"And it wasn't for me. You ignored me totally."

"Should I continue to ignore you?" She couldn't overlook him now, any more than she could give up on her affy fern. Would ignoring him keep his interest?

"Are you saying now, my… interest is reciprocated?" His hesitation and tone gave the question an odd detachment.

"I ran away from you." That was then. Now he'd captured her breath and her foolish heartbeat. It had been a long time since she had felt like a woman, with the need to feel beautiful. "I fell down this pit rather than continue our conversation. Does that sound like reciprocating your feelings?" Recounting their predicament reminded her of the wet stone at her back. She was an aging spinster with an obsession of ferns, not a giddy young lady in her first season, controlled by rushes of lust and a fancy for a wealthy, pretty, ladies' man. Even if he had sea blue eyes.

"Yes." His voice was dead, devoid of the flirtatious tone she expected and dreaded. "It does sound like our emotions are in accord in this case."

"I see." But she didn't. He confused her. A moment ago, his words had been jagged with a longing that had lit a corresponding fire in her. Now she was in the cold and the black again. She hadn't felt this way, no, hadn't allowed herself to feel this way, since James. She supposed she only had herself to blame. If she had only… If James... If things were different.

"You snubbed me with the greatest charm and tact at the Waddington's ball. No-one but me even realized."

It was true. She'd sensed his interest, heard about his character, and protected herself with a frosty smile and attention to other gentlemen. That had been in public, where her reputation was everything. Her actions now seemed irrational and unnecessary. This accident was proof anything or nothing could happen, and her reputation might be wrecked either way. She'd worked so hard to be a perfect lady. But she could throw herself into his arms or turn her back from him, and neither would affect how the moral world saw their night alone.

"I'm sorry." In this pit, actions that seemed rational on the surface were unthinkable, and insanity like apologizing for snubbing a libertine was utterly logical. And kissing him seemed desirable.

He made a huff of almost amusement. "I'm sorry I chased you into this hole." He paused, then continued more soberly. "You must be freezing. It's going to be a long night. Come over here. We can share the blanket."

He'd tantamount to confessed to wanting her. He was a Lothario, and she was a lady who maintained a reputation so pure it wiped away the memory of the death of her fiancé without any blemish. She'd been impeccably careful for four years.

"You're cold. Come and lean against me." His tone was caring, as though he was concerned for her welfare rather than his interests.

"I mustn't." That wasn't no. She should say no. But it was chilly, and she was so alone. "What is your given name?" She needed a new name to chastise herself with if she was to make another mistake.

"Oscar."

And there it was. Her decision was clear. "Just for warmth, Oscar."

"Of course." There was a note of glee in his voice.

"And after tomorrow morning, you will leave me alone." No-one but them would know what happened here, this would be isolated. "You won't seek me out. I won't see you again."

"I always leave a lady alone if that's what she wants." There was no rancor in his tone, but his sentence didn't end on a down pitch. The phrase seemed somehow unfinished, as though there were other words too.

It was entirely dark. She couldn't see him, only hear the even pace of his breath nearby. She moved to sit up, and the rustle was as loud as a gunshot in the confined space.

"I'm here." His voice came from slightly to her left.

Tentatively, she crept towards him on her knees, arm outstretched. Her fingers bumped into wool. His coat. Warm hands reached out and guided her around.

"Here." He gently eased her backward, his voice rich in her ear. "Sit between my legs."

"No," she squeaked, pulling away. Immediately he released her.

That was too much. Too close. She settled herself next to him, her uninjured shoulder against his. She didn't relax, fussing with rearranging her skirts.

"Tell me about your ferns." He tucked the blanket around them both. His legs were outstretched, and hers were only just touching. Through layers of wool and linen, she could feel his thigh against her knees.

"I'm just the same as the multitude of young ladies and people of all ages that adore ferns." That somehow sounded both pompous and correctly self-deprecating.

"Mm hum." He sounded entertained. "Perhaps try actually informing me, rather than assume I know anything about this subject."

"I just collect them." She thought about the portable sanctuary she'd created, with all her equipment and specimens. "My favorite ferns are from abroad and stay in my Wardian case with a miniature jungle ruin scene, like a lost past world." She'd arranged every fern in it carefully, tending every leaf, and it drew the praise of many fellow collectors. "In it, I have specimens of—"

"Wardian case?" he interrupted.

Oh. She forgot that people didn't know about all the tools of a pteridologist. "It's like a miniature indoor glass house, for keeping ferns warm. Plants from the tropics can't survive in the English climate."

"And how many of these delicate tropical green things do you have?"

"Only a few dozen tropical specimens. I have around two hundred different ferns in my collection, either dried or as plants. Most also have accompanying drawings, often drawn from the glass microscope slides I made myself." That was boastful, but she was quite proud of her collection. "And of course, I have the usual fern patterned plates, vases, fabric and that sort of thing."

"A large collection of expensive toys." The blanket over them both felt like an extension of his teasing. "You certainly sound like a spinster. Or a man."

Her mouth twisted involuntarily. "They are not toys." Wardian cases and microscopes weren't playthings. They were critical objects for scientific horticultural inquiry.

"You make it sound like you're very dedicated to this dull pursuit. Don't you ever pine for something more… Exciting." He'd lowered his voice but must have leaned closer.

Her heart was so loud, she was surprised he didn't mention it. Her breaths weren't coming out quite even. Even in the dark and the cold, he was undeniably exciting. She needed to stay calm. One breath, two breaths. He was insulting her. She must focus on that or she'd say something silly. Three. Four.

Ferns. She could talk about ferns. "I'm sure the only reason you don't see its merits as an activity is the wonder of the objects is not in front of you. They are extraordinary things, ferns." Yes, this was safe and familiar. Ignoring innuendo and taking the most prosaic interpretation. "Each leaf is a little world in itself, a delicate leaf within a leaf. Beyond that, it is an appropriate and genteel activity for a lady. It gives me air and exercise. The Lady Hunters are excellent and improving company." All this was true.

"Really." He drew out the word. "Because when you were speaking about fox hunting at the Waddington's dinner, I rather thought that more your preference. Or shooting. You were advising the Curate on how to improve his aim, were you not?"

Her mouth was dry and when she swallowed, the sound seemed to travel in the small dark space. That evening she had been so focused on not paying the handsome man next to her any attention, she had been rather carried away. She had forgotten perfect ladies ought not to know about shooting guns. They ought to not know anything about guns, in fact.

"It was just the wine speaking." Which was more or less true. "I don't know about hunting." Which was not at all true. Well. Perhaps it was now. It had been four years since she had been anywhere near a hunt or a gun.

Fern hunting had filled that place in her life. Ferns, after all, did not need to be shot. They didn't run away, and they were quite robust, especially the English ones. Good things, ferns. She liked them.

"That wasn't what I gathered from your conversation."

She felt him move and half saw, half felt him stretch upwards.

"I thought you might prefer a more physical sort of activity." He made the word physical sound downright erotic. Especially when he was right next to her and they were snuggled underneath the blanket and completely alone. Her palms began to moisten with sweat, even as she felt herself leaning into his heat, away from the cold that was descending into their hole.

"I do—" Her voice came out high and breathy.

"I'm glad to hear that," he interrupted her. His arm came down slightly onto her shoulder, both unexpected and inevitable.

"I do not know what you mean." That was what she'd been saying.

"Admit it." His arm nestled into the crook of her neck, urging her closer. "You do prefer physical activities."

She did, entirely. But she repressed every urge out of habit now. Activities involving their tongues stroking and hands roaming in the dark invaded her thoughts. She'd been thinking of this fall as a liability, but maybe it was an opportunity. A kiss here, alone, couldn't damage her good standing, could it? No-one would know unless Oscar or she told them. Her character was already decimated if anyone ever found out they'd been trapped together overnight.

"Yes. But I can't…" She'd been so careful of her reputation, this was insanity.

"So why…" he whispered.

She turned her head towards his voice.

"Did you give up… physical activities, for a life of spinsterhood and ferns?"

And there again was the image of Lord Markshall, Oscar, lying motionless, and her heart thudded uncomfortably. Her bustle was digging into to her lower back, and her arms were suddenly chilled to the bone.

"It's just as I said. Ferns are a much more appropriate diversion for a lady." She meant to elegantly dismiss him, but instead, she sounded petulant. "This bustle is uncomfortable," she excused herself as she extricated herself from Oscar. Then she leaned back against the stone.

There was a long silence. So long, she thought he might not have heard her, or perhaps he was slipping into sleep. Or unconsciousness. "Oscar?"

He sighed deeply. "Yes." The flirtatious, teasing tone was gone from his voice.

Who knew what the time was. It had been black now for a long time. Despite the cold, or maybe because of it, she felt her limbs grow heavy. "Are you tired? Shall we try to sleep?"

"Of course. Come back near me for warmth. I won't do anything. You have my word."

She hesitated.

"You have my word," he repeated.

She eased closer to him until her arm brushed against his. Briskly he folded the blanket back around her, his hands only momentarily on her legs through the blanket and her thick skirts. The little muscles of her shoulders relaxed a bit when his hands left her.

"Now, sleep."

Emily closed her eyes, but it was the same either way. They lay next to each other in the dark. The sound of his breathing was even, but not deep or slow enough for him to have fallen asleep. Her mind, over-active at the best of times, flitted around.

Her reputation. James. Oscar. Connie's debut. Ferns. James.

"Oscar, I can't sleep." She mustn't think about James.

"I have very soporific tales of the House of Lords," he answered immediately. "I find such arguments very slumber-inducing."

"Yes, that sounds ideal." Something that wasn't about her. Anything to take her mind off her reputation. Ruined. Again.

"Last week, I slept through a very dull debate." He started to tell her about an argument regarding mining.

His voice was a deep sound, almost like a purr. His body emitted heat next to her, enough that she was comfortable. As he detailed the debate about the bill that had ensured children couldn't work down mines, she found herself relaxing into him. Her head found his shoulder, padded only slightly by his coat and beneath, just warm muscles.

It was a relatively recent change, he explained. He ran his words together smoothly, and Emily found her eyelids falling shut.

"And really, it's only right," Markshall finished with a sigh. "It's much more suitable for adults. As you are experiencing currently. It is really, ideal conditions for anyone over the age of twelve."

It was so dark, as dark as a mine. She slumped a little more against his body. And then she allowed herself to drift away.

***

As she slept, Oscar shifted over so her head fell against his shoulder. Her hair was fragranced with the scent of lemon, sharp and sweet. The tickle on his nose reminded him that she aroused as well as interested him. She was soft and innocent and delicate.

Emily slept easily, shifting occasionally, for hours. He didn't. Cramps through his back and a nagging headache made it impossible for him to be comfortable. But he didn't want to move and cut the fragile connection between himself and Emily that kept her warm and made it feel as though he was defending her.

Eyes closed, he thought about the upcoming debates in the House of Lords. He worried about Fanny. He tried not to allow himself to think about his daughter, Annie.

When Emily stirred, he gathered her infinitesimally closer into his arms, easing her to him. And his chest tightened with longing. It had been years since he'd been so close to a sweet smelling, high-born lady. Or any woman, really. He didn't avail himself of what he paid for when the invitation to accompany others to a brothel was unavoidable. It had been even longer since he'd had a lady, soft and pliable in his embrace. The feeling was unfamiliar and yet achingly it seemed like home.

Every now and again, he twisted awkwardly to reach into his pocket, pulled out his watch and clicked open the glass lid. Then carefully he felt for the hands to feel for the time. Not because he wanted to know, but because some devil instinct demanded that he find out how long this blissful purgatory with her would continue.

Not long enough. In the morning, this would all be over. She would again be a stranger.

***

Autumn. The smell of wet fallen leaves was all around, mixed in with the scent of bracken. Bright purple heather and vibrant yellow gorse surrounded them, then the red-brown-green woods beyond, a riot of color. The beaters were loud, forcing the pheasants out of the cover and onto the open moor.

And there was James, her childhood sweetheart. In front of her, someone raised a gun to shoot one of the birds. His checked woolen cuffs were fine quality, moss green with thin stripes of red.

James was still far away but walking back towards them, a smile on his lips.

"Emily," James called across to her. "I can't find it, pretty girl."

That's always what he called her. Her heart swelled.

"You will have to shoot another, fatter one."

She tried to call back to him, but no sound came out.

"All right," shouted the man in front of her to James. He refilled the ammunition, putting in two bullets. He raised his gun. He cocked the safety.

But his aim was off. Too close to James. It was too risky.

"No!" She shouted, but the man didn't hear her and neither did James. "Watch out!" Reaching, she couldn't grasp the man or reach James. She was trapped and couldn't move. Her arms were bound, and her mouth gagged.

In the distance, someone called her name.

The man's aim was not straight toward the main flock of birds, though it was close to one lone bird that had flown in the wrong direction. He was going to shoot James, she knew it. She fought to get out and push the man's aim off. She struggled and pushed, but she couldn't get free.

"James!" She shouted louder, straining against the gag, again and again. "James, get out of the way!"

The man took aim, straight towards James, and squeezed the trigger.

"No!" Her scream was strangled.

"Emily!"

***

Her eyes flew open into darkness. Her chest was tight but shuddering, like she'd breathed in dark particles and might choke. She clenched her hands into fists to try to stop her arms shaking, but her torso and legs were tangled in fabric. The air clotted around her, imprisoning her.

"Hey, hey. It's all right," a deep voice rumbled against her cheek. She was suddenly aware of his body next to hers, even through their clothes and the blanket.

Oscar. She was stuck in a mineshaft with Lord Markshall. It was 1875. She had to feel the present, the here and now, not the past that wouldn't release her.

"It was just a dream." He was stroking her shoulder. "Tell me about it."

She sucked in a breath. "No." She wasn't going to drag past terror into this disaster any more than it already was.

"Bloody hell," he muttered even as he continued to caress her back. "Trapped with an irrational female."

She reached toward him, thinking to cover his mouth. But her hand caught on his hair and she twined her fingers into the strands, holding onto him. He wasn't the bloody past. He was vivid and hot, even in the dark.

"Emily." He was pulling away. "What's the matter?"

She had to stop him talking.

"That dream was—"

Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his. For a moment he was still, then he was kissing her back, deepening the kiss, his tongue demanding on hers. It was like she'd surfaced from a freezing pond into the summer sunshine. His mouth was stroking her lips. He was heat, gentle but confident and the feel of his lips sent tingling through her body, to her breasts, and between her hips. His mouth toyed with hers, pulling her lip with his teeth then touching his tongue to hers, mouths pressed together. He gathered her to him, pulling her close, so her corset and dress and his coat were layered with no space for cold air between them.

Her fingers explored his hair, relishing its silkiness. Her palm slipped down to cup his jaw, firm under her touch. He was delicious, his mouth sweet and fresh, his skin a mixture of softness and the pin-pricks of stubble on her fingertips. This desperate measure to distract him was the best kiss she'd ever had. The only kiss she'd had for four years.

His hands ran down her back and she arched into the caress. It had been so long, and she so desperately wanted to forget herself, the dark, and everything in the past, present, and future. She moaned her assent as he tightened his grip on the small of her waist.

He stilled. Then with a groan of frustration, he eased her gently away from him. "That's enough."

A tepid bucket of disappointment rinsed over her. "But…"

"Let's not do anything you would regret." His inflection spoke of his remorse.

Her dizzy lust washed away. She had her pride. If he didn't want her, she wouldn't force herself onto him.

"You're quite right." She slid to the side, so they were sitting next to each other again. Wanting to be away from him didn't mean she wanted to freeze outside the blanket. If she was going to be ruined, she was going to be warm and ruined. And perhaps he could keep the gloom at bay. She cast her mind around for something to say.

"Tell me something more, if you don't want to kiss me." That was abrupt for the most tactful lady of the ton. But then, how was one supposed to act when a libertine rejected one's attempt at seduction?

***

"It's not that I don't want to kiss you." The hardness between his legs evidenced how much he wanted more of Emily's unexpected and overwhelmingly passionate kiss. He gentled his voice. "You had a dream. A bad dream. What was it about?" That sounded childish, but it hadn't felt like a childish dream.

She settled back, not into the space she had occupied pressed to his chest while she'd slept or when they'd kissed, but beside him, where she'd started the night. Still companionable, but distant. "It was nothing. Is that the sound of the dawn chorus? I heard owls earlier, but I think I can hear a blackbird now."

She didn't say anything more, and he listened. It was still entirely dark, but she was right, there was the fluting warble of birds.

"You have that dream regularly." If it was just a common-or-garden bad dream, why change the subject? Why not just tell him it was a dream about a green monster chasing her, or whatever it was?

He took her silence as an affirmative. What would give a gently bred young lady like her a terrible dream like that?

Well. Death of her lover, obviously. That would scar anyone. Especially if there was some foul play involved. Maybe her brother, or perhaps her father had ‘intervened'. Or perhaps a rival for her affection. Duels were outlawed and uncommon these days, but such things did happen, very quietly.

She was scared by whatever had happened to her late fiancé, and by Oscar, as only an innocent would be. That purity and goodness had captivated him from when he'd first seen her. A blameless maid who would have nothing to do with him. He hankered after that rejection and sought it time and time again.

He didn't usually chase women; he allowed their snubs to fill the dark place inside him. He relished the absolute rightness of his being shunned by beauty and virtue. He was, after all, a debaucher. That was the image he nurtured, tending each flower of vice and displaying it for the world to see.

He failed occasionally. Sometimes, a lady, quite a few ladies actually, would believe he could be redeemed. They thought the love of a good woman could save even a hardened rake. That was when he brought out his test. He was damned to a loveless life, by his own actions. He couldn't love any woman who could love him.

"What makes you so interested in my nightmares? What do you have nightmares and dreams about?" Emily's voice cut through his thoughts, jerking his chin up.

He'd thought she'd fallen back asleep, but she'd been awake, thinking, as he had.

"What are you scared of?" She was too close for safety. "What do you regret?" He heard the vulnerability through her bravado. She was looking for a way to reduce and share her weakness by having him confess some character flaw.

This was his opportunity to warn her off. He needed to scare her and prove to himself that she was wrong for him, or he would find himself completely in her spell. The gossamer delicate purity of her was much too good for him.

"I don't regret anything." He shrugged. "I'm a rake."

"They all say you're terribly wicked, you know. As though that were a good thing." It was quite clear she thought it was a very bad thing. A pang went through him.

"Whoever they are, they know nothing about it at all." Anyone who knew him, who knew everything he'd been and done at nineteen, would not say wickedness was attractive. If they knew about Lydia and her daughter Annie. His bastard daughter.

"No? Well. I would be charmed to hear ‘all about it'. Why not tell me?" There was honey in every guileless word.

"You don't know what you're asking." Or perhaps she did. They'd both allowed themselves to be drawn together by his impulses and her fears. But now it was the moment to warn her off.

"Is it a long story? I would think we have enough time."

He smiled at her irony. "Very well." He'd tell the story of his rakish activities.

This was his test. When a woman heard this story, whom did she support? But he had to ensure it was fair. Lady Emily was tender-hearted. She would need a very sympathetic version to persuade her that he was the wronged party.

He really had no idea whether she would pass or fail.