Chapter 9

Andromeda yawned as she placed The Shadow of the Cockerel on a chair by the window. She'd lost the slip of paper that named it as Lady Garrison's choice for the month, but she'd glimpsed the paper first and had remembered the title, thank goodness. She'd not read it, but Prudence assured her that it involved a very large… rooster and the very talented man who… owned it.

She knew what happened between a man and a woman. Her mother had prepared her well even before her Season. She'd not needed the books to explain the essential mechanics of love making, but perhaps she was missing something because if a man's… rooster was large enough to cast a shadow, she did not necessarily want it near her.

She shivered and abandoned the book, the last of eight laid inconspicuously about the room, following their self-developed seating system for their weekly tea. The book you requested waited for you in the seat assigned to you. It allowed for a sort of plausible denial. They did not give these women books. The women merely took the books that happened to be lying about.

Nothing nefarious at all going on.

But unusual? Troubling? Yes. And not for reasons those seeking damaging gossip would think. Every chair had a book in it today. They did not host so many each week. Their patrons spread themselves out, attending on different weeks, but Lady Garrison's worries must have spread through the group. Today they would have too many ladies leaving with book-heavy reticules, sewing bags, pockets, and muffs. Not ideal.

Also not ideal—another yawn—the amount of sleep she'd enjoyed last night: none. She wanted sleep, had called to it, crooned to it, courted it, but it had stubbornly stayed away, sending in its stead visions, memories of flame-raked coaches, smoking windows, winded, drunken lads, and a newspaperman with fury in his eyes. So different from the other vision, memory, that had haunted her—a newspaperman with a soft green gaze and discovery in his fingertips.

Why did he never wear gloves? He clearly wished to torment her.

She dropped into an empty chair with a sigh. "Are we ready?"

"Yes." She glanced at Prudence and the twins. "Lock the wardrobe and stay put until after the gathering. Keep your ears open for Samuel."

The twins nodded, eager and excited.

Prudence rolled her eyes. "Same thing every week. When do I get to stay?"

"Never." Lottie pushed her toward the door. "Not if you want to keep your reputation."

"Your reputation is fine," Prudence grumbled.

Lottie kept scooting her closer to the door. "But a guillotine blade hangs over it. Thankfully, the man I wish to wed won't care what they think should he ever open his horrible, beautiful eyes and stop being such a beefwit." A sigh. "Unlikely to happen."

"Gah! Very well. I'll go." Prudence tugged one of Lottie curls before following the twins out of the room and into their mother's parlor.

Lottie dropped to her seat, cheeks red, but not from the exertion. She shook her head, staring at the expertly laid out tea setting. "We cannot continue. We cannot. It has gone on too long already."

The end.

"No." Andromeda paced toward her sister. "You speak as if it has ruined us, but it's brought us closer together. If we had not taken up our mother's calling, we would all be married now and scattered to the winds. We'd rarely see one another and"—she swallowed down a whimper climbing up her throat—"and mother's legacy would be forgotten."

"Not forgotten, Annie. Just no longer the defining feature of our lives. Would that be so bad, Annie? To move on?"

"You are quitting, then?" She stopped pacing to stare at her sister.

Her profile was delicate but determined. "This is my last few months. Once we leave London at the Season's end, I am done."

The end.

A door opened before her, and it was dark, so very dark, and she had no candle to see inside. She shook her head, dropping into the nearest chair. "Well, I do not quit. I will not quit."

"It is best for you, Annie… shh. They're coming, I think." She stood and stretched a merry smile wide across her lips as figures passed through the doorway. "Oh." She sank back into her chair. "It's just you."

Andromeda popped to her feet. "What are you doing here?"

Filling the door frame, Mr. Kingston slung an arm around his brother's shoulders. "He's come to apologize for yesterday. And so have I."

The bells of every church in London rang in her head at once. So many reasons he should not be here. Most pressing, the room would soon fill with a gaggle of matrons and widows, all desirous of new amorous books. Second, said amorous books were scattered about the room on clear display. Third, she did not want to see him. He thought her the cause of yesterday's disaster, the scoundrel.

Andromeda flew across the room and hooked an arm through Kingston's arm and then the brother's. She couldn't take them to her mother's parlor. Not with her sisters there and the books likely still scattered across the floor from where they'd sorted through them earlier.

"Have you seen the nursery?" she asked, guiding them toward the stairs.

"A nursery?" Young Avelford's steps grew heavy, reluctant, on the first few steps upward. "I'm too old for a nursery."

"It's more like a schoolroom. My youngest sisters are there with their lessons. Have you met them yet, Mr. Kingston?"

"No," he said. "I should like to, though. Seems a step in the right direction." He caught her eye.

She blushed, the direction he spoke of quite clear.

At the top of the landing, she released them. "Follow me." She needed to get rid of them, but how? The nursery door loomed at the end of the hallway, but before she could open it, Kingston's hand caught her wrist.

"Wait," he said. "First, let me apologize."

She shook her head. "No need. Yesterday was quite the uproar, and—"

"Not your fault. Not at all."

"I'm aware of that, and I'm glad you are as well." Clutch her anger. She must. She must.

"Look at me, Andromeda." His hand around her wrist. Gentle, stopping her with barely any effort.

She tried not to feel how his touch sang in her blood, settled in her bones.

He squeezed. "I am deeply sorry I made you think otherwise. It is my responsibility alone to protect Alex, and—"

"No, King." Alex stepped between them.

He chewed his bottom lip and stared at the ceiling. He shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with the hem of his waistcoat. "I must take responsibility for my actions. I knew you wouldn't like it if I went off with Bartie. I knew you wanted me to meet"—he nodded at Andromeda—"I apologize for ruining everything."

Oh, hell and chaos, that did it.

Andromeda bopped the earl on the head, and his eyes flickered with annoyance.

Good. She grinned. "Everyone makes mistakes, my lord, and I forgive you for this one. So does your brother." She glared at said brother just in case he thought to disagree with her.

He did not seem to.

"And me?" he asked. "Do you forgive my mistake? My careless words?"

"Yes." She must if she wished to show the boy that she'd meant her words. "Now come along." She opened the door and pushed through.

"I met your sisters yesterday," Avelford said.

"Take the grumble out of your voice and meet them again." Kingston pushed him into the room as the tutor and the governess stood with a bow and curtsy, respectively. Her three youngest siblings—Felicity, Gertrude, and June—turned in their seats to view the intruders.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bainbridge, Miss Marston," Andromeda said. "How are studies coming along?"

"We were about to start German lessons." Miss Marston, a tall woman with white-blonde hair, picked up a book from her desk and held it up for Andromeda to see. Mr. Bainbridge stood with her, proving a foot shorter than the governess, though they both wore easy smiles.

"They learn German?" the young earl asked.

"They choose what languages they wish to learn," Andromeda told him.

"May I see what you're reading?" Kingston asked, striding toward the governess.

Miss Marston flicked an unspoken question to Andromeda.

"It's quite all right," Andromeda assured her.

Kingston took the book, his features softening as he flipped through its pages.

June left her desk to stand at his side. "Can you read German?"

"Quite well."

Of course he'd compliment himself.

Now Gertrude was up and inching closer to the earl. When she stood right before him, she asked, "How old are you?"

"That's not a polite question," he said. "Age doesn't matter when you're a man."

Gertrude laughed. She tried to cover the sound with an open palm slapped over her mouth, but that didn't work, and soon her laughter shook her so hard, she doubled over a nearby desk.

The earl turned pale, looked to his brother for help, and found a man engrossed in a book. "It's not funny. It's true." His fists curled at his sides.

"It is funny, terribly so," Gertrude insisted, tears sliding down her cheeks. "You can't be much older than me. I'm twelve. You? A man?" She collapsed into hilarity once more.

"That's enough, Gertrude." Andromeda wrapped an arm around her and steered her toward a window. "Stay there for a bit." At least Felicity, just turned sixteen, seemed unphased by the visitors. She sat at her desk, still reading something or other.

Andromeda returned to Avelford. He leaned against a chair, his limbs thin and his cheek pale. He looked quite ill.

"Miss Marston," June said, "can Mr. Kingston read to us today?"

"No!" Andromeda cried. She needed to get the brothers out the door, not further entrench them in the situation. Why had she brought them up here? Oh, yes, she'd panicked and thought merely of getting them as far from the tea as possible. And now…

She ran to the window. Hell and chaos. The ladies had arrived, and they were filing into the house. She could not escort Kingston out now. Perhaps it was best to keep him trapped here, after all.

"Why not?" June asked. "I want Mr. Kingston to read to us."

Smoothing her skirts and her racing heart, Andromeda said, "Apologies. I misheard. Of course, he can read to you. A nice long story, too. Quite long."

"Can I come back yet?" Gertrude called.

"Are you done laughing?" Andromeda queried.

Gertrude rolled her lips between her teeth and took a deep breath before answering. "I'll stay here for now."

Andromeda sighed. What next? What next?

From a distance, Kingston's deep, rich voice began to rumble away in a language she could not understand. "That means ‘There was once upon a time a King who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other.'"

"Have you read this before?" June asked.

"Many times, actually," Kingston answered. "I'm partial to this book."

"Well then, go on," June said.

A tug on Andromeda's sleeve.

The young earl looked up at her, skin sallow, eyes dark.

"Do you want to go over there with your brother and June? Listen to the story. I know you're a… not a child, but everyone enjoys stories. Even your brother, it seems."

He shook his head. "I don't feel well. I didn't feel well this morning, but I wanted to come here and apologize. It's worse now."

Oh. He'd inhaled smoke yesterday. And all that brandy. It would make anyone sick. "Come. Let's get you someplace dark and quiet." She led him out of the room and down the hall. "My sister suffers from megrims from time to time, and she has a powder that helps." She opened the room to the bedchamber she shared with Lottie. She pulled the curtains and opened the windows a crack to let in fresh air. "Lay on that settee by the window."

The boy did, and Andromeda poked around in Lottie's desk for the powder, then pulled the bell to call for tea.

"The chaos of the nursery cannot have been good for you. Stay right here. Tea is on its way, and I'll send a maid to let your brother know where you are. You just make yourself comfortable and sleep."

He curled up on the settee, suddenly so small Andromeda caught her breath. When standing, he seemed big enough, old enough to fight the world like the scrappy fellow he was. But huddled in the shadows, he seemed fragile, a thin gold chain curled forgotten in the corner of an empty drawer. She pulled a chair close to him, soothed his hair back from his forehead, and with very few strokes, the words of a song her mother had sung to her came to her lips.

His breathing evened out, and when she stopped singing, he said, "Thank you."

"Of course. Do you wish to stay here longer, or would you like to join the others now?" She did not wish to leave Kingston alone very long.

"Stay here." Silence in which she stroked her fingers through his hair. "Why do your sisters have a tutor and a governess? I just have a tutor."

"Well, Mr. Bainbridge and Miss Marston are both the best at what they do, but they do different things, and my brother, and my parents before him, wished my sisters to have choices. June likes learning different languages, but Felicity is partial to numbers. If my sisters wish to learn something, even if it is unusual for young girls to learn it, they get to. My brother is quite giving. More so, perhaps, than other brothers."

"King is giving."

"King?"

He peeked up at her, tilting his head slightly. "Tristan. My brother. He always brought me things from his travels. And he… he gave me himself."

Her hand on his temple stilled, then continued its course through his hair to his neck once more. "Himself?"

"He's my guardian. He could have left me with my aunt and went to sea again. But he stayed."

"An excellent present."

The boy nodded.

"For me." His eyes dulled. "Not for him."

The door opened, and a maid brought in a clattering tea tray, then left.

Andromeda poured the boy a cup and mixed in a tiny bit of the powder. "Sit up, then, and drink this."

He took the cup and sipped it slowly, his nose wrinkling at the taste. He should not be so pale, and he should not be so sad. Perhaps it was merely the aftereffects of yesterday's drama, but it seemed to run deeper than that.

When he put the cup down and curled up once more on his side, she said, "Your brother thinks of you as a gift, too, my lord."

"Please call me Alex."

Always. Always she'd call him that, no matter what anyone said because his voice sounded so small, too small for such a simple request.

"Alex," she said, "your brother loves you."

He groaned. "I feel like my head's going to split open. Never again."

"A good choice, no doubt."

He whimpered. "I don't have choices."

"Shh, now. You just made one." She pressed a thumb into his temple as she'd seen Lottie do to herself on multiple occasions and rubbed gentle circles there.

He shook his head. "I'm an earl. And my father was a drunk, so—"

"So? I don't see the end of that assumption clearly."

"So I must be, too."

"Piffle."

"It's true!" he protested.

"If you could, what would you choose?" She continued rubbing, and he closed his eyes, folded his hand beneath his head.

"To be like King. Free. And like you and your sisters—choosing to do as you please."

Free. Able to choose? Was she? She'd chained herself in many ways, taken away the choices her mother had wanted for her.

Andromeda's hands froze. She wanted no distractions from her message. "Understand this, Alex. You may not have a choice in being an earl, but you choose everything else. You don't want to be like your father, then don't be. You want to travel the world like your brother? Do it. Do not chain yourself to an unwanted life because you think it's your fate, because you believe you have no control."

"But—"

"I accept no buts, Alex Kingston."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Fine." The word as soft as a whisper now, his breathing slow and quiet. Sleep took him, but she stayed.

Until she heard bootsteps behind her. She stood and faced Kingston, not at all surprised to see him leaning against the frame, his gaze gentle on his brother until she stood just before him. Then it snapped to her and took on a different quality altogether.

She held a finger to her lips and drew him from the room, shutting the door quietly behind them. "He was feeling ill. Likely the effects of yesterday's catastrophe. I gave him a powder my sister uses. Just a little of it. I hope you do not mind."

"Not at all. Thank you. For caring for him."

She tangled her hands together before her, unsure where to look, what to say. "How did story time go?"

"Well." He took a half step forward, entering her space and filling her air with his scent. "Captain."

Her heart beat wildly. Panicked or…? She could not entertain the alternative. She made for the stairs. She had to remove him immediately.

But he followed, his footsteps heavy and catching up behind her.

Desperate for something to say, she threw a random observation over her shoulder. "I think your brother might be lonely. He feels the title too much. He needs the company of other children."

"Hm. I can see that. Unfortunately, I have no other children, and he refuses to return to school. I do not wish to force him if it makes him unhappy."

"Yes. You could bring him here during the day." The suggestion propelled her down the stairs. A horrid one but a good one as well. And since it was horrid only for her, but good for the boy, she let it stand. "He could take his lessons with my sisters. I'm sure Mr. Bainbridge could handle whatever your brother needs."

"An excellent idea. He'll be less likely to skip lessons with more people about, and he won't be able to bribe Clearford's tutors. Yes. Damn, but you're perfection."

She laughed, and the nervous sound bounced down the stairs. "You mean the plan is."

"I do not mean that."

She had to get rid of him. They neared the landing, a bend there that wrapped the staircase in the opposite direction. She stopped before she reached it. "You can go now, Mr. Kingston. I or… someone will escort Alex home when he wakes. No need for you to stay here. You've apologized, and—"

"You're trying to get rid of me."

"No—"

"I'm parched." He cocked his head to the side. "Shall we join the others downstairs?"

"What others?" She curled her fingernails into her palms.

"The ones who filed into the house earlier. The same ones who slipped you the notes in the park yesterday."

The fieriest pits of hell and the most disorganized, screaming, itchy bits of chaos. No use denying fact.

He jolted down the stairs around her. In less than a minute, he'd burst through the door and into the tea party, but what could she do? How to keep him from discovering everything?

She would not allow it, and only one thing would work. It would be a great sacrifice, but anything for her sisters. For her mother. For the women gathered below.

She flew after him, grabbed his arm just as his feet hit the landing, bounced up onto her toes, and kissed him.

Did she think he would hesitate, freeze, flail around a bit, shocked by her sudden assault? Ha. The man consumed her, his arms snaking around her waist, his hands pressing flat against her back until no space remained untouched there. He drew her close so his belly pressed against hers. He felt like a wall, made of bricks and stone warmed by the summer sun.

What a good idea to distract him thusly. He certainly was distracted, his lips moving across hers with intent but softly, with a sigh.

The echo of some maid's soft whistled song below.

Horrid execution, though. Public kisses were ephemeral things, popped like a soap bubble with the merest noise.

And from the moment her lips had touched his, she'd known—she did not want this to end.

Because she was protecting the tea party. Naturally. She ripped away from him, eliciting a masculine sigh of half desire and half frustration, and she grabbed his wrist and tugged, leading him down the stairs and toward an antechamber off the foyer. It would be empty until the women left and needed their pelisses and bonnets.

Before she could reach the door, he caught her round the waist and hauled her into it, slammed the door shut, and pinned her against it, stealing her breath, her heart's beating, and her will to object. Gone, that was. Must have left it in the entry hall. She wrapped her arms around his neck and fit her lips to his once more.