Chapter 7

D ressing like a man really was emboldening.

Oh, how Winifred loved it, and she was finding herself growing bolder by the moment! She sat on the coach's leather bench, stared over at the absolutely beautiful Lord Ajax, and then did something completely shocking to her.

She allowed herself to slouch just a little bit on the seat and then permitted herself to extend one booted foot out and then the other.

"Oh heaven," she sighed.

Lord Ajax arched a brow. "Heaven?" he queried. "This is heaven?"

"You try wearing stays and a gown and always having to sit perfectly," she returned. She wiggled and marveled at how the only truly restricting bit of clothing on her body was the cravat tied about her neck. That, she granted, was a bit annoying. But the rest? "This is bliss! Look at what I can do with my knees!" she exclaimed.

He glanced down at her knees, which she had allowed to drift apart.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, I can see it's very freeing," he said.

"You look a little bit uncomfortable," she observed. She waggled her brows. "Perhaps you should consider sitting in a more relaxed fashion too."

She marveled at her own limbs, which she'd never allowed to be seen like this in public! "How wonderful to see one's legs."

Well, not exactly all of them, of course. They were covered from her hips to her toes and her boots, but she wasn't swathed in skirts.

And her boots? How glorious were they? She was quite lucky that Alfred had been able to find a pair of worn boots. Otherwise, she had no doubt it would've been agonizing breaking them in. Her brother was responsible for her clothes.

At first, she and Alfred had hoped to dress her from his wardrobe, but that had proved impossible. She was far shorter than he and, in the end, they'd realized that dressing like a member of the ton wasn't in her best interest. No, it would be far wiser to dress as someone from the city or a member of the artist class.

Being a man, her brother had been able to nip down to the used shops and find her a colorful set of clothes. And much to her amazement, she'd found that the clothes helped her create a colorful character. And she was rather glad that her brother had found such unique items.

After all, if she was going to have an adventure, she wanted a good one, and so she had enjoyed her brightly embroidered waistcoat, her jaunty hat, and the coat that had quite a bit of flair to it.

She'd even considered a cane, but she didn't need one and was worried she'd lose it. After all, she was always putting things down and then struggled to find those things. So less was probably more.

Ajax eyed her legs again and then looked to the windows.

"Is something amiss?" she asked. "Aren't my breeches wonderful? I like them," she said, "Do you like them?"

He let out a strange note as he stared out the window with more focus.

"Are you quite all right?" she asked.

"Yes, Winifred," he said, though his voice sounded strained.

"Perhaps you should simply call me Win," she pointed out, quite curious as to what was bothering him. Perhaps he was a touch ill. Or perhaps his legs were too long to feel comfortable in the coach.

He turned his eyes slowly toward her and there was a heat to them that shocked her. "Win," he echoed. "I like that. Did you come up with it yourself?"

"I did actually," she said proudly. "I love all the nicknames that gentlemen seem to have. There are so many good ones and, well, I thought I should choose something that reflected this trip. I am winning in the game of life right now. I may not always do so, but this?" She gestured about and then up and down her form, indicating her clothes. "Oh, how this feels as if I've won. I'm free, Ajax," she breathed.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, forgive me," she rushed, her enthusiasm dimming for a moment. "Is that too familiar to call you by your name?"

"No," he rumbled. "It sounded perfect. My name upon your lips is…"

"What?" she asked, her insides humming.

"Heaven," he replied simply. Sincerely.

It did not sound like a line he had rehearsed. It sounded, much to her shock, true.

She found herself strangely pleased at his reply. "I'm glad you think so," she whispered.

"There is nothing wrong with your legs," he added suddenly. "It's quite the opposite actually. They're exceptionally…fine."

She blushed. She'd never heard a man refer to her legs before. And no one, certainly not someone like him, had ever inferred they were fine.

Despite all her boldness and growing excitement, it still surprised her. "I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Even so, you seem…" She tilted her head to the side, trying to deduce what it was that she observed in his person. "Uncomfortable."

He drew in a long breath. "I confess I was not prepared to see you dressed thus," he said.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, suddenly feeling a trifle nervous. She never expected him to disapprove. With his mother being an actress, it had not occurred to her that he might find her mode of dress discomforting or inappropriate.

"Should I have been more conservative?" she asked warily, her spirit sinking.

"Never in a month of Sundays," he rumbled. "I protest the very idea of more conservative dress for you. Dress as outlandishly as you like. I shouldn't care if you were to show up dressed in the wildest of costumes, but…" he said, letting his gaze travel up and down the length of her form. As he did, those orbs of his sparked. "This new you is a delight for the eyes, and I can see so much of you… And my imagination is a good one."

She cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. "Oh, I see," she said.

From the look in his gaze, the way his jaw had tensed, and the way his hands were braced upon his knees, she understood.

She pursed her lips, nodded, and surmised bluntly, "You find me delectable."

"Oh, Win?" he groaned. "You are absolutely a balm for my soul."

"In what way?" she asked, surprised.

"The way you just say what you think."

She groaned. "It is a curse," she admitted.

"No," he protested. "It is actually a blessing that you think is a curse."

She arched a brow, ready to argue.

But he lifted a hand and continued. "And you've only been around people who make you feel as if it's a curse."

She shook her head. "I don't think that can be true," she said. "The vast majority of people do seem to think that my blessing, as you say it, is a great harm."

"Well," he said, leaning forward, "let's see how it goes during our time together?"

"All right," she breathed.

He held his hand out to her.

She eyed that hand. Uncertain.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Put your hand in mine," he instructed.

She contemplated his large palm, then slipped her gloved fingers into his.

The strong heat of that hand unfurled something in her. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"Good," he said as he locked gazes with her. "We are to be friends. And I think that we should break all the barriers right away, don't you? Since we are to have such a short time together, why ease into things? Why not simply launch ourselves fully?"

Good heaven. He was quite something. First, there was the way his herculean frame took up the coach. Then there was the feel of his firm hand about hers. And the way his gaze held hers? She felt suspended. Suspended in something hot, something powerful, something that was weaving through her body, whispering for her to awaken from slumber.

"I suppose you are right," she managed, even as she felt as if all the air in the coach was disappearing, compressing somehow, burning out all of the world but the two of them. Her breath came in quick takes before she rasped, "There's no time to waste, is there?"

Much to her shock, he pulled her across the bench to sit beside him. "There's never time to waste. Ever."

She swallowed at how easily he had lifted her and brought her beside him. As if it was where she'd always been meant to be.

"You would've thought that I should have learned that when my father died," she whispered, emotion washing over her in a way that it had not done in years. There was something about him, something which brought out that which she long thought shoved down deep inside her. She licked her lips, shocked by the waves of emotion traveling through her. "Everyone should learn that when someone they loves dies, but they don't. Do they?"

"No," he agreed, his gaze softening in response to her emotion, and then he pulled her closer to him, an act beyond friendship or mere kindness. It was an act of recognition at her words. Of great understanding, sympathy, and solidarity. "They don't seem to. Most people lose those they love and carry on as if nothing happened." He flinched. "Forgive me, that sounded brutal. I don't mean that they don't suffer their loss, or that they aren't wounded greatly. But it doesn't wake them up to how precious this life is. It doesn't make them value their life more. Sometimes, it might. For a short time. But then it fades, and they go right back to how they always were. Life can be stolen so suddenly and yet so many continue plodding along in their lives doing things they don't want to, being people they don't want to be."

The weight of his words fell over her. And in them, she felt the suffering of her fellow man. Why was it so very hard for people to awaken? Was it simply too frightening? Was the need to stay on the known course so very great?

She supposed it was.

She grimaced. "That's me," she said.

"No, it's not," he replied swiftly. "Look at you right here, right now. You are changing."

"It is only a temporary change," she pointed out.

He stared down at her. And there was a look in his eyes, so warm and admiring that she felt she might melt on the spot under it.

"Really?" he challenged. "Temporary? Do you truly think you won't be changed forever by this?"

She blinked at that and contemplated the heat of him next to her, the feel of his hard body. And then instead of inching away as she likely should have done, she inched closer.

She did not know why. They were veritable strangers, but he… Well, he made her feel as if they had known each other forever, as if he accepted her exactly as she was. Unlike everyone else, except her brother.

Ajax made her feel as if there wasn't anything wrong with her and, moreover, that she was exactly as she was supposed to be. And that was worth more than anything in the whole world.

How did she explain what he was doing to her?

He folded his hand about hers again and squeezed it. "Now," he said, "tell me something. Anything."

"What?" she said, shaking her head.

He gazed down at her, his blond locks teasing over his temples. "It seems to me that all your life you've been bottling up your thoughts and your opinions."

"I have," she replied plainly. "People don't like to listen to everything I have to say. They find it quite annoying."

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, hating the sudden pain those words caused. All her life she'd been forced to come to the conclusion that there was something wrong with her. "When I speak, I am only excited about things, and I wish to go on about them. But people stare at me, and their faces change, and it's clear they find me…too much."

"That's because people are easily overwhelmed and have little curiosity in them as they age. We force it out of children." Then he shrugged and arched a brow. "Or they're not very interesting themselves. But you know what? I will happily listen to anything that you have to say."

Her lips parted as she realized he meant it.

"All right then," she whispered.

He waited patiently.

She cleared her throat. "Do you think William Shakespeare wrote the plays?"

He gaped down at her for a moment and then he let out a laugh. "Well, you don't start small, do you?"

She grinned, for there was no censure in his tone. "Well, as you said, why should we do anything without launching ourselves in fully?"

His lips—his beautiful, sensual lips—parted into a delicious smile.

"Well done," he replied. "Let us consider ourselves fully launched then. And if you want to know what I truly think?" he asked carefully.

She nodded. "Of course I do.

"I don't think it matters."

"What?" she gasped.

"I don't think it matters if Mr. Shakespeare or Mr. Johnson or some fellow in a garret or an earl in a castle wrote the plays."

"Don't you?" she yelped. "Surely, it matters."

"What if a woman wrote them?" he asked. "Why not, after all? Wouldn't that be remarkable and not entirely impossible?"

A woman? She'd never even contemplated the possibility. She'd heard all the theories about how it was impossible that a regular person had written the plays. She loved to contemplate it, but she'd never before heard that it could be a woman. Even if it wasn't true, the possibility was so radical…and strangely hope-inducing for her own little life that her heart leapt.

"No matter who wrote them, and it likely was Mr. Shakespeare from Stratford because the most boring answer is often the best one," he continued, "the plays are so much larger than the author now that the mortal who penned them is quite small in comparison to their work."

"How do you mean?" she whispered.

"Oh, I think you know, don't you?"

She licked her lips and then nodded. "You're right. They're bigger than any one person. They've outgrown the author, haven't they?"

"They weren't even owned by Mr. Shakespeare in his lifetime," he said. "They eclipsed him. Moving the minds of Englishmen. And now they're owned by all of us."

She stared at him with utter wonder as she realized that within just a few moments of time with him, she was falling in love with him. Not with his love of Shakespeare. That, of course, was a boon. No, she was falling in love with how he saw people, how he saw the world… And with how he saw her potential in the world.

"They're in our lives," she whispered, allowing herself to speak as he knew she could. "They're in our psyche, and they fill us up with a sort of hope and longing for something more, something bigger, something beautiful."

"Something more, something bigger, something beautiful," he echoed. "Well said, Win. Who wouldn't want to listen to you all day long? Every day. I know I would."

Her throat tightened. All day long. Every day? And for a moment, she dared to wish that it could be every day. Always.

Oh, if she could only have that in her life. She did not know if she could, but this was a beginning, wasn't it? It had to be.

And then she found herself parting her lips and beginning to speak freely to him as he'd urged, and much to her amazement, he did exactly as he said he would.

He looked at her and he listened. He listened with every bit of his soul, with every bit of his heart, with every bit of his attention, and she felt herself bloom.