Chapter Thirteen
T he word kiss changed the atmosphere. Viv knew the effect of naming a thing, of giving words to the unspoken. Time slowed. Her soaked skirts hung so heavy that she could not summon the will to move. The dim little room smelled of lavender and wet wool. The lamp glow gave a golden edge to Mr. Larkin’s shoulders. The ends of the towel hung down to his waist, leaving open to her gaze a curved plane of muscle divided by a shadowy cleft to the band of his trousers.
Viv had attended London’s great exhibitions, had seen famous artists’ representations of male flesh in paint and marble. She should not be affected by a mere man, but a hidden warmth ran through her under the cool surface of her skin. A bell rang in the hall summoning one of the servants. Upstairs, poor Lady Melforth must be enduring a barrage of censure from the Strydes, most of it directed at Viv for being absent.
She found her voice. “I shot you.”
“I lived.”
“I ruined your clothes. Twice.”
“I do like a good waistcoat, but I can get another.”
“You aren’t thinking rationally. You can’t behave like a footman stealing a kiss from the parlor maid. ”
“I can’t think at all, with the lures you’ve thrown out to me.”
“Lures! Of all the conceit!”
“The soggy bonnet, the drooping curls, the icy fingers, this private place. How is a man to resist?” There was laughter in his eyes but something else as well that made her pulse quicken.
“Be sensible. I led you here only to avoid the Strydes.”
“Convenient those Strydes. I must thank them for driving you to such lengths.”
“You know they would condemn me for…for being here with you. If a woman loses her respectability, she’s not welcome anywhere.”
“We’re betrothed.”
“But our betrothal is a…a ruse.”
He pressed her hand more firmly against his side, his fingers warm over hers, his skin cool under her palm. “Your ring is no ruse. My scar is no ruse.”
“I’m not good at kissing.” His gaze narrowed to her mouth, and she moistened her lips. She’d made a mistake saying the word.
“You’re bound to improve with effort.” He tugged both her hands now, pulling her close, tangling her heavy skirts with his legs. “Tell me about that other time.”
She choked back a laugh. “Oh you. I’ll have you know I’ve been thoroughly kissed. In Bath in a moonlit garden with music drifting out from a ballroom.”
“Did the man who kissed you believe your wits would dissolve under the influence of moonlight and roses?” he asked .
“Well, he might have,” she admitted. “He believed I was an heiress.”
“Did you disabuse him of that notion?”
“At once. The kissing was disagreeable, you see. There was something, I don’t know, practiced about his…his lovemaking. Does that make sense?”
He nodded. “All the more reason to kiss me, to find out if kissing can be less…disagreeable.”
“Without the moonlight and roses?” She searched his gaze.
“I’m not offering moonlight and roses.”
At his voice, low and roughened, something uncurled in her belly. A spool of moments unraveled in her head back to the time in the hackney when she’d first pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding side. She had been so occupied with exploring London, making her notes, intent on her guide for women. Now she understood that his presence had altered the places they went. He had understood from the first her unwillingness to be satisfied with writing accounts of the great squares and eminent buildings, and her need to find the living stories hidden in London’s multitude of lanes and dwellings.
She tried one last appeal to reason. “Jenny will return any minute now.”
“We’ll hear her on the stairs.” He lifted her hand above her head, turning her in a dizzying whirl, like dancing, so that she faced the open door.
Viv held her breath. He’d changed his mind. He didn’t mean to kiss her after all. She had only to step away from him, but he filled her senses, his solid warmth at her back, the low rasp of his voice, the scent of soap and rain on his skin. His hands tightened on her waist. He leaned in. His breath disturbed a curl behind her ear. Then his lips touched the side of her neck, a brief pressure that sent a violent shiver through her. Lark.
Hurrying footsteps sounded on the stairs. He stepped back, and Viv stood there, unmoving, her nerves registering his absence and a thousand tiny kiss shocks.
Jenny appeared, a plain blue kerseymere gown over her arm, a startled look on her face.
“I’ll wait in the kitchen for my shirt to dry.” He stepped around Viv and strolled down the hall, the towel over his shoulders, his shirt in his hand.
Jenny glanced from him to Viv. “Miss? Are you quite well?”
Viv came back to herself. “Help me, Jenny. I’ve got to get upstairs to Lady Melforth.”
*
Viv entered the upstairs drawing room, her damp petticoat hem clinging to her ankles. Mr. Stryde filled a chair at Lady Melforth’s right elbow, while Mrs. Stryde perched, her neck stretched high, on the ottoman beside Lady Melforth’s injured left foot. Between them, they trapped her in her nest of pillows. In her ladyship’s concealed hand and listless posture, Viv read the signs of an overlong visit. A cup of Doctor Newberry’s soothing headache draught stood untouched on the tray of remedies by her ladyship’s side.
Viv tugged the bell pull and moved to help her employer. “ Dear ma’am, how uncomfortable you look.”
“Of course, she’s uncomfortable,” snapped Mrs. Stryde. “You abandoned her yet again. I wonder, Miss Bradish, that you dare call yourself a lady’s companion at all.”
Viv caught a mute appeal in her employer’s gaze and refrained from rising to Mrs. Stryde’s provocation.
“Thank you, Eustacia,” Lady Melforth said. “It’s been good of you and Arthur to keep me company, but Miss Bradish is here now.”
“She may be here now, Aurora, but where has she been? Really, we cannot leave you to her care without some assurance that she is prepared to do the work she was engaged to do.”
Viv ignored Mrs. Stryde, concentrating a tight smile on Mr. Stryde. “If you will move your chair a little, sir, I can help her ladyship to be more comfortable.”
He looked surprised, but complied, and Viv leaned over her employer to help her to an upright position among the pillows. “You’ve not taken any of Dr. Newberry’s draught, ma’am. Let me send Jenny for a fresh cup, and we’ll have you feeling more the thing.”
“Thank you, Viv. How was Dodsley?”
“He made only one difficulty today.”
Lady Melforth laughed, her warm, throaty laugh turning to a dry cough. “You set him straight, I hope.”
Viv nodded and cleared away the untouched cup.
“One difficulty?” asked Mrs. Stryde. “Yet you’ve been gone for hours, Miss Bradish, neglecting your duty, and I dare say, risking your reputation with no maid to attend you. ”
The justice of the accusation stung a little. In Viv’s absence Lady Melforth had been plagued by her cousins, and the neglect was not in meeting Dodsley, but in the visit to Marie Christophe’s house and that fleeting moment in the stillroom. Her thoughts had been centered on Lark. She resolved to banish him from her mind.
Jenny appeared, a little breathless from the stairs, and Viv handed her the old medicine, asking her to bring a new cup.
“The elderberry, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Jenny.”
“Should I bring more tea for the visitors?” Jenny whispered.
“Absolutely not,” said Viv.
Jenny bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.
Viv turned back to Lady Melforth and her visitors, and pulled a chair up on the far side of the ottoman. “When I must do an errand for her ladyship,” she explained. “I rely on Jenny. She’s familiar with Dr. Newberry’s instructions and very reliable.”
Mrs. Stryde twisted round to frown at Viv. The stiff little curls at her cheeks didn’t move. “Yes, but, a young woman, venturing unattended into those regions of London wholly devoted to commerce, is so indelicate as to no longer be considered a lady.”
“In general, perhaps, ma’am, but a writer may always meet with her publisher quite respectably wherever his offices may be. Our most renowned lady writers have done so.”
“Such boldness may be acceptable for writers of renown, but your name has not appeared in print. And respectable women cannot be too careful with publishers. Some, you know, produce the most scurrilous rubbish under the guise of informing the public of the very vices they promote.” She turned to her husband. “Arthur, what say you?”
“Yes, my dear.” He turned to Lady Melforth. “The Society has recently discovered a publisher on Babylon Street, whose premises are to be”—he gave a polite cough behind his hand—“investigated by the police.”
“Investigated?” Viv asked. “You mean, invaded.”
“Quite justly,” said Mrs. Stryde. “The police know very well what this fellow is up to. The Society recently collected samples of the vile material he prints.”
It occurred to Viv that the Society was quite keen to collect its samples. “Will the Society send members to Babylon Street to aid the police? Will you go, Mr. Stryde?”
Mr. Stryde swelled a bit in his chair. The drooping whiskers at the side of his face gave him the look of a startled fox. “It is our aim to offer the magistrates every assistance in the discharge of their duty.”
“Mrs. Stryde, do you not fear that your husband may be tainted by a foray into such a neighborhood?” Viv asked.
“My husband is a gentleman, Miss Bradish, and a staunch member of the Anti-Vice Society. He can hardly be tainted by doing his duty.”
“And you, will you do your duty as well? With no fear of being tainted?”
“In doing her duty a woman is always respectable.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so. Exactly what I thought this morning when I called on Mr. Dodsley.”
A warning look from Lady Melforth made Viv drop her gaze demurely, the perfect lady’s companion. It would not do for Mrs. Stryde to understand Viv’s meaning too clearly.
“Really,” said Mrs. Stryde. “We did not come to discuss the Society’s work, but to consider what’s to be done about your betrothal, Miss Bradish. We’ve not seen an announcement in the papers.”
“Naturally, we are waiting to tell our own people first.” Viv kept her voice mild.
“I thought Mr. Larkin said his was an old London family.”
“Alas, his only family is an aunt in Somerton.” As she said it, Viv realized Lark had no one but himself to vouch for his respectability.
“Has he told his employer of his betrothal?”
“That, of course, will be between them.”
“Well, he can hardly have done so if the papers are to be believed, for they report that the Duke and Duchess of Wenlocke have gone into the country for the coming fortnight.”
Viv felt Mrs. Stryde’s usual effect on her temper. The Stryde’s had made it their business to check up on her, and she was at a disadvantage because her betrothed had not informed her of his true situation. The holiday Lark had spoken of was not due to the duke’s generosity after all, but to his absence. No wonder Lark could freely wander about London with her, and how odd of him not to tell her.
“You understand our concern must be for Aurora. No doubt you will resign your situation when you are married, for you can hardly be of any use then as a companion.”
Jenny returned with a fresh cup of tincture of elderberry, which Viv placed on Lady Melforth’s table. Her ladyship managed a few sips before the cup wobbled in her hand, and she put it aside. Viv spoke at once. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stryde, thank you for keeping Lady Melforth company, but now we must let her rest.”
Mrs. Stryde looked as if she might object, but glanced at Lady Melforth and rose. “Come along, Arthur,” she said. “Don’t worry, Aurora, we will never abandon you.”
Viv saw them into the hall. As soon as the drawing room door closed, Mrs. Stryde turned on her. “Miss Bradish, we have been sadly mistaken in your character. I can only suppose it is your irregular upbringing that disposes you to be so careless of your good name.”
“If Lady Melforth is satisfied with my upbringing that is all that matters.”
“Aurora is too feeble to take you to task, but I assure you I am not.”
“Please do not trouble yourself.” Viv drew herself up to her full height. “Your husband, as Lady Melforth’s cousin, has, perhaps, a right to speak directly to her, but for a person of so slight a connection as yours to her ladyship there is nothing to do. Good day to you both.”
Mrs. Stryde opened and closed her mouth. The little curls at the side of her face shook. Her husband mumbled something and took his wife’s arm. Viv clung to the banister at the top of the stairs, listening to their talk as they descended, letting her temper cool. She did not underestimate Mrs. Stryde. The woman wanted Viv gone. Viv’s only satisfaction was the hope that their Babylon Street adventure might open their eyes to the true nature of London .
When at last she heard Haxton shut the front door, she returned to the drawing room. Lady Melforth’s eyes were closed, but opened as Viv approached.
“They really are insufferable.”
Viv sank down on the ottoman. “ She certainly is. She’s determined to spread misery wherever she goes. I am heartily sorry I took so long this morning.”
Lady Melforth smiled. “You don’t secretly admire her? I’m sure she quite rules Arthur.”
Viv grinned. “Adding domestic tyranny to her other offenses does not raise her in my estimation.”
“Ah, well, thank you for seeing them off.”
“I will not abandon you again.”
“Yes, but I still need you to deal with Dodsley. What was the problem today?”
“Dodsley wants to change our title, and we had a go-round about it. A note from you will help, I think.” Viv explained Dodsley’s alternative titles, pleased to see Lady Melforth taking more of the doctor’s draught and even smiling a little.
“And after Dodsley’s?” Lady Melforth peered at Viv over the brim of her cup. “You could not have been at his office all morning. You’ve changed your gown.”
Viv plucked at her skirts. Under them, the damp petticoat stuck to her knees. “I confess, I took a quick look at a possible entry for our guide, and got a soaking.”
“Oh, where is this?”
“It’s a house on Weymouth Street, quite unremarkable from the outside, but it was once the residence of Marie Christophe, the former queen of Haiti. ”
“And that’s what kept you?”
Viv hesitated. Now was the moment to confess that she’d met Lark and that it was he, who had led her to Marie Christophe’s house. The outing was harmless after all, completely respectable, with everything public and permitted to a betrothed couple, until the scene in the stillroom.
She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “There’s a woman who comes to the house every day to leave a bouquet of flowers. I’d like to question her about her story and the queen’s. It’s a rare opportunity for us to present a pair of living women to our readers, models of female independence.”
Lady Melforth shook her head. “I don’t think so, Viv. I think it’s time to finish the book.”
“Finish? Without the full number of entries we planned?” Viv tried to contain her shock. Lady Melforth appeared tired, all her zeal for the book gone.
“How many do we have?”
“Eleven.”
“And you have your notes from the other day, do you not?”
Viv nodded. She had only herself to blame for her ladyship’s loss of interest in their book. While Viv had lingered in Lark’s company, the Strydes had wearied and discouraged her ladyship. Worse still, Viv reproached herself, she had let herself be seduced, not in the vulgar sense of popular melodrama, but in her mind. In Lark’s presence, she had not spared a thought for Lady Melforth, for the person on whom she depended, the person who had been generous and supportive, and who had made Viv a writer .
She offered her employer a bright smile. “I do have my notes. Twelve entries might work very well, an even dozen. Shall I put together what we have this week for you to look at?”
“Yes, that will do nicely. I think we could be wise to finish in the next fortnight.”