Chapter 12
When I returned from the gardens, Mrs. Rawlings was prepared. She had a neat pile of linen baby clothes—for the poor, she said—and instructed me to hem the edges as she performed her duties as mistress of the house.
I wanted to refuse and would have done so rather colorfully if the housekeeper hadn’t been in the room at that moment.
Instead, I bit back my retort and took the sewing with a smile.
In the end, it was better that my hands were occupied.
It saved both of us the trouble of filling the room with empty conversation or, worse, pointed slights and ill-concealed irritation.
I inspected Mrs. Rawlings as I hemmed the sleeve of a baby gown. She sat stiffly at the nearby table, reviewing the week’s food orders and menus with the housekeeper.
She glanced at me as if feeling my gaze, then frowned and turned away. Why, precisely, did she dislike me so much? I was perhaps a little outspoken and sometimes flippant, but I wasn’t a terrible person.
And yes, I’d appeared unexpectedly to disrupt her life and invade her privacy, but shouldn’t she instead be annoyed at Mr. Rawlings for bringing me? I doubted that would ever happen. I had the feeling she was the type of mother who thought their child could do no wrong.
Save for her obvious annoyance with him for working at Bow Street.
The afternoon dragged like a wagon with a broken wheel, but I managed to finish a somewhat decent baby gown, which Mrs. Rawlings only sniffed at. We parted—gratefully, on both our parts—to dress for dinner.
When I came back down after changing into my evening gown, a simple dark-blue silk, I made my way toward the drawing room. I heard voices through the partially open door and paused just outside, recognizing Mr. Rawlings’s deep voice.
“—don’t wish to discuss it now,” he said in low, sharp tones, attempting to be hushed but not quite managing it.
“You never wish to discuss it,” Mrs. Rawlings retorted. “And you’ve been avoiding me all day. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve been busy, Mother.”
“So have I,” she snapped. “Running your estate while you gallivant about London, chasing criminals.”
“I do not gallivant.” Mr. Rawlings’s words were clipped. “My work is important.”
“And Briarstone is not?” I heard footsteps and imagined her moving closer to Mr. Rawlings. “This is your legacy, whether you want it or not. I fought tooth and nail for it, and I’ll not have you throw everything away because your position at Bow Street gives you an inflated sense of heroism.”
Silence. I held my breath, listening intently. What did Mrs. Rawlings mean, that she’d had to fight for Briarstone? Hadn’t Mr. Rawlings inherited it from his grandfather? Perhaps I should have had qualms about eavesdropping, but I would deal with the moral implications of my actions another time.
“You have made your choices,” Mr. Rawlings said, and I was surprised to hear his voice even and unaffected, not hard, as I might have expected, considering what she’d said to him. “And I will make mine. Is that not what you really fought for? The power to choose for myself what I want?”
Mrs. Rawlings made a noise of irritation, and her footsteps paced away from him again.
“I am grateful for everything you have done,” he said, his tone softening. “Please know that. But my life will be my own.”
Mrs. Rawlings did not respond again, and it seemed as good a time as any to make my appearance. I allowed a bit of noise as I approached the open door, scuffing my feet. When I stepped inside the drawing room, they both regarded me expectantly.
“Punctuality is not a strength of yours, is it, Miss Albright?” Mrs. Rawlings pursed her lips.
I looked at the clock. It was two minutes past six o’clock. Her criticism was entirely unfair, but I could hardly admit that I would have been perfectly on time if I hadn’t been listening to her conversation from the corridor.
“I do beg your pardon,” I said with a bright smile. “Only I found myself with a few minutes after dressing and decided to continue working on those baby clothes for the poor. I’m terribly sorry I lost track of the time.”
She looked at me, rather astounded, as I swept into the room and seated myself directly across from her, smiling all the while. Perhaps this was the best tactic to take with her, pretending I did not notice her derision and acting in simple innocence.
Mr. Rawlings turned his head, and I had the sneaking suspicion it was to hide a grin of his own.
Whatever the reason, it gave me the opportunity to inspect him from beneath lowered lashes.
I hadn’t seen him in such formal clothing since the dinner party at the Traverses’, and I hadn’t properly appreciated it then.
The man certainly filled out a dinner jacket.
He caught me looking and raised one brow. I refused to be embarrassed and simply broadened my smile.
“Thank you for showing me the water garden today, Mr. Rawlings,” I said, perhaps louder than I needed to, but I wanted to ensure Mrs. Rawlings took notice. “Briarstone has some very pretty land about.”
Mr. Rawlings narrowed his eyes slightly, as if knowing precisely what I was doing. Which would have been interesting since I wasn’t even fully sure. I simply wanted to remind Mrs. Rawlings that she was not the only one with a claim on her son’s time.
“Of course,” he said. “I would hate to have you wander off and get lost.”
Stroud entered the drawing room, regretfully cutting off my pert response. “Dinner is served.”
Mrs. Rawlings made to stand, but Stroud stepped forward. “If I may have a moment of your time, ma’am?”
Mrs. Rawlings paused. “Yes, what is it, Stroud?”
He turned to Mr. Rawlings as well. “I should like to address you both, actually. I just had word that my sister in Bath is ill. She begs that I come and see her back to full health.”
Heavens, what a prospect. Disapproving, contrary Stroud acting as a nursemaid? I could think of nothing worse for someone suffering with a serious illness.
“I wondered if you might allow me to go to her,” he said, bowing his head deferentially. “No more than a week. The under butler should be able to manage in my place, though I realize this is quite the imposition.”
“No, no.” Mrs. Rawlings waved him off. “You must go to her. Family comes before all, does it not?”
She cast Mr. Rawlings a meaningful glance, which he pretended not to notice.
“Sir?” Stroud turned to Mr. Rawlings.
He nodded. “By all means. Just be sure your duties will be attended to in your absence.”
We stood to go into the dining room, and as I passed Stroud, I cast him a sidelong glance. He was already watching me, his expression cool and unreadable. A chill ran over my skin, a strange premonition. As if Stroud’s leaving had something to do with me.
I hurried after Mrs. Rawlings. That was preposterous, I told myself. Stroud disliked me, but that did not mean everything he did related to me in some way.
We seated ourselves at the table, and dinner proceeded in a most awkward manner. As we ate, Mrs. Rawlings refused to acknowledge my presence and spoke only to her son, who seemed less than inclined to carry a conversation.
Though he barely spoke, Mr. Rawlings watched me a great deal during the meal. What he was looking for, I couldn’t say. But when our gazes caught across the table, awareness flared within me, heating me from the inside out.
I hated to admit it, but I knew precisely what it was.
Attraction. The very idea of it was absurd.
I did not even like Mr. Rawlings. Well, not much, anyway.
How could I be attracted to a man who ordered me about like I was one of his servants, who had dug into my past and involved himself in my private affairs and irritated me to no end?
Except our conversation at the water garden had caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to be so accepting of my story about Clarissa Haythorne—or so frighteningly angry on my behalf.
And when he’d captured my hand, when we’d stood so close, I’d felt . . .
Mr. Rawlings broke our gaze, his mother claiming his attention with some complaint from a tenant.
I forced air into my lungs, ducking my head.
I remembered very well how I hadn’t thought him handsome at our first meeting.
He’d been too fierce, his features harsh and unyielding.
Now, though, I was beginning to see him differently.
As if knowing the more hidden parts of him changed what my eyes were telling me.
And I realized that even if Mr. Rawlings was not handsome in the usual way, he was incredibly—and quite unfortunately—attractive.
It did not matter. It could not matter. I couldn’t guess how long I would have to stay here at Briarstone House, and allowing myself to dwell on such things—even within my own head—set a dangerous precedent.
Mr. Rawlings was charged with my protection.
Our relationship could only ever be purely professional.
Besides, he gave no sign that he felt any of this baffling attraction I sensed between us. Perhaps it was only me reading more into our interactions than I should. He was far too in control of himself; whereas, I acted before I thought in almost every situation.
It would be best for both of us if I simply ignored this untimely attachment. It had no permanent bearing on my future—it was only the unfortunate side effect of spending too much time with a man.
I simply wished that this specific man did not intrigue me so very much.