Chapter 18 #2
Mr. Howard had taken the seat Miss Blackwell had vacated and was stepping his fingers across the table toward Harriet’s hand. I spun on my heel, uncertain what I was going to do, but there was no question of allowing Mr. Howard another moment in the company of either Harriet or Miss Blackwell.
They were cousins, for heaven’s sake. Did the man have no integrity?
I’d only taken two furious steps when a hand caught the cuff of my sleeve. The shock of Miss Blackwell’s gloved fingers connecting with the skin above my wrist jolted me to a stop.
“Wait,” she said. “Don’t be foolish.”
I turned on her, grabbed both of her forearms and marched her farther down the bookshelf where we would be less noticed.
“Foolish?” I hissed. “That man has toyed with you, then flaunted it in front of me, my friends, and your cousin, and you expect me to simply ignore that? When he is at this moment perhaps planning something similar for Harriet?”
The soft skin of her cheek rippled when she clenched her jaw. “I have asked you not to call her that.”
I huffed out a breath. “That is the least of my concerns at the moment.”
“Stop being so concerned. You're wrong. Mr. Howard has never touched me. He flirts, yes, but only in a charming and harmless way.”
“Well,” I said darkly. “Davis and Brookhouse would never do such a thing.”
“I agree.”
“Miss Blackwell, I don’t understand what you are trying to say.”
“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m trying to stop you from defending my honor when you don’t even understand the situation—a situation you are making a thousand times worse by forcibly pulling me into this corner and speaking so freely to me.”
I pulled my hands away from her so quickly you’d think her arms had been on fire. She was right. We were in view of most of the party, and I was acting a fool. I ran a hand down my face. “Why didn’t you simply answer my question and tell me the man wasn’t at this house party?”
The silent stillness of the woman in front of me made me pull my hand away from my eyes. I’d guessed wrong again. But if it was none of the younger men, that only left . . .
Sir Howard?
As bad as the thought of Mr. Howard had been, Sir Howard was infinitely worse. My gut seethed liquid hot disgust. Had he cornered her at some point? Lost his reasoning in drink? The general would kill him. There were plenty of guns on the estate.
But something still wasn’t adding up. I wouldn’t tear off again without complete understanding of what had happened to her. I couldn’t imagine the woman standing in front of me, the woman who’d greeted me with a gun in her hand the morning I awoke, being overcome by anyone. “Miss Blackwell?”
She searched my face. So many emotions must be running over it, I had no idea what she saw. “What?” she asked, her voice breathy.
“Are you in any danger?”
“No.” She shook her head as if she wasn’t quite certain. “I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Correct.”
“Is someone in this party harassing you?”
She lifted her chin, a strange flicker of defiance in her eyes. “At the moment?”
“At any moment.”
She pulled her lips together, almost as if she were trying not to laugh. “Not in the way you are thinking. Before you dash off in a fit of anger, you’d better tell me who you are suspecting. So I can deny it.”
But I couldn’t say it. It was one thing to suspect Vincent Howard, but his father, a married man three times Miss Blackwell’s age? And something about that ghost of a smile on her face made me question all my cognitive reasoning. “Miss Blackwell, are you . . . toying with me?”
She shook her head, the smile she’d been trying so hard to conceal inching its way onto her mouth. “Not by design.”
She was maddening. And to top it all off, I was close enough to catch her scent again. What was it? Lemon? Orange? A mix of the two?
I should simply walk away and leave her to her own devices. She and Mr. Howard had most likely planned this whole stunt in order to vex me—an absolutely absurd stunt, for there was no reason I should be vexed by anything Miss Blackwell had or hadn’t done.
But I couldn’t leave this conversation without knowing whether or not Miss Blackwell needed protection, and if she did, from whom. “You won’t tell me?”
“Trust me, it is better I don’t. Please forget this whole conversation.”
“Some things are impossible to forget.”
Her smile stiffened. Did it falter, even? No sooner had I seen the quiver of uncertainty, she hid it, tipping the corners of her mouth back into place. “I’m well aware.”
And for the briefest of moments, I had a flash of memory—a memory of feeling Miss Blackwell’s face in the palms of my hands, the softness of her cheek against the rough callouses of my fingers.
If I’d actually held her face that night, and those images weren’t dreams, had I done even more?
My pulse thundered in my ears. I must have, for I could see it in her eyes.
I fell away from her, stumbling back two large steps.
There was really only one plausible suspect after Vincent Howard.
Me.
I was the cad who’d kissed her without her permission. And yes, I was harassing her. She shouldn’t have been so hesitant to answer that question, but should have shouted yes in response. I’d cornered her, interrogated her, and made a scene that wouldn’t go unnoticed by a single person in this room.
Confound it all. No wonder she didn’t trust me with her cousin.
Those flashes of dreams hadn’t been dreams at all.