Chapter 11 #2
Then he watched the knot in her brow melt away in a sudden expression of understanding.
She turned back to him, her painted lips parted.
“Oh!” The voice emerging from her throat was a little higher pitched than usual, and, though it was difficult to discern fluctuations of complexion behind all that packed-on white powder, Nigel thought perhaps that she flushed.
“Oh, so . . . so you’re the pretty boy who’s been pining away for Bryony all evening! ”
“Pretty?” Nigel echoed. Then, “Boy?”
Luna shook her head, and her mouth broke into an enormous smile, followed by a laugh which .
. . well, if Nigel didn’t know her so well, he would think she was highly amused by this sudden turn of events.
It was a laugh which sparkled: bright and brittle and clear, like bubbles of champagne caught in prismatic crystal. She positively brimmed over with mirth.
Only Nigel did know her. Very well indeed. He knew her laugh, all her different laughs. And he knew this laugh was not sincere. Something about this situation was extremely not funny to her. But what?
“Well!” she cried through a little hiccupping gulp of sound.
“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Bryony is working tonight.
Though I don’t believe she’s on the late shift, so she should be home soon-ish.
If she hasn’t scored another date already, that is.
Not that you should let that discourage you!
Bryony dates lots of fellows, but I happen to know for a fact that she’s very keen to go out with you. ”
“She is?”
“Oh, yes.” Luna laughed again, more of that on-the-verge-of-cracking brightness. “Why, we talked about you just the other day.”
“You talked about me?”
“Bryony was bemoaning the fact that there are no good men left in the world who aren’t either aged or infirm.
” She pressed a hand to her heart and squeezed out yet another of those thin giggles.
“And I said to her, ‘What about Mr. Grimm? He’s a good man. He’s so very conscientious and kind, and he would never take advantage of a girl.
Why, one always knows one is completely safe with him. ’”
Nigel’s brow knotted. He couldn’t decide if this description of him was complimentary. Or even accurate, for that matter. “And, erm, what did Bryony say to that?”
“Oh, she agreed. She said right away that if you were to turn up on her doorstep, she would go out with you in a heartbeat. All you have to do is”—her gaze flicked up to meet his.
And her smile, so broad just an instant before, vanished suddenly, even as her voice dropped low, speaking the final word in a deep, almost guttural register—“ask.”
Nigel studied her. Desperate to read something in her face, in her eyes.
Perhaps he’d have better luck if she wasn’t wearing all that makeup.
Perhaps then he’d be able to discern if what he thought he might be hearing in her voice was true.
If she was not actually speaking for Bryony in that moment at all.
If she was truly speaking for herself.
He wanted to believe it. More than anything. But if he was mistaken, if he said, or—gods help him—did the wrong thing right now, in this fragile moment, he risked so much. Too much. Too many lives, too many hearts. Too many perilous futures.
He felt the moment passing. He had to do something. Now. Quickly. Because if he continued to look into her eyes for even one moment more, he was going to make an absolute fool of himself, grab her in his arms, and kiss her like there was no tomorrow!
Wrenching his gaze away, Nigel frowned down at the floor.
His eye was caught by something lying where the two of them had fallen together.
A handkerchief. One of his own; he recognized the whimsical mushroom border.
It must have fallen from his pocket in their brief struggle.
Nigel cleared his throat and stepped to one side, bending to retrieve the misplaced article.
Even as he did so, however, Luna uttered a little, “Oh, that’s mine!
” and sprang forward in a shiver of green satin.
She caught one end of the handkerchief in her fingers.
“No, Miss Talbot,” Nigel said softly. “This is one of mine, I believe. A gift from Mrs. Goddard.” He turned it then, showing the initials, NG. “See?”
“Oh.” Luna exhaled a little breath. “Right. I must have missed that.” Releasing her hold, she backed up a pace. “Of course. It’s yours. Take it.”
Brow puckered, Nigel stuffed the hankie into his pocket.
His gaze sought hers, but met only the stern set of her profile, half-hidden behind a curtain of curls.
He opened his mouth, searching for something he might say, but came up short.
In the end, he managed only a low-spoken, “I think it’s time I was going. ”
“Yes.” Luna nodded. “Yes, probably.”
“Will you, erm, give the marigolds to your roommate for me?”
Another big smile broke across her lips. She turned it on him, nearly blinding him with the brilliance. “Oh, naturally. Bryony will love them, I’m sure.”
“What will Bryony love?” a voice spoke along with the creak of the parlor door.
Nigel, half-swallowing his tongue with surprise, turned to see none other than Bryony herself appear.
Her eyes, dramatically painted for the Rowdy House stage, swept across the room in a trice, taking in Luna’s dropped heel on the floor, the flowers on the armchair, and the two of them close to the half-open window.
“Why, Lunaloo,” she trilled, “you look a treat tonight! And . . . I say, is that who I think it is?”
She moved into the room, hips performing an effortless sashay like they were created for no other purpose.
She wore a fitted dress of red that should have clashed with her magenta-dyed hair, but somehow, by some feminine sorcery beyond Nigel’s scope, didn’t.
Her long lashes lowered in an expression that might have been demure on any other face, but on hers was primed to set the blood aboil.
“Well, well,” she cooed, pressing her full lips into a delightful pout.
“The girls told me there was a fella waitin’ for me in the parlor.
They didn’t breathe a word as to who it might be! ”
With an effort of supreme will, Nigel resisted the urge to pull at his collar. “Miss Braithwait,” he managed. “And, erm, how are you this fine evening?”
“Better and better, Mr. Grimm. Better and better.” She reached out and took hold of his arm in a proprietary manner. He felt the heat of her fingers right through his linen sleeve. “Now, what was it Luna thinks I’ll love?”
Nigel turned just in time to see Luna slip from the room in a final whisper of green satin.
His heart plummeted. He wished he could pry free of Bryony’s grasp and run after her, calling her name, but .
. . well, he’d come to Mrs. Boggs’s Boardinghouse for Young Women of Good Character with a single purpose in mind. He would see it through.
Sidestepping to the armchair, Nigel swept up the marigolds. “These, actually,” he said, presenting them to their intended recipient with a half-bow.
Bryony gaped. “Why, Mr. Grimm! Flowers?” She took the little bouquet and lifted them to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Most lads don’t bother with flowers anymore, you know. The cheapskates! And these are such a pretty color.”
“They seemed vibrant. Like yourself, Miss Braithwait.”
“Vibrant, am I? I like that.” She moved in close to him again, worrying her plump lower lip with her teeth. “So, what’s it to be, Mr. Grimm?” she asked, flicking a glance up at him from beneath exaggerated lashes.
“Erm, well, I was thinking dinner, perhaps?”
“Dinner?” Her eyebrows rose. “As in, dinner dinner? Food and drink and the like?”
Nigel nodded. “The King’s Crown. Tomorrow night. If you’re not busy, that is.”
“The King’s Crown?” Bryony’s face dropped its coyness for a moment in an expression of pure surprise. “Are you pulling my leg, Mr. Grimm?”
“No, I wouldn’t—”
“No fellow has ever taken me to The King’s Crown. Coo, you make me feel like a real lady!”
“Would you like to go then?”
“Would I ever!” Bryony smelled her flowers. Then, placing one hand on Nigel’s shoulder, she stood up on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear. “Tell you what. You take me to The King’s Crown tomorrow night, and I’ll make you feel a proper royal before the evening is through. You get me?”
With those words, she nibbled his lobe.
Nigel’s stomach turned over several times before dropping into the pool of lava which rushed straight to his center. He gulped. Audibly.
But this was good. This was very good. Right? This was what he needed. Just the thing to redirect his thoughts, his energies. To drag his feelings back from where they didn’t belong and put them under regulation once more.
“Tomorrow night, Miss Braithwait,” he said, a little hoarsely.
“You got it, Grimmsy.” Bryony backed away a step and winked. “Pick me up at seven. Don’t be late, mind!”