Chapter 8 #2
A prickly sensation assaulted his skin as it heated beneath her studious gaze.
Only the slightest flinch of her body made him believe she’d considered turning away and pretending he’d not been her subject of interest. It seemed she’d changed her mind though, for their gazes were now locked while the silence between them grew fiercer.
Until…
“Have you any family here in London?” She spoke the question with the same kind of stiffness an upper-class lady might use to address a chimneysweep blocking her path.
Nevertheless, Peter breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed against the squabs with a nod. “I’ve a cousin, Mark, who lives on the southside with his family. He works for Schroders.” When Miss Hastings responded with a blank stare he explained, “It’s an investment bank.”
“Oh.” Interest lit her eyes. “Do you see him often?”
“Not as often as I probably should. We’re both busy with work, besides which he has a wife and three children.”
She was quiet a moment but Peter could sense a new question forming. Considering what he’d just told her, he also had an inkling of what it might be.
He wasn’t wrong.
“You never married?” She toyed with the cord from her reticule. An indication that posing the question made her self-conscious. Nervous. Yet she’d done it — thrown the question into the space between them in anticipation of getting an answer.
He sighed. “No.”
“Why not?” Another probing question though this one stilled her movements.
Peter considered how best to respond. The last thing he wanted from her was pity, and yet, he wanted to give her the truth. So he took a deep breath and pushed the air from his lungs before confessing, “Because the woman I wanted picked someone else.”
A quick beat and then, “Was she cracked in the head?”
Peter snorted with amusement. The seriousness with which Miss Hastings asked the question was simply too… He wasn’t sure what, but it made something deep inside him — something that had always felt out of place — realign.
“I don’t believe so,” he told her. “This was over two decades ago, you understand. I didn’t have much to offer.
No home of my own or the kind of income required to support a wife, never mind children.
Catherine Davies made the right choice for herself at the time by marrying the vicar.
And in so doing, she put me on this path.
I left Berkshire and came to London. Became a Runner and worked my way up from there. ”
“Then it would seem I owe Miss Davies my thanks. Had you wed her, you probably wouldn’t be here right now.”
Although she failed to add with me, the implication was there. Was it not? Peter barely dared breathe. It was the closest she’d ever come to suggesting his feelings for her were reciprocated. Unless he was choosing to think in such terms because it was what he wished for.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen prey to such an error, and when it came to Miss Hastings, he dared not risk it.
Asking her to elaborate, to tell him exactly what she meant, would be like laying his own heart bare when there was every chance she might say that Bow Street was lucky to have him — that London was safer for it.
So he merely responded with a bland smile and asked, “What of you, Miss Hastings? Did none of your beaus strike your fancy?”
She drew back, like a tortoise trying to hide inside its shell, as though she hoped the bench on which she sat might swallow her whole. After a second however, she deigned to say, “For that to occur, I’d have had to have at least one.”
It was Peter’s turn to stare at her in mute silence. “That can’t be right.”
She tightened her jaw and tilted her chin up a fraction, the bob of her throat as she swallowed conveying her discomfort.
“Well, it is. My sisters were all pursued by numerous gentlemen, but I think I was always considered too great a challenge. At least that’s what Miranda tells me.
She’s my oldest sister and happily married these past ten years to a barrister named Tom. ”
Peter took a tentative step onto the proverbial ice. “There’s something to be said about challenges. They tend to test our capabilities and mental faculties, which is far more engaging than the alternative.”
“You don’t have to placate me, Kendrick.”
Her sharp tone was proof of an underlying insecurity he’d never noticed in her before. It made him want to cross to the opposite bench and pull her into his arms. As he’d been tempted to do before. Especially when she’d confessed her fears of underground spaces.
Astonished by the vulnerability of such an otherwise confident woman, he could think of nothing else to say besides, “I wouldn’t dare.”
A moment passed before she huffed a breath. “I think you’ll agree that I can be difficult.”
“Because you constantly voice your disapproval of my smoking?” When she merely flattened her lips in response, he shrugged one shoulder. “I’d rather you did that than put up with something you hate. It’s more open and honest.”
“Hmm…”
He couldn’t tell if she agreed or not and decided to let the matter rest. As it was, he’d conveyed his admiration for her much more than was probably wise. If he weren’t careful, she’d—
“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Peter tensed, the muscles in his stomach compressing under the weight of her unexpected question. His heart was once again banging against his chest as if to remind him that this was dangerous territory.
Intent on demanding as much from her as she did from him, he chose to respond with another question. “Why do you ask?”
“I, um…” She gave her head a swift shake, averting her gaze. Although the light within the carriage was dim, he could tell she’d turned a deep shade of crimson. “I’m not sure what I was thinking. Please forgive me. That’s far too personal and not my business and—”
“Five and forty,” he said, if only to ease whatever embarrassment she was enduring. And since she’d broached the subject… “What about you?”
She cleared her throat, repositioned herself, and smoothed out her skirts. “Eight and twenty.”
A couple of years older than he’d estimated then, but still close to two full decades his junior.
It was madness for him to want her as much as he did.
Worse was the horror of her finding out how much he’d been thinking about her these past five months and not being even remotely attracted to him in return.
But the prospect of being permitted to unpin her hair, to watch it fall over her naked shoulders… To kiss that scolding mouth of hers and hold her firmly in his grasp while making her sigh with pleasure…
He dug his fingertips into his thighs and dropped his gaze to the floor, to where the hem of her gown rested.
“It’s clearly a lost cause at this point.”
His gaze snapped back to hers. “What?”
“My getting married.” She pursed her lips as though mulling that over, as if it were a gown that had gone out of fashion before she’d been able to wear it.
“It’s probably for the best, however, since most men would likely balk at their wife becoming involved in murder investigations. Or hunting for clues with other men.”
He couldn’t help but smirk. “As you insist upon doing.”
She was not the sort of woman one ordered to stay home and knit. He’d learned that the moment they met. To his surprise, it was one of the things he found most compelling about her — the fact that she knew her own mind and chased what she wanted regardless of social norms.
If he were honest, it would be hard for him to think of any person whom he admired or respected more. In a way, he was glad she’d never wed. Not only for selfish reasons but also because he believed her intellect and the skills she provided Bow Street would have been wasted on marriage.
“I’m sorry if you find me difficult to deal with at times.” It was clear she genuinely meant it. “If it makes any difference I’m like this with everyone.”
“Like what?” he asked, curious to know more about how she viewed herself.
She tapped one finger against her hand while the carriage trundled along, hopping over some uneven spots in the road. “Opinionated, stubborn, critical, irritable, and oftentimes too serious.”
It was true that she was all of those things. However…
“You’re also clever, meticulous, daring, brave, dependable, and intriguing.”
Her lips parted in surprise. Or in possible wonder. For a second he feared he’d gone too far. But then her face brightened and… It wasn’t merely a smile on her face but rather something that would have knocked him right off his feet had he not been seated.
Because Miss Hastings, a woman he’d only ever seen with either a serious expression or a disapproving frown, was beaming as though she’d just inherited a thousand pounds.
It was extraordinary. She was extraordinary. Even as she quietly asked, “Do you honestly think so?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” His voice was as gentle as hers, as though this moment demanded the reverence one might apply in a church.
There was something that intimate about it. That sacred.
“Thank you, Kendrick.” She licked her lips, then pressed them together, her appearance suddenly slightly forlorn as she slumped her shoulders. “I’m glad to know you don’t dislike me too much.”
Her comment felt like a punch to the gut. “Dislike you? Whatever gave you the notion I might do that?”
A soft frown appeared at the bridge of her nose. It was accompanied by a do-you-really-need-to-ask? kind of look. This was promptly followed by, “I've seen you roll your eyes at me, and I've noted your irritation whenever I bring up your smoking.”
“Yes, but–”
“There's no need for you to pretend I don't get on your nerves.”
He paused to consider then chose to point out, “I get on your nerves too. I know I do. Especially because of the smoking. Are you suggesting this means you hate me?”
“Of course not. I could never…” There was a flustered look about her now, a look of uneasiness suggesting she no longer wished to discuss this.
And while he sympathized, he had to ask, “Then why would you suppose I could?”
The possibility of this being the case chipped away at his heart. It made him reconsider their every interaction. Most specifically how she might have perceived them, or rather him.
Had he said something or done something to lead her to this misconception? He didn't think so, but the truth was he couldn't recall. Mostly because he'd been too bloody busy with work, either due to the cases or to prevent thinking of her.
It was muddling. And rather than answer his question, instead of explaining so they could get past this, she'd somehow retreated. Was quietly sitting there on that bench across from him. So close their knees would touch if he shifted his legs.
Yet in this moment, he felt as though an ocean lay between them. And then, before he could find the right words to steer them past these difficult feelings, the carriage drew to a halt.
They'd arrived at their destination.