Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Henrietta sat in her study, staring at the sheet of foolscap before her.
Yesterday her themes had seemed so orderly, her points well-made, but now her chicken scratches seemed substanceless and stupid.
And what did an intellectual debate matter, anyway, when there was so much staggering sorrow and injustice in the world?
Sometimes she wished the angels would descend with swords and fire to smite all the wicked. But then who would be left?
She pulled a fresh paper toward her and took a small knife and quill from the escritoire.
The letter required only two lines, but her tears blurred the ink.
She sanded the page and let it dry while she hunted for her seal, a small soapstone with the profile of Minerva carved into it, a gift from her former schoolmistress.
Henrietta folded the letter, dripped the hot wax to seal, and addressed it.
The notes for her debate stared up at her. She put her face in her hands.
“Caller for you, Miss Hetty,” the butler said from the doorway.
“I am not receiving today, Dearbody,” she said through her fingers.
The butler cleared his throat. “Lord Darien Bales, miss.”
Henrietta wiped her tears with her hands, wishing she could as easily push away the flutter in her belly.
There he stood, taller than she remembered, in a burgundy coat that brought attention to how very wide his shoulders were and breeches that left nothing to wonder about the length and strength of his legs.
He was like the big cats explorers had discovered in faraway lands, huge, supple, lithe, predatory, walking the earth as if they owned it.
“Lady Clarinda sent me up,” he said, an apologetic note in his voice. “She said you might be in need of company.”
“In fact, I am just leaving on an errand,” Henrietta murmured. She was glad to have tasks to distract her, a reason to avoid Darien’s unsettling company.
He was calling only because it was proper to call at a home where one had been a guest. Lord Darien had exquisite manners when he chose to exercise them.
He had pinned her to the garden wall, given her a long, practiced, mechanical kiss, and held rigid and cold and distant the entire time.
She could not name all the emotions that had swirled through her then and rose again at the sight of him now, but she would do her best to hide them.
Some new awareness swept through her body at his nearness, but she was alone in it; he was the tutor, instructing, correcting, unaffected.
She would not let him see how he affected her.
She rose. “Dearbody, would you ask Sir Pelton to frank this letter for me? The family will not be able to pay the post.”
Dearbody withdrew but gave Darien a hesitant look. Henrietta rarely received male callers.
“What is the matter?” Darien asked. He had black lashes around his very blue eyes—one reason the color seemed so intense, his gaze so riveting.
She reached for her sodden handkerchief. “Mary Ann,” she choked.
“The girl from the workhouse?”
She nodded, surprised he remembered, even more surprised when the truth came pouring out. “The one we took to the Sisters of Benevolence.” She curled her hand into fists. “Her son is dead.”
“Oh, that poor girl.” His face softened with pity. “You found out today?”
“It happened this morning,” she said, chest heaving. “He…he died while I was with them.”
She covered her face again. She had been strong for Mary Ann, held the girl and comforted her, commiserated with her loss, promised she would write her family. She’d had no one to comfort her.
She was surprised to feel Darien’s warm, firm hands on her shoulders. She had thought he would bolt from the room. What man could endure a woman’s tears?
“That poor child,” he said. “Both of them. You did all you could.”
“Not enough,” she sobbed. “If I’d called another doctor—found a wet nurse— If we could have found a way to make him eat—”
To her utter astonishment, Darien put his arms around her and drew her against his chest. “I’m going to ruin your cravat,” she muttered.
“Good,” he said. “My man needs practice tying them.”
She learned against his solid warmth and let the storm of grief toss her. He smelled lovely, like leather and tobacco and warm, pungent pine. His embrace was a safe, strong shield.
After a while, she drew a calming breath and laid her cheek on his shoulder. Her lips were close to his neck. His skin looked soft, with the barest hint of stubble.
Darien stood very still. His arms felt strong and delightfully heavy around her. A warm curl unfolded in her middle, telling her she wanted more of this, more from him.
She ignored it. He offered comfort only, a friendly gesture of support. A favor, like improving her gown.
And why he should offer friendship to her, when he had ruined swaths of girls, she could not fathom. She smoothed his wrinkled cravat and stepped away. His arms opened as if the muscles had frozen.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to wipe her nose on her handkerchief in the most discreet and ladylike manner possible.
“I’m afraid I really am not at home today.
I told Mary Ann I would arrange for services and have Elijah buried in our parish.
She won’t need cards, and she doesn’t want mourners, but I need to find him a coffin, and clothes to be buried in, and mourning dress for her. ”
She scrubbed the tear tracks from her face. “Then I mean to find a small locket for her, like the kind Lady Mama had made for Fanny, and after the undertaker, I shall need to talk to the vicar. And then I need to prepare for my debate.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“Why?” She gave up and blew her nose, loudly. “Don’t you have duties of your own today?”
“Frankly, no. And I regret what that says about me.”
She stared, catching the bleak expression that passed through his eyes. He was garbed for showing himself in the fashionable walks and promenades, as suited to his class. She, on the other hand, had things to do.
“I cannot think you should wish to be seen with me.” She gave him a watery smile. “I understand the satirists are howling with delight that you condescended to dine at a tradesman’s table.” What a relief the lampoons did not know how the evening had ended, with that kiss.
A trace of dull red touched his sculpted cheekbones, as if he were recalling that kiss too. “I suppose your family is furious at the ridicule. Lady Pomeroy seems a high stickler.”
Henrietta hunted about for a fresh handkerchief to tuck into her pocket.
“On the contrary, Lady Mama had a round dozen callers this morning, all dying to know why she had entertained the notorious Lord Daring. Ten of them pledged support for the Sisters of Benevolence, and five signed my petition to Parliament calling for full abolition.”
She collected her shawl and gloves. “In addition, several of the gossip sheets mentioned my debate, which, if it is well attended, will guarantee my admittance to the Minerva Society. So you see, your infamy works to my advantage.” She tied on the enormous picture hat that Lady Mama had gifted her. “I must go.”
He regarded her German habit, shaking his head. “Did you learn nothing from my lesson?”
She had learned she was terrible at kissing. That he was bossy and high-handed with her but unmoved by desire. Heat singed her cheeks.
“This habit is excessively comfortable and allows me a free range of motion. I’m surprised women don’t wear them for all occasions.”
“That muddy color is appalling, and there is entirely too much fabric.” He followed her down the stairs. “You ought to accent your shape, not hide it.”
“I live in the north,” Henrietta said. “I like being warm.”
“You are in London for the Season,” he reminded her, “and no one says that learned females cannot be à la mode. We will run your errands, and then I will introduce you to a modiste I know. Fear not, Duprix will— Hey now, Jack o’ Legs!
” They reached the street to find James stroking Darien’s matched blacks, whispering nonsensical words into their ears.
“Don’t you be fashing my high-steppers. They’re nervy enough. ”
“Drive you, milord?” James offered. The sweep boy Darien had employed held the ribbons, resentful to give over his post or his promised pay.
“If you could bring my gig around, James,” Henrietta said.
“Nonsense,” Darien said. “I will drive you. Since you do not have a maid to hold your packages, clearly the duty falls to me.”
He clamped those warm, strong hands to her waist and lifted her to the high step of the whisky as if she weighed no more than the yards of fabric in her habit. All the breath left Henrietta’s body.
Their embrace in her sitting room had scattered her wits if she thought it was safe to be seen about town with him.
Or wise to sit so close to the big, splendid heat of him, hear his low rumbling voice near her ear, enjoy the attention of that dizzying blue gaze.
Lord Daring broke hearts as casually as he destroyed reputations.
She was no Forsythia Pennyroyal, foolish enough to set her cap for him, but being with him was a danger to her reputation and her sensibilities, no matter what credit he thought he might gain with Sir Pelton by running her errands.
Darien swung himself easily into the whisky and shook out the ribbons, tossing a coin to the sweep. “I drive myself, imp,” he said to James, “but you may ride behind as my tiger.”
With a broad grin, James scrambled to the perch, puffing out his chest. “Miss Hetty needs friends around her,” he said. “It’s been a lowerin’ morn. She’s taking the lad’s loss deep.”