Chapter Three #2
He stepped closer, his own hands itching to span her waist, lift her off the ground, haul her Viking-style over his shoulder, and take the stairs two at a time. He would definitely need more than fifteen minutes!
Her gown was much more to his liking than the black sack she’d worn last night.
He wondered how long it would take to get it off her.
It showed a lovely amount of décolletage, and the style was much more flattering to her curvaceous figure.
Yes. He would enjoy taking it off, indeed he would.
It took him a moment to digest the color.
It was so dark only the shimmer of the lamplight showed it to be a glorious midnight blue and not black at all.
Oliver’s hands were nearly touching the tiny beads at her waist when she stepped back and away from him.
“Have you quite finished with your inspection, Bellamy?” Her voice laced with a threat.
He grinned. “Not really, Countess, but the night is young.” He gave her a wink and went to reach for her again. The unfamiliar yet unmistakable feel of the cold muzzle of a small pistol jabbed his stomach. His hands came up instantly.
“Good God, woman! What the devil are you playing at?”
“Surely, you are not surprised?” She pointed the gun away from him and put it back in her reticule.
“Is this a joke? What can you be thinking, pulling a cheeky stunt like that?”
Her look was all innocence, and for a moment he could picture her at any given night on a Drury Lane stage posing poetic about betrayal and love lost.
“I thought you ought to know I will be keeping this in my possession at all times.” She turned then, picking up her gloves in one hand.
“Oh, and Bellamy? I don’t take kindly to manhandling or being called, Countess.
Perhaps you ought to remember that also.
” She put on one glove before adding, “Now hurry, we must keep to the schedule.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her retreating form. “Well, this is a grand start!” he muttered to the now empty room. “I don’t take kindly to female-handling either.” Well, at least, not much.
He spared a glance at Blackhurst. Unbelievably, Oliver was actually beginning to feel sorry for him, not to mention himself.
As if having to escort a suspected murderess around town wasn’t bad enough, now he had to contend with her being an armed bedlamite as well.
Luckily, he was not a man to run from danger.
A serious character flaw he was sure. It was not as though she would really shoot him with that tiny thing, would she?
He shook his head at the ridiculous thought.
What did she plan to do, shoot him if he ruined her schedule?
He took his time getting into the carriage.
He didn’t want her to think her little pistol ploy had scared him into a state of obedience.
Although he was very aware she had a firearm at the ready, probably aimed at his heart, or lower.
*
“You know,” he stated when the carriage was underway. “It isn’t very ladylike to carry around loaded pistols. What if it were to go off in your reticule? You could shoot your foot off, or worse, shoot mine off.”
Lisbeth raised an eyebrow. “Your foot is safe, Bellamy,” she assured from the shadows, “for the moment.”
“Do you really think it is necessary to have it on you at a ball?” he asked, shifting a little on the seat opposite her.
“Especially, at a ball.”
“All right, but maybe you should give it to me… for safekeeping,” he suggested. “Carrying around a loaded pistol is extremely dangerous, not to mention… dangerous.”
“Which is precisely why I am keeping it safe myself.”
The carriage swayed from side to side as they stared at each other in the dimness of the interior.
They were two strangers sitting uncomfortably across from each other in silence.
He knew that to take her at face value would mean death on a battlefield.
He wouldn’t be so naive as to think her a safe companion to travel with.
He would keep her in front of him where he could keep an eye on her, and her reticule.
The occasional sliver of light from the street lamps illuminated them for only seconds at a time and he tried to study her while he could get away with it.
She was something of an enigma, this woman called the Black Raven—shrouded in scandal and mystery but inherently interesting to him nonetheless, despite the fact she quite obviously had bats in the belfry.
“I really think you should give it to me, Countess.”
“I really think I shouldn’t, Bellamy.”
“I see.” He didn’t. “Why is that, exactly?” He would feel a lot better with that thing in his possession instead of hers.
A woman and a firearm was a volatile mix.
Considering her reputation, he thought it strange she would have shown it to him at all.
If she wanted to cast shadow over her innocence, he could see no better way of doing it.
“Because, my dear sir, you are a man,” she was saying now. All said in a tone which gave the impression it was not something he should be proud of.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “While I am glad you noticed, Countess, I hardly see what it has to do with a rather perilous object sitting in your reticule.”
A fierce look of disapproval crossed her features for a moment. Was it his use of the word “Countess” which had rewarded him with such a look?
“It is my opinion that men should never be allowed to have possession of a firearm. You are notoriously clumsy with them.”
“We are? Now hold on a minute…” he began, “… clumsy with them?”
Was the exaggerated sigh meant to imply he should already know this and she was simply repeating a well-known fact?
He knew he had been out of the country for a long time but surely he would not have missed such a reform.
His pistol had been his best friend for ten years.
Evidently, this would be hard for her to comprehend, determined as she seemed to be to put down all men as idiots.
Even now she was talking. He listened only because he was intrigued with what other complete twaddle she would come up with.
“Yes, and you shouldn’t be allowed to have sharp objects, either,” she stated with as much conviction as she had about the pistol.
He smiled in the darkness. “I presume you mean a sword, or are we now talking of cutlery?”
“You were right the first time, although now that you mention it—”
“Would you care to explain your theory, Countess?”
This ought to be good, he thought, sitting back. She was very negative towards his gender and really, he shouldn’t find it at all amusing. He was, after all, a man, but he did nevertheless.
“Of course,” she said before taking a breath. “It is well known that men use weapons like toys, like they are meant for your enjoyment, but I assure you they are not. They end up killing people.”
Like your husband, Countess? “I think you are being a little unfair. We don’t all use them like toys.”
“The majority of you do, so I’m afraid my statement stands.
Do you not patronize Manton’s? Do you not have all manner of killing apparatus strapped to your walls as trophies of some dead ancestor or in cabinets and boxes tucked away waiting for the next time you want to play with them?
If you want to go off and kill each other in duels and other such pathetic methods, by all means go ahead, you are only proving my point,” she said, her tone altogether too smug.
“Is there ever a hunting party where one of the guests isn’t shot, maimed, or otherwise disfigured? ”
He’d never been on a hunt in his life, not a civilized one at any rate, and they had certainly not been parties. “You don’t like us very much, do you, Countess?” Oliver hoped she could hear the frown in his voice even if she couldn’t see it.
He could hardly believe he was having this conversation with her. Duels, although outlawed, still occurred among gentlemen. It was a matter of honor. He couldn’t deny the fact, but it wasn’t as though they did it as a form of recreation, an activity to do for fun before breakfast.
As for the hunting party, Henry had written to him about such things, usually conveying them in a humorous light.
So, yes, there were sometimes unfortunate accidents, but it usually involved a jealous husband who took advantage of shooting at his wife’s lover and being able to pass it off as a wayward shot. Hmm, still…
“I like you well enough,” she was saying now. “You do have your uses, after all.” Her tone was bored, like she might let out a loud yawn.
“We do? I’m surprised. One would think you thought we were good for naught but hacking each other up on a whim, or blowing the stuffing out of one another for target practice,” he stated in disgust. “Might I remind you that men with these particular objects have been at war for a decade and more to keep you from having to eat frog’s legs, Lady Blackhurst?
You should be damn grateful.” She should be damn grateful he didn’t shake her till her teeth rattled.
“I heard they taste like chicken,” she said, looking directly at him with those eyes.
“They do, a little… but that is beside the point,” he grumbled. Oh, she was a dirty player.
She looked at him then for a long moment.
“While I stand by my theory, in terms of certain types of gentlemen of the ton, I would never undermine the military’s importance to the safety of England.
Though, through history, it is a repeated scenario that it is a lust for the spoils of war which often necessitates the need for one. ”
“You don’t know the first thing about war, Countess.
I do not think you should presume to have any opinion on the matter.
” Oh, he loved it when he made her twitch.
She obviously did not like his pet name for her.
He decided he would continue to call her Countess, just for the pleasure of seeing her twitch.
“I know the taxes I pay go to fund them,” she parried.
“And I know the soldiers who fight them die,” he deflected.
“That is very true, and sad, don’t you think?”
Touché, Countess. “I think we should talk of something else.”
“Of course,” she replied, but said nothing further and neither did he.
He had just realized what she was doing.
She had neatly distracted him from his purpose, to get the pistol from her.
He would let her assume for now it had worked.
She leaned closer to the window to try and catch the lamplight on her pocket watch.
He knew how she felt; he was thinking the same thing.
Was this carriage ride ever going to end?
“I wish you would put that thing away,” Oliver said, folding his arms across his chest. It must have been the fifth time she’d done it since getting in the carriage. If she was going to do it all night it was going to drive him to drink—heavily.
“I must know what the time is,” she stated, her voice as cool as ever.
“Does it really matter if we are a few minutes late?” He was baiting her on purpose, and he knew it was dangerous considering what was in her reticule, but it was dark so he did have an advantage.
“Yes, it does.”
He waited. Nothing. “Is this another one of your theories, Countess? I suppose we men can’t be trusted with timepieces either? God forbid we may tell each other the wrong time.”
Frowning, she set the watch back in her bag and looked at him. “You are like a child, aren’t you? Must you know every little thing? I think I liked you better when you were a witless drunk.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Nice. What was she expecting, his blood to start boiling, or his face to take on the look of chopped liver?
Prove he was a child and throw a tantrum?
Not bleedin’ likely! Instead, he laughed, for what he really wanted to do was take her over his knee and give her a good spanking on her conceited derriere.
Whatever she may think of him, which was obviously not much, he was a man of his word, a man who was intimate with the word duty.
“Are you ever serious, Bellamy?”
He could see by the severe set of her mouth she wasn’t the least impressed. “Occasionally, but I am usually ill at the time,” he replied flippantly as the carriage came to a stop. They both sighed in relief.
He sprang out of the coach and handed her down. “Your audience awaits, my lady.” Her hands were cold, so he tucked them in the crook of his arm and glanced down at her for a moment. “Ready?”
“Yes, of course.” Her face, in profile, was serious and intense. He almost felt sorry for her. It was no mean feat to walk into a room full of people. People who thought you were a murderess.
“You’re allowed to smile. People are going to think I dragged you here by your hair if you don’t,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Don’t be ludicrous, Bellamy. The last thing they will expect is for me to smile.”