Chapter 2 #2
Moses did not answer immediately; he was utterly transfixed by the way she moved.
It was not purposeful: she did not seem to have any intended plan for her exploration of the room.
She moved like water, forming her own path in defiance of the world, elegantly moving one way and then the next as her eye caught something else of interest, though shivering all the while.
“Sir Moses, is there anything to eat here?”
Moses coloured. Without speaking a word, he stood up, pulled at the bell by the fireplace, and dropped once more into his armchair.
Miss Vaughn did not seem to have noticed. She had discovered his collection, and before he could ask her not to touch any of the stuffed birds that he had so carefully organised, she spoke.
“Dactylortyx thoracicus, the singing quail.”
That was enough to capture his attention. “How the blazes do you know that?”
Miss Vaughn turned at the sound of his voice, and even in the darkness he could make out the growing blush. “‘Tis a remarkable collection – I especially admire the fact that you have included both the male and female quail, for I know how difficult they are to catch unharmed.”
Moses unconsciously put down the book. “Yes, it was considered quite a victory at the time. Only a few other museums have a set anything near like it.”
Miss Vaughn smiled, and Moses felt the power of it and himself quite under it.
By God, she could ask almost anything of him and he would obey, obey without question.
She was truly beautiful, but now this understanding of ornithology?
What was she, a sprite that he had dreamed up from his imagination?
“And have you considered,” she began, but Miss Vaughn stopped as the door to the room was flung open and Baxter strode in.
Moses himself was startled; it could only have been three or four minutes since he had requested him through the bell pull, but he had completely forgotten.
Now he remembered, and Moses could not look at her as he said gruffly, “Take Miss Vaughn away, Baxter, away out of the house.”
Try as he might, it was impossible for Moses not to see the look of shock and astonishment on Miss Vaughn’s face, and it gave another level to her beauty that he fought to ignore.
“Out of the house, sir?” Baxter stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “No sir, not in this storm. She can wait it out here, surely?”
Moses swallowed. This woman was doing strange things to him, awakening parts of him that he had been sure were dead, had died a year ago, and the longer that she was here, the less control he would have around her.
He wanted her gone, and he wanted her in his bed, and if he was not careful the first instinct would soon be replaced with another.
“Send her home in the coach,” he snapped.
But Baxter lowered his eyes and said quietly. “The coach is in the village for its annual repairs, sir.”
Moses’ heart sunk. “Typical. Send a note then, to wherever it is she comes from. Tell them she is safe and will be returned in the morning.”
He looked up at her and saw the intrigue and interest on her face. He puzzled her, that was for sure, and it stirred his passions to find himself the centre of a beautiful woman’s attention.
“Lady Kathryn, I believe is the young lady’s chaperone in this part of the country,” Baxter was saying, but Moses could hardly listen to him.
“Yes yes, send a letter to Lady Kathryn and let her know that her charge is well,” Moses snapped, cutting off his butler. “Sign it with all the trimmings, Baronet of Wandorne, that sort of thing. Make it so, Baxter.”
How could it hurt? Just one evening, after all, and she would be gone by the morning. And it was not as though he had much of a choice, with Baxter standing there mutinously.
“So be it,” he managed to say with as little emotion as possible. “Miss Chloe Vaughn, you may stay. For this one night, only.”
She sank into a deep curtsey, and Moses tried to ignore the desire to stride across the room, take her in his arms, and sink his lips upon hers.
A roll of thunder boomed over the house, and it seemed to shake the three of them back to their senses, moving as though unfrozen.
“Dry clothes,” managed Moses in a strangled voice, “and food.”
Baxter nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door with a snap that seemed to Moses’ ears to echo around the room just as the thunder had done so.
No matter what he did, he could not prevent his eyes from roving around the room, back to her.
She had turned her back to him, gazing once more at the specimens that he had collected with such care.
His instinct to call her back – to call her away from his precious collection – had faded with the sight of her delicacy.
She did not touch them, peering with her hands clasped behind her back, as though to prevent the temptation.
Temptation was the last thing that his mind should wander to.
By God, but they were so alike in some ways, Moses thought.
Look at her curiosity: she could barely contain herself to find out about myself, and my habits – and now she examines the room in a manner so forensic, some of the best chaps at Oxford could not compete with her.
A strange sort of ache was growing in his chest, and Moses fought to ignore it. Miss Vaughn was just a woman – a beautiful woman, to be sure, and a woman whose figure was outlined most splendidly whenever he looked up – and beached or no, she would be gone when the sun rose tomorrow morning.
Not a word had been spoken by either of them when Baxter entered the room, placed a tray covered in food down on a table nearest Miss Vaughn, bowed silently to his master, and then left.
For a moment, Moses hesitated. It could not hurt him, surely, to partake in the meal with her?
Something in him hungered, and he was attempting to convince himself that it was merely his stomach that growled for satisfaction – but the moment was lost. Miss Vaughn strode forward, picked up the plate, and began to eat where she stood.
Temptation surfaced once again in his heart, but this time, for a different instinct. Eventually, Moses gave into it.
“Miss Vaughn, why are you not seated when you eat?”
It was an innocent question, Moses reasoned, and he had managed to speak the words without shouting. Just about.
Her response, however, was not nearly as civil.
“La, sir, I am feared of getting your seat damp once more,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “So here I stand, and I beg your kind sir will forgive me if a puddle appears on the floor.”
Moses flushed, and an unwelcome sense of embarrassment crept over him. “I was not always so discourteous to my houseguests, but usually I have some choice in them! Be seated, by God, and let’s have no more words about it.”
Typically, this brutish manner of speaking worked well – at least, it certainly drove the servants to his bidding most efficaciously.
But for some reason, it did not work so well with Miss Vaughn.
With her grey eyes pointedly fixed on his own, she stood up a little straighter and made absolutely no move whatsoever.
Moses could feel his temper rising, and he tried to force it down. This lady was gentleborn, and it would not do for her to run and tell tales of his animal manner – particularly as he had been avoiding society for so long.
“Do tell me, sir,” Miss Vaughn said in a mock sweetness, “when was it that you last had a houseguest here? I admit myself astonished that it could be within the last twelvemonth, the place being as decrepit as it is.”
Moses swallowed. It would do no good to rise to her bait, that was for sure, and he did not have to sit here and take such insolence from a mere whit of a girl.
“You must be tired,” he said gruffly, rising from his seat. “I will leave you to finish your meal and – ”
“Is there a Mrs Moses Wandorne who prefers to greet guests?”
The dull pain that Moses ever hoped would one day disappear struck him in the chest, and he almost physically staggered with the sting it caused him. Blinking quickly as though a bright torch had been thrust in his face, he stared at his unwanted guest with painfilled eyes.
But in the gloom, she must not have noticed the effect her words were having on him – she could not, surely, for her next words were a murmur. “Though I suppose there cannot be a Lady Wandorne, or the house would be in better repair.”
And that was the moment that Moses snapped.
“‘Tis none of your goddamn business!” He snarled. “Who are you to ask such questions – you have no right to be here, let alone enquire into my personal business!”
He expected her to cower; he expected her to wince at his words, to feel the shame of them, to realise the pain that she had caused, although unwittingly.
But Miss Vaughn did none of these things.
“I am only making conversation!” She shouted back. “I am just as much stuck with your company as you are with mine, but at least I am attempting to make the best of it, with very little help I may add!”
Two pink dots had appeared in her cheeks, and a furrow on her forehead joined them to complete the look of outrage – but Moses found, much to his discomfort, that the expression only improved her countenance.
He stared at her in astonishment. This was nothing like Charlotte, who had been the epitome of meekness. Whereas she had been like a brook, bubbling in woodland, this woman was the ocean, crashing her waves down on whomsoever got in her way.
Moses found himself pulled in her tide, unable – and perhaps unwilling – to fight the current that was pulling him to her. There was something about this woman, something beyond the prettiness of her face and the strange mind that could declaim Latin and recognise strange birds.
Miss Chloe Vaughn was unlike any woman Moses had had the misfortune of meeting, and whatever uniqueness she possessed, he simply had to find out what it was. She was an enigma, a puzzle, and he could never leave one alone.
Certainly not one wrapped in such a delectable form.