Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“Iwould wager I am not the first to have walked this dark path,” Mr. De Rees continued in a whisper, falling into a crouch in front of her.
“How would you even know? That broken mind of yours cannot be trusted, evidently. You do not even know yourself. Such a tempting prospect. Really, no crime may be committed if no memory exists. Do not fight me, Miss Tate...”
Tears stung behind Amelia’s eyes as he brought up his hand and stroked the back of her cheek with his knuckles, brushing away a strand of hair. She felt his breath on her neck, and her stomach churned with disgust.
Suddenly, his hands were on her waist, squeezing the skin there as he pressed himself against her. He moved slightly, taking her glove and removing it, running the tip of his nose over her wrist while the garment fell to the floor with her dance card.
She may have been mad, but she was not weak.
She thought of Freddy, of Beatrice.
Her aunt’s warning from earlier that night rang in her ears. Was this why she had never pressured Amelia into socializing? Had she known what the men of their country thought of her, believing she was an easy target?
The thought filled her with rage. Before she knew what she was doing, her knee came up hard into the man’s stomach.
He cried out in pain, tripping backward.
His hands searched for her immediately, and she clawed at him with her naked hand, her nails sinking into the skin of his face and coming away wet and hot.
He immediately released her, clutching his bleeding cheek.
Amelia, seized with panic, ran with all her might back toward Duke Humphrey’s library. Tears flowed from her eyes as she sprinted, losing her slippers on the way.
She could hear Mr. De Rees’s frantic panting behind her, his footsteps like thunder against the stones underfoot.
Her lungs burned with the effort of her run—her life a fragile thing in that moment, as vulnerable as her propriety in the hands of Mr. De Rees.
A few yards from the door, she felt him catch up with her, his hand reaching for her hair.
Just as he did, the door before them opened, and a man stepped out.
Amelia, not able to stop herself in time—not wanting to—collided into him.
Nicholas felt the impact before he could register it, and he stumbled backward. The door had just closed behind him, and he crashed into the wood so hard his head knocked brutally against the door. A wave of pain thrummed over his skull, ears ringing from the impact.
“What the devil—”
Something else was wrong, and the words suffocated, unspoken, in his mouth. His arms were clutching a warm but limp body, and he scarcely knew how it had arrived there.
Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the woman in his arms. Her face was concealed against his chest, and he feared that she would fall to the floor if he released her, wanting to see who it was.
Holding her upright, unsure if she had fainted, he cast his eyes ahead, watching as a dark form retreated down the cloister, footsteps echoing behind him.
He called out, “Stop!” but the shadow disappeared, appearing only briefly in the light of the open door opposite them before the door fell shut behind him.
Nicholas leaned back to inspect the woman in his arms, his head still thumping in pain. He took a step forward, and her body collapsed against his.
Looping his arms under her shoulders, he carried her awkwardly toward the balustrade—how could he possibly take her indoors?—trying to prop her up against the colonnade to waken her, like a child with a beloved poppet.
He realized then what he should have realized before.
Tilting her head back to be sure, her features illuminated by the moon, he revealed a familiar countenance.
“Miss Tate,” he gasped, almost losing his grip on her in alarm.
The sound of her name, or perhaps the prospect of falling, awakened the woman suddenly. Her eyes fluttered open, her body going rigid, her delicate face contorting in fear. She squirmed in his hold as she regained consciousness, immediately screaming and pushing him away.
“Let go of me,” she cried, batting at his chest. “Let go!”
Her hand came up fast, and he narrowly avoided a blow to the face. He had never seen so much power, so much anger, in a woman—and it terrified and thrilled him.
Grabbing her wrist, he froze in shock to find her fingers bare, fingertips stained with something dark and wet. The feeling of her skin on his, the sight of blood, caused them both to start.
“It’s… it’s you...” she whispered, looking like she would swoon again. “Mr. Moore...”
“No, no,” Nicholas warned, holding her upright with an arm around her back.
It had not occurred to him, until that point, how closely entangled their bodies were in the darkness, the impropriety of it all, the heat between them. Her chest pressed against him, body warm and small.
Propriety be damned!
He would not let her faint again.
“Do not fall, Miss Tate. I won’t stand for it. You must resist whatever damnable urges are compelling you to leave this world again.”
She blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut as though she was waking from a bad dream. Suddenly alert, she looked down the cloister. “Mr. De Rees…”
“De Rees?” Nicholas followed the line of her gaze. “Is he the scoundrel who was following you?”
“Following…?” Her face fell at the word. “I don’t know what... He said that he would... And then I...” She smacked her hand over her mouth to hide a sob, bowing her head to conceal her face from him.
Nicholas’s breath came out shallow. He burned to pursue De Rees and drag him back—a man who had appeared so normal before—but that required leaving Miss Tate in her present state, alone.
She sniffed loudly and stepped out of his hold, collapsing on the stone balustrade. Nicholas watched her with pity, suppressing the confusion and anger rising within him, vowing to bring De Rees to justice another time.
From the blood under her nails, it seemed obvious to him what had happened to Miss Tate, and the mere thought of what might have transpired if Nicholas had not stumbled upon the scene sickened him.
“You must calm yourself and tell me what happened,” he said as softly as he could. Reaching into his coat pocket, he extended her a handkerchief, surprised to find his own hands trembling. “Where are your guardians?”
“Indoors, perhaps. I...” She glanced up, saw the handkerchief, and took it. “Mr. De Rees brought me out here, saying there was a poetry reading outdoors.”
The wind picked up, and Nicholas shivered. “There is no such thing, to be certain. A trick.”
“Yes... I believe you are right. I had the same suspicions, only they manifested within me too late.” She blew her nose, then drew in a trembling breath. Once she had calmed herself enough to speak, she looked up at him, her eyes round and shimmering in the moonlight. “Why are you here, Mr. Moore?”
Nicholas stood a moment in confusion, having almost forgotten the fake name he had provided her. He decided now was hardly the time to confess his deception. He had come outside seeking Samuel, wanting to leave post-haste.
Hoping to avoid, he thought miserably, a situation not so different to this.
“I am attending the ball as I imagine you are,” he explained instead. “I had not known you would be here. At the ball, I mean—but not outdoors either.” He took a step toward her, and she flinched. His mistake. “Miss Tate, what do you wish me to do? Is there someone I should return you to?”
“Do you sincerely believe it is in my interest to return indoors like this?” She looked down at herself, inspecting her nails. “With his skin under my nails, and the smell of him on me, and... Oh...”
She touched her hair, which had fallen out of its style and was tumbling over her shoulder in a soft heap. To his surprise, she laughed amid her tears.
“I had heard the stories,” she whispered, but why should you believe them until... Until it happens to you?”
She was right, though it killed him.
Nicholas had known a great number of women, but only those who had been eager to know him. It was an inconceivable cruelty—a plague on mankind—to believe intimacy could be anything else, for men to abuse their power, to, to...
He sighed quietly, pressed his eyes shut.
“Did he compromise you?” he asked bluntly.
What was the use in trying to protect her innocence now? She had seen the worst of men that night.
She shook her head. “He tried to kiss me, but... I kicked him, and then I ran.”
“Good girl,” Nicholas exhaled in relief before he could think better of it. “A man like him... It is unthinkable that he should have tried to...” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Never you mind.”
This made Miss Tate chuckle, and the sound of it—resigned—was a small comfort in that moment of darkness. “He is no friend of yours?”
“He is no friend of mine,” Nicholas repeated emphatically.
“How that gladdens me,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. Taking the handkerchief, she began cleaning her nails. “Will you... Would you... It is only that I cannot see myself, and my disheveled appearance will provoke more questions than I am willing to answer.”
She raised her shoulder, and it bobbed her mass of hair. Nicholas understood what she was asking.
Settling beside her, he leaned in close enough to see her face in the dark. She was still as beautiful as ever, though he could not fathom telling her that at a time like this.
Her breath was warm where it landed on his face, and his proximity to the woman sent a shiver down his spine. She had said she smelled of De Rees, but he caught only the sweet scent of her perfume, a natural sweetness, like rose and musk.
His fingers combed gently through her hair, fingertips brushing the back of her neck accidentally, though he noticed her tremble in response.
Eventually, he encountered a long cold pin. He removed the accessory carefully and held it up for her to take. It glinted in the light—but Nicholas kept his eyes fixed on Miss Tate’s delicate, blood-stained fingers as they met his on the length of the pin.