Chapter 11 #2
“Very well.” I thought for a moment, wanting to select just the right question.
Perhaps Mr. Hawke had picked up on my invitation but was still hesitant to bridge that final gap.
I needed to reassure him of our familiarity.
“If you could choose only three books in your library to save from a fire, which would they be?”
He cocked his head. “Now that’s a question I wasn’t expecting.”
“One can learn a lot about people depending on their favorite books.”
“Oh? And what are yours?”
I gave him my prepared answer. “First, Homer’s Iliad, for obvious reasons. Second, The Lay of the Last Minstrel by Mr. Scott, because my mother read it to me every night as a child. And third, Gulliver’s Travels, because who doesn’t love a good adventure?”
In truth, I hadn’t read the latter. But I’d seen a copy of it open on Mr. Hawke’s desk, and I never wasted valuable intel.
Of course, my real favorite was The Art of War, but I had learned early on to keep that particular truth to myself. Society had little appreciation for a woman who preferred military strategy over embroidery.
“Impressive choices, Miss Weston.”
I lifted my chin. “And yours?”
“Let’s see…” He bit his lip. “If I had to pick just three, the first would be The Wealth of Nations.”
“Adam Smith,” I said flatly. A perennial favorite among men.
“My second would be—” he glanced around, as if the flowers had ears, then leaned in and whispered, “The Federalist Papers.”
I blanched. “You don’t mean—”
“I’m a loyal Englishman, Miss Weston,” he assured me. “But one cannot help but admire Alexander Hamilton’s brilliance, especially considering his origins.”
“What origins? Treachery?”
Mr. Hawke looked up at his estate. “He came from nothing. The illegitimate son of a man who abandoned him as a child, with no money or prospects and—” His voice trailed off, and he gave me a sheepish smile.
“What I mean to say is that all he possessed was his own intellect and passion. He didn’t just survive; he became something great. ”
At first, it seemed as if he’d say more, but he stopped himself. After a few long moments, I prompted him. “And your third book?”
“That’s easy. Romeo and Juliet.”
“Truly?” Most members of the Swarm rattled off the great works of dead philosophers in an attempt to appear impressive. But never had one mentioned a work of romance.
Mr. Hawke plucked a jasmine flower off a nearby vine and twisted it between his fingers. “I’ve always found hope in the idea that two people from different worlds could escape their fate and find happiness together.”
“You do know they both die in the end, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “They only died because Romeo was rash. He saw what he thought was the end and never stopped to question it.” He looked over at me and held out the little white flower. “If I were Romeo, I would have waited until the earth was hollowed out before giving up.”
I took the flower, and a shiver coursed through me. I didn’t know if it was his words or the strong gust of wind that tugged at my riding skirt.
But before I could even open my mouth to respond, a fat raindrop splattered onto my forehead.
I blinked in surprise, and then—as if the heavens themselves were mocking me—the sky opened up.
A sudden torrent of rain barreled down upon us.
Mr. Hawke raised his arms above my head, but it did little to block out the downpour falling from the sky.
“We should get inside before we’re completely drenched!” I shouted over the roar of the rain.
We ran toward the estate where Mrs. Sweete watched us helplessly from beneath the dry cover of the patio. But a freezing deluge poured over us, white like a veil, and something cold and hard struck my cheek.
“Ow!” I cried out, clasping a hand over the stinging pain. “What was that?”
“It’s hail!” he shouted over the pelting sound of ice hitting stone.
“But it’s spring!”
“This is England, Miss Weston. It will hail whenever it very well pleases!”
Another sharp pellet struck me, and I glared up at the sky, vexed that it had disobeyed me.
“Over here!” Mr. Hawke grabbed my hand and pulled me down a different path, away from the house.
The hail had become so dense that I couldn’t see where we were going.
It wasn’t until I was safely beneath the shelter of a roof that I managed to fully open my eyes.
All I could make out in the faint, gray light were crates, shovels, and old pots.
“Where are we?” I demanded, swatting a spider web off of my nose.
“The garden shed.” Mr. Hawke had busied himself searching through the crates. “Where is it?” he muttered to himself.
I looked down at my skirt and nearly yelped. The thin, white fabric was completely soaked—and clinging to my legs. I pulled the skirt off my skin in an attempt to regain my modesty, but the cotton kept sticking to my thighs.
“There it is!” He tugged something out of an old box.
“Mr. Hawke!” I cried. “Don’t turn aro—”
He held up an old gardener’s coat, keeping his gaze on the floor. “Take this.”
I grabbed the coat and tossed it over me. It was blessedly long enough to cover the most necessary areas.
“T-thank you,” I said, shivering.
Mr. Hawke looked up and gave his crooked grin. “It suits you well.”
It was then I became painfully aware of our situation.
We were alone in a small, dimly lit shed.
The sound of the hail drumming on the roof grew louder as I realized, all too acutely, how improper this was.
If word ever got out that I was alone with Mr. Hawke, unsupervised, then my reputation would be in shambles.
Mr. Hawke would be pressed to marry me, but he’d have no reason to forgo a dowry. In fact, he might demand double.
As I stared at Mr. Hawke, I made another terrible realization: His shirt was soaked through.
I hadn’t noticed in the frenzy of my own state of distress, but the white fabric was plastered to him, outlining the broad muscles of his shoulders and chest. Droplets of rain trickled down his neck, gathering at the dip of his throat before disappearing beneath his open collar.
His hair was hanging wet around his face, a few strands stuck to his jaw.
I quickly fixed my gaze on a flowerpot in the corner, feeling rather warm despite the chill.
“Are you well, Miss Weston?” Mr. Hawke asked, his forehead creased with concern.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“Are you sure? You’re rather flushed all of a sudden.”
“It’s just the cold.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, causing the fabric on his shirt to move over the exposed plane of his chest. I squeezed my eyes shut. Dear heavens, what on earth had overcome me?
“You’re red as a poppy.” He stepped forward to study me. “I didn’t think fevers developed this quickly. Yet, here you are, looking—”
“Healthy!” I stumbled backward until my back collided with a shelf, causing the pots to clatter loudly. “I’m as healthy as ever.”
“Then why—?”
“I swear, if you ask me why I’m flushed one more time, I will grab that shovel and use it against you until you end this ridiculous interrogation!”
I snapped my mouth shut. Yelling at a suitor like that was beyond inappropriate.
Father made it quite clear every time I stepped out of line: No man will tolerate a wife who isn’t properly submissive.
If I had ever raised my voice like that to Father, I’d be locked in my room for the rest of my days.
Which was why I was so surprised when Edmond simply said, “I’m sorry.”
I glanced up at him, stunned at the unsolicited apology.
“I didn’t mean to push.” He cleared his throat. “I… I should fetch some help.”
It was certainly the right choice. I couldn’t remain here alone with him.
But this was my last chance at an offensive attack.
If I didn’t get him to call me Helena now, then it’d be too late.
As soon as I went inside, I’d be immediately ushered into a private room to change into dry clothes.
By the time I’d emerge, the rest of the company would arrive—and my opportunity would be lost.
Mr. Hawke turned to leave.
“Wait!” Before I lost my courage, I grabbed his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
There were many secret signals among high society—repeatedly opening a fan signaled impatience, removing a glove meant vulnerability, a gifted lock of hair showed love. And a light squeeze of the hand? Any gentleman would immediately recognize it as the signal for familiarity—
And dare I say affection.
I’d never been so bold with any other suitor. Mr. Hawke could not interpret it as anything less—not unless he was enormously dense. I risked a glance at his face. Judging by the way he stilled and his eyes widened at my touch, he very much understood.
“It isn’t safe to leave yet,” I said, my hand still holding his. “The hail is too fierce. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, Mr. Hawke.” I put particular emphasis on his name, giving him the perfect opportunity to interpret the hand squeeze as the unspoken invitation it was.
He stared at our hands for a moment, causing my heart to thunder in my chest in anticipation. Then his gaze slowly trailed up my arm. I held my breath, waiting for his response.
But when his gaze finally landed on its target, it was not my eyes he was looking at, but my cheek. His brow furrowed, and concern pinched his lips together.
“You’re bleeding, Miss Weston.”
I released his hand as if I’d been burned. I had not missed how he had addressed me. Miss Weston.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I said quickly.
He lifted his hand to the left side of my face, pausing an inch above my flushed skin.
“May I?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to protest, but promptly shut my mouth and nodded. If familiarity was what I wanted between us, then I had to demonstrate it.
Mr. Hawke stepped closer and slowly brushed a wet strand of hair off my cheek. He exhaled, and the warmth from his breath caressed my skin, causing every muscle in my body to shiver.