Chapter 8 #2
She lifted her hands to her spencer and began to unbutton it. Much to her surprise, Deimos seemed most intrigued with her fingers upon those buttons. It was as if he could not tear his gaze away as his lips parted ever so slightly.
Of course, the removal of the garment would reveal nothing. She had a gown on underneath, but she was surprised and, dare she say, pleased to see he cared so much about her person.
Once the spencer was tucked next to her, she placed her hands behind her, leaned backwards, and decided to not worry too much about sitting up perfectly straight.
She braced herself on her palms and offered herself up to the sun. A sigh of sheer contentment slipped past her lips. She loved the feel of this caress of summer’s first breath. It was so easy to forget that warmth would return after the cold winter and chill spring. But here it was.
“You see,” he ventured. “You like it.”
“Yes,” she said without opening her eyes. “I do. I guess this is part of it, isn’t it? You showing me things that I’m not going to realize I like, and then I do.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve come to understand my thinking.”
Impulsively, she yanked off her soft leather gloves and let them fall onto her spencer. It was shocking, she knew, but she longed to be shocking. Just a bit. With him. For herself. To take a different path. A path she had not even known was there.
He was silent for a moment and she could have sworn he was transfixed by her.
She let her fingers slip into the grass beside the blanket as he unpacked the wicker picnic basket, a thing made evident by the sudden clinking of utensils and plates.
The blades of grass teased her fingers and a delicious aroma wafted towards her. She snapped her eyes open.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He laughed. “Chocolate cake,” he all but purred.
“Chocolate cake,” she gasped. “For me?”
“Of course for you,” he said. “I can’t eat it all by myself, and it’s certainly not for the horses.”
She let out a loud exclamation of delight.
“Here is a slice for you,” he said as he passed her a small porcelain plate with a gorgeous slice upon it and a silver fork. “Ellen made it especially for your pleasure.”
She studied the rich cake glossed over with icing. “Ellen is a treasure.”
“I cannot argue with that,” he said.
She studied her cake, longing to devour it. “Aren’t you going to have a slice?”
“In a moment,” he said. “I’d rather watch you enjoy yours.”
The words felt devilishly intimate. She swallowed as her cheeks heated.
“And…” He pulled out a notebook and a pencil from the basket. He snapped open the book, sat down across from her, a long leg extended so that his boot nearly touched her skirts. He was a languid display of male prowess and power. “I have questions.”
“You do?” she queried, barely able to speak as she took him in while he whipped his hat off and placed it beside the basket.
His dark hair spilled over his forehead and caressed his sharp cheekbones. He adjusted his pencil, placed the point to the paper, and nodded. “Indeed. I am not going to go at this pell-mell as you might think. Believe it or not, I have a sort of ordered brain about me.”
She cocked her head to the side, in turmoil. Half of her longing to eat her cake, the other half longing to do nothing but look at him. “I rather thought you’d be an impulsive sort.”
“I realize that is what you think, but it’s not actually true. I put a great deal of thought into things, and I seldom do things out of impulse,” he informed.
This new set of information suddenly made her think that his proposal of marriage might have not been so startling or impulsive after all.
His gaze was hot and assessing, as if he did not wish to seduce her with his eyes, but since he was such a rake, he couldn’t quite help himself.
She focused on the rich cake, took up her silver fork, and took a delicate bite, though she longed to take a large one.
He smiled slowly, as if he knew.
She closed her eyes, savoring the heavenly taste of the dessert.
The heavenly chocolate teased her tongue, and the cake was soft and perfectly made.
A note of appreciation slipped past her lips, and when she opened her eyes, she realized he had watched her all the while. His eyes had gone dark with hunger.
Hunger for something besides cake.
For her.
The thought hit her swiftly and did something to her that the cake could not. For the first time, she gave real credence to the idea that he could be her adventure too.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice deeper than it had been before. “What are the things that interest you?”
As she ate, she considered. The cake was delicious, but her thoughts on his question were not. “I’ve told you. I don’t really know.”
“That’s not true,” he countered, rolling the pencil between his strong fingers. “There must be some things you enjoy. You certainly don’t look as if you live a pleasureless existence.”
“Well, obviously,” she said, pointing with her fork. “I like chocolate cake.”
He nodded. “I don’t think you want to be a baker, but I would happily take you to Hester’s tea shop, and you can see how things are done there.”
“Well, that sounds most interesting,” she said. “Though I fear I’d rather eat the things made than learn about making them.”
A low rumble of a laugh tumbled out of him. It reverberated along the empty field and she shivered with the deliciousness of it.
“Right, but let’s think of other things. And what else do you enjoy?” he asked, his pencil scratching along the surface of the page, as he clearly wrote down cake and then tea shop.
“I love to read,” she said quickly.
“Wonderful,” he said, making a note. “I could not like you if you did not love to read.”
She took another bite of cake, hoping he had more to share. “I feel the same about you. What was the last book you read?” she asked.
“Do you really wish to know?” he queried.
She nodded.
“Well, I suppose I will tell you, but it might not be the sort of thing you enjoy.”
“I must know!” she crowed.
“Frankenstein,” he said with a dramatic waggle of his brows.
Her eyes widened. “It’s a marvel, is it not? There’s nothing else like it!”
He nodded. “I think it says a great deal about the nature of mankind.”
She winced. “I cannot disagree. Though it makes me terribly sad how the creature was treated. The injustice in that book! Oh, it made me so angry. Society makes me angry! The author is a genius. I wish there was more I could do to change the world so that there wasn’t such cruelty.”
“Why, Miss Mitchell, I do think I have discovered your passion.”
She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“Injustice. The way you speak of it? You are on fire.”
She looked away, not sure what to say. “Surely, everyone should care about injustice.”
“They don’t.”
“I pity them. If only…”
“Yes?”
“If only I had the power to do more.”
Much to her surprise, he quickly scribbled in his book.
“What?” she demanded.
“Oh, we shall see. I have the inkling of an idea but it might be nothing.”
“Frankenstein is a mirror of the world’s cruelty,” she whispered.
His face softened. “I agree.” As if he could sense that her heart was beginning to ache at the plot of the novel, he asked, “And Ivanhoe? Did you like it?”
She was glad to pivot away from the brutally painful themes of the book that would no doubt be one of the greatest of the century. “I adored it, and I adore Sir Walter Scott. I also read one of the books your aunt published last week. And the month before.”
His eyes widened. “Do you read everything Mercy publishes?”
“Oh, yes. We read everything that her company publishes. I confess we are voracious readers of all sorts.”
“Then I will take you to her publishing house,” he said, as if it was the easiest and most obvious thing on earth.
“Really?” she gasped. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
He beamed at her. “You see? Asking these questions is important. I just discovered something that you are interested in by asking you quite simple questions.”
She pursed her lips. “Yes. Very clever. Carry on.”
“All right, so we have the publishing house,” he murmured. “I will definitely take you there. And what else do you like?”
She paused. “I like tea and lemonade and—”
“Oh, I have lemonade,” he cut in, and he quickly put his book and pencil down to root around in the basket. He pulled out glasses and a jug. Quickly, he poured her out a measure and passed it to her.
Their fingers brushed as the cool liquid danced in the glass.
She hesitated as she took that glass, for she wanted their fingers to touch forever.
She wanted to look into his gaze forever, and she desperately wished to say that out of all the things she might like, he was the most interesting, and yet she could not.
So instead, she said quickly, “Tell me about you. I feel very exposed, telling you all these things about me, even if they’re not particularly vulnerable.”
“About me?” he queried, his brow quirking.
She nodded before she took a sip of the tart, refreshing liquid. “Yes, about you.”
“There’s nothing much to tell,” he said. “I’m a Briarwood. I like to live, and I am helping you.”
“Well, that’s quite boring,” she returned.
He guffawed. “I, boring?”
“Yes. You’re like every other young man then.” She sniffed. “A rake who happens to be from a good family.”
“An exceptional family,” he corrected. He took a long drink, which did the most stunning things to the muscles of his throat, and then he licked the last drops from his sensual lips.
It was hard not to stare at those lips and wonder how they might feel upon her own. “Yes, an exceptional family. But that’s all there is to you, Deimos? You have nothing to say for yourself?”
He frowned. “Well, that’s a bit rude,” he replied.
She arched a brow. “That’s not really a reply.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Everyone seems to be interested in what I’m going to do with my future today.”