Chapter 9
Deimos was fairly certain he was going to lose his wits over this endeavor.
He’d agreed to help Alice, but he had not realized what an effect it would have upon his person. His entire person. His body, his brain, his soul.
Worse, he did not feel reasonable about their relationship any longer. Surely, he was supposed to devote but a small portion of his day to her. A small portion of his thoughts. But no.
Ever since she’d asked him and opened the possibility of them together, he had been consumed with thoughts of her and helping her…and other things.
He wanted to spend every waking moment with her, and the fact that he had to return her to her home seemed unbearable.
He wished, like so many other Briarwoods had done, that he could invite her to stay with him at Heron House.
There, perhaps, she could have a room next to his and their relationship could deepen, weave together, become more…
But he knew that wasn’t possible, not in this particular situation. And so he’d reluctantly returned her home after the field. After he’d taken her in his arms and begun to learn what she liked, in more than one way.
And then he’d had to get through the evening.
He couldn’t recall anything so brutal.
He’d tried to go out. He’d gone to his gambling club. He’d played a few rounds of cards, and it had all gone appallingly. If one could say spending time in such opulent surroundings was appalling, given how much of the world lived in poverty.
But he’d sat at a polished mahogany table, surrounded by elaborate paintings, delicate tapestries, crystal, and a company of gentleman born to the most powerful and wealthy families in the world. All of them surrounded by servants, with their every whim attended to.
Even so, he’d felt complete disdain for the Earl of Higsby because the man had lost thirty thousand pounds.
On two hands of cards. The madness of gambling had sparked in the man’s eyes, his fingers twitching, his brow sweating, and he’d then written a note for the deed to one of his estates to be wagered.
He’d lost that too.
Deimos had wanted to reach across the table, ignoring the other players in their immaculate garb, with pomaded hair and jeweled cravat pins, grab the fellow and shake him until his teeth clacked.
Because he knew, as did most of the room, that Higsby could no longer afford to lose such vast amounts.
Deimos could play with almost unlimited funds. After all, he had a massive fortune in his own name. His mother had been a wealthy heiress and his grandfather had put a huge sum upon him when he’d reached his majority. Deimos, in his own right, was one of the wealthiest men in England.
He was very careful though, for his grandfather had sweated blood and tears to earn that money, and he loathed the idea of treating as if it had no value.
The truth was Deimos very seldom lost. He did not know why, but he had luck at gaming tables.
And much like another of his cousins, he was very good at understanding the way card decks worked.
He had an excellent memory, and he knew the likelihood of a card he needed appearing when being dealt.
And so he was able to make logical bets that others could not.
He did not wager purely on instinct. He did not wager on hope.
He wagered on facts. And frankly, he wished more people would do so. There’d be far less agony.
But he supposed that was why some people gambled. They rode the fear and ecstasy of the turn of a card.
He’d felt that the entire night at the club had been one great spectacle of idiocy.
Perhaps all gentlemen were idiots. Why were they wasting their time, he wondered, dressed up in their best clothes, throwing money away, when but a few miles down the road, people did not even have money for bread, let alone shoes?
Former soldiers had no roofs for their heads and children died for want of warmth.
Innocents died whilst men of his class threw money away for fun, for the risk.
And Alice had come to mind. Her passionate words about injustice and her desire to do more. How he envied her. How she’d awoken something in him! He’d thought he was teaching her. What a fool he was. He’d learned from her. And a more beautiful school mistress he could not imagine.
He’d left the club with a very odd taste in his mouth.
Deimos knew that the general expectation for young men of his class was to do little with their lives.
His entire purpose was to go out and entertain other members of the ton to increase the alliances between families through friendship and sheer nonsense and eventually marriage within those families.
But somehow, being with Alice had made it feel incredibly hollow. He loved her company. He loved her silliness and her wit and the way that she told him little things that she liked, and how he’d been able to deduce what she might like even more.
But most of all, he’d loved the color upon her cheeks when she spoke with unbridled fervor, clearly on the side of those who had no power. And when the color in her cheeks had risen for a very different reason—his kiss.
That kiss was now seared into him. A hot brand. A mark. An indelible thing that had set him on a new course.
That kiss had stolen his sleep and left him counting the minutes to dawn. And finally, when he had collected her again, he’d felt such a startling array of feelings that he was still trying to make sense of them.
Now, he supposed that if he was doing what some might assume his role suggested, he would be taking her to a stunning party this evening.
She would, of course, be dressed in the most elaborate of silks, except for the fact she did not own elaborate silks, and he knew that she would not allow him to purchase them for her.
Her family, while positioned well, did not have the funds for the opulence of the highest levels of the ton.
So instead, he was taking her on a very different sort of outing. One in the afternoon.
Part of him had wished to take her to the theater this evening, but that was her sister’s passion.
He could take her to the opera or he could take her to his cousin’s ballet.
But no, she loved books. And so as he cracked his curricle on as she sat beside him, most eager to see where he was going to take her.
He all but hummed with excitement. Thrilled to have her by his side again, nervous as the devil, hoping he had made the right choice.
“Give me a hint,” she said.
“It has to do with something you spend a great deal of your life doing.”
“Being nice to people I don’t like,” she quipped.
“Are you suggesting that you’re nice to me and don’t like me?” He gasped dramatically.
“You know that’s not true,” she tutted, adjusting her bluebell-colored skirts. “I told you just yesterday how much I liked being with you, and I think what occurred afterward would suggest to you that I like you very much indeed.”
Yes. Yes, it had, and he’d felt waves of hope that he had not even known he could feel.
“No, it has nothing to do with being nice to people you don’t care for.” He arched a brow as he turned the curricle around a lacquered coach. “You might do it to avoid those sorts of people though.”
Over the years, he’d become accustomed to driving in the choked London thoroughfares, but this part of town was far more complicated than the west, where the streets were deliberately laid out and planned to be grand.
Here, the warrens of the city were old and often made little sense, with their twisting ways and old buildings.
“Right then,” she said as he turned them along Fleet Street. “I deduce that we are not going to a pleasure garden.”
“You deduce wisely,” he said.
“Nor are we going to a park.”
“Again, your powers of deduction are exceptional,” he said.
She sucked in a breath of excitement. “Are you taking me to a bookshop?”
“Close,” he said, feeling great pleasure in her growing sense of anticipation.
She blinked and mused, “Close to a bookshop.” Then her eyes widened and she, despite the fact they were out in the air, grabbed his hand and asked, “Are you taking me to the publishing house?”
The feel of her hand on his was worth every moment of his torture. “You are an exceptionally clever lady,” he said.
She let out a squeal of delight and clapped her hands. “I’ve never seen how books are made.”
“Then this will be quite a treat for you.” He pulled the curricle up in front of his aunt’s publishing house. It was quite a tall building in one of the oldest parts of town that had survived the Great Fire.
His aunt had picked one of the most beautiful buildings, full of character, and it was like a jewel to the eye. He quickly handed the reins off to one of the footmen who worked in the house, and then he handed her down.
“I can’t breathe,” she said.
Surely, he could find a way to make her gasp. But not here. Later. He would find a time.
“Why can’t you breathe?”
“This is more exciting than being introduced to the queen,” she exclaimed. “Books are very special things,” she continued, “and most people never get to see how they are put together.”
He gazed down at her. “Alice,” he began, “you’re a singular individual because most people would not equate going into a publishing house with meeting the queen.”
She snorted. “Most people don’t read enough,” she said.
He laughed. “I can’t argue with that.”
He led her up the stairs and into the building.
She gazed around with wide eyes as if she did not wish to miss a single thing.
“It’s so loud,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s full of people, isn’t it?”
And it was.
Gentlemen in cutaway coats with spectacles perched on their noses headed up and down the stairs and wound into the halls, carrying vast swaths of parchment or stacks of beautifully bound books.
Young ladies, too, in serviceable gowns with their hair in simple knots atop their heads also raced back and forth with books or folders in their arms.