Chapter 11 #2
I step back from the window, surprise and jealousy stealing my breath.
So, he has a woman, then. Paid company, from the looks of her.
My hands clench and unclench. I imagine them together, Alex’s mouth tracing kisses down her slender white neck.
I might have known. A man’s loneliness craves succor.
Bachelor though he may be, Alex is no celibate.
My jealousy is fierce, radiating through my body and stealing any chance of sleep.
As the sun rises, I dress, buttoning my borrowed calico bodice with trembling fingers.
I don’t wait for Alex to bring my breakfast. I swing open the door to my room and head decisively for the stairs.
Though my leg protests, my spite helps me manage the descent.
I find him in the front parlor, reading the newspaper. He lowers it and looks up at me.
“You should have waited for me,” he says steadily. “You may have gotten down the steps on your own, but your leg hasn’t healed well enough to climb them again.”
I glare at him, my breath heavy from my exertions. “Then I suppose I’ll stay downstairs, won’t I?”
“You’re upset about something, Mary. It’s all over your face.” He folds the paper and lays it aside. “Have I offended you in some way?”
“I saw you had company last night,” I say.
I note the brief look of surprise that flits across his countenance.
“So. You saw Varina.” He clears his throat. Crosses his right leg over his left knee.
“Who is she?”
“A friend.”
“I see.” I say nothing more. I merely stare out the lace-curtained window over his shoulder and blink rapidly against the tears threatening to spill over.
As much as I want to lash out, I hold my tongue.
He’s already suspicious of me. I have no right to feel jealous.
I’m a guest in this house, here by his grace. He could turn me out in an instant.
“You’ve no reason to be concerned, Miss Jones.
Varina comes to see me for tonics. Medications.
That’s all. A lot of the local women do.
Sometimes they come to me by night because it’s safer for them to do so.
Especially if they’re in some sort of trouble.
” He sighs, and stands, stretching languidly.
“I have a great deal of sympathy for a woman in trouble. Don’t you think it’s time you told me the truth?
I had the feeling you’ve been lying to me. Now I have proof of it.”
A high-pitched whine starts up in my ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you, Lillian?”
All the air goes out of the room.
He takes the newspaper from the table next to his chair, and hands it to me. Above the fold, my courtroom portrait glares in black and white—my dour expression, my severely parted hair. The headline beneath declares: Lillian Carmichael Suspected in String of Uncanny Murders. Reward Offered.
“That’s you, isn’t it? A terribly unjust likeness, but it is you.”
“No. My . . . my cousin,” I stammer. “Lillian is my cousin. We look alike.”
He advances on me, backing me toward the staircase, until I can retreat no farther and the newel post presses against my shoulder blades.
The newspaper drops to the floor. My heart is a wild, panicked bird trapped in the cage of my ribs.
He traces a finger up my cheek. Pauses on the mole next to my right eye.
“Cousins don’t usually have the same birthmark. Twins sometimes do, but even that is rare.” His eyes search mine. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body. I draw in a shallow breath.
“You haven’t read the article yet,” he continues, “but it’s full of ridiculous conjecture.
They’re saying you’re undead. That you’re some sort of craven creature, risen from the grave with a hunger for blood.
But I can see your pulse, through your skin.
Hear your breath. I also know you were here when the most recent murder happened. ”
“There’s been another?”
“Yes. Three nights ago. Which makes me your alibi, Lillian. I can help you, if you’ll let me. If you’ll trust me.”
“How?”
“Your ruse is lacking in confidence. You have far too many . . . tells, my dear.” His finger traces my jawline.
“Your eyes widen when caught off guard. You stumble over your words.” He smiles wickedly, and my belly swoops.
He’s read me like an open book. “Yes. Every one of your cards is showing. And from the shadows beneath those pretty eyes, I gather you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, because of our conversation on the piazza, or your assumptions about Varina.
So now, I’m going to help you back to bed.
When you wake, we’ll talk about the future, and the nature of our relationship.
” He grips my chin, his thumb pressing against my lower lip, and I nearly swoon at the hunger in his eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I don’t trust anyone.”
“Given your situation, I don’t think you have much of a choice.” Without hesitation, he sweeps me off my feet and carries me up the stairs, like some helpless damsel in a fairy tale. But in this story, I don’t know whether I’ve met my charming prince, or the wolf.