Chapter Nine
Rebecca was… nonplussed. That was the only description for her mood one week into her stay at Roger Berab’s house. Or more aptly, her stay in his guest chamber.
Though for the life of her, she could not understand why.
No one treated her poorly. She’d been fed delicious food. Received amusing letters from Isabelle regaling her with tales of her guests. Not to mention, read several admittedly excellent books.
Poetry by Tennyson and Norton, fiction by Sedwick and Shelley, as well as a translation of a scientific text by Nasse. A fascinating grouping. Purchased with Isabelle’s advice, no doubt, as she could not imagine Berab choosing, let alone reading, any of the same.
Hopefully her friend was not inconvenienced. She had guests of her own and a husband to tend and didn’t need to be bothered with such nonsense. Caring for Rebecca was not Isabelle’s role in their relationship—Rebecca was her confidante. A damned good one.
Flopping on the admittedly comfortable pillow, she retook her new spectacles. A rather decent pair, actually.
Though the dratted man really hadn’t needed to deliver them himself. Lopez would’ve sufficed. Especially as he’d come while the dressmaker was pinning the muslin for her gowns, and she’d been less than properly attired to say the least.
She swallowed, recalling the sensation his mere voice had stirred in her traitorous core.
How her body had heated and tightened as he’d appeared in the threshold, absurdly handsome in his simple but perfectly cut—not that she cared about such things; she just was an observant person—coat stretching across his chest as he contemplated her.
The memory of the Lira library, when those cool, assessing eyes alighted with heat as he bunched her skirts over her waist and—
What was wrong with her? Not merely her obstreperous mind, but her behavior?
For example, the night in the hothouse, had she truly…
flirted… with Berab? She’d not intended to engage in anything of the sort—the opposite, in fact—but that appeared to be the most accurate description of their encounter.
She hadn’t planned for a conversation when she’d found him.
But there had been something, once again, about how he looked, not merely jacketless but without his cravat, wearing only braces and trousers, as if he was a regular person, bent over his plants, tending to them. It had sparked something inside her. Something she’d not known existed.
Something reckless she needed to quash before it not only made the next few weeks worse, but, if reported outside the house, could humiliate her for all times.
If wearing a gown too fine for her person was laughable, imagine what people would say if she was believed to be mooning over a man who’d engaged only with people like his first wife.
And Isabelle.
For while she adored her friend, she was not her equal and would never be.
Fortunately, the man had then treated her like, well, a guest, the next day, and the day after, and so forth…
Not that she’d seen much of him. Each day, he’d eaten before she arrived in the dining room, the only evidence of his presence several prettily crafted notes containing excuses regarding business and appropriately worded but empty regrets.
A preferable situation, truly.
Matters were much more comfortable without him hanging about.
Besides, privacy was better for healing.
Thus, declining both the invitation to attend Shabbos dinner at his brother’s home and to join the servants for their meal in favor of lighting candles alone had also been a prudent course of action.
Especially given how pleased Maduro had been when he’d visited the prior day.
He’d even promised that if she continued caring for herself, she’d be able to remove the sling within a week.
Yes, the more she rested now, the quicker she’d heal and be able to return to her old life. That and making good use of the temporary workspace that had been created for her in a corner of the kitchens.
Not an ideal location. But it would do.
Rebecca closed her eyes once more, willing sleep and the new day to come.
And yet, after another what seemed like thirty minutes but was a mere three, according to the clock on the mantel, she kicked off the covers and shuffled through the books on the small shelf above the mantel.
Read, read, read, read twice, read… Rebecca sighed.
Time to seek out this allegedly wondrous library the staff mentioned.
Doubtful, considering she’d never seen Berab read anything but correspondence and the gentile scandal sheets, but acquisition of books was fashionable even among the barely literate, and it seemed someone in the household knew of a decent dealer, so there was hope.
Slipping her new spectacles back on her nose, she wandered to the wardrobe and pulled out a dressing gown.
She slid her good arm through one of the sleeves and pulled the shoulder over her bad side, securing it with as many buttons as she could.
Not particularly elegant, despite the material, but it would have to do.
Besides, she only intended to find the library, snatch a book, and return to bed.
At least that was what she told herself, until a faint gleam of light glimmered up the staircase from the second floor.
Oy. She should go back to her chamber. But her feet did the opposite, and soon she found herself at the door of a secondary parlor, heavy on the black marble.
Berab himself sat in a large chair in the center, before a roaring fire, book in one hand, glass in the other, as he had the use of both arms and the fortune of not requiring assistance for his eyes.
Once again wearing only trousers and a shirt.
“On a nocturnal stroll, Miss Adler?” he asked, closing the volume.
“I sat too much earlier,” she said, glancing at the spine of the book as he placed it on the table on top of a series of papers.
Debrett’s. Was this what the man did in his spare time?
Memorize the ranks and lineage of the ton so he could better perform at their functions?
How absolutely boring. No wonder he took to gardening.
A reminder of how ill-suited they were for each other beyond the bedroom.
Though truly, how different could he possibly be from another man of similar experience and energy?
After all, sexual pleasure was merely a matter of applied maneuvers and stimuli—the execution, not the participants, drove the results.
Not that she needed a man or any sort of partner. In any way. She was fine on her own.
“Not enough physical exertion for you these days?” He leaned back in his chair.
Was his mind in the same naughty place as hers?
“Beg pardon?” she managed to ask, unsure of what the desired answer to her internal question was.
“You’ve been in one location for over a week. My late wife was instructed to rest after Fannie’s birth and ended up bursting her stitches in a day,” he explained. “She had a great deal of energy.” His eyes looked sad for a moment.
There was an odd tugging at her heart. Metaphorically, not literally. A rather silly notion, as many awful people were still capable of some genuine, even laudable emotions. Such did not transform their character.
“While I find my predicament frustrating, I recognize the science behind the same. Not to mention, I respect the advice of those with expertise, like Dr. Maduro,” she declared.
“Do you?” he asked, having the nerve to sound surprised.
“It would be hypocritical if I didn’t, as I ask others to respect mine,” she countered. “Besides, I find this rest useful. I’ve been able to recall some new techniques I’ve been studying that I could deploy once I return to work,” she said, folding her good arm over her chest.
“Your commitment to your profession is admirable,” he said, his tone seemingly sincere, but given who he was and how little he thought of her, it was likely all fluff.
“I receive updates regarding your home each day, and I understand progress is being made despite the weather, albeit slower than is ideal,” he continued, before taking a sip of his drink, drawing her eye to his chest and the fact his shirt was half-unbuttoned, showing a swath of golden skin, covered with dark gold hair.
Her mouth went dry for a moment.
“What is it?” he asked, snapping her attention back to his face. Her cheeks heated as she searched for a non-humiliating response.
“I, um, see your struggles have been unsuccessful,” she commented, recalling their last conversation. He gave her a confused expression, and she pointed to the glass in reference to the prior night.
He raised his drink to her then took yet another swig. “Yes, but there’s always tomorrow.” He set the goblet down next to the book.
“Before or after you verify proper progress on my home?” she asked.
His eyes grew wide for a moment, then sparkled as his lip curled. “I’ll see how I feel.”
“Is there anything wrong?” she asked.
“No.” He waved a hand toward the fire. “It’s just very cold.”
Exactly how many of those small glasses did he have before she arrived, and how much more interesting did they make Debrett’s? Not that she should stay to find out. She—and he—should go to bed.
Except she found herself moving farther into the room. “And that makes you warmer?”
“Most certainly.” Berab indicated the chair next to him.
“Interfering with my observance is a more serious violation of the mitzvah.” She moved behind the settee, placing her hands on its back.
“A way to get one swallowed up by the ground?” he suggested, with a small smile and no small amount of pride. One that demonstrated a dimple on his right cheek.
A very, very attractive dimple.
If one were merely attracted to physical attributes.
Which she was not. And thus that was not what stunned her. No. The reference was. The same one both she and Isabelle had made the first day she awoke from her injuries.