CHAPTER SIX #2
“Charlotte, it’s the most unexpected news. I returned so you might accompany us, and you truly must.” Mary’s eyes glitter like the clearest blue sapphires, even in the low-lit front hall. Her voice, normally steady as a foundation, trembles with excitement. “The creature—he’s alive.”
What?
I stand, staring, trying to make her words make sense, until a cry leaves my lips.
I sag against the handrail as my brain struggles to follow what my body has already interpreted.
That… zing. That arc of something splintery against my palm.
Did I… but no. The thought is ridiculous, so ridiculous, I can’t even complete it in my head.
As I straighten, Sir Gilead’s gaze latches upon me.
His eyes rake slowly down my form, stopping at the place between my thighs.
“It’s true,” he says in a ponderous tone.
“We were engaged in a dance at Prince Albert Hall when the news arrived from Lord Peterson that the statue was not a statue at all, but a living, breathing monster somehow encased in stone. Lady Mary insisted we divert from the museum to gather you, Miss Butters, which I suppose does provide a better sop to convention than the maid who accompanied us back here.”
Better chaperone for Mary, but also someone he no longer considers a lady.
I know what he sees: a woman with strong curves and no undergarments, clutching a silk robe that clings indecently, with soaked hair hanging untamed and half-pinned atop her head.
I look like the whore I am, and he knows it, even if he doesn’t know my story.
How could I have imagined myself in love with the Assyriologist? Certainly, all I feel now is repugnance. “I must change. Mary, come help.”
Sir Gilead’s brows raise to his hairline that I would ask a duke’s daughter to help with my dressing. None of the gathered servants are shocked, however. They’re used to her fussing over me and to me ordering her about.
Which may be why they don’t like me. My friendship with the lady oversets their expectations of station. I am a baronet’s daughter, but I’m nothing compared to the Duke of Covington’s illustrious family.
Mary hurries to me, gesturing me to precede her so she might better block the leering gaze of Sir Gilead. She’s always more aware than she seems.
“Thank you. Again,” I say over my shoulder.
“Harumph. He’s such a prig, Charlotte, and now an animal as well. I can’t imagine what you ever saw in him.”
“His occupation, certainly. Plus, his journals are descriptive masterpieces of a world I’d love to see for myself.”
“I would gladly show him out were it not for the fact that I simply must see an ancient creature come to life. Do you think it’s possible?
No, of course not; what am I saying?” She crosses to my wardrobe and ruffles through it before tossing back a simple, front-facing buttoned dress.
“Never mind the corset. We haven’t time. ”
Now it’s my eyebrows that reach my forehead. Of late, Mary may be the most proper person in London, mostly because she wishes to evade marriage and fears that if she steps wrong, she’ll draw attention to herself, thereby ensuring her absent parents will return.
“A rock-hewn monster can’t come to life, Mary.” But I shrug a little faster into my dress, my fingers clumsy on the buttons. Without undergarments, the skirt hangs too long. Plus, the dark blue twilled wool with black piping scratches my skin.
Between being denied release earlier and the fabric, I’m so uncomfortable that it takes a good dose of will not to throw myself to the ground and roll around on the rug. Luckily, the thought of my monster coming to life outweighs my need for solace.
“I know that Sir Gilead was quite awestruck, enough to put him off his fawning for five minutes.”
“He hasn’t…?”
“Of course not. Sally rode inside the conveyance with me. She was so nervous at being sat inside that she vomited out the door when we arrived. But I’ll tell you all about it later. Come. We must hurry.” Mary picks up my brown kid gloves and shoves them into my hand.
I don’t bother changing my slippers for boots. They don’t look much different from dancing slippers, and she doesn’t look set to wait.
Once inside the carriage, seated next to Mary and across from the leering Sir Gilead, I do what I can with my hair. Mary peppers us both with questions neither of us can answer, but at least each query diverts the explorer’s gaze from me and transfers it to her.
“Let us see, my lady. No doubt the message will prove a wild exaggeration, or we will find Lord Peterson has been corrupted by drink.”
“Does he imbibe to excess?” Mary demands. “If so, it is no wonder you received such a strange report.”
“Not to my knowledge, but of course, what might one make of a gentleman with so solitary a nature?” Sir Gilead waves his hand through the air, swiping away his criticism of the viscount, and proceeds to delve more heartily into a flirtation with Mary.
Though the museum is a few blocks away, we arrive in minutes.
At this time of night, past arrival and not quite yet departure from the rounds of balls, fetes, and suppers, the traffic moves without its normal congestion.
When we pull to the back entrance, Sir Gilead jumps from the carriage.
He proves most anxious to help Mary down without benefit of stairs by cupping his hands around her waist.
The gall leaves me breathless. Mary doesn’t seem to care, tapping her foot as she waits for me to descend in the same manner.
Fine. I accept Sir Gilead’s touch, even when his fingers run along the backside of my unbuttressed curves. Even when a growl sounds in his throat.
Gads, he’s revolting.
Rushing down the back hallway to the room where the creature stands, we break through the doorway…
and cycle to a stop. There, seated on his nether quarters, back to us, tail flicking through the air like a whip, sits the carved figure we’ve come to see.
Without doubt, he’s no longer stone, but made of flesh, blood, and muscles.
In front of him sits a cooking pot filled with brown liquid.
Tea, it must be, given Lord Peterson is seated on a chair across from him, sipping from his own cup.
Lord Peterson jumps to his feet. With his free hand, he bobs low over Mary’s glove.
“Lady Mary, a pleasure.” He releases her hand and bobs a little less low towards me.
“Sir Gilead, if you would round up some chairs? I’ve ordered sustenance from one of the servants.
I don’t recommend the brew. Acidic on the teeth, but we do what we must.”
“Indeed.” Mary gapes at the creature.
I can’t claim to gape less.
“Uncanny, but the beast appears to understand gestures, if not the Queen’s English. Perhaps one of you will fare better.”
Ever a gentleman, the viscount, with his fluff of poetically disarranged brown hair and evening dress, waits with cup in hand as Sir Gilead draws up three more chairs. Mary and I lower ourselves before he slips back into his.
Lower ourselves? We practically collapse. My legs would not have held me much longer.
“Lord Peterson is my partner in the expedition that found the lamassu,” Sir Gilead explains, casting glances at the creature, who studies us in turn.
He dismisses Sir Gilead quickly before taking more time in examining Mary. He smiles at her briefly before his gaze slips to mine.
Suddenly, his expression changes. Shock lines his elegant features, only partially revealed between a wealth of dark facial hair. Above his golden eyes, his brows frown, even as his full lips shape into an “O.”
“Ra? Karu?” More sounds follow in the deepest, growly voice I’ve ever heard. It’s as if a lion speaks through a tempered roar, and the sound races up and down my spine like prickly needles.
I shake my head. I’ve no idea what he’s asking. My lips can’t release words. I’m stunned into silence by the miracle and mystery he represents.
He lifts a paw, pointing it at me. “Kīma a??um e-gal-?u? Ki de-ma an-na?” His golden eyes, two twin pools of unimaginable depth, intelligence, and emotion, remain upon me, unmoving.
I shake my head. “I-I d-don’t know what you’re asking.”
With a disgusted look, he rips his gaze from me to Lord Peterson. He repeats the words, and when the hapless lord shrugs in confusion, the beast makes a disgusted sound.
Leaning forward, though I should seek the residence of an asylum for placing myself in closer proximity to the monster, I point to him and say, “You. Lamassu. Yes?”
Instant comprehension dances across his features, but he shakes his head in the negative. “You,” he points to me again. “Munus.” He turns his paw to slap across his chest. “Shedu.”
“Your name is Shedu?” Lord Peterson asks. He points to his own chest. “I am Lord Peterson. Viscount Peterson, to be precise. John Rutledge is my name.”