14. Chapter 14
After dinner together, Aaron had supposed the Worthington family might gather in the drawing room for cards or some such. Instead, Cas escorted his wife to their chamber to rest, then took himself off to the workshop in the stable.
Iris and Archie decided on a stroll about the moonlit garden, now that the rains had passed. Orion disappeared into his hellhole of a study, and Dade shut the door on his as well. Lysander simply disappeared, there one moment, silently gone the next.
Bliss excused herself, pleading the need to see to Bianca. Aaron rather thought Bliss didn’t trust Lard-Arse. On second thought, perhaps she was wise not to.
Aaron looked at the shattered mess of the dining table where Attie sat alone, her plate pushed back, her book open on the table, with scarcely enough light in the stubs of candles in the tarnished pair of candelabras to see the words on the pages.
Elektra bustled through the room with Mrs. Philpott, stacking plates and platters. Aaron blinked. Miss Elektra Worthington did the washing up?
Ten minutes later he found himself elbow-deep in hot water and potato peels, laughing at Mrs. Philpott’s stories of the Worthingtons as children and cherishing the wearily grateful look Elektra had given him when he’d ordered her from the kitchen. He dared Attie to help him by implying that the wash water was much too hot to be safe for a child. She now stood next to him, enveloped in one of Philpott’s aprons, listening wide-eyed as Aaron repaid the housekeeper with tales of the Bahamas and the other strange lands he’d seen.
It was fun, actually. As Lord Aaron, he would have scandalized the poor woman with his offer of immersing his noble hands into her soapsuds. Hastings, on the other hand, got a piece of toweling tied about his waist, a series of stories — although he didn’t believe the one about the flaming bird for a minute! — and a cup of strange-tasting tea pushed into his hand.
He’d taken a single deep sip when Attie had leaned close and whispered in his ear. “I wouldn’t. I really, really wouldn’t.”
He could hardly spit it out, so he swallowed manfully, smiled and thanked the woman, then left her to sip her own cup in her rocker by the fire. He dragged Attie into the larder.
“What’s in the tea?”
Attie gave him an arch look that reminded him of Elektra in a mood. Oh, hell. “What did I drink, Miss Attie?”
She folded her arms. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Philpott’s Cure-All? It’s available all over England.”
Aaron shook his head. It felt a bit disconnected from his neck. “I’ve been far away, haven’t I? What is it?”
Attie wrinkled her freckled nose. “I think you’re about to find out. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t go riding or use sharp implements.” She held out her finger to show him a half-inch glossy scar on the tip. “I tried to touch the flames. Watch out for the flames.” She took her finger back and gazed at it with critical consideration. “It didn’t scar very much. It felt much worse than this at the time.”
Aaron watched the little girl turn and walk down the hall away from him. Her light footfalls seemed to echo oddly in his mind. He turned back to the kitchen, determined to get a straight answer from Mrs. Philpott, but she only smiled dreamily as she rocked and rocked in her chair, her gaze locked on the fire in the hearth. On the little table next to her was a cup with dark leaves floating in the dregs.
Aaron turned away, carefully not looking at the flames.
This time it was easy to find his way to his room. All he had to do was to wander down the only open, uncluttered space in the house. Aaron dreamily spread out his arms and let his fingertips just brush each wall. If he weren’t so weary, he would run down it, just because he could.
His room was the end. Just as he approached the door, it opened and Elektra emerged.
She was in my room.
I wish she would stay in my room.Aaron smiled at his insane but lovely Elektra.
Turning at his approach, she blinked at him in startlement. “Mr. Hastings! I was just —” She waved a hand at the closed door to his room. “Candles! And a fresh pitcher for your washbasin —” She stopped speaking and swallowed. Hard. He saw her throat contract. Such a pretty throat.
“Thanks for that, miss.” He spread his arms again. “And thanks for this as well.” He gestured at the lovely pile of nothing in the hallway. “You didn’t need to do that for me.”
Elektra didn’t smile, because then Mr. Hastings would have known that she thought he was adorable when he was trying to be nice. She only nodded somberly. “Yes, I hadn’t realized it had become such a danger. Better you than Attie, I suppose.”
He blinked at that, but could hardly disagree. “Aye, that wouldn’t ‘ave done at all.”
She tilted her head. “So, you see, it is you who should be thanked, for revealing a dangerous situation to us before a Worthington could be harmed.” It was all she could do not to laugh when he twitched slightly.
Best to leave while they weren’t yet arguing. Giving him a quick sisterly pat on the arm, she began to move past him.
When his big warm hand covered her own, she halted in her tracks. His palm tenderly flattened her hand on his bicep.
“Ye can let a bloke say thanks, Miss Elektra,” he murmured almost in her ear.
The deep, affectionate timbre of his voice resonated through her, vibrating down deep in her belly and making her heart stutter.
He moved a step closer to her until one half of his chest overlapped one half of her bosom, separated by mere inches. “Ye can say yer welcome, or even ‘twas nothing.”
She parted her lips to give a breezy answer, but there was something wrong with her breathing and her mouth was just a bit dry —
His warm palm slid slowly down her bare forearm, his long fingers wrapping around and warming her skin. It was a touch both innocent and intensely exciting. Elektra had read a great deal on human reproduction at her mother’s encouragement, but never had the words stimulate and arouse been so plainly defined.
It was clear that more research was in order.
She turned her palm upward, laying the back of her hand upon his sleeve to allow his work-roughened palm access to the sensitive skin inside her elbow. He took the hint quite neatly, but then, she’d never thought Mr. Hastings to be a stupid man.
The heat from his palm warmed the pale blue tracing of veins there, flowing directly into her blood and coursing through her, a hot, sweet injection of desire, the perfect medicine for a chilled, lonely heart. She closed her eyes against the rich infusion and it felt like falling, or perhaps flying.
His palm slid away and she nearly whimpered at the loss, until his warm fingertips began to stroke their way north along her upper arm, as if following that throbbing vein directly to her pounding heart.
Oh, yes. Yes, please.
Touch me. Feel me. See me.
Know me.
Here, alone in this crowded house, surrounded by everyone she loved to the point of hurting, her heart ached at the way this rough, outspoken man truly saw her.
His breathing had deepened as well. She could feel the heat of his exhalations on her bare cheek and throat. She tilted her head slightly to allow the warm sensations to flow over her throat and collarbone. This seemed to affect the tenor of that breath. She felt a faint moan emanate from him, or perhaps it was a growl. Then he bent to press his warm lips to a point perfectly between neck and shoulder.
Elektra couldn’t remember when she’d dug her fingers into his sleeve, or when she’d reached for him with her other hand. All she knew was that his hair was hot silk sliding between her fingers as she pressed his mouth to her neck, to her shoulder, to her throat.
“No.” She’d meant it to be a shout. It came out a whisper. A plea. She swallowed and tried again. “No.” This time, she managed a small step back.
He lifted his head. His gray eyes focused on hers. “I see the flames in your eyes,” he whispered. “Attie warned me not to look into the flames.”
Elektra froze. “Mr. Hastings? Did you drink the tea, Mr. Hastings?”
He blinked. She peered into his eyes and saw the size of his pupils. Her breath left her in a sigh that was half laugh and half sob. A man in the throes of Philpott’s tea would likely kiss his own horse!
Thank goodness she’d stopped him!
I wish I hadn’t stopped him.
The moment hung in the air. She breathed slowly and carefully.
Then she swallowed hard. “Off to bed with you, Mr. Hastings. Sleep well.” She turned and walked toward the stairs. A strange ache bloomed in her belly at the loss of his warmth and shelter.
Although the hallway was level, she felt as if she climbed a steep mountain, such was the pull he exerted upon her.
Just keep climbing.
Left alone in the dim hallway outside his room, Aaron blinked in an effort to focus his oddly distorted vision. No, she’d said. Sleep well, she’d said.
Yes. She was right. He was not himself at the moment. Even at his worst, he’d never been a man who would kiss a virgin in a darkened hall late at night. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
She was a lady. She’d been most proper to stop him.
Or maybe she just didn’t care for him at all. And what kind of well-bred girl toyed with a servant?
He shook his head, his thoughts muddled. Was he angry because she didn’t kiss him or because she almost did?
I have lost my mind in this madhouse. I have become just another inmate.
Elektra made it to her own room and closed the door softly before she allowed the trembling take her over.
Off to bed with you, Mr. Hastings.
Her own bed mocked her, for she knew she would not sleep well tonight.
You have no right to turn to him. You have no freedom to break convention and choose a man like that. To let him think anything else would be cruel beyond measure!
There were women who did. Not simply the ones taking a commoner as a secret lover, which according to Philpott’s gossip happened every other Tuesday, but the other sort — the women who turned their backs on their worlds, who chose to be shunned by society, who gave it all up for the love of a man with rough workingman’s hands and muscles not rendered by fencing practice.
Mr. Hastings would make a fine husband for any woman, she had no doubt. He was strong and chivalrous, in his irregular way, and he fulfilled his smallest promises as if they were holy vows.
If she became one of those women, she need not fear the loss of her family’s regard. The Worthingtons might be irresponsible to the point of madness, but they only wished her to be happy, not titled or wealthy.
What of Attie? If you allowed yourself to be as mad and irresponsible as the rest of them, what sort of options would that leave Attie?
A family formerly considered only delightfully notorious, thrust into true scandal by her eldest sister wedding a strange, albeit wealthy, hermit. Her twin brothers recently involved in a scandal with a wicked widow — only Miranda wasn’t wicked. Only a bit unwise, although that had come out all right in the end if one didn’t count the loss of Miranda’s large inheritance and the estrangement of Poll, who was everyone’s favorite of the twins.
No. It all hinged upon her, Elektra. Dade refused to even consider courting an heiress for profit. Orion only cared about his scientific study. Poll had disappeared after losing Miranda to Cas, only sending the rare, brief note home. Lysander was most definitely not ready for marriage. He was still working on breathing in and out.
The family teetered on the edge of financial and social ruin, yes, but it had not passed the point of no return, not yet. She could bring them back, lift them up, return them to their past unity and happiness!
Or she could plunge them into an inescapable abyss of ruin. Her ill-considered choice could tip that crucial balance. Orion, Lysander, Poll — what decent woman would have them then?
Despite her doubts, her long journey and subsequent adventures, not to mention countless trips up and down the attic stairs, caught up with her in a tide of weariness that left the room spinning when she closed her eyes.
As she fell into the blackness of an exhausted slumber, she heard those words again.
I see the flames in your eyes.
His voice. There had been something different about his voice ….
Elektra spent the early hours of the morning restoring her bedchamber to order after her adventures in Shropshire.
Adventure. Shropshire.
One didn’t connect those two thoughts every day.
She didn’t smile. Her mad mistake and subsequent acquaintance with Henry Hastings aside, that journey had cost her a prime opportunity to reach her original goal.
A goal only reinforced by last evening’s lapse of judgment.
His touch. His heat. His mouth on my skin.
She put it firmly from her mind. No more of that nonsense.
When she had sorted out her dressing table, which she had left in a mess during packing — livid because some stranger cousin was on her way to parasitically attach herself to Elektra’s Season! — she found a thick envelope addressed particularly to her.
An invitation. It must have arrived while she was gone. Philpott wasn’t one to recall events of even a few hours past, so it was no wonder she hadn’t mentioned it. Elektra slid her ivory opener beneath the wax seal, admittedly without any trace of excitement, to discover an announcement.
Lord Neville, Duke of Camberton, entreats your presence once more at his birthday revel, which has been regrettably delayed by inclement weather for those traveling from far parts to attend. The event has been rescheduled for Wednesday Night. His Grace begs your forgiveness for the inconvenience.
Today was Wednesday. She had not missed it, after all. There still remained time to fix matters. For Attie’s sake. For everyone’s sake, including that of Mr. Hastings, who deserved better than to get himself into some impossible situation, fixing his attention upon her.
I am not free to suit myself.
If you were, are you quite sure a valet would suit you?
Yes. No.
Yes. She shook her head sharply. I don’t know — and there’s no point to wondering, because I have no choice.
Elektra lifted a book from her night table. From between the pages, she slid free a sheet of foolscap and unfolded it.
Lord Aaron Arbogast, heir to the Earl of Arbodean.
Underlined three times. The List.
She had missed her opportunity with Lord Aaron, of course. That entire debacle was best not thought on too long. Slowly her gaze moved to the next name, which had once been the first name.
Lord Neville, Duke of Camberton.
How could she have lost her focus so completely?
Of course, Bliss’s arrival had interrupted all of Elektra’s carefully laid plans to interest the duke. However, now that she thought about it, Bliss might very well serve a higher purpose indeed.
Elektra put all thought of Mr. Hastings from her mind and strode purposefully from her bedchamber. Bliss had taken over the larger room that had once been Callie’s, two doors down on the left.
The door stood open and Elektra saw Bliss, who was of course an early riser, sorting hatboxes onto a teetering pile already atop the wardrobe, humming contentedly.
Without preamble, Elektra narrowed her eyes and pounced. “I don’t suppose you brought something suitable for the Duke of Camberton’s ball?”
Bliss turned to her with a serene expression. In her hands, she held two perfectly perfect bonnets, each more cunning than the other. “Why, cousin —”
Elektra closed her eyes. “Sorry. Silly question.”