Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (8 page)

              “Oh?”

              “Oh. And she was pleased to see me.”

              He looked Bennet over, artfully tousled hair and smart blue coat, and admitted a jealousy accrued over the last two decades. “I’ll wager she was.”

“Hush.” Bennet paused and stuffed in more food, manners abandoned. “I know you'd rather gut yourself than take her invitation, but if Paton's aim is scaling the social ladder, she'd do him some good.”

              Bennet was correct. Mrs. Siddons was kind enough and theatrical, naturally, as an actress. But her salon had a queue to the street, packed with the sort of prattling dilettantes he was set on avoiding. Exactly the sort Chas Paton
needed
. “Not certain she’ll do him good when she meets
Mrs.
Paton. Sarah has no patience for that woman’s brand of snobbery.”

              “And she'll say as much, if it comes to it. Bring Mrs. Paton down a stair and give her husband a kick in the arse.” Bennet rubbed his hands together. “I hope to witness it.”

“That sounds appealing,” Spencer admitted. “It also sounds exhausting.”

              Bennet pushed away his plate and slouched into the chair at a limp angle. “No one says
you
have to be there to see it, old man.”

              He aimed a retort, then shut his mouth. An idea had struck like lightning; a devious, tactical idea. Bennet was correct; he did not
have
to go.

And if Alexandra were sick enough, she would not have to either.

CHAPTER NINE

              Alix clutched her straw bonnet tighter as the horses picked up speed on the hill, a warm breeze fanning her cheeks. Spencer's yellow curricle bounced over the road, its two wheels lending it a racy impropriety that couldn't have pleased her more. He was handy with the reins, steering his matched pair of grays around the low spots faster than he probably should, giving the sense he was showing off to impress her.

              It was working.

              The hills above Oakvale were blanketed by broad green oaks, making the rises appear deceptively low until Spencer wheeled the little chaise to give them a view of the estate’s panorama. The thin gray line of his house below said plainly just how far they had climbed. Hopping down, he stopped first with the horses and then made his way around to help her down.

              She accepted his hand, studying him all the while. Men at home didn't dress like him; she wasn't certain men at home were even
made
like him. American clothing was practical, dependable; so much brown wool and off-white homespun, with coat tails too long and footwear too short.

Knee high boots with enough polish to look new made Spencer appear taller, if that was possible. The tails of his smart navy blue coat concealed the more scandalous lines of his tan buckskins, much to her disappointment. Plenty of ladies, including Laurel, referred to the pants as 'inexpressibles'. She had immediately grasped the allusion and was eager for a glimpse of their sinful tailoring.

              “Out then.” Spencer tugged at her hand, heat pressing between their gloves while he lowered her. Until he’d confessed and returned her glove, she'd dedicated him only a reasonable amount of thought. That had changed since their day together in the study. A brush of his arm, the pressure of his fingers; anticipation strung constant between them. Discovering that Spencer Reed and her stranger were one and the same had magnified the best qualities of both.

He tucked her hand into the warm crook of his arm and led her further up the hill, past where the road faded into high grass. “I'm sorry if my interference deprived you of company or amusement. I could have asked your leave before implying to the others that you were too sick to join them.”

              She jostled him with an elbow. “You could have, but you didn't.”
              Spencer ducked his head, lifting his hat to her in salute. “No,” he admitted, something kindling in his hazel eyes, something which was not genuine apology.

He settled on the chipped remains of a felled tree trunk, patting the wood beside him.

              She studied him in profile, heart pounding faster with each feature she traced. He caught her gaze with a half-smile.

              “Lord Reed.”

              “Spencer, if you would.”

              Alix sat and shook her head, not certain that she
would
just yet.

              He took off his hat and rested it on the log, raking fingers through silky chestnut hair. “May I ask you something?”

              Her breath hitched. “Anything you like.”

              “Why did you go with me?”

              Alix pressed a hand to her lips, fighting a smile, struggling to conceal burning cheeks. “The way you touched me. Like I was beautiful, desirable.”

              “So you were. Though you had plenty of admirers, as I recall.”

              “Admirers who assumed their titles would impress me into lifting my skirts. That I would be flattered or desperate. There was more warmth in your single touch than in all of their empty platitudes.”

              “Green,” he chided, clucking his tongue. “Heavy handed. That's no way to seduce a lady.”

              He would know; he'd done a skilled job of it.

              Leaning in she bumped him with a shoulder. “Such a strange way to begin a friendship.”

              A bump in return. “Is that what we are?”

              “You've spared me from Paulina two days in a row, so yes.” She grimaced, imagining her day without Spencer’s interference.

              He laughed. “She's not stupid, by my estimation. Mrs. Paton is bound to figure out we're dodging her eventually.”

              He had named her anxiety, a worry that had sat on the edge of her consciousness since yesterday. Paulina wasn't smart, but she was clever. Alix hated the idea of losing what they’d shared the last two days. She'd forgotten what it was like to be free, unburdened. “I have no idea what can be done about it.”

              Resting elbows on his knees, Spencer tossed her a boyish smile off his shoulder. “We're going to have to like other people, Mrs. Rowan. Or at least pretend to, if we wish to be in each other’s company.”

              “You're asking a great deal,” she grumbled, slipping from the tree to the ground. Leaning her head back against the spongy wood, she followed wisps of cloud brushing the sky. Spencer thudded beside her a moment later, sitting close enough that she felt the heat of his body without touching. She wished he would touch her, even the smallest brush to help make sense of a jumble inside.

              A rustle of summer leaves passed the time for them, the breeze fanning her cheeks under an afternoon sun. Her attention fixed on Spencer, as it had so many times over the previous days. He became the point at which she started, spreading from him to their surroundings like ripples in water.

              “Alexandra.” Her name murmured on his lips gave Alix a small thrill. “I didn't single you out in the ballroom because you appeared desperate. Just the opposite, in fact.”

“Tell me.”

“Impossible. I don’t possess the eloquence.”

Eyes closed, she exhaled slowly, steadying herself and trying to form feelings into words. To explain a warmth she felt deep inside.

              Spencer cleared his throat and got up. She expected him to say it was time to go. Footsteps moved off, crunching into the brush.

              Something struck her, a sharp impact above her left breast. “Ow!” She snapped up.

              “Oh, dammit all.” He raised his hands. “I hadn’t considered its staining your coat.”

              She glanced from a purple blotch on her lapel to the blackberry in her lap, then to Spencer frozen at the edge of the clearing. She stood without a word, stamping first toward the curricle to mislead him and veering into the bushes at the last second. Pinching off two fat blackberries, she wheeled and slung, lodging one in the folds of his cravat. Hers left its own mark, stain bold against the fine white linen.

              Spencer raised a brow. “My aim is
accurate
, Mrs. Rowan.”

              “I've been warned.” She snapped more berries as she spoke. One pegged his cheek, and one missed entirely. Winding up for a third shot, she realized she'd discounted his mobility.              

First he matched her, a stride forward for each one she took back. Then he was running. She waited for his lunge and turned to flee. His boots were thunder hammering the ground at her back as she circled the horses.

              His finger snatched the skirt of her coat. Alix threw herself forward into a long stride, certain she'd lost him rounding the back of the carriage. An arm hooked her waist and tipped her back. “No, no!” She gasped, wriggling against his grip and certain that whatever came next, it would not be pleasant.

His next move proved her right. One broad palm scrubbed wet pulp and coarse seeds across her cheeks and chin, somehow missing her mouth even as she panted and shrieked.

Flailing out an arm, she returned the favor, catching Spencer's jaw and earning shouts of her own.

              In the struggle, she managed a foot between his legs. Instead of offering leverage, her effort to get free tumbled him. The ground came up, smarting her backside. Spencer came down, and only her quick dodge avoided a blow from his elbow.

              They lay tangled in a heap, gasping, until Spencer groaned and rolled away. She looked him over, reaching above her head with one arm for a missing bonnet, laughing. The same daring energy which had drawn her to him at the ball coursed her veins now, and it was wonderful. Grass stuck in his crisp hair and clung here and there to his berry covered face, and she grinned and admired her handiwork. “You look awful!”

              “Do I?” he murmured, rolling onto an elbow and eating up space between their bodies. His question was smoky and filled with challenge. Her heart clenched and throbbed in her chest. “That is unfortunate,” he leaned over her, “because you can hardly be tempted to let me do
this
.”

It was just a brush, so brief and insubstantial that she might have mistaken the whisper of his lips for his breath. The barest increase in pressure blazed a memory of warm hands, a firm mouth and a cold stone wall. She closed her eyes and cherished those sensations, coupled with his hip pressing hers and his breath fanning her cheek. After a long moment, when he didn’t try again, she dared to peek up at him.

              He narrowed an eye, grinned and shook his head. “I look awful. You look
worse
.”

              “We can't go back like this,” she breathed, still studying his lips.

              Fishing inside his grass- and berry-stained coat, he produced a handkerchief and waved it just out of reach. “This is all we have.” He snatched it from her grasping fingers. “And
I
get to use it first.”

CHAPTER TEN

              Spencer leaned over the table, resting an elbow above the pocket and took his shot. Balls rolled, clicking together, but he was in no better position when Bennet's turn came around. Most nights they were an equal match at billiards, but this evening he was agitated with far too much on his mind.

              He’d devoted a lot of time to his dilemma with Alexandra and still managed only a basic solution. If their current group of acquaintances were a problem, then he would construct a party for Alexandra to put her more at ease. Women Paulina could hardly object to, ladies with whom he was familiar enough to be in company without raising eyebrows. Then he would wait, allow a few days to pass and take advantage of their newly formed mutual acquaintances.

Paulina was already more of a sentinel than usual, and he’d allowed five days for Laurel to introduce Alexandra and for Paulina to lower her guard. Ladies Conyngham, Ralls, Villiers, and Cowper formed a center to Alexandra’s web. From there he hoped she would make friends of her own and put distance between herself and Paulina.

              Bennet leaned in, screwing up his face and sticking out his tongue. Spencer would have laughed at his brother's efforts except that his shot sank with ease.

“You're practically handing it to me, Reed. A little sport for my trouble would be appreciated.”

              Bennet's 'trouble' was not making the trip to London as he’d originally intended, instead staying in to ease a cloud of boredom that had settled over Spencer. He gave his brother a withering glare, unmoved by Bennet’s plight. He'd done enough nose wiping and wound cleaning over the years to feel entitled to some company.

              Ignoring the black look, Bennet bent back to the table. “I should thank Mrs. Rowan for all the coin she's winning me this evening.”

              “How do you estimate Mrs. Rowan has anything to do with it?”

              Stopping mid-draw, cocking his head, Bennet rolled his eyes.

              A fair response. Bennet was not a child, and Spencer appreciated that he was not as circumspect as he pretended sometimes.

              “She fascinates me,” he admitted. “Though I haven't decided if it's a thrill of the chase or something more.”

              Bennet took his shot, propped his cue and leaned against the table to draw on his port, conspicuous by a lack of ribald quips.

              “What?”

              “What?” Bennet shrugged.

              Spencer massaged his forehead. “Out with it.”

              Laughing, Bennet drained his glass. “We have crossed far beyond my territory.”

              “Having opinions, welcomed or otherwise? That is well within your territory.” Since childhood, in fact.

              Abandoning their game, Bennet pulled a chair from the card table, stretched out his legs and entrenched. “Does she know?”

              “She does now.”

              “Did you tell her, or did she figure it out on her own?”

              Tossing his stick onto the green felt, Spencer snatched his glass, resigned to joining Bennet at the table. “She's clever enough to have put it together eventually.”

              A finger rapped the table. “That's not what I asked.”

              “I confessed to her.” It felt as though Bennet had dragged the admission from him, leaving behind a raw spot.

              Toying with the edge of his glass, Bennet was thoughtful a moment. “That is the first detail which you should mull over.”

              He stared back, confused.

              “You didn't
have
to say a word.”

“I concede your point.” He hadn’t been caught, not even suspected.

“Hm. So what was her reaction when you did?”

              Swallowing, he studied the table, sliding his glass in an aimless pattern. “I'm not certain.”

              Sitting up, leaning in, Bennet cocked an ear as though he'd misheard. “You're not certain? Did she, bawl? Take a swipe at your trousers?”

              Spencer leaned his head back, exhaling some of the thrumming tension straining his ribs. “She's made no secret that she enjoyed it. And has made no move to repeat it. I’m not certain where we stand, precisely.”

              Bennet’s wide eyes were incredulous. “Even a woman as notorious as Lady Frances would put you at arm’s length for such stone. But here are you and Mrs. Rowan, whiling away your days together. That counts for something.”

              Spencer pressed lips tighter, wondering if he was being bluffed. He doubted Bennet was around enough to know for certain how much Alexandra figured into his day.

              Laughing, Bennet relaxed in his chair. “I come and go two, three times in an afternoon. Lord Reed nowhere to be found, Mrs. Rowan allegedly ill in her room. No one takes anything up to her, no one comes down. Either you have a poor staff, or Mrs. Rowan is not in her room at all.”

He made a furious study of the tabletop. “I fail to take your meaning.”

              Unfolding, Bennet palmed both their glasses and set off on a course for the sideboard. “Perhaps I don't have one. Just consider your answers this evening, more than my questions.”

              For all his cryptic, Sphinx-like prattling, Bennet was the only person who’d ever been able to accomplish what had just transpired, and it had been that way since he was young. Spencer found his thoughts organized by his brother's prodding, his provoking. He was old, set in his ways. Now and then, a fresh set of eyes was needed.

              Bennet reappeared with full glasses and a chessboard balanced on an arm, planting everything between them on the table. “So what do you do, then?”

              “Hmm?” Still lost in thought, he'd missed the question.

              Bennet rolled his eyes. “You and Mrs. Rowan. If it's not a liaison, then what do you do?”

              “Oh.” Spencer moved their pieces from a small cloth bag. “Nothing particular.” The words felt wrong. It didn't feel like nothing when they were together.

              “Sit staring until the clock chimes?”

              Spencer sighed, arranging pieces. “No. In fact, we do most of the same things you and I do, and with notably less irritation.”

              “Oh, I am never irritated.” Grinning, Bennet tipped his glass and claimed his pieces. “So you drink, play cards, and ponder the curious advent of ladies' drawers.”

              “Essentially, yes.” He allowed himself a smile at Bennet’s laugh. “I’m serious. Sometimes we just occupy the room for one another.”

              Bennet's face contorted while he looked over the board. “What does that mean?” Out marched a pawn.

              “I enjoy her presence, and she enjoys mine.” Spencer moved, claiming Bennet's piece.

              “Ahh, yes, the elderly equivalent of lovemaking.” Bennet dodged a cuff to the ear with deftness Spencer hadn't expected of a man so deep in his cups.

“Teasing! I'm only teasing,” Bennet protested. Another pawn moved up. “Hours in a woman's company without the promise of so much as a bare ankle. There's something very heartening about it.”

              In spite of the teasing, Spencer considered his brother’s words. There had been a time in his life when the idea of an illicit touch was consuming; a hint of flesh, a stolen kiss, maneuvering the whole day for minutes alone in a darkened hall. A younger, brasher time. What had changed?

He came to the same answer as always: He’d grown old.

Things were different with her. It wasn’t as if his every thought were noble where Alexandra was concerned; that was impossible now. Despite that, his primary sensation when she came to mind was an encompassing calm.

He’d yet to determine where such a new and foreign experience fit in his existence. It was struggle enough, accepting that somehow it
did
fit.