Elyse Mady (11 page)

“How much do you need?”

She held out her hand. “No.”

“Miss Aspinall, please, be sensible.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his wallet.

“I can’t take your money.” Her mouth tightened. “I won’t take your money.”

“You aren’t. You are taking it on your brother’s behalf. I appreciate your scruples but surely you can see that if you beggar yourself now, you will experience even greater hardship upon Mr. Aspinall’s release. You will have no stock, nothing to set up a new home with. Your situation will be quite desperate. It is only twenty pounds.”

He watched as she mulled over his arguments. She looked down to the lines of her brother’s letter and back to Thomas. Pride and necessity battled for supremacy. It was a contretemps he knew personally, having fought it with his family many times.

“It is a loan,” she said, coming to stand before him. “I will not accept it under any other aegis. When Robert is released, we will pay you back, one-and-a-half pounds per month, at three percent.”

“You may pay me back, if it sets your mind at ease, but I will not accept interest. One and a half pounds per month fixed,” he countered. Hester nodded and he withdrew four five-pound bank notes. He gave them to her and she folded them carefully, before stowing them away in her skirt pocket.

“Thank you, Mr. Ramsay. I will admit that your aid will make a material difference. Now, with careful husbanding, I should be able to pay to take my own modest room and for Robert’s food until the trial from our savings.” She smiled, clearly pleased at the turn of events, but Thomas was anything but happy.

Her room? She still had plans to leave? Surely not. She was not well enough. Dr. Aubrey wouldn’t allow it. Thomas would speak to the man himself, tell him that Hester’s plan was foolhardy. He could not put his concerns into words but he knew that if she left, she would run the very real risk of being even more badly hurt.

As he looked at her, he wanted to comfort her and ease some of the hurt on her marked face but could not find the words. She looked so lost and downtrodden. Her injuries, her worries about her brother, about their shop, their future. She carried it all on her thin shoulders. They were bowed, and he ached to take some of the burden.

Why should she work herself into a collapse, slaving away taking in piecework or plain sewing, in a futile effort to supplement their savings? She would not be able to find any work that paid adequately. There were hundreds—nay, thousands—of destitute women eking a meagre living across London. They sold cups of tea and pickles and jams, pushed carts and remade clothes. In the very worst cases, they sold themselves. Their lives were brutish and short and filled with unimaginable violence and misery.

His shameful secret—his unrelenting attraction to her—was superseded by his fear for her safety.

He could not allow Hester to live like that, even for a short time.

He wouldn’t.

His home was large—too large for a bachelor, really—with room enough for Hester. He was rarely here, spending most of his time in his offices or on the docks. She would be safe from privation and dangerous men. Himself included. He would do nothing to dismay her whilst she was under his roof.

“You must stay here.” The words were out before he could censor them.

“I couldn’t.” Hester looked appalled but he knew his idea, as reckless as it might seem, had merit. He simply had to convince her of that fact.

“You must. If I am to put forward any claim to being a gentleman, I cannot in good conscience allow you to live in the city unprotected.”

“The irregularities…” Her face flamed. For a young, unmarried woman to live, unchaperoned, under the roof of a man who was not a near relation would be utterly shocking. They both knew it. She gazed at him as if expecting him to retract his offer or announce the whole thing an enormous jest.

But he could not. Because as imprudent and rash as the idea was, he meant it, consequences be damned. He kept his eyes on her face, resisting the temptation to look away. But he could feel himself tightening, his body aware of her proximity even as his mind decried his base instincts.

“I give you my word that you will come to no harm whilst you are under my care,” he swore. “Do not think you are disrupting me or my household, either, for you know my home is large enough to host twenty such refugees.”

“I doubt you would find twenty as unhappily situated as I.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded with a flash of humour. “But you must believe me sincere when I say that it would be my honour to do you this small service in your hour of need.”

“There will be talk.” She stood and began to pace the room as though the disquiet of her mind could only be eased by activity.

He acknowledged this with a curt nod. “Yes, there will be.”

Hester came and stood before him at the fireplace. “What will your family say, if they learn of our situation? It will distress them.”

“I am not beholden to my family for my livelihood,” he said. In truth, he saw little of his family. They wrote and exchanged those small updates which his mother deemed significant: the prosperity of the neighbourhood’s families, marriages, deaths and the arrival of subsequent generations. He in turn acted as their London factotum, sending the parcels of ribbons and lengths of dress stuffs he purchased at their direction. But they were not intimate, the rupture that had formed on his decision to take to the sea against their very stiff opposition still only precariously healed.

But it was best not to think of it. He and his brothers had been very close once upon a time, and it pained him in ways he cared not to examine too closely when he had occasion to consider their estrangement. “I care little for London society. You and I will know the truth. Will you stay?”

She looked at him, her eyes clear and determined despite her injury. She was such a tiny thing. Her personality and strength of will always made her seem larger than her actual height. Yet now, standing by the mantelpiece, looking down on her, he was reminded of her true size.

Her face drew his eyes. She was lost in her own thoughts, weighing his offer, and so he took advantage of the rare opportunity to look upon her at his leisure. He didn’t see the bruises, except to mourn the suffering she had endured. He saw instead the arch of her dark brows above her clear eyes, the rounded bow of her soft lips, the line of her nape and her throat, ivory against the white of the fichu draped across her shoulders. He savoured the small details, their very insignificance significant because of who he was gazing upon.

Her hair curled at her temple, a single lock at odds with her neat, simple hairstyle. He knew women who employed an army of French hairdressers, curling tongs and frizzing irons, pomades and rats and flowers, silk and hothouse. He had never been tempted to touch their hair the way he was tempted to touch Hester’s.

He wanted to brush the strand away, to feel its softness as it wrapped about his fingers. The urges he had promised himself he would overcome reasserted themselves. He wanted to caress her cheek. He wanted to kiss her and learn the feel of her lips against his own. He was in agony, and when her eyes looked up, assessing him, he knew she could see something of his struggle because a hot rush of colour flooded her cheeks.

“You want me to stay?” The hopeful look in her eyes slayed him.

The stone was hard beneath his hand. He squeezed it tightly but he did not shy away from her keen visual interrogation.

Move away.

He found himself leaning closer.

Step back.

His feet did not move. Instead, the distance between them narrowed as he bent towards her. He’d forgotten his question or that he was waiting to hear her response to his madcap scheme. He was going to kiss her. He had to, for his own sanity. Just once and then he would behave as he ought to.

“Hester.” Half whisper, half plea, his voice sounded rough but he could not help it. He wanted her. He wanted to take her in his arms and worship her with his mouth until they were dizzy with need. Kissing her neck, her mouth, her eyes…

She didn’t withdraw at all as his mouth descended. He could feel the tension in her body, in the way she swayed towards him even as she fought against it. He tasted her, his mouth moving against hers gently. He explored slowly, from the corner of her mouth to the fullness of her lower lip, sensing the conflict being waged between her conscience and her desires.

Her mouth moved hesitantly beneath his own. It wasn’t her first kiss, he’d warrant. A girl as comely as Hester would have met with her fair share of swains. But there was an uncertainty in her response that told him she was unsure of his caress.

He would have to woo her carefully then, let her warm to his touch by degrees.

He increased the intensity of his kiss with incremental steps. His hand remained firmly affixed to the mantel, as he resisted the urge to take her in his arms. He knew she would bolt if he let loose with the full torrent of his need. But she tasted so sweet that he could not muffle the groan that emerged from deep within him.

The parlour was an afterthought. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was Hester. He was mesmerized by her wide eyes—dark flecks of brown and an unexpected smattering of green amongst the hazel tones—watching his face as he kissed her. He let his tongue trace the seam of her lips, probing, seeking entry but not demanding. Her mouth yielded suddenly. He caught his breath as raw desire snaked through him.

He had never been so taken by a woman. He’d grown hard with the barest of contact. Some small thread of sense kept him from wrapping his arms around her lithe body and drawing her as close as possible. She swayed against him and the light touch of her breasts against his chest enflamed him.

Gone was the gentle, hesitant supplicant.

In his place was a man afire. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed him to his chest. He kissed down her neck, licking and sucking at her earlobe. Hester gasped, her small hands clasping his waistcoat. He loved her touch. She stood on tiptoe and their mouths met again, open and greedy. She kissed him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth whilst her hand ran up and down the smooth silk of his vest.

He could not disguise his excitement, but she did not recoil from it. Instead, she pressed against it, as though she knew what it presaged and wanted more. Heat and wanting and something infinitely more precious that he could not—dared not—identify swept over him. His hands locked on her spine and he bent her back a little, the movement thrusting her chest forward. His lips trailed across the translucent linen that covered the skin above her open-necked robe. He nosed it aside, licking her fluttering pulse with a light touch of his tongue. A strangled plea, half choked, half yearning, echoed from her lips and at that moment, he could think of nothing but her.

He’d always suspected that kissing her would be like this.

Effortless. Inflammatory. Dizzying.

He could kiss her like this for a hundred years and never grow tired of it, he thought, sucking lightly on the tender flesh. “I want—”

A knock on the door had him rearing back as though scalded, the reckless words he had been about to speak cut off.

He was conscious of his trembling hands. He steadied them with an effort, pressing them into a tight pair behind his back. He was hard, his breeches restricting him to the point of pain. He had paid the discomfort no mind during their interlude but now, the world intruding once more, his excited flesh could not recede fast enough for his liking. Hester’s colour was high, her lips unmistakably swollen. She would not meet his eye. She moved away quickly, standing next to the window. He saw her blink and blink again, as though the afternoon sun dazzled her, but he could not read the expression in her face.

“Enter,” he called, willing a steadiness of tone he was far from feeling. He turned and faced the mantel, willing his body to fall back into line.

His housekeeper came in, the keys on her chatelaine tinkling with every step. She set a covered tray on a nearby occasional table.

“It’s time for your medicine, Miss Aspinall. Every four hours. Those were the doctor’s instructions.” Mrs. Lytton brandished a brown glass bottle and a silver teaspoon. That she was intent on dispensing its contents was clear. “Sir.”

It wasn’t a request and Thomas acceded as gracefully as he could. He didn’t want to leave but arguing now, in front of his staff, would only expose Hester to the gossip of servants. He had to protect her from that, but there was so much he needed to say to her. To make her understand how much he regretted his impetuous actions.

The fact that he would love to repeat them would be his own secret.

“I will take my leave of you, Miss Aspinall,” he said from the door, watching as the housekeeper uncovered the rest of the tray, to reveal a pot of tea set for one. “I hope you will consider what we discussed,” he added, unable to say more but willing her to understand his unspoken message.

Of course, he could not allow himself to kiss her again. That had been the height of folly on his part. But if she were to accept his offer of hospitality, he would be on his guard, ensuring that his weakness didn’t overtake him again.

Hester turned away from Mrs. Lytton to face him. “I’ve already considered it, Mr. Ramsay. And my answer is yes.”

He didn’t distinguish her words at first. He was too busy admiring her form, silhouetted by the window. Clearly, his guard was not what it should be.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will stay. Until my brother is released.”

It was the worst possible arrangement. By living with her thus, in the eyes of the world, she would be ruined. Yet knowing her to be without an income to support herself or her brother, what greater dangers threatened?

He could not allow any harm to come to her, even at the expense of her reputation. He could do this, live platonically with a respectable young woman. He would not dishonour her, no matter how much he wanted her. He forced himself to step away to the door.

“I am as glad as circumstances permit,” he said. He was surprised to find that he meant the formal words. He’d spoken precipitously by offering her sanctuary. That rashness was out of character for him but it did not negate the imperative that had driven him to make the offer in the first place.