D2D_Poison or Protect (9 page)

I can call her Preshea now, in my head at least.

Gavin said, “I do apologize. You are correct. Such behavior is uncalled for.”

Formerly Connie was drifting, her thin arms crossed. “I’m no proper chaperone and this is neither the time nor the place for such carrying on.”

On the contrary,
thought Gavin,
’tis both.

The ghost continued her lecture. “I’ve heard of assignations, but I hardly require a demonstration.” She acted as if she were a governess and not a virginal chit half their age and dead.

Gavin saw Preshea take offense. He interrupted before she might say something not rash but overly cutting. He doubted Preshea was ever
rash
, but they needed the ghost on their side. “Lady Villentia is my affianced. We’ve na made the matter public. You must na blame her. I persuaded her to come down here. I couldna bear to be parted from her a moment longer.”

The ghost was mollified. “Well, if that’s the truth of it.”

“It was naught more than the most chaste of kisses.”

The ghost bobbed as if in thought. “I did note that. I must admit to some wistfulness. I never got a first kiss myself.”

Preshea smiled. “Were it possible, I should recommend the captain. He is an excellent starter.”

The ghost, rather than taking offense at such a shocking offer, gave a tinkling laugh. “Young lovers. Too sweet. Yet in company, you pretend not to know one another.”

Preshea made good work of that opening. “It’s my father. He disapproves the match. We must keep it hidden until we can run away to Gretna Green.”

“Oh, how romantic.” The ghost clasped cloudy hands together. She was still very much a
nice
young lady, with all the Gothic notions of unrequited love to go alongside.

Gavin turned pleading eyes on Formerly Connie. “You will keep our secret, dear lass?”

The ghost straightened, as much as a wispy bit of aether given form could straighten. “I shall.”

“We will not embarrass you again by invading your solitude with our trysts.” Preshea took Gavin by the hand and led him firmly away.

Out of tether distance.

He followed.

Of course he followed. He would follow her anywhere she wished. He was horribly afraid, after very little acquaintance and two tentative kisses, that he was falling in love with her, which meant following was his only choice.

Riding Lessons

During the trip upstairs and back to her room, Preshea put more than simply physical distance between herself and the captain. He had carefully not overwhelmed her, yet she felt as though she were drowning. He hadn’t pushed, yet she was at the edge of a precipice. The horrible thing was that she knew she could pull away. He would let her.

Preshea leaned against her closed door and listened until she heard his shut. She felt as if she might cry. There was something so perfect about him. But
perfect
for a Preshea four husbands ago, when she might have learned to love and value such a man. Instead, now she would always be waiting, expecting him to turn into them.

She knew this was a weakness in her nature. She was rejecting something outright that might well be the saving of her. Not saving her soul, or her heart, or anything so trite. But
her
, the decent human part of her, the tiny pieces that were left. Yet she hadn’t the courage to overcome what other men had done to her. They were dead and gone, leaving no ghosts to haunt her. She’d given each his two years in widow’s weeds, black to mauve, for a death without unbirth. And they’d left her alone and drained, picked over, rotted to the bone exactly like them. She honored their memory by making an altar out of her inability to trust.

Preshea spent the next few days avoiding Captain Ruthven, applying the skills of her trade in order to do so. She’d been in subterfuge as well as murder. Even at a house party of confined society, it was easy to be unavailable or perpetually conversing with others. No doubt Gavin was startled by how well one female with the right set of skills could avoid contact with a man who had no artifice at all.

* * *

The second week started out much the same as the first, alternating between whist and loo, absent of late-night kisses. Breakfast was casual, luncheon was civil, and supper was formal. The storm outside increased in ferocity, turning into a veritable gale.

Preshea took every opportunity to coax Jack into ridiculousness. She also managed a private discussion with Lady Violet. During this exchange, she insinuated much about the poor quality of Jack’s offering, not as a suitor but as a man. His buffoonish ways were to be pitied. Surely,
dear
Lady Vi wasn’t
serious
about the unfortunate creature? As the older woman, Preshea felt it her duty to speak with censure on the subject of young men who waved dried flowers about willy-nilly and pressed a girl’s hand. Fervently. In public!

And so forth.

This met with modest success. Lady Violet was the type to be impressed by the opinion of others, especially when such an opinion was expressed in a sympathetic manner.

Preshea, having found the house’s security up to her standards that first evening, did not feel the need to make such a thorough check every night. But she did walk the windows after dark, to see if she might catch anyone looking in. She took pains to avoid encountering other members of the house party, living or dead. Now that she was on her guard against Formerly Connie’s wispy ways, it wasn’t difficult. She saw Miss Leeton once, paying a late-night call on her affianced (actresses!), and Mr Jackson heading down to the kitchen upon some seafood-related quest. She did not encounter Captain Ruthven alone again.

Gavin
.

She wasn’t certain whether she was grateful or disappointed. Nor did she know if he searched for her, padding about in his ridiculous banyan, hoping she might catch him.

She thought about it. But resisted.

* * *

Gavin was wounded by Preshea’s coldness. He thought of her as two people now – the Lady Villentia she played to an audience, and the Preshea she had allowed him to glimpse late at night. Preshea had sad eyes. Lady Villentia had a maddeningly clipped voice. Preshea had kissed him in the dark, frightened by her own daring, sweetly hesitant. Lady Villentia ignored him in the grey day, perfect nose tilted up.

Both of them watched the duke and the windows.

Of course, he’d gone looking for her the following night. And the night after that. And the night after that. He’d hoped to find Preshea going about Lady Villentia’s business, willing to crack her icy surface just for him.

He caught glimpses of Preshea occasionally – a hint across the room while she chatted. Those eyes, always wary, would alight briefly on him and shift. But not in welcome. He was no longer permitted in her circle. Oh, he could walk over, join the conversation. But then she would mysteriously not be part of it, her attention straying towards the piano or a game of backgammon. She was not cutting him. It was not so overt that anyone else noticed. Only that wherever he was, she was not.

It hurt. Naturally it did, because with two measly kisses, he was more intrigued by this widow than he’d been by any lady of his acquaintance, ever. But he knew why she was doing it. He’d seen such before, and he cursed the husbands, for one or all must have been brutes. How dared they dull such sharp perfection with misuse? Somehow, he must prove that she’d nothing to fear from him.

He watched her watch their host. He watched their host watch Jack. He watched Jack watch Lady Violet. And he watched Lady Violet, more often than not, watch the floor in embarrassment. Jack’s antics were becoming extreme with desperation. Lady Violet’s interest waned accordingly. Poor Jack had never learned that what could be charming during a ball became gauche over long rainy days in the countryside. Perhaps Preshea encouraged Jack in his foolishness, but it took so little effort, she was wasting her talents. Poor Jack was quite equal to ruining his chances without assistance.

The morning of the ninth day of Gavin’s punishment (as he’d come to think of it) dawned cheerful and sunny. This was a joy to all, for they’d begun to believe they’d be confined indoors for all three weeks.

The ladies of the party, after breakfast, resolved to take a walk. The gentlemen, even lovesick Jack, declined, ostensibly because they felt their boots might get smudged. In reality, Lord Blingchester required a respite from feminine chatter.

Gavin couldn’t blame him. Lady Blingchester would try the patience of a saint. Her strident voice more often than not complaining – about the weather, the food, or her own perceived ill health (although to Gavin’s eyes, she was rudely robust). She directed the bulk of this putrid flow at her husband, who looked as if he’d started life a jolly chap, but had deflated after marriage.

As a general rule, Gavin was disposed to be kind to the fairer sex, but Lady Blingchester had made her dislike of Preshea evident. Gavin, while realizing his lass did not give two figs for such a woman’s good opinion, was not unaffected. He liked watching Preshea charm everyone, yet Lady Blingchester would not be charmed.

So it was that the ladies – the Duchess of Snodgrove, Lady Blingchester, Lady Violet, Miss Leeton, Lady Flo, and Miss Pagril – sallied forth into the sunlight, parasols raised against it, enjoying the delights of a world washed clean.

Preshea stayed behind. Because the duke stayed behind, and Gavin was convinced she too was charged with his protection.

Lord Blingchester grumbled at the cursed addition of a female to his much-desired peace and suggested a game of high-stakes cards. Preshea was clearly not frightened by vast sums recklessly changing hands, but she also did not attempt to participate. It being a game for four, Gavin left the others to it. Poor Jack was abysmal at cards, and what little funds he possessed were bound to be lost in the space of the two hours it would take the ladies to walk the grounds.

Gavin opted to relax near the fire and read the
Mooring Standard
, all the way from London, only two days old. He wasn’t really reading it, however.

Preshea stood looking out the window. There wasn’t much to see; the gardens were ill tended, with nothing in bloom. Yet somewhat had caught her attention. That perfect face was arrested in an expression of … wistful pain? It was irresistible.

So, he went to stand next to her and look as well.

She tensed and then seemed to give an internal sigh and let him stay, sharing her silence.

The ladies drifted about the grounds outside. The duchess, Lady Blingchester, and the older girls had attained a goodly distance and were striding towards the fields beyond the gardens. Miss Pagril and Lady Flo, on the other hand, had decided against such a robust endeavor and deviated to amble through the maze, arm in arm. There was nothing so spectacular about this undertaking that it required Preshea’s focus.

“You dinna wish to join them?”

Preshea did not turn. “I am content here, thank you.”

It rankled. He wanted her to notice him. “You’re na the type of lass with many female friends?” It was not a question, but he raised his voice at the end as if it were, so it came off less insulting.

“I attended finishing school. Long ago. There were girls there as those two are.”

He narrowed his eyes, wondering at her implication. He’d noted the affection between the two youngest ladies. They acted as lovers might, but he didn’t know how worldly Preshea was in that regard. Especially since he’d felt how tentative her kisses were.

Fortunately for him, she continued. “Girls who had such friendships that they could finish each other’s sentences. How terrifying it must be to trust anyone that much. And yet I happen to know that even now, twenty years on, they are still friends.”

She looked at him, finally.

He kept his face calm and open. “I’ve sisters. They’re considerable loyal to their pals. I’m na one of those lads who holds that only men may enjoy true friendship.”

Preshea returned her gaze to the window. “I have always preferred isolation. Less chance of betrayal. Occasionally, as I get older, I wonder if perhaps it might once have been worth the risk.”

“You’re na so old. There is still time.” He wanted to wrap both arms around her and pull her close to stop the sadness she did not show.

“I think not.”

“You might let them in a little, tell them somewhat more about your life. Those two – Miss Pagril and Lady Flo – they wouldna judge harshly.” Really, he was saying,
You could tell me more, you could let me in, I wouldna judge
.

“You think there is something to judge?” She twisted his meaning.

“I think that you believe so.” He twisted it back.

She shrugged. Her fine white shoulders rose and fell against the lushness of her gown. It was blue again – a deep, rich velvet, cut tight everywhere it should be tight. It was trimmed about the neck, wrists, and ankles with white muslin so fine, a man might think those parts were see-through. He suspected she wore it during the day because it would be too visible at night with those touches of white. What a remarkable woman, that he should judge her fashion choices thus, without flinching.

Gavin left her to her wistfulness and returned to his newspaper. She needed to feel his lack much as he’d felt hers over the last week.

Jack, having lost all his funds and not so dim as to dip into imaginary coffers, came to join Gavin.

“Anything interesting?” Jack was chipper for a destitute.

“Lost your shirt, laddie?” Gavin tried a diversion, to avoid admitting that he’d not been reading the paper.

“Lost your heart, old man?” Jack shot back quietly, tilting his head to where Preshea was now perched in the window seat.

Perceptive blighter.
Jack was a buffoon, but he wasn’t stupid.

“She is bonnie.” Gavin refused to be bullied into a confession.

“You and I, old pip, have encountered many beautiful women in our day. You’ve never watched any of them when the
Mooring Standard
was to hand.”

Gavin passed over the paper with an amiable curse. “You take it, then.”