‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a truly selfless creature you are!’
‘And what of my reputation?’ he continued in a low tone that made her feel curiously vulnerable. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be alittlewary, my dear?’
Josephine swallowed as he echoed her inner thoughts perfectly, everything Sir Francis, Fred, Captain Damerel and Williams had ever said surfacing in vivid detail. Viscount Damerel had referred to an Italian court ruling Pellham’s death to be accidental, and that Huntingly was innocent as a result–but on what evidence?
She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. ‘I know little of your reputation that would make any real difference, sir,’ she replied carefully. ‘Indeed, if any of itweretrue, I would be even more eager to assist my sister, lest she befall a similar fate.’
At this, Lord Huntingly’s lips twisted into a crooked smile and, alarmingly, Josephine found she rather liked it.
‘By my troth, I believe you would,’ he whispered so closely that she could watch the amber flares dancing in his eyes. ‘Which makes you either very brave, or very foolish,’ he added, before leaning in to brush her lips with his own.
It was such a bold and unexpected move that she barely realised what he was doing before her lips were tingling unfamiliarly. She stared up in shock, exhilaration chasing her veins, wishing for nothing more than to escape back to her bedchamber. Yet, he only straightened and walked back to the fireplace as though they’d exchanged the most civil of pleasantries.
‘I shall be staying at the White Stag in town for a while and hope we can use the time to become better acquainted,’ he suggested, as though he hadn’t just stolen every logical thought from her whirling mind. ‘Thomas and I are both keen to conclude the matter this year, so I think we’ll find ourselves wed without too much delay. I trust that fits with your expectations? I am keen to rescue Huntingly Manor from its current state of decline and would like our union to be settled before undertaking any major work.’
Josephine stared as Lord Huntingly talked, conscious of words collecting like stones in her throat. She knew she should be trying to order her wayward thoughts, but felt only the human equivalent of her very plain brown muslin instead.
‘I… can see little reason to delay, sir,’ she responded colourlessly, as Betsy arrived with a tea tray, ‘and a private affair will enable us to move swifter than most.’ She swallowed, searching for suitable pleasantries while her lips burned.
‘Excellent! I had a feeling our thoughts would be aligned, Miss Fairfax,’ he drawled, eyeing her in amusement until Betsy withdrew, ‘just nothowaligned.’
‘Tea?’ Josephine tried valiantly, approaching the tea table and focusing all her attention on the small teapot.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled disarmingly, taking the seat next to her.
Josephine nodded and began to pour, determined to behave as though nothing untoward had happened, yet his teacup shook traitorously in its saucer as she passed it to him. ‘I trust the flavour is to your liking, sir?’ she asked in an attempt at distraction, though the question sounded pointed, even to her own ears.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, taking a drink with dancing eyes, ‘the flavour is very much to my liking. A small wedding, no objection to restoration work, and a skilled hostess– you are in danger of making me like the flavour a great deal, Miss Fairfax.’
Josephine nearly choked on a sip of her own hot tea. None of her literary heroes had ever lived on the page long beyond a kiss, and now she knew why: it was mortifying! She knew not where to look, what to say or how to think, but she could not let him know so.
She stood abruptly, unable to sit any longer. ‘I thank you, sir, but I am not renowned for my hostess skills, any more than I am for the features for which my sisters are celebrated. I am a Fairfax, it’s true, but other than a love of music and novels, I am the over-protective bluestocking you think me to be. Please do not confuse this with an accomplished debutante, for I will undoubtedly disappoint!’
Then she swept from the drawing room with as much dignity as she could muster, and when she finally reached her bedchamber, she closed the door in relief before turning to her looking glass. Momentarily, she stared at the trembling, wispy-haired girl before her– her cheeks flushed, spectacles askew, and chest still pounding.
‘I do believe you enjoyed it!’ she whispered accusingly as she reached to touch her lips. She’d read a number of passionate interludes in her novels, but nothing had prepared her for the violent sensations coursing through her veins now. She was ashamed and unsettled and… aware of a very strange coiling at the pit of her stomach, all at the same time. She flushed, recalling the promise in his warmth, even though she was quite alone.
Yet why would he look on her as anything other than a contract of convenience? The thought was like pure gravity, drawing her back to earth as she spun to vent her feelings about the perils of marrying a likely murderer, to her much safer fictional fiancé.
ChapterEight
A Moorland Breakfast; Plum Jam and Thistles
The following morning
‘We could both join the army?’ Matilda suggested, as they trotted along the old bridle path that bordered the Knightswood estate.
Josephine wasn’t the keenest rider, but she’d felt a distinct need for moorland air this morning, and Matilda hadn’t taken much persuading. She looked up from her quiet reverie, her eyebrows forking. ‘You and I both know that, unless a soldier was in need of an emergency poem, I would be a positive disadvantage on the battlefield!’
‘Actually, I think you’d be perfect!’ Matilda defended. ‘You’ve spent so long being nursed yourself, you’d know the inside of a medical bag without any training at all.’
Josephine chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, being invalid oneself does not in any way qualify one for nursing anyone else. And, in truth, I’ve had my fill of the medical world at the grand old age of two-and-twenty. I’m not sure I’d be terribly patient.’
It was Matilda’s turn to chuckle. ‘It’s not that you’re not patient, it’s just you’re rarely in the present… You’re a thinker, Jo.’ She reined Misty, her elderly pony, back from the hedgerow dandelions. ‘Perhaps that’s what changed Thomas’s mind?’ she added, frowning. ‘I mean, Lord Huntingly doesn’t know either of us, so he wouldn’t have any reason to prefer one above the other. Thomas must have suggested your nature would suit him better after all… In truth, I shudder to think what he said about me!’
She broke off to laugh as Josephine looked away towards a distant hill covered in a haze of flowering gorse. She’d managed to break the news about Lord Huntingly’s change of mind before dinner, but she still hadn’t told her of her visit to Huntingly Manor. The last thing Matilda needed to know was that her sister had chosen to marry a likely murderer to protect her from the same fate.
‘I… don’t know,’ Josephine replied, a memory of the barely dressed lord in his cluttered breakfast room suddenly surfacing among her thoughts. ‘I don’t think he’s typical of most gentlemen. The only thing Thomas said was that Lord Huntingly is in need of a respectable name to quell gossip since his return, and that he has little interest in outside distractions. Perhaps our brother decided that my nature was better suited to this,’ she added carefully, guiding her pony around a ditch. She crossed her fingers in the folds of her riding habit, knowing she couldn’t be more different to the headstrong lord. ‘And I suppose I don’t have too many options left after three seasons, I’m virtually on the shelf.’ She laughed unconvincingly.
