Chapter Fourteen
“Here again?” Donset his journals and unlit lantern on the grass and sat, long legs out in front of him.
“Not here specifically.” Danny pointed to a place farther down the hill by the water’s edge. “Last time, I sat there.”
“Arguing semantics? You are in dire straits.”
“Yes, indeed,” she said mockingly. “And a smart man would leave me to my contemplation.”
“Hmm,” he said. “What are you reading this time?” He tilted up her book to read the title. “Poisons and How to Tell the Difference Between Fatal and Life Threatening.” He chuckled. “Your outing went well yesterday, I take it?”
Danny groaned. “Don’t start.” Her hip was bruised, her scalp stung. Somewhere along the way home, she’d lost her favorite pistol. And that was all before she’d walked through her front door.
Upon returning to the townhouse, Denise had swooped down from whatever perch she’d been sitting in wait on and demanded every detail of the extra activities at the match, her ills mysteriously cured with insatiable curiosity.
Danny had obeyed, though she’d omitted their detour into the slums and the more sensual sport she and Percy had played on the terrace. Denise had relented after a solid two-hour interrogation on the carriage ride back to their country home, but not even the darkened carriage could’ve hidden the heat inDanny’s cheeks. Luckily, Denise could only persist so far with Mrs. Pebblestone within earshot.
Danny was lucky she didn’t combust thinking about Percy’s fingers against her thighs, and that hot length against her bruised folds. How she wished she could’ve lifted her skirts and seen him. Even the alley had been too dark to make out more than shapes and the feel of satin skin and steel.
If any of Uncle Jack’s statues in the Fellow Pleasure Garden were an indication of average size, Percy was a monster. Less than a day since she’d seen him last and she missed his presence, his calming tone. How she hated not knowing if it would be the last time he’d darken her door.
There’d been so much left unsaid when he’d departed.
“Are you unwell?” Don’s dark brows pinched in concern. “Your face is pale.”
Danny nodded. “How is your research going?”
“How was your outing?”
“You’re starting,” she accused.
“And you’re evading.”
“You won’t relent on this, will you?” Danny sighed and stared out at the water, the surface rippling with a chilled breeze. “Confusing.” Confounded. Befuddled. Out of her mind.
Through the ups and downs of the day, Danny’s feelings had remained constant. No, she wouldn’t lie to herself. Her feelings haddeepenedwith every flirting glance, every scandalous brush of skin against skin. And when Percy had revealed the depth of self-loathing he housed, her feelings had changed altogether. Friendship wouldn’t be enough.
Percy needed loyalty and comfort, though he would never admit it. And Danny couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to be the person to give him those things. But she knew nothing of his darkness. Hearing details didn’t equal understanding. As much as she wished it, the ghosts in his past may be more thaneven she could overcome. She knew from personal experience. But she wanted to try to be more for him and for herself.
She’d explain her own past and pray he could look past her rougher edges. And if he decided after hearing everything that he never wished to see her again, she’d have no regrets.
And if he condemned her . . .
Danny buried her face in her hands, her heart a mushed rag in her chest. “What should I do?”
“I’m astounded, Danny!”
Her head shot up at her brother’s affronted tone.
“You already know the answer,” he said. “You decided days ago what he meant to you.”
Danny startled. There was no way her brother knew what she’d been thinking. She hadn’t mentioned Percy at all, had she? “What do you mean?”
Don thumbed his nose and gathered his trade tools as if he’d turn tail and run after such cryptic words.
“Donald!”
Shaking his head, he rose to his feet, journals tucked underarm and lantern swinging from the other. “Stop asking what others think, sister. One thing Father and I agree on: You have a mind and ideals—and are mercifully not as impetuous as Denise—so use them. No one knows your mind better than you. Or your heart.”
