Page 11 of Darkest at Dusk
His hand remained where it was, an offer of assistance.
Isabella hesitated. The tall hedge hid Mr. Christopher and the carriage from view. But surely he was close enough that he would hear her should she call out.
“Miss?” the stranger said.
“My gloves,” she said, rocking back on her heels and holding up both hands to show the mud dripping down her fingers. She couldn’t imagine he would want that smeared on his pristine glove.
She was wrong.
“Dirt of that sort can be washed away,” he said. He reached down with both hands and closed his fingers around her wrists, then pulled her to her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.
For a breathless moment, they stood close…closer than propriety allowed, closer than strangers ought.
His irises were pale gray, rimmed in storm-dark charcoal, his lashes long and dark and curling, his eyes too pretty for a man. And yet they did not make his face pretty. His face was all masculine angles and hard edges. His mouth was unsmiling, his expression unreadable.
His presence struck her with a jolt. Something unfamiliar flared, cold beneath her ribs.
The whispers rose again, sharp and sudden, buffeting her. Instinctively, she made to pull her hands from his.
He released her immediately and stepped back, leaving several feet between them. He did not look directly at her, but rather past her, to a point beyond her left shoulder. For an instant, she wondered if he saw something there, if he saw the wraiths as she did. And then she pushed the thought aside. Of course he did not.
She frowned as a flicker of recognition stirred again, stronger now. But those eyes…no. Had she seen them before, she would remember.
Looking down, she took a second to steady herself on her feet and twitch her wet skirt, so it fell in some semblance of order. Almost did she try to brush away the mud, but stopped herself, suspecting she would only smear it and make things worse.
The voices dulled to a hush. Only then did she realize they had not sounded alarmed. They had sounded … expectant. Excited.
“My condolences, Miss Barrett.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at him.
“May I see you to your carriage?” he asked, offering his arm.
She gingerly accepted, grimacing as she left smears of mud on his coat. Together, they started toward the hedge.
“Did you know my father well?” she asked. Given that he knew her name, it seemed likely that he was here for Papa’s funeral after all.
“Not well,” he said, eyes forward. “We corresponded several times but met in person only once.”
“I see.” She did not see. It was odd that a man who had barely known her father should make time to attend his burial. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. You are…?”
“Rhys Caradoc.”
The name was not familiar to her. “You corresponded with Papa about books?”
He cut her a sidelong glance. “On occasion. But mostly about something else.”
His answer struck her as both evasive and deliberate. What could it have been if not books? Her father’s interests had been rather limited.
As they neared the carriage, he leaned in and said, “There are things I would discuss with you, Miss Barrett. But not today. Today is not the time.”
She knew then that this meeting, however accidental it might seem, had been anticipated, perhaps even orchestrated. She opened her mouth to question him, but Mr. Christopher stepped forward, clearly dismayed as he took in her mud-splotched form.
“You’ve taken a tumble,” he said. “Are you injured, Miss Barrett?”
“Not at all, Mr. Christopher,” Isabella replied. “It is only my garments that are the worse for wear.”
The solicitor offered a polite nod to the man at her side just as the clouds opened and the rain began once more. Mr. Caradoc handed her up into the waiting carriage and closed the door. Then he exchanged a brief word with Mr. Christopher, the content of their discourse drowned out by the patter of raindrops on the carriage roof. A moment later, Mr. Christopher joined her inside.
