Page 24 of Indecently Employed
“Goodnight, Miss Abbotts. Sweet dreams.”
As she rushed up the stairs, heat pulsing through every limb, Susanna wasn’t sure that would be possible. She ducked into her bedroom, then closed the door behind her and fell back against it, hand still on the knob.
He thought she was a beauty. With her still-trembling hand, she released the doorknob and reached up to tuck her loose curls behind her ear, only to find there were none. She sighed, a shuddering, steadying release of breath.
The earl had never said such a thing; rather, he had only fed her generic, syrupy platitudes about her “company.” She smoothed her dress and moved to replace her missalette on the bedside table.
An impressively sized white box, elegant and pristine, sat on her bed. She wandered over, her heart kicking up once more after having finally slowed down. With a light touch she slid the lid off, feeling a surge of excitement as she set it aside. In the lastmoment before she removed the protective paper and laid eyes on the gown, a violent hope surged within her. That itwaswarm gold, perhaps shockingly so, and dripping with adornments. And that it was cut obscenely low, to better display what she knew to be one of her more appreciated features. A dark, sinful thought, but there it was.
She gave a little gasp as she uncovered the dress. It was neither gold nor shocking. A silk day dress in a soft gray, with bright blue stripes—though not so bright as to be injurious to her respectability—sat nestled in the tissue. There was also a matching hat which, with its massive blue ribbon, would be colorful enough to enhance her cool complexion and dark brown hair. She lifted the dress from the box, already feeling lighter. It was practically unadorned, aside from a bugle bead and silk fringe trimming the bodice and oversleeves. She held it against herself, relieved to find that it would likely accommodate her, even though it was not made to her measurements. She turned toward the ornate gold mirror and then stepped back, startled by the look on her face.
She placed the dress carefully back in its box and crept closer to her reflection, one hand on her cheek. What was this blush? This relaxed, pleased sort of look about her eyes?
But then she was struck with a sudden sorrow, and she turned away.
What young man in Deverill Green would there even be? No one dared attend her at the parsonage, lest they get an hours-long private sermon from her father on whatever aspect of the gospel of Luke he was currently absorbed in. And Susanna had never cared about her lack of prospects, even on the occasions when she’d deigned to notice. Books had always been far more interesting to her. She read whichever ones she could get her hands on, borrowing scientific texts from her father’s visitors and Greek tragedies from the village repository. And then therewere her favorites, the sordid novels that occasionally came to be, by some miracle, in her elder sister’s possession.
It had been their private, shared rebellion against the strictures of their daily life. They were mawkish tales that defied logic, for how could one girl dressed in dotted Swiss muslin escape kidnappers, smugglers, and ghosts, only to find herself embroiled in a convoluted mystery involving secret societies and coded symbols? Not to mention be conveniently rescued at every turn by a handsome, wealthy gentleman, who’d also become besotted with her the instant their eyes first met?
Susanna and Maddy hadn’t cared. The tales added color to their plain lives, and fed their dreams with adventure and romance.
She sat down on the bed.A gaggle of children. Susanna laughed ruefully. If only Mr. Sedley knew how ridiculous that had sounded. The only man who had ever intimated a preference for her, her father’s curate, had never been so bold as to pay her a compliment, let alone allow his gaze to rest on her for longer than a moment.
And just when she’d begun to notice his mild attentions of walking alongside her when they went into town, bringing her the ripest fruit from the orchard, or asking her opinion on a piece of scripture, he’d seemingly changed his mind and offered for Maddy. So nowshe, not Susanna, was Mrs. Felstead, walking to town with their daughter in tow.
His apparent change of heart had surprised her, but then again, she had never before expected anyone to notice or care for her in the first place. And the last thing she wanted was to outwardly display any indication of her disappointment, small as it may have been, for Susanna could not bear the pile-on that would follow: her mother, her sister, and finally, her father, all scolding her for her selfishness and vanity. So instead, she left.
She made her own way, earned her own coin. One day, she hoped, enough to live by the sea.
She could not give that up. She would not return home.
As for Mr. Sedley, why hadn’t he ever married? She frowned at the thought. Yes, she could easily turn his own accusation about. He was past forty; he’d had years in which to find a suitable partner. He was wealthy. He was handsome. Charming, even. And when he’d looked at her like that…
Falling back onto the bed, Susanna closed her eyes, wishing away these dreaded, lustful feelings. She would have to put Mr. Sedley’s sultry looks out of her mind.
Somehow.
Chapter Eight
Ajax collapsed into aleather couch in one of the lounges at his club. He was determined not to darken the door of his cursed London home until the latest possible hour, until he could be assured that even the most pious of governesses would have retired to their rooms for the evening.
He dropped a stack of papers, journals, and books alongside him, producing a muted thud in the cushions, and signaled an attendant. He’d gone three hours in, polishing off two cups of tea plus the current book he had been reading—without a single idea for his own book to show for it—when he was approached by a familiar face.
“Sedley? Is it truly you? Goodness, man, haven’t seen you around these parts in ages. Eons, even.” It took Ajax a moment to place him: It was Wilkie Clogg, looking much the worse for wear. The man’s outsized affinity for drink was plain from his appearance, with his red, swollen nose, broken veins across his cheeks, and a protruding gut that hadn’t been there the last time they’d encountered one another, two years prior at Benjamin Preston’s Christmas party. He’d also grown a set of sizableDundreary whiskers in the same space of time, which made him look as though he had aged ten years in the past two.
“Clogg,” he said, forcing a wide smile.
The man collapsed on the other end of the sofa. “Where have you been? Up in the hinterlands, eh?”
“Something like that.” Ajax set his book aside. “What about you? Having as good a time as ever?”
Clogg patted his belly. “Oh, you know me. I never can tolerate someone enjoying themselves—that is, unless they’ve invited me to join in.” He chortled.
Ajax knew all too well; he’d spent many a night in much the same way—drinking and talking, laughing and rolling into a play or the opera with whatever chums from his club he’d picked up along the way. It seemed ages ago now, though it must’ve been only a few years. That was when, during a particularly nasty hangover following a night he could barely remember, he’d found himself acutely feeling the emptiness of it all. So he’d put pen to paper, spun his first tale, and found it an infinitely more rewarding pastime than cavorting ceaselessly about. And now this blasted city, rather than providing him with an engaging backdrop for his peccadilloes, served only to muddle his creative thinking.
“There’s a new one, you know, a pretty thing. Singer. Molly Mason. With the reddest hair you’ve ever seen, I’ll wager!” Clogg leaned forward, eyebrows waggling. “Surprising, actually, that you haven’t already begun circling.” He leaned back, rubbing at his nose. “But you’ve been away.”
“Yes, unfortunately.” Ajax shifted, keeping the same damn fake grin plastered across his face. Poor Miss Mason, suffering under Clogg’s attentions. He changed the subject, feeling uncomfortable thinking about their shared history of tomfoolery. “And how is the business? All buttoned up?”
