Page 61 of In Want of a Viscount
This final kiss was bittersweet. She knew there was more, so much more, and she wanted to share it with him. But if she took that step, it would be irreversible. And if it turned out that marriage was the only way to save the business, didn’t she owe it to her father, his memory, his legacy, to ensure his dream carried on, even if it did so without him?
Her father had always allowed her to be her true self with him. He’d opened to her the world beyond watercolors, penning letters, reading, and stitchery within which her mother wanted to confine her. He’d introduced her to whiskey, had let her smoke a cheroot, and hadn’t been appalled the one time adamnhad slipped out in his presence.
So when Rook pulled back, she didn’t ask for more—in spite of the raw need she saw mirrored in his eyes. She simply pressed a kiss to his chest, scooted down to the edge of longue, rose to her feet, and began to get dressed.
Chapter 17
In silence, he helped her put herself back together. It was the least he could do after earlier divesting her of every stitch of clothing she’d been wearing. He mourned losing the sight of each part of her as it was covered. She was so gorgeously lithe, and he was left with the impression that she didn’t realize her own beauty. Not only in her features, but in her mind.
Good God, in New York what sort of bores would find her inquisitive mind strange? What type of idiot was intimidated by a woman whose interests extended beyond what was socially acceptable? Darning, arranging flowers, and spending hours at the modiste discussing the latest fashions. He found no fault with any of those endeavors but why be limited to them if a lady wanted to explore beyond them?
He wondered how differently things might have turned out for her if she hadn’t begun her life in America, but rather here. The upper echelons in New York apparently didn’t accept her family, but then it was highly unlikely that a few years ago, when she was of an age for her coming-out, she’d have been welcomed among the aristocracy.
It was the possibility for investing that allowed them entry now.
People were struggling financially, and not even the aristocracy was immune to the troubles. Nobles were discovering a shifting in their paradigm, a crumbling of their foundation. Floods and blights were ruining harvests. Quicker ships allowed the needed grains to be brought in from elsewhere at a cheaper cost, causing agricultural lands to be left fallow because they were no longer profitable. Tenant farmers were struggling to pay their rents so it was either lower the fees to something they could afford or lose any income completely. And the younger people were migrating to the cities for factory work, leaving behind the land upon which generations of their family had toiled.
Investments had allowed Rook—all the Chessmen—to avoid the pitfalls of reduced income that many peers were experiencing. A goodly number of lords were aware of their successes and wanted to emulate them. Hence the reason that Miss Garrison and her family were allowed into the inner circle now. Because they offered the promise of wealth.
But Rook knew that promises could be broken. And that in the breaking they could harden a heart.
Securing the final button on her frock, he snatched up his shirt from where it had landed on the floor and drew it on, very much aware of her gaze following the path of his fingers as he pushed buttons through holes. Waistcoat, neckcloth, and coat followed. All the while she watched, the set of her features revealing she was mesmerized by his actions, and it occurred to him that she may have never seen the intricacies of a man dressing.
He combed his fingers through his tangled locks before setting his hat in place. He retrieved her pelisse from another chair in the room, draped it over her shoulders, and lifted the hood so her face was partially hidden. “We’ll go out a back way.”
For a second or two, she held still, appearing startled and hurt, and he realized she might have assumed he was ashamed to be seen with her. After all, she’d been snubbed by tactless gents in New York. “To protect your reputation.”
Her chin angled up defiantly. “Of course.”
As he was escorting her through a maze of hallways and stairways, she asked, “How do you know of this path?”
“Aiden once took me on a tour of the establishment, during the daylight hours, when no women were about. He’s terribly protective of those who come here.”
“Most people wouldn’t be as accepting of their father’s by-blows.”
“They are not responsible for the circumstances of their birth.”
They reached the back door. A man of small stature slid off a stool. “M’lord.”
“Good evening, Eros. You’ll let us out, I hope.”
“Indeed, guv.” He shoved open the door. As Rook walked past, he slipped a coin into the man’s palm.
Once they were outside, Nora mused, “God of love? Is that his real name?”
“I doubt it. Aiden has a fascination with mythology, and I suspect he assigns appropriate names to some of his workers.”
“There’s a fondness in your voice whenever you speak of him.”
“I enjoy his company and respect him. Respect all the Trewloves. They did everything necessary to better themselves and succeed in life. Nothing was handed to them.” No titles, no properties, no lands. “We’ll walk down a ways and find a hansom.”
Leonora assumed that hansom drivers were well aware that this time of night a good many ladies who’d visited the Elysium were in need of a ride home because they had no trouble at all locating a cab. She didn’t bother to tell Rook that he needn’t accompany her, because she knew him well enough to know he would—whether she wished it or not.
However, she was remarkably grateful for a little more time with him, even if they weren’t talking. He’d offered his hand to assist her into the carriage and hadn’t released his hold, having climbed in so smoothly after her that his movement hadn’t necessitated freeing himself from her. Neither wore gloves. His palms sported a slight roughness, like the finest of sandpaper. It was difficult not to recall the soft abrasiveness as his hands traveled over her skin.
The horse clopped along, a steady rhythm that echoed the chant running through her mind.He’s mine. He’s not. He’s mine. He’s not.
As a child, she’d often tugged the petals off daisies to find answers to the silliest of questions.He loves me. He loves me not.Even though she had no idea who thehewas. She supposed like so many, she simply wanted confirmation she was loved, or would be in the future. When the last petal was anot, another daisy was asked to sacrifice its petals in hopes she’dfinally receive the answer she’d longed for. Such capriciousness, as though love was simple and easily decided by the fates.
