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He stilled, as much as he could. He became suddenly aware of the pounding of his heart and the harshness of his breathing. He was far more heated than the situation warranted. One button!
She was breathing hard, too, her bodice rising and falling under his hand. He thought she’d push him away but she only kept her hand over his, over her breast.
He looked up at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes shining. Her hat was tipped askew, and under it, a lock of pale gold hair had come loose to dangle near her eyebrow.
He did not want to be rational and sensible because that meant stopping and he didn’t want to stop, not yet, not for a long time. He wanted to do unspeakable things to her ladyship, with her ladyship, here in a dilapidated hackney coach.
He made himself come to his senses.
He slid his hand out from under hers and tucked the button back into its buttonhole.
He didn’t want her to come to her senses, either, but she did. She eased off his lap and back onto her seat in one smooth movement. She straightened her hat, smoothed the front of her dress, folded her hands, and looked out of the window.
She said, “I’m not going to ask if you’re done being hysterical. It would be plain to the meanest intelligence that you’ve stored up years of that article, and it’s bound to break out at intervals.”
“Hysterical!”
“I’m not going to apologize for kissing you,” she went on. “I’m not going to make excuses for doing so. The facts are simple and obvious. You would not stop scolding me and ranting. I’d had enough. I succumbed to a normal and natural feminine urge to silence a man talking nonsense.” She turned to meet his gaze, her chin up, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. “And I will not promise never to do it again. I seem to have stored up a quantity of rebelliousness over the years, and you have the knack of unleashing it. You are extremely aggravating.”
“You could have hit me with the umbrella,” he said.
“Maybe next time,” she said. “Oh, I forgot. There’s not to be a next time. Just as well. Here’s where we part ways.”
The hackney came to a stop.
Radford was still trying to digest hysterical. He looked out. They were in the Kensington High Street. Already.
“Thank you for a most educational experience,” she said. “I think you ought to write to me, but I suppose you won’t.”
“That would be . . .” Unwise. So unwise. The sooner he separated from her—completely—the sooner he’d recover.
The coachman opened the door.
She alit and started walking away before Radford could pull himself together.
He rose, about to follow her, then regained his reason. He couldn’t follow her. He couldn’t escort her to her great-aunt’s house. The morning was advancing, and the chances of her being recognized had increased radically.
The coach door closed.
He sat down again, and watched from the window until she turned the corner and vanished from view.
He signaled the coachman to drive on, though Radford was no longer sure where he was going. He looked down at his hands and wondered at them and at himself. His gaze fell to the coach floor, and he saw her gloves, which she must have dropped when she reached out to take hold of him.
He picked them up, pressed them to his cheek, then stuffed them into his breast pocket.
Chapter Eight
THE BARRISTER . . . So our advocate has always the honesty and courage to despise all personal considerations, and not to think of any consequence but what may result to the public from the faithful discharge of his sacred trust.
—The Jurist, Vol. 3, 1832
Exton House, Kensington
Tuesday 22 September
A lady was supposed to know how to do these things.
Everybody knew gentlemen could be obtuse, especially when it came to matters of the heart. Everybody knew, as well, that gentlemen needed to believe they were in charge. Therefore, ladies had to learn ways of communicating the obvious without being obvious about it.
Clara did not see how one could be more obvious than grabbing a man practically by the throat and kissing him. She’d even suggested Mr. Radford write to her. But she’d offered a way out, and he was an expert in loopholes and technicalities.
Perhaps the customary subtleties of ladyship were wasted on men like Raven Radford. But what was she thinking? No man existed who was like Raven Radford.
She sat at her writing desk, pen in hand, a blank sheet of paper in front of her.
Unmarried ladies did not write letters to gentlemen who weren’t family members or intimates of the family at the very least. And the gentlemen weren’t supposed to write to these ladies.
Though he’d known enough to send his brief messages via Fenwick, “Be at such and such a place at such and such a time” did not qualify as correspondence, even if it was clandestine. But she’d invited him to correspond, hadn’t she? And now a week had passed without a word from him. He couldn’t still be traveling. He’d have reached the Duke of Malvern’s place in a day, two days if he dawdled, something she couldn’t imagine Mr. Radford doing.
She knew where in Herefordshire he’d gone: Glynnor Castle. According to Great-Aunt Dora’s butler, the previous, fifth duke of Malvern had started building it at the turn of the century. Clara had found a picture of it in the second volume of Jones’ Views, which illustrated the homes of Britain’s upper ranks.
Great-Aunt Dora said nobody she knew had ever visited. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the previous duke in London. “I believe the only time any of the Radfords came to Town was to look for wives, though more often than not they found them elsewhere,” she’d said. “His Grace liked to keep the family at his beck and call and he couldn’t abide London. I can’t remember the last time any of them stopped at the town house, let alone lived in it. They usually let it to foreigners.”
Clara found it hard to imagine a Londoner like Mr. Radford happily rusticating in a faux medieval castle. He must be tearing out his hair. She could imagine him doing that—losing his detachment and falling into a passion . . . because that was the way he’d kissed her . . . and she wished . . .
But she wasn’t sure what she wished anymore. She hadn’t slept well these l
ast few nights, and her head was a jumble, thick as pudding. It hurt to think. She put down her pen and closed the inkwell. She pushed the paper away from her.
When Davis came in a little while later, Clara said, “I don’t believe I can join my aunt for dinner this evening. I don’t feel well at all.”
Then she slumped, and would have fallen from the chair if Davis hadn’t caught her.
“I don’t feel well,” Clara said. Her voice sounded odd and slurred. “My head . . .”
“Yes, my lady. You don’t look well, either. You’re going to bed.”
Glynnor Castle, Herefordshire
Thursday 24 September
Bernard was drunk, still.
His Grace the Duke of Malvern had been drunk when Radford arrived, the day before the duchess’s funeral. Radford had managed to sober him up for the funeral. That was a mistake. Sobriety only made Bernard belligerent.
His brothers-in-law took the brunt of it, but the clergymen and even the sexton got their share. Bernard muttered during the reading of the Psalms and fell asleep during the lesson from the Corinthians. When they brought his wife’s body to the mausoleum, he sobbed loudly, until the rector came to “for they rest from their labors.” Then Bernard burst out laughing.
The other family members did not linger. They were at war with one another, as always, and even a castle quickly became too small for them.
The Duke of Malvern owned half a dozen houses, including what ought to be the ducal home, Radford Hall in Worcestershire. But Bernard’s father had wanted a medieval castle. With turrets. He’d spent thirty years building and furnishing it. This enterprise, combined with the ongoing project of fomenting trouble among his relatives, left no time for other business. All the estate and other legal matters had, over the last five years especially, subsided into a state of chaos guaranteed to send the average solicitor to the nearest lunatic asylum. But Radford, firstly, wasn’t a solicitor, and secondly, liked solving riddles, the knottier the better.
