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Chapter Nine
For the first half-hour, Henri attempted to read, but discovered she was reading the same set of paragraphs over and over, never quite getting beyond the fifth page of Jane Eyre. Her mind kept skittering back to the supper party, the things that were said and, more importantly, not said. Miss Armstrong had been too bold by half.
Henri’s eyes narrowed and studied the glowing embers of the fire. She should be able to discern her intention. Normally she was fairly astute at understanding the undercurrents.
Then there was the matter of how Robert looked in his evening clothes. Each gesture and facial expression had to be considered and reconsidered again. Had he been humouring her?
* * *
When the clock struck the hour, she realised she had been hovering halfway between sleep and waking. Her brain was full of confused images of Robert inviting her into his arms, and then Sebastian and Sophie, or rather Sebastian ruining Sophie at the ball and somehow destroying her friendship with Robert. The thought unnerved her.
Henri sat up straighter, pulled an offending hairpin from her head and allowed her hair to cascade down. Perhaps she should have gone to the ball and endured the looks of pity and questions about her health. Then she’d have been there, ready to forestall any disaster.
She reopened Jane Eyre and started with the preface to the second edition. The words—Conventionality is not morality—leapt out at her.
Was Currer Bell correct? Had she confused the two?
She read on and slowly but surely this time Bell’s words overpowered her and she had trouble believing the book could have been written by a man. There was something that called to her, enabling her to sympathise with Jane’s plight with her dreadful aunt. She knew what it was like to have others hate you or never consider you good enough. All she could do was carry on reading and turning the pages, hoping Jane got the happy ending that she richly deserved.
A door closed and she jumped, sending the book crashing to the floor with a distinct thump.
‘You’re awake.’ Robert came into the dimly lit library resplendent in his evening clothes. He had looked debonair when going out to the ball earlier, but now with his stock slightly askew, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, he was even more handsome. The fire cast shadows on his face, giving an intimate air to the room. ‘I’d wondered how our modern-day Cinderella-sitting-by-the-fire fared.’
‘Hardly Cinderella. It was my choice not to go to the ball.’ Henri pointed her toes and circled her feet. Her ankle ached slightly, but the bandages gave it firm support.
The house appeared to hold its breath. Every particle of her was aware of him and how he moved. She found it impossible to look away from his hands. What would it be like to be held in those arms?
‘You were missed, Thorndike.’
‘I’m sure Lady Winship coped. She’d Miss Armstrong’s help.’
‘I lost count of the people who accused me of keeping you from your duty, particularly when the garlands collapsed again. They want your sound advice.’
‘You’re being kind.’
‘Far from it. Mrs Charlton accused me of holding you hostage. She desperately wants your advice on whether or not to encourage a junior officer’s suit for her middle daughter.’
‘And what did you say?’
He gave a conspiratorial smile and took a step closer. ‘That you’ll be back to your old self soon.’
The warm glow of the oil lamp combined with the fire turned his skin a ruddy gold and Henri was suddenly aware of her tumbled-down hair and the way her evening gown had slipped off one shoulder. She debated whether it would be better to pretend she had not noticed or to do the gown up. She opted for the pretence and raised her chin so that she stared directly into his fire-glowing eyes. ‘Where’s Sophie and Mrs Ravel? Did they leave the ball early as well? Did anything untoward happen?’
‘Sophie remained at the ball under her stepmother’s eagle eye. Miss Armstrong and Dorothy appear to have become the best of friends.’ Robert tilted his head to one side, trying to assess Henri’s mood. Her being downstairs was a gift from the gods. All the way back home, he had thought of how she might look with her black hair flowing free, and the firelight touching her porcelain skin. Reality was a thousand times better than his imagination.
Why had she stayed awake? To ask Sophie about her encounter with Cawburn? Or something more?
Robert pushed the question away unvoiced. This moment was not about questioning her motives as she’d only speak about other people. It was about being with Henri. He had witnessed the frosty reception Sophie had given Cawburn—not quite a cut, but certainly something bordering on it. He had been correct to trust Henri’s instincts and to deliver the letter. He had the added insurance of holding Cawburn’s paper. On the balance of probabilities, Sophie was safe from the bounder.
