Poison or Protect
Page 13

The Duke of Snodgrove gave Preshea various significant looks, trying to turn her attention to his daughter and her suitor. They remained cloistered together.
The tea was drained with sufficient gusto to be a balm to the duchess’s pride (although the sandwiches were consumed mainly by Captain Ruthven), and the rest of the afternoon seemed set to proceed apace.
Outside, the drizzle became a steady rain. There would be no riding or strolling about the garden. Preshea was pleased, for surely inclement weather would also prohibit assassination attempts of the military variety.
With nothing else to entertain, they agreed to return to the drawing room for an afternoon of cards.
Preshea excused herself on the grounds that she must change out of her travel dress into something more appropriate. In actuality, she needed time alone to collect her thoughts and formulate a plan.
Mr Jackson was not to be taken from his ladylove so soon after reuniting, but Captain Ruthven seemed eager to freshen up as well.
Together they followed the butler. Jennings was respectably stiff but near a hundred in attitude if not actual age. It took him a full ten minutes to hike the stairs. Preshea found herself exchanging amused glances with Captain Ruthven behind the poor man’s stooped back.
Their rooms in the guest wing were across the hall from one another.
The butler left, tottering slowly away.
Before shutting her door, Preshea said, testing Mount Olympus, “Enjoy your dainty sandwiches, Captain?”
“’Tis a pain to be a big man in a world made for tottie folk. Miss Pagril frets about her wide skirts, yet I knock things over constantly, skirts or no. My hunger should inspire sympathy, not ridicule.”
“And thus I am both chastised and reminded of my own stature.”
“Oh, aye, such a wee thing – leastways, you fit into chairs.”
Some devil seized her tongue. “Captain, you’ve no idea! Can you imagine, on more than one occasion, my feet have been known to dangle? This very moment, I note that such a large bed graces my delightful room – my only avenue of approach is to run at it and leap in order to gain the top.”
He let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I’d offer a boost, but it might be taken as an insult to your good name.”
“Or to yours, Captain.” Don’t you know? I have no good name. “To have sunk so low as to be groomsman to a diminutive lady who needs aid not in mounting her steed but her counterpane.”
He gave her a sharp look, unsure as to the nature of her teasing. To mention mounting and counterpane in the same sentence? Preshea was delighted to see him flush about the ears. Perhaps he was not so indifferent to her charms as she thought.
Preshea could not quite countenance her own daring. She was not one for jocularity, but it seemed deceptively easy with him. She was used to gibing at those around her, seeking weakness. So far, Captain Ruthven seemed to have nothing more than a delicate stomach, a supposed clumsiness of which she had seen no evidence, and a delight in dainty sandwiches. To all of which he admitted so readily, they could not be used against him. He was comfortable in his own skin and did not flinch when she ribbed him. It made her quite long to do so.
He gave a little bow, ending their banter. “Weel, lass, I’d be happy to play groomsman if you’ve need of my services. It wouldna be a hardship.” Before she could decide whether this was levity or a genuine offer of a more licentious nature, he left her in possession of the hallway and at a loss for words.
Preshea entered her own room, closing and locking the door behind her. She stood, struck by a sensation of wonder – I am not opposed to such an offer. She actually enjoyed imagining him there, bent, big hands cupped, at the edge of her bed. Although, he would need only one hand. She might place her stockinged foot into it, and he would lift her up to the bed with ease. He would be gentle about it. She could tell. That made her shy away. She was not prepared for gentleness.
I am only curious, Preshea told herself, because I have never before had kindness from a man in my bedchamber. And because gentleness is so alien to my own nature.
She forced herself to focus, undoing the many buttons down the front of her dress with small, nimble fingers. She should summon one of the upstairs maids, but she needed time alone.
She hung up the green gown. Her trunk had been unpacked, the clothing pressed. The duchess ran a tight ship. Her outfits hung, a cluster of dark dramatic colors. The last husband was three years gone. She was not required to wear mourning, but Preshea liked dark colors. She looked well in them. Plus, they reminded people that she was the Mourning Star.
Abruptly, she shut the wardrobe door and went to perch on her bed. It was high. Her feet did dangle.
For longer than she ought (given the coldness of the room) she sat in her underthings, shoulders hunched down into her stays, arms wrapped about her tiny waist. Mentally, she stripped herself of the longing, bit by bit, as she had stripped herself of her traveling gown.
He would be no different from the others. His tenderness was a front to hide angry force. He was a soldier and he had killed, like her. Once bare of society’s trappings, he would be as demanding as any man, as ignorant of her needs, as cruel in his desire. How dared she want? To forget the past so easily?
For shame, Preshea Buss. There is no hope to be found in a man. I am done with wanting anything but control.
I will break his heart, she decided. That is the only way to expose his brutality. Then he will lash out at me as they all do. And I will have my reason for never trying at all.
It occurred to her to be sad, that she equated her power with his pain. She forced herself to imagine his face if she let him love her and then spurned further advances. She did like him, pathetic creature that she was, and she should suffer for that weakness. She welcomed the bitter pill of self-loathing as an antidote to lust. She would not expose herself again. She would not risk her heart or anything else. Better to be alone.