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Authors: Mary Balogh
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been a foolish thing to say. He felt mortified.
“I took advantage of you,” he said. “It was unpardonable.”
She actually did laugh then, that low, throaty laugh he had heard before. “Mr. Downes,” she said, “are you as naive as your words would have you appear? Do you not know when you have been seduced?”
He jerked his head back, rather as if she had hit him on the chin. Was she not going to allow him even to pretend to be a gentleman?
“I was very ready to take advantage of the situation,” he said. “I regret it now. It will not be repeated.”
“Do you?” Neither of them had moved since he had stepped inside the room. She moved now—she took one step toward him. Her eyes had grown languid, her smile a little more enticing. “And will it not? I could have you repeat it within the next five minutes, Mr. Downes—if I so choose.”
He was angry then. Angry with her because despite her birth and position and title she was no lady. Angry with her because she was treating him with contempt. Angry with himself because what she said was near to truth. He wanted her. Yet he scorned to want what he could not respect.
“I think not, ma’am,” he said curtly. “I thank you again for your generosity last night. I apologize againfor any distress or even bodily pain I may have caused you. I must beg you to believe that whenever we meet again, as we are like to do over the next few weeks if you plan to remain in town, I shall treat you with all the formal courtesy I owe a lady of your rank.” There. He had used part of his speech after all.
She took him by surprise. She closed the gap between them, took his arm with both of hers, and drew him toward the fireplace, in which a fire crackled invitingly. “You are being tiresome, sir,” she said. “Do come and sit down and allow me to ring for coffee. I am ready for a cup myself. What a dreary morning it is. Talk to me, Mr. Downes. I have been in the mopes because there is no one here to whom to talk. My aunt is on an extended visit in the country and will not be back for a couple of days at the earliest. Tell me why a Bristol merchant is in London for a few weeks. Is it for business, or is it for pleasure?”
He found himself seated in a comfortable chair to one side of the fire, watching her tug on the bell pull. He had intended to stay for only a couple of minutes. He was feeling a bit out of his depth. It was not a feeling he relished.
“It is a little of both, ma’am,” he said.
“Tell me about the business reasons first,” she said. “I hear so little that is of interest to me, Mr. Downes. Interest me. What
is
your business? Why does it bring you to London?”
He had to wait while she gave her instructions to the crooked-nosed servant, but then she looked back at him with inquiring eyes. They were not rhetorical questions she had asked.
He told her what she wished to know and answered the numerous other questions she asked—intelligent, probing questions. The coffee was brought and poured while he talked.
“How satisfying it must be,” she said at last, “to have a purpose in life, to know that one has accomplished something. Do you feel that you have vanquished life, Mr. Downes? That it has been worth living so far? That it is worth continuing with?”
Strange questions. He had not given much thought to any of them. The answers seemed, perhaps, self-evident.
“Life is a constant challenge,” he said. “But one never feels that one has accomplished all that can be done. One can never arrive. The journey is everything. How dull it would be finally to arrive and to have nothing else for which to aim.”
“Some people would call it heaven,” she said. “Not being on the journey at all, Mr. Downes, is hell. It surely is, is it not?”
“A self-imposed hell,” he said. “One that no one need encounter for any length of time. It is laziness never to reach beyond oneself for something more.”
“Or realism,” she said. “You
“I took advantage of you,” he said. “It was unpardonable.”
She actually did laugh then, that low, throaty laugh he had heard before. “Mr. Downes,” she said, “are you as naive as your words would have you appear? Do you not know when you have been seduced?”
He jerked his head back, rather as if she had hit him on the chin. Was she not going to allow him even to pretend to be a gentleman?
“I was very ready to take advantage of the situation,” he said. “I regret it now. It will not be repeated.”
“Do you?” Neither of them had moved since he had stepped inside the room. She moved now—she took one step toward him. Her eyes had grown languid, her smile a little more enticing. “And will it not? I could have you repeat it within the next five minutes, Mr. Downes—if I so choose.”
He was angry then. Angry with her because despite her birth and position and title she was no lady. Angry with her because she was treating him with contempt. Angry with himself because what she said was near to truth. He wanted her. Yet he scorned to want what he could not respect.
“I think not, ma’am,” he said curtly. “I thank you again for your generosity last night. I apologize againfor any distress or even bodily pain I may have caused you. I must beg you to believe that whenever we meet again, as we are like to do over the next few weeks if you plan to remain in town, I shall treat you with all the formal courtesy I owe a lady of your rank.” There. He had used part of his speech after all.
She took him by surprise. She closed the gap between them, took his arm with both of hers, and drew him toward the fireplace, in which a fire crackled invitingly. “You are being tiresome, sir,” she said. “Do come and sit down and allow me to ring for coffee. I am ready for a cup myself. What a dreary morning it is. Talk to me, Mr. Downes. I have been in the mopes because there is no one here to whom to talk. My aunt is on an extended visit in the country and will not be back for a couple of days at the earliest. Tell me why a Bristol merchant is in London for a few weeks. Is it for business, or is it for pleasure?”
He found himself seated in a comfortable chair to one side of the fire, watching her tug on the bell pull. He had intended to stay for only a couple of minutes. He was feeling a bit out of his depth. It was not a feeling he relished.
“It is a little of both, ma’am,” he said.
“Tell me about the business reasons first,” she said. “I hear so little that is of interest to me, Mr. Downes. Interest me. What
is
your business? Why does it bring you to London?”
He had to wait while she gave her instructions to the crooked-nosed servant, but then she looked back at him with inquiring eyes. They were not rhetorical questions she had asked.
He told her what she wished to know and answered the numerous other questions she asked—intelligent, probing questions. The coffee was brought and poured while he talked.
“How satisfying it must be,” she said at last, “to have a purpose in life, to know that one has accomplished something. Do you feel that you have vanquished life, Mr. Downes? That it has been worth living so far? That it is worth continuing with?”
Strange questions. He had not given much thought to any of them. The answers seemed, perhaps, self-evident.
“Life is a constant challenge,” he said. “But one never feels that one has accomplished all that can be done. One can never arrive. The journey is everything. How dull it would be finally to arrive and to have nothing else for which to aim.”
“Some people would call it heaven,” she said. “Not being on the journey at all, Mr. Downes, is hell. It surely is, is it not?”
“A self-imposed hell,” he said. “One that no one need encounter for any length of time. It is laziness never to reach beyond oneself for something more.”
“Or realism,” she said. “You
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