of Henry’s mouth twitched upward into that dangerous
smile. “I am sure you could learn.”
Their gazes tangled, his dark, direct with an undercurrent that
made Margery’s toes curl. Then his smile broadened.
“Actually,” he said lightly, “I only wondered whether there was
someone who might give you a loan.”
Margery almost choked on her ale. “You were teasing me,” she
accused.
“Yes. Although…” Henry paused. “If the other idea appeals to
you—”
“It does not. I told you I was not looking for carte
blanche!”
She had spoken too quickly, intent only on denying the quiver
of desire in the pit of her stomach. It was illuminating to discover that her
morals were nowhere near as stalwart as she had believed them to be. She thought
of Henry’s hands on her body, his lips against her skin, and she felt the tide
of warmth rush into her face. Oh, how she wanted him. How seductive it was and
how much trouble she could get herself into with the slightest of missteps. She
was completely out of her depth.
Henry was watching her. He knew .
Margery sought to hide her mortification in her glass of ale
and took several long swallows, which only served to make her head spin all the
more.
The pies arrived, fragrant with mutton and dark gravy. Henry
refilled her glass. They talked as they ate, which Margery knew was not refined,
but suddenly there seemed so much to say. Henry asked her about her childhood in
Wantage, and her work there and her family. She told him about Granny Mallon and
her dire warnings about London gentlemen and Henry laughed and told her that her
grandmother had been in the right of it.
Margery laughed, too, and drank until her head was fuzzy and
the candlelight blurred to a golden haze and her elbow slid off the table, which
made Henry laugh some more. A fiddler struck up in the other room, and the
scrape of tables being pushed back was followed by a wild jig, the notes rising
to the rafters.
But in their corner of the parlor, it was warm and intimate and
felt as though it was theirs alone.
“Tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward, the candlelight
reflected in his dark eyes. “What is the earliest thing that you remember?”
Margery wrinkled up her nose. It seemed an odd, fanciful
question, but then she supposed they had been discussing their childhoods. Or
rather they had been discussing her childhood. She could not recall a single
thing that Henry had told her in answer to her questions. She knew she was a
little cast away, so perhaps she was not remembering. Henry was drinking brandy
now and she had a glass of cherry brandy, sweet and strong.
“I recollect a huge room,” she said slowly, “with a checkered
floor of black and white and a dome high above my head that scattered colored
light all around me.” She looked up to meet an odd expression in Henry’s eyes.
It was gone before she could place it.
“I have no idea where it was. I have been in many great houses
since, but have never seen anything like it. Perhaps I imagined it.”
There had been other memories, too; people whose faces she
could see only in shadow, scents, voices. She thought she remembered a carriage,
a flight through the night, raised voices, cold and tears, but the memories were
overlaid with others of her childhood in the tenement house in Wantage and the
rough-and-tumble of life with her brothers.
Henry was watching her and the expression in his eyes was
intent and secret.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, knowing that the drink was
prompting her to be indiscreet, “I do think my imagination plays tricks on me.
It disturbs me because I remember things that seem quite fanciful—silks and
perfumes and such soft beds, yet I am not a fanciful person.”
“And yet you do have a romantic streak, do you not, Miss
Mallon?” Henry said. “I know, for example, that you read Gothic romances.”
Margery jumped. “How could you possibly know that?” It was
unnerving the way in which he appeared to
smile. “I am sure you could learn.”
Their gazes tangled, his dark, direct with an undercurrent that
made Margery’s toes curl. Then his smile broadened.
“Actually,” he said lightly, “I only wondered whether there was
someone who might give you a loan.”
Margery almost choked on her ale. “You were teasing me,” she
accused.
“Yes. Although…” Henry paused. “If the other idea appeals to
you—”
“It does not. I told you I was not looking for carte
blanche!”
She had spoken too quickly, intent only on denying the quiver
of desire in the pit of her stomach. It was illuminating to discover that her
morals were nowhere near as stalwart as she had believed them to be. She thought
of Henry’s hands on her body, his lips against her skin, and she felt the tide
of warmth rush into her face. Oh, how she wanted him. How seductive it was and
how much trouble she could get herself into with the slightest of missteps. She
was completely out of her depth.
Henry was watching her. He knew .
Margery sought to hide her mortification in her glass of ale
and took several long swallows, which only served to make her head spin all the
more.
The pies arrived, fragrant with mutton and dark gravy. Henry
refilled her glass. They talked as they ate, which Margery knew was not refined,
but suddenly there seemed so much to say. Henry asked her about her childhood in
Wantage, and her work there and her family. She told him about Granny Mallon and
her dire warnings about London gentlemen and Henry laughed and told her that her
grandmother had been in the right of it.
Margery laughed, too, and drank until her head was fuzzy and
the candlelight blurred to a golden haze and her elbow slid off the table, which
made Henry laugh some more. A fiddler struck up in the other room, and the
scrape of tables being pushed back was followed by a wild jig, the notes rising
to the rafters.
But in their corner of the parlor, it was warm and intimate and
felt as though it was theirs alone.
“Tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward, the candlelight
reflected in his dark eyes. “What is the earliest thing that you remember?”
Margery wrinkled up her nose. It seemed an odd, fanciful
question, but then she supposed they had been discussing their childhoods. Or
rather they had been discussing her childhood. She could not recall a single
thing that Henry had told her in answer to her questions. She knew she was a
little cast away, so perhaps she was not remembering. Henry was drinking brandy
now and she had a glass of cherry brandy, sweet and strong.
“I recollect a huge room,” she said slowly, “with a checkered
floor of black and white and a dome high above my head that scattered colored
light all around me.” She looked up to meet an odd expression in Henry’s eyes.
It was gone before she could place it.
“I have no idea where it was. I have been in many great houses
since, but have never seen anything like it. Perhaps I imagined it.”
There had been other memories, too; people whose faces she
could see only in shadow, scents, voices. She thought she remembered a carriage,
a flight through the night, raised voices, cold and tears, but the memories were
overlaid with others of her childhood in the tenement house in Wantage and the
rough-and-tumble of life with her brothers.
Henry was watching her and the expression in his eyes was
intent and secret.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, knowing that the drink was
prompting her to be indiscreet, “I do think my imagination plays tricks on me.
It disturbs me because I remember things that seem quite fanciful—silks and
perfumes and such soft beds, yet I am not a fanciful person.”
“And yet you do have a romantic streak, do you not, Miss
Mallon?” Henry said. “I know, for example, that you read Gothic romances.”
Margery jumped. “How could you possibly know that?” It was
unnerving the way in which he appeared to
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