Always a Maiden (The Belles of Beak Street #5)(17)

“I shall endeavor to stop.”

“No don’t. These are just signs you are not ready, yet.”

“I am ready,” she insisted.

He tilted his head and examined her face. “You asked me to teach you about passion, and I intend to do that. But passion comes from within. We have to find it within you.”

His words were just words. She knew he was trying to convey some concept, but she didn’t comprehend. She couldn’t connect what something within her had to do with learning how to kiss a man and make him want to kiss her.

“You are confusing me.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but you leave me no less confounded.” He rubbed her upper arms. “You have such a thick casing of propriety around you. I despair of ever cracking through it and finding the real woman underneath.”

There was nothing underneath. Or just a mass of jealousies and petty thoughts. Only ugliness that she didn’t want anyone to ever see. Which likely meant she would never be desirable in any way. She was such a complete and utter failure. “I should go in.”

“Sunday then,” he said and let her go.

She turned hastily and finally managed to get the key to turn.

Once inside the cold marble of the entry hall reminded her she was home. And even though a second earlier she had wanted to indulge in a fit of despair. She couldn’t even make a man who seduced dozens of women want her. Except the coldness seeped through her and she closed down the emotions she shouldn’t allow to surface. She couldn’t risk some maid reporting tears on her pillow to her mother. And she certainly couldn’t risk her late night excursion being found out.

Slipping into a shadow, she removed her slippers and then stuck to the shadows as she made her way up the stairs and into her room.

She only allowed herself a sigh of relief that she made it through the house without encountering the night watchman. She let down her hair and reached for her brush. As a little girl, she’d used to hide rather than have her hair combed. Her nurse would yank the brush through the snarls bringing tears to her eyes. Then she would be chastised again for crying. To this day, she could scarcely tolerate her maid brushing out her hair. Not that her maid was so rough, but because Susanah feared a tangle would catch and tear at her scalp.

She didn’t know what made those memories surface. But what she did know was that she would have to perfect not drawing away when Evan—or a potential suitor—touched her. Just as she’d learned to sit still for her nightly brushing. Now that she knew that was her error, she could correct it. He must have had some purpose in taking her to a Cyprian’s ball beyond teaching her to waltz. Perhaps he wanted her to see how the courtesans approached the men.

She let images of the ball fill her head. She had been watching the other women—the demi-reps. Although the memories kept flitting away as she remembered his arm around her as they twirled in the dance. And his hands holding hers. Her flesh where he touch seemed altered, warmer than the surrounding skin. She put her fingers on her arm and the scar testing if she could feel it. Only a very little, which was good. He probably hadn’t noticed.

She leaned toward her looking glass and smiled wondering what he meant about her eyes. She tried squinting, then lifting her eyebrows—which made her look ridiculous. She gave up and hurried through the rest of her preparations for bed. In any case, the next time they met, she would have to convince him she was ready for his lessons, that she wouldn’t pull away. Because she could only risk sneaking out to meet him so many times before she was caught.



*

Evan stared at the door after it had shut. He shouldn’t linger. The servants would be stirring soon, and he didn’t need to be standing outside Lady Susanah’s door like a lovesick loon. Not that he was lovesick.

Quite the contrary, he’d nearly decided that she was too prickly, too haughty, and far too cold to spend one more minute with. Then she’d seemed so vulnerable when she asked if he would kiss her.

For a second her composed expression slipped, and she’d looked shocked, then hurt.

He wanted to kiss her, had approached her with that in mind, but she went rigid like a deer trying to remain unnoticed by going still. Or worse she recoiled. Yet, he did want to kiss her. Strangely enough, he wanted to do more than kiss her. He wanted to see if he could make her burn—because apparently, he liked to set impossible challenges for himself.

Or if he was honest with himself, he was trying to find his passion for living, too. Really he should be leaving soon to take up residence with his uncle and cousin. He’d said he would. He was usually a man of his word. He loved his cousin. He should cut short this nonsensical plan to help Lady Susanah find her passion and return to a pastoral life and playing juvenile games for the rest of his life. Or the rest of Gilbert’s possibly shortened life. Which was another reason he shouldn’t tarry in the city.

He would send a letter saying he’d run into a few delays but would be there soon. He would give Lady Susanah a month. A two-week delay to moving in to become his cousin’s keeper shouldn’t be so horrible.

He moved off down the street, with only one or two glances back to see if he could see a lamp lit in a room. But it didn’t take long before the typical London fog shrouded everything.

It occurred to him, he still didn’t know much about what was behind the walls she’d built around her. He’d learned more in the space of time when they were alone together than he had during the masquerade. She had a deft hand with her embroidery. There was a mix of flowers entwined with greenery. And she’d spend her last hours on earth praying if she had foreknowledge of the world’s end. He had four days to figure out something that would inspire her.