All About Seduction(41)

“I hope you don’t mind that I came out to smoke a cigar,” Mr. Whitton said.

“No, of course not. Won’t you join me for a stroll down the lane? The canal is lovely when the moonlight hits it just so.”

“I should like to see it, then.”

Too straight to have been formed by nature, the canal was nothing more than a broad ditch dug out to power the mill. Picturesque it was not, although she supposed if one were to make the effort, it could have been made pretty. But Mr. Broadhurst had little patience for making things pleasing to the eye. He certainly didn’t want to encourage millworkers to cavort along the canal.

“I would love to have your company.” Her polite dissemblings were like sand in her mouth and nearly as hard to get out. “I dislike walking alone.”

He sucked on the cigar. The tip flared red, taunting her with its insubstantial heat.

“Seems old man winter is on his way,” she offered. She had descended into making banal observations about the weather.

He grunted rather than respond.

The macadam crunched under their feet as they walked down the drive. The silence hung over them like a heavy shroud.

“You were telling me of your travels about France. I should love to hear more.” She’d been bored to tears earlier by his dry recitation of the places he’d been. He spoke of his travels as a crusty historian might speak of a battle date and location, without relaying any stories of the men who fought or fell there.

“I spent two days in Chartres.”

“Ah, you must have seen the cathedral,” she said. “Is it very beautiful?”

“Yes, quite.”

Caroline laced her arm through his and pressed close. “Tell me what you shaw . . . saw.” Surely that would prompt him beyond monosyllabic answers.

“Lots of spires, stained glass.” He shrugged. “It was a cathedral. I saw what I’d expect to see.”

“Did it move you?” she asked.

“Move me?” he muttered.

Caroline made an mmm sound rather than try to explain what she wasn’t sure she meant.

“I can’t say as I had a religious experience, if that is what you mean.”

The dark had taken on a fuzziness Caroline wasn’t sure was warranted. And she didn’t remember the drive being so dashed uneven. She clung tighter to Mr. Whitton’s arm. “That’s good, I shuppose.”

It wasn’t as if she needed him being a zealot. After all, what true believer would commit adultery?

They walked along in silence. She felt less inclination to break it. She’d made the first effort and now her brain felt sluggish and worn-out.

Her tongue had swollen like a winter-ready caterpillar, while her toes grew wooden. Already she wished she’d stayed with Jack. He was so much easier to talk to.

The leaves crinkled with a chill wind, and those that had already fallen scuttled along the pavement like little furry creatures. Mr. Whitton’s arm tensed.

“Are you certain it is safe for you to walk alone at night?”

Was he concerned about her safety or his?

“You’ll protect me.” She wished he’d warm her. The only part of her that felt warm was the boiling mass in her stomach. No wonder sailors called it rotgut, because that was exactly what it felt like—as if her innards were dissolving in a vat of acid.

He raised his cigar, and the glowing tip seemed to dance. Caroline closed her eyes against the jagged movements, but that was worse. Everything was spinning. She opened her eyes again determined to find her bearings.

He dropped the cigar and ground it out with his heel. “Perhaps we should start back.”

She looked back to find the house wavering in the distance. The lamps burning by the doors seemed to hop about. “I’m sorry I’m not a good conversationalist.”

She silently celebrated that she’d managed to get that word around the fuzzy caterpillar in her mouth.

He grunted.

“I jush . . . just get lonely.”

“What of your husband?”

“He is a good . . . man.” Caroline searched desperately for the right thing to say and came up blank.

“What would he say if he knew you were out here alone with me?”

He’d be shouting encouragement or asking why she hadn’t met Mr. Whitton in his bedroom. “I . . . he is . . . too old. He can’t anymore.”

Mr. Whitton stopped walking.