Chapter 10
Henderson lay in bed, hands tucked beneath his head, and stared at the ceiling, trying to come up with a reason he was still under Tregrennar’s roof. A soft breeze, carrying with it the familiar scent of the sea, drifted over his naked torso. This room, so familiar to him, would no longer be his. The cruel thing was that perhaps it had all been an illusion, wishful thinking for the little bastard who had been lucky enough to befriend the grandson of a duke.
He should have left immediately after Lord Hubbard told him to go, but something had stopped him. He was curious.
How was it the man who’d treated him as a son for so many years prior to Joseph’s death, who had greeted him so happily not a few weeks prior, had become the cold man he’d seen that evening? It didn’t sit well with him at all. Had he done something so terribly wrong by demanding why Lord Northrup was holding Alice’s hand on bended knee? How was he to have known Lord Northrup had somehow, miraculously, gotten back into the good graces of the very man who’d wanted to sue him following the jilting?
Unless Henderson always had been a charity case.
Henderson remembered a boy from Eton who’d had few friends. Joseph, with his soft heart, had welcomed Paul into their small group, and Henderson had taken his lead and been especially kind to the boy, even though, simply put, Paul was obnoxious. The lad didn’t know how to act, was always making awkward jokes that no one thought were funny, or repeating someone else’s lines when they’d received a laugh. After a time, Henderson had deeply regretted his kindness, for Paul clung to him, taking his small kindnesses and turning them into something far different in his head. Paul called Henderson his best chum, invited him to his home for Easter break. Henderson was never unkind to Paul, but his friendship was restrained, awkward. Unwanted.
Was that how Lord Hubbard felt about him? Had he been tolerated for Joseph’s sake and was now the unwanted one?
A small tap on his door shook him away from his thoughts, and he wondered if perhaps Lord Hubbard had come to offer some explanation or an apology. He hastily donned his robe, but instead of finding Lord Hubbard at his door, there stood Alice, dressed in her bloody nightgown and wrap, looking so beautiful his first instinct was to shut the door in her smiling face. His second instinct, though, was far different.
He stepped back, his entire body tense, with one terrible thought: See what you have done, Lord Hubbard? You have driven your innocent daughter into the arms of a bastard.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, forcing himself to step deeper into the room. This was a pivotal moment. Should he act the gentleman? Or should he act like the man who lurked inside him, the man with his father’s blood coursing through his veins, a man who would take an innocent and walk away forever?
“My father and his lordship were horrid to you this evening and I wanted to apologize,” Alice said.
“You could have written me a letter.”
“Which, given my past, I would not have sent.” She gave him a small smile. “You are right, though. That is not the only reason or even the biggest reason I am here.”
Alice moved into the room and walked across to the window, and his chest hurt to see her lovely hair catch the breeze and fly out. He wanted to go up behind her, lay his lips on her neck, wrap his arms around her, let his hands touch her breasts and feel their fullness. He wanted to press his cock against her pretty derrière, let her feel how much he wanted her, let his hand drift between her legs and press and press and move until she was too weak to stand.
“Why are you here, then?” He smiled grimly, hearing how coarse his voice sounded.
She trailed a finger on the window, leaving behind the smallest smudge. “It occurred to me that when you leave tomorrow, it is very likely I shall never see you again.” Henderson nodded, even though she was facing away from him. “And never…” She turned, clutching her hands in front of her and looking so very young and innocent, Henderson nearly told her to leave.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. My God, he had loved this girl for as long as forever, and she was in his room and he knew what she was saying. Perhaps she didn’t realize entirely how dangerous this situation was, but he knew. He knew that when an innocent woman went into a man’s room late at night wearing nothing but a gown and wrap, she was not going to leave innocent.
“Never what?” he asked, his voice harsh.
She dipped her head and worried her hands together. “I shall most likely marry Lord Northrup.”
He hadn’t been expecting that, and whatever ardor he had been feeling, which was quite a lot, was doused, or very nearly so. “Why?”
She blinked, and he realized he’d nearly shouted at her. “Because I was engaged to marry him and my parents are very pleased that he is here, hat in hand. I was supposed to have married him and nothing really has changed. Not his affection for me nor my affection for him.”
God, something was squeezing his chest and it hurt like the very devil. “Do you love him?”
Her response was immediate and satisfying. “No, I do not. But I do like and admire him and I daresay I’m not going to have too many more chances at finding a suitable husband.” The word suitable seemed to Henderson to hang in the air, a thick, ugly word. She looked at him almost as if she were beseeching him to understand. “I want my own household and a family. I’ve wanted that for as long as I can remember.”
“With whichever titled gentleman offers such a life to you,” Henderson said, unwilling to stop the cynicism he felt.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Then why in hell are you here, with me, wearing nothing but your gown? You do realize it is wrong for you to be here, that if someone were to discover you, the consequences would be more than dire. You do try me, Alice. And I believe you know it.”
She had the good grace to blush. “Yes, I know.”
Henderson placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I believe you should go back to your own bed, Alice. Because if you insist on staying, you’ll soon be lying in mine.”
* * *
Alice knew what he meant; she was not a total innocent. “I…I just wanted to say good-bye,” she said in a small voice, and he dipped his head and let out a long sigh.
“No. You are not a naïve sixteen-year-old anymore, Alice. That is not why you came to my room tonight.” Then he furrowed his brow, as uncertainty seemed to strike him. “Is it?”
“No. You’re right. I wanted… I should go.” Alice, her gaze fixed on the carpet beneath her feet, hurried to his door, giving Henderson a wide berth as she walked by him. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. “I’m so sorry, Henderson. I thought one more kiss. I didn’t think past that, truly.” She started to heave the door open, but a strong, tanned hand appeared by her face, preventing her from leaving.
She stood still, waiting, feeling the heat of him behind her even though he did not touch her. That hand, splayed wide, his forearm corded with muscle, was not in the least menacing. It was thrilling. For several long moments they stood there like that, silent, and Alice thought she might moan aloud if he did not touch her. She could hear his breaths, almost sense the internal fight within him. She heard him mutter something, deep and low.
With his left hand, he moved her hair, brushing his fingertips gently across her neck, so her blond locks hung down her left side, exposing her neck to the air, to his touch. She shivered and brought in a sharp breath, not daring to say a word lest he stop. Her entire body felt as if it were shimmering on the edge of something wonderful and unknown. When he placed his lips at the crease of her neck, she couldn’t help but let out a soft sound. Nothing had prepared her for what the simple touch of a man’s mouth on the sensitive skin of her neck could do to her entire body. She sang with it.
Hesitantly, Alice brought up the hand that still clutched the doorknob and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling his arm to her so she could press her cheek against his cool flesh. She wasn’t bold enough to turn to face him, so it was the only way she knew to silently tell him, yes. A shudder wracked his body, and he drew in a breath, his mouth so close to her ear, the sound seemed unnaturally loud. Every sense was magnified, every touch was new and beautiful and overwhelming.
Henderson move his left hand to her waist, a warm presence and somehow completely familiar. He had never touched her this way, with such deliberate intent. Dragging his hand down, he explored the shape of her derrière, slipped his hand briefly, enticingly, between her legs before bringing his hand back up to rest against her stomach, just below her breasts.
“Tell me to stop,” he said harshly in her ear.
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t want you to.” So soft was her whisper, she wondered at first if he had heard her. Then, he moved his hand up to cup one breast, to drag his thumb over her excruciatingly aching nipple, and she knew he had.
“Ah, Alice, this is so wrong.” She let out a small sound of protest. “You know it is. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Do you know how much I want you?” She shook her head, unable to speak. Her skin felt heated, strange, as if it craved Henderson’s touch the way a flower craves the sunlight. It was too much, somehow, and yet not enough. His hand on her breast; she could not have imagined what that would feel like, how that touch would send spikes of pleasure between her legs, making her move her hips restlessly. He pulled her flush against him, letting out a deep sound that sent a vibration through her body. Even with her limited experience, she knew that he wanted her.
Another ragged breath puffed against her cheek before he took her arms and slowly turned her around to face him. It was almost impossible to look up at him, and her cheeks were aflame.
“I’m not taking your virginity.”
She lifted her gaze and looked into those eyes, the color of sea holly, slightly stunned that he would say such a thing. Was that what he thought she wanted? And then another thought: is that why I truly came here? Suddenly, she felt completely out of her element, a little girl pretending to be a woman. Perhaps in the back of her mind that dangerous thought had skittered past her consciousness, that she would give herself to him. But what she truly had wanted was to kiss Henderson, to hold him, and, yes, for him to touch her and make her feel those drugged and thrilling sensations when they kissed.
“I hadn’t thought you would,” she said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Truly, Henderson, I didn’t think at all. You’re leaving in the morning and I might never again have a chance to…”
“A chance to what?” he prompted, impatience tinging his words when she remained silent.
“To feel what you make me feel.” It was nearly impossible to put into words what she wanted to say, for her experience, even with three fiancés, was limited to a few stolen kisses. No man had come close to making her feel the pleasure Henderson had, and she was fairly certain no one ever would.
He closed his eyes briefly and dropped his hands, stepping back. “I’m no more skilled than most men, Alice. Go to bed.”
“Hender—”
“Bloody hell, Alice, you’re to marry another man. I’m flattered that you want to experiment with me, the family’s charity case, but I would appreciate it if my last night in Tregrennar could be spent in peace.”
Tears instantly filled Alice’s eyes. “You know that’s not what you are, Henny,” she said fiercely.
“Do I? I’m not so sure. And here you are, with your fiancé not a few doors away, begging me to kiss you. I’ll be damned if I do, Alice.”
Alice blinked at his angry words. “That’s not how this is at all. It’s not. And Lord Northrup is not my fiancé.” Tears coursed down her face. “You know I would never…” Her words ended on a sob and she stood there helplessly, feeling cold now that Henderson was no longer touching her. Henderson shook his head, a helpless gesture, before drawing her into his arms where she promptly wet his robe with her tears.
“It’s all right, Alice. It’s been a trying day for you.”
She nodded and hiccupped. “It has. Most brutally awful. And now you’re leaving and I shall never see you again. You’re going to In-India and I’ll be here…” Her voice trailed off as she realized she would not be in St. Ives. She would be in Manchester with Lord Northrup—if she decided to marry him. Henderson’s arms were warm and strong and comforting. There was nothing at all carnal in their embrace as he whispered soothing words and moved his hand up and down her back the way a man soothes a frightened horse. With her hands still clutching the lapel of his robe, Alice stood there and slowly gathered herself together, wishing this moment could last forever.
“Feeling better?” he asked after a time.
She nodded but didn’t move away, and he continued to stroke his hand up and down her back, dipping slightly lower each time. She became aware of his manhood growing hard as his hand stroked down to cup her derrière, and her breath quickened slightly. What had been an innocent caress turned slowly more erotic, and Alice closed her eyes to revel in the feelings he was evoking. She became dimly aware that Henderson was slowly lifting the back of her robe and gown, cool air on naked flesh, until her skirts were gathered around her waist. His bare hand, gentle and warm on her bum, was perhaps the most delicious sensation she had ever experienced.
Alice separated the material of Henderson’s robe, exposing his chest, and pressed her lips against him, smiling when she heard a harsh intake of breath. He pulled her against him and let out a groan before dipping his head so that he could kiss her. He was not gentle, but Alice didn’t care. This was what she’d wanted, this wonderful thrilling feeling. His tongue was hot and insistent, sweeping into her mouth, demanding that she kiss him with the same ardor. Alice was more than happy to comply. With a sound of relief and need, she threw herself into the kiss, reveling in the taste of him, the way his body seemed to enfold her in his embrace.
Between her legs, that aching place was wet with need, and she pressed against him, trying to lessen the feeling but only increasing it. Henderson trailed kisses from her mouth to her chin and neck, consuming her, as his hands drifted up her back, beneath her gown, skimming smoothly over her, until she was, except for the gown now gathered above her breasts, completely naked. Cupping one breast, he took her nipple into his mouth, suckling, licking, and Alice let out a sound she hadn’t realized she could make. “Oh, yes. Yes.”
He moved to the other nipple and did the same, while his other hand teased the abandoned breast.
“Henderson.”
He lifted his head, and she prayed she would never forget how he looked at her; it was as if something glowed from within. “Yes, love.” She shook her head. She didn’t know how to ask for what she needed, wanted. “You want me to stop.” It was not a question.
“No. I want…more.”
His features relaxed and he smiled. Without breaking eye contact, he moved one hand down her belly, nearer and nearer to where every delicious sensation was centered. Her eyes drifted closed when he reached the apex of her thighs. Suddenly, she was in his arms and in seconds deposited onto his bed with Henderson beside her, his robe fully open now, his manhood clearly visible. Alice dared to look, and was frankly shocked by how large and stiff it was. All the statues she’d ever seen hardly resembled that jutting appendage.
“I’m not taking your virginity, Alice. Though there is nothing more I would like than to be inside you, I cannot.”
“I know.”
“But I can give you pleasure.”
Alice smiled. “You already have.”
He shook his head mysteriously. “I have not. But I will.”
He lay down beside her and kissed her, deepening the kiss as his hand once again found the place between her legs. Alice had thought she understood what pleasure was until he began to stroke her. “Oh. Oh, goodness.” He dipped his head and took one nipple into his mouth, and Alice thought she might shatter. Nothing could have prepared her for the feelings his simple caresses were creating. All she knew was that she wanted more and more and for him to never, ever stop.
“Take me in your hand,” Henderson said, his voice low and grating, as if saying those words took the greatest effort. His large hand wrapped around her smaller one and he guided her to his manhood, showing her how to touch him. “Oh, God, Alice.” It was quite amazing, she thought, steel covered with a fine silk. When she shyly moved her hand, it seemed to grow harder, and Henderson moaned. “Yes, love.”
Again, his hand was between her legs, rubbing that nub she’d had no idea could create such glory. She matched his rhythm, moving her hand in time to his caresses, until she was mindless, until she worked on instinct, unaware of anything but the sensations flowing through her body. And then, the glory, the release, it came and she cried out, her body shaking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pure bliss shot through her. As she slowly returned to normal, Henderson’s head nestled next to hers, and a terrible sadness enveloped her.
They would never share this again. This truly was good-bye.
Sadness mingled with shame and guilt. Shame, because she knew what they had done was wrong, perhaps even a sin, although she would be a virgin on her wedding night. Guilt, because her almost-fiancé lay abed in this same wing and here she was, naked, sated, lying next to a man who was not her husband and not her fiancé. And perhaps not even her friend anymore. Her lover? God, that word seemed so sordid.
“I should not have come tonight,” she said softly.
“No, you should not have.” Even as he said the words, his embrace tightened slightly, and she smiled.
“I should go.” She stirred and was slightly disappointed when he turned onto his back, releasing her. In the lamplight, his hair looked almost black, not the rich chocolate she knew it was. A curl fell over his forehead and she fought the urge to sweep it back. Feeling self-conscious, she crossed her arms and hurried to where her nightgown and robe lay on the floor, like discarded virtue. Stepping into a dark corner, and with her back to him, she donned her nightgown and then drew on her robe before turning, only to find Henderson staring at the ceiling, not her.
She stood uncertainly, not knowing what to say or do. If this were truly good-bye, it was a terrible one and not at all what she’d wanted. What had she wanted? Keeping her eyes on him, Alice walked to the edge of the bed furthest from where he lay.
“Good-bye, Henny. That was…was jolly good.” She wished the floor would swallow her whole.
“I’m glad I could be of service.” Alice’s entire body heated at his callous words, and she stepped back when he suddenly turned toward her. “I apologize. That was ill done of me. It has been a trying evening and this…unexpected visit was, well, unexpected.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do, but I’ll let it go at that, shall I? Good-bye, little bug. It was jolly good.”
Alice could feel tears pricking at her eyes. When Henderson had first stayed with them that summer so long ago, she had trailed behind Joseph and him endlessly, until Henderson had turned to her brother and said, “There’s a little bug following us, you know.” He’d started affectionately calling her “little bug” whenever they were alone, but it was the first time since his return that he’d done so. She smiled, then spun around, fearing she would start crying again—and just look where that had brought her the last time.
* * *
Henderson watched her go, and as the door closed softly behind her, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands over them. What the hell had he allowed? Being older, and supposedly a gentleman, Henderson had no business allowing Alice into his room. And yet, when he’d seen her standing there, looking so damned lovely, he let her in. He’d held her, knowing what could come of it. If there was one single thing he could give himself some credit for it was not taking her virginity, though God above knew he’d been tempted.
Alice had been so responsive, so lovely, so everything that he’d dreamt she would be. Would he ever get the sound she made when she found her release out of his head? He thought not. He prayed not. In one quick motion, he sat up and left the bed, grimacing when he saw the proof of his own release on the bed covers. Let the maids think what they wanted; he was quite certain it would not be the first time they’d found such a present in the morning. What they would not find, no matter how early they came to his room, was him. He’d already finished packing the night before. Used to dressing without the help of a valet, though he had to admit it was rather nice when one was available, Henderson dressed quickly, gathered up his satchel, and headed out the door. The rest of his luggage would be sent to the inn later, he knew. The Hubbards’ staff was efficient and he had no doubt that by luncheon, he would have all his things delivered.
Henderson made his way down the wooden stairs, his footsteps quiet on the thick carpet runner that ran their length. Slipping out the door, he looked back once, knowing he would never set foot in this grand old house again. For the first time since he’d been brought home with Joseph, he felt unwanted.
* * *
The White Hart Inn was just down the street from a church, and not wanting to disturb the innkeepers at that late—or early—hour, Henderson decided to sit on a bench outside the large stone building. The wide street, divided by a small square, was completely deserted and the village was almost unearthly quiet. Not even the birds had begun their racket of welcoming the dawn. Henderson, his satchel clutched in his hands, leaned his head back against the hard surface of the bench and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the events of the night.
It was a futile exercise. If not for Lord Berkley and his promise to help in the famine efforts, Henderson would have gone directly to the new rail station and waited there for the next available train, and his luggage be damned.
“So, Joseph, what now?”
Henderson let out a humorless laugh, a sharp puff of air that created a plume of vapor in front of him. For a mid-July morning, it was decidedly chilly, though St. Ives never did get very warm. He’d thought, after enduring the oppressive heat of India, that he would never have complained about a chill in the air. This morning, in his foul mood, he felt like complaining about everything.
It was unlikely he would ever see Alice again. Certainly he would never hold her, kiss her, make love to her again. Why had he ever thought he could? He’d known, even as a lad at Eton, when Joseph had invited him to St. Ives for the summer, he’d known even then it was a bad idea. Yet the lure of St. Ives, of being the best friend of a boy whose grandfather was a duke, who promised the best fishing in all of England, had proved too much. He wanted to go back in time, to the room they’d shared at Eton, and tell that boy to go home alone.
* * *
A baker opening up his shop across the street drew Henderson from his memories of the past, and he realized he was famished. Pushing himself off the bench, he made his way across the street just as the eastern sky was beginning to turn a lovely shade of yellow-red and the birds were starting to greet the new day.
A young woman, probably no more than twenty years old, fresh-faced with cheeks rosy from her work, greeted him shyly as he made his way to the counter to peruse the shop’s offerings. She wore a white cap on her head and a white apron over a sky blue dress, and it struck Henderson at that moment that this was the type of girl he should set his cap for, a shop girl with lively blue eyes and a neat little braid.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, her Cornish accent thick and rather charming.
“A scone, please.”
“With marmalade? We make the best, you know.”
Henderson gave her a brief smile. “Of course.”
“Are you here for the festival?” She tilted her head at him and Henderson had the distinct feeling she was flirting with him. “Oh, no, you’re an artist.” Yes, flirting, which only made him feel even more depressed, for he was fairly certain had Lord Berkley walked in, she would not have flirted with him. Was it the cut of his clothes? His accent that wasn’t purely aristocratic? His manner? What marked him as a commoner, someone this girl felt free to flirt with?
“I’m here on business,” he said, his tone more curt than he’d meant it, but bloody hell, it was annoying to him to realize even a simple Cornish girl would recognize his ilk.
And if she did, how had Lord and Lady Hubbard felt when he’d first come to Tregrennar?
Henderson paid for the scone and left, catching himself in the reflection of a nearby shop, still dark and empty at this early hour. Turning away, he went directly to the inn and hoped the proprietors were up and about, for he was in no mood to hang about the street like some sort of vagabond. Even though, considering he had no home and no position, despite his accumulated wealth, that was nearly what he was.
And he’d thought to offer for Alice’s hand. A red hot flash of humiliation washed over him, and continued to visit him throughout the day. Restless and bored, he wandered the Island that afternoon, exploring the wild strip of land that had once been separated from the mainland but was now connected by a long, curving spit of earth. Thick walls, remnants of a time when the Cornish Britons had fortified it, seemed to lead to a small building of stone, locked in time, that had once been a lookout used by the coast guard to seek smuggling ships trying to sneak toward shore. The wind tore at his jacket, and it fluttered behind him, audibly snapping in the wind. The sea was rough, sending spray ashore as it crashed into the rocky beach, and he reveled in the icy chill of it. At the far end of the island was a group of artists, tripods set up and fortified with rocks against the wind, who were trying to capture on canvas the violence of the sea and the charming village of St. Ives in the distance.
Seeing them only made him think of Alice, who was an accomplished painter—at least he had always thought so. He wandered to the end, near a great pile of rocks called the Carncrows, trudging along a narrow path, curious to see how well the painters were capturing the tumultuous sea, the way the sun streamed through thickening clouds.
He wasn’t paying much attention to the artists themselves, the small group of men and women who had gathered at the very tip of the land, until he heard a distinctive laugh and stiffened. Henderson had never thought himself a lucky man; indeed, many occurrences in his life would make anyone think the opposite. Standing there, amidst the group, was Alice. She was wearing a light blue gown that the wind was plastering against her, revealing her form in such a distinct way, Henderson couldn’t help but remember her long, smooth limbs, muscles taut as he pleasured her. Tendrils of hair fought with the wind, whipping around her head, drawing him like the snakes of Medusa. Would he ever be able to look at her without his heart wanting to explode from his chest?
And then he saw Lord Northrup and his step markedly slowed. He recognized two other women, as well, friends of Alice’s whom he’d last seen at Joseph’s funeral—Harriet and Eliza.
Stopping short, he debated simply turning about and praying no one in the party would recognize him. Luck was not on his side and why should it be?
“Mr. Southwell? Is that you?”
This was a fine kettle of fish. He could hardly pretend not to hear Miss Anderson nor pretend she was mistaken, so he resisted the urge to close his eyes in frustration and instead plastered a wholly unconvincing smile on his face. Though he focused his attention on Harriet, who had ducked her head as if horrified to have called out to him, he could see Alice stiffen and turn slightly away. What must she be thinking? That he’d followed her out here? He was thankful for only one thing, that the red on his cheeks could be blamed on the bracing wind and not his complete humiliation.
“I thought you’d left.” This from Lord Northrup, looking just so excited to see him.
“I have not concluded my business here,” Henderson said.
“What sort of business is that?” Northrup seemed amused that he would have business in St. Ives.
“He’s seeking support for famine relief from Lord Berkley,” Alice said.
Lord Northrup’s brows rose in surprise. “Are you really? How interesting. I hadn’t realized Lord Berkley had an interest.”
“He hadn’t until I visited him,” Henderson said with a tight smile.
“Famine is such a dreary topic,” interjected the fifth person in their little crowd, a gentleman with a pencil thin mustache who was impeccably clothed despite the wind that tore around them. “Allow me to introduce myself. Frederick St. Claire.”
“Henderson Southwell. It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr. St. Claire.”
St. Claire looked at him as if mentally determining whether Henderson was worthy of his time, and Henderson could almost picture his surname swirling about the man’s head as he searched his memory for a Southwell worth conversing with.
“He was a dear friend of my late brother, Joseph. They went to Eton and Oxford together and Henderson often spent the summers here in St. Ives.”
St. Claire shot a quick look to Northrup, and Henderson had the distinct feeling the two had discussed him. “Ah.” Such meaning in that small syllable.
To Henderson’s surprise, Northrup turned to him and said, “I’d like to know more about your efforts, if you wouldn’t mind, Southwell. I’ve read of the atrocities in the Times, of course, but I would like to know what your plans are.” And turning to Alice, he said, “You didn’t tell me why Mr. Southwell was here, my dear.” He shrugged in a self-effacing way. “I suppose you hadn’t known about my interest in the famine relief effort.”
“No, I hadn’t,” Alice said, studying Northrup as if she’d never seen him before. And Henderson, rather cynically, wondered if the viscount was simply trying to get into Alice’s good graces.
“I do. I’ve petitioned Lord Lytton myself, not that it did any good. I’m afraid my influence in political matters is quite meager. Berkley’s father, on the other hand, had a great deal of clout; his name alone may lend some influence.”
Despite himself, Henderson was impressed that Northrup actually knew what he was speaking of, and if he had petitioned Lord Lytton, he was an ally, indeed. “That is my hope, my lord. I would welcome any assistance you can offer. Lord Berkley and I are meeting this evening and I shall let him know we have found another interested party, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It will be my pleasure.”
Henderson was keenly aware of Alice’s interest in their conversation, and he hated that she was looking at Northrup with admiration, hated that she was looking at the other man at all, to be honest. He wanted to loathe Northrup, to put him in the category of enemy, but how could he do that now when the fellow had so generously offered to help him when so many men had not?
“Would you two stop talking politics,” St. Claire said impatiently. “I need to complete my masterpiece.” He held a hand out to a painting, anchored to a sturdy tripod with two iron clamps, that was decidedly not a masterpiece, and the three women giggled, Eliza the loudest of all. “You wound me, ladies. I thought it was a fair rendering.”
“Your seagull is rather lovely,” Eliza said softly, her cheeks blushing.
“Is that what that thing is in the sky. I thought perhaps it was an oddly shaped cloud,” Northrup said, and they all laughed easily.
Henderson began to distinctly feel unwanted, and while the others turned their attention to St. Claire’s awful painting, he took the time to look over at what Alice had been working on and was pleased to see hers was quite good.
“What do you think?” she asked quietly, seeing where he was looking. “I’m not nearly as proficient with oils as I am with watercolor.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” Henderson said, his voice low so the others could not hear. “I was walking to forget last night.” He searched her face, his eyes drifting down to her plush mouth, and wished they were alone, for the desire to kiss her was nearly overwhelming. The last he’d seen her, she’d been naked, running across the room to gather her night clothes. It had been a glorious sight and one he never wanted to forget, despite his words to the contrary.
A small crease formed between her eyes. “You want to forget when all day I’ve been praying that I always remember.”
With that, she turned away and joined the others, leaving Henderson standing alone. “I’ll bid you good day,” he said to no one in particular, and only Harriet turned toward him, a distinct look of disappointment on her face. Harriet’s family owned a lucrative tin mine, and though her family was wealthy, she was as common as he. A thought occurred to him, a terrible one indeed, that if he were to court Harriet, he would be able to see Alice far more often.
“Good-bye, Mr. Southwell,” Harriet said in a rush, her hands twisting nervously. She always had been awkwardly shy, if he recalled. That hopeful look in her eyes made him feel like a complete cad for even thinking of using her to get close to Alice. When she’d been younger, she’d had a terrible crush on him, one he had always been careful not to encourage. “W-will you be attending the festival?”
“Festival?”
Harriet seemed to go mute, so Eliza answered for her. “John Knill. It’s this year, you know. And of course my family is holding the traditional ball.” She hesitated and looked quickly to Harriet, who stared intently at the ground. “You are invited, of course.”
“Yes, do come,” Northrup said, smiling easily.
“If you think your mother wouldn’t mind,” Henderson said, darting a quick glance at Alice to see her reaction, but she’d turned away to work on her painting.
“She would love to have you, I’m sure. Please do.”
Henderson smiled. “It would be my pleasure. Thank you. I think now I’ll leave you to your paintings,” he said, giving St. Claire’s a dubious look, which earned him some laughter.
“You must stay,” St. Claire said, apparently surprising everyone in the group. “We’ve an odd number, you see.”
If anything, Harriet’s stare at the grass below her feet became even more intense, and Alice froze briefly, mid-stroke. That told him two things: She had been listening even though she was pretending to ignore them all, and the thought of him staying affected her. That alone fed the devil inside him.
“Of course, if you’d like.” Henderson looked at St. Claire, using all his acting ability not to chuckle at the man’s ridiculous mustache. He was reed thin, dressed impeccably from his straw hat (Henderson wondered how the thing was staying on his head in this wind) to his well-shined shoes. Groomed to perfection, the result, Henderson thought, of a well-trained valet who understood his employer’s tastes. Northrup was dressed much the same, though he held his hat in his hand in concession to the wind. Henderson, on the other than, had worn an old pair of boots, a pair of trousers that needed a good pressing, and a jacket that had seen better days, the type of ensemble a man throws on when he’s going for a bracing walk along the shore alone. And he’d had the practical sense not to struggle with a hat at all. Perhaps impracticality was all that separated the classes, he mused.
St. Claire went back to his painting, and the group stood behind him, giving him friendly advice. Henderson wandered over to watch Alice. It was difficult to see her face, for she wore a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath her chin with a satin ribbon, which still allowed her hair to fly free in the breeze. Her painting was quite good and not at all feminine. Using broad strokes and thickly applied paint, she had created the sort of work that got more beautiful the farther back one stood. Once in a while, she would take a step or two back to see what she had done, and Henderson moved forward, smiling and knowing that the next time she stepped back, she would knock into him. Which she did, letting out a small sound of surprise. She did not step immediately forward, which he had expected her to do, and so he leaned forward, just slightly, and whispered, “I want to taste you.”
* * *
Alice stiffened and quickly stepped forward, but when he moved to stand beside her, she tried her best not to let him know she was trying to keep from smiling. She was a bit vexed with him. After her shameful, wonderful, heart-searing good-bye, here he was, flirting outrageously with her. She’d truly thought when she’d walked from his room in the wee hours of the morning—not more than ten hours ago!—that she would never see him again. It had been a grand good-bye, tragic and romantic, and all day she’d been a bit weepy thinking about how she would never again in her life experience such bliss. Here he was, though, standing next to her, looking sinfully handsome and windblown, while the man she might marry was just a few feet away. Good Lord, have mercy.
“Will you please go away?” she asked conversationally.
“Never.”
What a thrilling, awful thing for him to say. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into him. Or her, for that matter. Even now, hours after he’d touched her so intimately, she could feel that wonderful sensation between her thighs.
“I thought you’d left St. Ives. That it would be another four years at least until I saw you again.”
“Really, Mr. Southwell, must you—” Her sentence was interrupted by a scream, the bloodcurdling type that meant something horrible had happened. Alice half expected to turn and find that one of her friends had fallen into the sea-drenched rocks below them. Instead she turned to see Harriet, her face deathly pale, pointing below her as the others ran toward her.
“My God, it’s a body,” Northrup said, looking down at the large rocks at the base of the bluff. “A man.”
Northrup immediately began a descent, and Henderson followed behind as the three women and St. Claire looked on in shock. Alice had never seen a dead person other than one carefully arranged in a casket, and seeing the pale, unmoving corpse was horrifying. It appeared to be a man, floating face down and nudging up against the rocks with each incoming wave. He was fully dressed, as far as she could tell.
“I do hope it’s no one we know,” Alice said.
The two men each grabbed an arm and heaved him up onto a large flat rock that sat above the surging sea.
“You might want to look away,” Henderson called up to the group standing on the bluff. Harriet and Eliza turned away, but Alice could not, her gaze fixed on the man. He was missing one shoe, his pale foot visible beneath his trousers, and Alice inexplicably felt tears push at her eyes. It was that missing shoe; she couldn’t help thinking that the poor man would be sad to know it had been swept away into the sea, and even though she knew it was not possible, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that foot was likely cold.
“I know him,” Henderson said, looking sharply up at Alice. “It’s Sebastian Turner. I saw him just two nights ago in the village.”
“Oh, no. Are you certain?” Alice asked, staring down at the pale and slightly bloated face. It didn’t look like Sebastian at all to her.
Henderson hunkered down and studied the man. “Yes. It doesn’t appear he has been in the water long. He had a scar on the chin from cricket. A lad was swinging the bat and hit him by mistake. I was there when it happened. It’s Sebastian, I’m sure. These are the clothes he was wearing last night. It doesn’t make sense. How would he have gotten here?”
Alice put one hand against her mouth as if she could hold in the pain. Sebastian Turner had been one of Joseph’s friends, part of a group of young men who were often in their house. It seemed impossible that the lifeless body on the rock was he. He’d had the most infectious laugh.
“Let’s get him up, shall we, Mr. Southwell? Then we can fetch the coroner.”
The group was silent as they watched Henderson and Northrup struggle to haul the body to the grassy area where they stood. As they grew near, Harriet and Eliza stepped back, and St. Claire moved with them and shielded them from seeing the body. Alice, though, stood there still, watching as Sebastian’s hand banged against a rock. “Careful,” she said, though she knew it didn’t make any difference to the poor man anymore.
When the two men settled the body on the grass, Henderson straightened, his eyes still on Sebastian’s body. “I don’t understand it. How can another one of us have died? Just two days ago, he was telling me he was getting married. I just…” He swallowed heavily, and Alice took a step toward him, thinking to give him comfort, just as Northrup took up her hand.
“Come on now, Alice, this is nothing for a young lady to see,” he said kindly as he drew her toward the other women huddled together.
“I knew him too,” she said. “He was Joseph’s friend. This is horrid. How could it have happened? He was an excellent swimmer. All of them were. They used to go out and ride the surf like seals and swim and swim. I don’t understand.”
“He may have struck his head and fallen in. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, my dear.”
Alice took a deep and shaking breath. “I do hope not.”
When Alice reached her friends, Harriet drew her in for a welcome embrace. “It’s a terrible thing on such a lovely day. Death is always difficult but to have it be someone we know… Who shall tell his parents?”
“I expect the coroner will,” Alice said softly. She knew Sebastian’s parents vaguely, and wondered if they were already worried about their son.
“Do you think it might have been foul play?” Harriet asked, and immediately snapped her mouth shut as if realizing this was not the time nor place for her love of the macabre. Alice gave her friend a look of exasperation tinged with no small amount of annoyance, and Harriet, in turn, managed to look slightly repentant.
“I’ll stay here with him while you go into the village and fetch the coroner,” Henderson called.
“Good man,” Northrup said, and the oddest expression touched Henderson’s face. Alice gave him a long look, and he gazed at her, his eyes bleak, his jaw set. She nodded a good-bye and he dropped his eyes. Alice got the feeling he was sick and tired of good-byes.
* * *
Before returning to the village, the much-subdued group gathered their art supplies. St. Claire grabbed up his painting, and for a moment Alice thought he might fling it into the sea. The fun they’d been having, just feet away from where a man lay dead, seemed somehow obscene. Alice suppressed a shiver and tried to get the image of Sebastian bobbing in the water from her mind, but it was impossible. Why had she stood there watching? Now she would never get the sight of him out of her head: his pale skin, the blond hair plastered to his head. Sebastian had been a handsome man, jaunty and lively, the one who would laugh at inappropriate moments, the one of them all who seemed to have the most life in him. And now he was dead.
“I wish we hadn’t come today,” she said softly.
Eliza put a hand on her arm. “If we hadn’t, he’d still be there. Perhaps he’d never have been discovered and his parents would always wonder. That would have been much worse, don’t you think?”
Alice nodded and gave her friend a small smile of thanks. “You’re right. I am glad we found him. He wouldn’t have liked to have worried his parents.” The tears that had been pressing against her eyes threatened to spill over, and Alice lifted her head toward the wind so they would dry before falling.
The group was silent for a long while until Northrup, who had maneuvered to walk beside her, said, “I would like to apologize to you. And I shall also apologize to Mr. Southwell when I see him next. I was unfair to him last night and judged him badly.”
Alice smiled up at him. “He is a good man, my lord. I am glad you are able to see that. And it was very kind of you to lend assistance to the famine relief effort. I could tell Mr. Southwell was appreciative.”
He smiled, seemingly satisfied with her response, but Alice felt slightly bothered that Northrup was befriending Henderson. Perhaps she was cynical—no doubt she was—but she couldn’t help wonder if Northrup was simply saying things he knew would please her so she would forgive him.
“If it pleased you, my dear, I would sail to India myself and feed all the starving.”
Alice laughed. “No need for that, sir.”
“I want you to know I am sincere in trying to win back your heart,” he said low, but Harriet tilted her head slightly and must have heard, for she smiled.
Alice turned away, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. He’d never really had her heart, so how could he win it back? She was very nearly tempted to say that, but could not, not when he’d been looking at her with such hope in his eyes.