A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 7

  Distressed, Henrietta stopped him with her hand over his. “Please.”

  “I can’t go outside and pick you a dozen roses, but I can make you eleven more.”

  Henrietta shook her head. “I don’t need a dozen.”

  No, she needed what he couldn’t give her. It wasn’t within him.

  “The book did nothing to you. Why must you mistreat it?” She took the book from him and read aloud. One sentence, then another. A barrage of words rained on him in frustration.

  She speared him a look and rose from the cot. “How about this passage?” She read on, beginning to pace. “You would destroy this?”

  He shifted his attention to Shrupp’s haversack, away from her. The soldier’s things were laid out with military precision. A pile of shirts, a stack of breeches, a line of rolled-up smalls. Anything than to look at Henrietta Smith, the smartest girl he knew. He could sweep away all thoughts, and yet it would do nothing to hide the truth from her.

  He turned to her then and allowed himself to be revealed. Maybe because she shared her daughter with him. Or because he liked her. He liked most people, and yet most people had no idea. He wore the veil of privilege against a society that would rebuke him if they knew the truth.

  “Oh.” It was a soft sound, a small sound, heavy with meaning. “Oh, Marcus.”

  The book closed around her finger. Twin lines creased between her eyes. He wanted to kiss them off her face. Make her forget what she now knew about him.

  “Never, have you?” She came toward him, setting the book on the table.

  He forced himself to meet her gaze. She deserved that much. “No. It’s not something gained and lost. It never was.”

  “How?”

  He shrugged, scratching his fingers through his hair, stalling for time. He couldn’t sit still long enough for his lessons. If he managed to stay seated, the letters didn’t stay still. They moved and morphed as he tried to grasp them. Like will-o’-the-wisps, the letters darted further and further from his reach the closer he came to deciphering them. He tried to say all this. He wasn’t sure she believed him. His father never did.

  “I could help you.” Henrietta picked up the paper flower and turned it around in her hand, studying it.

  He pursed his lips, looking away. “It’s an impossible task.”

  “Almost as impossible as me finding someone to marry who fits my criteria.”

  Marcus laughed. She came to sit beside him again. “I doubt they’re equal. If you stood on the King’s Highway with a sign that read ‘widow in need of a husband, conversation unnecessary’, you’d have to bat them away with your broom.”

  She laughed with him. “I’d have my pick of old, drunk dockworkers. Like Old Man Rufus.”

  “At least he’d warm your bed.”

  Amusement froze on her face. “I don’t want my bed warmed. I can’t marry for love. It broke me.”

  “Oh, Hetty Betty.” Her admission broke him. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you can teach me to read, I’ll see you married to a man of quality, of your choosing.”

  “Impossible. How can you do that from your bed?”

  “You’ll choose the man. I trust your impeccable taste. After all, look at the friends you keep.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll teach you how to flirt.”

  Henrietta drew back, either delighted or horrified. He couldn’t tell. “I could never.”

  “Sure, you can. With a mouth like yours, you could say the most outrageous things, and it would be devastating.”

  “Obviously, I can’t.” She touched her swollen lips with the tip of her finger, clueless to the fact that as she did, a deep want punched Marcus in the gut.

  He recalled how those lips felt. The initial rush of heat pressed to his, the soft tension lasting forever and not nearly long enough. How his thoughts emptied with shock, because she’d chosen him, and shame, for all the secrets that tied him up. And how damn foolish he felt when he failed to react.

  She lowered her finger from her exploration, and he raised his, mapping the topography of her mouth for himself. Each crease across her pillowy flesh read like a story, but for once, he wasn’t afraid of the challenge.

  “My, they’re soft,” he whispered across her parted lips. “Shall I show you?”

  Her gaze landed on his mouth. He felt it all the way to his groin. Before she could answer, he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. A soft gasp of surprise escaped her throat. And then, surrender.

  Her mouth was irresistible, pliable, and sweet. How could he have ever turned this down? His lips brushed across hers, taking all the time in the world, capturing her lips and sucking softly until his breath ran out and he remembered himself.

  “And they work.” He patted her shoulder as if together they’d correctly answered a difficult question. He didn’t know where to look, but it wasn’t her face. She might be furious with him, or he’d want to kiss her all over again. Neither were good outcomes. Though, she had every right to be furious. He hadn’t waited for her consent. Bad manners for a guest, and all that.

  Henrietta laughed, but not her usual light laugh. This laugh said something in a language he couldn’t decode.

  “That was perfect. We’re even now.” She touched her fingers lightly to her lips.

  He made the mistake of meeting her glazed eyes. At least she saw it the same way he had. She held out her hand to shake his. To seal their deal and seal their fates. Marcus felt terrible.

  Chapter 8

  Henrietta felt terrible. Walking down the stairs, she made her way to the kitchen. She needed to keep her hands busy, or she’d touch her tender lips to relive Marcus’s kiss. She’d meant what she said. They were even now. It shouldn’t matter that he kissed her. But did it have to be a kiss like that? Who kissed like that?

  With more force than necessary, she raked the coals in the hearth to stir the embers. Sparks flew from the grate.

  Not her, and not Sam. They kissed each other on the cheek, a peck on the lips. Once Sam kissed her neck and it was nice, but he never repeated the gesture, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  Henrietta hefted a large pot on the trivet, warming in the coals.

  Out the door she went, letting it bang behind her, only to wish she hadn’t a second later. If Marcus heard the door banging, he’d know how his kiss affected her. He mustn’t know. Nothing could come from it. She didn’t want love or affection. And he hadn’t offered.

  Trudging to the vegetable garden, Henrietta yanked three carrots from the earth and shook the dirt from their roots with a savage spray. Back to the kitchen, she marched. Submerging the carrots in a bowl of water, she drowned the remaining dirt, strangled the greens from the tops, and slammed the carrots onto the worktable. One rolled to the floor. In a huff, she grabbed it and swished it again in the water, soaking her sleeves, splashing puddles on the floor. A dog barked from the other side of the table.

  Henrietta jumped. “Good Lord, you’re huge!” The dog nodded her head and dropped something heavy from her mouth. A fair-sized chunk of granite. “You’re not supposed to come inside.” The dog must have entered when she went out to the garden. “My uncle won’t allow it, and I daresay, I can’t stop you.” The dog must weigh over a hundred pounds. What would she feed it? A goat? She only had the two. The dog plunked gracelessly, shaking the floorboards, to lick her inner thigh. So she was a lady dog.

  “I’ve never kept a dog before. Are you hungry now?”

  The dog stopped and cocked her head, letting out a bark just as someone knocked at her front door.

  She gave the dog an appreciative nod. “Clever trick.” Dirt smudged her stays. The knocking came louder. A quick swipe with a damp rag only made the smudge worse.

  “If it’s Shrupp or my uncle, I swear—” Henrietta tossed
the rag onto the table beside the carrots. “Stay here.” She made it all the way to the front door before realizing she wasn’t alone.

  The dog panted beside her, rock fixed between her fangs.

  Henrietta opened the door. At this point, she expected half of Manhattan to show up and ask to stay. But it was Dr. Nealy, looking more distressed than pleased to be there.

  “Doctor. Good afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Caldwell.” He frowned at the dog. “I was down the street attending at Mr. Henshaw’s. I thought I’d stop by and check on Mr. Hardwicke.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Dr. Nealy’s eyes traveled the front of Henrietta’s mussed dress. She fought the urge to hook her finger under his nose and lift it to where it belonged.

  “If I’ve come at a bad time, please forgive me.”

  He nodded a bow and turned to leave. She was about to let him. Then she remembered her objective to flirt with marriageable men. “Nothing to forgive. Please come in. A spot of tea, perhaps?”

  His expression softened. “I usually say no, but this time, if it won’t cause too much trouble, tea would be welcome.” He laughed, one quick huff of relief. Following her inside the house, he gave the dog a wide berth. “My day started early. Mrs. Mizrahi—”

  Henrietta nearly knocked him over, turning to him in a rush. “Has she had the baby?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid the baby isn’t as ready as she is.” As he spoke, he stepped back, offering more space between them. The dog filled it.

  “But her health is good?”

  “She’s resting. A friend came to stay with her.”

  Absently, Henrietta stroked the dog’s head. Her fur was surprisingly soft. “I should stop by tomorrow. See if there’s anything I can do.”

  He frowned again. “It would seem you have your hands full here.”

  It would give her an excuse to not be home. “How true. Come along. Your patient is right this way.”

  Her parade followed her. What was she, a matron at a museum showing off her collection? Stiff and proud? Was that how she came across? This would never do.

  She knocked on the attic door before entering.

  “Back for more?” Marcus drawled from his cot. The smile dropped from his face when Dr. Nealy appeared behind her. “Oh. Doctor. Good to see you. I’m afraid I have no blood to offer today. Tapped out. Mrs. Caldwell, now she has nice veins. Plump and—”

  “Mr. Hardwicke!” Henrietta protested.

  Sissy vaulted from the doorway onto Marcus, dropping her rock on the bed, and licking every inch of him. He fell back chortling, blocking his face with his arms.

  “Sissy! Sissy, girl. Stop!” He wriggled beneath the massive dog, gasping for air.

  Dr. Nealy’s nostrils flared. “Send her out, Mrs. Caldwell!”

  He had no right to be angry with her. Sissy wasn’t her dog to control, but this was her house. At least for now.

  “Sissy,” Henrietta said with the patience of a mother to a child.

  The dog burrowed her head into Marcus’s armpit. He howled with laughter. The dog groaned in ecstasy.

  “Sissy. Come!”

  Sissy stopped and lifted her head. After a moment’s hesitation, she launched herself at Henrietta’s feet.

  “We’ll return with tea.” She gave Sissy a firm look.

  She’d give one to herself as well, if she could. She needed to leave the attic so she could stop thinking about Marcus kissing her. Or teasing her. Or being there. In a bed. “Stop,” Henrietta told herself, clutching the handrail at the bottom of the stairs. The dog stopped. A grin spread across her muzzle, eager for another command.

  As the kettle heated, Henrietta found scraps for Sissy to tide her over until she found the time to hunt a moose. After tucking a nicer fichu into place, she tamed her wild hair and removed the stains from her stays. Gathering tea supplies onto a tray, Henrietta and the dog returned to the attic. Sissy brought her rock.

  Dr. Nealy stopped speaking upon her arrival. “Ah. Thank you.” He took the offered teacup and set it aside as Sissy found space for herself at the end of Marcus’s bed. The doctor frowned.

  “As I was saying, the Continental army has an enormous discipline problem.” He opened his medicine case. “It shall put an end to the potential for war as likely as camp fever.” He took out two bottles and checked their labels.

  “You’ll always find a few bad soldiers.” Marcus eyed the bottles warily, keeping his hand on Sissy’s back. “But this is about fighting tyranny. Letters alone shall not make a difference. Blood must be drawn. I’d expect you to agree with that, Doctor.” He gave Henrietta a wink. She responded with a firm glare to play nice.

  Dr. Nealy set the bottles on the table beside the remains of her books, ignoring Marcus’s barb. “Boston expelled the entire 4th Georgia Battalion for violence and theft. My colleague, Dr. Wittenbottom, was called to Roxbury because each man of that battalion received 300 lashes for stealing money, papers, and the commission of none other than their own commander. This conflict is breeding incivility among the very people demanding rights and liberties. They don’t deserve it.”

  Henrietta was tired of being civil and never having rights. She’d flirt and sit quietly another time. “You are leaving out a vital piece of information covered by the Courant. If you read the article on the 4th Georgia, you would remember those men were once British deserters. Their loyalties are to themselves. They have no country, nor ambition for independence. You cannot, in good faith, base everything you know about the Continental army on one battalion.”

  Dr. Nealy crossed his arms over his chest and held one hand to his chin. His eyes bore into her as if she were an incurable disease.

  She poured more tea into Marcus’s cup, avoiding the slow grin worming across his face.

  “Hetty Betty, America’s prettiest patriot.”

  “Hush, Hardwicke.” A queer feeling rose in her stomach she refused to identify. “I’m neither a patriot nor loyalist. Those rights you speak of don’t apply to me.” Annoyed with Dr. Nealy for his lack of perspective, frustrated with Marcus for his impertinence, Henrietta gathered their teacups, finished or not, loaded her tray, and headed for the stairs.

  Dinner needed cooking. Shrupp would return, and so would her uncle. Too many men to placate, and none of them worth it. “Sissy, come.”

  At least she had another female in the house.

  ~ ~ ~

  Pain no longer plagued Marcus. In fact, he couldn’t feel much of anything. He was either floating down a river, nestling on pillowy clouds in the sky, or lolling on the soft belly of a willing lover. Definitely not the attic cot. He was sure he’d still feel the rough ticking against his skin.

  Time slipped and stretched. Light faded.

  By the time the sun struck him through the window, his mouth was too dry to speak, and an ache cleaved the center of his head. Unfortunately, he saw all too well the outlined form of a naked man standing in the middle of the room.

  “Never mind. I wasn’t having a nightmare. I am living a nightmare. Put your smalls on, man.”

  Shrupp scratched at the dark curls choking his flaccid penis. “The last time I went to a whore, she did a trick with a spoon and a billiard ball. Ever see something like that?”

  Marcus bit off his initial response and answered, “The last time you were here you threatened to slit my throat. What makes you think I want to know what fetches your mettle?”

  Shrupp slapped his chest and turned away to sort his clothes. “I’ll see if she makes house calls.”

  Marcus stretched, shifting his sore hips. Having the fracture box on his lower leg was like wearing a bear trap. He needed to get out of bed, away from these four walls and vaulted ceiling.

  Shrupp, wearing breeches, hummed while he shav
ed. With a swish of his razor through the bowl of water, he lifted his chin, pulling the skin taut. The edge of the blade scraped his thick dark hairs. He rested the razor at the edge of the bowl, ruminating.

  “You’re from around here. Write me a list of men known to be rebels. I want the ones most likely to switch sides if their pockets are lined.”

  Marcus sat up and stretched his back. “I’ll do no such thing. How about a list of those who make the best apple pie? You ever have an apple pie so good the apples melt in your mouth and the flaky crust erupts from all the butter? My mam used to bake the most amazing—”

  “I don’t care about pie.”

  Though the hand gripping the razor hadn’t flexed, Marcus knew it was a good time to back down. “I was going to say bread.”

  “How about another dose of laudanum?” Shrupp threatened, taking a step closer.

  “No, thank you. I prefer Mrs. Caldwell’s bone broth. Tastes better.”

  Shrupp strummed the back of the razor against his knuckles. “I want the desperate ones. The ones who care about being on the winning side. To which tavern do they go?” He drove the tip of the razor into Marcus’s mattress, a scary six inches from his hand.

  Marcus swept his gaze from the razor to Shrupp’s unyielding face.

  Well then. There were several ways to answer such a question. Marcus could be honest, he could lie, he could lead Shrupp astray, or he could offer a half-truth with a healthy dose of danger.

  “Oh, you mean the little place up the road from the shipyards. It’s called The Loggerhead.” He was going to die, be hanged by his own tongue. “The nicest men you’ll ever meet.” In truth, the most dangerous. They had the reputation of scaring highwaymen back to proper employment. “I’ve never been there, to be honest. I like my taverns bright and cheery. A band playing in the corner and a comely girl on my lap. I don’t mind if they thin the ale if the atmosphere is right. I’m easy like that.”