A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 8

  Shrupp slowly slid the razor out of the mattress. “Do you ever shut up?”

  Marcus lifted a shoulder, knowing if Shrupp wanted to hurt him, he would have already. “Is that rhetorical?”

  The ranger went back to his side of the attic, grabbing his shirt and sniffing it. Satisfied with its level of cleanliness, he proceeded to dress. He left, attaching weapons to various parts of his uniform.

  Not ten minutes after Shrupp left, Henrietta tapped her way up the stairs.

  “Hulloo,” she sang. Sissy harmonized with a whine.

  “No need to tiptoe. Attila the Hun woke me with his delightful charm.”

  She set a tray by his side. This time, Marcus appreciated the round arse looming by his bedside. He tried not to get caught staring. Sissy leapt over him and took her spot at the foot of the bed, depositing her slick rock in his lap.

  “Thanks, Sis.” He handed it back. The dog held it between her front paws and methodically licked it clean.

  Henrietta sat in the chair opposite the cot. “How did you come to name her?”

  He paused from rubbing Sissy’s massive, wrinkly head. “How could she be named anything but Sisyphus?”

  She laughed. “You also could have gone with Cerberus. She's large enough to guard Hades.”

  “She only has one head, Hen. But damn, if she hasn’t carried this rock with her her entire life.”

  “Always the same one?”

  “I once tossed it in a lake to see what she would do.” Luckily, it wasn’t a deep lake. “You’d have thought I drowned her puppies.”

  “I guess she didn’t know you yet.”

  And there it was. That tacit piece of their history. Henrietta knew the boy who collected broken animals and broken objects because his own family broke him. So yes, he retrieved her damn rock.

  He changed the subject. “What did you bring me? I’m starving.”

  “I checked on you last night. You were insensible.”

  “Aye. Nealy was quick with the laudanum.”

  Henrietta handed him a plate with a pile of cooked greens beside eggs and toast. “My mother always made us eat our greens when we were healing from one injury or another.”

  His stomach roiled. “I might have to agree with Nealy. Your mother was a witch.” He pushed the greens around with his fork, trying to keep them away from the eggs. He stole a furtive glance at Henrietta. She was watching hawkishly.

  Marcus dipped a tine into the greens. A slimy blob quivered from it all the way to his mouth. Henrietta’s brows rose. He chewed. And chewed. It tasted like it came from the bottom of the slop heap, that he was stealing a meal from the pigs. “Tasty.”

  Henrietta huffed. “Don’t lie to me. You hate it.”

  “I love that you care.” Knowing he couldn’t refuse to eat it, not with her watching, he scooped the mass of it onto his fork using the toast to prod it in place. He ate the whole thing, almost without gagging.

  Henrietta waited for him to finish eating, though not patiently. Back and forth she paced through the center of the attic, gathering paper boats into her apron pocket.

  “Are you in a hurry? Somewhere to be?” He swiped his toast through the egg’s greasy remains, avoiding the green bilge water at the edge.

  “No. I’ll visit with Mrs. Mizrahi this afternoon.” She paused. “Are you ready for a reading lesson?”

  Marcus placed his plate on the tray, wiped his mouth once more with a napkin, and found nothing else to stall for time. “Depends. This needs to be fair. Have you chosen a target for your affections?” He couldn’t imagine she had. The pool was limited. There was Shrupp, whom she feared; Dr. Nealy, a pain in her side; Augie or himself.

  “No affections. Remember, I don’t wish to fall in love. This is a matter of practicality. Economics and safety. The purest reasons for marriage.”

  If he ever married, those would not be the reasons. But then, he wasn’t a woman, and his situation was different. And he liked intimacy, provided it didn’t get too intimate. “Right.” He could offer to hire her as a secretary and give her a safe place to live. He owned enough property. Something should suit. “Look, Hen, if it’s—”

  “Dr. Nealy.”

  “Why?” His question came out harsher than he’d intended. He coughed and tried again. “I mean, he’s highly educated, but twice you’ve argued with him, and he’s only been here twice. I understand you are not interested in love, but have you considered compatibility?”

  “He makes interesting conversation.”

  “He thinks your mother was a witch.”

  “So do you!” she retorted. Her face came alive with ferocity, and it made him crazy. He wanted to stir her up and pour her out.

  “He wouldn’t have eaten your greens. They don’t promote the healing properties of slop at Edinburgh.”

  “Slop? I made that for you!”

  “Come now, Hetty Betty,” he purred. “You deserve someone better than that.”

  Henrietta growled, fisting her hands at her sides. “Perhaps. Perhaps I deserve to be queen. But the reality is, I am me. This is me. I cannot blow where the wind takes me. I have no one to recommend me to society, and no money of my own. My entire dowry, such as it was, became Sam’s when we married. He squandered it long ago.”

  Good lord, he knew exactly who she was. He rubbed a hand over his unshaven face, sorting through his thoughts. What right did he have to tell her what to do? As her friend, and he believed he was, he respected what she wanted, regardless of his opinion.

  He let out a long sigh. “Fine. Let’s read.”

  “Truly?”

  “I’ll try.” He didn’t bother hiding the peevishness from his voice.

  Henrietta stood. “This would have been better in the parlor. I’ll collect supplies.”

  He couldn’t have agreed more. Marcus was sick of the attic and the helplessness.

  Sissy panted at his feet, grinning, holding her precious rock. At least she was happy.

  Chapter 9

  A weight lifted from Henrietta’s shoulders. She had a vision for her future and a plan for how to get there. Though she wasn’t much of a catch—penniless, plain, and past her prime—she had confidence Marcus could teach her to circumvent those ruts along the road to matrimonial status.

  Though Dr. Nealy wasn’t as handsome as Marcus, he was smart, came from a reputable family according to Uncle Caldwell, and practiced a respectable profession. He wasn’t cruel, though a bit aloof, and she was sure she could make him laugh from time to time with a little push. All in all, she could do worse.

  Henrietta grabbed sheets of paper and ink. Stopping before Willow’s door, she traced the crack in the frame with her eyes. Grief burrowed in her chest like a small animal finding refuge in a desolate winter. Would this winter ever end? She withdrew her key and unlocked her daughter’s door. A whiff of pungent mold wafting from the stained ceiling hit her nose. How many times had she scrubbed it clean with her tears mixing with vinegar? She wouldn’t cry today, she told herself. This had to be a new beginning.

  She crossed the room to Willow’s clothespress. On the shelf behind her small dresses neatly hanging in a row lay her hornbook primer with its columns of letters and numbers on one side and the Lord’s Prayer on the other. If Marcus could read anything he wanted, she could guess the Lord’s Prayer wasn’t at the top of his list.

  She also tucked Willow’s copy of bedtime stories under her arm in case he read better than she expected.

  Returning to the attic, Henrietta froze in the doorway.

  Marcus was on the floor. This time, on his hands and knees. With intent, he lowered his torso, firm muscles of his arms and back bunching beneath his shirt, then he straightened his arms, arching his back. He looked like a serpent about to strike. Henrietta’s mouth
emptied of words. If put to the task, she wouldn’t have been able to read at the moment either.

  She didn’t understand why, but seeing him like this made her thirsty, her skin sensitive, and heat envelope her. This must be a sudden fever. What else could it be?

  The hornbook slipped from her hands. At the loud thud, Marcus opened his eyes. It took some maneuvering to bring his legs before him, fracture box and all. Lines of pain deepened on his face.

  Henrietta forgot about her fever and rushed to him. “You need rest.” Getting a good hold of his upper arm on the carved, hard muscle, she helped him to the cot. They were both panting by the time he sat.

  “I’ve had rest. I can’t sit around any longer.” He lifted his bound leg to the bed with a grunt. Sissy growled her annoyance over being woken. He gave her a betrayed look, and she ducked her head apologetically.

  “And where do you intend to go? Or rather, how?”

  Marcus grinned, giving nothing away.

  “Don’t. Here.” She handed him the hornbook and sat on the chair. “Let’s figure out what you know, so we know where to begin.”

  He handed back the hornbook. Gently prodding her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he lowered it, forcing her to stare at her lap. “Look down.”

  “Why? Have I something on my dress? You’re not going to tweak my nose, are you?”

  Marcus sighed. “No, and no. Look anyway.”

  She looked down. Her hands played restlessly with the pleats of her dress. Her skin had been smooth when she first married, not so now. She didn’t have callouses, but her hands were rough, and her nails ragged.

  “Slowly, raise your eyes to mine.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  He clucked his tongue. “Again. This time, with less rush. Raise them to mine without lifting your face.” His voice was rough and low, burrowing under her skin. She realized he was the source of her sudden fever.

  She tried again. Steadily, her eyes traveled his chest the way she’d have liked her fingers to do, brushing the slopes and planes of him. Her mouth watered. Forget her fingers, she wanted to lick him. What was happening to her? She’d never had a desire to lick anyone.

  “Stop.”

  She froze, staring at his mouth, in the middle of licking her lips, wondering if he could read her mind.

  “Now ask me what I know.”

  Henrietta swallowed. She didn’t want to know what he knew. He clearly knew more than her.

  Unable to comply, she studied his wide mouth and the dark shadow of his beard. Her fingers recalled the rough feel of Sam’s cheeks when she shaved him. Would Marcus feel the same?

  “Henrietta?”

  She shook her head and propped the hornbook on her lap. “Do you know your letters?” She didn’t know where to look. His mouth was nearly as intimate as his robin’s egg eyes. She settled on his right cheek as a compromise. Though that proved just as dangerous. A shallow dimple appeared when he spoke.

  “I can sing them, name them, and recall them. It’s when they are put together on the page, it all falls apart.”

  “What happens?” Since she was five, Henrietta had been an avid reader, devouring every book to pass through her hands. She couldn’t imagine a childhood without stories.

  “The letters move. Sometimes they appear upside down, other times backward. You can forget similar-looking letters, I can’t tell them apart.”

  Henrietta never heard of such a thing, letters moving.

  “Has a physician ever checked your vision? Maybe Dr. Nealy can help?”

  The corners of his mouth hitched, but it was his dimple she watched. “Ah, but I can shoot a buck at two hundred yards.”

  Marcus leaned forward and plucked a curl from under her cap. The lock of blonde hair twisted around his finger. He tugged, and it bounced free. “Let some down. It softens your face.”

  She tried to push it behind her ear, but he stopped her, burning the flesh of her wrist with his light touch.

  “H-how about on your lap?” She handed him the hornbook for a closer look. “Are the letters crisp or blurry?”

  He pushed the hornbook back. Henrietta’s patience waned. Instead of answering her, to her dismay, he had her hold the hornbook up.

  “Your options,” he said, running his tongue over the edge of his teeth, enjoying her discomfort. “Hold the book in your hand and lean forward a little. I’d like to look down your bodice, if I may.”

  Henrietta gasped.

  “Or, place it on my lap for me. I give you permission to trail your fingers over my thigh.”

  Her eyes opened as wide as her gaping mouth. “You are a scoundrel, a bastard. That’s what you are!” She raised the hornbook at him.

  Roaring with laughter, Marcus fell against Sissy, holding his ribs. “You know my parents were married. Christ, Hetty Betty, have you never flirted before?” Sissy nibbled at his ear. He batted her away. His lashes were wet, he was laughing so hard.

  “I prefer a more direct approach. One which makes me feel less like a trollop and more like a lady.” She scooted her chair further from him. He wanted to look down her bodice. The nerve of the man! She covered her fichu-swathed bodice with a hand as a flush broke over her. The attic was far too hot for lessons.

  “No one could ever mistake you for a trollop. Go ahead. I won’t bite. I promise.” He implored her to lean forward with the hornbook.

  “I’m not so sure. You’re the very definition of a trickster.”

  “Biting comes later. You’re not ready.”

  Her eyes flared. “Take the hornbook, Marcus. Read me what you can of the Lord’s Prayer.” She was going to hell for this. And if she was, Marcus would be right beside her. For eternity. As if that weren’t punishment enough for trying to do some good in the world.

  He took it, reciting the whole psalm perfectly, if between hiccupping laughs. “I’ve been to church a time or two, believe it or not.”

  “That’s how you’ve gotten this far, isn’t it? Memorizing?”

  One unrepentant brow rose. “Aye.”

  Henrietta took out a sheet of paper and wrote: Hope springs eternal. With an impish grin, she blew the ink dry before placing it on his lap and running a trembling finger along the hard knob of his knee. She forgot to breathe. Oh, but the attic was hot.

  “You’re dripping.”

  She swiped the back of her hand over her brow, miffed he’d notice. “’Tis hot up here.”

  “I meant . . .” He pointed to her right hand. The quill remained between her fingers, dripping black ink onto her dress. “Oh!” She jumped from her seat, nearly toppling the inkwell.

  “It’s not the worst I’ve seen. Urine’ll get it out. Lucky for you, I happen to have a chamber pot ready to go.”

  Of course, he’d say that. The son of a publisher would know all the tricks for getting ink out of clothing.

  Henrietta looked to the rafters for divine intervention. Could no one knock on her door this minute? No? Fine.

  “Let’s get through one lesson, shall we?” She sat.

  Marcus took his lesson seriously. Three words were brutal. A book would prove impossible.

  “If you can memorize whole passages, you can memorize letter combinations. That way you don’t have to read each letter, but conquer them in groups. What do you think?”

  “I think you should allow some of your curls to go free, and no one has tried this approach before. I’m game, if you are.” He held out his hand to shake. Henrietta considered his hand, considered the strength and size of it, and how his calloused fingers might feel curling over hers.

  She slipped her much smaller hand into his. He tugged her close, allowing his words to flow over her lips. She had no idea how sensitive all those little nothing parts of her were.

  �
��Tomorrow, I want an interesting passage.”

  He made the statement sound wicked, full of indecent intent.

  “I brought bedtime stories,” she managed, badly. “I mean—” She would make him proud. It was too much to hope to make him suffer. Leaning closer, she inhaled the masculine scent of his skin and barely resisted rubbing her cheek against his like a cat.

  He turned his head a degree, and his lips met hers.

  The kiss was a little off-center. He fixed it with a gentle glide that became less gentle the more it progressed. She expected a similar kiss to the last one, but this one offered mercy. As his tongue invaded her mouth, his fingers tunneled beneath her cap, sinking into her curls, finding where they belonged on the curve of her skull.

  Of all the kisses she’d ever shared, this one, long, hot, and sliding into tomorrow, turned her inside out. All the feverish parts of her could burn, for all she cared. This was too confusing, and far too delicious. Her hands clenched against her skirts, fighting the urge to slide with him.

  “Marcus.” It was a prayer and a plea.

  He drew back, bewilderment clouding his eyes.

  Pressing her wet, swollen lips together, she tamped down the tingling evidence of her desire. It wouldn’t do her any good to think a kiss could unmoor him the same.

  Marcus leaned over the edge of the bed and pushed his chamber pot into her hands. “You’d best take care of that stain.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Your missus took off right quick. She don’t like me much.” Augie let his eyes wander the two sides of the attic. One neat with military precision, the other a little too lived in.

  “She’s not my missus, and she likes you fine. She went to visit a friend having a baby. If there’s someone she doesn’t like, it’s me. I’m vexing her.”

  “Too many demands? Feed me, clean me, wipe my arse, and while you’re at it, give me a quick toss-off?”