Theresa Romain - It Takes Two to Tangle

He turned his fine head back up to the gloating eagle. His shoulders shrugged and he tucked his left arm across his body, annoyance creasing his eyebrows. Frances realized he was trying to cross his arms across his chest, the memory of an old protective gesture he could no longer make.

“I would welcome her letters if she would consider sending them again,” he said at last. “They kept me in London when I had almost decided to leave, and they’ve been a tremendous comfort since.”

He had told her he’d lost confidence after his first call on Caroline, but she had no idea he’d been wounded so deeply as to beat a retreat. “Caroline’s letters have helped you that much, then?”

“Yes.”

“And you want them still, even if she can never give you more than friendship?”

“She might say that,” he said, “but she might not mean it. Perhaps she hasn’t met the right man yet.”

“And you believe you are that man.”

“That’s for her to decide.” He stretched out long legs and crossed his ankles. “Without the letters, though, she’ll never decide in my favor. There are too many other men cluttering up her life. The letters are the only way I may capture her alone.”

“So you do want an unfair advantage, after all.” She must have sounded bitter, for this seemed to needle him.

“It’s only unfair if no one else has the ability to write her a damn letter. Which they all do.” He sounded cross now, gathering his right arm into a white-knuckled grip. “Pardon my language, but her choice in correspondents really is up to her, Frances. Not you.”

If you only knew.

No, it would be cruelty to tell him the truth now—cruelty to both of them. She couldn’t watch him grow angry and disappointed at losing not only his would-be lover but a supposed friend.

She couldn’t disappoint him. And she didn’t want to admit her wrongdoing.

Just as she’d done with Charles so long ago, wasn’t it? She hadn’t learned her lesson; she didn’t want to. Maybe there was still a little of the younger, selfish Frances in her after all.

“You’re right,” she said smoothly. “We don’t have to discuss it anymore.”

No. She hadn’t learned her lesson.

“I’m sorry; I was too harsh.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I must be on edge from the ball.”

A good choice of topic. Frances could prolong a conversation about social matters infinitely. And as long as he permitted it, she would be here. With him. Alone.

She settled back against the wall, wondering if the Prussian-blue plaster would leave a dusty mark on her gown. For tonight, Caroline had entrusted the costly garment to her.

She was entrusted with many responsibilities she’d just as soon abdicate. But she shouldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“A ball is often enough to set one on edge,” she answered. “The heat and the noise, maybe.”

“Being made to dance with one arm.” He gave a choked laugh.

“Well, yes. That too.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, close enough on the velvety blue sofa that Frances could sense the coiled tension of his muscles. He was all stark angles and lines, yet his mood was so many subtle shades. Unwilling humor, unbearable pride.

She knew him, because she was the same way. And oh, how she wanted to close the distance between them, to tug off his austere black and white clothing, and reveal the man beneath. Her skin prickled under kidskin gloves, linen and sarcenet fabrics. She longed for the touch of this man, not just the luxurious barriers of her clothes.

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose again, then let his arm fall to his side. “Had Jem and Emily truly consulted my wishes, they would not have arranged a ball in this way. But I don’t blame them. They didn’t get back the same brother they sent away, and so there is not as much to celebrate as they had hoped. Thankfully, they are too generous to acknowledge their disappointment.”

“No one could be disappointed by you,” Frances said, hoping the words did not sound rote and trite. “Your brother and sister-in-law love you deeply.”

“I must sound ungrateful to you.”

“Well… yes, a bit.” Frances smiled to lessen the sting of her words. “But it is entirely understandable. Just because a person goes to great lengths to help, it does not follow that such efforts were welcomed.”

“Exactly. I appreciate their intent, but not the way they’ve carried it out. Don’t let that be known, though. They mean so well. I can’t bring myself to tell them their efforts are wasted.”

“Are you sure it’s a waste? I thought you had an excellent time at the Applewood House ball. Maybe it’s only the conspicuousness of your role in this ball that’s left you unsettled.”

His forehead creased in thought. “I had more hope at the Applewood House ball. I hadn’t yet seen much of the ton, and I could hold to the illusion that they would welcome me back as if I’d never left.”

“They did welcome you back, though.”

“But not as if I’d never left.”

“No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t.” At his sharp look, Frances explained, “The ton’s changed in the last three years, just as you have. Even if you had lived in an icehouse for three years and didn’t alter a bit, you wouldn’t have come back to the same world you left. Different paintings hang in the National Gallery; different maidens make their come-out each year. There are new scandals. People lose face or gain fortunes. They topple in and out of love. Some of them leave; some die. That’s just… normal.”

Her throat closed on the word, and she fell silent. He didn’t need to hear everything she thought and felt. He only wanted a bit of perspective, not History of Frances’s Wrongdoing and Fall.

Which was hardly a story she wanted to retell.

After an endless few seconds, his mouth twisted unwillingly up. “You really are terrifying, Frances. You put me very decisively in my place.”

“I only seek to help you find it again.”

“Yes, I realize that.” He studied the deep blue ceiling as if it were the night sky, full of constellations to guide him. “I am coming to realize how much has changed every time I try to repeat an old pleasure. They cannot be recaptured, whether they are as simple as a dance or as elaborate as greeting a ballroom full of people I once thought of as friends.”

The war, of course. It had changed Frances just as much, stripping pleasures from her like a forester slicing unwanted branches from a trunk. For her, the war had been a capstone to an old life. For Henry, it must serve as the foundation for a new one.

“Not all pleasures are lost, surely.” The words stumbled from Frances’s mouth. “You may not regain the old ones, but new ones will present themselves instead.”

Look at me, she wanted to say. I’ll help you find them; we’ll find them together.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, his brows knit as he held out his left hand, studied its form. He flipped it over and flexed his fingers, then let it sink to his side again. “I’ve found new joys different from the old.”

Joys such as writing letters. Better yet, receiving them. “I think I understand,” Frances said.

“Yes, I suppose you do.” He cut his eyes toward her. “What about you? What joys does your life hold? It must be an endless round of pleasures for you.”

“My life is never dull, I can promise you that. Every day is different, as is every one of our daily challenges.”

“And what are those?”

“Oh.” Frances waved a hand. “You’d think them silly, probably. All the tiny, everyday mysteries that make up life in high society for women. But they do require a certain ingenuity.”

“Having lived with Emily, I completely believe you about the cunning needed to succeed in society. Do you like life in London, then?”

“You can think of a better question than that, Henry. Good God, you don’t have to act as if we’ve only just met.”

He grinned. “Maybe it’s a dull question, but I do wonder about the answer. Caro—and you—came from the country in a burst of fashion and charm a year ago, but what was your life like before then?”

Frances coughed. “Any bursts of fashion and charm are and always have been Caroline’s doing.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Didn’t you just hint at your own cunning?”

“You make it sound sordid.”

“Oh, probably.” He made an impatient gesture with his arm. “I didn’t say it correctly because it was meant to be a compliment, and instead it turned you into a hedgehog. All prickles.”

She snorted. “All right, I take your meaning. Yes, I like London, though I preferred the country. And now we may find a new topic of conversation or even return to the ballroom. Only please do not speak of my prickles.”

Just… smooth them.

She must keep her thoughts more tightly leashed; Henry was more perceptive than most. His eyes were sky and sea and every unfathomable thing watching her, and she feared he could sense the heat in her, the wistful want.

“I don’t want to return to the ballroom yet,” he said. “Do you?”

She swallowed. “No, I suppose not. But I probably should.”

“They’re getting along quite well without us. Emily and Jem didn’t really expect me to dance beyond the opening minuet, and I’d rather be in here than out in the grand saloon entertaining a pack of impertinent questions about my arm.”

“I could manage a few impertinent questions if you think that would give you the full experience of the Argyll Rooms.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that you could.” His smile was faint, nothing but the specter of his bright grin. “If you put your mind to it, you could probably convince me to reveal my every secret.”

“I’d never ask for a confidence you didn’t want to give.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “And I wouldn’t tell you unless I wanted to.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she repeated. “You’re an artist and a soldier. You see the underpinnings of every scene and strategy.”

Except for the letters, of course. Hope could blind anyone.

She fairly ached, feeling such a distance between them. She had brought him to the Blue Room to comfort them both, to hammer out a few truths. But she’d only given him more lies.

“I like the way you see me,” Henry said at last. “You may be the only one who sees me thus.” She was pinned by his eyes, as stark as memory itself.

“What did you want to tell me, by the way?” he asked. “When we came in here. Was it something about—”

“I wanted to give you the truth.” In deed, if not in words, she could do this much.

The air seemed close and portentous, and Henry too far. She must pull him back to her, to the cool nightfall of this dim room. She shifted closer until she could feel the bone of his hip pressing into hers.

His eyes widened, and she caught his face in her hands and moored him with her body.

Good God, she is lovely.

Frances’s face was but a few inches from his, her fingers cradling the bones of his jaw. The room was all her bright hazel eyes, the gentle arch of her brow, her warm dark hair, her creamy skin.

He’d seen Frances, talked to her many times in the past few weeks. He’d even been alone with her, touched her, a not-quite-proper clasp of fingers. But now… he’d really talked to her. They were truly alone. And he was finally seeing her, clever and desirable—and oh God, did he want to touch her some more.

She held his face in light fingertips, waiting for him to say or do something. Her breathing was shallow and quick.

Henry was not sure he was breathing at all.

Before his brain could voice a contrary opinion, he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. Ah.

Soft as the feather of a quill, faint as the line drawing that guided the form of a painting. It was an art, the touch of mouth on mouth, and he was out of practice, but it did not matter. Her lips parted for his, and her hands pulled his face closer with the desperate truth of her own desire.

He slid his hand up her side, finding her shoulder, tickling her neck with the lightest brush of his thumb. Up it whisked, then down, and she shivered and made a little sound in the back of her throat. Mmmm. Her fingers slid over his face, sweet and tender, then ruffled through his hair, her nails lightly raking his scalp.

All sense vanished beneath the primal triumph of pleasing a woman. Somehow he would persuade her to want him, this clever and mysterious woman who sat aside, who noticed everything, who let him kiss her when he’d feared no one would want him again.