CHAPTER SIX
Riding Lessons
During the trip upstairs and back to her room, Preshea put more than simply physical distance between herself and the captain. He had carefully not overwhelmed her, yet she felt as though she were drowning. He hadn’t pushed, yet she was at the edge of a precipice. The horrible thing was that she knew she could pull away. He would let her.
Preshea leaned against her closed door and listened until she heard his shut. She felt as if she might cry. There was something so perfect about him. But perfect for a Preshea four husbands ago, when she might have learned to love and value such a man. Instead, now she would always be waiting, expecting him to turn into them.
She knew this was a weakness in her nature. She was rejecting something outright that might well be the saving of her. Not saving her soul, or her heart, or anything so trite. But her, the decent human part of her, the tiny pieces that were left. Yet she hadn’t the courage to overcome what other men had done to her. They were dead and gone, leaving no ghosts to haunt her. She’d given each his two years in widow’s weeds, black to mauve, for a death without unbirth. And they’d left her alone and drained, picked over, rotted to the bone exactly like them. She honored their memory by making an altar out of her inability to trust.
Preshea spent the next few days avoiding Captain Ruthven, applying the skills of her trade in order to do so. She’d been in subterfuge as well as murder. Even at a house party of confined society, it was easy to be unavailable or perpetually conversing with others. No doubt Gavin was startled by how well one female with the right set of skills could avoid contact with a man who had no artifice at all.
* * *
The second week started out much the same as the first, alternating between whist and loo, absent of late-night kisses. Breakfast was casual, luncheon was civil, and supper was formal. The storm outside increased in ferocity, turning into a veritable gale.
Preshea took every opportunity to coax Jack into ridiculousness. She also managed a private discussion with Lady Violet. During this exchange, she insinuated much about the poor quality of Jack’s offering, not as a suitor but as a man. His buffoonish ways were to be pitied. Surely, dear Lady Vi wasn’t serious about the unfortunate creature? As the older woman, Preshea felt it her duty to speak with censure on the subject of young men who waved dried flowers about willy-nilly and pressed a girl’s hand. Fervently. In public!
And so forth.
This met with modest success. Lady Violet was the type to be impressed by the opinion of others, especially when such an opinion was expressed in a sympathetic manner.
Preshea, having found the house’s security up to her standards that first evening, did not feel the need to make such a thorough check every night. But she did walk the windows after dark, to see if she might catch anyone looking in. She took pains to avoid encountering other members of the house party, living or dead. Now that she was on her guard against Formerly Connie’s wispy ways, it wasn’t difficult. She saw Miss Leeton once, paying a late-night call on her affianced (actresses!), and Mr Jackson heading down to the kitchen upon some seafood-related quest. She did not encounter Captain Ruthven alone again.
Gavin.
She wasn’t certain whether she was grateful or disappointed. Nor did she know if he searched for her, padding about in his ridiculous banyan, hoping she might catch him.
She thought about it. But resisted.
* * *
Gavin was wounded by Preshea’s coldness. He thought of her as two people now – the Lady Villentia she played to an audience, and the Preshea she had allowed him to glimpse late at night. Preshea had sad eyes. Lady Villentia had a maddeningly clipped voice. Preshea had kissed him in the dark, frightened by her own daring, sweetly hesitant. Lady Villentia ignored him in the grey day, perfect nose tilted up.
Both of them watched the duke and the windows.
Of course, he’d gone looking for her the following night. And the night after that. And the night after that. He’d hoped to find Preshea going about Lady Villentia’s business, willing to crack her icy surface just for him.
He caught glimpses of Preshea occasionally – a hint across the room while she chatted. Those eyes, always wary, would alight briefly on him and shift. But not in welcome. He was no longer permitted in her circle. Oh, he could walk over, join the conversation. But then she would mysteriously not be part of it, her attention straying towards the piano or a game of backgammon. She was not cutting him. It was not so overt that anyone else noticed. Only that wherever he was, she was not.
It hurt. Naturally it did, because with two measly kisses, he was more intrigued by this widow than he’d been by any lady of his acquaintance, ever. But he knew why she was doing it. He’d seen such before, and he cursed the husbands, for one or all must have been brutes. How dared they dull such sharp perfection with misuse? Somehow, he must prove that she’d nothing to fear from him.
He watched her watch their host. He watched their host watch Jack. He watched Jack watch Lady Violet. And he watched Lady Violet, more often than not, watch the floor in embarrassment. Jack’s antics were becoming extreme with desperation. Lady Violet’s interest waned accordingly. Poor Jack had never learned that what could be charming during a ball became gauche over long rainy days in the countryside. Perhaps Preshea encouraged Jack in his foolishness, but it took so little effort, she was wasting her talents. Poor Jack was quite equal to ruining his chances without assistance.
The morning of the ninth day of Gavin’s punishment (as he’d come to think of it) dawned cheerful and sunny. This was a joy to all, for they’d begun to believe they’d be confined indoors for all three weeks.