No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster
Even as she spoke, she knew she shouldn’t, that she was stepping over a boundary.
‘Love destroys.’ He spoke flatly and sat heavily in the chair opposite, without his usual elegance.
The clock above the mantel ticked and the fire gave a sudden crackle. She twisted the fabric of her shawl about her fingers.
‘Not always,’ she said softly. ‘Our most noble deeds are done for love. It gives us the capacity for good as well as evil. One must believe that. Otherwise the world becomes hopeless...’ She stopped, biting her lip.
A thread had pulled loose and she wound it around her finger, so tight it left fine white lines across her skin.
He flashed a cynical smile. ‘I doubt the Trojan warriors would share that view.’
‘Shakespeare might. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove”.’
‘He also wrote Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Which was a tragedy because of the impediments to love, not because of love itself.’
He smiled, his expression more sad than cynical. ‘You are a romantic. But do you base these beliefs purely on the work of poets or have you real-life experience?’
The room felt still, a stillness that was tangible. Self-preservation urged her to laugh, to mock, to say something careless and witty or even foolish. Yet she could not. It was suddenly important to her that he regain hope.
‘I base them on my parents, because they were truthful and loving,’ she said at last.
‘Mine weren’t.’
The words sounded unwilling, as though drawn from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, at once hating the triteness of the phrase.
She glanced at him. Candlelight flickered across the harsh planes of his face. He looked so sad that she reached to touch his cheek, the movement involuntary.
He jerked at her caress. She dropped her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘Don’t be.’ He spoke so softly that she wondered if she’d dreamed the words.
As though handling fine porcelain, he took her hand. Her skin tingled. All thoughts, all feelings seemed centred on their two hands as he rubbed his thumb against her open palm, a feathered touch. ‘You have a quality, Miss Gibson, which makes me want to believe the impossible. That water can churn butter.’
Slowly, he lifted her hand and kissed it.
Her heart thundered and her breath quickened.
Letting go of her hand, he raised his forefinger and touched the tip of her chin, tracing the smooth line of her cheek up to her temple.
She felt the touch into the very core of her being. His fingers slid down to her throat, tracing her collarbone and touching the sleeve of her dress. The fabric shifted. His fingers pushed under it, edging it from her shoulder.
‘Paul.’ It was a whisper.
She was filled with sensations different from anything she had experienced—a warmth, a need, an exhilarating recklessness. She met his gaze. His eyes were no longer cold but smouldering as his gaze roamed over her face, her neck, her shoulders and the décolleté of her gown.
A log crackled.
With the sound, his mood shifted. He dropped his hand, jerking it away as though stung. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.’
‘I wanted—’
‘I know.’ He stood abruptly. The chair grated on the hardwood. He walked to the fireplace, his back rigid. ‘You must go back.’
‘Yes,’ she said, still dazed.
‘Miss Gibson,’ he spoke with sudden force. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. It was unpardonable.’
‘It’s no matter.’
‘Miss Gibson?’ He turned to her.
‘Yes.’
‘This will not happen again, you have my word.’
He left the room swiftly, closing the door behind him with a muted click.
Slowly, as though needing to orchestrate the movement of her limbs, Rilla rose and walked to the hearth. She felt the warmth of the fire on her legs. She gripped the mantel, glad of the feel of solid wood against her hands. In front of her, she could see her own reflection in the huge mirror which hung over the hearth.
How could she look so outwardly unchanged? And yet she was immeasurably altered. She’d wanted to kiss the viscount. She’d never wanted to kiss anyone before...ever...
Now she did.
And her body was a stranger to her, demanding things she didn’t understand and knew she could not...must not...have.
She’d known since she was a child that she should not love or marry.
This was truer now than ever, particularly with this man. Despite herself, her gaze slid to the miniature as it lay face down on the side table.
But for the first time, she had an inkling of what she must forgo.
And if she couldn’t?
If this heat...this feeling...proved too strong.
With a jerk of sudden energy, she pushed herself away from the mantel. She had to get away from here; from the miniature and from her own scared, wide-eyed reflection.
Almost violently, she pushed open the door, half running into the corridor.
‘Evening.’
The voice was cool. She jerked about, half stumbling. Jack St John lolled against a wall adjacent, smiling.
‘What are you doing here?’ she questioned.
‘I am,’ he said, taking out both handkerchief and silver snuffbox, ‘on my way to the card game.’
‘Oh—I...I wish you luck.’
‘Indeed.’ He smiled. ‘I am feeling lucky tonight.’
She watched as he took a pinch of snuff and sniffed, before carefully dabbing his nostrils with his handkerchief. ‘Prodigiously lucky, in fact.’
* * *
Rilla flung herself down beside her churn. She kicked off her slippers and pulled out the ribbons Heloise had so painstakingly twisted into her unruly hair.
The whole evening had been a nightmare from start to finish. Instinctively, she reached for the solid wood of her churn like a sailor for a life ring. She rubbed her fingers along the grain, moving the wheel so that it made a comforting thump...thump...thump.
Surely if she stayed focused on force and momentum and mathematical calculations she would be safe. Such activities had helped her in the days after Sophie’s disappearance and rescue, during her mother’s illness and her father’s gambling.
Yes, if she occupied her mind with force, gravity and momentum, her skin would no longer tingle from his touch.
Besides, she was being highly illogical to still feel that tingle. The touch had occurred hours past. It was scientifically impossible that she could retain any sensation of his fingers brushing her palm, trailing across her cheek or pushing the cloth down from her shoulder—
‘Rilla!’ Imogene’s voice came from outside of the bedchamber.
Rilla lowered the trough with a clunk.
‘Gracious! It is three a.m. Whatever are you doing—?’ Imogene stopped on the threshold.
‘Adjusting the angle of my trough.’
‘Well,