Page 17 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

17

SILAS

S ilas had looked forward to his time in London with immense anticipation after being cooped up so long in his brother’s hunting lodge, and yet he could not remember spending a more interminable week in his life than the past seven days.

The one thing those days had in common: he had not seen Miss Easton.

Bence had sent him word just once, and his message had been two-fold: he had an investment opportunity for Silas, and he was waiting for a final piece of information about a promising avenue to clear Silas’s name.

Meanwhile, Silas had kept his promise to his brother to avoid Miss Easton and her father, but it was even more trying than he had anticipated. His desire to see Miss Easton did not abate, and yet, with each passing day, it became more apparent to him that he had been acting imprudently by seeking her company—even before he had known who her father was.

With a name beleaguered by scandal and a future over which the gallows hung threateningly, he had nothing at all to offer.

Apart from not having seen Miss Easton for a week, Silas had been cooped up in the townhouse while Frederick and the others made merry and attended a number of events with the ton . It was simply too dangerous for Silas to tempt fate by joining them when Lord Drayton might be in attendance.

When he had been tempted to take that chance despite the risk to his life, he had been obliged to take drastic measures to prevent himself: he had shaven his mustache.

Kicking his heels inside a townhouse in London was a different sort of torture than being obliged to remain cooped up in a hunting lodge. At the hunting lodge, at least there was little to do. In London, there were any number of delights beyond the shut front door of the townhouse.

And yet, Miss Easton was the delight he most missed and wished for. What he wouldn’t give to be transported back to Vauxhall or to spend another hour on the barge at her side.

It was a selfish wish.

Besides, who was to say that she was not already engaged to the man Drayton had chosen for her?

The thought was unbearable.

Instead of dwelling on impossible dreams and unpleasant possibilities, Silas took to playing the game he had come up with while shut away in the lodge: tossing crumpled bits of parchment into an empty brandy glass ten feet away.

It was far less amusing without his brothers playing too.

There was a knock on the door, and Silas tossed the last paper, which landed neatly in the cup.

He smiled in spite of himself. He might be a hermit with no friends and no future, but at least his aim was true.

“A message for you, sir,” said the footman, a small letter in his hand.

Silas took it and thanked him, looking at the script on the front. It was the script of a woman, but it was not one he recognized. Could it be…?

He broke the wafer and unfurled the letter, his eyes darting to the signature on the bottom: Miss Fairchild.

His brows pulled together, and he read the short missive.

Dear Mr. Hayes,

I hope this message finds you well. I pray you will forgive the irregularity of it. Necessity required me to tiptoe past the bounds of what many would consider proper. I do it out of love and concern for my cousin.

Silas’s heart skipped.

I beg you will find a way to be present at the orangery at Kew Gardens at noon tomorrow. Miss Easton has urgent need to speak with you.

I know we may rely upon you.

Miss Fairchild

Silas stared at the words, reading the few that had jumped off the page: Miss Easton has urgent need to speak with you .

He hardly knew how to feel upon reading that. Happy? Anxious?

When taken in combination with what had come before— I do it out of love and concern for my cousin— it made the matter seem ominous indeed. Was Miss Easton in trouble? And why did Miss Fairchild say it was urgent but then not request his presence until the next day—and at Kew, of all places? Surely, if it was truly urgent, it could not have waited until then.

No doubt Silas should send Frederick in his stead. Miss Easton could have no issue that required Silas specifically, and it would be unwise of him to go. The danger was that Lord Drayton might be at Kew along with her.

And yet, Silas would go. If Miss Easton needed him, he would do far more than leap onto a moving barge on the Thames to reach her.

He would have to take care not to be seen by Drayton. He would discover what Miss Easton needed, and then…he would try to help her understand that their friendship could not continue as it had been.

Heaven grant him the strength to utter those words, for no other power could.

“Freddie, I have hardly left this house for the past week. I made no complaint when I was left behind while you went to the prizefight nor when you attended Lord Rarington’s party. You cannot begrudge me a stroll amongst the plants. What precisely do you fear? That I shall be recognized by one of the ferns?”

Frederick’s unamused expression made clear what he thought of his brother’s jab. “Since when have you cared to promenade amongst flowers?”

“Flowers?” Fairchild repeated, coming through the door just then.

“Hayes insists he is going to Kew Gardens today,” Frederick said.

“Are you?” Fairchild asked Silas with only the faintest interest. He poured himself a drink from the liquor cabinet. “You may see my aunt there. Or perhaps not. Kew is enormous.”

Silas avoided his brother’s eye, but Frederick was not to be avoided.

“I have a sudden desire to join you,” Frederick said, his voice lifeless as he continued to stare at Silas.

“Do you?” Fairchild’s brows rose, then pulled together thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall join as well. A bit of fresh air would be welcome.”

Silas opened his mouth to remind them both that he needed no chaperone only to close it again. Frederick could be stubborn as an ox at times, and the expression on his face made it clear that this was one of those times.

When the carriage reached the gates of Kew, Silas was the first to descend. He was followed by not only Frederick and Fairchild but Drake as well.

He sighed as the three of them gathered around him like chicks around a hen. As Kew had been his idea—or so they thought—they seemed to think him the leader. Frederick knew, of course, that Silas had never been to Kew, but when Silas pointed this out, he merely said, “All the more reason for you to guide us. You will help us to see it with fresh eyes.”

But Silas had eyes only for the orangery. He had an inkling that Miss Fairchild had not intended for him to bring an entire entourage there, but what could be done?

He did his best to seem admiring of the gardens he had insisted he was so anxious to visit. In their defense, they were hardly to be sniffed at. Row upon row of flowering and leafy plants surrounded them as they traversed the paths. He had no idea such a variety even existed in the world, much less in a garden in England.

But amidst all the admiring of plants, his eyes darted around, looking for any sign of Drayton or Miss Easton.

“Is it everything you had hoped it would be?” Frederick asked after a quarter of an hour.

“Oh, quite,” Silas said, stopping to inspect a cabbage rose. “I thought to see citrus fruits, however. I have always wished to see a grove of orange trees.”

“Have you?” Frederick said with feigned curiosity and a sidelong glance.

“Anyone who has tasted an orange must surely share my same ambition.”

“Even if there is a grove of orange trees, you would not be permitted to partake of the fruit. Or are you merely here to lust after something forbidden?”

Silas met his brother’s gaze with reluctant appreciation at the subtle but pointed hidden meaning. “No doubt your constant and saintly presence will sustain me through my temptation.”

Fairchild was looking at them as though he was beginning to worry for their sanity. “The orangery is this way, Hayes.” He nodded at the path on their right, then started upon it.

“I have my eye on you,” Frederick said in a low voice.

“And what of your other eye?” Silas asked. “Is it occupied persecuting someone else?”

“Not persecuting,” he said as they followed Fairchild. “Protecting.”

Silas brushed a flower with his knuckle as they passed it. “I am not a delicate blossom, Freddie. I can protect myself.”

He jolted to a stop at the sight of a man ahead, but just as he was about to dart between the nearest bushes, the man’s profile became visible, making clear it was not Drayton.

“What is it?” Frederick asked.

“Nothing,” Silas replied, trying to slow his heart.

They reached the orangery shortly, and Silas’s shoulders tightened as he surveyed the area. There was no sign of Drayton, only Mrs. Fairchild and her daughter hovering over something out of view.

“Ah,” Frederick said, “what a surprise to see you all here—and at the orangery, of all places.” He quirked a brow at Silas.

“Indeed,” Silas said, noting the conspicuous absence of Miss Easton with a jolt of concern. A quick glance around told him that she was nowhere in the vicinity.

“Felicity has been stung,” Mrs. Fairchild said.

“Stung?” Frederick repeated in alarm.

The gentlemen crowded around Miss Fairchild, and a debate soon broke out about what should be done to assist her.

“Go inside,” Miss Fairchild whispered urgently to Silas as the others argued the seriousness and proper treatment of a bee sting.

Silas swallowed a dozen questions, and with a glance at Frederick, he slipped around the hedge toward the door to the orangery.

It was warmer inside and the scent sweet as he faced the walkway that ran through rows of citrus trees. He had lied to Frederick when he had said he had an ambition to see orange trees, but perhaps it was an ambition he should have had. The entire building was filled with plants not much taller than him, their deep green leaves full, punctuated by little pops of yellow, vibrant green, and orange.

He strained his ears for any sound—of Miss Easton, of course, but also of any other potential citrus enthusiasts. It would not do for the two of them to be seen alone together. It was quiet within, however, so he began to walk, glancing to the right and left each time he reached one of the smaller paths that intersected the main one.

The branches of one row intermingled with the adjacent ones, making it difficult to see but also unlikely that there was anyone to see. There was little space for a person unless they were keen to pick their way through branch after branch.

He was beginning to wonder whether he had been mistaken about what Miss Fairchild had said when he caught sight of something in one of the rows—a spot of blue. His gaze dropped to the ground, where there was less foliage obscuring his view. Blue skirts and a pair of half-boots paced the few feet available to them.

Silas’s heart leapt into motion, and he threaded his way through the leafy branches until Miss Easton appeared, her hands clasped and her eyes wide as she looked at him.

“You came.” There was patent relief in her voice as she came toward him.

He met her and gathered up her hands in his. “Of course I did. What is the matter? Are you well?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him in a way that made his body glow with warmth. “But I wished to speak with you.”

He nodded, delighting in the feel of her hands in his and having her so near. The past week had felt like an eternity without her, but that was nothing now that she was here with him. “What is it? Your cousin said it was urgent.”

She let out an exasperated breath. “I assure you, I had no notion that Felicity intended to send you such a message. She told me nothing of her plans until a few minutes ago.”

Silas lowered their hands, searching her face. “I do not understand.”

“I told Felicity I wished to speak with you,” she explained, “and she assured me she would arrange it, but I did not mean for her to go about it in such a way.”

Silas did not respond, but he slowly released her hands. Miss Easton was not in trouble. There was nothing urgent which she required of him—indeed, she had evidently not even known he would be here until minutes ago.

Her brow knit, and she looked at him questioningly. “Are you upset?”

He shook his head quickly. “It is only…” His head whipped around at a sound somewhere in the vicinity. A door opened, then shut, then there was silence. “Is your father here?”

“No,” she said, looking more confused than ever. “Why?”

“I should not be here.” He had been a fool to come in the first place. He had let his selfish wishes overtake his reason. Who did he think he was kidding, coming to help Miss Easton? He could do nothing but bring her harm. “Neither should you be. Not with me.”

“What do you mean?”

He did not meet her gaze, nor did he respond. What could he say to make her understand?

She stepped toward him determinedly. “What if I want to be here with you?”

He met her clear, stubborn gaze, and his heart twinged with want. “You should not want that.”

She said nothing, her eyes searching his as they stood in silence, their faces but a foot apart until she finally broke her gaze away and looked down.

He shut his eyes in consternation, wishing she would look at him again and divine the truth herself so that he did not have to choose between telling it to her or keeping it from her.

Warm fingers wrapped around his hand, and he went still.

Her fingers glided along his fingers, then across his palm, leaving a trickle of chills behind, until they finally reached his wrist. She toyed with the bracelet, the tips of her fingers brushing against his skin as they did so.

She looked up at him. “I would like to claim my bracelet.”

He grimaced. He had considered removing it every day since the last time he had seen her. He should have removed it, but he had not been able to persuade himself to. It had been his only link to her for the past week.

He shook his head.

“Did you not say I could have it when I wished?”

“I did,” he admitted. “But I should not have.”

“Why did you say it, then?”

She had so many questions—and rightly so—and the frustration at his inability to give her answers burst from him in a breathy, wry laugh. “Heaven only knows! When I am with you, I do a great many things I should not.” His gaze fixed on hers. “And yet far fewer than I wish to.”

Her eyes locked on his, her fingers going still on the bracelet. “What sort of things?”

There was silence as a dozen images flashed across his mind: tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, leading her by the hand through the gardens at Rushlake Hall, teasing her without restraint.

And then more dangerous things: his hand slipping around her waist, her body pressing against his, his lips covering hers…

He shook his head, trying to ignore the growing want such thoughts elicited.

She regarded him for a moment, a hint of pleading and frustration in her eyes.

When neither of them broke the silence, she brought her other hand to join the one at his wrist and began to undo the clasp.

“Arabella,” he said, trying to gently pull his wrist away.

She stopped him and undid the clasp.

The bracelet fell from his wrist. Her eyes, intent and focused, locked on his, their blue piercing him to the center. “Papa has chosen a suitor. He means for me to become engaged.”

Silas’s stomach plunged.

“Soon.” There was a note of blame in her voice, as though he could prevent this if only he had the nerve.

But it was not nerve he lacked. He would have spirited her away without a thought for anything else if he hadn’t known that doing so would be the height of selfishness and dishonor. How could he make promises to her when she had no notion who he truly was—or his true name?

He wanted more than anything to tell her that now—to make her see that there was not a gentleman in England less fit than he to be the recipient of her precious affection.

When his silence continued, she swallowed, her brows knit with incomprehension and pain. She took a step back, and a blush rose from her neck and into her cheeks. “You know, I began to think you had been avoiding me this week. I convinced myself I was wrong. I hoped I was wrong.”

His heart panged, but he said nothing, for the moment he opened his mouth, the truth would burst forth like evils from Pandora’s box.

She took another step back, the bracelet clutched in her hand. “I had thought you…” She swallowed. “Never mind what I thought or hoped or convinced myself of. I can see I was mistaken.” She turned away, but Silas caught her arm.

She did not struggle against him, but neither did she turn toward him.

“You are mistaken in me,” he said quietly. “But not in the way you think.”

She remained with her back to him for a moment.

“Arabella,” he pleaded. “I am trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” She whirled toward him, her eyes wide and glimmering with tears.

“From me .”

Her brows knit. “You said I was not in any danger from you.”

“You are not. And I am trying to ensure it continues that way.”

“Why will you not explain what you mean?”

He pressed his lips together, struggling with how to respond. “I cannot. I swear to you I want to do so more than anything! It is torture for me to keep the truth from you, and yet…”

“To keep the truth from me,” she repeated. “Has everything been a lie?”

“Of course not,” he responded. “My feelings for you are true, Arabella. But both you and I know that nothing can come of them. You said as much yourself. Your father has particular requirements of the man you will marry. I assure you, he would not choose me, for reasons both known and unknown to you. The specifics of those reasons matter not. Suffice it to say this: you would not want me if you knew the truth.”

She shook her head, her chest rising and falling steadily as he stared at her, stupefied by her beauty and aching at the unfathomable knowledge that she wanted him. Fate’s cruelty knew no bounds.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

She continued to stare at him, the only evidence she had heard him a small quiver of her bottom lip.

“Will you kiss me?”

His vision flickered. “What?”

“Will you kiss me?”

He could only stare at her, at a loss for both breath and words.

Her gaze was clear and intent. Stubborn, even.

“Arabella,” he pleaded. “I cannot. I should not.” And yet in his mind, his lips were already on hers.

“The night we met,” she said, “you told me you would not kiss me unless I begged you to.”

His heart thundered against his ribs like a battering ram, sending cracks through his resolve with each beat. “I remember.”

She stepped toward him, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “I am begging you to kiss me.”

His determination splintered down the center.

“If I am indeed to marry, and if it cannot be you, I would like to know—just once—what it is like to be kissed by the man I love.”

A thousand pieces of resolve crumbled onto the floor of the orangery, and desire burst through.

Silas stepped toward her and put a hand to her cheek. The other slipped around her waist, just as his mind had pictured minutes ago. But his vision had not prepared him for the feel of her body against his fingertips or the way she yielded so willingly to his touch.

He stared at her, hungrily taking in every detail. If he could only ever kiss Arabella Easton once, he would savor every moment.

She watched him, her eyes full of wonder and patience, as though she, too, wished to savor things.

But a man could only look at Arabella Easton for so long, surrounded by her sweet scent, his thumb stroking her impossibly soft cheek, before his lips begged for hers.

The moment she closed her eyes, he let his lips stray where they wanted, pressing softly against hers, as velvety soft as the petals of the roses.

And yet, not amongst all the flowers and exotic plants in the gardens of Kew could one find a treasure like the one whose body gave a little shiver as he deepened the kiss, whose hands grasped the lapels of his coat and pulled him closer—as though he could even consider going anywhere else.

She may have begged him to initiate the kiss, but the depth of it required no urging. He would stay here in this precise place, holding her and showing her the way he longed for her—longed for a life with her—until time itself was extinguished.

His heart was hers, trapped inside his body and pounding against his ribs, beating toward her in a desperate attempt to reach the woman who possessed it. It beat with such force that it was not until the footsteps were upon them that Silas heard the rustling nearby and broke his lips from hers.

Frederick emerged through the branches and stopped short, staring at them in astonishment.