Page 5 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

five

C HRISTOPHER’S HANDS WOULDN’T stop shaking as he tried to light a match.

The wind battered against the shutters and the door as if wanting to bring down the whole house. Frost covered the windows, and everything he touched seemed carved out of ice, so cold it was.

Finally, the reassuring sizzling of a flame came from the tip of the match. He lit all the candles he found and a couple of oil lamps, granted they would last. Elizabeth shuddered in the middle of the room, so pale he worried she might pass out.

If he had to be honest, he feared they might both die. The snowstorm had arrived without warning and hit hard, and they might have been exposed to the cold for too long, surely enough to develop pneumonia, and he wasn’t sure they would get warm enough in the cottage.

When he’d planned to spend some time in the cottage the duke had bought for his late mother, he hadn’t thought he’d need the place so desperately.

The draughts caused the candlelight to quiver as he placed a few cobweb-covered logs in the fireplace. Every time he flexed his fingers, stings pierced them. Thank goodness the duke always made sure the cottage was stocked with wooden logs and food supplies.

The wood seemed too damp for the fire to catch, but when the logs produced a fiery blaze, he exhaled in relief. If the wind was too strong, though, there might be back draughts, and smoke would fill the room. So many dangers.

“Come here,” he said.

Elizabeth didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.

“Elizabeth.” He held her by the shoulders and sat her on the worn sofa in front of the fire. “How are your feet?” He rubbed her arms, brushing iced snow from her coat.

“Co-cold.” Her lips had a blue hue he didn’t like.

“I’ll boil some water in a moment.” He rose to search the house for dry clothes and blankets. “You need to change into something dry.”

She didn’t nod or give him any signs of having heard him.

He searched the room that had once been his bedroom where he kept spare clothes. Instead, his mother’s belongings were reduced to a couple of gowns and shawls. The wardrobe held plenty of blankets, but the bedroom was so cold that black ice caked the floor.

He gathered every quilt and warm and dry piece of clothing he found and rushed back to the sitting room. The blazing log fire slowly spread warmth through the room.

He dropped the clothes on the armchair. “You must change. Our clothes are wet and frozen.”

“Y-yes.”

“I’ll change in the other room. Don’t worry.”

It took him a couple of attempts to unbutton his coat and jacket. His fingers felt like clumsy sausages—swollen, numb, and stiff. His shirt was wet, and his socks had ice on the top. There was no relief when he slid on the dry clothes, not at first at least. The fabric was a slab of itchy ice. No sound came from the other room.

“Elizabeth, are you all right?” He walked into the sitting room, keeping his gaze low in case she wasn’t dressed yet.

“I can’t unbutton my shirt. My fingers hurt.”

“I’ll help you if you want.”

“Yes.” She was sitting on the sofa where he’d left her, fully clothed.

He faced her. She opened and closed her hands that didn’t seem to work.

“May I?” he asked.

She nodded.

He crouched in front of her and undid her coat. Wet patches stained her shirt where the snow had melted under her coat. Slowly, he went through the tiny buttons. The little buggers were slippery, and his clumsy fingers couldn’t hold them. Her breath felt cold on his skin. Bad sign.

He pulled it open, revealing the swells of her breasts and her pretty pink corset with hooks on the front.

“Can you manage from here?” he asked, hoping she said yes.

She shook her head.

“Right.” He exhaled, pretending everything was fine and that he wasn’t undressing the beautiful daughter of an earl. Hell, her parents would chop off his bollocks for that.

The only good thing about the embarrassing situation was that a little blush coloured her cheeks. Good. Her blood was flowing.

He unhooked the corset, accidentally brushing her breasts through her chemise in the process and cursing himself for that.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you.”

She shrugged, or maybe she just shivered.

He hated she might think he was despicable enough to take advantage of the situation.

When the corset was fully open, it sagged to her hips. He averted his gaze from the wet, flimsy fabric of her chemise sticking to her skin and hiding nothing.

“Can you do the rest?” he asked, staring at the rug, aware of the scent of her skin.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded low.

Thank goodness .

He turned around to stoke the fire and add another log. The slow swish of fabric came from behind him as she got dressed.

“I’ve finished,” she said.

When he turned towards her, he was relieved to find her fully covered.

He brought the sofa closer to the fire while she hugged herself. She disappeared inside his old jacket and trousers, quivering.

“You’ll feel better in a moment,” he said, hoping he sounded confident. He draped a blanket around her shoulders.

“Th-thank you.”

“I’ll brew some tea.”

The wind didn’t stop hammering against the windows as he searched the kitchen for supplies. Tea, dried meat, nuts. Almost a feast.

He put the kettle on the fire in the hearth, keeping an eye on Elizabeth. She was too pale and trembled too much.

“May I hold you?” he asked. “You’ll get warm faster.”

Another blush. “Yes.”

“I won’t do anything else with my hands.” Crap . He had no idea how a gentleman would behave in a situation like that or what he should say. “I mean, I’m not going to … do those things … that people …” Shut up . “You know.”

A little crease appeared between her eyebrows. “It’s all right.”

He didn’t say anything. He’d already talked too much. Besides, since when was he such a bumbling idiot when it came to talking about tumbles? His words were all over the place. He blamed the cold.

They huddled close to each other on the sofa once the tea was ready. His hands thawed as he held the warm cup, and with the thawing came the pain of dozens of invisible needles pricking his skin. The flames sizzled and swayed when a particularly strong gust of wind struck the house.

The orange light of the fire reflected in her warm eyes, igniting them with gold. She had lovely eyes, expressive and captivating. Why he was noticing that detail now, he had no idea.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. “Every inch of my body hurts, but my fingers and feet aren’t numb anymore. What’s this place?”

“It’s my mother’s cottage.” He wrapped a few blankets around them and pulled her closer. She gazed up at him but didn’t protest. “She died years ago.” The sting of pain whenever he talked about her stabbed him more fiercely than usual. “The duke bought it for her after she had me. Sometimes he comes here even now just to wander from room to room, remembering her.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Not really. She died when I was eleven, and from that moment, Father found me one accommodation after another until I started going to Eton. Because of his visits, it’s kept supplied with wood and food. I guess I can’t complain about that.”

“Without this place, I’m not sure we would have survived.” She jolted when the wind caused a shutter to rattle. “I can’t believe the weather changed so quickly.”

Slowly, her warmth reached his body.

“I don’t think the storm is going to pass any time soon,” he said.

She sagged against him. “My parents must be worried.”

He rubbed her arm under the blanket. “We’ll see what happens in the morning. If we’re lucky, this bloody wind will stop through the night.”

She straightened, alarmed. “Do you want to spend the night here?”

“No, absolutely not.” He feigned outrage. “I was thinking about trekking through the thick snow in the dark with the wind at one hundred miles per hour and the temperature dropping well below zero. Be my guest.”

A little smile played on her lips. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough snow and cold for a lifetime. I meant …” She shifted her position but didn’t inch away from him. “Do you want to spend the night here on this sofa? Together? Alone?”

“We can try to invite someone. I’m not sure they’ll come though.”

She exhaled. “I’m serious, and you’re being uncooperative.” She looked adorable when she grew frustrated.

“I apologise.” He held up a hand because she was right, but being an ass was the best way to reduce the tension and the worry of the moment and to distract himself from her presence. “This spot is the warmest in the house, and propriety is the last thing we should care about. As far as I’m concerned, this situation never happened. I didn’t meet you on the path. You’ve never been here. You spent the night in another shelter, and I give you my word I’ll be a gentleman, despite the fact I’m not a gentleman and I’ll never be one.”

“You’re too harsh on yourself.”

“It’s not me. How do you think people react when they learn who I am?”

She shuddered against him, and he caught a whiff of her rosewood scent. “How does the duke treat you?”

“You aren’t going to repeat anything I say to anyone, are you?”

She lifted her large, trusting eyes to him. They made him uncomfortable in some way he couldn’t describe. “I won’t say a word. Besides, to whom? This conversation never happened.”

The blanket slid down her shoulder, and he pulled it up to cover it.

“Good point.” He took a deep breath. “My father took good care of my mother and me. He really loved my mother, and I can’t say he mistreated me, quite the opposite. He’s always wanted to be present in my life, always to be close to me. But our relationship isn’t an easy one.”

“Why?”

He hesitated before answering. He’d never talked about his father to anyone. Pearce didn’t count. They mostly shouted at each other anyway and disagreed wholeheartedly on how their father should behave towards him.

“I think my father suffers from my unfortunate situation more than I do.”

“What do you mean?” She sneezed and rubbed her bare feet. “Sorry.”

“Bless you.” After putting his mug on the low table, he took one of her cold feet and massaged it. “Your toes are still cold and red.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, going still.

“I know.” He checked there were no signs of frostbite. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” He stopped touching her.

She flushed, her eyes growing wider. “No. It’s nice.”

“And important for your toes. They’re too red.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, but he kept pressing his thumbs into the sole of her foot and rubbing her toes until they were warm.

“No one has ever done that to me,” she said, watching his every move.

“Good. It means you’ve never risked dying in a snowstorm before.” He smiled.

She smiled back. “What were you saying?”

“My father wants nothing more than to introduce me as his son to the whole world, take me to his house as an official member of the family, and tell everyone I’m his son, claim me, which is impossible. For starters, the duchess would never allow it, and to be honest, I’m not sure I want that, either. I came to accept who I am, to accept the fact I’ll never have a proper family, and that I’ll always carry the origin of my birth as a disease. I’m all right with that. I was lucky to have my mother. We were happy together. But Father can’t find peace. I guess because he loved my mother so much.”

“And you. He must love you very much as well.”

“I don’t know if it’s love or a sense of duty combined with a good dose of guilt. But yes, he protects me fiercely, and I appreciate that. But after my mama died, I was shipped from one house to another because Father couldn’t find a proper place for me. I told him I didn’t care where I lived and that I could be on my own, but he wished to keep me close.”

He moved her feet away from his lap to stoke the fire and not let her see the turmoil bothering him.

You’re wonderful . His father often told him that, but he didn’t believe it.

“Does your brother know the truth?” she asked.

“Pearce.” He huffed, adding another log. “He does. Besides, the resemblance among us three is astonishing. Father tried more than once to get us close, unsuccessfully so. It’s difficult to become friends with someone who calls you a disgrace and a waste of space. Pearce is convinced Father favours me in everything and that he loves me more than he loves him. Rubbish. Pearce is the duke’s only heir. He has everything he wants and more.”

She opened the blankets to welcome him when he sat on the sofa again, and the gesture felt somewhat too intimate. “But your brother likely wants something else from your father, not only the title.”

“He can enjoy Father’s company and attention whenever he wants. I have to be content with the scraps Father can offer and to see him in secret. No one would dare call Pearce names.”

“I’ve met your brother several times, but I can’t say I know him well. We didn’t speak of personal matters. He might be jealous of the love your father feels for you.”

“His problem, not mine. I don’t understand what he wants. He has everything. He doesn’t have to endure the scorn or the beatings?—”

“The beatings?” She straightened. “What do you mean?”

He pondered if telling her the truth or not. In for a penny …”Eton’s headmaster has old-fashioned rules when it comes to disciplinary practices. He believes that physical punishments strengthen the will of a student.”

She closed her hand around his, causing his heart to stutter. “Does your father know?”

“I’ve never told him. I want to deal with the situation myself without complaining about every little thing that happens to me.”

“Christopher, this isn’t a little thing. Your headmaster beat you. It’s awful.”

“Don’t pity me. Please don’t. I must learn to face problems on my own because Father can’t always protect me. My life already causes him too much trouble.”

“He seems happy to take care of you.”

“I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“You don’t want anyone to worry about you, but those who care for you will always worry.” She rested her head on his shoulder in a familiar way that made him smile for some reason. “I’m sorry for the pain you have to endure.”

He didn’t know what to say. It was the first time someone had shown compassion and understanding towards him. Shocking.

“You deserve love, Christopher,” she whispered, leaning against him.

Again, he didn’t know what to say, so he only stroked her arm to keep her warm.

The gale howled and shook the house, sending a chill down his spine as the roof groaned. He wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked open and collapsed.

Snow drifted inside the sitting room from underneath the front door, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to share his concerns; she curled up next to him and closed her eyes. He stroked her hair as her soft breath fanned on his neck. Her words echoed in his mind.

Pearce had no right to be jealous. Pearce had no idea what kind of hell Christopher lived in.