“How do you know the man, Papa?”
“Who, Bramwell?”
Bram. After a kiss like that, you must call me Bram.
A shiver went through her. “Yes.”
“His father was an old school friend. Went on to become a major general, highly decorated. Lived most of his commissioned years in India, but he died there not long ago.”
A pang of sympathy pinched her heart. Was Bram still mourning his father? “When, exactly?”
Her father raised his head, squinting into some imaginary distance. “Must be over a year now.”
Not so recently, then. But grief could easily outlast a year. Susanna hated to imagine how long she would mourn Papa, should he die unexpectedly.
“Did you know Mrs. Bramwell, too?”
With a penknife, he sharpened his stub of pencil and began to scribble again. “Met her a few times, the last when Victor was just an infant. Then they went to India, and that was the end of her. Dysentery, I believe.”
“Oh dear. How tragic.”
“Such things happen.”
She bit her lip, knowing he meant her own mother. Though she’d died with her second stillborn child over a decade ago, Anna Rose Finch lived on in Susanna’s memory: vividly beautiful, unfailingly patient and kind. But Papa found it hard to speak of her.
To change the subject, she said, “Shall I have Gertrude bring a fresh pot of tea? Coffee or chocolate, perhaps?”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, bending his head. “Whatever you think best.”
Another sheet of paper hit the floor in a crumpled ball. Guilt pinched at the nape of her neck. She was distracting him from his work.
Susanna felt that she should leave, but something wouldn’t let her go. Instead, she leaned against the doorjamb, watching him work. As a girl, she’d always been amused by the gargoyle-ish contortions of his features while he worked. If a perfect chevron of a frown could coax innovation from blank parchment, he ought to receive a divine bolt of brilliance just about . . .
Now.
“Aha.” Out whisked a fresh sheet of paper. His hand danced back and forth, scribbling lines of text and calculations. There was a rhythm to genius, she’d often observed, and he’d caught its brisk cadence now. His shoulders hunched, walling out the world. Nothing she could say would draw his notice, save perhaps “Fire!” or “Elephants!”
“You see, Papa,” she said casually, “he kissed me today. Lord Rycliff.” She paused, and then wanting to test the name on her lips, she added, “Bram.”
“Mm-hm.”
There. Now she’d told someone. No matter that the information had sailed straight over her father’s head like an errant musket volley. At least she was talking about it aloud.
“Papa?”
Her only answer was the sound of scribbling.
“I wasn’t entirely truthful just now. In fact, Bram first kissed me yesterday.” She bit her lip. “Today . . . today was something much more.”
“Good,” he muttered distractedly, running one hand through what remained of his hair. “Good, good.”
“I don’t know what to make of him. He’s gruff and ill-mannered, and when he’s not pushing me away, he’s touching me places he shouldn’t. I don’t fear him, but when he’s near me, I . . . I’m a little afraid of myself. I feel as though I’ll explode.”
She let a few moments pass. The sounds of scribbling continued.
“Oh, Papa.” She turned her body, resting her forehead against the doorjamb. She twisted the end of her dressing gown sash. “I don’t want you to worry. It won’t happen again. I’m not one of those swooning, fanciful girls, run mad with scarlet fever when officers march by. I won’t let him kiss me again, and I’m wise enough to know I can’t allow a man like that anywhere near my heart.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, scribbling some more. “Just so.”
Yes. Just so.
No matter how Lord Rycliff intrigued her, baited her . . . kissed her . . . she must keep the man at arm’s length. Her inner peace and reputation depended on it, and the ladies of Spindle Cove depended on her.
She took a deep breath, feeling unburdened and resolved. “I’m so glad we had this talk, Papa.”
Then she lifted the knife and fork from the dinner tray and carved the cooling hunk of roasted beef into thin slices. She split a roll and wedged the meat inside.
Breaking their unspoken agreement, she entered his workspace, walking on tiptoe around the edge of his desk. She balanced the sandwich by his inkwell, hoping he would notice it eventually.
“Good night.” In an impulsive move, she leaned over the desk and kissed the top of his balding head. “Please remember to eat.”
She made it all the way back to the door before he responded. And the words came in that same distant voice, as though he were speaking to her from the bottom of a fathomless well. “Good night, my dear. Good night.”
Nine
When she returned to her bed, Susanna told herself she needn’t worry about Lord Rycliff. They’d agreed to keep the men and ladies separate. With any luck, they would both be so busy, she would scarcely see the man until the midsummer fair.
She hadn’t reckoned on church.
The very next morning, there he was. Seated directly across the aisle from her at a distance of four, perhaps five feet away.
And today, he’d shaved.
She noted that detail first. But he was stunning, generally. Resplendent in his dress uniform, bathed in a shaft of golden light from a clerestory window high above. The braid and buttons on his coat flashed with such polished luster, it almost hurt to look at him.
His eyes caught hers across the aisle.
With a gulp, Susanna buried her nose in her prayer book and resolved to think pure thoughts. It didn’t work. Throughout the service, she was always a beat too late in standing or sitting. Whatever the topic of Mr. Keane’s homily, it was utterly lost on her.
She couldn’t help but steal glances whenever an excuse presented itself—whether that excuse was an imaginary fly buzzing past, or the sudden, irresistible urge to stretch her neck. Of course, she was hardly alone. All the other parishioners were stealing looks, too. But Susanna felt reasonably certain she was the only one connecting those brief, forbidden glimpses with scandalous memories.
Those big, strong hands grasping the prayer book? Yesterday, they’d swept over her body with bold, irreverent intent.
That clean-shaven jaw, so well defined and masculine? Yesterday, she’d traced it with her gloved finger.