Last night, she’d ventured out of that shell. She’d slogged all the way to the castle in the rain, pounded on his door until he let her in, and then offered to ruin herself to protect her sister. And what reward did she get for her pains? Humiliation. Derision. And more scolding from her mother.
He’d never dreamed he’d say this about the bluestocking who’d spent the past several months skewering him with sharp glances and cutting remarks. But it was true.
Minerva deserved better.
Colin capped his flask and jammed it in his pocket. He might have to wait a few months to make his amends to Finn Bright. And even then, he’d never be able to replace the youth’s foot.
But he was going to settle this business with the Highwoods.
Tonight.
Chapter Three
When Minerva lost herself in a book, her late father had once remarked, a man needed hounds and a search party to pull her back out.
Alternatively, a low-hanging tree branch could do the trick.
Thwack.
“Ouch.” Pulling up short, Minerva rubbed her smarting temple and adjusted her spectacles with one hand. With the other, she kept her page marked.
Charlotte gave her a pitying tilt of the head. “Oh, Min. Really.”
“Are you injured?” Diana asked, concerned.
Ahead of them, their mother wheeled and gave a despairing sigh. “Minerva Rose Highwood. For all your unnatural love of education, you can be remarkably stupid.” She walked over and grasped Minerva by the elbow, tugging her across the village green. “I will never understand how you came into being.”
No, Mama, Minerva thought, trudging her way along the path. I doubt you ever will.
Most people didn’t understand her. Even before last night’s humiliation, she’d long reconciled herself to the fact. Lately, it seemed the one who best understood Minerva wasn’t a person at all, but a place. Spindle Cove, this seaside resort for young ladies of gentle breeding and, well, interesting character. Whether sickly, scholarly, or scandalous—the young women here were all misfits of one kind or another. The villagers didn’t care if Minerva dug in the dirt, or wandered down the country paths with the breeze whipping through her hair and an open book before her face.
She’d felt so at home here, so comfortable. Until tonight.
The closer they drew to the tavern and the revelry within, the more her sense of dread increased. “Mama, can’t we go back to the rooming house? The weather’s so dire.”
“It’s mild, compared to last week’s rain.”
“Think of Diana’s health. She’s just recovered from a cold.”
“Pish. That was weeks ago now.”
“But, Mama . . .” Desperate, Minerva cast about for some other excuse. “What of propriety?”
“Propriety?” Mama held up Minerva’s ungloved hand, displaying the earth embedded under her fingernails. “You would speak to me of propriety?”
“Yes, well. It’s one thing to frequent the Bull and Blossom in the afternoon, when it’s a ladies tea shop. But after dark, it’s a tavern.” Minerva wouldn’t mention where she’d been last night.
“I don’t care if it’s an opium den. It’s the only hope of dancing in ten miles,” her mother replied. “And Payne is certain to be there. We’ll have a proposal tonight. I feel it in my bones.”
Perhaps Mama felt it in her bones, but Minerva’s reaction was more visceral. Her heart and stomach switched places, jostling inside her.
As they approached the tavern door, Minerva buried her face in her book. Be they novels or histories or scientific treatises, books were frequently her refuge. Tonight, the book was her literal shield, her only barrier against the world. She didn’t dare leave Diana alone tonight, but she didn’t know how she could bear to face Lord Payne again. Not to mention the hidden lover who’d laughed at Minerva’s foolish hopes. His “friend” could have been any woman in this crowded room. And whoever she was, she might have already related the story to everyone else.
As they entered the establishment and made their way through the throng, Minerva was certain she heard someone laughing.
Laughing at her.
This was the worst result of that disastrous midnight visit. For months now, Spindle Cove had been Minerva’s safe haven. Now she’d never feel comfortable here again. The echo of that cruel laughter would follow her down every country path and cobbled lane. He’d ruined this place for her.
Now he threatened to ruin the rest of their lives.
You could be calling me “brother” by Sunday.
No. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t. She’d stop it somehow, even if she had to hurl her book at the man’s head.
“Oh, he’s not here.”
Charlotte’s plaintive comment gave her hope. Minerva lowered her book and scanned the crowd. The militia volunteers filled the establishment, splashing bright red and gold against the lime-washed walls. She dipped her chin and peered over the lenses, focusing on the distant side of the room, where men and women crowded at the bar.
No Lord Payne.
Her breath came easier. She pushed the spectacles back up her nose, and she felt the corners of her mouth relax into some semblance of a smile. Perhaps he’d experienced an attack of conscience. More likely, he’d stayed behind in his turret to entertain his easily amused lady friend. It hardly mattered where he was, so long as he wasn’t here.
“Oh, there,” Mama said, swiveling. “There he is. He’s just come in the back way.”
Drat.
Minerva’s heart sank when she caught her first glimpse of him. He did not look like a man who’d experienced an attack of conscience. He looked dark and more dangerous than ever. Though he’d only just come through the door, he’d instantly changed the room’s atmosphere. A palpable, restless energy radiated from his quarter, and everyone could feel it. The whole tavern went on alert. An unspoken message relayed from body to body.
Something is about to happen.
The musicians struck up the prelude to a country dance. Around the room, couples began pairing off.
Lord Payne, however, was in no hurry. He raised a flask to his mouth and tipped it. Minerva swallowed instinctively, as though she could feel the liquor burning down her own throat.
He lowered the flask. Capped it. Replaced it in his pocket. And then his gaze settled, hot and unwavering, on the Highwoods.
The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
“He’s looking at you, Diana,” their mother murmured with excitement. “He’s sure to ask you to dance.”