Chapter Thirty-Two (part 2)

Before Emilia could protest, she found herself looking into those dratted bright blue eyes she'd been so studiously avoiding. "Of course it's you," she groaned.

"Pardon me?" Those blue eyes inquired. The light from the window beside them was dim, the glass cloudy. It was obvious this portrait hall, much like the ballroom, had not been cleaned in some time.

She looked at the cobwebs along the curved window, the dusty curtains that might have been burgundy once, as they were on the inside, but were now dyed a dull pink from the sun. She unwillingly dragged her eyes to his again. Even the dim light in here made them all the bluer. "What do you mean by... abducting me like this?"

"Abducting?" Mr. Byrne's eyes crinkled, as if amused. "I'm only waylaying you for a moment."

She should walk away. She really should. But she didn't. "Fine. Why are you... waylaying me?"

He stared at her for what felt like far too long. "You refused Tony."

Emilia could only nod. She had. Very carefully and without telling a lie, she had made it clear that Prudence Crewe had no desire to marry Sir Anthony Pembroke.

"So your hand is not spoken for," he said.

She sighed, "Mr. Byrne, if you are going to propose again, I should dissuade you from—"

"Is it Browning?" he asked, still with that amusement in his voice.

"Browning?"

"I noted you flirting with him," he teased. "You should know that he is a second son with no prospects except—"

"Mr. Browning is not without prospects," she said, ffended for Mr. Browning's sake, whether he was teasing or not. "He is a very intelligent young man, and far too young to marry. And I was not flirting with him. I was simply speaking to a kind and clever lad." She'd rather like to speak to him about herbs some more, for her own cosmetic concoctions. She'd never known much about medicinal herbs before, but his thoughts on arsenic being an unhealthy ingredient for powders was very interesting. "Mr. Browning seems to come alive when there's a chance to display his knowledge, even if he doesn't talk much outside of that."

"Aye. He's a very disdainful young man," Byrne said.

Emilia laughed. "Disdainful? He's quite obviously shy. He blushes whenever someone speaks well of him. It must not happen very often."

Byrne shook his head. "Snobbery can look like shyness, I suppose, but I know his family and, trust me—"

"I'd like to think I know what shyness looks like," Emilia protested.

He chuckled. "You must get some sort of thrill out of gainsaying me. You do it so often."

"You must get some thrill out of being rude. You are quite as rude about poor Mr. Browning as Mary Hartley was. Not so loudly, I grant you, but—"

"Enough about Mr. Browning. If you claim you weren't flirting, I'll believe you."

"Because I wasn't," Emilia said firmly.

"But you certainly weren't flirting with me," he grinned and leaned in, "and I'd like to correct that."

Emilia suddenly realized, again, where they were. In a curtained alcove. Hidden from sight. "And I'd like to go," she said, though she made no move to leave.

"Very well, then. But if you're going to continue avoiding me, I'd at least like to know why."

"I would have no reason to avoid you if you could avoid proposing to me," she muttered.

"But you refused Tony."

"Do you think that means I am required to suddenly accept you?"

He chuckled. "I wouldn't dare be so presumptuous, after our dealings so far."

She shook her head. "We don't suit."

He laughed again, his breath stirring the hairs on her forehead. "You can keep telling yourself that, but—"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," she said, backing away as much as the alcove allowed. Being so close to him muddled her head.

"Is this because I have no hobbies? You should know I enjoy riding. But I'll pick more up if you want." He shrugged and laughed. "Ships in bottles, miniature villages, toppling dominoes... whatever you wish."

"I don't wish—"

"And you can do as you please with your time. If you want to paint, then paint. If you want to read, I'll buy out Hatchard's or Egerton's. You can host literary salons. I move in circles with some of the finest minds in the country and across the continent. There's nothing I can't give you."

"None of that tempts me," she said, quite truthfully. Perhaps it would tempt Prudence, but not her. None of this was for her. "And what could I possibly give you?"

"You can give me yourself. Your company, your dry observations, your extraordinary eyes..."

"One doesn't need to marry for all that," she said firmly, trying to remind herself again that he was saying these things to Prudence Crewe, not Emilia Finch. Then again, he didn't know anything about Prudence's observations, nor her eyes... It didn't matter. These things would be nothing to him if he knew who she truly was. "Perhaps we can write," she went on lightly. "I can send you my dry observations and... and a miniature."

"You think I'd be content with letters and a tiny portrait?"

She shivered as she felt the backs of his fingers slide from her cheek to her chin.

"I am sure it wouldn't do you justice."

"What nonsense." She tried to laugh, but only managed a shaky breath. "I am no great beauty. I—"

"I think the first thing I should buy you is a proper mirror. You've obviously never looked in one." He tilted her chin up.

Emilia squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could shut her ears instead. If he kept saying such things, she was in great danger of starting to believe them.

She'd looked in plenty of mirrors. Despite her penchant for fashion, she'd never truly considered whether she was pretty. Pretty wasn't something she needed to be in her line of work. The most she cared about was whether she looked presentable and reasonably fashionable for her station. Even during this mad caper, passing herself off as Prudence Crewe, she was only concerned with whether her hair style was current, that her dress draped correctly, that her slippers complemented the ensemble. But she never stopped to think whether she looked pretty, attractive, desirable. But the way he spoke...

She shook her head. "Mr. Byrne, I beg you—"

"Very well, then. If you want me to stop proposing, I shall."

She opened her eyes, staring at him warily. "Thank you. That is all I ask."

"But..."

"I knew that was coming," she muttered.

"First, you must stop staring at me," he said softly. "I feel your eyes on me sometimes. Nearly every time I catch you, you turn away. And I'm certain you've gotten away with it more times than I know."

"Me?" she scoffed, weakly. "I've caught you just as many times, if not more."

"I won't deny it. I'm drawn to you just as much, if not more," he added with a slight smile. "You are correct. It seems we suffer the same affliction."

"I'm not... There's nothing to..." Drat him. He kept befuddling her.

"I wonder what the cure is." He took her lips, then. Of course he did. And it was all her fault. She should have left the moment he pulled her in. She should have resolutely brushed him off the moment he touched her. She should push him away right this second.

But she didn't. In fact, she wound her arms around his neck.

"I feel better already," he murmured against her lips before delving in deeper, his tongue sliding along hers softly, carefully, coaxing her to join him in this, their third kiss.

The first time he kissed her, he'd been tentative, almost surprised. The second, he'd been forceful, nearly out of control. This one was decadent, sensuous, confident...

Why shouldn't he be confident? She'd fallen into his trap so willingly. Yet she had no desire to escape.

She licked at the inside of his lips, slightly hesitant until she felt the softness there. He tasted of tea and those little raisin cakes that had been laid out with dessert and something else that she couldn't quite name. She only wanted more of it.

He let her explore him, only answering back with little nips and slides of his tongue, as if to encourage her, as if to tell her that he'd started this kiss, but he'd let her end it.

Only she didn't want it to end.

Her hands did some exploring as well, one sliding to his roughened cheek. Beards were so very unfashionable, even very short ones like his, yet the feel of it, the slight scrape of the stubble... She wanted to feel it with more than her fingers. What would it feel like against her cheek, her neck, her...

He pulled away, then.

She let out a whine of protest before she could stop herself.

"And yet you still insist we don't suit," he breathed, as if bemused, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb lightly tracing her bottom lip.

She dropped her hands from him, shaking her head. "I am not the match for you. Can we simply leave it at that?"

"That can't be true. What is it? Is it your family? Would they forbid it?" He leaned in closer. "Is that why?"

"My family..." She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut, imagining Mr. Byrne meeting her batty father. God, even if he knew who she was, he'd run away screaming the minute the man tried roping him into one of his schemes.

"I know you have connections that I do not, but—"

"Please, let's not speak of—"

"With your sister's marriage, I rather thought your family might be more agreeable than most to someone who's not quite..." He shook his head. "I mean no ill against Lord Douglass, but the way he started out..."

"It's got nothing to do with my family," she burst out. "I... I need to go."

And so she went, finally, not daring to look back. She might dive right back behind those curtains and into a fourth kiss if she did.

She'd obviously have to be more studious in avoiding Mr. Byrne, but there was one person she needed to stop avoiding. She had to find Prudence. It was time for this to end.

********************

Byrne smiled as he strolled from the alcove with a leisurely gait. He did not chase after her. But this was, by no means, over.

Yes, she'd run away. Yes, she'd claimed they didn't suit. Yes, she'd tried to put him off.

She'd also kissed him. Yes, he may have started it. He'd also ended it. But she hadn't wanted him to.

There was another thing she hadn't done. She hadn't refused. Not truly. She argued, she protested, she tossed off reasons why not... But she never truly refused.

Then again, he had to remind himself that she had not accepted him either. And he couldn't help thinking it must have something to do with her family. The minute he mentioned the word, she looked stricken.

He strode to the servants' stairs, thinking there was something there. Something that, perhaps, would answer the mystery as to why Miss Prudence Crewe was so reluctant to marry not just him, but anyone.

He thought of her work-roughened hands. Even though she'd insisted her family's finances were fine, perhaps there was another reason. Did they lean on her, depend upon her? If she married, did she worry they might suffer her absence too much? He'd looked so much closer into the other young ladies, knowing that Miss Crewe was Tony's to woo. But that was no longer the case and now he wished there was some way to know if...

"...if we can have fish. I'd much prefer it. Perhaps in white sauce. Such an elegant dish."

"Aye, if there's enough to be had. Lamb can be just as elegant. And we could get enough for forty. Or is it fifty?"

He found Mrs. Baddeley and Mrs. Doyle in the kitchen, both frowning at a list on the table. He was lucky in that the pair of them got on rather well. Mrs. Doyle likely took the news of the ball better coming from her than from Byrne.

"You know, I've no idea at all." Mrs. Baddeley hands fussed with her shawl. "I've not the least idea who to invite. I barely know the neighbors here and Tony shall be little help with that."

"Well, I shall need at least a number if I'm to go market and order all this—" Mrs. Doyle glanced up as she noticed Byrne. "Ah, here you are then. Gadding about and declaring balls as if we don't have enough to—"

"Oh, Mrs. Doyle, please don't scold him," Mrs. Baddeley cooed. "Poor Mr. Byrne. It was really Tony's idea."

"Who's ever's it was," Mrs. Doyle groused, "the point remains that I'm the one who needs to pull this madness off."

"Perhaps a ball is too much to ask of you," Byrne suggested. "Shall I hire a cook from the village tavern to aid you?"

Mrs. Doyle jabbed her pencil into the table. "Don't you dare imply that I... I... I could do this in me sleep!"

Byrne hid his smile. Nothing stoked Mrs. Doyle's ire like the suggestion that anything was too much for her.

"Though Mr. Byrne may have a point. Perhaps a smaller affair," Mrs. Baddeley suggested. "Thirty?"

"Thirty... Forty... I ain't got nothing 'till we got invites sent and returned with..."

Byrne couldn't attend to any of this. He was still caught up in the strange mystery that was Prudence Crewe. God, even thinking her given name felt strange. There was something about her, something he'd seen from the start that told him she was different from the rest, something she was hiding.

He didn't like mysteries. He liked to know what he was up against.

"We've only been here since Tuesday," Mrs. Baddeley moaned. "I don't know the families hereabouts and..."

"Perhaps Mrs. Stern knows more?" Mrs. Doyle suggested.

That's what he needed. To know more of her. He knew of her connections, her dowry, her reputation, but nothing of her true situation, or whatever the hell was holding her back.

"Oh, you're right. I'm sure she'd know just what to do. Should we have someone fetch... Oh, dear, she's still doing her... sabbatical, is she not?"

"The word is Sabbath," Mrs. Doyle corrected.

"Oh, goodness! Whatever shall we do?"

Byrne had no idea. It's not like he could have his man in London or Gunn look closer into Miss Crewe and her family. Whatever they'd find would come far too late.

"Now, let's not fret. She'll be back on her duties once the sun's gone down," Mrs. Doyle sighed. "I say we just invite the nearest ten families, some of them Cambridge lads and—"

"Yes, that's it," Byrne said.

Mrs. Baddeley looked panicked now. "But... but we cannot simply invite people we've not been properly introduced to!"

"That is easily remedied. There is Church tomorrow, is there not? You could easily ask the vicar to make some introductions and... and invite them here for an... an impromptu... garden party," he finished. "Some respectable families, some Cambridge boys..."

Though his object wasn't Cambridge boys in particular.

"A garden party!" Mrs. Doyle scoffed.

"But Cambridge boys," Mrs. Baddeley said at the same time. "We've no idea which of them are respectable young men or which would turn our ball into a... a bacchanal!"

"That is also easily remedied. The respectable ones will be at Church," he said dismissively. "And I have a pair of young men I know in the area." Were they still in the area? If they were, they'd be at the inn nearest the university lodgings. He couldn't strictly promise these particular guests didn't have a tendency to turn balls into a bacchanals. They'd been to more of the latter, he'd wager, but...

"And who's supposed to feed this respectable party?" Mrs. Doyle demanded. "Is The Almighty hisself going to come straight from church with some loaves and fishes?"

"It needn't be a full luncheon. Tell them it's just... light refreshments, tea, pastries and the like." Byrne pulled his billfold from his coat, taking out several notes. "It's market day. You can buy what you need in the village. Buy out the bakery if you wish."

Mrs. Doyle's face reddened. "As if I'd serve someone else's... Ooh!" She snatched up the bills. "I've a good mind to toss m'self in the hedgerows after this. Two parties now," she muttered as she marched out, then yelled, "Kitty!" before muttering again, "Have to feed half the county. Never mind dinner or breakfast. Kitty!"

"There now." He turned to Mrs. Baddeley. "All will be well. I'm certain of it."

As if to contradict him, Sean rushed in the yard just then, out of breath, his wig askew, which was very unlike him. "Sir, been lookin' for you. Mr. Higgins... He... Oh, God!" He stopped, leaning on his knees and gasping, then wordlessly gesturing to the door.

"What is it?" Byrne said, following him out quickly.

"In the drive," Sean panted, "assaultin' a guest."

"What? The dog again?" Byrne laughed. The thing was likely attacking whoever it was with kisses. "I thought he'd learned to behave, but I guess—"

"Not the dog. A man. He came here, demanding to see Mr. Brownin' and Mr. Brownin' said he wouldn't... and then he hit him... and Mr. Higgins don't know what to do." Sean quieted as they jogged around the side of the house, drawing nearer to loud voices.

There were two voices. He recognized Brownings, but the louder one...

"...not discussing this. We can send someone for your things later. In!"

He knew that one, too... Didn't he?

"No. I have no plans to leave," he heard Browning say. "And you have no right to tell me—"

"I have every right!"

"I am not a child!"

"Listen to me, you fat, useless waste of..."

"What's going on here?" Byrne demanded, finally rounding the front of the house, his steps eating up the gravel drive.

There was a carriage there, its door hanging open. He couldn't see the crest on it, but he knew which it was the moment the man half-strangling Oliver Browning with his own cravat turned his way.

He froze then.

Yes, he had known that other loud voice. Except the last words he'd heard from it had been soft, sneering...

"What did you think would happen? A happy family supper? With a bastard?"

He'd sneered them right in his face before having his cronies toss Byrne into The Thames. "Reginald Browning," Byrne said dully. Byrne might be the bastard by birth, but his other brother was a bastard in every other way.

The bastard dropped Oliver Browning's cravat, turning more fully to Byrne, his smile cruel and tight. "That's Lord Browning to you."

TBC

A family reunion! Hurray!

LOL. I don't have high hopes of that being a ball of fun, but Byrne's not-so-mysterious visitors might make up for that. Most of you already know who's coming...

Sorry the last update was so tiny. I usually like to give you guys a bigger chunk, but last week was a bit hectic for me. This week should give me much more time to write.

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