Dalliances & Devotion Page 4

  Because she wasn’t lovable. At least not that way. Not that being lovable mattered. Helping people was what mattered. Her charity was what mattered. But she was about to fail at that too.

  Especially if her parents found out about any of the goings-on. A dead rat in addition to the threats would not help her cause. Amalia pressed her hands over her eyes for a long moment, quelling the pounding in her brain.

  The pretense that the rat was just an unfortunate conquest of a railway cat she’d started last night would work, right? After all, she was a good storyteller and could convince most people—people who weren’t related to her—to do anything, if she worked hard enough at it. That’s how she’d managed to get her charity off the ground in the first place. And talk her way into a column.

  Maintaining both aspects of her life, now that was a challenge, but if she could just get through this trip, just make everything appear in order, just hold on a little longer, all her problems could be solved.

  She arched and cracked her back beneath the scratchy wool blanket, willing all the doubts and criticisms and threats to cease swirling and replaying in her mind.

  The floor creaked and David’s head popped up as he rocked to a sitting position. “How are you feeling?”

  What was he talking about? Amalia frowned.

  Right. The rat. Time to work that story more. If she could convince the always clever, always observant, always skeptical David, she was well on her way.

  “A bit shaken, but fine.” Amalia twisted her now fallen curls. They’d need some heat and attention posthaste.

  “Yes, sorry Meg wasn’t more attentive. She’s operated on people but apparently rodents are beyond the pale.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t blame her.” Not much of a loss either, as her scalp still smarted from the prior evening. Accidental pulling her foot. Amalia rubbed the throbbing patch behind her ear.

  “Will would’ve been worse.” David rested his elbow on the edge of the couch. His dark locks sat a bit skewed and mussed and itching for someone to...adjust.

  Not that she would.

  “You were a bit green too.” She swallowed a snicker at the memory of the big, strong Pinkerton’s panic. Maybe he was out of sorts enough to believe her pretend theory. “You don’t suppose whatever cat brought it in retrieved it again?” Amalia rolled on her side.

  A mistake. She probably looked a fright, all blotchy and bleary, with her hair making Medusa seem the height of couture, and most certainly did not add to her credibility.

  Ugh, and worse, David... David was beautiful with the morning sun illuminating his even skin that probably never freckled. The bristled stubble on his jaw begged to be stroked. She stuffed her hands under the blanket. She’d not be distracted by him, she’d not.

  He flinched and mumbled something unintelligible.

  She needed to put on a gown and corset. Ones that made her body do what it should. And fix...everything with cosmetics. Well-placed soot gives excellent contrast to one’s brows, framing the face and drawing desired attention. A blown-out match is the best source for accurate application.

  Very sound advice. Not everyone could be born beautiful, but with enough effort and enough money “extraordinary” was possible. Well, almost extraordinary. At least for a time. Sensible advice, not “vapid,” thank you very much.

  Dozens of readers had written notes to the paper praising her tips. And why wouldn’t they? She was right. Because with the right armor, one could accomplish anything. Including survive this trip.

  “I need to get dressed and right now I have no desire to go in there but...” She bit her lip.

  “You don’t trust me to fetch you what you need?” His entire body stiffened and his eyes locked with hers, deep and searching, as if he could read all her secrets. Which was not both frightening and somehow attractive. Not at all.

  Amalia glanced down at her lap and plucked a stray thread on the blanket. “As I don’t believe you’ve ever had to describe, let alone wear, women’s clothing, no.” Wiggling from side to side, she pushed herself up.

  “You make a lot of assumptions.” David’s lip tipped, but he didn’t explain. “However, if you want to go in alone, be my guest.”

  With a second stretch, she rose and wrapped the blanket around her—tight. She motioned to David. “How about we both go? You’ll clean whatever needs to be cleaned, I’ll decide on a gown, and I can wake Maryanne once you’ve disposed of...it.”

  “Meg.” David was right behind her as she reached the door to the bedroom suite.

  “Close enough. The woman doesn’t like me. I can feel the disdain wafting off her every time she’s near, probably soiling my garments.” Amalia reached towards the handle but couldn’t quite make herself turn, images of the prior night flooded back. Her stomach roiled.

  “Actually, Meg knows your sister.” David nudged her, his hand hovering above hers.

  “Oh god. She must despise me. Let me guess, she worships at Roseanna’s feet too? The ‘nicest woman’ she’s ever met?” Amalia’s grip tightened on the handle. Roseanna. Her college-educated-happily-married-to-one-man-for-almost-a-decade-with-two-perfect-sons sister. Who was kind and good and beautiful, inside and out, like a damned fairy princess. Who would never fail at anything. Not that she was envious because that was impossible as Roseanna was too damned sweet.

  “She likes her.” David’s shrug was audible. His body was close. Very close. So close that if she leaned back a little—No. No, no, no, no.

  She flipped back her hair so hard it probably hit him in the face. “Everyone likes Roseanna. The question is does your partner hate me because I’m not Roseanna or because she was forced to stand next to perfection in motion for too long?”

  And she was rambling and still not moving. Right. Task at hand. She shrugged. “Not that any of this matters. Being the petty, bratty little sister has its benefits. Tormenting Morgana with menial tasks is expected and rather amusing even if it isn’t very nice. Provided I don’t go too far. I may be taller, but she’s probably faster. Especially since she doesn’t wear proper undergarments. Though I might be more creative. How does she feel about snakes?”

  “Morgana?” David snickered a little. “I’m not going to touch that one. As for the rest, I think her animal phobia might be limited to those with hair that could be considered ‘pet-like.’ She’s crawled around on a lot of battlefields and treated a lot of nasty wounds, but cries over veal.” He tilted so near his body grazed hers. Not that it made her shiver. “And I think snakes would be pretty hard to find on a train.”

  Since when did he smell of hickory and mint and brandy and...fiddlesticks. She’d not find him attractive again, she’d not, no matter how intriguing this more mature, analytical David was. And even if she did, she’d not engage. Nothing good could come from that. She squeezed the knob.

  “Right. So, I’ll just dress quickly and we can each get back to work.” Separately. She straightened her shoulders. “I have a deadline and I’m sure you have guarding or whatever you do, to do. ‘Sentinel-ing.’ My first husband used to like making nouns into verbs.”

  A long pause.

  “Do you miss him?” David’s voice was low, almost cold. Judging. “Your husband. The first one.”

  Ouch. He was quite skilled at emphasis.

  She clutched the blanket close and spun so she could face him, her back against the door. “A little.” Amalia patted her throat. “He made me laugh. A lot, which was quite nice. That was the primary reason I married him.”

  That and to make what she said all those years ago to David not a lie. Very typical reasons. The fact that Ethan was amusing and amiable, even when it was clear they’d made a rather large error, was a bonus. The lump was back in her throat.

  “Because he made you laugh?” Squinty-eyed skepticism from her companion.

  She rubbed her arms. “I
found decent conversation a good thing in a marriage. That, along with common goals and values, similar lifestyles, similar backgrounds and ideals...” And a strong resemblance to the fictional fiancé I described to you. Not that she could ever admit it.

  “And attraction, I presume? I mean, in the abstract. Isn’t attraction a necessary ingredient for an American marriage? Or continued physical indulgence?”

  Amalia froze as a shiver fizzled through her body at the question, the cadence, and the tone. And the echo, so close to words he’d written so long ago.

  You make excellent arguments for fashion; artistic expression, amusement, adulation, but there’s one more, is there not? Attraction, I presume?

  Ugh. Amalia resisted slapping her hand on her forehead. He was fishing for information to add to his dossier or worse to get her in trouble with her family. The question wasn’t intended as a flirtation. He was implying that she was some sort of “loose woman,” or what have you, to trick her into admitting...something. “You’re asking because of the threats, aren’t you? Because the writer suggested that I’m some sort of wanton...um...strumpet?”

  “No. Of course not.” He paused, giving her the inquisitor eyes again. “But now that you mention it, there isn’t any truth in those accusations, is there? If there is, you best tell me now because I can’t protect you if you’re hiding things from me.” He cocked his head, as if challenging her. “I need to know all of your secrets, Amalia.”

  He most certainly did not. Not if he was going to use them against her or help her parents deny her charity.

  “I don’t have any secrets.” Her voice shook a little at the lie. “And the very idea that I’d behave in such a manner... I have a good mind to tell Thad you asked that.” She forced open the door. “Perhaps I will.” With as much dignity as she could muster, she straightened her stance. “I should get dressed. Or someone should assist me in getting dressed.” She peeked over her shoulder at him.

  David’s eyes grew so wide it was a wonder they didn’t pop from his sockets. “Wait, I thought I was just cleaning up the dead animal. No one said anything about helping you dress. Can’t you do that yourself either?”

  Men. With their plain trousers and simple undergarments. She teetered back and forth on her toes. “I can put on my stockings, bloomers, and camisole. I need help with the corset and gown—which is four pieces actually. It’s quite complicated. I can probably tie the bustle myself though that comes after the corset and it’s easier if someone else does. Also, lacing my boots once I get the corset on is a bit difficult. After the corset is in place, it’s hard for me to see anything below my waist.”

  “You’d be nude?” The horror on David’s face stung. “Thad would like that less than you insinuating I agreed with the person making the threats.” He clucked his tongue and had the nerve to shudder.

  But he made a point. Her brother probably expected daily telegraphs. With details.

  “I’d be more covered than I am now.” She steeled herself to enter the room and not look down too much. “Just turn around for a few minutes and busy yourself with cleaning.”

  From the amount of blood, lots of cleaning. She swallowed.

  “This seems like a bad idea.” David grumbled something else, but he still followed and moved towards where they’d left the head. Disgusting. She’d make sure he washed his hands in the basin before touching her. Maybe perfume them as well.

  “Just focus on your task and I’ll focus on mine and when you’re finished, I’ll be still covered up enough that Thad won’t ride in from Delaware and skewer you.” She moved far away from his area and towards the bureau housing her fresh, clean, pretty things.

  “You have a rather violent imagination.” David rustled around behind her before swinging open the door and exiting. Presumably to dispose of the corpse for good.

  Amalia squinted around the room and her body relaxed.

  Yes. Clean and all evidence of the prior night was gone. She shimmied a little as she slipped her nightgown over her head before stuffing it back into the brass-studded chest. Someone would fold and properly pack later. Organization was not her strongest suit.

  She yanked open a lower drawer. Undergarments, undergarments. Which ones? Even if he didn’t care, she needed some sort of cheer.

  The satin camisole? She thumbed the petal-soft edge of the garment. So pretty. And it had such shiny beads which attracted the eye...they’d get crushed by the corset but beneath she’d be perfect. At least as perfect as someone like her could be.

  Amalia’s fingers flexed and twitched above her choices. Perhaps she’d use short bloomers, with extra ruffles, and the sheerest of her petticoats.

  She smoothed the material. All she needed now was a bustle—not too large to get in the way but enough to give her a proper shape like...she snatched the perfect choice, held the object to her front and leaned back, the brass handles from the drawers pressing into her skin.

  A rapping at the door.

  Her skin prickled and she shivered, but not from cold.

  “You may come in.” She used her best, most sophisticated lady voice.

  Twenty-four, she was twenty-four, almost twenty-five and not sixteen and angling for a kiss or...other things...and he was going to dress her, not the opposite...

  David’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he twisted his fingers. “So I—”

  Her breath hitched. The flicker was faint, but present in his gaze. Nervous wonderment? Anticipation? Or at least a memory of the things they’d done together because no one could deny that they sparkled in that area of their relationship.

  The twinge of power that’d given her and could give her now, at least for a moment, when everything else was so frustrating, was just too tempting. She swished her hips again, before turning and flinging her hair over her shoulder so he could have full access to the ties. “Lace up the back. As tight as you can. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

  He groaned a little but didn’t move. “Amalia—”

  She backed up so near she brushed his trousers with her bottom—her actual, un-bustled bottom. Amalia worked to suppress the delightful tingles in her skin and focus. She had to hold the power, not give it to him. “If it isn’t tight enough, I won’t be able to button the gown. Tight.” Honestly. She wouldn’t bite. Though come to think of it, she wouldn’t exactly mind a little nip from him. Especially on her ear.

  Amalia pinched her side. Not going to happen. She needed confidence for the discussion with her parents, not muddle and certainly not to be transformed into a giggling ninny.

  “Fine.” David’s voice was gruff but he picked up her laces. She bent forward and clutched the top of the bureau. This really would be a good position for...no. Control, Amalia.

  And ugh, he was being gentle. This is why men couldn’t wear corsets. They didn’t have the stomach. She’d never fit into anything at this rate. “Tighter.”

  “You’re bossy, you know that?” But he still did as directed. A bit. He really needed to put his back into it.

  “I am not. We’re running out of time. We’re nearing Pittsburgh and the transfer is short.” Honestly. Amalia leaned farther so he could get some leverage. “Really hard and tight.”

  “You have no idea what that’d sound like to a stranger listening at the door.” He used more force though. “And you’re very bossy.”

  “And you don’t like being bossed?” She smoothed her petticoat and stood as he finished. She thumbed the makeshift wardrobe and grabbed the gown with the most give. The magenta striped trim and the square collar that fell below the tip of her favorite locket and didn’t cut off her air. And it had a matching hat. With a silk gardenia and the little red and blush colored bird. She tossed her bustle to David so he could tie it around her waist.

  “No, I don’t. I’ve been occasionally told I don’t take orders well. Or that I argue too much. Have too many opinio
ns. A hindrance to my career.” His voice took on a hard edge.

  She swiveled. His eyes mirrored his tone, though the glare was directed at...her? Whatever for? She wasn’t being that demanding. And she’d never criticized his passion. That had been one of his chief charms when they were younger, how he cared so much about all people. Which is why she needed to tuck those memories right back where they came from. Immediately.

  Amalia broke the gaze and gave him her back again.

  “Though I like to argue that I obey the correct orders and they should be grateful I can tell the difference.” David’s voice was still a tad sharp, but he handled the ribbons with care. “Which they must have figured out, that or else they just wised up to the fact they need me and better give me my due.” A sigh. “But I will say, I do prefer to do the bossing.” His hands were surer this time as he secured her final underthing.

  “Do you?” She stepped into her skirt and forced her back straight so he could button.

  He’d bent so his lips had to be the exact height of the top of her spine. “Oh yes. My English is much better than it used to be. I didn’t misspeak.” His mouth was so close. So very close.

  Amalia bit down another moan and forced her mind back into the conversation. “You’re much more...confident now, I’ll give you that.”

  He snorted a little and assisted with her jacket in much the same manner. He’d finished the last button and leaned forwards, whispering into her ear. “Well, as you recall, it’s been eight years since we first met. I’ve grown. In many ways.”

  Flirting. He was flirting, right? Amalia frowned. Though there was still something beneath it, some vibrating note of anger which made the back of her brain prickle. Because what had she done to him, really? She’d meant nothing to him and he would’ve ended what they had himself, so what were a few slightly unfair insults?