The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (The Wallflower Wins Book 2) Page 10

  “No, just lust,” he teased.

  “I am not in lust with you!” she protested.

  “Indeed you are,” he countered, his beautiful lips curving.

  “You are not in lust with me,” she replied indignantly.

  At that, his gaze seemed to heat like a fire that was being encouraged to grow. “How are you so certain?”

  She licked her lips and looked about. “Because… Well, because.”

  “Because?” he repeated. “You do not know the inner workings of a male mind, Helena. And may I point out to you that the way you kissed me this morning suggested that you are in lust with me at least a little bit.”

  “Not on purpose,” she defended, clutching her wine glass before her bosom like armor.

  He shrugged. “It is unexplainable. How does one know why we are attracted to some people and not attracted to others?”

  She frowned. “I don’t really understand why you’d be attracted to me.”

  He crossed before her, his large frame taking up so much of the space. “You must stop disparaging yourself, Miss Highbury, simply because you have not had the opportunity of finding men who could be attracted to you.”

  “Oh I’ve had the opportunity,” she corrected.

  That seemed to stop him, and he returned to collect his wine. He lifted it in his broad hand and took a long drink. “I don’t follow,” he said. “You are a young woman clearly not of high rank and social position. How is it that you have been exposed to so many young men? If so, I would have thought you would have married instead of becoming a governess.”

  “It is the typical thought that young ladies should wed,” she agreed, exhausted by the general expectations that ladies had no dreams.

  “Shouldn’t they?” he queried.

  “Only if it is to someone they wish to.” She avoided his gaze, thinking of the few men who had been interested in her. “And I’ve only had proposals from fellows over the age of sixty.”

  “That is most disconcerting,” he agreed. “I could see how that would get you down a bit. But you have been to balls and to gatherings where you have had the opportunity to meet young men and they have not fallen at your feet?”

  “You are making fun of me now,” she bit out, anger sparking deep within her.

  “I am not, Miss Highbury,” he all but vowed. “How could they not see you as I do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head, frustrated. “Perhaps you are a trifle mad to think men might fall at my feet.”

  “Perhaps I am,” he allowed, “or perhaps I’m not a fool.”

  “Oh, well, we do think highly of ourselves, don’t we?” she teased.

  “What I mean,” he explained patiently, “is that I am accustomed to understanding that beauty, in the way that so many think of it, is absolutely uninspiring and means little.”

  “Oh I see,” she said, hard pressed not to roll her eyes at him. “Because you are beautiful, you know that beauty does not matter?”

  “Yes,” he stated simply, pulling at his cravat. Slowly, he unwound it until he slid it from his neck and dropped it on the long, book-strewn table. He stretched his head to the right and then to the left and smoothed his linen shirt. “Beauty is highly overrated. Beauty gets in the way of a good many things.”

  Her lips twitched, even as she found herself quite captivated by the muscles in his throat. “Oh how interesting and how difficult for you.”

  He inclined his head. “Now you are the one who is making fun of me.”

  “Perhaps a little bit,” she admitted.

  “Miss Highbury,” he began, clearly determined. “When I am sixty, my skin will wrinkle, my hair will turn gray, and my good looks will go. Many men develop a paunch. Many men have other difficulties as they age. I might as well. Who knows? If I do not develop my personality, if I am not interesting, I shall simply be a wrinkled up old man. Young ladies are the same. They can be beautiful when they are seventeen and eighteen years old.”

  He took a long swallow of wine, then placed his glass down on the table. “They can capture the attention of everyone in the room with a single look. But if they do not have an interesting soul or a kindness of spirit or a curious mind, one day they will wake up with nothing. Our bodies are not as important as people would make them out to be. It is our souls and our minds, our spirits, our hearts, which make us appealing, and which make us attractive.”

  “I think you are mad,” she breathed, feeling wonder at his proclamation. He truly seemed to believe it. “I think you are the only person in the world who thinks thus.”

  “Well, what do you think?” he prompted. “Am I completely mistaken?”

  “No,” she replied honestly, “or at least you shouldn’t be. My friends have the most beautiful hearts and the cleverest of minds and the most remarkable of abilities. And yet society does not value them because their hair doesn’t shine brightly enough, the turn of their eye is not beautiful enough, their lips are not ruby enough, and their figures are not to perfection.”

  She frowned, suddenly angry. “And so they are shoved to the wayside. Now, if they had fortunes, perhaps society would overlook the fact that they were plain, the same as myself, but society does not. And it is a great tragedy. Not,” she continued passionately, emboldened by his statement, “because it is some great tragedy to be a spinster, but because society values spinsters so little.”

  She crossed to the table and looked up at him. “Do you know some in history have suggested that spinsters should be shipped off to colonies, much like criminals, because they did not contribute to the world? Can you imagine?”

  “Tragically, I can. For I know full well the foolishness of men.” His gaze searched her face. “Do you wish to remain unmarried?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, her heart wrenching. “I would like to have children, which means I should marry. But I’ve never met someone I would wish to wed or who would wish me to be myself.”

  “Hmmm.” He reached out and took her hand in his. “That’s most interesting.”

  “Why?” she asked, unable to steal her gaze away from their entwined hands.

  “Well, you see,” he began, rubbing his thumb lightly over her knuckles, “I could be your patron, which would leave us as friends, and you would be able to do your work and never be concerned about money.”

  “True,” she agreed, though she did not feel as bright about such a thing as she should. “And I would be quite grateful for that. It would make my life a good deal easier and less full of concern.”

  He nodded, his shoulders bowing ever so slightly as he lowered his head towards hers. “But it would also mean that you would likely never marry and that you would have no children.”

  “It is likely not meant to be.” She winced inwardly. She hated that not having children wasn’t her choice but rather something she could not have because she was unwanted. It was bloody unfair. She cleared her throat and blinked away the sting at the corners of her eyes. “If you are my patron, I could play with your nephews and they could become my children by proxy.”

  “Or. . .” he lifted her hand to his lips and whispered “we could take Duncan’s advice.”

  She stared at his head bowed over her hand and it was all she could do not to yank her fingers from his grasp. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know that we are of different backgrounds,” he said gently. “But we could still wed. I think very highly of you. The boys think very highly of you. And I would never stand in the way of your success.”

  “But as a mother,” she exclaimed, hardly believing what was taking place. “Surely you would not wish me to continue writing?”

  “Why?” he demanded. “If we were to have children together, I would know they would be the inheritors of a mind like yours, of creativity like yours. What wonders would they do? I’d be most proud of your writing.”

  She gaped at Laird MacAlister.

  In her experience, men always felt that intelligence wa
s passed down through the male line, but here he was suggesting that he would love to have children with her because of her capabilities.

  “You truly are mad,” she gasped.

  He laughed deeply at that. “Only by moonlight, my dear, only by moonlight.”

  She looked to the window.

  The sun had set. “The moon is shining.”

  “Perhaps that’s why I’m saying what I’m saying,” he replied softly.

  She blew out a breath. “Perhaps you should kiss me again so you stop talking nonsense.”

  “I thought I was the one seducing you?” he returned.

  “Have you moved from seduction to matrimony in but a day’s time?” she demanded.

  He smiled and drawled, “Who says that the two are not meant to be together?”

  “Oh,” she said, doing her best to take this all in without being certain she was imagining it all. “I think much of society thinks the two are not meant to be together. I do not see many wives seduced by their husbands.”

  “You seem to have a rather wide view of the world,” he said.

  She paled.

  She knew she did.

  She could feel the blood draining from her cheeks. She needed to be more careful or he would soon realize that she was not at all who she seemed to be. Of course, her lie was not great. She’d used her true name. She did not try to say that she was someone she was not. She simply left out pertinent details about herself.

  “We shall let talk of marriage pass since you are mad by moonlight,” she stated, determined to not be taken in a moment’s fancy. “We shall wait until the bright light of day comes again and see if you speak in similar tones.” She raised her glass. “And perhaps not while we are sipping wine.”

  “Very wise, very wise.” He thrust a hand through his wild dark hair. “For a spinner of words and creator of imagined places, you are very practical.”

  “Life has made me practical,” she stated, unwilling to yield in this. “I have to face the facts of reality. It is why I am here.”

  “In Scotland as a governess?” he queried as he folded his arms across his chest, his vulnerability fading.

  “Yes,” she said. “If I had stayed where I was, well, I cannot imagine I would be finishing my book.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Well,” she lifted her chin, trying to explain without giving it all away. “I would have continued scribbling away in my small room with my aunt and uncle. There would be no approval of me ever getting income from my writing. And my life would simply decline to a smaller and smaller sphere of people and events. Or if I married an octogenarian as my aunt would have me do, I would have no time for writing, for a husband would not allow it.”

  “Unless I was your husband,” he pointed out.

  “I still can’t imagine why you truly would wish to marry me.”

  “Very intelligent children,” he reminded, his eyes shining. “But I should warn you.”

  “Oh?” she prompted.

  His face grew dark. “You should not expect to be married to me for particularly long.”

  “What?” she gasped. “Do you believe in divorce?”

  “No,” he said simply. “Death.”

  “But we all die,” she pointed out, stunned by the turn of their conversation.

  “Yes.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Well, you wouldn’t need to be concerned about me becoming an octogenarian.”

  “No?” she queried, her heart going out to him at his strange comments.

  He hesitated as if weighing whether he should explain. “You see, my father died of apoplexy quite young.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, tempted to reach out to him but unsure if she should. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that you shall, does it?”

  “I think it does,” he said, his face unyielding in his dark belief. “I do not see how I could exceed him. And if we did marry, you would simply have to be prepared for the fact that I would not be with you long.”

  Her heart broke for him. For he truly seemed to believe his own words.

  At first, she’d thought the whole conversation merely a jest, but now she wondered.

  Could he truly think that he would never live past the years that his father had lived? Was he truly concerned that he would die of a similar disease? Why was he sharing such private thoughts with her?

  It struck her then that the death of his father at such an early age had a profound effect upon him. That was why he was speaking as he was.

  “How old were you when your father passed?” she asked.

  “I was ten,” he stated.

  “I’m sorry for it,” she said gently. How she wished she could hug the small boy who had lost his father and borne the scar of it his whole life. He clearly bore them still.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, no more talk of such things,” he said quickly. “I have made it clear to you the difficulties of marrying me and yet there could be advantages too.”

  “Advantages for you besides the clever children?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I would not have to worry about looking.”

  “You’ve been looking?” she asked.

  “No,” he admitted. “Helena, I don’t really fancy the idea of dealing with the difficulties of marriage, but you seem like you would be particularly good at it.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I do, do I?”

  “I think you’d be most practical.” His brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t be spending all your time at London balls either, waltzing about and chasing after the most handsome gentlemen.”

  “Oh dear,” she groaned. “Do you see me as a sad little mouse sitting in the country waiting for her rakish husband to come home?”

  “No,” he replied adamantly. “Forgive me if that is the impression that I have given. I shall be with you in the country. I really haven’t a fondness for balls anymore. I’ve reached a point in which all I wish is to come back home, take care of my estate, make certain the land is working well, and, quite frankly, gaze at the stars.”

  “Gaze at the stars,” she echoed.

  Finally, a bit of his playfulness returned. “You haven’t noticed that that’s what I do at night?”

  “Forgive me,” she laughed. “But I don’t particularly pay attention to what you do at night.”

  His gaze trailed to her lips. “Perhaps you shall in the future.”

  “You are most presumptuous.”

  “I am optimistic,” he corrected.

  “You gaze at the stars at night?”

  “There is no better place for it then the ben just behind the castle.” His eyes lit with wonder. “The stars in the Highlands are the most glorious in the world. You must let me show them to you.”

  And oh, how he tempted her. Tempted in so many, many things.

  Chapter 13

  Gideon did not know if he should feel triumph or not because he’d convinced her.

  She was going to come and look at the stars with him.

  Which would only lead to him growing closer to winning the wager—a wager he had almost forgotten.

  For a kiss under the stars? It would surely happen. But this no longer felt like any sort of winning.

  With all his heart, he wished her to choose her writing over the stars with him. . .

  Even if he longed to take her mouth with his and experience the wild abandon that only she seemed to evoke in him.

  But much to his shock, instead of swooning and happily following his lead, her eyebrows suddenly lifted and she gave a sly, determined smile.

  “Laird MacAlister,” she said. “I shall not be going with you. As tempting as a night gazing out upon the stars is, I have other things to do. Your company is lovely and tempting, but I shall not be seduced by you.”

  It was almost as if she had somehow been able to read his thoughts.

  She was throwing his own invitation back in his face.

  And he was thrilled.
r />   Just now, the entire conversation they’d had proved to be the most genuine he’d had in his entire life.

  Ladies often did not feel as if they could be transparent with him. No, they felt they had to perform some siren’s dance with him to be alluring or interesting, when, in fact, those things were very distancing.

  He felt close to Helena in a way he’d never felt to anyone. Truly, because she was being herself, he was certain. He saw her. Her real self, a self that she clearly did not allow other people to see. Suddenly, he was delighted that she had not been seduced by his trappings. She did not wish to go see the stars with him. She wished to go write her book. And it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

  “Can I come and watch you write?” he asked abruptly.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “No one likes to be watched while they’re writing, do they?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied frankly, but oh how he wished to watch her work. Still, he wouldn’t intrude.

  “I cannot imagine that anyone would,” she said, her lips pursed. “I will have no distractions, sir. And if you’re very good, perhaps I shall read you a few chapters of my book later.”

  “Do you promise?” he asked. “Because now you are the one who’s tempting me.”

  “Promises, promises,” she replied. “I’m not entirely certain, but I will tell you this. You cannot tease me away from the hours that are meant to fulfill my dreams.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because, Helena, your dreams are great ones, and I wish to make them come true.”

  Her eyes widened and softened. Her lips parted ever so slightly. “Don’t say things like that,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked, surprised by her response.

  “Because they are more seductive than any look that you give me.”

  “Well,” he said, “I should try not to say them then, but they are true.”

  His heart did the strangest thing in that moment.

  It expanded.

  He could feel it in his chest. His entire soul seemed to expand too, as if just simply being with her, making her dreams more possible, made him feel more himself, more powerful, and even stronger.

  The fulfillment of her dreams did not diminish him in any way at all. They made him feel greater.