Mask of Nobility (Scandalous Scions Book 4) Read online

  “We have only spoken twice,” he pointed out, for he had been absent at the breakfast table. “This moment is that second occasion. You have been honest, both times. Honest and direct.”

  “Ah.” She put her hands on the book, resting them there. “It is true, I am forcing myself to remain indifferent about you. The world you live in, who you really are…these are things far outside my own small life. You have descended upon Jasper’s house, using your connection to buy yourself an adventure. Then, when you have taken your fill, you will return to your life, never to look down upon us again.” She shrugged. “Therefore, I will remain indifferent to you. You will soon be gone.”

  Tor straightened with a snap, as if she had slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “You think I am looking for a toy to play with. The distraction of novelty, to appease my ennui.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone running from the life of privilege you enjoy for any other reason.”

  He spun away, as if emotions were driving his feet. He walked in a tight, hard circle and came back to the stair. His jaw was tight.

  Bronwen felt no fear, despite the clear signs of anger he displayed. He would not dare touch her. If he tried, she was sitting at just the right height to kick him and today, she wore her boots, too.

  His hands gripped the iron railings. The knuckles whitened. “You know nothing of my life.”

  “Precisely.”

  He shook his head. “You read these books, yet you fail to absorb their lessons.” He swallowed, his jaw working. “Have you studied the symptoms and treatment of cholera?”

  “Briefly.” Her heart gave a little squeeze.

  “Have you ever seen a cholera victim?” He shook his head. “Don’t bother answering. I know you have not. You are a maiden, living a sheltered and indulged life. You have wisdom of a kind from your reading, while you have no real experience of life.”

  “And you have?” She tried to laugh. It sounded strained.

  “I visited the hospital in Edinburgh,” he said, his voice low. “Every day for a week, to see if there was anything I or my people could do.” His gaze turned inward. “The stench turns your stomach. Then there are the moans and screams of pain. People collapse in on themselves, turning into dried out husks, in a matter of hours.”

  “Dehydration…” Bronwen whispered.

  “They contort themselves and scream while they are doing it,” he added. “The children are the worst. They thrash on their pallets and their eyes roll.” His gaze came back to her face. “Death is a relief, after that.”

  Bronwen swallowed, her heart thudding.

  “I watched people suffer and knew there was nothing I could do about it and not just because this is not my country or my people.” He pushed himself off the stairs with a hard thrust and turned away. “My own country suffers,” he added, his voice low. “There is a sickness that has gripped it for years. People die. Healthy, young people. Old, frail people. Women, children, men. The sickness does not distinguish who it chooses as its next victim. It can strike anyone and every time the symptoms are different. No expert can tell me what is the cause.” He turned to face her. His throat worked. “And they look to me to provide answers, to fix everything for them. I am their overlord. It is my duty to protect them and I am failing.”

  Bronwen didn’t dare move, for the impotent fury radiated from him in waves. His hands were fisted by his sides. The tension in his shoulders made him look like a man on the verge of exploding.

  Then he drew in a heavy, harsh breath. And another. His shoulders settled and he flexed his hands.

  “I do not linger here looking for an adventure,” he added, his tone dry.

  “You think you will find answers here? In the Yorkshire dales?” She couldn’t prevent the note of incredulity in her voice.

  He ruffled his hair with a rough movement, as if he were trying to scrub away his frustration. “If I seek anything at all, it is the hope that I might find…perspective.” There was bitterness in his eyes. “Of course, someone as indifferent as you would not care to understand that, either.”

  He moved away, his steps fused with the anger he had subsumed.

  “Socrates said a change of context can promote critical thinking,” Bronwen said.

  He turned to look at her. His brow lifted. “Exactly.” He sounded surprised.

  Bronwen put the book on the step, got to her feet and moved to the floor. “I was wrong about you,” she admitted. “I thought that…well, you know what I thought. I misunderstood. I am sorry.”

  He studied her for a moment, then let out a rushed breath. “You have an uncommon clarity of self. Most men are incapable of seeing their mistakes even when presented with evidence. Even more are incapable of admitting it.”

  Bronwen shrugged. “I am not a man.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, too.”

  “Most people misunderstand me. That is not a difficult admission to make.”

  He nodded. “Your indifference makes them misinterpret. I assumed you were merely a woman grasping for freedom in any way she could and to Hades with societal expectations. Only, you are using your freedom.” He lifted his hand and waved it to take in the room. “For this. Freedom gives you the means to study and not in some controlled college with narrow-minded professors.”

  Bronwen couldn’t help smiling. Her pleasure warmed her. Few people grasped so quickly why she lived the way she did.

  Tor sat on the arm of the sofa and crossed his arms. “What have you studied? Where has your reading taken you?”

  Her surprise made her start. “You really wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  Bronwen recalled the many facets of human knowledge she had tapped, some deeply and some of which she had only skated the surface. “I take knowledge wherever it is available,” she said, as a different idea occurred to her. “Tell me, are you really looking for a fresh perspective to jolt you into new ways of thinking?”

  Tor frowned. “A succinct way of putting it. Yes, that is what I seek, although until your indifference pushed me into describing it, I did not know it.”

  Bronwen nodded. “Then you must come with me.”

  His arms dropped. “Where?”

  “Wherever I go. Come and see for yourself what I see and observe. Today, I want to visit Agatha and make sure her cottage survived the rainstorm and help her hang the rosemary for drying.”

  “Should I call for the carriage?”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll walk.”

  “Walk,” he repeated, sounding flummoxed.

  “Do you even own a pair of boots?” she asked, eyeing his elegant shoes.

  “Perhaps Jasper will lend me a pair.”

  “Hop to it, then,” Bronwen told him. “It’s five miles to Agatha’s and I would prefer to be home for lunch. Cook has made cottage pie.”

  Tor looked affronted. “Hop to it?” He raised his brow.

  “You’re not a prince of Denmark here, remember?” She met his gaze. “Perspective,” she reminded him.

  “Yes,” he agreed and strode to the door.

  Bronwen went to collect her shawl and bonnet, resisting the warm trickle of appreciation that a man had listened to her—actually listened—and no lesser man than the Archeduke Edvard Christoffer, at that.

  For her, he should remain merely Tor Besogende, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Sometimes, in the morning, Rhys found it difficult to get his hands to work as they should. At first, it had been a mere stiffness that had soon worked itself out as the day passed. Lately, though, especially on cold mornings such as this one, his fingers would not cooperate.

  It was not the first unsettling sign of aging he had noticed, only the most severe one. Usually, he ignored that he was fifty-five years old, because he still felt like a young man. At least, he did if he avoided mirrors. The gray in his hair was always a shock to him.

  Instead of telling Anna he could not manage his cravat for himself as he had his entire lif
e, he announced he would not go to the office today. Anna would fuss and worry if he said why. Instead, he spoke of a light schedule and Benjamin’s more than competent handling of the partners.

  Rhys slid his dressing gown over his shirt and made his way downstairs, flexing and cracking his knuckles, trying to restore feeling to his fingers. He would settle in the library and read the newspapers—all of them—from front page to back. Then there was that excellent new volume by John Stuart Mill on the reading stand…

  Alice was sitting at the desk, writing. She looked up when Rhys entered and smiled, her green eyes dancing and her dimples deepening. “I hope you don’t mind, Father? Your desk is much nicer for writing than the dining room.” She was a pretty sight, in an apple green dress and a white ribbon trailing from the back of her hair. She looked fresh and lovely and sweet.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Rhys assured her. He enjoyed the way the morning sun was make her pale blonde hair gleam. Her skin was clear and so pale it sometimes seemed it might be transparent. “You don’t like the morning room?”

  Alice wrinkled her nose. “Iefan has been smoking in there. The smoke makes me cough until it hurts.”

  “That was last night, wasn’t it?” Rhys asked, for Iefan had left for Sussex on the morning train to follow up with clients.

  “It still makes me cough.”

  “Then you are welcome to use my desk. Who are you writing to?”

  “Neil.” Alice’s cheeks bloomed red. She concentrated on the blotting of her pen. Her breathing quickened.

  Rhys made himself sort through the folded newspapers just as he had been, while his mind raced. “Neil is in Northumberland now?”

  “His regiment returned to barracks last month.”

  “How did the India campaign go?”

  “There was no battles at all. Just heat and dust and elephants. Neil was very disappointed.”

  Then Neil was writing back to her and sharing intimate details. Rhys wondered if Vaughn and Elisa were aware of the correspondence, although he didn’t for a moment wonder if they approved of their son’s alliance with his daughter. Neil had grown into a fine man and an even better officer.

  Rhys cleared his throat. “Has he…spoken to you, Alice?”

  Alice lifted her gaze to meet his. Her face was flushed. “He wanted to come to the Gathering, Father, only the boat was delayed. He has leave at Christmas and he said he would try to make it to London…” She bit her lip. “I’m sure he will speak to me then.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, as if she had run out of courage.

  Rhys lifted her chin, to make her look at him. “Do you love him, darling daughter?”

  Her eyes glowed. She glowed. “I do.”

  “Then no matter when he speaks to you, it will be time enough. Neil is a good man. He won’t make you wait.”

  Her happiness welled up inside her, turning her expression into one of pure joy.

  Rhys hugged her. He couldn’t help it. Her simple pleasure and love were infectious.

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m so happy!” she whispered, her cheek against his shoulder. “I don’t know why Sadie and Bronwen insist upon finding happiness somewhere out in the world when it is right here inside me!”

  “They’re just not as lucky as you, my sweet one,” Rhys told her. Fierce love overwhelmed him, making his vision blur and his heart to throb. Of his four daughters, Alice was the sweet one, the quiet one, the one he had been afraid would be lost behind the strident clamoring of the others.

  Neil had seen her beauty and goodness, though. Thank God for that.

  Rhys kissed her silky hair, relief making him dizzy.

  Alice coughed and leaned away from him. She waved her hand in front of her face and coughed again. “Goodness, Father. Your gown reeks of smoke!”

  “I don’t smoke,” Rhys pointed out.

  “Wood smoke!” She coughed again. The sound was a harsh bark that pulled from the depths of her lungs. It hurt to hear it. Rhys hid his grimace as Alice got herself back under control.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, covering it as she gave another small cough. “The tiniest whiff of smoke sets me off.” She dropped her hand and smiled an apology at him.

  Rhys caught her hand and lifted it up so he could see clearly.

  There were red spots sprayed across the palm.

  His heart turned to ice.

  “What is it, Father?” Alice asked.

  Hiding his reaction, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief and cleaned off her palm. “It’s nothing,” he lied. “Nothing at all. Finish your letter to Neil, my darling. Enjoy yourself.”

  Her face lit. “I will.” She picked up the pen, eager to return to the letter.

  Rhys made himself walk away, struggling to look normal as he did, for now, not just his hands wouldn’t cooperate. Everything had seized up, except for his heart, which careened about like a wild bird in a cage.

  * * * * *

  Bronwen looked up from the page she was reading, putting together Price’s Theorem of Reason in her head.

  Her gaze took in the entire library, because she was sitting at the top of the stairs, up by where the book had been shelved.

  Tor was in the armchair, which was pulled up to the fire, for it was a blustery, wet day. He was sitting, more or less. She had shown him how to arrange himself so his legs supported heavy books. It involved draping the knees over the armchair and propping the book against one’s legs, which held it open. Leaning back against the other arm put just the right distance between the book and the eyes.

  It was the ideal posture for reading for hours at a time, only most people objected to the lounging sprawl. Tor had taken to it with speed.

  He was wearing Jasper’s walking clothes. The rough tweed jacket and pants were made for walking about the vale and through trees. The shirt had no collar and was open at the neck, revealing pale flesh beneath that was nevertheless dipped in the center between the musculature. Bronwen had studied anatomy books and knew of the chest muscles that made the flesh pillow in that way. It was fascinating to see it in a live subject, though.

  The shirt was too small across the shoulders and pulled the fabric taut over Tor’s chest in an agreeable way.

  How much he had changed in four days!

  Bronwen recalled the way he’d sat on the arm of that very chair, the first day he had stepped in the library. The upright carriage and the stiff formality. He’d perched, not sat. Even his feet had been together.

  Now his hair was tousled, his clothing that of a workman. He had cultivated a new perspective with systematic thoroughness. At times, he had forced himself to overcome habits of thought and practice that would prevent him from thoroughly experiencing everything.

  His relentless mowing down and raking aside of old attitudes and testing new ones had been fascinating to watch. She had never met anyone with such discipline.

  Tor lifted his hand to turn the page. His wrist, the one she had turned to examine nettle stings, showed the flex of strong tendons beneath as the long fingers eased the page over.

  A stray thought leapt into her mind. What would it feel like to have that hand, those long fingers, against her? Right there, against her chest, above the top of her camisole, which he would feel through the cotton of her dress….

  Bronwen dropped her gaze back to her book as confusion swamped her. Her cheeks burned.

  She didn’t…she couldn’t…desire him, could she?

  Remember who he really is, she whispered in her mind.

  It didn’t matter that he wasn’t really Tor Besogende. It didn’t matter that his changed appearance was an attempt by him to jolt himself into finding a way forward into the future.

  What did matter was the determined way he was going about it.

  And that he was a man, just like any other. Hot blooded. Flesh and bone.

  Only, she couldn’t want him. It was impossible. She had never desired a man. Ever. Most of them she found
to be tiresome and shallow, far too in love with their own selves to consider loving another. Or they were simply too stupid to withstand more than a few moments in their company.

  The text on the page she was staring at was a reminder. Reason deductively, she told herself.

  Tor was a man. She was a woman. They were healthy people. They were spending time in each other’s company. Wouldn’t it be more surprising if she was unmoved by him at all?

  Except…except…oh, he was the very last man she should feel anything for!

  Bronwen realized she was studying him once more. Her gaze followed the long line of his legs over the armchair and down to the flat plane of his stomach where the edge of the book rested. She took in the tight fabric of the shirt stretched across his chest and the flesh beneath it.

  She had long ago educated herself on the mysteries of sex and copulation. This the first time, though, she had stared at a man’s crotch and wondered about the appearance of what lay beneath the buttons of his trousers.

  She was growing breathless simply speculating.

  “Damn,” she whispered to herself, borrowing Sadie’s favorite curse.

  “Did you say something?” Tor asked, looking up at where she sat.

  She had not spoken as softly as she thought. Bronwen cast about for an answer. “I was…arguing to myself the points of Mr. Price’s theory on the superiority of deductive reasoning over inductive reasoning.”

  Tor frowned. “Deductive reasoning…” He sat up, bringing his feet to the floor, so he was facing her. “That is where I say: All men have beards. My father has a beard. Therefore my father is a man. Yes?”

  “Only, not all men have beards,” Bronwen pointed out. “The base assumption is incorrect. If your base assumptions are correct, then your conclusion must be correct. That is why Mr. Price considers deductive reasoning superior.”

  “Inductive reasoning can still be wrong even if the data is correct?” Tor smiled. “It certainly sounds as though inductive reasoning is the weaker of the two.”

  “Simplistic drivel,” Bronwen said, putting the offending book aside. “It is as if Mr. Price has never read Sir Isaac Newton, or Rene Descartes. He ignores the rationality of inductive reasoning, how it allows rigorous testing in search of the truth. Yes, the hypothesis may be wrong, only testing will prove it wrong. Deductive reasoning does not allow testing or the discovery of errors and that makes deductive reasoning the weaker of the two.”