She swiftly transferred her clothes to the little wardrobe in the former Delilah Swanpoole’s improbable boardinghouse. She smoothed the skirts of dresses that were two seasons too old but still fit beautifully, gently folded away her stocking, her shawls, her night rails, tucked away her slippers. She always took scrupulous care of everything and everyone she cared about.
It had never seemed to matter much to anyone except her.
She did it, anyway. She loved, anyway. She couldn’t help it. When she loved, it felt to her fathoms deep. It took the whole of her up. Surely this ought to count for something? But she had never loved ostentatiously or dramatically. Perhaps that had mattered to Henry? Surely one could not help but notice the ocean if they stood next to it, even if it was still?
Loving anyone had not yet done much but crush her.
She performed her ablutions and got out of her dress and into her night rail and crawled beneath the covers of a clean and comfortable bed to awaitthe rest of the emotions she’d kept at bay. They would be her company tonight.
Lorcan had slept in holds of ships strung with hammocks filled with sighing, snoring, farting men. He’d slept stuffed in beds in rooms packed with several families, and on fetid streets tucked behind barrels, pulling his toes in so the rats wouldn’t conduct their battles across his feet.
But he’d neverlivedwith a woman for more than a week or so—and that was only if “living with” meant the same thing as “enjoying athletic carnal marathons”—but he expected it would be a bit like navigating a room that also contained a small, temperamental animal, perhaps a feisty squirrel.
He had long ago given up attempting to guess the ages of people; he only knew that happy people tended to look younger, and misery and hardship tended to etch itself into features. People living in squalor were capable of happiness, and people living in palaces were often perfectly wretched. Lady Worth was perhaps thirty years old, if he had to guess. Her face was pale and pinched, as if she were withstanding a good deal, or holdingina good deal. The only color in her complexion was the lavender crescents beneath her eyes.
But when she’d turned her face up to him on the settee her eyes had given him quite a jolt. They were the color of good whiskey shot through with firelight, and a surprisingly fierce spirit looked out of them. She was frightened, but she was a fighter,he would warrant. She was angry—more accurately, probably, indignant—at whatever hand the world had dealt to her and was struggling to regain her footing in it while keeping the shreds of her dignity intact.
What an abasement to have to pretend to be married to a man like him.
Howshe must be suffering.
He half smiled. Mordantly, but not entirely without sympathy.
He would not want to be married to him, either.
Lorcan knew exactly who he was. Her opinion of him could never possibly have a bearing on his opinion of himself.
When all was said and done, he’d really rather not have to live in a suite with her, but he’d brought it on himself, and it was of almost no consequence to him. And the acquisition of a fake wife was probably the reason he had shelter at all tonight.
Of more consequence was being confined to a building that also contained Captain Tristan Bloody Hardy.
He realized he was pacing and forced himself to stand still.
What a shock that must have been for Hardy to see him cozily ensconced on a pink settee, chatting with his pretty wife, a cup of their very good tea in his sword hand.
And yet that bastard hadn’t so much as twitched a brow when he’d seen him.
Bloody granite, as always.
God, he’d liked that man.
Just a little more than he’d hated him. But even hating him had felt more like sport. The way one hates the opposing team.
Perhaps being recognized by the vermin who would have cut Lady Worth’s throat for her had been a portent. Perhaps there would never be such a thing as “the past.”
Lorcan investigated his accommodations and discovered the bed was spectacular; the pillows were like angel bosoms, the mattress generously buoyant. He learned this by testing both with light thumps of his fist. No dust or insects rose.
Everything was so clean he was half-reluctant to sully it with his sweaty body.
He paused to rub a corner of the knit coverlet between his fingers, thoughtfully. It was soft and tightly knit of good wool dyed blue. Even now, when he could well afford it, some part of him remained cynical about and somewhat mistrustful of comfort. As if it was something he still needed to earn.
He located the chamber pot (painted all over with tiny flowers, apparently to make the maid’s job less odious). A pretty little pitcher (painted with pink roses, very nice) was filled with water, and a knit cloth (blue) was beside it.
He yanked his boots off and lined them up before the hearth. He stripped swiftly and installed his clothes with care in the wardrobe. The room was warm and the air felt soft on his naked body. He stood a moment, allowing it to settle over him, and closed his eyes. He hadn’t been lying about his aching bones: they reminded him of the brutal life he’d led and they warned him of storms. They were merely part of the general ambiance of his life, the usual sights and sounds and sensations. He noted them; they hurt, but they slowed him not. He paid no more attention to the aches than he did to the creaks of the house. He soldiered on, as always.
He performed some swift splashing and scrubbing of his sweatier body parts, and then he climbed into bed to let the soft mattress absorb some of the great weight of simply being alive.
As he did, he listened to the building groan and sigh in the wind the way all old buildings and ships do.