Lord Dashwood Missed Out(6)
At last, the wood caught.
Relief washed through her, and warmth and light began to suffuse their small quarters.
Unfortunately, now that the fire was lit, it became clear that a long night stretched before them both. They had no food, no amusements, and little to occupy themselves.
Heaven knew they didn’t wish to talk to one another.
Dash pulled a silver flask from his pocket and uncapped it before offering it to her. “Brandy.”
“No, thank you.”
“It wasn’t a question.” He pushed the flask into her hand. “You need to warm from the inside, too.”
Nora accepted a cautious sip. The liquid fire spread through her empty belly, warming her insides and muddling her wits.
She passed the flask back to him, and he tipped it to his lips for a long, greedy swallow. Then another.
Wonderful, she thought. Because drunkenness was exactly what this miserable evening lacked.
He drummed his fingers on the table. A brisk progression of first finger to last. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Over and over.
Over . . .
And over . . .
And over.
Nora set her teeth.
“Do you know any songs?” he asked.
She was silent.
“I know songs,” he said, in a lascivious tone. “Sailor shanties, mostly. They’re all unspeakably vulgar.”
He continued the steady drumming of his fingers. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
This was going to be the longest night of her life.
For once in her life, Nora wished she were one of those ladies who traveled with needlework to occupy her hands. Instead, she settled for taking her quills from her writing desk, one by one, and whittling the nibs to arrow-sharp points. Her knife scratched against the quill again and again—a brittle, repetitive sound that was likely to annoy him.
She hoped it annoyed him. Two could play at his game.
Scratch.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Scrrratch.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Scrrrrrrrra—
Dash whipped a sheet of paper from her traveling desk and reached for the pen in her hand. “Do you know, I believe I shall write a pamphlet of my own. It will be titled Lord Ashwood Has No Regrets.”
“How clever of you.”
“Don’t worry.” He cut her a sharp look. “I’ll change your name. By one letter. To Miss Frowning, I think.”
“You would not help your cause. I am a figure of public sympathy. You would only cement your image as a villain.”
“Better a villain than a laughingstock.” He dipped the pen and continued to write. “But this is hardly the extent of my revenge. If you think my pamphlet is bad, just wait until I sue you.”
“Sue me? For what?
“For libel, naturally.”
“You can’t sue me for libel. The truth is a defense against libel.”
“There was nothing of truth in that screed. The entire thesis of your pamphlet is faulty.”
“How so?”
He set the pen aside. “I took the opportunity to expand my knowledge, use my talents, and explore the world—and yet you say I missed out? Because I didn’t stay within five miles of my birthplace and settle down with the girl next door?”
He held out his hands, palms up, like a pair of scales with his options weighed on either side.
He lifted one hand. “A world of adventure.” He lifted the other. “You.”
Nora stared at him. How dare he?
She’d laid herself bare in that pamphlet. It had terrified her merely committing the words to paper in the solitude of her room. Allowing it to be published was her greatest act of courage in life, and so much good had come from it. She’d come away with friendships, respect, a career of sorts—as much as gentlewomen were permitted to have careers. Women from all over England and beyond wrote to her, expressing their gratitude.
“I will not allow you to treat me this way,” she said. “You’re not the only one who explored his talents these recent years. I have attained a certain measure of success.”
“Yes. You did.” He leaned forward. “And you used me to get it. Shamelessly trampled my good name for your own petty reasons. I would have every justification for exacting revenge. In writing and in court. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you can prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Demonstrate to my satisfaction that I missed out on something. Anything.” He crossed his arms on the table. “We’re here, and we do have all night.”
What?
If he was suggesting what he seemed to be suggesting, he was a rogue. “You can’t mean to force me to—”
“I’m not forcing anything. But answer me this. If I missed out on something so wonderful, how do you explain the fact that every other man in England is equally dense? You could have married elsewhere by now. Surely some man would have seen what I did not.”
She pulled the quilt about her shoulders. “I have been too busy for dances and courting.”
“Too busy creating a reputation as a manhating virago, you mean. I suppose that would scare lesser men away.”
Lesser men?
What was that phrase meant to signify? He probably hoped she would ask. Nora decided to refuse him the satisfaction.
To be truthful, the last few years had been too busy. She simply hadn’t any opportunity for courtship. Even if she had, no gentleman had caught her eye. She thought perhaps she’d grown out of infatuations and would never be interested in any man.
But here Dash was again, being maddeningly interesting.
Not merely interesting.
Captivating.
Now that the firelight had filled the small hut, she had the opportunity to study him. She was fascinated by the map the world had drawn on his body, while he was out mapping the world. Small, squinting lines around his eyes, and a thin scar on his forearm, and tanned skin that gave way to a slightly paler hue above his wrists, and on the exposed wedge of his chest.
He tapped the table in impatience. “I’m waiting. What is it I missed?”
She cleared her throat. “To begin, you missed out on a partner who is your intellectual equal. In London, you surrounded yourself with those brainless beauties.”
“Surely you, champion of the female sex, don’t mean to argue that beautiful women cannot also be intelligent.”
“No. Of course, I should never say that.”
“Good. Because if you attempted to make such an absurd statement, I could produce a dozen examples of beautiful and intelligent women to disprove it.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Ugh. The last thing Nora wanted was to hear a recounting of his many beautiful, clever lovers. The very thought made her stomach churn.
“In fact,” he said, “I needn’t look beyond this cottage. I could begin the list with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dash watched closely as her cheeks darkened to a satisfying blush.
“What?” she said.
“You,” he repeated. “You are a woman who is both intelligent and beautiful.”
She was obviously flustered by this statement.
He was right. She didn’t know.
It made him perversely happy that she didn’t. He liked being the one to tell her. It meant no other man had.
“You never noticed me. Not that way.”
Wrong again, Nora.
He had noticed her, even then. When she’d tagged along on his fishing excursions with Andrew. During all those mathematics and Latin lessons she’d wheedled her way into joining. She was always in the periphery of his view.
Now she’d come into focus. Eyes bright and keen, skin cleared of all its youthful spots. Womanly curves in full abundance.
“I mean, I do believe you gave me some credit, intellectually. When we were younger, you had great respect for my mind.”
He choked on a laugh. To be sure, he’d known she was clever. But her mind wasn’t what had distracted him from his geometric proofs, much less what had haunted him during restless nights. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“There were so many times when my father would ask you to come to the slate, and you would sit back and say, ‘I don’t have the answer, but I suspect Miss Browning does. Let’s allow her to have a go.’ Don’t you recall?”
“I recall.”
“Why else would you do that?”
“Because I couldn’t go to the slate. Not without embarrassing myself.”
“Don’t be absurd. I know you must have known the answers. You were always so quick with figures.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Oh, Nora. I was sixteen years old. My figures weren’t the reason I declined to go to the slate. It was your figure.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I was a randy youth. You were a blossoming young woman. Do you understand me now?”
She stared at him blankly.
Apparently he would have to spell this out.
“You”—he extended both hands in her direction, vaguely cupped—“had breasts. I”—he slapped his palms to his chest—“had erections.”
She blinked. “What?”
Oh, for the love of God. “When a man is aroused, his—”
Thankfully, she cut him off with a gesture. “I understand how the anatomy works. I just can’t believe I did that to you.”
Always.
She’d always done that to him. Hell, she was doing it to him now. Between the brandy, their state of undress, and the enticing shadows the firelight cast below her ear and between her breasts . . .