November 26th, 1808
Exeter, Devonshire
They reached Exeter after darkness had fallen. Icarus directed the postilions to a hotel on Cathedral Close that had been recommended to him as a quiet and superior establishment. It was certainly superior, but it was also much larger than he’d anticipated. “Perhaps we should find somewhere more discreet.”
“I’m wearing a veil,” Miss Trentham said. “No one will recognize me.”
Icarus wasn’t so certain. He thought that anyone who knew Miss Trentham well would recognize her, veil or not. The austere elegance of her clothes was unmistakable, as was her cool poise.
They didn’t dine until nearly eight o’clock. Icarus saw at a glance that Miss Trentham had spoken to the kitchen staff. Of the ten superb dishes arranged on the table, only the roasted chicken would present Houghton with difficulty. Icarus carved for them all, slicing the breast meat wafer thin. You should be able to cut that with a fork, he wanted to say, but set his tongue between his teeth. Houghton wouldn’t want to be fussed over.
They lingered over the meal. Miss Trentham was Tish again. She’d been Tish every evening since Houghton had joined them. It was irrational to feel jealous, but he did. Icarus frowned down at his plate and stabbed a piece of baked salmon with his fork. I should be glad if they made a match of it.
Miss Trentham was wearing a gown of soft lavender and a pretty shawl the color of dusty grapes. In the nearly four weeks he’d known her, she had yet to wear strong, bright colors. She seemed to prefer muted shades—sage green, dove gray, soft blue, lavender. They suited her pale skin and blonde-brown hair and sea-colored eyes.
Icarus blinked, and looked more closely at Miss Trentham’s eyes. Tonight they were lavender-gray.
She caught his glance and smiled a Tish-smile that made her look quite extraordinarily attractive—the curve of her cheeks, the curve of her lips, the smoky lavender of her eyes. “What do you plan for tomorrow?”
“Uh . . .” Icarus blinked again, feeling momentarily off balance. He gathered his wits. “The receiving office, for Cuthbertson’s address, and then the sergeant and I are going shopping for clothes.”
Miss Trentham grinned at Houghton, looking even more like Tish than before. “You have my sympathy, Sergeant.”
Houghton pulled a humorous face, but his glance at Icarus was faintly discomfited. Why? But even as Icarus asked himself the question, he knew the answer: Because Houghton has no money.
“I’ll advance you some of your salary,” Icarus told the sergeant, helping himself to another portion of veal pie. “More pie? Or would you like some more chicken?”
He chewed his food stolidly, trying not to notice how attractive Miss Trentham was—such an intelligent, interesting face. No brandy tonight, he told himself. Not one single drop.
Icarus repeated the words as he climbed into bed—No brandy, no brandy—but when he heaved out of his nightmare several hours later, it took all his effort just to breathe, all his willpower not to vomit. He accepted the quarter-glass Miss Trentham handed him without a second thought. By the time he’d drunk the brandy, the urge to vomit had gone. He swallowed the valerian and lay back on his pillows. Lazy warmth permeated his limbs. He watched Miss Trentham pick up Herodotus. She came to the bed and smiled down at him and stroked his hair back from his brow.
Icarus smiled sleepily at her.
Miss Trentham settled herself cross-legged on the bed beside him. She opened the book.
Icarus held her hand and listened to the quiet rise and fall of her voice. His eyelids drooped lower and lower.
After an eon, he realized that Miss Trentham had stopped reading. He turned his head, searching for her. Don’t go.
She didn’t. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him.
Icarus sighed with pleasure and kissed her back. Another eon drifted past, an eon of warm, languid kisses.
“Would you like me to stay?” Miss Trentham whispered against his mouth.
Icarus knew this was a question that should alarm him. Why? Cogs turned slowly in his brain. Memory grudgingly unfurled. He’d made a decision that morning: No brandy. No asking Miss Trentham to stay the night with him.
It was too late to hold by his first decision; he wasn’t top-heavy, but he was definitely mellow, his wits slow, his inhibitions floating somewhere out of reach—and since when had a quarter of a glass of brandy been enough to do that to him? Since you were six weeks in bed with the fever, a little voice said in his head.
“Would you like me to stay?”
Icarus wrestled with his conscience, but his conscience was weak tonight, and all he could think of was how much he wanted her to stay.
“Icarus? Yes, or no?”
There were two answers he could truthfully give her. No, he didn’t want her to stay, because it was wrong and reprehensible and dangerous to her reputation. Yes, he wanted her to stay, because when she held him he felt safe and happy.
Icarus settled on the truth that gave him what he craved, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it and even though he knew he’d regret it in the morning. “Yes.”