It had sounded almost curious, hadn’t it? What did it mean? Why the fuck was he reacting like this? And to a blasted school ma’am? It beggared belief.
Perhaps if he had been allowed to call her Mary—a name which had a serious and calming sense to it. But her preference was to be called Maeve. There was something poetic, exciting, and erotic about that name. Maeve was a temptress, a wild mystical siren whose curling locks would feel like fire around his hands. Her very name added a level of romanticism that clutched at his gut and left him feeling uncomfortable.
“Where is your home in London located?” Miss Walsh’s question pulled Silverton from his contemplation and back to the lively look on her bright face. Even in the sombre late afternoon light, she shone.
Stop waxing poetic and answer the woman’s damn question, you dolt.
“The family home is on Fitzmaurice Place. It is a pleasing site with views of Berkeley Square Gardens. I believe the building is around a hundred years old, although I had the interiors modernised two years ago. You can do anything you like to make it your own, though.”
To her blank look at the well-known street, Silverton realised that Miss Walsh had little knowledge of the finer points of the Londonbeau mondeand which locations were consideredde rigueur. It surprised Silverton how touched he was by this. Naivety usually annoyed him, but in this instance, a woman who did not know nor care for theton-ish refinements suddenly struck him as a fine thing. She was a breath of fresh air. And when she gave birth to his heir, the child would not be like the rest of its narrow contemporaries; no, he would have a greater breadth of opportunity than many fine lordlings could ever imagine.
Silverton would need to prepare Miss Walsh for some things the child would need to know as a vulnerable widowed mother, especially about Charles and the danger he posed were Silverton not to kill him in time. The Set could not be prepared for all of it. For some reason, this idea rather disconcerted him, but he knew he could not tell her yet. It was another thing to feel guilty about. His list of sins were mounting. “The house is in Belgravia. It is not too far from the palace.”
“Is there a library nearby?”
“I have one in the house itself. But you are free to fill it with whatever novels you like.”
“I have a preference for philosophy and history and only a passing liking for the occasional novel.” She grinned at him, then pulled her cloak more closely around her as a small tremor passed over her. “Perhaps though, I will develop a liking for novels now that I have more free time.” The final part of her sentence had caught slightly, and Silverton realised she was cold. In his haste to leave Silver Hall, he had not considered her comfort. He cursed himself for a selfish fool, far too used to planning only for himself as a bachelor.
Lifting his cane, Silverton banged on the roof of the carriage as a way of stopping it.
“Fischer,” he called out when the carriage slowed. “Next inn we pass, stop and buy a hot brick as quick as you can.”
“Aye, my lord,” Fischer’s voice called out.
Whilst the carriage was paused, Silverton got to his feet and moved across to the other side of the vehicle, closer to Miss Walsh’s seat.
She looked up at him with wide eyes. “What are you about, my lord?”
“In lieu of a warm brick or anything suitably equivalent, I offer myself.”
“Do you mean to lie at my feet?” She asked so quickly that it shocked him.
Her query had been innocently meant, and it should have been innocently taken, but his mind had other ideas. It immediately conjured up an image of kneeling close to her ankles, his hands brushing up her legs, perhaps hooking them over his shoulders, and his hands seeking out the curls of her sex. A vivid image played through his mind of kissing his way over the material of her undergarments, edging closer and closer to her sex as she gasped in pleasure. Would she make the same sort of sigh as she had in the hallway? Or would it be a deeper, richer, more melodious noise as she begged for his tongue…
Miss Walsh shifted to one side to make room for him, and Silverton found himself quickly taking a seat next to her as the carriage took off.
“Silverton,” she said, her hand touching his arm and causing him to flinch.
He had been so preoccupied by the image of tasting her that everything else had vanished from his mind.
“I beg your pardon.” He blinked and lifted his arm, so she could scoot over. She was cold, and he was a blaggard for not caring about her comfort enough. She pressed herself close to his side as she shivered. With as much consideration as he could manage, he lowered his arm so that he held her.
Immediately, his mind cartwheeled as if he was an excitable adolescent. He could feel the solid weight of her against him. The press of her left breast into his rib cage as she curled herself alongside his body. The catch of her breath stirring against his coat. It was a sweet pain of temptation at which Silverton closed his eyes, trying to picture mundane things as a distraction.
Despite his diagnosed illness, Silverton was determined to enjoy what time remained to him. Doctor Sprot had said that the disease would leave him feeling drained and lethargic for large parts of the day. The physician insisted that Silverton’s illness was spreading between his organs, and once the slow march through his body was done, he would die. The solution had been those little bottles of medicine which Sprot had instructed Silverton to consume daily. The irony was that, for the first time since his diagnosis, Silverton felt as if the weighted reality of his illness was lessening. As if Miss Walsh were the real tonic to his sickness.
This flight of fancy brought a smile to his face, and he was sure his Oxford Set friends would laugh at his sudden sentimentality. Surely, he told himself, it was more of that with Miss Walsh here; he had a purpose and a path to follow.
“What was your plan if I had not arrived? Would you have searched through all Staplehurst for a suitable bride?” she asked, cutting into his thoughts. Her teasing question made Silverton wonder if perhaps she were correct. But he knew the reason why he’d picked her and was grateful for her arrival on his doorstep. She was the daughter of someone he did trust, so by extension she was likely to be loyal too.
“I am just grateful you did arrive and removed any such burden from my shoulders.” As he spoke, he shifted in his seat. His adjustment brought Miss Walsh closer still, so that her upturned face was inches from his. The tip of her nose grazed against his thick beard. He had gotten lazy in the last few months, thinking the refinements of thetonwere unnecessary for one such as him, as he did not care what others thought of him. If anything, he rather liked the rough and aggressive image he presented to the world, with the idea being that the more brutal he seemed, the worse the rumours they would believe of him. He had wanted to frighten. But now, he wondered if he was scaring the young woman in his arms—and did he want that to be the only picture of him she had, after he was dead? He comforted himself that she did not look at him as if she were afraid. Instead, she was keeping herself close, her breathing steady.
“Tell me of youralmosthusband. Your former fiancé, I should say. How does a woman reach twenty-six, unwed and—” he said almost at random, hoping to distract himself from the necessity of too much introspection. He needed to find the thing that Miss Walsh was passionate about, and then let her ramble on. Most women liked to talk of themselves if given the opportunity.
“I realise I do not know your age,” Miss Walsh said, ignoring his question. She was unwilling to tell him about her almost lover, it seemed. Well, he thought in mild annoyance, he supposed she was entitled to her secrets since he would be keeping his.
“I am thirty-two.” He hoped she did not think him too ancient in comparison to her. The habit intonmarriages was for a wide age gap, with the bride invariably much younger. It had been the case for his parents. Then again, in their case, they were not going to have the opportunity of growing old together, so what did it matter?
