master of
Braithwaite."
He
did not look at her, just laid his head back against the brocaded chair and
stared off into space. "Master of this house? I beg to differ, Miss
Devonshire. Braithwaite is mastered by no one. Besides, how does one master the
monster of emptiness?"
"Do
you mean emptiness or loneliness, Mr. Warwick?"
"Do
I appear to be a lonely man, Miss Devonshire?"
"If
I lived here alone I think I should come to fear for my sanity."
He
made a soft sound in his throat then allowed his thoughts to dive again among
the flames, where they remained for some time while Olivia took sip after sip
of her drink and watched the light of the fire reflect from his granite-hewn
features. At last, he looked up suddenly and found her staring at his face.
"What
do you find so fascinating about me?" he asked. "Don't tell me you've
never shared a cordial with a moral degenerate before."
"No,"
she replied. "I suppose I haven't."
"Ah.
Just Gypsies and tattooists." He drank again and closed his eyes briefly.
Then he motioned toward the chair near the fire and said, "Please sit
down."
Reluctantly,
she did so, and with some relief. How long she had stood there, as unmoving as
a statue, she couldn't guess.
"So
tell me, Miss Devonshire; is this your first visit to Braithwaite?"
"Yes."
"Is
she what you expected?" "Yes."
He
brought his head up and regarded her with an expression of surprise. "How
so?" he asked. "She's very grand—"
"That
goes without conjecture. Sheep could determine that from the next county. Tell
me what you think of this." He flipped his hand toward the room. "Do
you not find my companions lively?"
"They're
dead," she replied, looking from one stuffed head to the other.
"And
the rest of the house?"
"Cold
and dark."
"Well,
there you have it. Cold and dark and full of dead. What sort of being would
subject himself to living in such an environment, I ask you?"
Turning
the cup to her lips, she drank more deeply and considered. "I have
it!" she declared, and offered him her cup to replenish. He did so, his
dark eyes coming back to hers as he placed it in her hands. "A
maggot," she replied with a set of her chin. "A bat. A vampire bat.
That's even better. A slug. A beetle. A worm."
He
held up one hand as if to deflect the words. "Enough! Maggot and worm?
Good God. I suppose I should be thankful you didn't tick off fungi."
"But
fungi have neither heart, mind, nor soul, sir."
He
laughed, a deep and resonant sound. The music of it made her breathless.
"No heart? No soul?" Warwick feigned a less than believable scowl
that took nothing away from the twinkle in his dark eyes. "Considering
I've been called a heartless and soulless creature for all of my life, Miss
Devonshire, perhaps I would be more inclined toward fungi."
"But
you live. And breathe. You even laugh. So you must have a heart."
"Admittedly,
I've never seen fungi laugh."
"Nor
a maggot nor a worm!"
"Carry
on. Please do. I'm feeling better about myself every second."
"You
walk upright—" "Generally."
"And
since I know no four-legged animal that prefers to reside alone and in chambers
that are dark and cold and damp, that could leave only humans." She paused
as if considering. "So that would make you either a monk or a
hermit."
"A
great many things I may be," he replied with a rakish lift of one eyebrow,
"but a monk I ain't, dear heart."
She
laughed. Or rather giggled. It was an odd sound coming from her, and she
glanced with a degree of bemusement at her emptied cup. Her face felt warm. The
fire at her back made her insides feel liquid. Or perhaps it was the way
Warwick sat in his chair, long limbs so masculine but graceful as they
stretched out casually. His shirt had begun to dry nicely, but there were still
patches where the damp linen clung to his skin, revealing the barest hint of
flesh beneath. She found herself staring at a dark, coin-shaped spot on his
chest, then realized it was his nipple.
Her
gaze leapt back to his face, only to
Braithwaite."
He
did not look at her, just laid his head back against the brocaded chair and
stared off into space. "Master of this house? I beg to differ, Miss
Devonshire. Braithwaite is mastered by no one. Besides, how does one master the
monster of emptiness?"
"Do
you mean emptiness or loneliness, Mr. Warwick?"
"Do
I appear to be a lonely man, Miss Devonshire?"
"If
I lived here alone I think I should come to fear for my sanity."
He
made a soft sound in his throat then allowed his thoughts to dive again among
the flames, where they remained for some time while Olivia took sip after sip
of her drink and watched the light of the fire reflect from his granite-hewn
features. At last, he looked up suddenly and found her staring at his face.
"What
do you find so fascinating about me?" he asked. "Don't tell me you've
never shared a cordial with a moral degenerate before."
"No,"
she replied. "I suppose I haven't."
"Ah.
Just Gypsies and tattooists." He drank again and closed his eyes briefly.
Then he motioned toward the chair near the fire and said, "Please sit
down."
Reluctantly,
she did so, and with some relief. How long she had stood there, as unmoving as
a statue, she couldn't guess.
"So
tell me, Miss Devonshire; is this your first visit to Braithwaite?"
"Yes."
"Is
she what you expected?" "Yes."
He
brought his head up and regarded her with an expression of surprise. "How
so?" he asked. "She's very grand—"
"That
goes without conjecture. Sheep could determine that from the next county. Tell
me what you think of this." He flipped his hand toward the room. "Do
you not find my companions lively?"
"They're
dead," she replied, looking from one stuffed head to the other.
"And
the rest of the house?"
"Cold
and dark."
"Well,
there you have it. Cold and dark and full of dead. What sort of being would
subject himself to living in such an environment, I ask you?"
Turning
the cup to her lips, she drank more deeply and considered. "I have
it!" she declared, and offered him her cup to replenish. He did so, his
dark eyes coming back to hers as he placed it in her hands. "A
maggot," she replied with a set of her chin. "A bat. A vampire bat.
That's even better. A slug. A beetle. A worm."
He
held up one hand as if to deflect the words. "Enough! Maggot and worm?
Good God. I suppose I should be thankful you didn't tick off fungi."
"But
fungi have neither heart, mind, nor soul, sir."
He
laughed, a deep and resonant sound. The music of it made her breathless.
"No heart? No soul?" Warwick feigned a less than believable scowl
that took nothing away from the twinkle in his dark eyes. "Considering
I've been called a heartless and soulless creature for all of my life, Miss
Devonshire, perhaps I would be more inclined toward fungi."
"But
you live. And breathe. You even laugh. So you must have a heart."
"Admittedly,
I've never seen fungi laugh."
"Nor
a maggot nor a worm!"
"Carry
on. Please do. I'm feeling better about myself every second."
"You
walk upright—" "Generally."
"And
since I know no four-legged animal that prefers to reside alone and in chambers
that are dark and cold and damp, that could leave only humans." She paused
as if considering. "So that would make you either a monk or a
hermit."
"A
great many things I may be," he replied with a rakish lift of one eyebrow,
"but a monk I ain't, dear heart."
She
laughed. Or rather giggled. It was an odd sound coming from her, and she
glanced with a degree of bemusement at her emptied cup. Her face felt warm. The
fire at her back made her insides feel liquid. Or perhaps it was the way
Warwick sat in his chair, long limbs so masculine but graceful as they
stretched out casually. His shirt had begun to dry nicely, but there were still
patches where the damp linen clung to his skin, revealing the barest hint of
flesh beneath. She found herself staring at a dark, coin-shaped spot on his
chest, then realized it was his nipple.
Her
gaze leapt back to his face, only to
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