Of their own volition, her legs carried her over. She sank to the floor and rested a palm upon each trunk. One coarse. One smooth. Similar in some ways and yet so very different.
Just as she and Crispin had always been.
"What is the alternative?" she whispered. That you confront feelings you've long denied? What good could come in that?
At no point had Crispin indicated any desire for anything with her beyond this brief sojourn to London, a presentation before Polite Society.
It is essential that Polite Society sees I am, married, that you are real, and then? You may go back to living your own life.
No, those words hardly bore any hint of undying devotion or an everlasting need to be with her.
"Because he didn't want to be with you, you ninny," she said aloud, the reminder ripping open a wound that would never truly heal. His life would carry on without her, whereby he was free to live the bachelor's life, without worries about matchmaking mamas, or young ladies scheming for the title of duchess.
They would become strangers once more.
But he did not seem different. Not in the ways that mattered.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip hard.
Her gaze fell to Crispin's trunk.
She hesitated, staring at the gleaming rosewood lid.
It was the height of wrongness to even consider it.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to the doorway as the need to know and explore shifted to Crispin's belongings. She warred with herself for another brief moment and then caught the bilateral clasps. The smooth hinges gave a satisfying click. Lifting the lid, she peered inside.
Her breath caught loudly.
She'd gone to heaven.
A blissful, glorious, never forgotten, but still distant heaven.
He traveled with books.
He always had. Even when making the journey from his family's ancestral estate to her family's modest cottage, he'd had a text in hand.
Leaning in, she surveyed the volumes all resting in piles in the corner of the trunk.
Her gaze flew over the gold, embossed titles.
Henry Thomas Colebrooke's Essay on the Vedas, A Guide Through the District of the Lakes, Conversations on Chemistry, an Anonymous Work. Elizabeth stopped.
Her heart missed a beat. Unable to breathe, or move, she simply stared at the frayed and aged text that was more pamphlet than anything. So very familiar... and forgotten.
With fingers that shook, Elizabeth picked up the cherished little copy of The Child's Natural History in Words of Four Letters. She caressed her palm over the pair of children painted on the front cover, the little girl staring intently over the shoulder of a little boy.
"It is us, Crispin. You must have it. I want you to have it, to remember me when you go to Eton."
The day she'd handed it over and watched the Duke of Huntington's carriage draw him away had been the most heartbreaking moment in her lonely, young life.
And the day she'd found him returned for good had been the happiest. It remained so, even all these years later. He, a duke's son, had managed the impossible--he'd persuaded his father to allow him to study in Oxfordshire under the tutelage of leading tutors.
A wistful smile played at her lips.
Of course, it hadn't really been impossible. Nothing ever had been truly beyond Crispin, the Duke of Huntington. With the skillful way in which he wielded words, he could have brought Lucifer and the Lord himself 'round to a truce.
She hugged the frayed book close, cradling it tenderly against her breast, mindful of the age and wear of it. And he'd kept it. All these years later, he'd not only held on to the child's volume, but he traveled with it, as well.
"Why would he do that?" she whispered. Why, if he didn't care? Even in some small way?
Footfalls sounded in the hall.
She glanced up, momentarily frozen.
The steps drew closer, confident, measured.
Bloody hell, she mouthed. Elizabeth yanked the top of the trunk closed, wincing at the damningly loud click as the lid fell into place. She scrambled to her feet just as the steps came to a halt outside her rented room.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell. Elizabeth curled her fingers tight around the small children's book she still held, and horror went through her.
She briefly contemplated the trunk.
The faint rasp of a key sliding into place propelled her into movement.
Elizabeth dived for the bed, the rumpled mattress groaning loudly as she struggled under the covers. She stuffed her book--nay, his book--under the pillow and flopped down on her back, squeezing her eyes shut just as the door opened.
Eyes closed as they were, she still felt Crispin's gaze upon her like a physical touch. It lingered, hovering on her person sprawled in the center of the bed.
She made her tense lips go slightly slack, forcing the muscles of her face to relax.
The ungreased hinges groaned as Crispin shut the door behind him and moved about the room.
Alone.
They were alone.
Granted, she was sleeping, albeit pretending, and they'd been alone in other bedchambers when no one in the world had known.
But they'd been children, and he, the master of sneaking about, had found his way into her room so they could read by the candle's glow some scientific text he could not wait until the next day to show her.
Now, they were man and woman, who just a handful of hours ago had explored each other's mouths with a greater enthusiasm than they'd shared for any scientific topic.
At the absolute stillness of the room, Elizabeth forced one eye open ever so slightly.
With his broad back presented to her, Crispin stood beside the English oak settle bench. He rolled his shoulders, his muscles rippling the fabric of his riding coat. Crispin's hands came up, and she stared on, unable to look away, riveted, as he slipped the buttons free.
Shrugging out of the garment, Crispin laid the wool article neatly over the back of the settle bench and stood before her in only his shirtsleeves, trousers, and boots.
She swallowed hard. Breathe. Breathe.
Evenly. Deeply.
Because that was what sleeping people did.
Her attempts were futile. She was transfixed by the sight of him in dishabille. There was something so very forbidden about watching Crispin while he was unawares and shedding each article of clothing.
Crispin tugged his white lawn shirt from the waist of his trousers.
Oh, sweet Lord in heaven.
Hers was a silent prayer whispering around her muddled mind.
Crispin drew the garment over his head. The fire still dancing in the hearth bathed his body in a soft glow, and her mouth went dry.
Don't be a ninny. You've seen him in a state of undress countless times. Without a shirt. Without boots. Why, you even swam naked with him.
Granted, she'd been five years to his then eight, almost nine.
But naked was naked was--
A lie.
For she'd never seen him like this.
His back was a display of raw power and masculinity, all corded muscles and strength, with a proudly erect spine. He was such a study in contoured, chiseled perfection that an artist would ache to memorialize him in stone.
Crispin stretched his arms out before him and, gripping his bicep, drew that olive-hued limb toward his opposite shoulder.
Oh, my goodness, she silently mouthed.
No man, nay, no person had a right to be in possession of such beauty that it made mere mortals weep and stare. And there could be no doubting that, with her slender hips and even more slender waist and bosom-less frame, she epitomized the words common and unremarkable in every way.
While Crispin was... clear?
Elizabeth stared unblinkingly at the shadows dancing along his back.
He was too clear.
Bloody damn.
Holding her breath so tight her chest ached, Elizabeth inched one hand up slowly. Not taking her eyes fro
m Crispin, she plucked the damning glasses from her nose and...
She angled her head, staring with blurred horror at the wire-rimmed spectacles.
Now, what was she to do with them?
And he's already seen you sleeping here, ninny.
Mayhap he'd not noticed her. Elizabeth jammed her glasses into place, and the bed squealed at the abrupt movement.
She rolled onto her side and drew in a false, shuddery snort. Silence fell, safe and reassuring, and she counted the passing seconds.
The wide-plank floorboards groaned, indicating Crispin had moved.
Do not be silly. He's hardly paying any attention to you sleeping here--albeit pretend sleeping.
And why should he? When she'd left him, the buxom beauty had been making eyes at him, one of the scandalous sorts his name had been tangled with through the years. With her back to him, Elizabeth abandoned her pretense of sleep and stared blankly at the shadows dancing on the walls. She had left him and had no right to any resentment--or any feelings, really--about the manner of women he kept company with.
And yet, she hated that a man who'd reveled in books and higher learning had filled his days and evenings with empty pursuits.
What would you have rather it been? That he'd found another peculiar bluestocking with whom he shared something even more meaningful?
She caught her lower lip.
She was as selfish as the day at Mrs. Belden's was long. For she wished there'd never been anything between him and... any woman. She wished there hadn't been roguish friends for him to keep company with in depravity and that he'd missed Elizabeth as much as she'd missed him.
And that isn't your only wish. Scandalously, you yearn to know him in the same way those faceless beauties have.
The urge to flip over and steal another peek at his masculine physique gripped her.
Of course, why shouldn't she casually roll over onto her opposite side? It would only make the illusion of her slumbering state all the more real. Concentrating on drawing in steady breaths, Elizabeth turned over.
She snored lightly.
Through her lashes, she peeked over. Seated on the oak bench, Crispin tugged off a black boot trimmed in a chestnut leather; the pair of them worth more than all the shoes she'd ever pulled onto her feet at Mrs. Belden's.
He set the boot parallel to the bench and then reached for his other foot.
She let her eyes open, and wistfully, Elizabeth studied him as he bent his head over his task.
All the ladies at Mrs. Belden's had tossed their garments or articles haphazardly about their chambers. They'd littered the floors and left the tidying to the respective maids. And if the chambers weren't set to rights in a manner to please the impossible headmistress, it hadn't been the young ladies who'd been chastised, but the servants. Too many of them had paid the price with the loss of their position.
Because that had been the world Mrs. Belden had striven to maintain, one where lords and ladies didn't even have the responsibility of looking after their own garments.
Crispin removed his other boot and rested it neatly beside its mate.
Just then, he glanced up.
Heart racing, Elizabeth slammed her eyes closed.
And snored.
Chapter 10
She snored.
Crispin compressed his lips into a line to keep from giving in to the smile tugging at the corners.
Elizabeth sucked in a shuddery, bleating breath through her nose.
And she pretended--poorly. She'd never been one to put on an act, though.
Unlike the ladies of Polite Society whose company he'd suffered through these years, who'd manufactured everything from their smiles to their seductive come-hither stares, Elizabeth had lacked artifice. And until he'd entered this hired chamber and spied her with her glasses on, staring at him from between her crimson lashes, he'd forgotten just how much he'd missed that candor.
Shoving to his feet, Crispin angled his neck first left and then right, stretching muscles stiff from a long day of riding. He stared contemplatively at the weak fire in the stone hearth. "Fire's dying," he muttered.
Crossing over to his trunk, he lifted the unlatched hood and drew out a handful of books. Crispin tucked them under his arm and carried the small pile across the room.
He drew his arm back and made to toss one forward.
"No!" Elizabeth cried, exploding from the bed. Her feet hit the floor with a noisy thump. The white bedsheets tangled around her long limbs, tripping her up. She cursed and pitched forward before quickly catching herself on the edge of the mattress. Frantically ripping the blanketing from her legs, Elizabeth surged across the room and planted herself before him. "I said 'no,'" she repeated. She glowered up at him with a stare belonging to a woman who'd been born to the role of duchess. "What do you think you are doing?" she cried, settling her hands on her hips, the subtle movement accentuating the slight curve to them, stalling his mind, and stealing his words.
Planted as she was before the fire, the soft glow pierced the fabric of her night shift, and through that thin, cotton fabric, he caught the dusky hue of her--
Elizabeth plucked the book from his hands and then made quick work of taking the others from him.
"The fire is dying," she muttered to herself, giving her head a hard shake. She stole the last volume from Crispin and grunted under the added burden.
Crispin folded his arms at his chest. "Sleeping, were you?"
Elizabeth went owl-eyed and held the pile protectively close.
He winked once more. "You make it entirely too easy, love."
Her mouth worked, and then with a toss of her wet curls, she stepped around him. "You are insufferable," she muttered, returning to the trunk. Lowering herself awkwardly to her knees, she restacked the coveted leather volumes with such tenderness, he scowled.
Who would believe it possible that a man could be envious of a damned book? With feigned disinterest, Crispin dropped an elbow atop the mantel. "You were awake," he said into the quiet, as a reminder that the moment he'd stepped into the room, she'd been as attuned to his presence as he was to hers.
She'd followed him with her eyes, surreptitiously taking in his every movement. Had it been her natural curiosity that had kept her gaze on him? Or was it something... more?
There was a slight pause before Elizabeth set the last volume down in his trunk. "I could not sleep."
What accounted for her restlessness? Was he the reason? As soon as the wondering slipped in, he squashed it. What a pathetic fool he proved himself still to be that he wanted that to be the truth.
Elizabeth caught the sides of the lid in her long-fingered grip and made to lower it into place.
"You forgot one," he said solemnly, briefly halting her efforts before she completed the movement and closed the trunk. Crispin pushed away from the mantel and strode across the room.
She faced him, watching him with guarded eyes.
He stopped at the bed she'd hastily abandoned. Not taking his gaze from hers, he reached for the pillow and removed it.
The small children's book lay there, the faded crimson cover vividly bright against the white sheets.
Her fingers tangled with the fabric of her night shift.
Crispin rescued the book from the bed and stared at the familiar cover of a book he'd taken out countless times through the years just so he could feel closer to her. Mindful of the worn binding, he opened the small book. "Nothing to say?" He directed that at the interior page where her name had been memorialized in her child's hand, with his below it.
"You kept it," she whispered.
"I'm not spitting in your hand, Crispin. Nor am I cutting my palm to make myself bleed. Here, take my book..."
He glanced up and held her stare. "Did you think it didn't matter to me?" It had been a gift from her. The first she'd given him. "You mattered to me." And she'd left without a by your leave.
That statement sucked the air from the room and laid bare the unspoken wor
ds that had needed to be spoken for years.
Setting the book down, he took a step toward her. "And you abandoned"--me--"our friendship," he substituted, "to serve in that place. You deserved better than that through the years, Elizabeth." How he hated that she'd chosen that.
"You would disparage the life I've made for myself?" she demanded. "The work I've done?"
"I would," he said automatically, without inflection. Whipping around, he stormed over to the oak bedside table and grabbed the neat pile of books set out. "Decorum for Dancing Debutantes?" He tossed the small leather volume back down.
"Stop it," she gritted out, stalking over. "I'm not having this discussion with you. Not again."
"We didn't have a discussion," he went on relentlessly. "Curtsying for a Queen... and Other Ceremonious Expressions of Greeting for the Peerage." He tossed the next book onto the table. He made to hurl the last book and then stopped, studying the tome. Proper Rules of Proper Behavior and Proper Decorum. Crispin lifted it, turning the cover out so the title stared damningly back. "This isn't the life you wanted," he said softly to himself as he lay the last incriminating title atop the others.
She compressed her lips into a hard line.
"You don't deny it."
"What do you want from me?" she entreated, turning her palms up.
"More than you want for yourself." He wanted her to engage in the scientific pursuits she so loved and engage in discourse with those who appreciated her mind and the depth of her spirit.
Elizabeth angled away from him, presenting her heart-shaped face in profile as she stared at the door.
Crispin closed the small space between them, and stopping before her, he brushed his knuckles along her jaw, forcing her eyes back. "Don't," she begged, but as he dusted his fingers over her silken skin, her eyes briefly closed.
Crispin, however, had waited years to say his piece, words that had shifted when he learned where she'd been and how she'd spent her life without him. "You were the one girl in Oxfordshire who lived life unapologetically, Elizabeth Ferguson."
She shook her head. "My name--"
"Is Ferguson," he supplied. For whatever regrets she carried, they were and would be husband and wife, until death did part them. How was it possible for two names to be paired so perfectly together, and yet the owners of them were forever divided? "You were learned and well-read, and you didn't give a jot about"--he slashed a hand at the cluttered table--"balls and soirees." All those affairs that were so important to his mother and the harpies she called friends. "And for you"--he roved his gaze over her face--"to simply leave me and our friendship and the life we might have known..." Crispin clenched his jaw. "I thought our friendship was greater than that."