He chose his next words with care. “Whatever it is you think you know—”
“What I know,” she said in the lemon-tart tones of a British schoolmarm, “is that you never met a frivolity you didn’t like. These columns you write are another of your childish diversions, clearly. I’m not here to judge.”
“No?”
“I’m here to make use of you.” She tapped one kid-gloved finger on the cover of the printed journal on her lap. “All you need do is say something of a spiritualist nature about this house of Blunt’s in Yorkshire.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“And what am I to say?” He paused, adding, “If I am this Drinkwater fellow you claim.”
She was, unsurprisingly, prepared with an answer. “There’s no need to reinvent the wheel,” she said. “Blunt’s estate is already rumored to be haunted. You need merely expound on the fact with an emphasis on immediacy. You might say ‘the veil between worlds is closing soon’ and that ‘all practitioners of a serious bent should journey North to take advantage of it.’ I’ll do the rest.”
His mouth quirked briefly. She was so confident in her plan. So all-fire determined. It was one of the things he’d used to admire most about her, this unwavering confidence she had in herself. “Have it all planned out, do you?”
“Naturally.” She moved to rise. “All that’s required is for you to do your part. I’ll do the rest.”
“Manage your mother?” His amusement at the situation flickered out as quickly as it had arisen, extinguished by half a decade of bitterness. “Forgive me if I take leave to doubt your capabilities on that score.”
She fixed him with a withering look as she stood, brown eyes sparkling with flecks of gold, like strong spirits ignited by fire.
It brought to mind the game of snapdragon they’d played six and a half years ago, here in this very house, at a Christmas party hosted by his grandfather before he’d left on his 1856 expedition to India. Brandy-soaked raisins and nuts had been set aflame on a silver plate. The young people in attendance had taken turns snatching the sweet treats from the fire.
Anne had been fearless, of course. Heedless of being burned.
And she had been burned.
Hartford had caught hold of her scorched fingers a split second after the flames had licked them. He’d drawn her away from the game, taking her down to the kitchens so that Cook could soothe Anne’s burns with cold butter from the larder.
It was as they were leaving the kitchens that it had happened.
The two of them, alone in the servants’ hallway, the light from a gas wall sconce shimmering in the threads of Anne’s hair. Like spun gold it had been, swept back in a glittering net. He’d felt the silken strands with his fingers as he’d tipped her face to kiss her under the mistletoe. Her voluptuous mouth had trembled beneath his. He’d trembled, too.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he’d said, rather unsteadily.
There was no use pretending. They both remembered it. And not only that kiss, but everything that had come after it.
Would that he could forget!
“You may say what you like,” she said, “so long as you do what I ask of you.”
He leaned back against the mantelpiece, folding his arms. “Why should I exert myself?”
“Why?” she echoed, her temper visibly rising. “For novelty, if for no other reason. Lord knows you’ve done nothing honorable or responsible in your life.”
His temper briefly flared to match hers, the harsh scrape of suppressed resentment deepening his voice. “You know nothing of my responsibilities.”
“I know that you live only to find amusement for yourself. Is it too much to hope that you might, for once, do something useful? Something that might help another person besides yourself?”
“Help you, you mean.”
“It’s not helping me. It’s helping Miss Wychwood. Whatever you may think of me, she’s done nothing to earn your hatred. She’s a sweet and gentle soul who even now might be in the utmost peril. If you—”
“I don’t hate you,” he said gruffly.
She broke off. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said that I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”
“Well . . .” A rare expression of vulnerability stole over her face. She masked it instantly, bending her head as she smoothed her gloves. “In that case, you won’t mind doing what I ask.”
“Would that it were so easy.”
“It’s not difficult, surely. I can write the column myself if needs be. All you need do is see that it’s published as soon as possible.”
“Writing it isn’t the difficult part.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Then what?”
“I told you. I’m reluctant to exert myself.”
“Hartford—”
“I see little incentive to do so.” He managed a thin smile. “As you so rightly pointed out, I’m a selfish ne’er-do-well who thinks only of my own amusement.”
“I didn’t—”
“Now,” he said, “if there was something in it for me . . .”
The last vestige of Anne’s self-restraint crumbled in spectacular fashion. Her countenance hardened to marble and her hands dropped to clench at her sides, crumpling the pages of the Spiritualist Herald in her fist. She bore down on him like one of the mythical Furies he’d so often accused her of being. “Why you arrogant blackmailing rogue!”
His heartbeat quickened as she approached. Anne in a rage was thrilling sight to behold. “It’s not blackmail. It’s an exchange. Something you want for something I want.”
“And just what do you want?”
The idea struck him all at once—a lightning flash of genius. Or possibly madness. Tomorrow he’d likely regret the raw honesty of his words, but in this moment they seemed right. They felt right. “I want you,” he said.
She stopped mid-stride. Her mouth fell open. “Me?”
“You,” he said. “And not like this. Not here in London, dressed in black, like some wraith at a funeral feast. I want you in Hampshire. And I want you in color. Red, preferably.”
She looked appalled by the suggestion. “I am not wearing red. Besides, what on earth is in Hampshire?” Understanding darkened her gaze. “You can’t mean Sutton Park?”