“Ah, Mr. Anderson,” she said, widening her eyes in challenge. “I hadn’t figured you for a philosopher.”
He was not sure if she was flirting with him, insulting him, or both. He leaned in closer to her across the table. “Call me Adam, if we’re speaking of dismembered limbs and lunatic asylums. And you ignored my point.”
The corners of her mouth turned up, as if he had correctly answered a question she hadn’t asked. “Well, Adam, I don’t disagree with you. But that doesn’t fix the injustice of marriage. If a system relies on one party’s decency—if that decency is the only failsafe protecting the weaker party—it is broken.”
He liked that she’d decided he was worthy of debating. But he liked it even more that she’d said his given name. He wanted to say hers.
Seraphina.
It would feel delicious rolling off his tongue, with all those slinking syllables.
Instead he said, “Could one not grant women more protection, rather than condemning the whole institution? I see your point, but I enjoyed my marriage.”
She refilled her glass. “What about it?”
Every single thing.
“Companionship. A pleasant home. Our family.”
“And don’t you think your wife might have enjoyed these things more if she were granted the same freedom you were to choose them?”
He couldn’t remember Catriona ever doing a single thing she didn’t choose. But he supposed no one had ever asked her to. Neither he nor her father was the type to make demands. Perhaps if he had made more demands, demanded caution and—
He stabbed another piece of fish and chewed, grinding it beneath his molars.
“Perhaps she might have liked to be something in addition to a wife and mother?” Seraphina pressed.
He wasn’t sure. He’d never asked her.
Seraphina was continuing to stare at him, waiting for an answer. So he gave her the most honest one he could.
“I don’t wish to speak of Catriona.”
Her face softened at the gruffness in his words. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrogate your marriage in particular.” She looked into his eyes, and her gaze was kind. “You must stop me when I become a pest.”
He decided to change the subject once again. “I gather you do not care for this place. May I ask why you’ve come back?”
She settled lower in her chair. “Did I not already say? To write my sordid history.”
“Who says it’s sordid?” he asked.
She took a sip of wine and swallowed it, then gave him that tart smile. “My enemies.”
He laughed at her puckish pronouncement. “Do you have many?”
She smirked. “You’ve seen the posters.”
He nodded, feeling less amused. “Aye.”
“Kestrel Bay is the least of it. You should see the London papers. Apparently I am the French Revolution Incarnate. Not to mention a loose woman of low morals and rapacious appetites. Always that.”
He burst out laughing at her dry summation of her reputation. “I suppose I have heard a bit. Though, perhaps not as much as you assume. Lately I find I have time to read little that isn’t related to slate prices and building commissions.”
“I’m raising money to build the institute I mentioned, with two friends. One is a disgraced aristocrat who paints portraits of those abandoned by society and the other is a courtesan. We’ve made a little pact to become even more notorious in the interest of the common good. We aim to raise fifty thousand pounds.”
He could not begin to imagine how he should react to this.
Seraphina laughed at his dismay. “Oh, I’ve shocked you with my wickedness. Well, don’t worry. It’s quite relaxing to be exactly as wicked as people think you are. Relieves the tensions in one’s neck.”
She took another sip of wine. The woman could drink a sailor under the table. She didn’t seem drunk, however, only detached. Like the painful things she spoke of had no effect on her. As though she was a character in some ironic story.
But he’d seen her careful plans for her institute, seen her care and kindness with his children, seen her face blanche at the poster mocking her. He didn’t believe she was as impervious to criticism as her manner would lead one to believe. He wondered why she felt compelled to perform for him, here in her own home.
“Actually, you don’t strike me as particularly wicked,” he said softly.
Her eyes flicked up to his and held his gaze.
“Oh, Adam. But I am.”
Chapter Ten
Adam looked away at the hint of sensuality in her words.
Good.
She had not cared for the way that he had been regarding her. Like she was an injured bird. Pity ranked on her personal hierarchy of desirable qualities in a male dinner partner only slightly below a will to dominate.
Though perhaps she could use his sympathy to extract a favor. “Actually, on the subject of the institute, perhaps you could be of use to me.”
He smiled. “Oh?”
“I’m collecting pledges from businesses who will take on female apprentices in trades women are not typically trained in. We could use an architect to train a woman in whatever it is you do. Drawing pictures of houses? Ordering . . . nails?”
He snorted. “I am flattered you hold my vocation in such high esteem.”
“No one said ordering nails is easy. I am all admiration.” She winked.
“I suppose a woman could do the work of a draftsman, with proper training,” he allowed.
“A woman can do any work she is taught, I assure you. She has a mind, you see, and hands.” She widened her eyes as though this was a shocking assertion.
He laughed. “Very well. You may count on my firm.”
A great crack of lightning lit up the sky across the cove, turning the cliffs a vibrant shade of greenish yellow.
Adam stared out at the image, rapt.
“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” she asked. “As a girl I loved the storms. I used to climb out onto the balcony off the attic and watch them. It’s high enough that you can see all of Kestrel Bay.”
“I imagine it’s a sight to behold.”
“Would you like to see it? I’ll take you up.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” he said, pointing at her barely nibbled fish.
“I find I lack an appetite. Come.”
She nodded for him to follow her and made for the staircase. It was dark and eerie with the house shaking and the rattle of the rain. He followed behind her at a fair distance. She could not resist twitching her hips just a bit more than necessary as she climbed. She had promised herself not to continue her attempts to seduce him, but after enduring the maddening sight of his shoulders all through supper, she could not resist an opportunity to make him regret what he’d declined.
Besides. She had begun to wonder if he’d changed his mind.
The room at the top of the house had been hers as a child, and it still held her things. In the dim light she could make out the narrow bed she’d slept in, her collection of seashells on the shelf. The room was clean—Maria had been scrupulous about tidying the house before their visit—but the items were so exactly as she’d left them sixteen years ago that they may as well have been covered in dust, or frozen in amber, like fossils.