He slowly unfolded his arms, eyeing the paper as if it were a miniature cannon ready to fire. Taking it in hand, he unrolled the letter, skimming over the contents.
“Arabelle,” he murmured, his gaze fixing on the looped scrawl.
If it were anyone else, Jane would imagine that the bland expression indicated disinterest in the subject, or even boredom. Raven was quite skilled at pretending indifference.
But she knew it meant more to him than he cared to let on. When they’d been in the conservatory, there had been moments when she’d looked into his eyes and had seen something familiar buried deep down in their depths.
It was longing.
She’d seen the same look in the mirror her whole life—that need to belong somewhere, to have her existence matter to someone, and to know that she wasn’t merely an easily discarded byproduct of procreation and nothing more.
“Arabelle Foreaux Northcott, to be exact,” Jane supplied.
She was careful to affect an offhanded tone for the purpose of easing him into the rest of what she would soon reveal. From their brief encounters, she already understood that he tended to retreat when pushed too far and it took a devil of a time to bring him back. Either that, or he attempted to distract her by any means necessary. Even with a kiss.
After many thoughtful hours of mulling over their startlingly passionate osculation, she’d come to the conclusion that he hadn’t actually desired her. No, indeed. His response had been more of a means of self-preservation against a sudden glut of life-altering information.
“As you know,” she continued, “I had intended to research that family name in our copy of Debrett’s. Regrettably, on the very day that it arrived from the bookbinder, another disaster befell it.” Jane shuddered as she recalled the event. “I had just opened it when Theodora came to me, complaining of a sleepy stomach. I soon learned that, when her stomach falls asleep, it decides to regurgitate its entire contents in a rather terrifying spectacle. I’ll spare you the more gruesome details but only say that, by the time I returned to my desk, I discovered that much of the book had been ruined beyond repair. Including the pages regarding the Northcotts. Nevertheless, that did not halt my efforts, for I found—”
“How is your sister?” Raven interrupted.
She blinked at him, surprised by the thoughtful concern softening his tone and features. A kernel of warmth glowed beneath her breast. “Theodora is well now, thank you. Her fever broke by midweek and her stomach is happily awake and enjoying the biscuits that the cook and every maid have been leaving in the nursery for her.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a nod.
For reasons beyond her understanding, the tension he’d seemed to have carried with him from Sterling’s dissipated in that same instant. He shifted closer to the carriage, his movements no longer stiff or agitated. It was as though some inner tumult had come to a peaceful conclusion.
Whatever it was, Jane was grateful. His mellower mood eased the worry she felt over what she would reveal next.
“As I was saying,” she continued carefully, “I still managed to discover information on the Northcotts. It happened quite by accident. I was using a map for the children’s lessons when I noticed a tiny hamlet in Hertfordshire of the same name. And from there, my research led me to this.” Reaching across to the opposite bench, she drew the shawl-wrapped book onto her lap. Unwrapping the hefty tome, she handed it to him.
He looked at it, skeptical. “And what is this?”
“The baptismal record from the small chapel.”
“You stole this from a church?”
“Merely borrowed it from an unwitting vestry clerk. I’ll return it before anyone realizes it’s missing,” she said in self-defense. “I’ve marked the page of December 1799 births with a violet ribbon. But take care of the binding. It’s quite brittle.”
“But how did you know the month . . .” He shook his head without bothering to finish the question and drew in a deep breath. “Let’s just see what you’ve found, then.”
His index finger slid along the rough-cut edge to slip in between the pages where the ribbon lay. Then he opened the book with the caution of a man expecting a venomous snake to spring from the margins.
Skimming the handwriting, his eyes settled on a narrow, slanted script about halfway down.
Even though he didn’t read it aloud, she knew what he was seeing. Merrick Northcott, born 1st of December, to Edgar Clay Avendale Northcott, Viscount Northcott, and Arabelle Foreaux Northcott, Viscountess Northcott.
His gaze lingered for a moment, then he simply closed the book and gave it back. Jane waited for his reaction. A skeptical arch of a brow. A blink of amazement. Anything.
But he offered nothing, his gaze as unreadable as ash in an abandoned hearth.
Disappointed and heartsick, Jane looked down at the book and sighed. Had he truly gone so long without hope of finding his family that there wasn’t a single shred of it left?
She didn’t have an answer.
Feeling the throb of a sudden headache, she pressed her fingertips to her temples. Then, without warning, she felt his hand gently cup her cheek, the warmth of it startling on this chilly night. His touch was so comforting that she nestled into the curve of his palm reflexively.
She realized she’d missed him these past seven days. How peculiar. She could number the length of their acquaintance by the hour and yet his touch and his scent were already part of her, like an indelible mark upon her skin.
His thumb trailed the insomnia-bruised flesh beneath her weary eyes. “Have you slept at all this week?”
“Some,” she admitted. “After Theodora felt better, the twins decided to invite an entire family of squirrels into the nursery. It has been a bit chaotic.”
“In addition to the research,” he added with a knowing look, chiding her with a slow shake of his head. “You shouldn’t have been so determined. Especially not on a stranger’s behalf.”
“Well, I’d say that you and I are more like acquaintances. After all, I don’t normally allow strangers to . . .” She let her words trail off, but mouthed in a silent murmur, “. . . kiss me.”
In response, his gaze heated in a sudden flare, simmering to smoke as it rested on her mouth. Her lips tingled under his scrutiny.
As if he knew this and wanted to soothe her, the pad of his thumb skimmed that tender surface, too. “I bought a new book the other day.”
The alteration in topic was unexpected. And yet, no other man could make such a statement sound so intriguing and so wicked at the same time. “What is the title?”
“Can’t recall,” he said mysteriously, stepping closer until his hip brushed her knee and the lamplight seemed to burn in his eyes. “Come upstairs with me and we’ll read it together.”
At once, she knew what he was doing and she covered his hand with her own, drawing it away from her blushing cheek.
“You are such a scoundrel,” she said, but there wasn’t even a hint of scolding in her breathless voice. Temptation, perhaps. But not scolding. “Why is it that whenever we’re talking about your identity, you try to distract me with seduction?”
He flashed an unrepentant grin, and didn’t even bother to deny it. “One is far more interesting than the other.”