Part 13 (1/2)

Sorry, I am so frustrated and insanely in love with you that I couldn't stop myself, even when you called me Edward.

His father would never be so pathetic. For a small moment, Kesseley imagined he possessed the scruples of his late father, and that last night he had pulled up Henrietta's gown and drove himself into her until all his frustration burst out of him. And then afterward-no remorse.

Everything about last night-about him-was wrong.

He couldn't face her yet. He unfolded the tailor's list, read the addresses, then headed to New Bond Street. By four, he had ordered three pairs of gloves, three boots, four hats and a dozen new stockings to replace all the old ones with holes in the toes. He had managed to physically avoid Henrietta all day, even though the memory of her lips and the feel of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pus.h.i.+ng against him plagued the entire afternoon.

He required one last item. After that onerous purchase, he would have to face her.

He stopped outside the long windows of Hatchard's bookstore. He was afraid to ask Henrietta for her copy of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. She just might throw the volumes at him. And besides, she wouldn't want him to scribble his notes all over her pages. She just might throw the volumes at him. And besides, she wouldn't want him to scribble his notes all over her pages.

He took a deep breath, as if to go underwater. Then he lowered his hat, pulled up his coat collar and opened the door.

He found F authors on the third floor. Unfortunately the shop was cramped, and the customers rubbed elbows along the shelves. He couldn't buy the b.l.o.o.d.y novel without being seen. He went downstairs and grabbed a copy of Arthur Young's General View of the Agriculture of the County of Norfolk, General View of the Agriculture of the County of Norfolk, then returned to the G shelves and pretended to read about plowing depths while slowly inching over to then returned to the G shelves and pretended to read about plowing depths while slowly inching over to The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. He was almost there, one quick grab and- He was almost there, one quick grab and- ”Are you buying The Mysterious Lord Blackraven? The Mysterious Lord Blackraven? It's my favorite book!” said a matronly, plump woman in a leghorn hat with flattened, faded roses. ”You know, gentlemen usually don't buy romance novels. My husband doesn't. Calls them the inferior fruits of a woman's mind. I daresay he could learn a thing or two if he did, read them that is.” It's my favorite book!” said a matronly, plump woman in a leghorn hat with flattened, faded roses. ”You know, gentlemen usually don't buy romance novels. My husband doesn't. Calls them the inferior fruits of a woman's mind. I daresay he could learn a thing or two if he did, read them that is.”

Kesseley panicked. He couldn't get away, not without being impolite.

The woman continued. ”There is a wonderful chapter in the book where the heroine is tricked by her betrothed into riding a wild horse. It runs away with her, and we think certainly she will die, but Blackraven gallops after her, pulling her onto his stallion. He saves her life, even though he despises her, because he thinks she loves his half brother. I must say, the half brother is a horrible man. He deserved to accidentally fall off that cliff when he was dueling Blackraven!”

Several other ladies within earshot agreed, rus.h.i.+ng forward to join the conversation, trapping him against the bookshelf. It became a regular little literary circle. The lady in the leghorn hat felt it appropriate to introduce Kesseley as the gentleman who enjoys romance novels, causing the man two shelves over to snort in derision.

”I wish my husband liked sentimental novels,” said the tired woman holding a fat, wiggling baby. ”Your wife is very lucky indeed.”

”Oh, I'm not married,” replied Kesseley before he could think better of it.

Someone might as well have stood on a chair and announced to all the married ladies in the store that a pathetic gentleman buying The Mysterious Lord Blackraven The Mysterious Lord Blackraven on the third floor desperately needed marital advice. on the third floor desperately needed marital advice.

An hour later, he left Hatchard's significantly more enlightened than when he had entered. In the crook of his arm rested the three volumes of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven The Mysterious Lord Blackraven safely concealed in paper. He planned to study Lord Blackraven with the same scientific intensity that he did his soil composition. Break Blackraven down to his core components and experiment with his ratios. safely concealed in paper. He planned to study Lord Blackraven with the same scientific intensity that he did his soil composition. Break Blackraven down to his core components and experiment with his ratios.

What was it about Lord Blackraven that ladies craved? He was mean to the point of cruelty, violent and nearly insane. He could hold a grudge longer than anyone Kesseley knew. He lived alone in a ramshackle castle without making a single improvement to the property value. He was like some demonic variation of Kesseley's father, except for the solitary part. The late Lord Kesseley had rarely been alone, and certainly not in his bed.

Kesseley contemplated the paradox on his way home. It was a mystery.

d.a.m.n it! Wait. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.

Mysterious.

Epiphany!

Ladies didn't require some unknown continent to explore or virgin mountain peak to reach. They just needed a mysterious mysterious male who refused to be conquered. Never mind that he's Bedlamite, h.e.l.l, even better. It was the mystery. The unknown that supposedly holds the answers to our heart's yearnings. male who refused to be conquered. Never mind that he's Bedlamite, h.e.l.l, even better. It was the mystery. The unknown that supposedly holds the answers to our heart's yearnings.

But the mystery was a lie! Blackraven could no more love another human being than Kesseley's father could. It was as delusional as believing the right cut of coat or the way one tied a cravat raised one above the misery of humanity.

Maybe chasing the mystery keeps us blind to the ugly truth in ourselves, Kesseley thought, as he watched Henrietta through the window of his townhome. She sat alone in the parlor, reading by the fireplace. The firelight s.h.i.+mmered on the pretty raven locks falling about her face. She seemed so serene, as if untouched by the night before.

What he felt for her wasn't a mystery-it was real-and it didn't make sense to let go of anything real. Like when Arabellina said she recognized Lord Blackraven by his soul- Oh dear G.o.d, he was comparing his life to a romance novel!

He couldn't do this anymore.

He opened the door. His shoulders were weary, but he was resolved. He would apologize and give her his word never to press his romantic intentions upon her again. Then he'd get a mistress or a wife, whichever came first.

She must have seen him from outside, for she was standing in the hall when he entered, her book cradled in her elbow and a hopeful, yet pensive, look upon her face.

”We've been waiting for you,” she said. ”I was worried. Are you well?” She gazed at him, concerned, a bit tired, but overall purely ignorant.

She didn't remember!

Suddenly everything he felt-all the sadness, anxiety, frustration and despondency- crystallized into a white hot bolt of anger. Are you well? Are you well? she had asked. she had asked. h.e.l.l no! Your lips were all over mine last night. It took every bit of restraint I had to be a gentleman. Then you called me Edward. I've had this weighing on me all day, aside from being poked and measured like a head of cattle, then humiliated at Hatchard's. Let's not even mention the incident involving Miss Barten's toe and the palm plant. No, I am not well! h.e.l.l no! Your lips were all over mine last night. It took every bit of restraint I had to be a gentleman. Then you called me Edward. I've had this weighing on me all day, aside from being poked and measured like a head of cattle, then humiliated at Hatchard's. Let's not even mention the incident involving Miss Barten's toe and the palm plant. No, I am not well!

”I was at the club,” he said.

Her raised, expectant eyebrows hinted that she wanted him to continue. He didn't.

”I-I just stayed here,” she said. ”Reading.”

He looked closely at the book in her arm. Edward's poetry, complete with dried flowers poking out of the pages. Kesseley brushed past her, angry at her, angrier at himself. What a pathetic fool he was.

She followed him, speaking to his back. ”I've been invited to the ball this evening. Your mother says I can go. I'll be playing cards, but I hope that you might save one dance for me.”

”I'm sorry, but I can't,” he said.

”Why?”

He spun around, his words exploding out of him. ”Miss Watson, I am not a boy! I'm a man! Do you understand? I am here to find a wife, not be your dance partner or your shoulder to cry on, or your-your-” He threw up his hands. He could strangle her. ”Last night you-I put you-we-d.a.m.n it! Do you remember nothing?”

She bit her lip, still slightly swollen, and bowed her head. ”I know. I shouldn't have gone to the card party.”

”That wasn't the only thing you shouldn't have done!” He stormed away from her, not looking back.

Safe in his chamber, Kesseley sat at his desk, surrounded by his ledgers. He pulled the first volume of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven The Mysterious Lord Blackraven from its paper. The spine was stiff. He cracked it, bending the cover completely backward. He usually wasn't so rough with his books, but this wasn't about enjoyment, he thought, as he dipped his pen in the ink and began underlining: from its paper. The spine was stiff. He cracked it, bending the cover completely backward. He usually wasn't so rough with his books, but this wasn't about enjoyment, he thought, as he dipped his pen in the ink and began underlining: Despite dire warning of Lord Blackraven's dark ambitions, Arabellina could not believe one man capable of the crimes attributed to him. Upon the first meeting of this beast of a man with his hooded eyes and flying hair, Arabellina felt a s.h.i.+ver of terror run through her. Yet, dear reader, it was in that second look, the one that sees beyond the surface, into the deeper soul of existence, that she could see a small light burning in the darkness, and she instinctively knew only she could solve the mystery of his blackened soul.

Kesseley wrote beast, s.h.i.+ver, terror beast, s.h.i.+ver, terror and and mystery mystery in the margins, then kept reading. in the margins, then kept reading.

An hour later, Baggot tapped on the door. Kesseley marked his place in his book and concealed it under his ledger. He shuffled through the papers Henrietta gave him, finding what he wanted-a print of a dandy with those windblown curls everyone sported.

He locked his desk. ”Come in,” he called to Baggot. The valet entered, holding Kesseley's evening clothes on his arm. He laid them on the bed, muttering the inventory under his breath. ”s.h.i.+rt, collar, coat-”

”I've been thinking since coming here that I might like a different hairstyle. What do you think of this picture?” Kesseley handed the picture to his valet.

Baggot scrunched his eyes. ”Them curls look like a girl's.”

”They do not! I've seen many gentlemen wearing their hair this way. It's quite stylish.”

”You're going to need some papers to get those kind of curls.”

”My hair already curls. We just have to brush it correctly.”