Born Wicked

How? Will he suggest setting up an architecture practice in Chatham? My head spins, pragmatism warring against Maura’s ridiculous notions of romance.

“Certainly.” I smile, tilting my head at him in that coquettish way Sachi has. “What did you have in mind?”

One of his arms snakes out and pulls me close, wrapping me right up against him. His mouth slants down, moving urgently against mine. My body responds; I feel warm and wanted. My arms lock around his neck; my mouth moves tentatively against his. When he takes my lower lip into his mouth, heat simmers through me. I press closer. Kissing is nice.

But even as the thought skims across my mind, I’m pushing against his chest. Remembering a kiss that felt more than nice—it feltright.

Paul steps away. He’s smiling. “Was that all right?” he asks. “You don’t feel the need to slap me for being too forward, do you?”

“No,” I say, my eyes falling to his boots. “I think I can forgive you.”

“Good. So. You’re not certain if you want to marry me,” he says. “But you like kissing me well enough?”

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” I beg, mortified. How is a lady meant to respond to a question like that? He is handsome, and he knows it. In another life—a life where I wasn’t a witch, perhaps, and had no need of Belastras’ bookshop and the secrets hidden there—it might have been my first kiss. It might have been enough.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, cocky as ever. “Is it moving to the city that worries you? I know you’d miss your flowers, but there are grand parks. We could go for walks every evening when I got home from work. I could take you down to the shipyards, too, to watch the ships coming in. I’d love to show you New London, Cate. It’s magnificent.”

His voice is quick and passionate. He adores it there, that’s clear. He won’t change his mind. And I won’t ask him to.

“My sisters,” I say, fumbling for excuses. “Things have changed since Mother died. I feel responsible for them. Moving so far away—it’s not just a few hours. If something happened and I wasn’t here—”

Paul looks puzzled. “But Maura told me she’s planning to join the Sisterhood. If she does, she’ll be right there in New London.”

She did, did she? “There’s Tess. She’s still so little—and Father’s never home anymore. How could I leave her here with just a governess and a housekeeper to look after her?”

“She could visit as often as you like.” Paul reaches out and takes my gloved hand in his. “Cate, I love that you’re so devoted to your sisters, but is there something else that’s giving you pause? Tell me the truth.”

I stare at the rose petals the wind has scattered along the cobblestones. “No,” I lie. “Nothing else.”

Paul searches my face for the truth. “Are you certain? It’s not—it’s not because of Belastra, is it?”

“What?” I gasp, tugging my hand away from his. “No!”

“I know you, Cate. You can deny it all you want, but the way you look at him—”

“How?” Have I been telegraphing my feelings all over town? Doeseveryoneknow?

“Like you’re fascinated.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Cate. Show me the respect of not lying to my face, at least.”

I whirl around, turning my back to him. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this entirely mortified. I’m half tempted to try and vanish myself.

Paul lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right. I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.”

I peer up at him quizzically.

“I had a bit of a failed romance in the city,” he confesses.

“You fell in love with someone?” I’m not certain of my feelings for him, but I have to admit I don’t relish the idea of him courting anyone else.

He turns me to face him. “I thought so, at the time. Her name was Penelope. She was very proper and very pretty. I met her at a colleague’s dinner party. After dinner, she played the piano and sang for us. She had the voice of an angel.”

I picture this Penelope with hair like ripe wheat and giant, innocent blue eyes. The sort of girl who’s never had to worry about anything more pressing than hair ribbons or a torn hem. I hate her.

I shove a strand of hair back under my hood—perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. “What happened?”

“I called on her a few times, squired her home from services once or twice, and was nearly ready to propose. Then she announced her intention to marry someone else. I was devastated. Drank myself into a stupor. Truly, though, it was the best thing that could have happened to me.”

“What? Why?” I want to poke her imaginary eyes out for hurting him.

“We were too different,” Paul says. “When she wasn’t singing, she was quiet as a mouse. Never a word to say for herself. Her blushes were captivating in theory, but once the newness wore off, she would have driven me insane with boredom.”

I bite my lip. “How do you know it’s not the same with me?”

“Because we’re alike, you and I. We want adventures, not quiet nights at home by the fire. I think I could make you happy if you’d let me.” Paul’s voice goes gravelly, and he takes both my hands in his. “Just promise me you won’t go off and marry someone else. Can you do that? For your old friend, at least?”

I squeeze his hands, grateful for his understanding. “Yes, of course. I promise.”

“Good.” Paul pulls me into his arms again, but this time he just holds me. I tuck my head under his chin. He smells like pine trees and horses and leather. It’s very comforting; I let myself sink into his embrace.

Then there’s a clatter of metal behind us. We spring apart.

Finn. He’s got a pail of weeds in one hand; he’s picking up his shovel with the other. When our eyes meet, he stumbles away, fast despite his twisted ankle.

My heart stops for a moment, then gallops on ahead.

I want to chase right after him. I don’t care how big a fool I’d look.

But I can’t. I’d be no better than that Penelope. Paul’s just proposed; I can’t go chasing after another man, one who may not even want me.

Paul wants me; he’s been clear as crystal about it. He loves me, and he’s my best friend. I push aside what I want.

Paul and I watch Finn’s retreating figure until he disappears behind the hedges. Then I turn to Paul, smiling up at him through the horror in my heart. “Will you walk me back inside, please?”

Chapter 14

PAUL AND I WALK BACK TO THE house in silence. At the kitchen door, he stops, leaning against the white clapboard wall. He’s the picture of a handsome city gentleman in his gray frock coat, his blond hair trimmed neatly. He studies the white clematis crawling up the lattice, and then he turns to me, frowning.

“I think I’ve made my feelings clear. I don’t know what more I can do.”

I reach out, put a tentative hand on his arm. “Nothing,” I murmur. “You’ve been—you’re amazing. I just need time to think.” Paul twines my fingers with his. “I’ll give you time, but the Brothers won’t.”