Impulse (18 page)

One day, as they were sitting beneath a tree, Cam reading a book and Angela drawing a cluster of tiny white wildflowers that grew out of a crack in a large rock, he looked over at her and said, “Do you never show your drawings to anyone?”

Startled, Angela glanced over at him. “No…” she admitted slowly. “I— Others have seen them.”

“Would you permit me to look sometime? I should like to see what you do.”

A familiar tension knotted her stomach, but Angela
suppressed it. She glanced down at the pad in her hand. “It isn't much, I'm afraid.”

“Nevertheless, it is important to you, is it not?”

“Yes. But I imagine you will be disappointed. That you will expect them to be something far grander. They are only little pencil sketches.”

“I bear up well under disappointment.”

She had to smile at his words. “I suppose I should say that I fear you will find them lacking. However, I have heard that an artist must learn to receive criticism.” Angela held out the pad to him.

“I am no critic, my lady,” he said, taking the pad and turning it around to look at it. He paused, looking over the picture. “Why, it's beautiful! You do yourself an injustice, saying your work isn't much.” He looked up at her. “May I look at the others?”

She nodded, and he flipped back through the pages, looking at each drawing. “You're bloody professional. I had no idea you could draw this well. Why are you hesitant to show people?”

Angela smiled, his praise sending a warm glow through her. “I am not always sure of my skill.”

“You should be sure. Do you use other mediums?”

“Sometimes. Watercolor, usually. Some oil. But most of the things I draw are too delicate for oil. It overpowers them.”

“Do you sell them? You oughtn't to hide them away in Bridbury.”

She stared at him, rather taken aback. “You actually think I should sell them?”

He glanced up at her. “Yes. Why? Is that too crassly commercial for a Stanhope? You have to remember that I am a tradesman at heart, not the landed gentry.”

“No. It is just—actually, I
do
sell them. There are
some periodicals and sometimes books that buy them for illustrations. But I was not sure… Well, I was afraid you would not want your wife engaging in business.”

He gazed at her with a puzzled expression. “Why ever not? That is precisely what I engage in myself, all the time.”

“I don't know. Men feel differently about what their wives do.”

He shrugged. “I suppose I might have a different opinion if it were some other business—I'm not sure what. But I can't really imagine
you
engaging in something unsavory. Certainly I have no objection to this.” He continued to turn the pages, then stopped abruptly.

“Why, this is me.”

Angela blushed. She had forgotten that she had sketched him several days ago. He had been sitting on a large rock at the top of a hill, and the wind had been blowing through his hair, as he was looking out over the countryside. He had not even been aware that she was watching him. Now she felt as though she had been caught doing something illicit.

Cam looked at the sketch for a long moment, then back up at her. “You are kind to me.”

She shook her head. “That is how you looked.”

He started to say something, then stopped. After a moment, he went on, “Do you ever draw yourself?”

“A self-portrait? No.”

“I would like one. Would you do one for me?”

She felt herself blushing again. “Why in the world would you want that?”

“Why wouldn't I? I could frame it and put it on my desk, where I could look at it whenever I wanted.”

“I'm not even sure I could.”

“Try. Will you, please? I would like very much to have it.”

“All right.”

She felt flattered, and a trifle uneasy. In some ways, she had found the cold Cam who proposed to her easier to deal with. The longer she was around this Cam, the more and more she liked him. She was afraid that she was even beginning to fall in love with him.

The problem was that Cam wanted her. She was aware of his desire growing every day. He had not made any overt moves toward her. He had kept to his word not to touch her or kiss her. But she could sense the desire in him. He kept it tamped down and firmly under control, but she could see it every time he looked at her—in the banked fires of his eyes and in the sensual curving of his lips, as if he could taste her kiss. She could hear him at night, for the walls of the lodge were not thick, getting up from his bed in the room next door to pace, restless and unsleeping. She could see the results the next morning in the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

Desire was eating him up. Looking at the shadows beneath his eyes, the deeper hollows of his cheeks, Angela felt guilty. Cam deserved more than what he had gotten, she thought. He deserved a wife who loved him, who could share his bed and have his children, not a woman too crippled in her soul to be a woman anymore. But he could not have that, because he was married to her.

She thought sometimes that she should simply go ahead and let him have what he wanted. After all, it was only her body; she had learned long ago to separate from it and withdraw her real self to a different place. She had done it many times with Dunstan. But she could not bring herself to do it. She had worked too hard to
achieve her independence; she could not give it up to any man, including Cam. She did not precisely understand it, but she sensed that it would be a kind of obliteration of her self.

So she stood by helplessly, feeling Cam's growing pain and frustration, watching his iron control smother his desires, yet unable to do anything to help him. She felt a curious blend of relief and regret when they left the lodge. And she wondered if their marriage could long survive the war that was raging inside Cam.

 

Kate was standing in the kitchen when Cook clapped the warming lid on Mr. Pettigrew's dinner and set it onto the tray. “There. Better get it up there before it gets cold.”

One of the maids started toward the tray, but Kate stepped in neatly, cutting her off, and lifted the tray from the counter. “It's all right, Betsy, I will take it.”

The other girl looked at her in surprise, but shrugged, not displeased to escape the walk from the kitchens to the library.

“I've not much to do with Her Ladyship gone,” Kate said by way of explanation.

One of the footmen gave her a knowing grin and said, “Of course. It's that you cannot bear to be without work. It wouldn't have anything to do with it being Mr. Pettigrew's dinner, now would it?”

Kate cast him a single flashing glance that would have quelled a less irrepressible man. “And that's the thanks I get for helping out?”

With a toss of her head, she backed out the door and strode off toward the library. She fumed about the man's comment all the way down the hall, pointing out to herself all the reasons she had offered to take the tray, as
well as the many ways in which she was not interested in Jason Pettigrew. However, outside the library door, she set the tray down on a small table and checked her appearance in the mirror, straightening her skirts and tucking in an errant wisp of hair, before she knocked on the door.

At the sound of his muffled reply, Kate opened the door, then picked up the tray and edged in. Jason Pettigrew was seated at the large desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. He glanced up from his work.

“Miss Harrison!” He sprang to his feet, the pen dropping from his fingers and rolling across his papers, leaving a trail of ink splotches. His chair, pushed back so abruptly, caught on the edge of the Persian rug and toppled over. The chair back caught the corner of a small table, sending it crashing to the floor, along with several books that had been stacked atop it.

Pettigrew blushed to the roots of his hair and glanced back, aghast, at the mess he had created. Kate pressed her lips together to keep from giggling.

“Oh, Lord.” He bent down and picked up the chair, then began to gather up the scattered books.

“Here, let me do that, sir.” Kate set the tray down on the desk and hurried to help him.

“You must think I am a perfect fool,” Jason said bitterly.

“Oh, no, sir!” Kate protested.

“I cannot imagine why you would not. It seems as if every time you see me, I am dropping something or… or I'm half-undressed…or in some other equally embarrassing situation.” He righted the table and reached out to take the books she offered him. His hand grazed hers, and his blush, which had faded considerably, renewed itself. “I promise you, I am usually not this clumsy.”

“It is quite all right, sir,” Kate responded politely.

“I do wish you wouldn't call me ‘sir.' It makes me feel quite old.”

“I'm sorry. Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Perhaps—perhaps you could call me Jason.”

Kate's eyebrows flew up. “Oh, no, sir, I mean, Mr. Pettigrew. I could not do that.”

“Why not?”

“I—well, it just wouldn't be right. I mean…you're Mr. Monroe's assistant.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Yes, I know. And you work for Mrs. Monroe. Why does that mean we cannot call each other by our given names? I would think that it gives us a certain familiarity.”

“But you are, well, you know, a gentleman.”

“I certainly hope I am.” He looked at her quizzically.

“And I am not,” Kate blurted out.

“A gentleman? That's quite obvious.” He smiled.

This time it was Kate who colored and looked flustered. “You know what I mean. There is a…a gap in our stations.” She turned away from him, thinking how his smile warmed his dark eyes. He was really quite a handsome man. She went to the tray and whisked the warming lid from the plate. “I brought your dinner, sir.”

“Yes, I see. It looks quite delicious. Won't you sit down and join me?”

“Mr. Pettigrew!” Kate looked shocked. “You must know I cannot.”

“Why not? Oh, yes, of course, the, ah, gap in our stations.”

Kate nodded.

“Frankly, Miss Harrison, I find all this business about our ‘stations' a bit confusing.”

“Kate, sir.”

“Yes. That is one of the problems. I am to call you Kate, and you must call me sir or Mr. Pettigrew. Mrs. Monroe is actually ‘my lady,' which I can never remember to say, yet her husband is not ‘my lord.'”

“Well, no, a husband does not take his wife's rank.”

“And she does not take his?”

“Not if she is of higher rank. Now, if he was a lord, and she was not, then marrying him would make her a lady.”

“Where I am from, it is a woman's actions that make her a lady.”

“I am speaking of her title, sir,” Kate reminded him primly.

“Then there is the business about eating.”

“Eating, sir?”

“Yes. When Cameron and his wife were here, I took my meals at the table. Now, I find that except for breakfast, my meals are sent in to me on a tray. It's that rank business again, isn't it?”

“Well, yes…”

“The Ladies Bridbury would be appalled at sharing their meal with a commoner such as myself, without the leavening presence of my employer, who would himself not be permitted at the table except for his money and his marriage. Am I right?”

Kate nodded.

“I am, after all, only the hired help. I can understand that. I mean, most employers do not socialize with their workers. However, I cannot eat with the servants, either. That is why they send me the tray. So I am neither
fish nor fowl, and because of ‘rank' I find myself in limbo.”

“That's true. I am sorry.” Kate smiled sympathetically. She understood some of what he felt. Her years of closeness with Angela had separated her to a certain extent from the rest of the servants. “Sometimes I feel a little like a fish out of water, too.”

“Do you?” He looked interested. “Why is that?”

She shrugged. “Some people think I have risen above my station because my lady treats me differently. She and I are, well, we are close.” She realized, with a little surprise, that she and Pettigrew were actually having a conversation. It was rather pleasant.

“I know that you are very devoted to her. It is one of the things that I admire most about you.”

Kate's stomach jumped in a most peculiar way, and she felt decidedly warm. She shifted nervously and glanced toward the tray. “Please, Mr. Pettigrew, your food is getting cold. You should eat.”

“All right. I will…if you will sit down.” He pulled out his chair and sat down, gesturing toward the wingback chair on the other side of the desk. “If you won't eat, you can at least keep me company.”

Kate glanced at the chair. It was not really her place to sit while in the presence of her employers or their guests, though she had, of course, done it with Angela. However, Kate was not one who always stayed in her place, either. She looked back at Pettigrew, then perched on the front edge of the chair, folding her hands demurely in her lap.

He smiled. “Thank you. I do believe that is the first thing I have ever asked that you have done.”

“I wonder that you should request my company, then, if you find me so contrary.”

“A very Kate-like answer.” Again the smile warmed his face, shifting the stern lines of his face in a most attractive way. “Perhaps I like contrary females.” He took a bite of food. “Mmm, delicious, as always.” He continued to eat, saying, “Tell me about yourself.”

“About myself? But—but what do you want to hear? I am quite ordinary.”

“Oh, no, my dear Kate, one thing you are definitely
not
is ordinary. Tell me anything. Tell me about your family, your home, your childhood, whatever you want.”

She began to talk, hesitantly at first, but the oddness of talking to him soon wore off, and she was chatting away about her mother and her sisters and even her father's death in her childhood. She was amazed to find almost thirty minutes later that Mr. Pettigrew had long since finished his meal, and the two of them were talking and laughing like old friends.