The Rake's Enticing Proposal. Lara Temple
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towards the latch securing the cabinet door.
‘Careful.’
She jerked away from the voice directly behind her, her hands flying out to stop her descent towards the cabinet, and an arm closed about her waist, pulling her back.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to bring that lot crashing down on us. I’ve already torn one pair of trousers because of you and I don’t want to sacrifice another.’ His breath was warm against her ear and temple as he held her against him and again she felt the unravelling of heat, her body exploring the points of contact with his as it had yesterday. It was foreign and unwelcome, but too powerful to reason away.
Like other unwelcome realities of life, she allowed it to present itself fully before she set about beating it back. Piece by piece. She began by prying his hand from her waist, which was perhaps a mistake because his hand felt just as warm and strong under hers as it felt against her waist. She dropped it and moved away, focusing on the disgusting object in the jar.
‘What is that?’
‘That is...or rather was an Egyptian cat. A mummified one. My cousin thought it might be interesting to see what would happen if he rehydrated a mummy.’
She moved away, feeling a little ill.
‘That is horrid. Why is it purple?’
‘The gauze around the mummy was decorated with indigo. It is a rather dominant colour.’
‘Why on earth would they do that to a cat?’
‘Cats were considered sacred in ancient Egypt. One of their gods, Bastet, even had the form of a cat and not far from where we lived in Egypt there was a cemetery dedicated solely to felines. Did you know it was said that if a house cat died a natural death the members of the household must shave their eyebrows?’
She touched the tip of her own eyebrow and he smiled. She took another step back.
‘That sounds rather extreme.’
‘No more than many religious practices and far less violent than some.’
‘True. What will you do with this relative of...Bastet?’
‘I think I shall donate her to the Museum. Along with her amphibian friends.’
‘Amphibian? Are those frogs?’
His smile widened at the revulsion in her voice.
‘Huxley was in his biblical phase at the time and was fascinated by the ten plagues of Egypt. Luckily, he confined himself to mostly frogs and locusts and avoided boils and the like. Would you care to see the locusts?’
She backed away yet another step, shaking her head, all too aware she was giving him fodder for his teasing, but the sight of that gelatinous feline was defeating her attempt to remain cool and collected.
‘Here,’ he said, moving forward. He twitched a string and a blind descended over the cabinet, hiding the most offensive sights from view. ‘Huxley wasn’t immune to their grisliness, though they did serve to keep other members of the Manor away. I’ll have them packed and removed first thing. Meanwhile you can help me in the study. There is nothing more terrifying there than reams of scribbles and more salacious Latin tomes.’
She followed, both resentful and grateful for his casual acceptance of her queasiness. She did not like being considered weak in any way.
The study was surprisingly small after the imposing passage, though the bookcases and the cherrywood desk were covered with haphazard stacks of books, bound notebooks, and papers. Chase went to stand by the desk, frowning as he leafed through one of the notebooks.
‘How may I help?’ she asked, clasping her hands before her.
‘Do you wish to? Or was this merely a ploy to escape from Aunt Ermy’s despotic influence?’
‘She clearly hates it when you call her that. But then I reckon you are aware of that. And delight in it.’
‘Delight is a word I prefer to save for more suitable subjects. My irreverence keeps her at bay and that is all I ask.’
‘Are you always so blunt?’
‘It saves time and effort.’
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘That is the whole point.’
She sighed and turned to survey the desk, frowning at the chaos.
‘What is it we need to do?’
‘You need to do nothing but hide until Ermy tires of toying with you, but I must begin working on this paper labyrinth. Go refresh your memory of Ars Amatoria. It is somewhere on the far shelf with the other immoral ancients. Just don’t tell Henry; he won’t thank me for colluding with your efforts to keep him on a short leading string.’
‘I am not Fenella, you needn’t expend so much effort trying to shock me, Mr Sinclair. If you wish to keep me at bay, you have only to ask.’
‘Do you really wish to help?’
‘I may as well be of use. And this place clearly needs a great deal of work if it is to be approached properly.’
‘That sounds intriguing. How would one approach it improperly?’
She really should know better than to encourage someone like Chase Sinclair, but she could not stop her smile.
‘You are giving a fair example of just that, Mr Sinclair. I do wish to help, if you feel I can be of use.’
It was the first time she had seen him smile without calculation or mocking and she wished she had not prompted the change. It was like the morning mist clearing outside Whitworth, revealing soft fields sparkling with wildflowers and dew—a moment of clear beauty, suspended and unique.
Even for a rake he was disconcertingly handsome, his face worthy of a renaissance sculpture, all sharp angles and hard planes, its harshness softened only by the fullness of his lower lip and the lines of laughter and mockery at the corners of his steel-grey eyes.
She was surprised Drusilla and Fenella weren’t infatuated with this unfairly endowed specimen of manhood, or perhaps they had once been and his light-hearted teasing cured them—he might look like a fairy-tale hero, or perhaps even a villain, but he certainly did not act like one. Heroes tended to take themselves seriously, but Chase Sinclair did not appear to take anything seriously, least of all himself.
But as she waited for his response, she again felt the presence of an inner shadow, as if another person entirely was moving behind the handsome façade, considering how to wield it to his advantage.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, placing his hand on a stack of slim leather-bound books on the desk. ‘These notebooks contain my cousin’s accounts of his travels in Egypt. All the years I knew him he always kept them in order and in custom-made trunks, but as you can see that is no longer the case.’
Ellie glanced from the stack on the desk to the shelves he indicated and realised they, too, were populated not only by books and curios, but also stacks of brown-leather volumes.
‘My goodness, there are hundreds of them!’
‘Possibly. I would like to send them to my sister at Sinclair Hall, but first I want to put them in order, so I can ascertain if any are missing and hunt them down in this paper bog Huxley created. I wonder what Mallory was up to allow matters to deteriorate like this. He was always a stickler for neatness.’
‘Are you speaking of Mr Mallory? His secretary?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
She smiled. ‘Why, yes. Well, not very well. I met him on two occasions when he visited Henry’s father before he passed away. He did strike me as a very competent and serious young man. I do hope the notebooks are dated, at least?’
‘The notebooks aren’t,