Page 31 of Impossible
“Perhaps you should. I thought for a brief moment last night that you might like me.”
He lowered his gaze to hers and found her watching him intently. Yes, he’d thought that too. He ought to tell her he didn’t, that he never would, that he was biding his time until she was gone—they were halfway there.
But the words wouldn’t come. He’d been nothing but an absolute blackguard since he’d come back from Spain. Did he really want to spend the rest of his life in this misery?
The problem was that he didn’t know how to escape it. But he had to admit that having her here ensured he was at least thinking of something else part of the time.
He ignored what she said and went back to his half sister. “It sounds as if you know Prudence well.”
“She’s my best friend.”
He snorted. What were the fucking odds that this slip of a woman who’d turned his life upside down in a week was best friend to the half sister he never wanted?
Actually, given his luck, the odds were quite good.
“Youarean aberration,” he murmured before sipping his whisky. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed suddenly caught up with him, making his head spin. This was not a good place to be. This was the state where his emotions were unpredictable, where he was in real danger.
He stood, and the floor wavered beneath his feet.
“Can I move forward with hiring people?”
“No.” He shook his head and immediately regretted the motion as the room continued to spin long after he stilled.
“But you need them,” she said with determination. “Will you at least let me hire Teresa when she’s finished helping Mrs. Kempton?”
“You won’t be here then.” He made his way to the door, still carrying his whisky, though he didn’t plan to drink anymore. He’d had enough to settle into oblivion, where red ribbons and nagging bookkeepers wouldn’t trouble him.
“I can do it now,” she called after him.
He didn’t respond. The sooner he lost himself to darkness, the better everything would be.
Ada woke, her eyes shooting open as if she’d been startled by a sound. But there hadn’t been a sound. Rolling to her side, she stared into the darkness, wondering how long she’d been asleep. She’d tossed and turned interminably before finally succumbing to exhaustion.
But now her mind was working, as it had when sleep had been elusive. She was thinking of Warfield again and was still unsettled at how their evening had ended. Or perhaps she was disappointed in herself for the way she’d talked to him about Prudence and Lucien. She shouldn’t have compared them.
What was she even doing? She was supposed to be tidying his ledgers and determining the state of his affairs. Lucien had given her a simple assignment, and she’d turned it into aninvestigationbecause of her infernal curiosity.
Yet here she was, and she couldn’t un-know what she’d learned. Warfield was trapped by something, and she’d wager anything that he wanted to be free, even if he didn’t realize it yet.
Guilt was a horrible thing. Ada knew that better than most. It had ruined her life for two long years in which she’d inhabited the darkest spaces before pulling herself from despair.
Then she’d spent two more long years reinventing herself and trying to leave the past behind. She’d done a fair job of it too, until she’d made yet another mistake. She hoped she wasn’t bungling things now by sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
Not that she could seem to help herself.
Agitated, Ada threw the covers aside and slid from the bed. There was a chill in the air, so she grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it over her night rail before shoving her feet into slippers. She went to the hearth and stirred the coals, adding fuel to the fire until flames began to lick the air.
Now she was warm. And still restless.
Perhaps a walk would help. Did she need a candle? She went to the door and opened it, peering into the gallery that ran the length of the first floor. A few sconces lit the way, banishing the need for a candle, thank goodness.
Slipping from her chamber, she closed the door and wandered along the gallery. There wasn’t enough light to study the paintings along the way, except for the ones next to the sconces.
She stopped at the first such portrait and wondered if this was one of Warfield’s relatives. The man stared back at her with blue eyes and a round face tinged with mirth. There was absolutely no resemblance.
Moving on, she meandered back and forth across the gallery, stopping at the next sconce, where a haughty young woman gazed at her from probably the midseventeenth century. The portrait had to predate the current house, unless it had been painted decades later than the time it seemed to portray. There was a fullness to the woman’s lips that reminded her of Warfield. He had an incredibly sensual mouth for a man. She longed to see what it did when he smiled, a slow, lazy, thoroughly seductive smile that would melt anyone who beheld it. She imagined him doing that during his younger years, when he’d left school and gone to sow his wild oats. She hoped she’d get a chance to ask him about that period of his life.
As she neared the other end of the gallery, a distant sound drew her attention. She continued until she found herself in a sitting room. The sound came again, much louder this time—a horrible keening that nearly pulled her heart from her chest.
