Page 53 of Love with a Notorious Rake

“But then, someone came to your rescue.” Mrs. Tramble turned her gaze to Aidan. “How gallant you are, Mr. Black. What a discovery.”

Murmuring broke out around the table.

“Gallant?” Aidan sniffed haughtily. “Hardly. I merely assisted the young lady to her feet.”

“You offered to chase the young rogue, Mr. Black. That is a gallant gesture to me,” Cristyn replied, giving him a cool but dismissive smile.

Aidan met her gaze. His sensual mouth was twisted in a cynical smile, his eyes alight with blue fire. “And you bade me not to. I acquiesced to the lady’s wishes.”

“Why ever not?” Mr. Tramble bellowed. “The thief should have been brought to justice. We have a village constable, and an adequate jail.”

Cristyn cut into her herbed sole. “The lad was dressed in rags, no doubt starving. If my meager possessions can fetch him a few pennies for food, I’ll not pursue it.”

Mr. McRae cleared his throat, then frowned. “You do the thief no favors by allowing this crime to fall to the wayside. It will only embolden him to further illegal acts. I would suggest, Miss Bevan, you report this crime with all haste.”

Murmurs of assent rounded the table, a few of the men adding, “Quite right.”

Paris shot her another look of caution. How tempted she was to call out these reprehensible men on their lack of compassion for their fellow man. “Perhaps if there was a charitable organization in the village, the destitute would not have to resort to illegal acts to buy bread. I’m surprised to find the church does not provide something as basic as a bowl of soup for those in need.”

The silence in the room was awkward. Boldly, she glanced about the table. A mixture of disdain and anger. Paris shook his head. Aidan, however, gave her such a heated, admiring look her insides quivered.

“We have adequate poor laws. Anyone in need can go to the Union Workhouse in nearby Hinckley,” Mr. McRae replied, his tone frosty. He then turned to the man next to him. “Now, as to the price of cotton…”

Cristyn’s cheeks flushed in annoyance as she turned her attention to her meal. No doubt Paris would admonish her in his gentle tone later. She had said far too much, and may have damaged their plan for caring for the mill children.

Mercifully, eventually, the meal came to an end, and as was standard for such formal meals, the ladies rose and headed to the parlor for tea while the men stayed in the dining room to partake of brandy and cigars. As she entered the hall, Cristyn found herself swept into a nearby alcove—and into Aidan’s embrace.

“Are you mad?” she whispered fiercely.

“Mad for you,” he replied, giving her another heated look. “We have only a few minutes. I want us to meet. Tonight. We must talk. As I said, not all is as it seems. Allow me to explain.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Explain what, exactly? How you bullied a child? How you are taking advantage of a poor young woman in your employ?”

He grasped the sides of her head, staring at her with such an intense gaze it made goose bumps raise on her flesh. “You truly believe this of me?”

“I believe the evidence of my own eyes,” she retorted.

“Even a condemned man is given a fair trial.” Aidan nuzzled her neck. Then he stepped away from her, his chest rising and falling. “Tonight, Cristyn.”

He turned and headed in the direction of the dining room, leaving her dizzy. She would not be slinking out in the dark of night to go to his room—that must end. But deep down, she wanted to hear what he had to say. Could there be an explanation? A small part of her believed that there must be. For five months they were in daily contact; they’d gotten to know each other. Despite his dismissal that they were friends, she had liked him, regardless of his mistakes and his past—whatever it was. Perhaps they should talk.

A few stolen moments in his arms and already she yearned for more. Sighing, Cristyn walked toward the parlor.

* * * *

When the evening concluded at ten o’clock, Aidan tried to speak to Cristyn once more, but the doctor kept her well away from him. Glancing at the night sky as he headed to the inn, he made note of the heavy gray clouds that had all but engulfed the full moon.

Upon entering the inn, Mr. Atwood called to him. “A young man delivered this for you an hour past.” The innkeeper passed him a large brown envelope. Judging by the weight, there were a couple of letters inside. Only the name “Aidan Black” was written on the front of it. He recognized Riordan’s handwriting. Samuel had been by. The young man must have ridden all day and part of the night.

“Thank you, Mr. Atwood.”

“I lit the fire in your room, sir, as there is rain coming tonight, I’ll wager. And it is a cool evening. Thought it would take the chill off. Would you like a brandy or whiskey?”

Hell, it was tempting, for it would tamp down his frustrations. Aidan slid a couple of shillings across the counter. “No, thank you. For your trouble, Mr. Atwood.”

Once in his room, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tore off his cravat, then rolled up his sleeves. Getting comfortable in front of the fire, Aidan ripped open the envelope, and two letters tumbled out. One was from his father. He read it first.

Dear Aidan,