Page 25 of The Raven’s Lady

“I am a temporary tenant? Are you trying to protect me from…”

“Folly and extravagance? I guess so. I have pinched pennies for so long, I can’t imagine these grand expenditures of yours.”

From somewhere above them came a resounding crash. Cassie started, and Raven reached out a hand to steady her. “Someone has dropped a load of planks.”

Cassie drew in a breath. “When do you anticipate giving your ball?”

“At the July full moon. The work will be done by then.”

His extraordinary confidence struck her again. And his freedom to spend. How opposite they were. He could decide to give a ball, and then lease a property and refurbish it no matter the cost to fill a room with mere acquaintances. She could not decide to buy a new gown without scheming to scratch together the means.

“You’ll come to my ball, won’t you?”

She looked up at him, resolved to tell him that her ball-going days were over, but she didn’t know how to explain herself. The past was the past. What happened had happened. She had worked out a way of getting through her days, but until he leased Verwood, she had not thought of changing the pattern of her life. Now she was trying to figure out how to do it, waiting for an answer to her letter to her mother’s cousins. But she could not dance, that was a step too far.

For once he looked boyish, less commanding, more eager. He could have no way of knowing that what he offered called to mind things lost and gone forever.

“You need not invite your … landlord…” she began when a sound like the first crack of thunder overhead made her look up.

Raven grabbed her hand and pulled her into his arms, falling back with her against the wall, under the scaffolding as the crack became a rumble, and a great patch of plaster hit the plank above their heads, exploding into fragments. Dust rained down and swirled about them.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. His lips brushed her ear. He pushed her head into his chest, and spun, so that she was pressed against the wall, her body covered with his own. Cassie huddled against him as the falling plaster became a cascade of broken chunks of lime and powdered gypsum, thumping on the scaffolding over their heads, shaking the framework around them, filling the air with dust and noise. The world contracted to a hollow of linen and wool that smelled of Raven, of bergamot and labdanum, spice and energy. Her cheek pressed against his chest. His heart beat steadily under her ear. His arms held her firmly against his solid warmth, offering protection. Around them the air shook and swirled. She kept her eyes closed and breathed in the scent of him with a little shock of recognition that their bodies fit together easily, and that over the past few weeks she had come to know how he smelled.

The thumping, shaking storm of falling plaster seemed endless until the noise subsided to a few plops of plaster hitting the scaffolding overhead. From beyond the great hall, voices shouted and footsteps pounded. Cassie stirred, pulling back in his hold, but he did not release her at once.

“Wait,” he commanded, his body stiff and alert.

There came another loud crack, a swoosh, and a smash that sent dust and debris flying again. After a pause, he released her, stepping back a pace. His dark hair and brows were powdered white with plaster dust. It covered his shoulders and arms.

“You’re unharmed?” His voice was low and full of concern.

“Perfectly,” she said. It wasn’t true. She had been held by him, and now the sheltering hold had been withdrawn. The air tasted of grit.

As she stared up at him, his expression tightened, the warmth in his eyes quickly turning cold. “Your dress is ruined,” he said. “I’ll get you another.”

She shook her head. “You have other things to attend to.”

“Sir Adrian,” a man called, and Raven turned to him.

“We’re unharmed. Give us a moment.” He offered a chalk-covered hand and helped her climb over a pile of debris, the fallen plaster crunching under their feet. She stopped and looked up to the dark lines of exposed lath above them.

“We did mean to take the old ceiling down,” he said, his face grim again.

“But not so quickly.” She tried to make light of it. “You’ll have your project done well in time for that July moon.”

“That’s the plan. Let me see you back to the dower house.”

“No need.”

“I insist.”

“Very well.” She picked her way around and over the piles of rubble. She did not understand him, but she recognized the pattern. He’d gone from warm concern to brusque coldness. His change of manner was just as well. She did not want to mistake the shelter of his arm in an accident for any other sentiment. The warmth he sometimes showed her was not personal. It came from his pleasure in the project and his anticipation of showing off the house in the future, not from any interest in her.

As they passed out of the great hall, more men arrived to stare at the exposed ceiling and piles of broken plaster. Raven stopped to speak to one of them about cleaning up the debris, then Cassie and Raven moved through the marble hall to the outside. On the porch she glanced at him and could not resist a smile.

“What?” He stood, brushing the dust from his shoulders.

“You’ve become quite the distinguished white-haired gentleman,” she said.