An Impossible Choice (All Things Possible Book 1) Page 10

  “Our household affairs, you mean,” he firmly corrected.

  Argel looked up at him fully then and blushed once more before quickly returning her attention to her food.

  She was obviously still flustered from just a few minutes ago. It was difficult to tell—had she felt frightened or angry? Her skin was flushed, but her face relaxed. She had just smiled at him…

  Was it possible she had wanted him to kiss her?

  Thinking back on it now, the way she had leaned in to him, she had almost seemed to expect it.

  That was a matter he did wish to contemplate.

  “May I ask you something Damon?”

  Just as a shining angel may break through the clouds, so Argel broke through his thoughts. “Of course, ask me anything.” He sat back in his chair, giving her his full attention.

  “My ring.” She rested her hands on the table and looked down at the object, touching it gently.

  Damon had never envied anything more.

  “’Tis most unusual,” she said thoughtfully. “However did you find it so quickly?”

  “I made it.”

  Her head shot up, “So that’s why it fits.”

  He nodded slowly, gathering the courage to share another part of his past with her. Would she think him some sentimental clout?

  Whatever it takes.

  If he wanted her to open her heart to him, he should be willing to do the same. “It was once a thimble, belonged to my mother. My uncle kept the few belongings she had brought with her. They sat locked away, untouched after she died. When I was twelve years old, he gave them to me. Her bag had been found empty, save that thimble, likely anything of value stolen out of it by the sailors aboard the ship she traveled on.

  “I have carried that thing in my pocket every day since my uncle gave it to me. It was my connection to my mother. It may not be precious metal, but…it was my most treasured possession.”

  Her eyes glistened slightly. “Oh, Damon, I—”

  “That night,” he cut in, ignoring the stinging of his own, “under the tree, I knew then that I wanted you to have it. I began working it into a ring, even working every night when we’d stop to rest after leaving Beddgelert. I suppose you could say that the endless coach rides provided me plenty of time to study your…hands. To guess the size of your finger.”

  She looked down again and stroked it slowly. “But, your most treasured possession—”

  “Is you, Argel,” he said firmly, placing his fist on the table. “You are most precious to me, and I want you to have it. My mother, I like to think, would want you to have it too.”

  She looked up at him, apparently speechless.

  Damon swallowed, ready to share more of what was in his heart, “You must believe me, Argel, that I-I ardently—”

  “Well! What’s Bowers cooked up tonight?” a jovial voice cut through the air. “Don’t mind me, Jackson let me in.”

  Damon would kill Jackson, but not before strangling Pendenny for walking in at the worst possible moment. “Please, have a seat,” he gestured sarcastically as he slumped back in his own chair.

  “Good evening, Mr. Pendenny. So happy you could join us.” The slight strain he detected in Argel’s voice soothed Damon’s irritation a good deal. Perhaps she was just as displeased with Pendenny’s timing as he.

  “Please, call me Titus,” his blasted friend merrily replied with a ridiculous grin smeared across his face as he gave Argel a wink. A wink! He’d never seen his reserved associate act in such a way before.

  “Pendenny, what has you in such a regretfully cheery mood?” Damon turned towards his foe, resting his chin on his clenched fist. The man had already grabbed a nearby plate and begun helping himself to various dishes.

  “Oh, just a successful day is all,” Pendenny twirled a forkful of beef-steak in the air before taking a bite.

  Was it possible? Damon began to wonder if Pendenny knew the contents of the letter he’d asked him to post that morning. But he’d have to ask him about that later.

  Instead, he looked back to his wife, “Argel, I thought we might go out tomorrow evening to the theatre, have dinner after. Are any of the dresses that arrived suitable for an evening out?”

  “Why, yes, I—”

  “Splendid idea! The theatre!” Pendenny interrupted as he plucked a piece of bread off the table.

  Damon shot his adversary a glare and gritted his teeth. “Yes, I thought so.” He looked back to Argel and his tone softened, “And the day after that, perhaps we can take a picnic luncheon to the park.”

  Her eyes brightened and she smiled. Damon thought she looked rather excited at the idea—he hoped so anyway. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut short.

  “A picnic! A grand idea,” Pendenny exclaimed around a mouthful. “What park are we going to?”

  Forget about Jackson. Damon was going to shove that piece of bread down Pendenny’s throat and kill him.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Argel remained in bed far past her usual time. She’d been awake for a good hour or so, but she’d had no desire to leave the warm comforts of her bed. Her head was propped up on pillows as she sat absently fingering her plaited hair. Sunlight streamed in from the window across the room and directly beneath it sat a delicate scroll-end sofa.

  She smirked at the image in her mind of Damon’s hulking form sleeping on the furniture. Even here in London he kept up the ridiculous arrangement of sharing a room, but not a bed. He always waited to come in until after she was asleep, and always rose before she woke, giving her privacy and a sense of being alone.

  But she always knew he would be there. She’d even awoken with a start last night to find him snoring across the room from her, one arm thrown above his head and one leg stretched out to the floor.

  Funny, she was actually grateful for his quiet presence. She’d long believed she had outgrown this fear of the dark, but knowing he was there at night, she had slept more soundly these past couple of nights than she had since she was a child.

  A yawn overcame her then and she stretched her arms. After a lifetime of hard work, she didn’t believe she could easily become a woman of leisure, not entirely. But this—lazy mornings in bed—this was something she could most definitely adjust to.

  A knock came at the door just then. Who could that be? Surely it wasn’t—

  “Come in,” she called out, not willing to dwell on insecurities.

  Mrs. Bowers entered then, carrying a tray. “Thought you might like to take your breakfast in bed, madam. Was worried at first when you didn’t come down, but the master assured me you were only resting.”

  Argel smiled in relief at the woman. She had to be near fifty, her hair gray underneath her cap. The way she had accepted and practically mothered Argel since her surprise arrival touched her heart deeply. “Thank you Mrs. Bowers, how kind. Just set it there would you?” She nodded to the table beside the bed.

  “Very well, madam. I also snatched the morning paper before Jackson could give it to the master. I thought you might enjoy looking it over before it becomes creased and stained with food. Master is most harsh with his paper.” The housekeeper grinned at Argel.

  “Yes, thank you. That sounds wonderful Mrs. Bowers.” Argel returned the smile as she sat up more in bed.

  “I’ll leave you to it. Ring if you need anything more.” She nodded to the small bell on the tray before she turned and left.

  Argel lifted the cloth to examine the contents beneath. Toast and jam, eggs, and sausage greeted her. A small bowl of fresh fruit delighted her. And a steaming cup of coffee made her smile. She found she liked the stuff since the first time she’d tried it at her wedding breakfast just days ago.

  Snatching the paper, she unfolded it and grabbed the cup of coffee. She took a sip as she scanned the front page, relishing the way the liquid warmed her all the way down to her toes. She took another, but this time it stuck in her throat. Her eyes bulg
ed with the coughing fit that hit her then, but more so from the headline she read—

  Missing Phillips Girl Appears in London

  Surely this was about someone else. How would the paper have known? Would Damon have told them? She’d only just learned the truth about her past herself. Surely he wouldn’t have shared it with the world already, not without telling her?

  Her eyes quickly scanned the article for confirmation that she was being hasty in her conclusion. As they skittered around small dots where the ink was blurred from spewed coffee, a few words jumped out at her: the late Viscount Rainsford, Mary Phillips, Wales, marriage, Mr. Damon Westmoreland.

  With shaking hands, she set down the paper in her lap. What was Damon thinking going to the paper like that? Not only did he betray any privacy she had left, he put her own life in danger. If this mysterious man who had threatened her uncle long ago was still alive, he would soon know of her existence and whereabouts. Even if he was not in town, it wouldn’t be long before London news reached the furthest parts of England.

  In a panic, she jumped out of bed and fled the room, running down the stairs to the dining room below. Without waiting for Damon to acknowledge her presence, she blurted, “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  His back was to her—he obviously hadn’t seen or heard her approach. At the urgency of her voice, he dropped his fork and swiftly stood, nearly knocking his chair over. His shock was apparent on his face and in his voice. “Argel, what are you talking about? What’s the matter?”

  “This is the matter!” She marched towards him, thrusting the paper up to his face, not even noticing the brief flicker in his eyes as he eyed her nightgown. She’d been too upset to remember to throw on a robe. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Exposing me to the world like that? Possibly to the very one who has long wished me dead?” Her anxiety was climbing so high as he scanned the paper that she barely heard his quiet reply.

  “I didn’t do this.”

  “What? What do you mean you didn’t do this?” She stood still as a statue as she watched him slowly lower the paper.

  His eyes connected with hers immediately. “I mean, I didn’t do this.” He held out the paper as indication, his face equally incredulous. “I didn’t go to the paper—I haven’t shared your story with anyone.”

  Argel mildly shook her head to dispel her confusion. “If not you, then…Titus? Would he have done such a thing?”

  “No,” Damon said firmly. “Pendenny would never breech your privacy like that. I’m afraid that somewhere along the way a little mouse has squeaked and a reporter has given it a voice.”

  Argel crossed her arms over her middle, feeling every bit the terrified child she’d once been. She cast her gaze down to the floor, just beyond her bare feet. “So, we don’t know who…”

  Damon quickly set the paper down and came to her, enfolding her in his arms. He didn’t ask permission and Argel didn’t mind. “No,” his chest rumbled with his deep voice. “I don’t know, but you can rest assured I will find out.”

  “But,” she whispered, “what if he is out there—the man who wished me dead?”

  “Argel, listen to me. That man, whoever he was, is likely rotting away in a grave somewhere. And if he isn’t, if he is still alive,” he paused as his arms tightened around her, “I will do all that is within my power to protect you. I will keep you safe, Argel.”

  Argel let out a small sigh as she leaned her head against his chest. The steady beating of his heart soon began to calm her own.

  And she believed him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Three or four weeks later

  Argel made her way down the stairs from the rented rooms to the offices of W&P Enterprises below. It had been a few weeks since arriving in London and she had decided it was time to discuss a certain matter with this husband of hers.

  Walking past the spotless desk in the waiting area, she headed for the open door to her husband’s office. “Knock-knock,” she said brightly as she stuck her head inside.

  He was seated at his desk, still surrounded by an avalanche of paper, and was writing at a furious pace. Upon hearing her greeting, he paused to look up. The broad smile he gave warmed her heart, something that was becoming a common occurrence as of late.

  Damon leaned back in his chair, an outstretched arm beckoning her to come closer. “What can I do for you Argel?”

  She approached him, smiling, but stopped just at the side of his desk where she perched on the edge. Though warm, her heart still remained tentative. She couldn’t help but notice the flicker of disappointment that crossed his face at the remaining distance between them, but this wasn’t the time to think on the matter. “I want you to put me to work.”

  “Put you to work?” He frowned. “Whatever do you mean? Is Mrs. Bowers not showing you the books and expenses? Because I’ll have a word—”

  “No, Damon, it’s not that. She’s been most kind and helpful in that regard, but there’s only so much I can learn and do while here in London. I’ll be busier once we return home, I’m sure of it. No, I need something else.”

  “There’s a new play in town tonight that we could see. I—”

  Argel smiled, “No, Damon, I don’t mean entertainment either. I believe you’ve taken me to every possible shop, theatre, and park these past weeks; and while I have enjoyed our outings, I—”

  His brow knit with apparent concern, “We’ve done too much, haven’t we? You’re exhausted.”

  “Damon, just listen to me,” Argel laughed as she leaned forward to get his attention.

  His concern quickly vanished, along with any trace of humor, and Argel followed his serious gaze down to where her hand rested on the desk—on top of his own. She must have reached out to touch him without thinking. Just to get his attention, of course.

  She flinched to retrieve her hand, but he was quicker, grasping it firmly within his own.

  “Now, what is this you wish to tell me?” he asked gently, drawing her around the corner to sit on the edge of the desk directly in front of him.

  “I…erm,” Argel began as she looked back to Damon’s face, but all coherent thoughts scattered as she felt small circular patterns being rubbed on the back of her hand.

  With each firm, sweeping arc of his thumb, the pressure and warmth seemed to travel all the way to her face, which Argel knew must be a bright crimson at the moment. She took a shaky breath to try and dispel some of her fluster.

  She could admit it—she had thoroughly enjoyed all of the time they had spent together the past few weeks, despite her initial scare from the newspaper. He had been most attentive, had taken her on countless outings, and she could feel herself growing closer to him. They had laughed together, shared more of their pasts, and had even begun to discuss the future somewhat—objectively, of course. Her plan towards friendship seemed to be working quite well.

  But would there ever be anything more?

  She still felt an unease around him in that regard. Less now to do with anger over her uncle and their swift marriage, and more to do with a fear of giving that part of herself away. Whether by death or betrayal, she had lost her entire family. As a result, she felt a hesitancy to move at anything more than a snail’s pace.

  Thank goodness he was still practicing patience.

  Argel cleared her throat, trying again, “I want to work with you. I want you to hire me as your secretary.”

  “What?” His hand stilled over her own as his mouth hung open. “Hire you? A female? Not to mention, my own wife?”

  Hopefully, he would consider it.

  “Yes, precisely,” Argel primly nodded, deciding to approach the matter practically. “At least while we’re here in London, until you finally get around to actually hiring someone more permanently.” She smiled. “So, in the meantime, I might as well stay busy and help you too.”

  “Hmm.” He withdrew his hand from hers and began tapping his chin in concentration.
>
  “Besides,” she shrugged, trying not to be distracted by his movement, which drew attention to the morning’s growth on his face, “it might be fun working as a team, the three of us. You wouldn’t even have to pay me.” Obviously he hadn’t shaved yet—not that she found it attractive.

  “I wouldn’t, eh?” Damon grinned, rather wickedly Argel thought, as he sat forward resting his forearms on his knees. “I don’t know if working with Pendenny is what I’d call fun. You may wish to resign your position after only one morning spent with the man.”

  “Does that mean I’m hired?” Argel stood, excited at the idea.

  “You may start tomorrow, but first we must decide on your salary.”

  Argel frowned. “I told you, Damon, you needn’t pay me anything. I simply want to help.”

  “And what kind of man would I be if I did not pay my employee? My own wife, no less? Imagine if word got out,” Damon shook his head as he stood, towering over her. “No, you will be well compensated for your time. How does eight pounds a week sound?”

  Argel gasped. Surely, she’d misheard.

  “Hmm, too low. I thought it might be, especially seeing as how you’ll be working with Pendenny.”

  “Damon, no! I—”

  He held up a hand to silence her protests. “I believe ten pounds a week sounds much better, don’t you agree? When we have your inheritance transferred into your new account, I’ll deposit your earnings there. They will be your own funds to do with as you please.”

  Argel was speechless. Ten pounds a week! She’d truly not expected anything, much less a sum of such enormity. And the fact that he was again making it clear he would not control her inheritance endeared him to her that much more. That heart of hers was now on a steady simmer.

  “Are you agreeable to those terms Mrs. Westmoreland?” He quirked a dark brow.

  She nodded, smiling, “Yes. Oh, thank you Damon!”

  “Very well,” he put forward a broad hand, “let’s shake on it, then.”

  Argel eagerly shook hands with her husband, beaming at having new work to do. She was so excited, it took her a bit to realize moments later that they were still shaking hands—neither eager to let go.