Free Etiquette With The Devil by Rebecca Paula Page A

was at her heels.
    She spun around on the steps, crossing her arms in a hurry. Mr. Ravensdale stopped on the stair below. He did not move back, although that would have been the proper thing to do. She should have moved to put space between them, but she would not allow him to think he intimidated her, even if that was part truth.
    He towered over her, her eyes level to his chest. A slight opening of his bloodstained shirt revealed a bronze patch of skin. The sight of it made her uneasy. She took a nervous swallow and tilted her head back to look up at him.
    “Well?”
    “Well, what?” she snapped. Perhaps if she kicked him in the knee, he would leave her alone.
    “Why are you working on your afternoon off?”
    She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you’ve noticed the condition of the house.”
    “I don’t see what that has to do with you refusing to take time for yourself.”
    She would never understand why he could not remain still. Even now, he raised his dirty hand and ruffled his hair.
    “There is much to do.” His sigh deflated the tension between them.
    At least in part. She found herself studying his face, the small details she shouldn’t be allowed to observe. His scars, his lips—those eyes—were his secrets to bear. She had no right in learning them.
    “Yes.” When he didn’t add anything more, Clara glanced over her shoulder. “Excuse me.” She darted up the remaining stairs in search of a proper schoolroom as the front door crashed open below and Mr. Barnes bellowed hello. The children had been settled for two weeks now. It was time for routine, and to begin their learning. She had had quite enough of allowing them free reign of the house.
    “Come meet your new steward, Ravensdale,” Mr. Barnes yelled from below.
    “Yes, Barnes.”
    Clara stopped as she turned the corner.
    She slumped against the wall, relieved for Mr. Barnes’s distraction. She could breathe once more.
    “Take the afternoon off.” Mr. Ravensdale’s whisper curled around her, even from several feet away from the stairs. Clara gasped, her hand clutching at her chest to study her racing heart. The low rumble of his laugh echoed in the hallway until it faded under the sound of his thunderous decent down the stairs.
    Irritating man.
    Cleaning the prospective schoolroom suddenly seemed like the only way she would like to spend the afternoon. Then there was mending to finish, walls to wash. She would task herself with as many things as she could simply to spite him.
    *
    Bly was anxious to return to India. If he found one more item in need of repair at Burton Hall or received another letter denying his request for services, he would—
    Well, he didn’t know what he’d do exactly, and it was that thought that unsettled him most. All he knew was fueled by the instinct that saw him to this very chair—to survive, and to keep moving.
    He stared into his empty highball glass in lethargic defeat, remnants of another day scattered around him—the piling up of empty whiskey bottles, heaps of correspondence, and smudged ink stains on his calloused hands. He heaved a sigh as the gossamer wisps of opium danced around him, the pipe still clutched in his hand. The numbness finally quieted his ever-moving limbs, blissful.
    Bly cradled his head into his hands, his fingers slowly tapping against his skull until those too stilled. He was tired, though he hated to admit that fact. Admitting as much meant life was strangling the drive out of him. He was tired down to his very soul—if he had one. He attempted to stack a playing card on another on top of the open ledger in front of him, but they both collapsed. His reflexes were much like the molasses Tilly used to bake his favorite cake earlier today.
    The tiredness had set upon him some months ago in Ceylon. He had taken one step, then another, before resting his body against a stone ornament at the ruins at Anuradhapura. He had sunk down to the clay earth and stared down at the stagnant pool