Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance by Juliet Moore Page B
Authors: Juliet Moore
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trying to create meetings that might never have happened if left to pure chance." Her skin was smooth against his upturned palm.
"It just doesn't seem...proper," she said, but her voice was as weak as her protest.
"I can assure you that men have been doing it for centuries." He was counting on his ability to convince women. He'd never used his techniques on something so important before. He knew right then that he might not be able to win her complete trust as easily as he'd hoped, but that if he lost her esteem entirely, he might never see her again. And he knew he'd be ruined on too many levels if that were to happen.
Then she smiled. "I suppose you're right. It's a flaw of mine to think the worst of people." His whole world suddenly seemed brighter.
"Sometimes that is a good thing. The world is changing." He looked down at the unkempt grave. "I assume this is your aunt's grave?"
She looked at the tombstone and frowned. "You can hardly read the inscription."
"It's a shame the grave has gotten this way."
"Yes. Do you have any idea why that might be?" Her question was completely innocent. He was surprised sometimes by the extent and lack of her knowledge. She recognized that none of his family would be buried in such a place, but didn't understand why these graves would look so unlike the rest.
He wondered if it would be best to tell her the truth about it all. Even though it was a simple thing, he didn't welcome the idea of sharing such negativity with her. He hesitated by yanking a handful of weeds from the plot and throwing them to one side.
"You do know something about it, don't you?" Her expression made it clear that she saw right through him.
He forced himself to meet her gaze and not to look over her shoulder at the church steeple. "These graves are untended because of the occupant's crimes."
"Being murdered is a crime?"
"Your aunt committed suicide."
She was clearly shocked. "How?"
"She drowned herself at high tide. The sea is rough during a storm. Apparently, she jumped right in and that was the last anyone ever saw of her."
"But why?"
He shook his head. "People in Coverack like to gossip and anyone you ask will have a different theory. The true reasons behind her decisions, however, are a mystery. It was what I was thinking of when I looked at her picture in the drawing room."
"You said her eyes seemed to be hiding something."
"And they certainly were."
She shook her head slowly. "Why did my uncle tell me she was murdered?"
The birds overhead chirped so gaily that it was amazing to him that the animals wouldn't somehow know what an ill-portended conversation they were having. "I think, Miss Fyn, that you'll gradually realize that your uncle is a very curious man."
"But could she have been murdered?"
He sighed. "I would say no." His mind started to go on a trail of remembrance that he was sure he didn't want to walk down. "If your uncle believes that, he didn't when it first happened."
She looked at him strangely. "You're interested in what happened to my aunt, aren't you?"
"Well, I'm interested in the reasons why it happened."
"There is something chilling about suicide, is there not?" She revealed her interest in the subject by leaning forward and pressing his arm. "The most of us try so hard to stay alive, so to think there are those reject the gift of life is incredible."
"I also think it a fascinating subject, but not one I wish to know about firsthand." He offered her his arm to lead her out of the cemetery. He could tell that the heat was starting to affect her. Unless she was still feeling embarrassed, the spots of color on her cheeks were definitely a sign that she needed to be indoors.
She accepted his arm. "I wonder what I can discover about Fiona."
"It was quite a few years back."
"Yet you remember, Mr. Trevelyn."
They stepped over the broken iron gate. "Your aunt was a beautiful woman. I was only a child when it happened and it's the kind of story that inspires a lot of
"It just doesn't seem...proper," she said, but her voice was as weak as her protest.
"I can assure you that men have been doing it for centuries." He was counting on his ability to convince women. He'd never used his techniques on something so important before. He knew right then that he might not be able to win her complete trust as easily as he'd hoped, but that if he lost her esteem entirely, he might never see her again. And he knew he'd be ruined on too many levels if that were to happen.
Then she smiled. "I suppose you're right. It's a flaw of mine to think the worst of people." His whole world suddenly seemed brighter.
"Sometimes that is a good thing. The world is changing." He looked down at the unkempt grave. "I assume this is your aunt's grave?"
She looked at the tombstone and frowned. "You can hardly read the inscription."
"It's a shame the grave has gotten this way."
"Yes. Do you have any idea why that might be?" Her question was completely innocent. He was surprised sometimes by the extent and lack of her knowledge. She recognized that none of his family would be buried in such a place, but didn't understand why these graves would look so unlike the rest.
He wondered if it would be best to tell her the truth about it all. Even though it was a simple thing, he didn't welcome the idea of sharing such negativity with her. He hesitated by yanking a handful of weeds from the plot and throwing them to one side.
"You do know something about it, don't you?" Her expression made it clear that she saw right through him.
He forced himself to meet her gaze and not to look over her shoulder at the church steeple. "These graves are untended because of the occupant's crimes."
"Being murdered is a crime?"
"Your aunt committed suicide."
She was clearly shocked. "How?"
"She drowned herself at high tide. The sea is rough during a storm. Apparently, she jumped right in and that was the last anyone ever saw of her."
"But why?"
He shook his head. "People in Coverack like to gossip and anyone you ask will have a different theory. The true reasons behind her decisions, however, are a mystery. It was what I was thinking of when I looked at her picture in the drawing room."
"You said her eyes seemed to be hiding something."
"And they certainly were."
She shook her head slowly. "Why did my uncle tell me she was murdered?"
The birds overhead chirped so gaily that it was amazing to him that the animals wouldn't somehow know what an ill-portended conversation they were having. "I think, Miss Fyn, that you'll gradually realize that your uncle is a very curious man."
"But could she have been murdered?"
He sighed. "I would say no." His mind started to go on a trail of remembrance that he was sure he didn't want to walk down. "If your uncle believes that, he didn't when it first happened."
She looked at him strangely. "You're interested in what happened to my aunt, aren't you?"
"Well, I'm interested in the reasons why it happened."
"There is something chilling about suicide, is there not?" She revealed her interest in the subject by leaning forward and pressing his arm. "The most of us try so hard to stay alive, so to think there are those reject the gift of life is incredible."
"I also think it a fascinating subject, but not one I wish to know about firsthand." He offered her his arm to lead her out of the cemetery. He could tell that the heat was starting to affect her. Unless she was still feeling embarrassed, the spots of color on her cheeks were definitely a sign that she needed to be indoors.
She accepted his arm. "I wonder what I can discover about Fiona."
"It was quite a few years back."
"Yet you remember, Mr. Trevelyn."
They stepped over the broken iron gate. "Your aunt was a beautiful woman. I was only a child when it happened and it's the kind of story that inspires a lot of
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