Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances Read Online Free PDF Page B

transformed her.
    The older woman behind Miss Shaw met his eyes with an approving look, and Shaw clapped him on the shoulder as Miss Shaw continued to laugh.
    “You young people,” Shaw said. “Mr. Murphy, I have a good whiskey I’ve opened for the evening. May I get you a glass?”
    “Please,” Tom said. “And what are you drinking tonight, Miss Shaw?”
    An attractive flush lent a little color to her face. “I rarely drink spirits, sir. I only take a bit of wine as my doctor recommends.”
    He liked that she made no pretense of hiding her disease.
    Tom led Miss Shaw away from the bookcases and toward the fireplace where he found a seat for her near the cheerful hearth. She introduced Mrs. Porter, her companion, and asked him all the proper questions a young lady asks a young man of trade. Tom answered, even though he was far from a young man of trade.
    It was very, very awkward.
    “Tell me, Mr. Murphy, do you enjoy working with your brothers?”
    He’d been watching the fire and thinking about how long it would be before dinner, so the answer slipped out before he thought. “Better than a team of asses, but not by much.”
    He heard Miss Shaw stifle a snort and barely contain a spit of wine that would have sprayed over her lovely green frock. Mrs. Porter’s mouth hung open a little, though her eyes were alight in amusement.
    “Bollocks,” Tom muttered before he pressed a knuckle to his lips and tried not to growl. Language, man. Watch your language. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Shaw. I am too accustomed to the company of men. Please forgive my vulgarity.”
    Her voice was low and conspiratorial as she leaned toward him slightly. “I accept your apology. I hate dinner parties. Would you like to know why?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because it takes five times as long to say something in polite language as it does by being forward. And all the really good jokes are forbidden.”
    “Don’t you believe in manners, Miss Shaw?” He let the corner of his mouth turn up. “Are you trying to shock me?”
    “I have a strong inclination that it would take quite a lot to shock you, Mr. Murphy.”
    “You might be correct.”
    If their self-appointed matchmakers were watching, Tom thought they would probably be cackling with glee. Miss Shaw leaned toward him and he toward her. He couldn’t help it. Something about her nature spoke to him. She was, despite her proper upbringing, an outsider by nature and circumstance. A caterpillar in a world that was not ready to see the butterfly she might become.
    Tom wanted to see it.
    He could smell the scent of gardenia in her hair and india ink on her fingers. And layered beneath that, he realized with an unexpected pang of sorrow, was the smell of her sickness. Of tonics and herbs she probably took to let her breathe easier.
    “Miss Shaw, may I call on you tomorrow evening?”
    She smiled, a sweet, cheerful expression with no artifice at all. “I would like that. I think… you and I might get on very well, Mr. Murphy.”

    THEY toasted him later, Murphy and Anne and Declan, who had miraculously appeared once Tom hadn’t bollixed the whole affair.
    “To Tom!” Murphy crowed. “Who knew a charming gentleman lurked beneath that ugly exterior?”
    “Fuck off.” Tom took a hearty drink of his ale and managed not to toss his sire into the wall.
    Anne’s eyes were sparkling. “I liked her. Very much. She’s delightful, Tom. Pleasant, mature, and sensible.”
    Tom would have listed “sensible” fairly far down on the list of Miss Shaw’s attributes. Anne’s recitation of her virtues made Josephine Shaw sound dull. And the woman was anything but dull. But then, Tom had seen Miss Shaw running around the garden in her nightclothes and Anne hadn’t. That probably influenced his impression of her.
    Anne continued to rave. “She’s very intelligent. She seems a voracious reader, and she speaks six languages. Can you imagine? Six! English, Irish, French, Latin, Greek, and