.
I've never quite understood how tedious women who are not Blythe are.
The Sallings’ dinner party was a bright and lively affair, a small gathering with good food, good drink, and fair company. As the dinner went on, however, Thomas concluded it was largely designed as a way for the eldest Salling daughter to land herself a man, and that he was the fish for whom she had set his hook. She was a pretty girl, tall and blond with a vivid glint in her eyes. Before, Thomas would have enjoyed her company immensely, but now, he wondered if there was something empty about it, something that made him feel a little as though he were talking to a wooden puppet rather than a girl.
"Of course, philanthropic pursuits are extremely important. I've spent some time working with the poor in the lower part of the city, and the things that I have seen... just terrible!"
Thomas shot her a sardonic look. "Is that entirely appropriate for a young girl such as yourself, to be so involved with the lower class of people?"
Doubtless somewhere in the city, wherever Blythe was, her palm was itching to smack him for saying such a thing.
Miss Sallings only frowned a little before batting her eyes at him. "Well, that is truly for my husband to say whenever we are wed." She put a little stress on the last word, as if she wanted to make sure he remarked upon it. "I certainly hope the man I marry will be amenable to keeping my good works up to some extent, but if he would rather I stay uptown, I will, of course, do so."
"So, if your husband says you may, you will, and if he says you can't, you won't."
The look she gave him was as charming and bright as all the other ones had been, but there was a certain doubt in them now. She was off-script and had no idea what he wanted to hear. "Why, I'm not a doormat, but if my husband tells me a thing, surely it is something that I must be inclined to obey, mustn't I?"
Thomas knew he was being unfair. There was no reason to hold this chit to some impossible standard Blythe had set. Blythe set impossible standards just by being herself, and Miss Sallings was certainly not going to meet them.
"I suppose you are right, Miss Sallings. Thank you for that insightful commentary."
The dinner party continued, and Thomas contented himself with concentrating solely on the man seated on his other side, a rather confused older gentleman who nonetheless had some excellent stories about his time in the Americas.
I do believe Blythe has changed me more than either of us could ever guess. This would have been at the very least enjoyable just a few months ago. Now it was terrible, and all he could think of was seeing her, being with her.
Georgiana wasn't even at the party to make it bearable, and when dinner was over, Thomas committed the minor faux pas of pleading fatigue and skipping drinks in the library with the other gentlemen. Miss Sallings looked after him a little like an abandoned puppy, but he couldn't be too sorry to be away and in the coach on his own again.
Just as they were drawing up to the house, however, he heard the coachman swear, and almost immediately after, a little knock on the door. Curious, Thomas looked out to see a young boy in ragged clothes being hauled up and away by the coachman.
"I'm sorry, my lord, he must have come out of the bushes. Little brat must have wanted to reach in and make off with something from the coach."
"I didn't! I was only trying to deliver a message."
Thomas frowned. "James, let him down. A message?"
"Yes, sir. A lady gave me a coin to give you a little scrap of paper, and she said you would give me another once you got it."
"Bold lady, to make so free with my purse." Thomas said it with a grin, however, because he knew exactly who might do something like that. "Let's have it."
The boy handed over a grubby piece of paper folded so many times he at first thought it was a pebble. When he opened it up, Thomas grinned.
The piece of paper was written with two words, Parson Hollis, and underneath it was a detailed drawing of a key, the self-same key he had given to Blythe. The message was clear, and Thomas shoved it in his pocket. He pulled out a shilling for the boy, who waited with a hungry look in his eyes, and then paused.
"What's your name?"
The young boy blinked. He couldn't have been much older than eight, and he was running around the streets of London close to midnight. "My name, my lord? It's Christopher."
"Very well, Christopher, I am going to give you this shilling because it was promised to you. Then I am going to have James here take you into the servants' kitchen, where they will give you a decent meal, and after that, if you agree to be good and honest and hardworking, we shall see about getting you a job. You will get the meal and the shilling regardless, but what do you think of the job?"
The boy's face broke into a grin that rivaled the sun. "I would say yes, sir! I been looking for work for weeks now, and everyone else says that I'm too small and scrawny."
"You'll fill out. James, did you get all that?"
The coachman looked a little disgruntled over the turn of events, but he nodded. "Yes, my lord. Perhaps we could use him in the stables to muck out the stalls and tend to the tack. And if he can't handle that, I'll feed him to the bays."
Thomas grinned. "Good enough for me, but best feed him up a bit so they'll have something to chew on. I'll let you look after the horses, and I'll take the dapple gray out tonight."
In less than a quarter hour, the dapple-gray, a fine, bright mare who looked on her midnight outing with curiosity and pleasure, was bridled and saddled, and Thomas was astride her, cantering down the quiet street. As he rode, he whistled the first few bars of “Parson Hollis.” Funny, he had always thought it a rather insipid tune, but now he was beginning to love it.
The flat he had purchased for Blythe was in a quiet neighborhood not all that far from his own townhouse. There was a flower market nearby, and to Thomas’ surprise, it was still open. He gigged his horse up to a woman carrying two enormous baskets full of velvety purple blooms.
"Closing late or opening early?"
"Neither, my lord. We do not close at all. Plenty of the quality like to buy blooms when they go out visiting, and that can happen at all hours. If we're not selling, we're arranging and ordering and making sure everyone gets what they like."
Thomas shook his head at the industry of the flower sellers, and after a moment of consideration, he purchased a large bouquet of fragrant deep purple blossoms. Blythe would likely say they were foolish and frivolous, but perhaps she would smile when she said it.
When he knocked on the door of the flat, there was a moment of silence and then a soft rustle from the other side. Then the door opened, and everything in Thomas simply felt better, safer, happier, when he saw that it was indeed Blythe inside.
She stepped back to let him in, and she stared at the purple flowers he pressed into her arms.
"Why, Thomas, what is this?"
Thomas grinned. "A present. I figured that whatever madness you were going to drag me off on tonight, we might as well start with something lovely. Do you like them?"
Instead of calling him a fool, she smiled a little, burying her face in the blooms. For a moment, Thomas simply wanted to capture her like that, a small tendril of dark hair straying over her pale brow, a gorgeous hint of a blush on her cheeks. "I do. They're gorgeous. But I'm not sure I have anywhere to put them..."
In the end, they found an old canister for flour nestled at the back of the small kitchen in the flat. The flowers looked surprisingly sweet in their impromptu vase, and Blythe looked at them for a long moment with an expression Thomas could not read.
"Blythe?"
"I'm afraid I have no adventure to take you on tonight, Thomas."
"What, no orphans in need of rescue, no women who need to be brought out of Seven Dials?"
"None at all."
Thomas tilted his head at her briefly. "No mission at all? That's not much like you, angel."
"Trust me, Thomas, I did not bring you here for no reason. Come with me."
Bemused, he allowed her to lead him into the small sitting room at the front of the flat, where the hearth was lit and a delicate candelabra burned away on a small table. The light from the candelabra gave everything a rather romantic air, and Thomas was further confused when she indicated he should sit on the comfortable wing chair close to the hearth.
"Blythe, what is it?"
Instead of answering him, she stepped closer and, placing both of her hands on his shoulders, she leaned in. For a moment, he thrilled at having her so very close to him, and then he felt a shock run through him when her soft lips met his.
A better man would have pushed her back and demanded to know what the hell was going on. A better man would not have kissed her without knowing what was going on in her mind, why she had brought him here at midnight, what was happening.
Thomas liked to think he was a good man, but when it came to this one strange and passionate girl, that estimation had no choice but to drop. From the first moment her lips touched his, all he wanted was more. He wrapped one arm around her narrow waist, bringing her to sit on his lap. That still wasn't close enough, and his other arm came up to drag her closer to him.
Instead of pushing him away, Blythe clung to him, and even that tiny motion was enough to make him moan into her mouth. When his tongue swept between her lips, they parted for him willingly, and now he could taste her. There was something so delicious about being able to feast on her lips, to make a meal of all of her.
Thomas held her steady with one arm along her back, but the other roved her body, stroking down her waist and her hip, shaping her dress against her strong legs. When he reached up one hand to cup a small breast through the fabric of her dress, she whimpered a little, breaking the kiss to rest her forehead against his.
"Blythe, are you all right?"
"Of course, I am. Don't... don't stop..."
Something in her voice, some catch, some hesitation, made him pause. "What is it?"
"Don't you want me? Don't you want this, Thomas?"
"That feels like some kind of trap, angel. Of course, I do. I want you like I want water on a hot day. The question is, what do you want?"
"I want this."
This time, her voice broke a little, and the desire kindling between them received a dash of cold water. He took several breaths to steady himself and then pulled her back a little. She was still sitting in his lap, but he touched her chin, making her look up so he could clearly see her face.
"Blythe... what's the matter? You send me a message telling me to meet you here, and you act so very strangely, and now you say one thing and your body is telling me another."
Most of the time, Blythe was brimming over with passion, with the need to be up and doing. Now Thomas saw something icy and controlled in her gaze, something that shook him to the core. He had never seen her look more like a Carrow than she did right now.
He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, making her look him in the eye. "Angel, what's happened? What's going on?"
"Tristan has decided that it is time for me to marry."
A surge of pure rage lanced through him. If Tristan Carrow had been standing before him just then, there was a good chance Thomas would have struck the man down. There was no sense to it, no rationale, no mercy at all. The idea of another man even contemplating taking Blythe made his veins fill with ice. "To who?"
"To some man I've met perhaps twice. A Lord Cottering. It does not matter. I will not marry him. It means the end of everything I want, everything I've ever dreamed of. I don't care about the damned inheritance. Tristan can have it, so long as he leaves me alone. I have run away." She looked up at him, and there was the passion he was used to, but it burned with an icy flame. "Thomas. Take me as your mistress."
"What?"
"I mean it. You want me, don't you? If you make me your mistress, Tristan won't be able to marry me off to anyone. He'll cast me out as a fallen woman, and..."
"Blythe, are you listening to yourself? Are you mad? You're a Carrow, the cousin of the Duke of Parrington. You cannot think that you should be my mistress. You've listened to the tales of all of the women you have helped, and somehow, you still think this is an acceptable idea? Society would turn its back on you. You'll never be able to hold your head up in public."
"Do you think I care about any of that? Do you think I would rather have my pride than my freedom? Why won't you agree to this, Thomas? Your reputation would be intact. And I want you. And you want me. Beyond that, what else matters?"
Thomas was struck silent by that. "Say it again."
"Say what?"
"That you want me."
"Of course, I want you. I want you so much I do not know what to do with myself at times. I do want you, Thomas. I would never do this with someone I didn't want the way I want you." She looked at him carefully. "You weren't sure?"
Thomas laughed, and even in his own ears, it sounded a little shaky. "This is what comes of associating with wild little angels, I think. You're so unbound by conventionality that I am never sure what to expect from you."
Blythe smiled, a tiny thing, but it felt more real, somehow, than the kisses they had exchanged just a few minutes ago. "I was led to believe that being spontaneous and exciting were things you liked, Thomas.”
“I love them.”
Then, unbidden in his mind, I love you.
The crux of the matter, the very heart of it, made him go still, but Blythe didn't seem to notice.
“Until it becomes inconvenient or until it gets too strange?”
“No.” Thomas recovered, his mind still spinning, but growing surer of the sentiment by the moment. “I do love those things in you, and I certainly will say it is more pleasant to kiss you than it is to sneak around the bad parts of London with you. But there's something else here. Do you actually want to be my mistress, Blythe?”
She got a stubborn look in her eyes that he was beginning to know quite well, and God, but she was beautiful. Her beauty went down to the very heart of her, something lovely and sweet and perfect, and he wasn't sure if he could bear it.
“I know that you want me.”
“This isn't about what I want, Blythe. Look. I know you've been introduced to the worst of what men can do in the work that you've done. But surely, you know that I'm not like that. I don't want your sufferance or for you to offer yourself up to me as a means to an end.”
“That sounds like a marriage to me.”
“It does, doesn't it? When I'm with a woman, I want her there, wanting me for the very things that I want her for. There may have been exchanges of another sort as well, but the passion must be there. Otherwise, there's no point.”
Blythe bit her lip, and it took Thomas a fair amount of willpower to stop himself from leaning in and biting it for her. “I was led to believe that in... carnal matters, the man's pleasure was overwhelming.”
Thomas started to explain, and then decided that a demonstration would be far more effective.
“Blythe, will you close your eyes, please?”
She gave him a suspicious look, but obligingly she did as he asked. Gently, he cupped the back of her neck with his hand, holding her still as he brushed his lips across the corner of her mouth, her chin, her cheek.
“What are you—?”
“Shush. Just feel.”
He could feel the way her body pressed against his, and when her tongue licked out to wet her lips, he nuzzled her mouth gently. This kiss wasn't an assault or a battle for dominance. Instead, it was an exploration, a meeting almost more intimate than anything they had done until this point. Thomas felt the way her breath moved when she sighed, and when she might have deepened the kiss, he drew back, teasing her response out all over again.
It wasn't until Blythe whimpered a little, deep in her throat and with a kind of heartfelt need he knew so well, that he allowed the kiss to grow. Now he tasted the sweetness of her and the true heat of desire as she clung to him, moving restlessly against him in a way that was utterly maddening. It took every ounce of his willpower to pull back from her, and when he did, her eyes were wide and dark.
“Tell me how much of that you tolerated.”
“None. It was all very, very wanted. But surely, you can tell that I feel that for you.”
“And still I need more. My father has always said that I'm greedy.”
She started to ask what more he could have needed, but he shook his head. “You've had a long day, and though mine was less exciting by far, so have I. We need time and space before we discuss this more.”
Blythe made an unhappy face. “I don't like things being up in the air.”
“It won't be for very long. Look. I'll stay here with you tonight. In the morning, I want to make a call to my solicitor, and there are things I need to go over, but then I'll come back to have an early dinner with you. We can talk more then. Is that agreeable?”
It obviously wasn't, but Blythe nodded reluctantly. “It's funny, but I wasn't even paying attention to how tired I was until you mentioned it. Gracious, I feel as if I could fall asleep right here.”
Thomas grinned. “Maybe at some point, I'll spend the night as your mattress. As it is, let's make up the bed for you, and I'll bed down out here.”
The chaise where Thomas made his bed that night was too short for his long frame, and a draft came in from under the door as well. He fought the temptation to crawl into bed with Blythe and won, just barely, but sometime close to dawn, he got up and watched her sleep from the door. She curled on her side, her dark hair an inky shadow on the pillow, and she looked so perfect, he felt as if his heart would burst.
I love her. I'm going to marry her.
A Martin marrying a Carrow. His father would have a fit, Tristan would likely try to call him out, and they would set the ton on its ear. His solicitor would iron things out regarding her inheritance, but at the end of it, it didn't matter if it all went to Tristan, or the Crown, or to hell for all Thomas cared. He'd take her as a pauper just as he would take her as an heiress; it didn't matter.
What mattered was giving her time to get the nerves of the day out of her body and making sure that when he asked her to marry him, she would smile and give him the joyous and willing yes he now knew he needed more than life itself.