The rooms he gave her were double the size of the flat in Bethnal Green.
Nell stood in the middle of the bedroom, beside a long, armless sofa that pressed lengthwise against the foot of the bed. It was eerie how quiet this place was. There was nothing to hear but the distant tick of the clock in the hall.
She turned a half circle. The mattress was big enough for four people. An embroidered coverlet of pale gray-green silk stretched over it. Pretty color. It almost matched his high-and-mighty lordship’s eyes.
The thought made her stomach tighten. She didn’t want to admire a thing in him, but she owed him a debt for Hannah’s freedom and he knew it. He’d stood below, watching as she’d mounted the stairs in the company of his housekeeper, and his smile had looked something more than pleased: it had looked smug.
She didn’t know what he had in mind for her. She couldn’t begin to guess at what transpired in a rich man’s brain. But she knew a handful of handsome lads, and when they got those smiles on their faces, a girl needed to watch out.
She wrapped her arms around herself. Better not to think about him right now. Instead she admired the pillowcases, whiter than clouds, with embroidery to match—a wondrous touch, a beauty meant to be enjoyed only by the head that lay on them. White was everywhere in this place, lace doilies and sheets and St. Maur’s necktie, which she wouldn’t be surprised to learn glowed in the dark.
Maybe he favored white just to show how well his staff could keep it clean. Heaven knew that by comparison, what the rest of London called white was actually gray.
She took a step toward the window seat. The carpet was so soft under her feet!
She knelt down to touch it. Then pressed her palms against it. It was springy. She thought about getting down on all fours and clambering across it, but she was afraid somebody would come in and catch her. The older lady who’d shown her up here, Mrs. Collins, the housekeeper, had said somebody else would be up shortly to wait on her.
To wait on her!
She straightened too quickly. Not amazing if she felt dizzy. Through the open door to the left she could see the sitting room, where a person went if she wanted to sit. Apparently the armchair in here was just for show or something. Beyond it lay a proper, mechanized water closet as well as the dressing room—because this great bedroom, with its hulking wardrobe and toilet table, didn’t contain enough space for a body to dress.
A laugh bubbled out of her. She covered her mouth with her hand—then frowned and lifted her fingers to her nose. A light trace of perfume lingered on them.
She looked down in amazement. They perfumed the carpets!
The door opened. She spun in time to see a girl enter from the hall—that sour-faced maid who’d taken her knife yesterday. The girl carried a basket in her arms, a heap of clothing folded atop aught else; she kept her eyes downcast and her balance perfect as she paused in the doorway to curtsy.
She certainly hadn’t curtsied last night.
Nell eyed her, then the basket. She didn’t feel too charitable. “What’s that for?”
Light brown eyes flashed briefly up at her. “Night rail and wrapper; fresh clothes and the things for your bath, miss.”
Oh ho, so she was miss today, was she? “So what’s your name, then?”
“Polly.”
“Well, Polly, maybe I don’t want a bath.”
The girl shifted her weight. “His lordship instructed me to draw one for you.”
For all Nell knew, his lordship wanted her to strip naked so he could bound in and kiss her again. He’d try it in vain. She’d resolved with Hannah not to allow any nonsense until he made good on his promise of marriage. The fastest road to ruin would be to get herself with child. “I’m too tired for it. Is there a washbasin here?” Generally she made do with a pitcher of water and a cloth.
“His lordship called for a bath,” Polly said.
Nell hesitated. Judging by the smoothness of Polly’s blond bun, the girl hadn’t been doing much hard labor. “You going to haul the buckets?”
A small, disbelieving noise escaped the girl. “We’ve plumbing, miss.”
“Bully for you,” said Nell. But a great many stairs stood between this room and the ground floor, and fatigue was catching up to her. “I’m in no mood to wait. The washbasin will serve.”
The girl gave her a peculiar look, then proceeded briskly past Nell into the boudoir. There she paused to lay down the fresh clothing before slipping out of sight.
Curious, Nell trailed after her and discovered that yet another room existed, its door having been cleverly concealed by a cover of wallpaper. White tile paved the floor inside, and a layer of varnish glistened over the pale blue paper on the walls. In the center of the room, beneath a small skylight of stained glass, two wooden steps led up to a handsome, mahogany surround that enclosed a large enamel tub, into which was aimed a bunch of copper pipes. The water came up here?
The maid had set her basket atop a small brass trolley, and now knelt to take hold of one of the knobs. “It—sticks,” she said on a grunt, and then the knob gave way and she fell back onto her bum. A hollow knocking sounded, and then a bang like a hammer clanging.
“That’s an ungodly racket,” Nell said. “And I’ve no interest in an ice bath, mind you!”
“Only another moment.” Polly righted her cap and climbed back onto her feet.
Suddenly water gushed out of one of the pipes, splashing into the tub.
Nell found herself gripping the door frame so hard that her knuckles protested. The water was steaming.
“It’s warm?” she asked.
“Aye,” the maid said with a sigh. “Too warm, at that. Once there’s enough of it, I’ve to shut off the pipe and spill in some cold for you.” She darted Nell a glance that said some people weren’t worth such fuss, then smoothed her hand across the towel in the basket. “His lordship is very modern,” she said stiffly.
“I can see that.” Magical would have been the word Nell chose. She couldn’t remove her eyes from the gushing tap. It flowed like a river! The standpipe in the yard outside her flat in Bethnal Green carried water only twice or thrice a week, and not on any predictable schedule. What water it yielded came in a weak brown stream. If a body wanted to bathe, it meant hours lost to labor—collecting the pails; hauling them up the stairs; heating a bucket over the fire lest one freeze to death in the wetting.
Here, all you needed to do was turn a knob.
When the hot water was about three inches deep, the maid shut it off and switched on the cold. “You can start unrobing, miss.”
Nell cleared her throat. “In front of you?”
“Aye, and who else?” the girl asked tartly. “I’m here to draw your bath, am I not?”
“I reckon I can wash myself,” Nell shot back.
The maid turned, hands on hips. “That’s not how you’re meant to do it. There’s soaps and lotions and the whatnot that I’m meant to apply.”
Nell gaped at her. “Stars above, girl, have you no self-regard? I knew girls in service would do just about anything, but you mean to tell me you’ll even scrub a lady’s bits for her?”
The girl’s jaw dropped. “I do beg your pardon!”
“You can beg whatever you like—and I’m sure you do, at that! But elsewhere, if you please, for I can bathe myself!”
“Sure and you don’t smell like you can,” the girl retorted.
“Oh, that’s rich! I’d rather smell like onions than be a rich man’s sukey. Haven’t you any pride? What took you into service, anyway? Slaving for your keep—that can’t be your idea of living!”
The girl sucked in a breath. “You’ll note, miss, that I am not the one who reeks of onions and sausage!”
Nell paused. She couldn’t argue with that. “Bit feisty, aren’t you?” The revelation had her feeling a bit more warmly disposed to the girl. “Pity you’re not allowed a mind of your own in this line. Best keep that sharp tongue hidden lest they cut it out for you.”
The maid’s laugh sounded incredulous. “Right-o. Don’t think I don’t know what you sort say about girls in service. Think we’re dogs, don’t you? While you sleep eight to a room in your dirty little hovels, scraping together pennies to spend on gin so the cold don’t bother you! Aye, it’s well and good to congratulate yourself on your liberty when you’ve holes in your clothes and live as dirty as rats in a warren!”
What a sad lot of misinformation. “You’ve been listening too hard to rich people’s sermons, love. It ain’t so bad as that.”
The girl reached into the basket and snatched up one of the bottles. When she uncorked it and tipped a bit of the clear liquid into the water, a wave of heavenly scent wafted into the air—some sweet, cunning flower that brought to mind moonlight and a warm summer breeze. “At least you’ll smell sweeter the next time I have to slave for you,” she muttered. But when she turned, her eyes moved slowly down Nell’s figure, and she got a frown on her face that Nell didn’t like at all. “I’ll wager I could count your ribs.”
Nell fought the urge to fold her arms over her waist. “What of it?”
“So, you’ve not a spare ounce of flesh on your bones. If that’s liberty, I’ll take my lot instead. I eat better and I sleep better, and I never worry that tomorrow will bring a turn for the worse. Say what you like about me, but don’t pretend you and your friends wouldn’t wish for my comforts.”
She hiked her chin and strode past Nell out the door. But she didn’t slam it as would a proper woman in a temper. Being trained to service, she shut it nice and gentle.
That quiet click was somewhat lowering, though Nell had no idea why it should bother her. She didn’t give tuppence for what some groveling girl in service had to say.
The tap was still running. She turned it off on the first try, which made her feel better. Sure and she didn’t need a maid to do such things for her.
A quick touch proved that the water’s temperature was toastier than a summer’s night. Torn, she looked from the tub to the door and back again. Wasteful not to use this water for fear that St. Maur might appear. Cowardly, even.
Heart drumming, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the water.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The heat melted straight into her bones. As she sat, she felt muscles start to unwind that she hadn’t even known she possessed. The tub was large enough for her to stretch out her legs and lean back, deep enough almost to float.
The ceiling was tiled, too. Each square looked to be painted with a different design, scrolling dark blue curlicues against a periwinkle background.
That right there was the color of heaven.
She stared up, her brain as quiet and pleased as her body. What had that girl dumped into the water? If there was a flower that smelled like this, she wanted to know the name.
After an absentminded while, she sat up and reached for the basket. The little bottles had different colored liquids in them, and each smelled better than the next—this one of almonds, that one of strawberries, the next of roses. She tipped some of the rose-scented stuff into her hands and rubbed it up into a lather, then smoothed it down her arms and chest, scrubbing at the darker spots.
When she got to her ribs, she took a breath. The maid was right. She was bonier than she’d been the last time she’d bathed. Beneath the shelf of her rib cage, her belly caved in like an old woman’s cheek. She ran her hand down the concave flesh, a queer little shock buzzing through her bones. It felt like the shakes she’d gotten after narrow escapes at the factory, during the old days when she’d still worked on the cutting machine that trimmed the cigars. The shock of realizing she’d nearly chopped off her finger had left her jittery for hours afterward.
“Well,” she said softly. She’d just have to eat, was all. She’d eat every bite put in front of her here, and maybe ask for more besides. No matter what happened with St. Maur’s plan, at least she’d have a fuller belly to show for her stay.
She swallowed the lump that was rising in her throat.
One bright spot here: no use worrying in how to fend off St. Maur’s advances. It seemed a safe bet that he’d manufactured an interest with the idea that she might be charmed by it. He couldn’t be wanting a woman whom even the maid called a bag of bones.
She slid down all the way under, submerging her face and her hair, giving her scalp a proper scrub. When she resurfaced, her deep breath made her grimace. There was a ripe stink in here.
She twisted around in the tub, sloshing water up over the edges, and then laughed when she realized what it was. Now that she was cleaner, she could finally smell her clothes.
That was how she smelled normally.
The laughter died. God in heaven. How could St. Maur hope to convince anybody that she was born to this world?
He was stupider than he seemed if he thought she’d ever manage to pass for a lady.
Simon gathered that most of his peers dreaded appointments with their stewards and men of business. Thirty years ago, when land had still been the staple of wealth, these meetings had probably carried a nice deal of pomp and circumstance. But since the collapse of crop prices, discussions of seeds and harvests and new machinery tended to the depressing side. How hard one needed to work to keep one’s head above water, even and perhaps especially with a hundred thousand acres to one’s name!
For all that, Simon looked forward to these conversations. Even the distraction of the guttersnipe above did not cause him to cancel the scheduled appointment. Talk of soil quality and rainfall gratified some obscure, old-fashioned corner of his soul. How good it was to own entire pieces of the world! He even liked to compose the solicitous letters that accompanied his stewards’ donations to tenant families fallen on hard times.
As he signed one of these now, five men looking silently on, he reflected that his predecessor, too, had gloried in being the earl. But old Rushden’s main joy had seemed to come from his ability to act without justification and owe no explanations for it. For himself, Simon had discovered a different way. He did not flatter himself as to the cause for it: he simply liked to play the hero. It took a humbler man than he to abjure an opportunity to win the undying admiration of a family whose salvation lay in his gift of fifty pounds.
His secretary retrieved the letter, and one of his accountants, glancing over the secretary’s shoulder into the contents of the note, made a strangled sound. “My lord—we had agreed—such beneficence, while most noble—”
“I do recall that,” said Simon. Tempting to announce that his financial troubles would soon be at an end, but until he spoke to his solicitors, he knew better. “Send it anyway. It won’t be fifty pounds that puts us into the red.”
After seeing the men out, he made his way upstairs through a house more hushed than a tomb. The silence felt edged, anticipatory, like the hitch in a sharply drawn breath. A maid, crossing the corridor ten paces ahead, started at the sight of him and bobbed a quick curtsy before ducking into the servants’ passage.
It wouldn’t be silent down below. In the kitchens, in the scullery, speculation would be running rife as to his guest’s identity. His housekeeper had all but choked when he’d told her to put Nell in the countess’s quarters.
He found himself drawing to a halt outside the very chambers so soon to become a fixture of town gossip. The closed door seemed undeservedly interesting. Had she turned the dead bolt?
He did not like the idea that she might have chosen to erect a barrier between them. He laid a contemplative hand on the knob, tempted to test the possibility.
A noise from down the hall made him turn. One of the maids, Holly, Molly, something or other, was approaching with a tray. As she caught sight of him, her footsteps slowed and she bowed her head to make an examination of the floor.
He’d imagined timidity a quality born of social distance. Certainly it went hand in hand with deference. But it occurred to him now that he might be a more unkind master than he’d fancied himself. His staff crept around him like cringing mice, yet there was nothing timid in Nell.
“Is that for Lady Cornelia?” he asked.
The maid jerked as though he’d struck her. Ah, now he’d done it: he’d accorded his guest her proper honors. By tomorrow evening or the day after, word would begin to spread through the West End. A Lady Cornelia in the Countess of Rushden’s chambers. Who was she? No chaperone? What sort of lady could she be? And Cornelia? A peculiar coincidence, no? Surely it couldn’t be … no, of course not.
“Yes, your lordship,” answered the maid. “Mrs. Collins said—for her eye—”
“Arnica,” he guessed. The tray bore a folded cloth and a bowl of steaming, clear liquid, fragrant and minty.
“I—yes, your lordship.”
He smiled. What a lovely opportunity. Without hesitation, he lifted his hand to knock on the door—just as it opened.
Magic: Nell Aubyn stood on the threshold, her startled expression matching the small gasp from the maid. She wore a loose night rail, short sleeved, the neck cut low enough to show collarbones starkly defined.
The sight briefly threw him off guard. Her gauntness paired with the bruise on her face made a disturbing picture.
By all objective measures, he was doing this girl a good turn. Why, then, did he suddenly feel villainous?
He pushed aside the notion. “Good evening,” he said, taking the tray from the limp hands of the maid before stepping inside. “That will be all,” he threw over his shoulder, and stood solidly in place, blocking entry.
The door thumped shut, closing him in with his future bride—who took a step back, clearly unprepared for cozy intimacy. For all that she looked tired and thin, the bath had brought her innate prettiness into sharper clarity. Her mink-brown hair contained copperish streaks that the dirt had obscured. It tumbled in wet waves past her pointed elbows, the ends curling by her waist. She smelled like roses.
The scent cleared his wits. Coming here had been a turn of good fortune for her. She would not be ill treated. “Did no one bring you a dressing robe?” he asked.
Her jaw jutted forward in concert with her scowl. Not a pretty effect, but riveting, somehow. Everything about her seemed overstated—as if she were slightly more alive than anyone he knew.
“It was itchy,” she said.
“Ah. That will never do. We’ll have a modiste in tomorrow. Also, someone will go to Markham’s and bring you some ready-mades to tide you over.”
She nodded warily, gathering up the neckline of her thin gown, hiking it up. As her fists tightened, a delicious shock ran through him. She had muscles in her arms: small, perfectly formed biceps that flexed distinctly as her knuckles turned white.
He stared openly, very willing to let her see his interest. He’d never beheld true muscles in a woman. Smooth, pale, and rounded were the natural feminine qualities. Yielding, cushioning. The musculature of Nell’s arms seemed fundamentally obscene. Unwholesome. Fascinating. Proof of a reality to which he was not privy, a history he did not know and had no ability to imagine: this other life of hers, as a girl who worked for a living, sufficient unto herself, laboring for the coins with which she bought bread.
He lifted his gaze and felt a momentary, ice-water shock: he looked into a face that belonged to Kitty Aubyn.
Kitty would have shrieked to be discovered in this state of undress. Nell squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Once again he saw the unique force of her will, the vivid, vigorous animation of her. Even her soggy hair seemed to quiver with life as she glared at him.
She was not unsettled by him in the least.
He wanted to unsettle her.
He wanted to take her biceps between his teeth, very gently, and lick away the roses until all that was left was the scent of her flesh.
He smiled at her: he simply couldn’t help himself. He was so glad she’d wandered into his house to kill him.
“I didn’t make a joke,” she said. “No call to look comical.”
He answered with a shrug. “I’m the joke, I fear.” His attraction to her was inevitable, of course, scripted by the circumstances. Still, his basic nature played a role of its own. He wanted her not despite her muscles but because of them.
How on earth had she formed such strength? “What sort of work did you do?” he asked, even as she opened her mouth and said in a rush:
“I only opened the door to make sure it wasn’t locked from the outside.” She caught her breath, then blew it out. “Not to find company, not to chat with you.”
He paused. “That door doesn’t lock from the outside.”
“I work at a tobacco factory.”
He laughed—not at her answer, but at this strange little conversation, dizzying in its twists. “Worked,” he said. “You work there no longer.”
She frowned as if this news were suspect. “That’s right.”
Oh, but she would set London on its ear. And he saw suddenly why she intrigued him: she was one of a kind. Unique. The missing heiress turned factory girl. She appealed to the patron in him, he supposed—the seeker of hidden potentials, the cultivator of odd and rare talents. That she should be here in his house had so much potential in so many regards. For his bank accounts. For his personal convenience and enjoyment. For his amusement at Kitty and Grimston’s expense. For his belated revenge on a dead man.
He realized suddenly that she was blushing, a delicate pink stain spreading down her throat. He watched it spread, curious to know how far it would travel, struck by the idea that a woman with muscles might blush at all. “Do you blush all over?” he asked.
She jerked her head toward the door. “Leave.”
Now she was trying to order him about. Ill advised. This was his house now. He would do as he liked in it.
But at the last moment, her swollen eye checked his sharp response. Somebody else had tried to put her in her place recently, and Simon suddenly felt certain that the attempt had failed. Nell Aubyn was nothing if not resilient—a quality he very much admired.
“In fact, I’ve come on a mission,” he said. He tilted his head to indicate the tray in his hands. “Believe it or not, I rarely play the maid. But your eye wants treatment.”
The swelling was not so bad that it prevented her from narrowing both eyes in skepticism. “It’s just a bruise,” she said.
The remark, the idea behind it—that she might consider such injuries negligible—did not agree with him. He spoke rather more curtly than he’d intended. “You’re a valuable commodity. As I’ve explained, worth a great deal of money. You’ll have to allow me to tend to you.”
She hesitated before giving him a single, grudging nod. It seemed that he’d struck exactly the right note: as long as she considered his ministrations part of the larger, economic transaction, she’d allow them.
That the notion irked him struck him as absurd. His care was part of the larger, economic transaction. That he planned to enjoy putting his hands on her fresh, glowing skin was only a small bonus.
“Shall we remain here in your sitting room?” he asked. “Or would the bedroom suit you better?”
A small, disgusted noise came from her throat: hmmph. She turned on her heel and led him to the fireplace, where two leather wing chairs faced the low-burning flames. To the left lay a discreet door that opened into his apartments. He hoped she hadn’t figured that out yet.
She lowered herself stiffly into one of the seats. He laid the tray atop the small table by her feet—whimsical pleasure in behaving so domestically—and took up the towel, hooking it over his fingers into neat thirds before dipping it into the bowl.
When he knelt before her and reached for her face, she drew back, clearly startled. “I can do it myself.”
“Yes,” he said. “You could.”
He did not wait for argument before laying the cloth against her cheek. She needed to learn her place in this partnership. Even a purely financial alliance tended to favor one contractor’s vision. Casually, he asked, “Who did this to you?”
“None of your business,” Nell muttered. The damp heat felt blissful, but letting him come so close didn’t seem wise. When she closed her eyes to block out the sight of him, she grew aware of his arm pressing against hers, solid and warm. Some foolish part of her wanted to lean into it. She’d never been so spoiled in her life, and it was rotting her brain.
“Leaving aside my business,” he murmured, “I’d still like to know. Who was it?”
His touch was so light on her cheek. He handled her as though she were fragile, special. A lady.
What a laugh that idea was.
She tried to shift away from his body—not so much that he would notice, just enough to spare herself his warmth. She was the classic fool, no doubt: the fly drawn to Lord Spider. What a luxurious parlor you keep, sir. Oh yes, I’ll sleep in your web. Clever, handsome, an earl … he could grind her beneath his boot if he wished it.
Not to say she wouldn’t make it hard for him. She was made of stronger stuff than glass.
Even his breath smelled expensive. He’d been drinking brandy by the smell of it. She fixed her attention on his hands, tanned, like those of a man who worked in the sun. Of course, the thick gold ring on his index finger dispelled such notions. No farmer had ever worn such.
She spoke from curiosity alone. “What would you do if I told you?”
“I’d make him regret it.”
Her eyes flew to his. He blinked, as though he was as startled by himself as she was. Then he smiled, a whimsical little curve. “Behold: am I not husbandly already?”
She couldn’t help a small smile in reply. “Judging by what I’ve seen, it might be equally husbandly to deliver the blow.”
His smile faded. “That’s a sad fact, if true.”
“And that’s a handsome offer you make,” she said. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, this one. “But it’s not necessary.”
“It’s a basic service,” he said flatly.
She snorted. “Then you must stay very busy, St. Maur. Today alone, I know a dozen women who’d have need of you.”
His pinkie hooked the underside of her chin, raising her face so she looked into his. From this proximity his irises explained themselves: a narrow ring of charcoal encircled strands of green and palest gray, which faded, around his pupils, into a band of gold. Gorgeous eyes. His brows, bold slashes as black as ink, gathered in a deeper frown. “Are you regularly among that number?” he asked.
She loosed a breath through her nose. His pity would probably work to her advantage, but she couldn’t bear it. “No,” she said. “I can look out for myself.”
He looked at her a moment longer, but if he had doubts, he kept them to himself. Releasing her chin, he returned his attention to her cheek. As the cloth moved down toward her jaw, she stiffened. It felt too much like a caress. It reminded her of how he’d touched her this morning—and how he’d kissed her last night. More fool she not to mind it. Like a drunk at the scent of gin, she felt every particle of herself coming alive.
Curious how bodies could want each other from the start. Unlike the mind and spirit, the flesh decided instantly—which made the mind, Nell thought, all the more important. She snatched the cloth out of his hand. “You go over there,” she said, flapping her hand at the other chair. In deliberately broad accents, she added, “I can manage me eye on me own.”
He put two fingers to his brow in a mocking salute and did as she bade him. She took a long, steadying breath. Make Michael regret it, would he? She’d flirted with enough Irishmen down the pub to know blarney when she heard it. It must be his face, making her so stupid. His jaw was firm and square, his cheekbones sharp, that bump in his nose the only thing that saved him from pretty—and not by much. Long-legged, broad-shouldered, flat-bellied … he was too lovely to be believed.
And so was this whole affair.
“Something’s rotten here,” she said. “A man like you, I can’t reckon you’d have a hard time finding a bride. What’s your real reason for undertaking this stunt?”
He leaned back in his chair, propping his heels atop a stool that sat in front of the fire screen. He had a powerful flex to his thighs. She had a brief flash of what he’d looked like in the flesh: tall and leanly muscled, like an animal built to hunt.
“I’ve told you only the truth,” he said, his tone contemplative. “Of course, it strikes me as noteworthy that you agreed to the plan even as you doubted my intentions. Perhaps you felt you had no choice, though. Who blackened your eye?”
A noise escaped her, pure irritation. “It’s none of your business!”
He considered her a moment, a smile growing on his lips. “Hmm.” He removed his boots from the stool. Put them flat to the ground as he leaned toward her, bracing his elbows on his thighs. The deliberateness of his movement, the slow encroachment on her space, made her pulse stutter. “Everything about you is my business now. It became so the moment you set foot in this house. Isn’t that delightful?”
He looked too sure of himself, as if he knew something she didn’t. She laid down the cloth, feeling the need to keep her hands free. “I never agreed to let you muck about in my life.”
“You agreed to marry me, did you not? As my future wife, your concerns are mine. Quite straightforward, really.”
What a load of rot. Every wife she knew kept more secrets from her husband than she shared with him. “And your concerns?” she asked, letting her skepticism sharpen her voice. “Do they become mine as well?”
“You may ask anything you like.”
That wasn’t quite an answer. “All right,” she said, aiming to test him. “You’re a fine-looking devil. You’ve got fancy manners and a title and a house to boot. Why couldn’t you find a rich girl to marry you?”
“But I’ve found one,” he said lightly. “She’s sitting across from me, looking quite fetching in her night rail. God bless fabrics that itch.”
To her disbelief, she felt a blush steal over her face. What nonsense was this? She wasn’t coy or prudish, either. “Don’t mock me.”
“You don’t think you’re fetching?”
His eyes were sticky. A girl could get trapped in them. “I’m not a lady.” But that didn’t sound right, did it? She frowned, troubled by the suspicion that she’d just been unfair to herself. With an awkward shrug, she added, “Not your kind, at any rate. A … proper one, I mean.”
“Ah, that.” He sighed and glanced toward the fire. “Most proper ladies are very tiresome—full of demands I’ve no interest in meeting. Their fathers also pose a problem, tending as they do to frown upon my reputation.”
He hadn’t mentioned the reputation. “Why? What’s the matter with it?”
“I had a rather wild youth.”
It had to have been pretty bloody wild if it scared people off a titled bloke. “Did you kill someone?”
“No.”
She’d caught his brief hesitation. “Did you, then?”
He looked squarely back at her. “I rarely see a point in lying, Nell.”
He was more evasive than a thief with a copper. “But sometimes you do?”
He gave her a wry smile. “All right. Let’s have it out then. The worst rumors that you’ll hear.” He sat back, eyeing her. “I’m a drunkard. Not true: I’m fond of my drink, but rarely drunk. A rake and a voluptuary: by some measures, perhaps, but not indiscriminately. Invitation only, as they say. A gambler: yes, but I have never played beyond my means.” He paused, black humor sharpening his expression. “Though it would be quite easy to do, in my current situation. Generally, however, I gamble only for the pleasure of removing other people’s money from them. What else? Ah—wicked perversions. Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of wicked. Some people seem terribly fearful of creativity. Substances less licit than drink: yes, occasionally. But I’m devoted to none of them.” He paused. “Anarchism, worshipping of Lucifer, both false … is there anything else? Give me a moment to think on it.”
She stared, dumbfounded. “Surely there can’t be more.”
“A few small trivia, certainly.” He gave her a cheerful smile.
The mismatch between his tone and his admissions unnerved her. He seemed utterly unruffled by his recitation. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“What?”
“That people lie about you?”
He tipped his head slightly. “Why should it? Apart from the inconvenience, of course, when it comes to wooing a wealthy bride.”
“A care for the truth?” In his shoes, she’d be hard-pressed not to rake her nails across lying mouths.
His dimple popped out. “The truth is far more tedious,” he said. “And people require entertainment. I provide that.” He paused, looking diverted by this train of thought. “I suppose that everyone at heart is a storyteller. And I tend to inspire their stories. In that regard, you may think of me as …” He laughed suddenly. “A muse to the bored upper crust.”
“A muse.”
“Ancient Greek spirits. Provided inspiration to—”
“Poets and artists and whatnot,” she finished. “I thought they were women.”
“They were.” He leaned forward, scrutinizing her. “So you do read.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe the fifth time I tell you I’m up to dictionary, you’ll believe me.”
He made an amused noise, a breath pushed through his nose. “I didn’t think board schools provided Greek literature to their students.”
God in heaven. “Folks who can’t afford books use lending libraries.” Most of them were terrible, but the GFS had a tremendous collection. It was the only reason she’d joined the club.
“Of course.” He eyed her. “You must think me a terrible snob.”
“I know you’re a snob.” All his ilk were. “Why? Do you imagine you aren’t?”
“No. I’ll admit to it.”
She grinned. “Seems like you’re willing to admit to a lot of things that other people might prefer to deny.”
His smile began slowly, then widened all at once. “You’re not slow witted.”
“Nobody ever said I was.” How peculiar that he’d even think it. It stung her foolish vanity. “Perhaps you’re misled by the fact that I’m still sitting here,” she said. “No doubt a smart woman would leave. By your own confession, you’re bad company.”
“Ah. No,” he said, his dimple flashing again. “You misunderstood me, Nell. I’m the best of company: I can promise that you’ll never be bored.”
She snorted. “It’s not boredom I’m worried about.”
“Then you’re a very lucky woman.”
What claptrap. He spoke like a child. “You’re the lucky one. Otherwise you’d know there’s a pleasure to be had from boredom. The best kind of pleasure: it means you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He leaned forward so abruptly she didn’t have time to draw back. His fingers skated across her bruised cheek; his thumb settled at the corner of her mouth. “You needn’t worry about me,” he murmured. “I’ve never hurt a woman in my life.”
A tremor ran through her at the feel of his thumb so close to her lips. It felt like the first shudder of a too-tight lid as it finally began to loosen.
Her body liked his. It happened sometimes. Didn’t mean she needed to pay attention to it.
She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to be touching me to make your point.”
“But I like touching you.” He studied her a moment. “Can’t you tell?”
She saw his intention to kiss her. His grip wasn’t firm. She could have pulled away. But sometimes when you pulled away they thought it meant you were afraid of them. And once they thought so, they did all sorts of things to see if it was true.
Slowly he lowered his head. His lips brushed over hers once, twice, so lightly that she barely felt the contact. Maybe she’d misread him, after all. These kisses didn’t seem like lust so much as a token to solemnize his promise.
He drew back a little. His face not two inches from hers, he looked into her eyes. “Will you participate?”
It was a queer question, the more alarming because it showed insight. He’d seen her decision to steel herself. She didn’t like how sharply he saw her. She pitched her voice low and hard. “I didn’t come into this house to whore for you.”
“No,” he agreed. “We’ll save that for the marriage bed. But in the meantime: a kiss.”
“Which I just gave you last night,” she said. “One’s enough.”
His mouth lifted at one corner, a wicked little smile. “If that’s your opinion, then it was a very bad kiss, and I must be allowed the opportunity to atone for it.”
“No.” She knew where this road ran. She’d seen a dozen girls ruined by lads with a gift for sweet talk. “I won’t be bearing your bastard, St. Maur.”
He eyed her. “We’ll need to have a talk,” he said, “if you imagine that kissing leads to children.”
“I know exactly what leads to children, and I’m not doing it.”
“Then a simple kiss should be all right with you, sterile as it is.”
She opened her mouth and found herself speechless. “You’ve a twisty way with words,” she said at last.
He grinned. “I think I’ll insist,” he said, and came toward her again, only this time he slid off his chair onto his knees in front of her, and his hand pushed into her hair as he brought his lips back to hers.
Ah, he felt good. Hot and strong. His tongue traced the shape of her lower lip and her thoughts tangled. He followed her gasp into her mouth as his grip tightened in her hair. Heat kindled in her, loosening her stomach, warming the backs of her knees.
No. She struggled to keep track of her wits. Stupid, stupid. A man intent on his own pleasures was mindless, helpless, and an easy mark. But once the woman started wanting it herself, what power did she have?
But St. Maur was an expert, all right. He kissed her like the kiss was all there was, sufficient to itself, no rush or hurry or greater goal to it. His mouth moved deliberately, leisurely. He made a low noise as though he tasted something delicious; then she felt his thumb beneath her mouth, stroking a languorous line across her skin, as though to underscore what he was doing to her.
Doing to her. He shouldn’t be doing anything.
As she stiffened, he murmured a protest. Such a small noise, so peculiar from a man: vulnerable, somehow. His grip gentled: she could pull away if she liked. But his knuckles brushed down her cheek, reluctant to leave her; then farther down yet, a quick skim of warmth along her throat, a lazy pressure along her collarbone. Not pushing, not grabbing. Only coaxing. Asking.
Her body lit up. The tips of her breasts, between her legs. Revelation unrolled through her, melting, then contracting: these places that men liked to involve also had their own role in it. When he asked, her body answered.
Her palm found his upper arm. It felt solid and hot beneath the thin lawn of his shirt, dense and thick, powerful. His hard abdomen pressed into her knees. He was coming closer to her, leaning over her; his height was in his long legs, so he was tall even when kneeling. Her free hand found his hair. It was softer and thicker than any hair she’d ever touched. A rich man’s hair, born of a lifetime of feasting.
The thought snapped his spell. She pushed him hard. He withdrew immediately, rolling his weight onto his heels in a fluid move, making no move to come after her. He simply crouched there, breathing hard. His hair was disheveled, his necktie coming loose. Had she done that?
He exhaled, pushing a hand through that mess of black, glossy hair. He was as beautiful as a summer night and twice as expensive as the moon; as she met his witchy hazel eyes, he licked his lips—tasting her, she realized.
She went hotter, a blush so fierce that her face probably caught fire.
His smile was lazy. “I am glad you decided to stay,” he said.
She shot to her feet, ignoring how her knees still trembled. “If you want to stay glad,” she said unsteadily, “then you’ll get out right now. Otherwise—”
But he was already rising. With an easy, amenable bow, he turned for the door.
As she watched it close behind him, a shiver ran through her—the sort that announced a near escape. But not from him, she thought.
She wrapped her arms around herself, horrified by the notion that in his arms, her greatest threat might come from herself.