Authors: Charis Michaels
“Thank you so much, Joseph,” Piety called back at the boy. “We shouldn’t bother you again until late in the day. When the house is, shall we say,
quiet
, we will have you slip us out again, all right? If I require anything at all, I shall send Marissa.”
Jocelyn heard him croak something just as Piety whipped the door shut tight.
“Well,” Piety said, dusting off. “That was an unpleasant bit of dishonesty, but I dare say it was worth it. Now, let us do our best to pull the shutters off of these windows and open them up to the world. Let us get a look at this place!”
T
revor needed a woman.
Not a beautiful woman. Or a docile woman. Or even a young woman—although, he was willing to pay more for healthy, limber, and happy in her work.
Cleverness? Also not a concern. Indeed, it was better that she not be particularly bright. His new neighbor was clever. Quick. Diverting. And look where that got him: riding off to spend money that he did not have for the affections of a woman he did not know. It was a sordid business in which he rarely engaged and was loath to participate even now. And why? Well, the only reason he could fathom was that it had been far too long since he’d known the body-calming and brain-settling clarity of release. He needed a woman.
He’d been in England for what? Three weeks. He knew few people in London—none of them women—and he wished to know even fewer. In Greece, there had been women. Women of a certain age, a certain attitude, a certain situation.
But even with the Grecian women, it had been a while. Things had been complicated—his mother’s death, the earldom, and the inheritance. By the time he’d reconciled himself to losing a mother and gaining a title, he’d sailed for England.
Where he knew no women.
Until Miss Piety Grey had popped through his wall. Smelling good, looking even better, and provoking him.
And the last thing Trevor needed was to be provoked.
After passing a disturbingly sleepless night thrashing around in his bed, he reasoned that he could either spend the rest of the day agonizing about the loveliness of Miss Grey, the proximity of Miss Grey, or the unconventional familiarity and boundary-averse nature of Miss Grey.
Or he could locate an available courtesan and rut himself into clear-headed, focused, satisfaction.
“Trevor, thank God,” called a panting voice behind him, breaking his revelry, “I’ve been searching for you for an hour.”
“Go away, Joseph,” Trevor said, clipping up the steps of Madame Joie’s discreet bordello on the edge of St. James.
“Can’t. I’ve done something awful.”
Trevor stopped short of knocking on Madame Joie’s door and turned to the boy, trying to decipher the guilt that hung heavily on his face. “What awful thing?”
Joseph fidgeted, saying nothing.
Trevor tried again. “Is the house on fire?”
“No.”
“Did you use my name or credit to purchase something of which, or hire someone of whom, I will not approve? And by this I mean did you purchase anything or hire anyone at all?”
“No, Trev, it’s nothing like that.”
“My God, Joseph.” He groaned as he descended the steps, but he motioned the boy into the alley. “You look like you’ve swallowed a goat. What is it?”
“It’s Miss Grey.”
Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “What about Miss Grey?”
“She’s back.”
“Back
where
?”
“She . . . She came to the garden door,” he began.
“Tell me that you did not admit her.”
“She was so strong.”
“She is a young woman, Joseph. A female. And you are nearly as large as I am.”
“Not strong in body, strong in words,” insisted the boy.
“Of course.” Trevor sighed deeply. “What did she do with her
strong
words? Talk you into doing this awful thing, whatever it may be?”
“She had a girl with her.”
“Her African maid,” Trevor guessed.
“No, she had the woman from across the street. And another girl. Blonde-haired. Blue eyes. They had so many things to carry.”
Trevor pivoted, took half a step, and spun back. “So, she waited until I left the house unprotected and then appealed to you?” It took effort to keep his voice low. “Armed with the neighbor’s nursemaid and an overburdened blonde girl?” He shook his head. “Oh, Joseph, you
did not
!”
Out in the street, two passing gentlemen peered into the alley. Trevor grabbed the boy by the elbow and tugged him out of earshot.
“She said she deserved to be let in,” Joseph explained. “She went on and on. She is like a lightning storm, my lord. Honest to God, I could not stop her.”
“But of course you could stop her.” Trevor hissed out a long breath. “She is not a storm—although I appreciate your poetry—she’s a girl, as I’ve already said, and she barely weighs nine stone.” He released the boy and dropped his head back, speaking to the sky. “I cannot believe you admitted her, Joseph, I cannot.”
“I knew you would be cross, but I came anyway.”
“How brave you are. No fear of me but powerless in the face of Miss Piety Grey.” He hovered for a second, weighing his options. And then, without another word to the boy, he made for the horses.
The ride home took ten minutes—ample time to determine what he would say.
Get out,
sprang repeatedly to mind, but no, that would never be sufficient.
“She only wished to stay the afternoon,” Joseph said when they cleared Cavendish Square and cantered into Henrietta Place. “She said she would not make the slightest bother. She only wishes to be released in the evening, when the house is quiet.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Trevor left his horse bridled in the mews and stormed inside.
“When you’re away?” ventured Joseph.
“Precisely.
When I am away
. I don’t care how quiet the house is when she comes and goes, Joseph; she’s asked you to deceive me!” He charged up the stairs.
“I’m sorry, Trev.” The boy managed to choke the words out, ducking his head. He had the foresight to look completely defeated, and Trevor groaned. Of course it was not the boy’s fault. The woman was impossible. Aggressive. Unrelenting. And far too beautiful for her own good.
When they reached the music room, the doorknob to the illustrious shared door was rattling.
Trevor glowered at Joseph.
They heard a shuffling. Footsteps. The feminine sound of someone clearing her throat.
Then it came: three firm knocks.
Trevor nodded, pointing at the boy. “Of course. I’ve come here to evict her, yet she demands an audience with me?”
“Lord Falcondale?” Piety’s muffled voice came from beyond the door. “I can hear you shouting, so I know you are there. If you please, would you mind opening the door?”
Trevor stared at the knob. “I want you out, Miss Grey!” He frowned at the door.
“I cannot get out if you do not open the door.”
“You would not be
in
if you had not bullied your way past my man the very moment I left the house unguarded.”
“There was no bullying,” she corrected. “If you will only let me pass, I can explain.”
Trevor swore under his breath and scowled at Joseph. He strode to the door.
“Lord Falcondale?” she called, relentlessly cheerful.
“A lightning storm, my lord,” whispered Joseph behind him.
Trevor growled, whipping off his hat and coat and chucking them in his direction. “Get out, Joseph.”
“Should I bring refreshment?” the boy offered.
“
Get out!
” Trevor repeated the order, and then sighing heavily, he reached out and flipped the lock. The door swung.
“Ah!” she said, popping through from the other side. “There we are. That’s better.”
Her hair, Trevor was irritated to see, was down. No pins. No band. No hat. Silky light-brown waves framed her face. Some fell heavily forward over her neck and shoulders, more fell down her back. A particularly unruly lock dangled in her face. Her cheek was smeared with dirt, and she looked moist. With sweat.
She was perspiring.
She had rolled up the sleeves on her veil-weight blouse, and several buttons were loose, revealing damp, creamy skin from her chin to . . . to much lower.
Dear God. She was not wearing shoes.
Trevor narrowed his eyes, trying not to linger over any of it—the wild hair or bare feet or any of the sweaty bits in between. He failed miserably and looked again, endeavoring to be quick about it—sweeping his gaze up and down the length of her body. Only when he’d seen it all three times, did he manage the restraint to focus on her face.
No surprise, she was smiling back at him sweetly. Smiling like an attendant at a wedding—a happy cousin, perhaps, enlisted to distribute refreshment. Smiling as if she’d just won top prize at the parish vegetable match.
Not at all, he thought, as if she were defying all social convention, repeatedly breaking into his home, and driving him mad with lust.
“I couldn’t help but overhear—”
“What are you doing here?” His voice was flat.
“I’m sorry,” she began, “but by
here
do you mean in the second floor of my house?” She gestured to the room. “Or here paying you a call?”
“You are not paying me a call, Miss Grey. You are breaking into my home like a criminal. And I mean
both
.”
“Hardly breaking in. I knocked, and you admitted me.”
“I was referring to your
breaking in
while I was out.”
“Because the reason I’ve knocked and have been admitted
here
,” she continued, ignoring him, “in your empty room, is to intervene. On behalf of Joseph. Please, my lord.” She looked at him sweetly. “This is not his fault.”
“At least we agree on that.” His words were clipped. “Dare we risk some accord on whose fault, exactly, it might be?”
“Of course we dare,” she said. “The fault lies with no one. Because no offense has been committed.”
He pivoted away, shaking his head, and fell into an agitated line of pacing. Every moment or so, he stole a look at her. She smiled. It was then that it hit him—a moment of clarity—although he had no idea how he managed it. His current frame of mind was an agitated clash of anger and lust.
Why not, he thought, simply
concede
? Remove himself from the whole bloody cock-up and allow her to do as she pleased? Would it really be so bad? Could it ever be as bad as this?
He stopped pacing and spun, turning to face her. “Where are your shoes, Miss Grey?” he asked. He began a slow and steady march in her direction.
“My shoes are not relevant,” she said, straightening her back. Her smile dissolved, just a touch. She appeared uncertain. “I . . . I paid to live in your house, my lord, but have—”
“Stop talking,” he interrupted. “I have good news for you, Miss Grey, very good news indeed. You will absolutely want to hear it.” He continued to advance. She stumbled back.
“You have
convinced
me,” he said. “The passage is yours. The stairs. The kitchen door. Please, summon Joseph whenever you require entrance or aid, just as you did today. I will instruct him to attend you.”
He took another step. She was forced to back up or be bumped by his chest. She reached behind her, feeling for the wall.
“Mine?” The word was followed by a raspy breath.
It was the shortest sentence she’d ever uttered in his presence. In the absence of words, he advanced until he found himself looming over her. He was so close, he could see the individual strands of gold that made up the curl that hung in her face. So close, he could see that curl flutter, ever so slightly, each time she breathed in and out. His hands twitched to reach out, to tug gently, to see how long it would extend, and then watch it bounce back.
He heard himself say, “It is not the lease arrangement you made with my uncle, but it is clearly something you are willing to lie, cheat, and steal to claim. I haven’t the time or energy to fight you on it, so I concede. Take it. Use it. Leave me alone. I think, perhaps, it’s the fastest way to allow both of us to get what we need.”
She cleared her throat and looked up at him. “How unexpectedly magnanimous you have become.” Her voice was lower. She spoke, rather than proclaimed. “How glad I am. And now I will match your generosity and respond in kind.” She shook her head, tossing the errant curl back.
He raised one eyebrow.
“I will only require the use of this passage for the span of one week. After that, my own stairs will be complete.”
“What?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve just learned, my central stairwell will be ready in far less time than I imagined.”
There was six inches between them, and he closed it. She hit the wall behind her with a bump.
“What idiot promised you completed stairs in a week?” He propped a hand over her head.
“My lead carpenter,” she assured him, staring at his cravat. “I wrote him as soon as we made town. He was kind enough to dispatch a return note this morning. He assured me that new, passable stairs will be installed first thing—in a week, he said, more or less.” She began to inch to the side.
He widened his stance, blocking her with his boot. “One week? Is that so? And what kind of stairs are these? Assembled in one week?”
“Oh, they’re quite grand really. They will rise up from the center of the rotunda with a gentle curve that ends at a landing. The landing goes right and left and hangs above the room. Like the current stairwell, the balcony is rotted, too, but I’ve been assured all of it can be fixed, good as new.”
“Do the stairs, I wonder, rise up from the floor—a solid ramp with walls beneath the steps, supporting them—or does the stairwell appear to float upward, extending from the wall into open space? Supported by beams?”
Piety nodded enthusiastically. “They do appear to float! The rotted stairs are quite dilapidated, but I can tell that, at one time, they were stunning. I wish for exactly the same effect when we restore them. My carpenter, as I’ve said, has assured me he can deliver.”
“Deliver?” repeated Trevor. “Yes. Within a week or even two? Not likely—not at all, in fact.”