She tried to hold still as his tongue slipped between her lips. Tried to endure it. Only a fool would refuse such a bargain.
But his mouth was … warm. Not as she’d expected. His lips were gentle as they molded against hers. She felt dizzy, suddenly. This wasn’t right. He should be mauling her. She’d been kissed before, hurried gropes she’d beaten off or smacked away, but never like this.
He pulled back a little, his heated breath covering her mouth. “How are we doing?”
“Sod off,” she muttered.
With a little laugh, he applied himself again.
She hesitated only briefly. He would call the coppers or he wouldn’t, but maybe he meant what he’d said: maybe she could sweeten him up and leave him kindly disposed. She opened her mouth and kissed him back.
In reply, an interested little noise came from him.
Mmm
. His hard body came all the way up against hers. He was taller by a head, but her neck didn’t hurt: he’d
slouched down to meet her. And he was licking into her like a child after the last traces of pudding in a bowl, and his mouth tasted like brandy, hot and rich and dark and clever. His hands, long fingers, felt down her spine, pressing, testing, against her lower back, finding the ache there, rubbing it out. She felt a surge of heat, animal-like, this strong, naked man rubbing against her as his mouth devoured her. Why not? What choice did she have?
The quiver in her belly strengthened. She would give herself to him. Let this long, strong body do what it liked with hers.
Lay the terms
, a cold voice instructed.
She broke free, not to fight, but to say, breathlessly, “If I do it with you, you promise you’ll let me go.”
His mouth had found her ear, but at these words, he stilled. She had the curious impression that she’d startled him somehow.
He pulled away. The moonlight reflected in his gray-green eyes. Thick, dark lashes framed those eyes, which studied her so narrowly that her intuition strengthened: yes, she’d surprised him. And he didn’t like it. He started to frown.
“Alas,” he said. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I want a different arrangement entirely.”
Nell woke up the next morning spitting mad. She was mad at the fact that the door was still locked. That nobody came when she pounded on it. That she hadn’t just shot the man straight off last night. She was done with being bullied like a dog. He seemed a right arrogant bastard and was a pervert by his own action and admission; she could have done the world a favor by ending him.
She was mad, most of all, at the way she’d slept. One might expect after being mauled by a blackguard to toss and turn a bit. But the bed was like a dream, a soft, fluffy, sinner’s paradise, its pillows stuffed with feathers, the mattress so quiet that even bouncing on it couldn’t draw out a creak. She’d slept like a baby—or, worse yet, like a woman without a brain in her head. The
stupidity
of it sent cold waves of horror through her. The lock was on the outside of the door! As she’d slept, St. Maur could have come in and done anything!
Now she paced the perimeter of the bedroom, her temper growing worse with each pass. Not ten minutes away, people were suffering, starving—good people, girls who worked from sunup to sundown, babies who’d not asked to be born. But here there were houses full of
stuff
, fancy sheets woven with silk floss as soft as a baby’s bum; fancy washstands carved of dark wood that glowed like cherries where the light hit it; curtains the shade of the summer sky, heavy and glossy and smooth to the touch. The velvet-flocked wallpaper was so soft beneath her fingertips that had her eyes been closed, she might have thought she was brushing the belly of a rabbit.
And the stool in the corner! One wouldn’t imagine you’d get too fancy with such a piece, but this stool was covered with embroidery so fine that her knuckles ached just looking at the stitches. Unbelievable. The rich even spoiled their arses!
Given a knife, Nell would have cut out that embroidery—some goofy-looking, underfed girl with a unicorn lying next to her, his head in her lap—and sold it for five quid, easy.
But she no longer had a knife. Last night, a couple of thuggish footmen had held her by the arms while a
pug-nosed, sour-faced maid had searched her up and down, going straight for the blade Nell kept in her boot.
Why St. Maur was keeping her instead of handing her over to the police was a question Nell didn’t want to entertain. There were a lot of things she didn’t think about as she paced—like, so what if he knew her name? Folks in Bethnal Green didn’t talk to strangers; he’d be hard-pressed to track her down once she escaped. No, she had better things to think about—like what she would manage to steal. A good deal, she hoped. She deserved it for sparing Mr. bloody St. Maur his wretched, dog-eaten life.
She started with the book on the table by the bed. Gilt-edged pages and a cover of patterned red leather. She’d read a good many books in her life, but this was the handsomest she’d ever seen. The story inside looked ripping, too—some yarn about a magical, cursed stone. Mum would have loved it—as long as she wasn’t in one of her moods where only the Bible would serve.
The thought brought a lump into Nell’s throat. She swallowed it down as she traced the grooved design on the cover. She’d not read anything since Mum had passed. Her fury had been too thick for words to penetrate.
Indeed, she rather felt like she’d woken up this morning from a long, mindless binge on gin. The numbness was gone. Her senses seemed sharpened, startling at everything. Even the play of sunlight on the carpet, the moving shadows of leaves, made her flinch.
She loosed a long breath. The book would fetch a good price. She tucked it under the mattress and cast her eye around for more.
By the time she heard footsteps in the hall, she’d picked out several likely pieces: a scrap of lace that had been sitting beneath a vase on the little round table by the bed; a china figurine of a dopey-eyed milkmaid; two silver candlestick holders. She slid them underneath the mattress alongside the book, then sat down atop them as the door opened.
“La-di-da,” she cooed as St. Maur walked in—a fine gold watch in his fob, his tie crisp and as white as a baby’s first diaper. His black hair was brushed back in thick, rippling waves from the sharp bones of his face. “A far finer sight with your clothes on,” she said, and there was a lie she’d tell again and again even if he tortured her. “Me eyes was right sore from the abuse they endured last night.”
His easy smile looked genuine. It made a dimple pop out in his right cheek, proof that preachers lied when they said God was just. Wasn’t any fairness in giving a man with money the sort of face this one was sporting. “Now, now, my dear,” he said as he took up a position against the wall by the door. Didn’t cross his arms or cock his knee or take any measures to look intimidating; rather, he slung his hands in his pockets and tipped his head as casually as a street Arab aiming for an open-eyed nap. “Let’s not begin our discussion dishonestly. I’m a lovely sight with my clothes off, and we both know it.”
Whatever reply she’d been expecting, it had not been
that
. She’d known some peacocks in her time but it took downright cheek to reply to insults with self-praise. “Big head on you,” she said, unwillingly impressed.
“Doubtless,” he replied.
Silence fell as they studied each other. He had an
excellent poker face. Probably made a killing at the card table, and she didn’t doubt he played. He had the mouth of a sinner, his upper lip sharply bowed, his lower full and wide. That mouth had done expert things to her own last night. He knew how to use it.
The thought made her itchy. She looked away for the space of a breath, then back. His growing smile lent him a wicked, sensual air. He looked too comfortable with himself to be a man who cared for Sunday manners.
“You seem cheerful,” he said.
Did she? Then she had a brilliant poker face, too. “I feel cheerful,” she lied. Like a cat forced into water. “A little West End holiday, like a free night in a fine hotel. Leaves me fresh for the coppers, no doubt.”
He lifted his brows in a look of surprise. She got the feeling he was putting it on for show. “Forgive me; I thought I’d made this clear last night. I don’t intend to call the police. I hope that fear didn’t trouble your sleep.”
Why it hadn’t made one good question. Why he wasn’t calling the police made another, but she was hardly going to press her luck by asking. “Kind of you. But if it’s not the blockhouse for me, then I’d best be going.”
“Have somewhere to be, do you?”
She maintained her smile by an effort. She had the pawnshop to visit, in fact. “Sure, and I can’t be missing work, now, can I?”
“And where do you work?” he asked.
She laughed, though it wasn’t funny. “Wouldn’t you like to find out!”
“Indeed, I would.”
The intensity of his interest suggested an irksome
possibility. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those do-gooders.” She was done with them. Blooming hypocrites! Come to Bethnal Green with concerned little frowns, luring girls with promises, when all they had to offer was snobbery and those bleeding blankets. God help her if she ever laid eyes on another one—all the same, dull gray wool stamped with Lady So-and-So’s Relief Fund, because heaven forbid a girl should try to pawn it, and buy herself something a little more sightly than an ugly rag that screamed her poverty to anyone with eyes. “Look elsewhere if you want to save somebody,” she said. “I’m not interested in do-gooders’ charity.”
His expression did not change. “While I sincerely doubt that I fit the description, you’ll have to elaborate for me: what on earth is a do-gooder?”
She eyed him skeptically. “I’m sure you know some.”
“Tell me and I’ll think on it.”
“Oh, they’re a strange breed.” She spoke slowly but her thoughts were scrambling. Why so much talk? If he didn’t mean to call the police, why had he kept her here? “One sort is looking to bring you to the Lord. The other is more
your
lot, people with lives so comfortable that they get bored. Come into the Green to find out how we live. Tell us what’s wrong with us, then go back to their fancy houses and do nothing at all.”
He lifted a brow. “Charity workers, you mean.”
Ha. “I’ve never seen them working, but I expect they lie and say they do. Aye.”
His laughter sounded startled. She allowed herself a small, sly smile in reply.
His own smile faded. He frowned at her, giving her a look more searching and genuine than any he’d worn to date. She gathered that it had just dawned on him
she was as human as he, with wits in her head and a mind to direct them. “My dear Lady Cornelia,” he said, “you—”
“Nell is just fine.” What was he on about with this fancy talk? “And as I said—it’s Penelope.”
“Hmm.” He considered her in silence. At length, he said, “You seem to have inherited your father’s … unusual … brand of charm. Ornery,” he added with a smile.
Hearing something good about her father—even indirectly, even as a jibe in disguise—seemed wrong, like nature reversing itself, the sky landing and the earth going up. On the other hand, her father was dead, so it wasn’t like she could resent St. Maur for praising him. People were beholden to praise the dead, even the bad ones. It was the living who were the pains in the arse.
“Thanks,” she said. “Glad to hear it. Maybe I’ll just try to charm my way out of here, then, because I wasn’t joking. Some of us have to earn our bread.”
He gave a visible start. “Bread! Good God, you must be starving.” He leaned over to yank on a rope hanging out of the wall. Bellpull, probably. They’d installed some at the factory in case of emergencies. They were useless, though; the time she’d pulled one, the hydraulic pump hadn’t stopped for five long minutes. In the interim, it had pressed more than tobacco. A woman had died.
The memory made her stomach judder.
“Do you take coffee, or tea, or both?” he asked.
“I’ll take an omnibus.” She put the full force of her will into the glare she gave him. “Or I’ll take a quid, if you want to pay me the week’s wages I’m sure to lose when I don’t make an appearance at my job.”
“Done,” he said, so immediately that she felt a small shock. So casually he offered up that much money?
But of course he did. To him, twenty shillings was dust on the floor.
She felt sick. She could have asked for more. Twenty-five. Thirty, even.
But it still wouldn’t be enough without the loot under the mattress. She’d need a proper fortune to spring Hannah.
A mobcapped maid ducked her head inside the door. It wasn’t the sour-faced, scrawny one from last night, but a pale, plump thing that darted Nell a scared look. Nell bit her tongue against the urge to shout
boo
.
“A tray for the lady,” St. Maur told the goose. “Coffee and tea, if you will. And perhaps …” Nell caught his amused glance. “Chocolate, too,” he said. “Along with the usual breakfast assortment.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Very good, my lord.” She ducked a curtsy before fleeing.
Nell stared after her. Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for St. Maur said, “What is it? She offends you?”
“No, of course not.” But it made her spine crawl to see a girl duck her head and bob like a slave. “Just can’t understand why anyone would go into service.”
“Why not?”
“Having to bow to the likes of
you
, for starters.” She hesitated, suddenly uncertain of why she felt so hostile toward him. In all fairness, he was being pretty kind about the fact that she’d broken into his house and threatened to shoot him. He was even going to give her a quid.
That
was what made her bristle. He was offering
kindness that she didn’t deserve, which meant he wanted something. What could a man like this possibly want from
her
?
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said easily. “Three meals a day, a comfortable lodging, safety, security—surely these things are worth the occasional curtsy?”
“I guess it all depends,” she muttered.
“Depends on what?”
“On how much your pride is worth to you.”