Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (21 page)

But it couldn’t last forever, that was a fevered fantasy born of heat and his smell, and when he began losing his rhythm, she reached between them, pinching her clitoris with two fingers.

He watched her, his lips curled. “You… you’re…”

She leaned close and whispered against his sweaty neck. “I’m touching myself. Pleasuring myself as you fuck me.”

He gritted his teeth and the tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief.

She felt his come flooding her, seeping out around his penis.

And when she climaxed herself, she bit down on that tendon, tasting salt. Tasting life.

G
REAVES
H
OUSE WAS
a dreary mansion.

Trevillion looked up at the darkened edifice as he helped Lady Phoebe and her elderly cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood, from their carriage. Only one lantern was lit at the door—either from miserliness or because their host wasn’t particularly welcoming.

“Oof,” Miss Picklewood muttered as she made the gravel drive. “Well, ’tisn’t a lovely place, but I expect the play shall be quite good.”

“It was very nice of Mr. Greaves to invite us,” Lady Phoebe chided. “He doesn’t even know us and I’m sure it was merely a courtesy to Hippolyta. Actually, it’s a lovely coincidence that he even found out we were staying in Bath.”

Miss Picklewood darted an arch glance at Trevillion as she took Lady Phoebe’s arm. “Yes,
quite
a coincidence.”

He didn’t bother replying as he followed the ladies.
Miss Picklewood was a disconcertingly perceptive lady for her age and he’d had the feeling for quite some time now that she’d be formidable should the need arise.

The door was opened by a fawning butler who took the ladies’ wraps before showing them into a first-floor drawing room. This room at least was brightly lit—dozens of candles fluttered at their entrance, mounted on chandeliers, and candelabra were set here and there on tables. One end of the room had been cleared to serve as a stage, with a trio of musicians in the corner. Several rows of chairs faced the area. A dozen or so guests were already seated in the chairs, chattering as they waited for the play to begin.

A man some sixty years of age approached them. “Ah, Lady Phoebe, I presume?”

His voice was very loud and he was looking at Miss Picklewood.

Lady Phoebe’s smile was a bit strained. “Yes, I am she. Mr. William Greaves?”

“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, still loud.

“May I present my dear cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood? And this is Captain Trevillion.”

Trevillion noted with amusement that Lady Phoebe didn’t bother explaining his presence. Their host bowed to Miss Picklewood and turned to him, his eyes widening when he saw the pistols Trevillion wore upon his chest. “Oh… er… most welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Trevillion replied.

“There’ll be a ball after the play—a sort of midnight festivity. I hope you’ll be able to attend, Lady Phoebe?”

“Lady Phoebe will be returning to her home after the play,” Trevillion replied for her, earning himself a glare
from his charge. It couldn’t be helped, however. A seated performance was one thing. A dance at a stranger’s house was another. Wakefield wouldn’t like it—and Wakefield paid his wages.

“Yes, well, let me show you to your seats,” Greaves said, indicating two empty chairs at the front row. “Miss Royle said that she was friends with you, my lady.”

“Yes, indeed.” Lady Phoebe smiled.

A dark-haired lady next to the empty chairs turned and waved at their approach.

“I wasn’t aware, however… that is, I’ll have a footman fetch another chair,” Greaves mumbled.

“No need,” Trevillion said briskly. “Let the ladies sit amongst friends. I’m quite happy to find my own seat.”

Greaves nodded gratefully and led the ladies to their places.

Which left Trevillion free to slip into place in the empty chair beside Kilbourne at the back.

“I see you found a way to attend,” Kilbourne said, low.

“Indeed.” Trevillion watched as Greaves fussed over Lady Phoebe’s seat. “Lady Phoebe enjoys the theater in whatever form.”

“And had she not?”

Trevillion glanced at the viscount. “Had she not, I would’ve found another way to meet with you. I wouldn’t force her to attend an event she didn’t like.”

“I meant no offense,” Kilbourne said.

Trevillion inclined his head, his mouth thinned. “Have you discovered anything yet?”

Kilbourne hesitated, but shook his head. “Not as of yet. I’d hoped to search my uncle’s rooms, but haven’t found the right moment.”

“More guests mean more servants about,” Trevillion replied. “Yet you hesitated before you spoke, my lord?”

Kilbourne grimaced. “It’s nothing. The duke mentioned this morning that my uncle has a valet who spent time in Newgate—an odd origin for a manservant, you must admit.”

Trevillion shrugged. That was the thing about London: a man could completely remake himself.

“And then,” Kilbourne continued, “Miss Goodfellow’s brother took care to warn me that we couldn’t trust Montgomery.”

Trevillion snorted softly. “That’s nothing new, my lord.”

“No, yet now I wonder if the man is actively working against us.”

“For what purpose?”

Kilbourne gave him a sardonic glance. “For what purpose does he work
for
us?”

“He said so that you may finish his garden,” Trevillion replied, “but I take your point.”

Kilbourne glanced at him. “Have you found out anything about my cousin? Could he be the one behind the murders, not my uncle?”

“Nothing,” Trevillion stated. “He lives rather frugally, in fact. It’s only his father who is in debt.”

Kilbourne shook his head. “Should I trust Miss Goodfellow’s brother? Or Montgomery? Or neither?”

“Hmm. Point the brother out to me.”

Kilbourne looked around. “There. He’s just come in the door with Montgomery.”

Trevillion turned discreetly and saw a wiry man in a white wig a step behind the duke. On the other side was
the Scots architect they’d met in the garden—MacLeish. “Strange that he should warn you against the duke and then keep his company.”

“Mmm,” Kilbourne murmured in assent. “I’ve been trying to think what Montgomery gets out of all this.”

“You don’t believe that he wants you for his garden?”

“Possibly.” Kilbourne shrugged. “But I’m hardly the only gardener he could hire. There has to be another reason.”

“He probably doesn’t do anything but for a minimum of at least two things to his advantage.” Trevillion stiffened as he watched Montgomery approach Lady Phoebe. “Damn.”

“What?”

He’d forgotten the obvious: rank. Lady Phoebe, as the daughter and sister of a duke, was most likely the highest-ranking lady in the room. And since Montgomery was a duke and thus the highest-ranking
gentleman
, naturally he’d be seated next to her.

Trevillion nearly growled. “I don’t like him near my charge.”

“He’ll hardly do anything in a crowded room,” Kilbourne said. “Besides, she has her chaperone. That one looks a Tartar.”

Trevillion grunted, not liking having to leave Lady Phoebe’s protection to an old woman, no matter how sharp.

The musicians began a tune, prompting the audience to quiet. After a moment an actor strode in with Miss Goodfellow and began an argument—something about a maid he wanted to woo. The male actor was apparently her twin brother.

A farce. Not to his taste—theater seldom was. Trevillion fixed his eyes on his charge instead, surprised to see that Montgomery had switched chairs with his architect friend. The younger man now sat next to Lady Phoebe, his red head close to hers.

Trevillion frowned and turned to Kilbourne, but one look showed that was a lost cause.

The viscount’s gaze was riveted on Miss Goodfellow.

He’d made love to her, but he’d never truly
seen
her, Apollo realized as he watched Lily on stage. She’d changed the dress she’d initially appeared in to breeches and a coat, her dark hair hidden under a man’s white wig. Anyone with half a brain could see she was a woman disguised as a man, but the point wasn’t to fool the audience, but rather to entice it.

And entice she did.

Lily was… he stared in wonder. He didn’t have the words to describe the spell she cast over the room. It was as if she’d caught and channeled light, a prism of delight. She was quick and bright and he found himself leaning forward, to catch a little of her illumination. He wanted her to speak to him, only him. To hold her attention as she held his.

The damnable thing was, he knew he wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the audience wanted a small part of Robin Goodfellow for their very own. As a friend to confide in. As a lover to shower with affection. He was half hard simply watching her swirl about the stage, flinging quips at the male actor who was supposed to be her rival. How was it possible that he’d been
inside
her only that morning and now he felt as if he knew her not at all?

He watched as she leaned a little closer to the actor, flirting with her mischievous green eyes, and he was half admiring, half outraged that she would look at any other man that way.

Every man in the room must have an erection.

Apollo swallowed, trying to lean back, trying to break from her spell, only to find that he couldn’t.

He wasn’t the only one.

He watched as his elderly uncle blushed when she bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the audience.

Dear God, but she was dangerous.

He was a great ugly lump, he knew this. He’d always been, ever since the day when he’d been but fifteen and he’d topped his own father’s height. How could such a mercurial fairylike creature want anything to do with him? And yet she had. She’d let him touch her intimately. Had let him claim her.

In that moment Apollo resolved that no matter how ridiculous their mating might be, he wasn’t going to let her change her mind. She was his now—and if he had any say in the matter, she’d be his always.

T
HE PLAY HAD
gone well, Lily thought later as she sat before a looking glass and washed the paint from her
face. True, Stanford had managed to forget an entire speech in the third act, and the boy playing the overly handsome valet was much too prone to trying to upstage the other actors playing with him, but Moll had delivered her lines with graceful humor touched with ribaldry and John had been so handsome and chivalrous she’d nearly fallen in love with him herself. Yes, overall a great success.

“About done, dear?” Moll called, turning in front of her own little looking glass to try to see her hair from behind. “I’ve a mind to dance with that pretty duke tonight—and have a glass or two of Mr. Greaves’s wine. I hope it’s good.” She winked at Lily. “Not that it’ll stop me if it’s not.”

Lily laughed. “Go ahead. I still have to re-pin my hair.”

Moll twirled one last time and left.

Lily smiled into her mirror. It made no sense, but she wanted to look her best for Apollo. He’d never seen her perform before and she was a bit nervous about his reaction. Had he liked the play? Had he recognized the lines that she’d written in the garden with his help?

She wrinkled her nose at herself. Silly. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the ball and then her primping would have been for naught.

In the silence of the little chamber off the drawing room she heard footsteps approaching. Hurriedly she pushed a last pin into her coiffure and stood, smiling as the door opened.

Her smile froze on her face when she saw who entered.

Lord Ross hadn’t changed much in seven and a half years. He still had a stiff, nearly military bearing. He still wore a properly curled and powdered white wig. He still
had a flat stomach and big shoulders. And he still had one blue eye and one green.

But the lines around his mouth and eyes had deepened and multiplied and his mouth seemed permanently turned down now.

Perhaps cruelty could stamp itself upon a man’s face.

“Lily Stump,” he drawled, his voice smooth and light. Apollo’s voice would never sound like that, she knew. His voice would always grate, no matter how much his throat healed.

And she was glad.

“Richard,” she replied evenly.

“Lord Ross, if you please,” he snapped, and although his voice didn’t rise, her gaze darted to his hands.

They had half-fisted.

She nodded. “My lord, then. How may I help you?”

“You,” he said, prowling into the room, “can help me by staying out of my way and
remaining
quiet.”

She pivoted so that he wouldn’t back her into the corner. The little room held only two tiny tables and a single chair, her box of paints, and the costumes. But there was the looking glass. If she had to, she could break it. The edges would be sharp.

“Very well,” she said quietly.

“Swear it,” he said, advancing.

She ducked and darted around him. There was a pull and a tearing sound and then she was out of his grasp and out the door, running with her skirts bunched in her fists.

“Lily Stump!” he roared behind her, but she’d be a fool to stop.

And she was no fool.

She skidded around a corner, nearly barreling into a wide-eyed footman.

“Miss?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“I do beg your pardon,” she gasped, smoothing her skirts. One wasn’t supposed to apologize to servants, she knew, but to hell with that. She smiled at the man—really just a very tall boy. “Where is the ball being held?”

He pointed to the stairs. “Ground floor, ma’am. Shall I show you?”

She beamed at him. “That would be lovely.”

Lily followed the strapping footman down the staircase, never looking back, and now that she was no longer running with her heart beating in her ears, she could hear the music playing.

He bowed at the entrance of the ballroom and she gave him a quick grin in thanks before entering.

The room was lit with dozens of beeswax candles. They, together with the vases of hothouse roses placed around the room, perfumed the air with a sweet stink that was nearly unbearable. It was terribly hot and she wished she had a fan. A glance around showed that Mr. Greaves must have invited quite a few of his neighbors as well as the house party guests, for the ballroom was crowded. She’d hardly taken a step before Mr. Warner appeared before her, asking for a dance.

She was put out—she’d hoped to find Apollo—but she made sure not to let that show on her face. This was part of her job, after all, to entertain the guests.

So she danced a country dance with Mr. Warner, and then another with Mr. MacLeish. By that time she had caught a glimpse of Richard, glowering by the ballroom doors, and decided to head in the opposite direction—toward
the wall of French doors that led out to the garden. She was glancing over her shoulder to make sure Richard wasn’t following her when she felt a hand on her wrist.

She was hauled rather unceremoniously onto the slate steps that ran along the back of the house and led into the darkened garden itself.

Lily squeaked and looked up.

Into Apollo’s shadowed face.

“Oh” was, unfortunately, all she could think of to say.

“You look frightened,” he murmured. “Why?”

She smoothed her skirts. “You did just yank me out of the ballroom. Practically a kidnap.”

In the light from the ballroom she thought she saw his lips twitch. “If I’d wanted to kidnap you, I’d’ve thrown you over my shoulder.”

She drew herself up. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

He moved his fingers to her hand and clasped it. “Oh, you would.”

“You’re quite sure of yourself.” She sniffed.

“Mmm.” He pulled gently, leading her down the steps. “I liked your play.”

“Oh.” She could feel herself blushing like a green girl. “Thank you.”

She caught the flash of his teeth as he grinned back at her.

Although the French doors had been open, the party wasn’t meant to spill into the garden, so there were no lanterns. There was a moment beyond the light coming from the windows of the house, in the dark of the garden itself, when she felt quite blind.

“Where are we going?”

“I discovered something this afternoon.” His voice floated back to her on the night breeze. “I wanted to show you.”

It was rather cool and if she hadn’t just been running and then dancing, it might’ve been too cold, but as it was, the night chill was rather nice on her overheated skin.

“Careful,” he whispered as her slippered feet trod on grass. “We’ve left the pavement behind.”

She closed her eyes a moment and when she opened them again, she looked up. “Oh, the stars.”

She could see him now—or at least his silhouette.

He tilted his head back. “They’re rather nice tonight.”

They walked in silence for a bit, the music wafting behind them, and then a sort of wall seemed to loom ahead.

“What is it?” she asked.

He paused for a moment and she knew—she wasn’t sure how, but she knew—he was smiling. “A maze.”

P
ERHAPS
A
POLLO WAS
mad to bring a girl to see a maze at night, but somehow it’d seemed exactly the right thing to do.

“Come on,” he said to her, pulling her hand.

Lily followed easily enough, but her voice was uncertain as they made the first turn. “We’ll get lost.”

“No,” he said easily. “I found it this afternoon and explored it then. It’s simple enough.”

“Even in the dark.”

“Even in the dark,” he assured her. “But it’s not quite dark, is it?” He pointed up at the stars and the crescent moon.

“Humph.” She didn’t sound entirely reassured, but she followed him nonetheless, and that made him glad.

The maze was an old one with a fully matured hedge over eight feet tall. In places the hedge threatened to grow into the path and he had to lead her single file, but she never protested. He could hear the rustle of her skirts, the sound of her breathing right behind him, and once in a while her scent came to him, orange and clove, tantalizing and sweet.

He tightened his grip on her hand.

By the time he turned the final corner he was heavy and hard.

“Where are we?” she whispered, as if she knew the import of this place. Of where he’d brought her and why.

Before them was a shallow stone pool, rimmed with stone benches, a statue standing at the center. It had probably once been a fountain, but time and neglect had stopped it running, and now it was dry save for a few rotting leaves blown against the edges.

“We’re at the heart,” he replied, his throat thick.

She tugged his hand as she stepped closer to the stone pool. She stared at the statue and then back at him. “The heart of the maze?”

He looked into her eyes, reflecting the starlight, the entire universe, really, and nodded. “The heart.”

She stood still a moment, watching him, and he had no idea at all what she was thinking.

Finally she laughed quietly, gesturing with her free hand at the marble figure. “It’s a minotaur. I suppose that’s appropriate.”

He looked at the figure, all horns and massive shoulders. “The monster in the maze?”

“Yes.” She turned in the dark to face him, and all he could see was the limned starlight on her cheek, the glimmer of the reflected moon in her eyes. “Indio thought you were a monster at first. Did I ever tell you?”

He shook his head slowly. “Am I still a monster to you?”

“No.” She reached up to trace his eyebrow. “You’re not… that. You never were, really.”

And she pulled his head down to meet her mouth. She kissed him with a woman’s passion, a woman’s want, frank and sweet. He fought to keep from grasping, from holding too tight, lest the very harshness of his grip drive her from him.

He let her lead, opening his mouth when her tender tongue ran across his lips. Let her explore and seek. She thrust her hands into his hair, pulling the tie out, framing his face with his coarse locks.

“Apollo,” she breathed against him, her hands restless on his waistcoat. “Apollo, make love to me.”

It was all he was waiting for. He pressed her against him, angling his head to deepen the kiss. He placed his palm over her upper chest, feeling the delicate collarbone beneath his fingers, the gentle swell of her breast. Even this little amount of flesh was like wine in the desert. He traced the edge of her bodice, dipping his little finger into the hot, shadowed recess between her breasts. It was moist there and suddenly he had to taste. He bent her back, ducking his head to slide his tongue between her sweet breasts and taste her salt.