“We didn’t get a chance to speak about everything that happened.”
“Go to sleep, Miss Pace.” He tried to close his eyes, but hers held his too fiercely.
Her plait slipped over the edge, dangling in front of his nose like some sort of braided leash. As if anyone could leash her.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For saving us.”
“The driver did most of it.”
“Thank you for dressing my leg.”
“You would have been fine.”
“Thank you for coming with me.”
“You would have been better off without me. It was because of me we were attacked.”
She put her chin on her hand, propping it up. “Now, you don’t know that. What if it was one of Lord Garrett’s minions who found out about the documents?”
Cold rage slithered through him. He pressed it down. “Perhaps. But you were well disguised. I was not when I approached you after you saw Wilcox.”
“Yes, why was that?”
Because I was too worried about you.
He closed his eyes. “Go to sleep.”
He felt a hand grip his blanket, and he saw her face far too close to his as she pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking it around one shoulder. The other side was pinned by his free arm, and she couldn’t quite move it. He watched her try. That long tail of hair hung down, brushing his free hand as she did so. He had the urge to wrap his hand around it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice and body tight.
She gave up trying to tuck in his uncovered arm. “Failing,” she said, exasperated.
He lifted his arm finally. Better than to give in to temptation to grip her by that long tail and pull her to him. She smiled happily and lifted the rest of the blanket, tucking it around his other shoulder.
She leaned down, a fraction closer, and for some reason unknown to man, he lifted his head the tiniest bit. Enough so she could brush his cheek with her lips. “Good night, Mr. Merrick.”
H
e had made sure she was safely back at the hell, and in Roman’s rooms, before he barked a series of very sharp orders, packed a fresh bag, then left London again, but this time with five very specialized men at his heels.
Four days later, after neutralizing over half of Cornelius’s remaining forces in the Thames Valley, stranding the man somewhere under a rock near London, and working through most of his frustration, he stopped dead in the doorway to his office. Again. It had become a frequent habit really.
His
office.
He’d left for four days. Four. Not four weeks, not four months or four years.
A head of light brown hair turned, and a smile lifted her mouth. Welcoming him back without saying a word. Her eyes examined him, as if looking for an injury, then her smile grew when she didn’t seem to find one.
A wide, warm curve of lips that made his legs feel like custard. Shakier than any time in the past ninety-six hours when he had risked life and limb. It had been four days since he had been touched by those lips, and the impact hadn’t lessened one bit.
Her smile almost made him forget the scene around her.
“What the devil have you done?” he demanded.
“Oh!” This was said brightly, as if she was happy he had noticed. “I decided I needed my own workspace, instead of constantly infringing upon yours. So I had a few of the boys move a desk in here.”
He stared at the petite,
feminine,
desk that was pushed against his. And wondered how the bloody hell she had managed to convince men who were terrified of him to move the desk inside his domain.
“Absolutely
not.
”
T
wo hours later, he was still scowling as she happily worked on . . . whatever the hell it was she was working on. Across from him. At
her
desk. How the hell . . .
He remembered saying no. He remembered cursing. Threatening her unborn children. Then there was a sort of hazy period of smiles and calm words. Then she had touched the back of his hand with her naked fingers.
And now, here he was with . . . her desk . . . pressed to his—surreptitiously watching her scratch her paper, the tip of her tongue poking from the side of her mouth as she worked.
Who did that?
It was decidedly uncouth.
Every once in a while, the pink tip would swipe the top edge of her lower lip. Back and forth, back and forth, like a snake lazily charmed, before retreating. She tapped her chin, eyes brightening, then she scratched something else on the paper.
And he just kept watching her, unable to stop.
Suddenly, her eyes caught his. He froze, unable to pretend he had been doing anything other than staring.
She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “What are you thinking about, Mr. Merrick?”
You. Demon-spawned you.
“Nothing.”
She tried to peer over the span of their desks to see what he was doing. He pulled the papers into the space of his arms, hunching over them.
She laughed lightly. “Working on secret documents? Ones that threaten the very fabric of George’s standard?”
“No.”
She put her chin on her palm, examining him with an absurd overabundance of humor, eyes bright, an almost lazy fondness in their depths. “Are you working on secret designs for new lady’s undergarments?”
“
No.
”
“I’m sure they would be very thorough and well thought out.”
“What?
No.
”
She leaned farther over, her backside rising as she leaned forward.
“Stop that. Get back.”
Go away.
God, what was wrong with him? Even in his internal thoughts he sounded like a threatened child.
She stayed leaning over, her chin still resting in her palm, closer to him than she’d been before. “Would you like to see what I’m working on?”
“No.”
“I don’t mind showing you.”
“No.”
“They aren’t anything as exciting as a lady’s undergarments.” Her eyes lit in sudden thought. “Or a gentleman’s.”
“Is there something wrong with you?” he demanded.
“I find it amazing you are such a prude, Mr. Merrick. I’ve seen people outside my window do the most lascivious things since I’ve been here.” She lowered her voice, as if confiding in him. “I can’t credit that you’ve been too busy to notice the activities that go on in this part of town, and in full view of everyone. Quite educational, if I do say so.”
“You are ruining yourself,” he hissed.
She looked concerned for a moment. “Do you think I might be getting a bit tainted by it all? Would you like to keep me pure?”
“I—what? No!”
“How then am I ruining myself?” The suspicious glimmer of humor in her eyes increased.
When had he lost control? He wanted to identify the moment, then go back in time and squish it from existence. People didn’t
tease
him. And certainly the feelings that pushed up, the stuttering, odd feelings in his stomach whenever she said something to him, looking directly in his eyes with a smile about her lips, were certainly unwelcome.
“Stop looking out the window. Or leave here. Go somewhere else. Somewhere safer.”
Anywhere else. God, please. Or he was likely to do something horribly awful, like surrender his sanity and kiss
her.
“I feel most safe right here. I trust my family’s safety here. And that is all-important to me, Mr. Merrick.” At the comment about her family, her expression lost its mischievousness and turned serious.
“I know,” he said stiffly, that feeling in his chest,
guilt,
tightening.
She smiled, a warm smile that held no trace of aberrant humor.
It bothered him on a level he couldn’t comprehend. He experienced an overwhelming urge to grab that smile and hide it solely for himself to gaze upon. A Da Vinci masterpiece he intended to jealously guard.
He tightened his grip on his pen, willing himself to think of other things.
“Besides, you needn’t worry about my virtue. I am unattached outside of this building.”
“Why?” He asked it stiffly. It was something he had long wondered about. She could have married and had someone take over the family concerns months ago.
Also, the phrasing of that last comment was odd.
“I trust both easily and with difficulty.”
“That makes no sense.”
“No?” She examined him. “You trust your brother Roman completely, do you not?”
“We aren’t speaking of me.”
“But you trust few others. I, on the other hand, trust most people on a basic level unless they do something to destroy that trust. And I seek to trust people on a deeper level but have had to hold myself back these last months.”
He should have spoken to her parents by now and damned the consequences. Reports said that the father still had rarely been seen—holed up in Roman’s bedroom. They were long overdue for a chat.
“Why have you lost your easy trust?”
She shrugged lightly. “What matters is that I wish to trust. I want to place my trust.”
In you,
was apparent, but left unsaid. He shifted. She tilted her head again. “I think that is the difference between us. I wish to trust but must exercise caution. You object to the notion of trust.”
The entire conversation was making him uncomfortable. The need to rub his chest pressing. “That doesn’t answer the question of why you have remained unattached.”
She laughed lightly, but there was something off about it, covering uncertainty. “I don’t conform to the ideal unfortunately. I’m a little too firm in some ways, a little too soft in others.”
“You have plenty of friends.” The woman was a veritable collector of wounded birds and one-legged creatures, of the animal and human variety. He only had to look in his halls to see the evidence of it.
“Friends do not necessarily make suitors.”
“I can’t credit that if you set your mind to nabbing a husband, you wouldn’t succeed.”
“That is very kind of you.” She beamed and leaned in conspiratorially. “I
can
tend toward the mercenary, when I choose.”
She seemed quite pleased at labeling herself by that less-than-endearing trait.
“But temptation matters.” She sounded a bit wistful again. He wondered if there had once been someone special who had slipped away. It made him feel violent. “And my friends have a tendency to find each other.”
“You meddle,” he said flatly, certain of the statement. “You sabotage your own chances.”
“Not always on purpose.” There was that look again. As if there were someone special. Of course there was someone. How would anyone not want her? She was like the sun blazing on a cool day, wiping away the chill. Sometimes he felt the need to shade his eyes around her. Reports said that she did
not
have men falling over themselves, but he couldn’t reconcile that with the reality of the woman in front of him.
“You could have your pick of suitors should you choose,” he said stiffly. “So I must assume you are afraid of choosing someone.”
She looked startled for a moment, then her gaze sharpened, eyes swiftly taking in every aspect of his face. A brilliant smile bloomed, lighting the entire space, and he instinctively freed his hands to defend himself.
Everything about her pulled at him. Treating her as a pawn would be far easier. And yet, these conversations always felt like a queen inching around the king.
“Perhaps all this time I have been waiting for the right person,” she said lightly.
He looked away from her gaze, which all of a sudden felt too focused. He looked at her papers. “What are you working on if not undergarments?”
“I have a ten-step plan to defeat the proposed legislation to be leveled against you. Since it is still in the initial phases and not yet signed for discussion, we have an advantage. I have been working on it since returning from Dover.”
He should be accustomed to her wild statements, but his stomach jerked at her words. “What?”
“I’ve read the papers thoroughly, and I can still hardly believe my eyes. They have blamed their own sins on you. And embroidered the truth surrounding the Collateral Exchange. It isn’t right,” she said heatedly.
Darkness rose from within him. “It is exceedingly
right.
”
“Absolutely not.” She jabbed a finger at the top page of her stack. “There are hints of retroactive provisions. One exploitation of those provisions, and they would be able to throw you in jail for past offenses—offenses that were not legally binding when they occurred.”
“Those in charge make the laws.” It was a true statement—he had used his power to his own advantage plenty of times in the past. That the allegations might be true didn’t mean he would allow a bill to pass. He wouldn’t allow anyone to control his fate. He had a few tricks up his sleeve in case the bill was introduced and someone truly pushed for one of those provisions.
But he wasn’t going to let her think these absurd thoughts about his being a victim of the system. Of deserving leniency. “Don’t paint a sterling picture of my character. We have done much of what we’ve been accused of there. Worse even.”
“I don’t care. Those provisions lack honor in every way.”
“I doubt they are concerned with our honor.”
“They should be,” she said somewhat viciously. He stared at her. She looked like a mother bear ready to lash out at hunters who had drawn too near to her family. “You are too honorable to deal with people like this. You are one of the most honorable people I’ve had the fortune to do business with. Which is why it makes my skin itch to read these things.”
His shirt felt too tight. Like it was restricting his breathing. The urge to reach across to grab the hand she was waving around increased to an almost painful point.
“Beyond the more hidden possibilities, the paragraphs clearly dictate that you will be required to make a number of concessions that would inhibit your ability to work at your highest capability. You do not deserve that.”
The way she was speaking—as if his worth was a foregone conclusion . . . Dark desire swirled, along with the need to drive her far from him.
“I have done everything to deserve it. To deserve prison and even death.” He allowed the smile to grow, slashing into his cheeks. Perhaps it would scare her enough to save both of them from the horrible path they seemed to be treading. “But then, I’ve never been pleased to do as others desire me to.”
She blinked, and the passionate defense crinkling her face faded to confusion. “That is rather morbid. Perhaps we should discuss why you feel it fair? Then I can modify my steps.”
“No.”
“They require modification, though, in that case.”