Lorelie Brown (2 page)

It never went away. Not fully. He’d too many things to do and too many responsibilities, along with an entire family to lift up. They’d barely hung on to the bottom rungs of gentry for years. His father had been well respected in their small village, but he’d dreamed of something better for his children. He’d wanted respect for his daughter and son, only to die before he’d seen it happen.

Perhaps that was for the best, considering the muck-up Henrietta had made of her life.

“It is a document.”

“The Magna Carta is a document.”

“I’m not looking for the Magna Carta.”

“Seems a shame. That would be worth helping you with.”

He let an exasperated breath through his teeth, which clenched so hard pain spiked toward his ear. “You’re quite clever, aren’t you?”

She had a bold mouth, in color and in shape. Full lips had a deft dip at the topmost point. He had an urge to rest his thumb there. Perhaps she’d dart out that active tongue and taste his skin.

More likely she’d clock him. “You say that as if there’s something wrong with being clever. Being smart. Wouldn’t you like to be smart? Perhaps someday when you’ve grown up into a big, real man?”

He held up a single finger and wagged it once, twice. “Miss Vale,” he said on a heavy sigh. “You’ve gone straight to the base insults. I’m so disappointed.”

She smiled, but that wasn’t apparently enough to grab him by the balls and twist. Because then she
laughed
. Low and husky, with enough mirth that made him think she really, truly meant it. Her head went back and her face turned up toward the ceiling, and she only laughed harder and harder, until her chest rose and the white, white skin of her throat practically begged for a man’s attention.

He smiled, watching her and waiting, and the remarkable thing was that she didn’t stop. Didn’t feel herself alone in her laughter enough to dry it out artificially. Instead she let the peals trail away as the humor demanded.

“You’re right,” she said once she’d gotten her breath back. “I went too far. I’m almost tempted to apologize.”

He shouldn’t be smiling at her. Not considering the situation he was in, not with potential disaster overhanging him. “I should hate to think you’d give up your convictions so easily.”

She shifted in her chair, leaning her chin on one small fist. It drew her into a slender shaft of sunlight. The reddish tone to her hair gleamed. Like a halo, but entirely more indulgent. Earthy.

She was temptation and promise all wrapped up together.

If he were the least bit sane, he’d stay as far, far away as possible.

He needed a wife, truth be told. If this disaster with Henrietta were to come to light, he needed to have already found himself a respectable wife with societal connections that could elevate him a degree or two. Not a hoyden who taunted men she’d newly met.

That didn’t mean he was capable of wiping away all thought of dalliance. Miss Charlotte Vale wasn’t wife material, but she was a fancy lady of the very best sort. He wished she’d stand again so he could look at that slender figure. Her curves had been slight, though plenty sufficient for his tastes. He wanted to unwrap her layers, find out what sorts of treats he could find.

He’d keep his hands to his damned self.

“Take an entire army of footmen with us, if you like,” he offered in as conciliatory a tone as possible. He kept his expression pleasant. Happy. As if he hadn’t been imagining stripping her with rough hands and applying his teeth to every inch of her pale skin. “Whatever would keep you comfortable.”

Her smile turned from amused to inquisitive. “You’re well versed in keeping women comfortable, are you?”

He shrugged. “Safety is a concern of yours.”

“How can you tell?”

“The emergency bellpull set up behind your chair.”

She jerked upright. Her chin twitched. A tasseled pull dangled among the curtains behind her, at the windows. Not the usual placement, but subtly within reach of her seat. “Observant cuss, aren’t you?”

“What kind of establishment are you running that strange men barging in with barely time enough to be announced don’t warrant a pull of that bell?”

“This is a charity that depends upon the kindness of strangers.”

There was something about the way she said that which made him doubtful. At the very least, she was defensive and prepared for verbal assaults on her words. Her neck locked tight, losing much of its soft elegance.

So he intentionally decided to let it go. This place mattered little to him, only in how he could use it. Only in the relation to Patricia Wertherby—who would be entirely easier to find if Miss Vale willingly took him. He spread his hands wide, smiling. “And a worthy one as well, I’m certain. Which is why I should hate to muck around and cause difficulty. It’ll be best if you simply escort me. Wouldn’t you like me out of your hair as hastily as possible?”

“That I would. You’ll see that we harbor no thieves here, not of the kind you’re insisting. We’ll get this sorted out in no time. However, as much as I’d like such to happen quickly, I’ll have to insist you come back tomorrow.”

He managed to hold back his immediate response in favor of a more politically chosen one. He’d been chasing Patricia across hill and dale for almost six months. To be so close and yet so far drove him up the wall. “Why not today?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I have commitments. It’s tomorrow or nothing.” She stood, making for the door. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must insist on escorting you out.”

“If you insist.” He stepped back, gesturing for her to precede him out the door with one arm and a little hint of a bow. But really, truly, he wanted no such proper thing. No honorable thing. He wanted to watch her skirts sway with the sensuous shift of her hips. Somehow he knew she’d walk like a lioness. Purpose and intent in every step, but with tension that made men think of inappropriate things.

She knew it too. The way she looked back at him, cutting her eyes so their exotic shape caught him.

The faster he got his hands on the maid, the better. Otherwise he had a disturbing feeling he’d be trying to get his hands on Miss Vale, which would be completely unacceptable.

He hoped.

Chapter Two

Lottie found herself unaccountably nervous as the carriage twisted and rolled farther into Whitechapel. She’d been unsurprised when Sir Ian had showed up precisely on time for their trip into the bowels of the city. A man on a mission was easy to predict.

Sir Ian had taken the rear-facing seat, but his feet bracketed the half-circle of her pale violet skirts. Inside their safety, she drew her feet backwards until her heels tapped the front of her seat. As withdrawn as she possibly could be without letting the smile slip off her face. A phalanx of footmen and groomsmen clung to the exterior of the carriage and windows opened from each side. She and Sir Ian were very much not alone.

There was no reason to be nervous.

Which was why it made no sense that beneath her white gloves sweat dampened her palms or that the skin over her forearms prickled every time he looked at her.

Maybe it was the strange cant of her thoughts. She hardly knew what to do with the swirl in her mind.

Taking a lover had become a distinct concern to her as of late, but in an arbitrary and theoretical way. She wished to live her own life and stay in her mother’s sphere, which directly contrasted with her father’s hopes for Lord Cameron. Somehow she had to convince her father of her unsuitability toward marriage. Though she’d be damned if she could figure out why her father thought her right for marriage considering what he’d had to put up with from Mama.

The easiest way to do that in their world would be to remove her value on the marriage mart. As she wasn’t foolhardy enough to throw away her inherited fortune, she would have to prove she wasn’t likely to provide babies of the proper lineage and breeding. The most simple solution was to rid herself of her virginity.

Though Sir Ian was handsome enough, she was lucky she knew plenty of other, more amenable men. She needed a man who could smile rather than indulge in tiny quirks of his lips. Even if those lips were perfectly shaped enough that she wanted to touch.

“Tell me about your charity.” He snapped the words out. Two divots appeared at the inside of his brow like mirrored commas.

Surprise pulled her chin up. “It’s a school, not a charity. Not that it’s any concern of yours.”

“I expect not.” He tugged the sleeve of his coat down a fraction. “But I should like one good reason why I shouldn’t tell the world at large that my path toward a blackmailer and a thief ended at your doorstep.”

She couldn’t afford that. Funds supplied to meet the needs of the women they helped always ran short. The school survived on men’s patronage. None of them would wish to marry a blackmailer or thief. The school would be destroyed. The recent infusion of cash that had come with Sera’s marriage only went so far. Lottie’s best friend provided a budgeted amount.

She crossed her hands over her waist and flashed a false smile. “To do so would necessitate admitting you’d been blackmailed. Which would
then
lead to questions as to
why
you’d been blackmailed.” She made a show of shaking her head. “How desperately sad for you. Though I do find myself wondering as well. What have you to be blackmailed over, Sir Ian?”

He didn’t act furtive or guilty despite the soft aspect of his chin. A weakness she made herself focus on. He seemed less handsome when she wasn’t looking at those pale, incisive eyes.

“No one has ever blackmailed me,” he said with enough haughty aplomb that she almost believed him. If he had his way, ice wouldn’t melt on his tongue.

All of which ignored that he’d been the one to bring the word up.

“I wonder what you did. I can’t believe you’re innocent.” Her head tilted to the side, and she let herself look at his mouth, his eyes. She lingered on the lean frame of his body in its fine suit. He wore the clothes well but seemed different than most of the men she knew. More…at ease, perhaps? Like he belonged in his skin.

“I never said I was innocent,” he protested. And then he did a cruel, unthinking thing. He grinned, mouth lifting on the left side first. White and bright, the expression took over his entire face. The tiniest flush of red swept over his cheeks. “I’ve been lucky enough not to have left proof behind.”

“It’s generally the women who’re left with the proof.” She managed her usual air of calm and amusement, but it felt strained and a little harsh at the corners. She was tired—so very tired of holding on.

“Is that why you run that charity?”

“School,” she snapped. Her fingertips rose to her brow, where she found warmth and a tiny throb in her temple.

She seldom lost her temper. There was no point to it, after all. Nothing resulted from such outbursts except to add to the general air of difficulties. Plus she so hated losing control of herself. She didn’t have the same sort of lax emotionality that other women could get away with.

Sometimes she wished she were still at school with Seraphina Thomas and Victoria Wickerby, her two closest friends. The world had been easier then. She’d gotten by, and on troubling occasions when she felt low, she’d been able to turn to them. Sera was a born mother and loved her friends with calm, unchanging affection. Victoria was logic and sense, able to work through the worst possible problems. Unfortunately her family had recently insisted she toddle off to the ducal estate and allow her titled fiancé to lavish attention on her at his leisure.

The carriage drew to a halt, thankfully distracting Lottie from the strange angle of her thoughts. She wasn’t the type to travel lost roads and indulge in nostalgia. That way lay trouble and malingering.

The door opened, and the redheaded footman bowed. “I’m sorry, Miss Vale, but this is as far as we can go. The rest will have to be on foot.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Though she didn’t make a habit of it, this wasn’t her first visit to the part of town where streets became too skinny and closely set for carriages to venture down.

They stepped from the carriage, and Lottie found herself watching Ian. His nostrils flared, and he whipped a linen cloth from an inside pocket when he noticed the open gutter running through the center of the cracked pavement with its rancid offal and putrid water.

“Is that excrement?”

She shrugged, scooping up her skirts as she led the way. “It is. Would you like to turn back? The girl is certain to attend our next quarterly soiree. You can come back and see her there.”

“I think not.” He followed with resolve in his spine. Most gentlemen walked with a lazy insouciance and a rolling predator’s gait, since they saw the entire world as their prey. He was intent. Focused. His shoulders arrowed toward his destination. “Where is it from?”

She waved toward the dark windows above them. Those that had glass were sooty and filthy. Paper covered some. Still others were open, with laundry hanging out on poles across the narrow alleyway. “There’s no telling.”

“What fresh hell the cities create.”

“Spoken like a true country dweller.” The knot of footmen behind them had been chosen for their size and intimidation factor, yet when she looked over her shoulder, Sir Ian was a good two inches taller than any of them. For all his size, he had a certain reediness, mostly in the long line of his neck. As if a stiff breeze could puff him away like a dandelion. Lucky his features were so handsome, that constantly active, mobile mouth first and foremost. “Let me guess. You’ve lived in the country all your life in the same village. Your grandest excursions have been to school. Did you get to come to town for the Season?”