Luck Be a Lady (8 page)

“Miss Everleigh, do you—”

“Yes.” She pulled her hands free. “I believe that will serve, Mr. Whitby. Unless you will charge extra for the lack of ceremony.”

“Forgot something,” Nick said, and caught her by the waist. Her eyes flew wide as she realized his intention, but he stopped her protest with his mouth.

Her hands closed on his upper arms; her fingers, as stiff as steel pins, dug into his biceps, trying to force him off her. But he wouldn't be hurried. His wedding, after all. He kissed those soft, warm lips with deliberate leisure before setting her away from him.

She stared, eyes huge, her breath rasping in her throat. Then, with a strangled sound, she turned on her heel for the door.

“Wait!” Whitby slanted Nick an apologetic look before shoving forward the register book, which was indeed fresh and new, as he'd promised. “I will need your signatures first.”

She pivoted back, her pretty mouth compressed into a tight, white line. A lucky thing the pen didn't snap in half, for the jabbing violence with which she wielded it across the page.

“And Mr. O'Shea's,” Whitby prompted, “as well as the signatures of the witnesses.”

“Can't write,” Johnson said.

“Your mark will do.”

His new wife made a contemptuous noise, then picked up her package and dashed him a hostile look as she jerked her head toward the door. “Follow me.”

Already bossing him. Perhaps she did
have a touch of Irish, after all.

Whitby wanted another word—reassurances about compensation, for the lost labor from giving his employees a holiday. By the time Nick stepped into the hall, Catherine was pacing. The click of the door brought her wheeling around.

He'd thought her pale inside, but she was colorless now. “We'll need privacy for the last bit,” she said through her teeth. “A hotel? We would need to enter separately.”

“I've got a set of rooms at Diamonds,” he said.

“You propose to do this in a gambling den?” Her mouth twisted. “How fitting.”

*    *   *

Mr. O'Shea's apartment at the House of Diamonds was as ornate as the gaming floor, although the color scheme, thankfully, was a more muted palette of bronzes and browns. Catherine paused in the sitting room, where a healthy fire was blazing, to remove her sodden cloak. The sight of the black bombazine sleeves startled her for
a moment; she had forgotten she was wearing mourning. Perhaps it was disrespectful to her father's memory to have worn this gown to such a charade, but she had required the matching veil to avoid notice from passersby on her journey to Whitechapel.

As she laid down the cloak, she caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. How pale she looked! Like a mourner in truth.

In the distance, a door closed. She waited, listening, but heard no footsteps. Mr. O'Shea had taken himself off on some private mission, and she was grateful for the chance to compose herself. There was no use giving him the satisfaction of finding her pallid and cowering, like some frightened virgin.

She
was
a virgin, though.

She refused, however, to be frightened.

She walked to the mirror, pausing to smooth down her damp hair, then to bite her lips and pinch her cheeks.
There.
Better to look livid than fearful. Last night, lying alone in her bed in Bloomsbury, she had nearly talked herself out of this bit; had almost reasoned herself into believing that consummation was unnecessary.

But Peter had made a remark at dinner that lingered with her afterward. He had been haranguing her again about Mr. Pilcher. “It is only natural to fear husbandly attentions,” he'd told her. “But your disinterest in
marriage
is unnatural in the extreme. It suggests some disorder of the brain.”

If Peter suspected that she had not consummated this marriage—if he doubted the marriage was true—he might refuse to bow to blackmail. She would have to announce the marriage to the world, then, so she might claim the directorship and prevent him from selling Everleigh's.

That announcement would not profit Mr. O'Shea, however. His buildings would still be imperiled. He might feel tempted to deny the marriage himself.

There must be no legal grounds for him to do so.

She squared her shoulders, staring deeply into her own eyes. That kiss in the register office—it hadn't been so bad. Rude, unnecessary, and unbearably presumptuous, but . . .

His skin had scraped hers. She touched her chin lightly, remembering the sensation. That must have been his stubble—invisible, for he'd arrived freshly shaven. But a man's skin felt very different, regardless.

The rising color on her face made her scowl. She needed to do this only once. Never again. So Mr. O'Shea had agreed, in signing the betrothal contract. What a blessed relief that divorce would be! A pity that caution bade her to wait five years for it. But that span of time would provide ample opportunity for Peter to advance in politics, and lose interest in the auction rooms entirely. By the time the divorce petition was submitted, she hoped, she would have sole ownership of Everleigh's.

The door opened quietly. Mr. O'Shea carried a bottle of wine in one hand, and two glasses in the other. Goodness. She looked away to hide her horrified smile—pray heaven he did not intend to make her
enjoy
this—and her gaze settled on the package she'd been carrying.

“Bottle of red,” came O'Shea's voice. “Fresh from France. Will you take a glass?”

Bottle of red?
“I don't know that varietal,” she said dryly. “At any rate, no, thank you. I no longer drink.” She ignored his snort. The last thing they required was another debate on her commitment to temperance. “Let's get to this, shall we?” She picked up the package
and walked toward the only other door in the room—relieved, as she opened it, to discover that the bedroom was not nearly as lurid as she'd feared. The walls and bedsheets were brown silk, the pillows tasseled in gold. The dark carpet felt soft and thick beneath her feet. Her muddy boots would ruin it—but that was not her concern.

A single branch of candles lit the small room, lending it a discomfortingly cozy quality.

The creak of the floorboards announced O'Shea's approach. A bolt of anxiety sizzled through her. She took a deep breath, willing the cold resolve to return as she ripped open the package. She had gone halfway across London to fetch it, wearing that bombazine veil, which was so thick that it all but blinded her.

“What's that?”

She flinched. He was speaking nearly at her ear. “A sheet.” She snapped it open; it billowed across the counterpane and settled, white as a field of snow.

She frowned. It was not quite as plain as she'd liked. The white embroidery blended into the white cotton backing, but it still looked embarrassingly ornate. Against the dark coverlet, the single hole piercing the center of the sheet became disturbingly conspicuous.

“What in . . .” O'Shea was staring at the sheet, his expression impossible to read.

The blush burned through her like fire. She wanted only to shrink and hide.
No.
She would not give him that satisfaction. A curious anger swam through her, clipping her vowels. “You will make this quick, I trust.”

He snorted, his attention still fixed on the sheet. “With that in the way? I hope so. Did you stitch it yourself?”

“Certainly not.” She sat on the bed and began to unlace her boots. “I have no gift at domestic arts. There are certain religious communities that sell such paraphernalia.”

“Not mine,” he said flatly.

She glanced up, startled. “Are you religious, sir?”

He met her eyes, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Pity if I'm not. I've got the devil at my heels, all right.”

She frowned as she pulled off her boots. “I will ask you not to object. It took me a great deal of trouble to procure that item.”

“Would it matter if I did object?”

She had enough wisdom not to answer that. But as she rose in her stocking feet to loosen the buttons at her neck, her fingers felt shaky.

The sheet posed a problem. This candlelight, with its soft and flattering quality, seemed to cast a mocking romanticism over the scene. She would prefer darkness. But it would require light for him to locate the opening in the sheet.

She gritted her teeth, then turned the dial in the wall. The lamps blazed to life.

He winced, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Are we to shag in a spotlight, then?”

The word was filthy and unfamiliar to her. She could guess at its meaning, though. “Does it make a difference? Now, please leave so I may undress and place myself beneath the sheet. I'll call out when I'm prepared.”

He gaped at her. There was something mildly diverting in the sight of Nicholas O'Shea, so plainly disconcerted. “And here I thought a gently bred virgin might like some pretty words first, if not the wine.”

Her stomach pitched nervously. She ignored it. She
was a businesswoman, and this was only another matter of business. Emotion had no place in it. “I am gently bred, and a virgin. But I am not girlish, and I do not require poetry in business transactions.”

His brows lifted. “Business transactions? Darling, if this were business, we'd be on the street corner.”

She flushed. Why was he making this difficult? It was a comfort to know that he hadn't guessed the great turmoil bubbling inside her, but how much easier it would have been had he simply followed her lead! “I do not mean to give it such a vulgar gloss,” she said stiffly. “But I see no need to pretend at deep feeling. Were there some way to avoid this unpleasantness, we would do so. But consummation will mitigate the risk to us. If my brother tries to challenge this marriage, we will speak with a clean and honest conscience to any officer in the land that we are legitimately married.”

“And I don't argue with that,” he said. “But for my own sake . . .”

“Surely you do not require candlelight in order to perform, Mr. O'Shea?”

His head snapped back. The churning in her stomach intensified. Had she gone too far?

“Fine, then,” he purred. “If you're up to it, then certainly I am.”

She nodded tersely. “Then please step outside, so I might undress.”

“No.” He took a seat in the single wing chair, his smile mocking. “If it's the law that concerns you, seems wise to mind all the particulars. I'll need to make certain there's no flaw in you that might invalidate the marriage.”

“Flaw?” She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I'll see you naked,” he said. “Make sure there's no false pretenses at work. See that you've got all the necessary bits, and such. That sheet, after all, makes it impossible to tell.”

She had no words. “I . . .”

“And of course, I'll return the favor.” His smile tipped into a roguish slant as he reached for his collar. With leisurely movements, he unknotted his necktie. “Go on,” he said pleasantly. “We needn't take turns. Will speed things up if we both work at once.”

He began to shrug out of his jacket. She quickly turned her back. “I have no need to watch,” she spat at the wall. “I am quite certain that you have the—necessary bits, as you put it.”

“Oh?” His voice was muffled, but it grew clearer again as he continued. “I'll take that as a compliment.” Muffled thump—from the corner of her eye, she saw his jacket hit the ground, followed by his boots.

“You need some help there?” he asked.

There was a smirk in his voice. He was enjoying himself. No doubt he'd bedded a hundred women in his time. Was it any wonder if innocence, a certain degree of modesty and reserve, struck him as laughable?

But she was not a spectacle for his amusement. She pivoted, facing him, and opened the last button on her bodice.

The pounding of her heart, the rushing of blood in her ears, mercifully deafened her to whatever word slipped from his lips then. But the glare of the lights revealed with stark clarity the surprise on his face—and then, as she let her gown fall to the floor, the infinitesimal tightening of his expression, the new hardness of his mouth, and the fractional drop of
his lids, so his gaze suddenly looked slumberous as it trailed down her body.

That look worked some evil magic on her, luring out her own awareness from the safety of her brain—pulling it down into her body, along her own limbs, chasing his glance across her skin, goose bumps rising.

She swallowed. He was a handsome man. She was, despite all rumors, a woman of ordinary flesh and blood. It was a biological effect, nothing more, that caused every inch of her to flush and tighten beneath his regard.

She made herself speak. “Have you seen enough?” Her corset could not contain the uppermost swell of her breasts. Her petticoats were not thick enough to hide any severe deformity, surely.

His laughter was husky. “Darling,” he said, “you'll not get off so easy as
that.
Why, you could have three legs beneath those layers.”

“Naturally,” she snapped. Why had she expected any better of him? She would not give him another chance to laugh at her. She fumbled behind her waist for the knot that held up her petticoats. It yielded suddenly, and the layers dropped to the carpet.

Now she wore only a chemise and bloomers. And her corset, of course. She put her hands to the clasps, then hesitated, her stomach flipping. Once she removed this . . . Her chemise was all but transparent.

“That offer to help,” he drawled, “still stands.”

She narrowed her eyes. She was a working woman. Her corset fastened at the front. “I can manage,” she said. “But perhaps it's
you
who's hiding a flaw.” For apart from his jacket, he remained fully clothed.

His grin spread as he rose. “Pardon the delay. I was too busy taking in the sights, I supp—”