Swishing her skirt defiantly, she turned and marched away. Justin stood unmoving for a moment, then closed the distance between them in two furious strides. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around, jerking her against him.
A shadow of his New Zealand accent touched his speech, his low, flat words meant only for her. “We’re going home. Now, you can walk or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you. It makes no difference to me.”
Emily went dead white except for the furious splotches of color in her cheeks. Her bosom heaved with impotent rage, but something in his eyes must have warned her he wasn’t bluffing. She lowered her gaze to his buttons, her lips tightened in mutinous rebellion.
“Sir, your cloak!” Penfeld tossed the garment.
Justin caught it in one hand and threw it over Emily’s shoulders. Two footmen swept open the double gilt doors, letting in a blast of bitter cold. As the duke ushered his young charge into the night, the lobby of the opera house erupted in a scandalized roar.
A light snow had begun to fall. It dusted Justin’s hair as he handed Emily into the waiting carriage. She threw herself into the broad seat opposite him and slumped into a sullen knot. She shoved his opera cloak from her shoulders, finding its rugged warmth offensive. It smelled warm and spicy, like Justin’s bay rum. Like his bare skin heated by an island sun. A stray tendril of hair flopped out of her topknot; she irritably raked it away.
The carriage lurched into motion. They rode in dead silence. Emily stared at the curtained window. Justin stared at her. She could feel the condemning heat of his gaze.
The confines of the carriage seemed to grow smaller with each turn of the wheels. They were cordoned off from the winter night by the cozy glow of the lantern and the warmth wafting from the coal footstove. Justin seemed bigger somehow, more overwhelming. His arms were crossed over his chest, his long legs relaxed in an arrogant sprawl. Her senses were enveloped by the sound of his breathing, his heat, his masculine scent. An arc of tension sizzled between them.
When she could no longer bear the silence, she said, “Doesn’t it concern you that half of London thinks you a madman?”
His eyes flicked over her like tawny flames. “Better than having them think you a shameless trollop.”
She gasped, stinging from the unfair cut. “What’s wrong, Justin? Does it gall you because a man found me attractive? Because he dared to treat me as a woman, not a child?”
He snorted. “I’d hardly call that freckled toad a man.”
“As avidly as you were watching us, you probably counted every one of those freckles. Wasn’t your own trollop holding your interest, or are you one of those debauched men who gets his thrills by spying on others?”
His eyes darkened. “What are they teaching at Foxworth’s these days—de Sade? Your education has been quite extensive, my dear.”
“Not as extensive as yours, I’m sure.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “When we get to the house, you will go directly to your room. I will no longer tolerate your insolence.”
Her voice rose to a shout. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father!”
Her words hung in the air. Justin went utterly still. A thoughtful glint appeared in his eyes. Then a smile of profound wonder slanted his lips. “Why, I’ll be damned. I’m not, am I?”
Then he was on her. He came across the carriage with the grace of a lunging tiger, bearing her back into the plush cushion. His mouth came down on hers in an unholy surrender to a dark and sweet temptation. His tongue savaged her mouth even as his hand reached up with cool calculation to extinguish the lamp, leaving Emily to drown in his taste, his fragrance, the feel of his hands hot and rough against the bare skin of her shoulders. The darkness rendered him a dangerous stranger. His touch consumed her in flame. She couldn’t fight him. She could only cling to him, bunching the fine broadcloth of his coat in her helpless fists.
Not only did she no longer know him. She no longer knew herself. Who was this wanton who moaned and tugged at the dusky silk of his hair, drawing him deeper into her kiss? Their bodies slid against the lush velvet, gliding downward, ever downward, into forbidden delight.
He muttered soft, rough words against her lips. His hands reached for her skin, too fervent in their need to be anything but clumsy. She lifted her hips to help him until she lay beneath him, her dress bunched around her waist, thighs parted, garters and stockings sprawled in wanton abandon. A word that might have been either prayer or oath escaped him as he molded the damp cambric of her drawers to the silky mound beneath.
When his beautiful, strong fingers slipped beneath the fabric to touch her, Emily, who had so long prided herself on her fierce independence, hid her face in his shirt, unable to face the terrifying knowledge that there was nothing she wouldn’t let this man do to her. Nothing.
Pleasure ribboned through her in dark cascades as he gently fingered her throbbing flesh, all of his haste and clumsiness vanquished by wonder and grace. Too soon she felt the first shiver of ecstasy approaching through the darkness. A soft cry escaped her as he brought her to a sweet, fierce climax that shattered them both.
For an eternity there was no sound within the carriage but the hoarse rasp of their breathing in the darkness. Slowly, other sensations came into play: the rocking motion of the carriage, the clatter of the wheels against cobblestones, the jingle of the harness ringing like a bell in the crisp winter air.
The bitter wine of guilt poured through Justin. Emily nestled into his chest like some small, fragile creature, kneading his waistcoat between her fingers. He had never meant to humble her, but to exalt her with his touch. A latent tremor rocked her, and he cupped his arm around her, beset by a fierce desire to protect what was his.
Take care of my little angel, Justin. Swear you will.
Even the memory of David’s charge wasn’t enough to stanch the fire flaming in his belly. She was as trusting as a kitten in his arms. How easy it would be to slide her drawers down over her knees. To part her gartered thighs and undo the buttons of his trousers, freeing that part of him that ached to take her like the most common of whores on the seat of his carriage. He sensed that she wouldn’t stop him until he’d plunged them both into the abyss of their own erotic destruction.
Emily’s eyes fluttered open. Even in the darkness they had a luminous shine. “Was that in lieu of a spanking, or are you going to spank me later?”
A choked laugh escaped him. He raked a desperate hand through his hair. “Was I so harsh on you?”
“Monstrous,” she whispered. “I shall take care to misbehave with far greater regularity.”
“I don’t believe my poor heart could stand it.”
It wasn’t his heart stiffening in protest as he reached down with shaking hands and drew his cloak over her. He didn’t trust himself to smooth her stockings, tighten her lacy garters, or draw her skirt down to cover the pliant sprawl of her thighs. He didn’t even trust himself to look at her.
He sank back into his seat and whipped back the window curtain to stare into the wintry night. A row of elegant shops glided past. A frail finger of moonlight pierced the snow clouds.
Emily sat up, hugging his cloak around her. Her topknot of curls drooped over her brow. She blew them out of her eyes. “Perhaps Tansy was remiss in the more sordid aspects of my education, but I was under the impression that there was more.” Her shy gaze flicked to his lap, then back to his face. “Much more.”
Justin realized then that the walls he might build between them with propriety or excuses were flimsy structures, easily torn by his selfish passions. If he stayed, he would be forced to erect the one barrier he could never scale—Emily’s hatred. And he would rather never see her again than to see her look at him with loathing for the terrible act he had once committed in a moment of desperation.
He knew of no other way to say the words than harshly and cleanly. “It was a mistake to stay here. I should have returned to New Zealand as soon as I found you.”
A tremulous cry of joy broke from her lips. “We were very happy there, weren’t we? I know we can be happy again. I can’t wait to see Trini’s face when he sees we’ve come back together. And Dani—”
“I’m going back alone.”
The carriage slowed as they reached the congested traffic of Oxford Street. Justin heard the driver spit out a foul oath as he vied with a crowded omnibus for a space in the narrow lanes.
“Why?” she whispered.
“The natives need me.” The words sounded hollow, even to him.
She knelt on the floor between his legs. The cloak slid from her shoulders, baring their alabaster smoothness. Her imploring gaze searched his face. “But what do you need, Justin?”
Driven to desperation by her nearness, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her up against him, molding her ruthlessly to his arousal. “This,” he said hoarsely. “This is what I need.”
She refused to be daunted by his crudity. A sad, sweet smile touched her lips. “For a handful of coins you can find that in the arms of any stranger.” She gently drew her fingers along his cheek. “What of tenderness, Justin? What of love?”
A groan caught in his throat. Her passion and courage stunned him. As badly as he wanted her, he couldn’t allow her to give him what he would never be worthy of.
He gently fastened the cloak beneath her trembling chin. “You once said it better than I ever could. I have no right.”
“No right to what, Justin? No right to happiness?”
He turned back to the window, despising the cold man he saw reflected in the thick glass.
Emily sat back in her seat, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “So you’re going back to New Zealand. And I’m to stay at Grymwilde and live off your charity.”
“It’s not charity. I owe you.”
“For what? For killing my father?”
His gut spasmed as if she’d plunged a red-hot knife into it. He stared at her.
“I know you blame yourself,” she said. “It was you and your smooth friend Nicky who talked him into investing my mother’s inheritance in your little venture. But Daddy was always a bit of a dreamer. He was convinced his rainbow was right around the next corner. If it hadn’t been gold, it would have been African diamonds or Indian rubber seeds. It’s not your fault he went and got his fool self killed.”
Justin closed his eyes, regretting that she could never give him the one thing he truly needed—absolution.
Sarcasm ripened in her voice. “I have a bright future ahead of me, don’t I? Moldering in that house with Lily, Millie, and Edith. Marrying some insipid boob named Horatio or Humphrey who wears a tasseled nightcap to bed.”
He forced his voice into a low and passionless tone. “Shall I paint another portrait of your future for you? Shall I take you home right now and bed you? Of course, you’d have to be up by dawn to pack your things because it wouldn’t do to have my mistress lodged in the same house with reputable women like my mother and sisters.” He steeled himself as she blanched. “Is that what you want? To live as I have? As an outcast? Shall I ruin you tonight for any other man?”
“You already have,” she cried. She bowed her head, struggling for composure. Tears trembled on her silky lashes, betraying the terrible cost of her whispered words. “You don’t have to make me your mistress. You could make me your wife.”
Justin knew she would choke on that tender plea if she knew the truth. His silence damned them both. Watching the darkness cloud her eyes was like watching his own dreams wither in a poisonous blast of gunpowder.
“Damn your charity to hell, Justin Connor. I won’t be left behind again. If anyone leaves this time, it’ll be me.”
Before he realized what she was going to do, she threw his cloak in his face and lunged for the door handle. He shoved away the enveloping folds, but it was too late. A blast of icy air struck his face. Emily spilled from the moving carriage in a pool of rose, then took off, running, darting between the hansom cabs and carriages with the feline grace of a street urchin.
Justin jumped from the carriage after her, hearing behind him a startled “Whoa!” from his driver. He lunged in front of a public coach, fighting to keep Emily in his sight among the churning chaos. The theaters and opera houses were just letting out, and lacquered carriages were pouring onto the thoroughfare in a steady stream.
“Watch yer step, guv’nor! Comin’ through!” boomed a hearty voice. Warning given, the burly omnibus driver raised his whip and gave his straining team a brutal lick.
The horses lurched forward. The iron-shod hooves bore down on Justin. He leaped backward to avoid being crushed. As the vehicle thundered past, the conductor mockingly tipped his hat to the cursing drivers of a hansom cab and brougham struggling to calm their frenzied horses.
Justin’s gaze frantically searched the fray. Emily was nowhere to be seen. He swore. Emily was a bigger fool than he if she thought he was going to let her disappear from his life again. Icy flecks of snow cut his cheeks. Dodging hacks and carriages, he loped to the end of the street. Drawn by a smudge of pink against the cobblestones, he slowed and bent to examine it.
It was a single rose-colored slipper, crushed flat by the massive wheels of the omnibus.
Mrs. Rose’s parlor on a snowy winter night was a warm and congenial place to be. The satisfying of men was both her livelihood and her pleasure. Her parlor resembled less a bordello than a cheery home, for the crafty madam wisely realized the gentlemen who frequented her establishment came for both much more and much less than the easing of their physical needs.
They came to loosen their ties, pull off their heavy coats, and recline in overstuffed chairs. They came to prop their stockinged feet on ottomans and smoke the pipes and cigars their wives would allow them only in the most obscure corners of their own homes. Most of all, they came to hear the pretty girls laugh at their jokes and make them feel young and handsome again.
The peaceful lull that had descended over the parlor this Friday night didn’t concern Mrs. Rose or any of her girls. They knew both the parlor and the bedrooms upstairs would fill to overflowing after the gentlemen of the theater crowd escorted their wives home for the night.
A haze of smoke hung over the room. A portly gentleman rested before the fire, reading the Times while Mrs. Rose massaged his toes. A swarthy man reclined on the settee, nursing a cognac and absently fondling the woman on his lap. A girl in a diaphanous robe sat alone at the piano, lazily picking out the notes of Beautiful Dreamer.
The front door flew open. A blast of icy wind and swirling snow rushed into the parlor.
“Shut the bloomin’ door. It’s bloody freezin’ out there,” yelled the girl at the piano.
When the door didn’t close, they all looked up to find a bedraggled creature standing on the stoop, barefoot and shivering in a thin silk evening gown. She wore no cloak or cape. Snow frosted her tangled hair.
“Good Lord, what happened to the poor child?” shouted the portly gentleman.
“Has she been attacked?” cried out the girl on the piano bench. To Mrs. Rose’s girls, no crime was more heinous than that of rape. Why would any man take from the unwilling what they so willingly provided?
“Somebody fetch a blanket,” Mrs. Rose commanded.
The dark-eyed man on the settee extracted his elegant fingers from beneath his companion’s skirt and pushed her off his lap. “Why, look what the cat dragged in!”
“What, darling?”
“Never mind. You just run along.” He softened his command by giving the whore’s rump a fond pinch.
He rose and started forward, pulling off his immaculate jacket, but before he could reach the trembling girl, another woman came down the stairs, twined around a skinny stripling whose face was flushed with a sated glow.
As she unpeeled herself from her most recent customer, her round blue eyes widened. “Holy Christ, Em?” she breathed. “Is that you?”
“Oh, Tansy,” came the answering wail as the pa
thetic creature flung herself across the room into the whore’s arms.
The man melted back into the shadows. A sneer touched his lips as he watched the tender reunion. He shook a cigarette out of his gold case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, savoring the lazy furl of the smoke through his lungs. There was no need for careless haste to spoil his plans, he reminded himself. Dead men had all the time they needed.
Chapter 27
I have always striven to search for the best in any man.…
Justin stood on the deserted street, staring up at the stone edifice of the school. Why did his weary steps always lead him here? In the gray light of dawn the old building looked sad, its polished edges dulled by bleak neglect. Some things remained the same since his last visit—the paint peeling from the shutters, the rust caking the wrought-iron balusters. But other things had changed. The downstairs windows had been boarded shut, giving the house an abandoned air. The darkened squares of the upstairs windows surveyed him with drowsy indifference. Against his will his gaze flicked upward to the attic windows. They were all broken now, and as he watched, a pigeon hopped out and winged its way into the morning sky.
Justin climbed the stairs to the front door, his boots breaking the thin crust of snow. The snow had stopped near midnight, leaving London frosted in a brittle cloak swirled by icy gusts. Justin had long ago gone too numb to feel its bite.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pounded on the door. The sound reverberated with a hollow ring that only fueled his despair. Still, he didn’t stop.
“Jesus bloody Christ!” came the bellow from the connecting house. “Quit your banging, ya fool. Can’t a God-fearin’ man get a decent night’s rest?”
Justin ignored it. He pounded until his raw knuckles began to bleed. His arms fell limp at his sides. He turned his collar up and started to turn away.
The door slowly creaked open. A gaunt face appeared in the darkened crack. A chill shot down Justin’s spine. At first he thought it was Miss Winters beneath the dingy ruffles of the mobcap, but then he realized it was her young teacher, Doreen. The girl had aged twenty years since he had seen her last.
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