Pru passed him a cup of tea. He had just delivered a rather long speech, wheezing less already. She watched his throat ripple as he took a long swallow of tea and forced herself to look away.
“And the second reason?”
Pru still had her gloves on, but she preferred to show him rather than tell him. Either way, it was all rather mortifying. Pulling off the black kid, she held out her left hand.
To her surprise, Mr. Shaw grinned. “Can’t get it off?”
She shook her head. “I have not really tried much. I needed to get away from Rex Street before I witnessed anything else of an unsavory nature. Is there butter in your larder? I shouldn’t like to smear it with cooking grease.”
Mr. Shaw shrugged. “Malcolm went to the shops. If there isn’t, I’ll send him out again when he gets back. I can’t believe a woman like you put the ring on to begin with.”
There it was again. A woman like you. Did no one think she might like a bit of fun and frivolity? Proper fun and frivolity, of course. She lifted her chin. “It’s very pretty. Tempting. Any woman would have done the same as I.”
Mr. Shaw looked as if he were about to have another coughing fit. “By God. Do you not know what it is?”
Pru looked down at the strange flower. “Rubies. Diamonds.”
His eyes lit with amusement. “It is a woman’s nether lips, Mrs. Shaw. The diamond is the center of all her pleasure.”
“What?” Pru looked at her finger in horror.
“It is Indian work. Fifteenth century. Made for a maharajah for his favorite mistress. There are a pendant and earbobs to match, although there is some dispute as to where the earrings were actually to go. The dealer I acquired the set from seemed to think—” He broke off suddenly, as if aware that Pru’s finger was on fire. “Don’t worry. If we can’t get it off, people might not notice.”
“Not notice?” Now that Pru knew what the horrible ring was, she could not help but see the truth. The tiny gold curling hairs that she thought was simple filigree. The bright red folds of rubies. The sparkling erect diamond, poking out. The hole—Pru felt her face flame. “Where are the knives kept?”
“Now, now. You might cut your finger off.”
“If I have to, I’ll cut off my hand.”
“Entirely unnecessary. I’m sure we’ll manage to remove the ring somehow. In the meantime, I’ve got an idea.”
Pru couldn’t think for the buzzing in her head. She wore a concubine’s ring. Had the maharajah also sported one—a golden penis that fit into the hole? Trembling from head to toe, she sat down on the kitchen bench before she fell.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind helping me here for a day or two. It’s obvious I cannot tackle the boxes myself—
you were right. I had a great deal of trouble drawing breath toward the end. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I might very well be dead. So,” he said with an earnest smile after he blew his nose—sounding like the maharajah’s trumpeting elephant, Pru thought sourly—“you’ve saved my life. But I really need to dispose of everything as quickly as possible. Would you mind staying and supervising the unpacking? Malcolm is so ham-handed, and to tell you the truth, he does not read very well. I have a manifest that must be checked and objects labeled for distribution. I’m afraid even if I sat out in the hallway, I would be most unwell. This attack was the worst it’s ever been.”
Pru looked at him as if he’d sprouted two heads. “You want me to work on Jane Street?”
“Not in the usual sort of way,” Mr. Shaw said with a quick smile. “Our relationship would be entirely businesslike. It might be convenient, however, if you did move in. That way we could get through everything so much faster. And I’m sure you have no wish to trip over my brother and your cousin enjoying their honeymoon. Outside on the lawn, you said? I do hope they didn’t pick up any Trombicula autumnalis.” At Pru’s blank look, he clarified. “Chiggers, you know. Devilish little things. They get under your skin—”
“Mr. Shaw,” Pru said with as much frost as she could muster, “I am on my way back to Bath, and I most certainly will not delay my departure to assist you with your—your so-called treasures. I don’t care how much they’re worth or how desperate you are to sell them. I cannot handle such vulgar things.”
“Yet you wear such a vulgar thing on your finger. If you agree to help me, I shall not make a fuss about you returning it.”
“I don’t want it!” Pru cried.
“And I really don’t want you to keep it. I was a fool to break the set up. The parure will fetch much more intact.
But it was the first thing I could lay my hands on with ease in order to bribe Carmela.” He pitched his head backward and let loose a terrifying sneeze. “Pardon me. Despite the tea and the cross-ventilation, it seems I’m not over my indisposition. The inside of my throat is rather itchy as well. Is there any honey?”
“How would I know?” Pru snapped.
“Well, you seem so capable in this strange kitchen. You seem capable anywhere, Mrs. Thorne. I cannot help but think that a woman like you is the answer to all my prayers.”
A woman like you. And in a much better context. He thought she was capable. Well, so she was. And really, what was her hurry to get back to Bath? There was nothing there for her, not even Jack the bulldog. He’d been dead for years.
Pru bit a lip. Mr. Shaw’s salacious collection would certainly expand her knowledge, for despite her widowhood, she was now aware that something had been missing between her and Charles in the short seven weeks they’d been married. She had never once made any noise approximating Sophy’s delirious delight in her husband’s prowess. And if she stayed on Jane Street, the most wicked of streets in all London, she might observe things she’d never see in Bath. What harm could befall her? No one would ever know she was here. She was nine-and-twenty and she had yet to begin to live her own life. Surely it was time to do so.
“Very well, Mr. Shaw. I shall stay and help you. Once the boxes are unpacked and the items cataloged, I will leave.” She waggled a finger at him. “And you are to tell no one about our arrangement. Not your brother. Not my cousin. Let Sophy think I’ve gone home. If she decides she needs me again, I will not be found. That will teach her a lesson.”
Mr. Shaw rose from his chair and clasped her hand to his wheezing chest. “Bless you, Mrs. Thorne. May I call you Prudence? If we are to work closely together, that seems far friendlier than your married name.”
Pru looked up into Mr. Shaw’s moss-green eyes and forgot for just a moment what her name was. “Pru,” she said, extricating her hand. “My friends”—not that she’d had time to have many—“call me Pru.”
“Please call me Darius. I expect we’ll get along just fine, Pru. Let’s plot out how we are to accomplish the unpacking.”
He pulled a pencil and pad out of his waistcoat pocket and began making a list of how she was to handle the objects. He told her to wear gloves when she touched them, which was fortunate—she would not be able to see the wicked ring winking on her finger.
Chapter Four
Darius truly had not expected Mrs. Thorne—Pru—to agree to his proposition. If he’d not been seated, he might have fallen down in shock when she said yes. And he was still shocked by the dispassionate and professional way she had dealt with his erotic artifacts since yesterday. Even though she did not resemble any sort of voluptuary in her hideous black mourning gown and scraped-back hair, she had not exhibited one shred of emotion as she brought him one sensual thing after the next.
The three of them were making rapid headway uncrating Darius’s valuables. It had been decided he would remain in his bedroom with the windows thrown wide open in case a stray bit of hay wafted its way up the steps. Below, Malcolm and Pru were busy prying off lids and disposing of the damned straw as speedily as possible. Everything had to be carefully brushed clean and checked against the manifest before Pru brought it upstairs to be tagged for its new owner.
She arrived a bit breathless every time
, an enchanting taffy curl escaping from her coiffeur and a glistening of dew over her full upper lip. She would no doubt be much more comfortable if she unbuttoned her bodice, or better yet, threw her ugly dress away entirely. She seemed unused to the exercise—she had not spent the decade since her marriage spinning about in ballrooms but sitting at her mother’s bedside. Darius was quite happy at the thought of her sitting at his, although he was not actually in bed.
Malcolm, the devil, had decided his gimpy leg was acting up, thus thrusting Pru into Darius’s masculine lair like clockwork. Darius looked around. Amend that. The bedroom and its adjacent sitting room were pink and frilly, hardly masculine at all. By rights, Pru should have taken it, but perhaps the large mirror over the bed and the indecent pictures on the walls had deterred her. She had ensconced herself in one of the Spartan attic bedrooms.
Darius was grateful for the suite of rooms, for every flat surface was now covered with statuary, jewelry, and gilt-edged books. More indecent pictures were propped up against the walls. It had been amusing to see Pru wrestle with an especially deviant angel as she carried his portrait up the stairs. Darius had decreed that anything else that large should be left downstairs to spare poor Pru any further strain.
But she did not complain despite her glowing perspiration. And he had not sneezed in twenty-four hours.
He heard her footfall in the hallway and put his pen aside on the flimsy papier-mâché courtesan’s escritoire. He’d been writing to his clients to arrange the transfer of items he’d been commissioned to find. Extras that had caught his attention in his travels would be auctioned off at an exclusive invitation-only event right here on Jane Street in two days’ time. There was no better address to attract the connoisseur of the prurient and the profane.
Pru entered, blowing a wisp of hair from her damp forehead. Her white-gloved hands clutched a chased silver bowl studded with jewels and exposed bodies. She set it down on the dresser and sank into a rose-pink chair. “That’s the last of the lot from Jerusalem, according to Malcolm. One would think such things would be forbidden in the Holy Land.”
Darius grinned. “That’s what’s made them so sought-after. I was fortunate to buy the entire contents of an old reprobate’s estate. His family was eager to be rid of it all.
Any luck?”
Pru rubbed her finger, shaking her head. The enormous ruby ring had split the seam of the cotton work glove, but it had not fallen from her finger. Butter, goose grease, hair pomade, ice and heat and perspiration—even gravy from last night’s roast—had had no effect on the thing. Darius had given up hope of ever being able to sell it. Pru, however, was hard at work right this minute trying to wiggle it off with the corner of her apron.
“Let me catch my breath before I go downstairs again. We still have a few more hours of natural light. What made your father ever get into such a business?” she asked, her golden brows knit over her task.
“I think it all started with a collection of naughty snuffboxes and what-not he inherited from his father. The old man had a good eye for unusual art, and it wasn’t hard for my father to convince his cronies they needed everything he owned, and then acquired. He developed a certain reputation, and ladies and gentlemen of the ton have been relying on Shaw Antiquities for decades ever since.”
“Ladies. Gentlemen.” Pru sniffed.
“All this may not be to your taste, but I assure you we have supplied amusement to the finest homes in the country.”
“What do people do with such—such—” Pru waved her hand at the panoply of objects.
“You’d be surprised.” Darius rose from the desk and picked up a carved ivory box. He was dreadful to tease her, but couldn’t resist. “You see the scene depicted here?”
Pru’s cheeks matched the chair she sat on. “Yes.”
“Well, the object within serves a lady just as well if her gentleman is not at home to perform as pictured.” He popped the latch and took out a large ivory dildo.
“Oh!”
“Would you like to examine it more closely?”
“Certainly not!”
“It should be somewhat familiar. You did say you were married.”
“For a mercifully short time, and I never—put that thing away at once!”
Could it be that the virtuous widow had never examined a man’s organ, whether made of flesh or ivory? Darius examined her. Her blue eyes were bright and her modest chest rose and fell. In indignation, exhaustion or interest?
“How is it that you’ve agreed to help me if you are so averse to my collection?”
“I’m not precisely averse. It makes no difference at all to me how you earn your bread. I just didn’t want your illness on my conscience,” she said, prim.
Darius raised a dark brow. “Or perhaps you were curious. Just a little.”
Pru looked ready to bite his head off. Then her eyes slid to a corner of the pink room. “And what if I was? Just a little.”
“If you are curious, Pru, that’s healthy. You are an attractive woman. It seems a shame that you should let one bad experience color your relationship with all men.”
She tugged off the torn glove and tried to spin the ring around her finger. It remained stubbornly pinching in place, and her finger was turning an alarming shade of pink. He put the dildo back in its casket and leaned down, covering her nervous hands with his. “Have you never experienced pleasure, Pru?”
“Of course I have.” Her tone did not convince him, and her downturned eyes would not meet his. Her lashes were tipped with gold—if she’d been a courtesan she would probably resort to blackening them, but Darius thought the gilt suited her. Her now blushing cheeks and rosy lips needed no artifice. The more time he spent in her presence, the more he realized that his initial impression of her was incorrect. He had thought her somewhat plain, but she was not. Her beauty was subtle and not aided by the deadening black clothes she was forced to wear for propriety’s sake. He wondered what she’d look like out of them.
She was slight. Pale where the blushes did not stain her skin—too pale, as if she hadn’t been outdoors to see sunlight in an age. He could see the blue of her veins in the wrists he held, just detect the erratic pulse at her throat. The neckline of her mourning gown was far too high and swathed with a black fichu, but he pictured small breasts, perfect in their way. He told himself his own idle curiosity might have a benefit to her. Who was better than he to awaken her slender body to its purpose? “If I can assist you in any way to find your pleasure, Pru, you have only to ask.”
She looked at him now, her blue eyes wide. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I think you know.” He stroked the ring with his thumb, smoothing over the jeweled ridges. What would she do if he touched her in such a way? Darius decided he would try to find out as soon as possible.
If she would let him.
So far, she sat still. As still as and now much paler than the ivory object he’d recently shown her. She didn’t try to free her hands. Taking that as a sign of permission, he peeled off the remaining glove and circled her palm with deliberate design. It was odd how one’s palm was so sensitive to the slightest pressure. Darius had even stimulated himself as he practiced his seduction techniques on his own rough paws.
Pru shifted in her chair just a fraction, letting him know his practice had paid off and his touch was not unwelcome. He swirled and swooped lightly on the wavery lines of her small white hand, then pressed his lips to its center. She tasted a bit salty and smelled of rose soap. He moved to the blue of her wrist, his nose getting poked by the starch of the lace trim at her sleeve. He raised his eyes to hers. They were a darker blue, her pupils large as if he had drugged her. Well, he was drugging her—with a taste of long-deferred sin. Surely she deserved some? Her husband had failed her in spectacular fashion.
She blinked twice and cleared her throat. “I only agreed to help you out of charity. I can see I was wrong to ignore the impropriety of our working together.”
He switch
ed to her other hand, licking a line from her cuff to her ring finger. “Propriety is vastly overrated, Pru.” He turned her palm, then suckled the diamond in his mouth. Pru gave a strangled cry and snatched her hand away. She wiped the ring with the abandoned cotton glove in her lap.
“It’s easy for you to say that. You are a man. You don’t suffer the consequences of indiscretion. You’ll just go off somewhere and buy more wicked things.”
“I’ve told you I’m done with all this. I hope to buy a small property. Farm. Perhaps raise sheep.” Darius realized his dream was rather prosaic, but there it was—he was determined to be the first boring Shaw in generations. His rackety father had not been the first to fall from the straight and narrow path.
“Sheep!” Her scorn was palpable.
“Yes. White, wooly animals. Although sometimes they’re black. It’s time to turn the family history around. Even Cyrus has tried to escape by marrying your cousin. I expect in forty years or so, no one will remember how we amassed our fortunes.”
“How on earth can you live in the country? You’ll die during haying season.”
“I’ll let my tenants do the hard work.” He hadn’t quite thought that far ahead. Surely as a landowner he would not be expected to fork hay into a wagon. Besides, the sheep would eat the grass right down to its roots.
“I believe I’m finished for the day,” Pru said, rigid in her chair, her hands wound tightly in her lap to prevent any further assault. “And finished, period. It is too late for me to make arrangements to leave this afternoon, but I will go home tomorrow.”
Damn. He’d moved too fast. Perhaps that bit with the diamond between his teeth was too much. But he knew a river of heat lay buried somewhere beneath all that black rectitude—he’d seen her face light up for a moment, watched her lids drop, heard a quickened breath. It was a shame to leave her as is. Untouched. Unloved.
Lords of Passion Page 20
