"I do. I planned on a stroll along Bond Street."
"Oh." His face fell.
Excellent. She would make the shopping expedition as torturous as possible, burying him under gloves, bonnets, and parasols. That way he would seek his daily entertainment elsewhere and leave her alone.
"I had hoped we could go riding. I wanted to meet the grey stallion you ride. Is he Arabian?"
"Galahad." She breathed his name. The one male in her life who held her heart and made her knees go weak. She gazed at the man seated across from her. Few possessed the eye to determine Galahad's origins. Yet again, Quinn had surprised her and found the small chink in her armour. The temperamental stallion was her one weakness in life. "Yes, he is an Arabian. The baron imported him as a colt some years ago. I do need to visit the stables. Perhaps we could go this afternoon?"
The smile was back and in full force. "He's a fine-looking specimen. I shall look forward to it."
After breakfast, Perkins took as long to wrangle Quinn as Sarah did to finish Ianthe's outfit. She waited a full five minutes, tapping her shoe, until he bounced down the stairs as though he were part Labrador, not wolf. She tried to scold him for keeping her waiting, but the day outside was too warm and his company was simply too pleasant. She led the way to Bond Street and her favourite shop for accessories. The thick glass and mullioned windows only hinted at the riotous colour contained behind them. Most men baulked at the doorway and, like stubborn mules, refused to step within. Not Quinn. He held the door, and doffed his hat to a group of women leaving before he crossed inside.
"I say," he murmured, his gaze wide at the explosion of an artist's palette that blanketed the shop. Bonnets were suspended from the ceiling. Parasols lined the walls; some were displayed folded up and hung lengthwise as though they were swords, while others drifted from above, kept from falling by wires. And everywhere were gloves. Short ones, long ones, satin opera gloves, and riding gloves. Some clutched at parasols like severed hands, while others tried to escape the tiny drawers stacked against the walls.
There were more hues crammed within the walls than Nature herself could invent: pinks, orange, reds, and blues, through to sombre cream, grey, and black for those in mourning. Enough feathers for a large flock of chickens sprang from the bonnets, alongside floral displays and drooping bracts of leather-worked leaves.
And everywhere were the fairer sex, trying on bonnets, waving parasols, and exclaiming when they found the perfect treasure to complement an outfit. Quinn smiled at them all, seeming completely unperturbed at being surrounded by what some men would deem feminine fripperies.
As much as she tried, Ianthe couldn't seem to dampen the man's enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely delighted when the first brave woman asked if he would venture an opinion on her choice of items. He gave his view on the proffered bonnets as though it were a serious matter. Once the other women realised there was an accommodating male amongst them, the walls soon echoed with calls of "Mr Muir!" as they waved items at him for a male perspective.
Ianthe walked to the back wall and the display of parasols, and a vision flashed before her. Behind her closed eyes twirled a dark geometric design on a cream background, the pattern mesmerising in its simplicity. Ianthe longed to step backward and see a context to the vision. The marching dark line could form a tiled mosaic or wallpaper. The vision was accompanied by a sense of warmth and it drew her in. But what was it? A tiled floor at the baths? Perhaps she was to meet someone significant there? She held in a sigh. Yet another meaningless image from her supposed gift of the second sight.
She squeezed her eyes shut to clear the image and then opened them. From beneath the fringed canopy of a parasol suspended above the corner, she had a clear view of Quinn. He exhibited such patience and tact in his replies to the women flocking around him, at odds with the way he'd blithely strode into her room and put his feet up on her bed.
A woman in her thirties with a plain, pinched face asked a question about a bonnet. There was a slight tremor in the hand holding up the rich blue concoction, as though she expected him to cast disdain on her selection. Quinn regarded the hat for a moment and then smiled at the holder.
"The feathers are the exact shade to make your eyes shimmer with the secrets of a deep ocean," he replied.
"Oh, my," the spinster said as a faint blush crept up her face.
Ianthe suspected it was a rare compliment for the creature, and she wondered if he realised what those few words would mean to the woman. Or did he know exactly what he was doing? The smile on his face made Ianthe suspect he had crafted his words to bring a shaft of warmth into the spinster's day.
She gazed upward at the rainbow above her head, and a parasol of pale green silk caught her eye. The canopy was embroidered with swallows. Their feathers were picked out in a metallic thread that caught the light as they swooped and dived amongst the umbrella spines. She plucked the item off its wire and spun it in her hand. The silver handle was shaped like a vine-covered branch. She was tracing a leaf with a fingertip when she was re-joined by her companion. Quinn's head ducked under the delicate shelter, the thin layer of silk the only thing between them and curious eyes.
"I would have my kiss now." He pitched his tone low, so only she could hear him over the louder conversations in the shop.
His words brushed over her skin and set her heart racing. How did six little words have such power over her?
She nodded her head in the tiniest gesture of acquiescence. Quinn wrapped one arm around her waist, and drew her closer as he dropped his head. His cheek grazed along her shoulder. Ianthe drew in shallow breaths as she waited. Would he kiss her lips this time? He was headed in the right direction.
With one hand, he stroked a thumb along her jaw. He made every movement slow, gentle. He lowered his head until his cheek rested close to hers, near enough that she felt his warmth and the delicate shiver of each breath over her skin. He paused while his thumb kept stroking her jaw, and waited until she wet her lips. He feathered a light touch over the base of her neck and then sucked on her skin. Ianthe drew in a sharp gasp at the pang it set off through her body. Quinn kissed the base of her throat, and she arched her head back, giving him better access. His lips caressed her flesh, until he finished with a soft nip that made her breath falter.
Her heart raced, which was really quite ridiculous. So far he had kissed her cheek, her wrist, and now her neck. There was nothing about it to set her pulse racing. Except it did. "That's three, and really, Mr Muir, I'm starting to wonder if you know where my lips are."
"Oh, I know, Miss Wynn. I just want to make sure you're aware of my lips first." He gave that annoyingly large wolfish grin, popped out from under the parasol, and went back to dispensing advice on bonnets and shawls.
She stared at the flock of swallows spinning round in her grasp. Her cold heart beat against her ribs, and all she could think about were his lips. Or more precisely, what it would be like when he finally kissed her. When had she last kissed a man? No, when had a man last kissed her with such power that her knees buckled and heat pooled through her torso?
She thought of William St John. She had kissed him with her whole heart that long-ago summer, when she was just a girl of sixteen. They'd wasted hours, hidden in the hayloft above the stables, exploring each other's mouths. She had thought she burned for St John; she was wrong. What she had once felt was but a single match compared to the bonfire Quinn Muir was igniting in her body.
She gave the parasol another spin and watched the swallows play. Perhaps the little umbrellas should be made of tougher stuff, like steel, able to protect a woman's heart. She feared hers was at risk. If she opened up to Quinn, how would she survive without him when their week was over?
9
Quinn
* * *
Quinn's plan was going swimmingly. He'd just stolen kiss number three from the highly desirable courtesan in a shop on Bond Street. He could still taste her skin on his tongue, and he was hungry for more already.
Each day in her presence made his wolf brush closer to the surface. His frustration at being unable to change was somewhat tempered by his promise not to do so under her roof. But if he could, would she accept or reject the animal that lurked within him?
The brief kiss he had placed on her neck was but an appetiser of things to come. He had a long game in mind, and he wanted her to seek him out. Everything would be by her choice; he would not impose his will upon her. The only exception was his daily request for a kiss.
Like a starving man seated at a banquet, he tried to hold in his appetites, knowing that soon the empty growl in his stomach would be sated. At least he had asked for kiss number three in a public place; he wasn't sure how much longer he could contain his building desire for her. At night he had to relieve the pressure, and while his shaft was well acquainted with his hand, he was in danger of developing calluses on his palm. Perhaps that was why Alick clung to a half shift—the fur would conceal how rough his palms were.
The glimpses Quinn saw of the private Ianthe, the one she hid from everyone in society, called to him. A deep pain simmered behind her practiced smile, and he wanted to scoop her up and protect her from everyone and everything that had ever hurt her. He would spend a lifetime keeping a genuine smile on her face and seeing to her every want, if only she would let him.
To top off his day so far, he had been able to bring a true smile to a spinster's face when he’d complimented her choice of bonnet. He had to contain his laughter at Ianthe's obvious frustration. She'd thought to horrify him with a day of shopping, but he actually quite liked the activity. He had grown up with four older brothers, and it made a pleasant change to be immersed in a completely feminine activity. Women sought his opinion on a variety of fripperies as, for once in his life, he was the only man around, and he revelled in it.
He hoped she was motivated by a twinge of jealousy when she suggested they leave and head out to the stables. It was probably just boredom, but a man could hope that he stirred something hotter in the woman he admired. Quinn slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out the coins to purchase the parasol. It was an expensive item, considering how insubstantial it appeared, and he would have to visit the gaming tables in the clubs surrounding Pall Mall to replenish his finances.
"Thank you," Ianthe said as they left the shop, her new acquisition clutched in one hand. Over her muslin gown she wore a pelisse of palest green, which matched the shade of the leaves on the parasol, as though one item had been specifically designed for the other. She made him think of a spring morning and the burst of promise contained within the lush buds adorning bare tree branches.
They chatted of inconsequential things as they wandered down Bond Street, the day only marred by a cold shadow that swept over them when a spectre in black halted and blocked their path. Viscount Hoth touched the brim of his top hat. His cold gaze slid over Quinn, then returned to Ianthe's face. Quinn's hackles rose and he had to stop his lips from pulling back in a snarl.
Hoth took her hand and pressed a kiss to her glove. "Ianthe, how marvellous to stumble upon you. I trust you are well?"
"Very well, thank you, Septimus. And you?" She smiled up at Hoth, and Quinn could only marvel at her acting skills—surely she didn't actually want this animated corpse fawning over her? Yet her hand rested lightly in the viscount's clutches, when he had expected her to snatch it back, and her tone remained friendly, almost solicitous.
Hoth's thin lips pulled into what the man probably thought resembled a smile, but it appeared he had no practical experience with the facial movement. "I am much invigorated these days, as one becomes when anticipating a great pleasure."
"I am sure you inspire a similar response." She withdrew her hand to fuss with the parasol.
"We should be on our way, Ianthe." Quinn wanted to stand between her and the viscount, to shield her from his hungry gaze. The man made his blood run cold. There was something not right about him that kept his wolf on the alert. Hoth stared at Ianthe as though she were a basted game bird waiting to be carved on his table, and he was trying to decide if he would go for breast or thigh first.
"Yes, we must make our next appointment." She dropped a curtsey to the viscount. "Septimus," she murmured, and tucked her hand back in the crook of Quinn's arm.
"Until next time," Hoth said, still pointedly ignoring Quinn. He turned and headed to his waiting carriage.
Quinn watched the older man step up and disappear from view. "I wonder about him and what lies beneath the surface."
Her hand tightened on Quinn's arm. "As an Unnatural, are you able to spot others?"
Quinn snorted. One didn't need to be an Unnatural to sense the dark shadow that loomed over the viscount. "Our wolves have better senses. Mine says Hoth is not what he appears on the surface but I cannot not say whether he is Unnatural or mage-blooded. Do you have a suspicion?"
Ianthe shuddered and leaned closer to Quinn's side. "A vague idea only, and I want to make discreet enquiries before I try and give the idea form."
There was a snippet for Quinn to report to his superior officers. What exactly was Viscount Hoth? He was no lycanthrope; Quinn would recognise another wolf. But there was a vast array of Unnatural creatures and types of mage-blooded. He needed to seek the guidance of someone with more knowledge, like Aster, his adopted sister and the wife of his captain and pack leader. Leaving the supernatural aside, Quinn tried to steer the conversation closer to his mission.
"Was Viscount Hoth a good friend of Sir Phillip?"
Ianthe's fingers picked at the fabric of his sleeve. "They were close associates, but I do not know if they were friends. Septimus does not seem the sort of man to cultivate closer ties."
Quinn wondered at their association, a banker and a solicitor. Both named as traitors to England, working to expose her throat to France. He and his fellow soldiers needed to discover the particulars of the plot. His time at the gaming tables had taught him one thing: If a banker was involved, the stakes would be high. His bet was on money being at the root of their part of the conspiracy.
Something else worried at him—the viscount's interest in Ianthe. Hunger gleamed in the other man's cold gaze. Did he plan to take possession of his associate's mistress, to fill the vacancy the other man's death had left in her bed? If he did, then Quinn intended to foil him. He had no intention of relinquishing his position at her side and in her life. She was his mate and no one else would touch her.
They returned to the house and changed into riding clothes. Ianthe wore a light wool habit of dark blue, with a short military-style jacket decorated with more braid than he ever saw on any general. She even had an enlisted man's cap sitting atop her red curls.
"It's the latest fashion," she said as she twirled for him. "A homage to our military men, fighting so bravely against Napoleon."
He arched a brow. "Is that what you really think?"
Ianthe laughed and flicked the row of braid hanging off her shoulder. "No. I think I look like I became entangled in the curtain ties. But my opinion is immaterial. What matters is the enormous discount the modiste takes off my account when I model her clothes and the ton beat a path to her door for the exact same outfit."
"Then let us show you off to the envious glances of the noblewomen, and reduce your account to nothing this week." It was an aspect of their world he didn't understand. Noble women looked down on and sneered at Ianthe and those like her, but at the same time they wanted to know what she rode or wore, so they could emulate her.
The stables lay on the western side of the city, just a short hack to the bridle paths and Rotten Row in Hyde Park. The large two-storey structure had fresh, whitewashed walls between darkened beams. One wall had half doors flung open, where horses poked out their heads to survey the world and enjoy the sunshine. On one side of the stables, a rail enclosed a large sand school, used for training horses and to conduct lessons away from the harsh gaze of those riding Rotten Row. Today, a young woman was having a sidesaddle lesson. A groom controlled
the horse on a lunge line, issuing calm instructions while it walked a circle around him.
Quinn paused for a moment at the entrance to the stables, where he inhaled a deep lungful of hay and horse. It was a familiar scent that diffused warmth through his body. He would rather be here than in any fancy salon, ballroom, or theatre. He might be a wolf on the inside, but his exterior remained a cavalryman.
Stables ran on either side of the wide, cobbled aisle. Metal grating between each stall allowed the animals to see each other, but stopped any biting or bullying of their neighbours. He counted ten stalls on each side and, through an open door, a large tack room at the end, and stairs to the feed and hay storage above. Ianthe walked directly to one stall near the door. Sunlight from the open half door spilled over the straw and illuminated the horse within, making his coat shimmer like moonlight.
"This is Galahad." She stroked the grey muzzle, and the horse snuffled at her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Galahad." Quinn scratched behind the stallion's ears, and the animal leaned into the caress as he found just the right spot.
"I thought horses would be afraid with a wolf so near," Ianthe said as she watched him scratch the stallion.
Quinn blew warm air at the horse's wide nostrils. "It depends on the horse. Nervous ones become more so, but others prefer our company—as if they sense both man and wolf would always protect them."
She frowned at him, as though re-evaluating something in her mind.
"How did you come to ride him?" Quinn asked.
A smile lit up her face. "Ah, Galahad here is somewhat tricky. A few of the men tried to break him, but found him rather… obstinate. The baron thought a woman's touch might be needed. Galahad is not so different from other men. They all have their little foibles, and it's just a matter of understanding how to handle them. This particular one is hot, temperamental, and somewhat pig-headed."
Kisses to Steal Page 8
