The Love List

by Deb Marlowe

  “Your brother?” she whispered.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to worry overmuch about his brother, suddenly. Aldmere’s eyes had turned up at the corners. And somehow she had moved toward him, after all. Her lips parted, her heart pounded as she waited, waited.

  She craved it, that smile, more than a sailor, months at sea, covets the sight of land. She knew it was wrong. A dangerous longing. It was beyond foolish for her to want this man. This duke.

  This moon or sun, she might as well say. He was so far removed from her in situation, fortune and prospects that he might as well be another celestial body altogether.

  But want him she did. Had wanted him even when he’d been distant and defensive and disdainful.

  “Who else wants that List as badly as we do?” he asked lightly.

  But this—this tiny, almost-glimpse of a light and open Aldmere . . . it set her awhirl in confusion. She wanted to surge hungrily toward him—and to just as quickly push him away.

  “Of course it’s him,” he nearly crowed in relief. “God, that stunt is just exactly something that he would pull.” He grasped both of her arms. “It’s him. It’s Truitt!”

  He’d pinned her against the wall, although she doubted he realized it. She barely felt it. She was too busy drinking in the jubilation that came off of him in waves.

  “My brother is alive, Miss Wilmott. Alive and well and up to his usual sort of mischief.”

  She could hear the joy in his tone, almost feel it bubbling in his blood like champagne. Trapped between him, the wall and the counter that pressed at her waist, she was caught, breathless, waiting.

  He surrounded her, so tall and solid and warm. His masculine beauty drew her. His power—even his arrogance—excited her. He stirred her up, awakening cravings she’d never felt before. But she was not for him. She knew it, bone deep, and all the heat and longing in the world couldn’t change that incontrovertible fact.

  But she would see that smile, damn it. She locked her gaze onto his solid jaw and appealingly wide mouth and willed it to happen.

  It didn’t.

  Instead he gripped her tighter, leaned in, and kissed her.

  The shock of it held her frozen for a long moment, while her heart tripped, then recovered to pound too hard, too quickly. Her breath wouldn’t come. It had been stolen by the heat flooding her veins. His grip loosened and his fingers moved, traveling a soothing path up and down her arms. And at last she let go, melted, and flowed into his embrace.

  Yes. This much she could have. This much and no more. It wasn’t really so dangerous, this warmth that followed his hands, gathering under her skin wherever he touched. And he touched her thoroughly, sliding soft, whispery caresses up and along her collarbone, against the sensitive skin of her nape, then lower. She arched into the spiraling curves he traced down her back and across her bottom.

  Every bit of her throbbed with life, sizzled and tingled and strained toward him with an overwhelming fierceness. She moaned, low in her throat. He heard the call, understood her need better than she did, and pulled her tight against him.

  Her hands slid up, hovering over the broad, strong breadth of his shoulders. Then, greatly daring, she pressed her fingers into the thick, enticing abundance of his hair.

  This she could take without fear, without giving up control, or worse, losing a part of herself.

  He pressed the kiss harder, then slid his mouth along her jaw, trailing soft kisses until he reached the sweet, sensitive spot behind her ear. Caught in a great shiver, she gave him access, letting her head tip back.

  Aldmere accepted the invitation, pressing kisses into her white skin, letting his tongue linger over the dancing beat of her pulse. This was madness. Folly. But damn it all to hell, he wanted a bit of madness. Here and now. He wanted to taste it, sweet and heady on Brynne Wilmott’s lips and in the enticing curve of her neck.

  He didn’t know why this girl, out of so many, tempted him to abandon all the principles around which he’d organized his life. Soon enough he’d go back, abandon himself again to long days of work, to a vast empire that meant nothing to him.

  But not now.

  Now, this minute, was for the deep thrum of need sounding in his core. She moaned again and the vibration of it sent shockingly erotic waves through him. His cock rose higher, harder. He drew back, then, and found her mouth once again, demanding more, taking possession. He ran his hands over her, wanting to inflame her passions until they ran as hot as his. He explored her curves, tested the weight of her breasts in his hands, and thumbed the nipples that reached out to him in desire.

  She gasped, and he nearly growled his triumph and satisfaction. He grazed her again, running his palms over those tempting, distended peaks.

  She tensed suddenly, breaking the kiss and whispering his name with a voice gone rough and husky with need.

  He gentled his caresses in response, because this girl inspired the urge to soothe as well as conquer. To protect as much as dominate.

  Alarmed at such a thought, he stiffened. She was already pushing at his chest.

  “Aldmere, please.”

  He pulled away. Her cheeks glowed, rosy in the light arching from the open doorway.

  From the doorway?

  Behind him, a throat cleared.

  He dropped his hands from her and turned slowly. A portly gentleman glared at him over the lantern in his hand. Aldmere noted the food stains on his waistcoat and the ink stains on his fingers and deduced his identity even before Joe Watts popped out from behind him, eyes rolling wildly.

  “As ye see, Mr. Rudd, it’s just my cousin and her, ah . . . gentleman friend. I’m ever so sorry, sir,” he continued, raising his brows in Aldmere’s direction, “but I could not find you a hack before my master here bade me to return with him.”

  Aldmere straightened and stepped back. “No matter. I appreciate the effort.” He paused, not wishing to cause further trouble for the boy. “You must be sure to send those prints I requested, when you can.” With a nod to the printer, he stepped toward the door. “A good evening to you, sir.”

  Rudd let out a harrumph, but stepped aside as Aldmere guided Miss Wilmott past the pair and out the door. Cheeks aflame, she allowed it, and walked silently by his side as they left the shop.

  Full dark had fallen. He stepped out, unable to decide if he was exhausted or exhilarated. He steered her to the left, more than ready to leave behind the dark, walled-in passage of Paternoster Row.

  Silence reigned as they walked. Aldmere held her close and let his senses range out, watching for anything out of place or anyone wandering too close. Not until they reached the well-lit width of Cheapside did he venture to speak.

  “Miss Wilmott,” he began.

  “Brynne,” she interrupted. “After the day we’ve just had and the ill-conceived manner in which we concluded it, I think I would prefer if you used my given name.”

  “I wouldn’t call it ill-conceived,” he said quietly.

  “No?” She gave a short, vaguely hysterical chuckle.

  “Unexpected, perhaps.”

  “And lovely,” she whispered. He felt her shoulders straighten. “But best forgotten.”

  “Forgotten?” Desire still moved through his veins, a low thrum vibrating at the base of his spine, eager to flare high again. He hoped she could hear the incredulity her suggestion brought on.

  “Yes,” she answered. His frustrated nether parts mourned at her firm resolution. “We’ve worked well together today and come a fair way in uncovering a plot that we didn’t even know existed yesterday.” He felt the sudden tension in her frame. “We’ve established that we each have our own paths to follow. They’ve converged, if only for the moment, and though it’s clear we think and feel differently on nearly every level—”

  Except the physical. But he was fighting to disregard that.

  “I’d certainly agree to continue working together until we unravel this completely,” she continued. “But I think we should defi
ne our relationship—as a partnership, perhaps. And all that just passed should definitely be . . . forgotten.”

  Her manner changed suddenly, and she pulled on his arm. “Unlike the fact that your brother has not been abducted at all—but is in fact, at large, and in possession of both copies of the List!”

  “Yes. You’re right.” His steps slowed a bit. With difficulty he ignored the insistent call of passion in his blood and focused his mind. He’d been so relieved at the thought of Tru being safe that he hadn’t thought that far. He stopped altogether. “But this means that we’ve both met our goals, after a fashion.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Then you don’t wish to continue our association?”

  He shouldn’t. She was a walking temptation, even to a man like him, whose life was not his own. Who hadn’t been free to indulge his own passions since he’d been a whelp. Lord, he couldn’t imagine a more potent distraction, luring him from his tower of isolation, challenging him, holding him accountable, and yes, looking at him as a man, and not just a duke.

  And good God, how was he to keep his hands from her, now that he’d touched her skin, run his mouth over her and tasted sin and sweet, honeyed desire? Now that she’d dragged him from simple joy to flaming desire and on to near madness in the blink of an eye?

  She was lovely. And naïve. And the inevitable target of a great deal of heartache. This morning he’d wanted nothing more than to retreat from her and her impending doom. But now—now he felt a sudden determination to thwart fate, to throw a veil over this maddening girl and keep this incident from being the one that broke her.

  Uttter foolishness. Impossible. He should take her home and bid her stay there while he finished this business.

  “No,” he answered instead. “I mean to say, yes. We might have met our immediate objectives, but this is far from over. We need to find Tru and those manuscripts. And somehow I feel we must at least understand what else Marstoke might be up to with the List.” He shrugged, as if what he’d just said meant nothing. As if he wasn’t ignoring his instincts and abandoning every principle upon which he’d based the last sixteen years. “We’ve come this far. We might as well finish it out together.”

  God. He felt free. And exhilarated. And sick.

  She stared at him as if he’d hung the moon.

  “Let’s go then, shall we?”

  Her lips pressed together, she nodded.

  He felt an echo of it again, as he took her arm—that sensual jolt that had his whole body tightening in shock.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “We’ll have to be careful. Thus far we’ve been a step behind and I’m damned tired of it. I have a good idea of where Tru might be hiding, if he’s making forays about the city like today’s.” He glared down at her. “Tomorrow we’ll search him out. You can come along, but you will follow my instructions to the letter. Marstoke could still be a threat.”

  She murmured her agreement.

  And he marched on, ignoring the small voice in his head as it struggled to gain volume. Do you not remember? It whispered and worried, intent upon its warning. This is meddling of the highest order—and you already know the consequences of such folly.

  But Aldmere pushed away the voice—and the sudden image dredged up from the murky depths of his mind. The small cottage, once his second home, stripped of its usual genial warmth. A green coat, hanging forever empty on a rough peg. The wretched sobs of a shaking woman. The quiet, accusatory anger of a man helpless to express it.

  He cursed and forced his clenched fists to relax.

  “We’ll have to be careful,” he repeated. And this time he said with all the fervor and intensity of a vow.

  Eleven

  How could I know, the first time I met the despicable Lord M—, what havoc those few minutes would wreak upon my life? It happened in the Pump Room. Captain Wilson introduced us, although he appeared almost reluctant to do so. Of course, Lord M— had not yet come into his title. But the arrogance was already there, and the cruelty. I did not like him. I let him know it. We engaged in a brief, verbal battle, in which I was sarcastic, the Captain was agitated and the future Lord M— was both angry and intrigued. I left them both behind in a fit of disgust and returned to my mother.

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  The dream reached for her. Even asleep, Brynne recognized it. The nightmare that had gripped her after she left home and had returned repeatedly in those early days. Yet, even knowing, still she found herself helpless to escape. Like struggling to break water’s surface, she fought towards wakefulness, but icy fingers dragged her back. Down, toward the depths where her limbs would be struck stiff and solid with paralyzing fear and her soul frozen in terrifying loneliness.

  Suddenly, light shone above. A soft voice spoke. With a gasp, she awoke, calming at the sight of her room in Hestia’s house, at the tantalizing smell of fresh, warm bread and . . .

  “Rosemary?” she asked, rolling over.

  “It’s growing wild in that sunny corner of the kitchen garden.” Callie set a loaded tray down on the small table in the corner. She pulled a small chair in from the passageway and beckoned, leaving the favored, padded chair for Brynne. “I chopped it fine and threw it into the mix this morning.”

  Sitting up, Brynne took in the drawn skin of Callie’s face and the dark circles under her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

  “Oh, you know how I get. My mind gets to gnawing on a problem and I can’t rest.”

  “And this is a particularly tough and chewy problem. What does Hestia say?”

  “Exactly the sort of refined and ladylike oaths you’d expect,” Callie said with a laugh. “But she’s already throwing buckets of water over the fire that hasn’t started yet. She has an idea that it will be possible to prevent the public sale of the List. She must have written a dozen letters last night, and this morning she left early to pay strategic visits and start to call in favors.”

  “It looks like you were up even earlier,” Brynne yawned.

  “I think better when I’m mixing something.”

  “Or pounding something,” she answered, wry.

  “Well just be glad I kept to pounding the dough and not your door. You got in so late.” Disapproving, Callie flicked back the covers of Brynne’s bed. “Come and eat and tell me everything. The girls will be up soon with water for a bath.”

  Brynne paused in reaching for her wrap. “Truly? Bless you, Callie. A thousand times.”

  “We all agreed you would need one after dealing with Hatch.” Her friend grimaced and sat. “Was it as bad as we’ve imagined?”

  The question triggered an avalanche of rapid recollections. Brynne remembered the misery in the dirty streets, the feel of Francis Headley’s thin arm, her embarrassment at the furtive coupling in Hatch’s entry hall, the sour stench of the bawd’s office and the cold hate in her eyes. She shivered. “Yes. It was bad.”

  She paused as she took her seat, relishing other images from the day. Aldmere, pulling her close and fending off that man and his knife with little more than a look. The duke standing stalwart and determined, facing down Hatch’s bully. Even against Hatch, when he couldn’t use force against the vicious, empty woman, he’d cowed her with nothing more than the power of his words. “But Aldmere gave her a taste of her own.” Her mouth curled in satisfaction. “Seeing that was worth all the rest.”

  Callie snatched back the basket of fresh rolls she’d been handing over. “Wait just a minute, Brynne Wilmott. You are being careful, are you not?”

  Brynne reached again. “Careful about what, exactly, Callie Grant?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean—careful about that duke! He seems capable of acting as big a bully as Hatch—and high-handed and arrogant in the bargain.”

  “Oh, he’s all that.” Brynne replied around a mouthful of fresh roll. “Good heavens.” She tilted her head. “Do you know, I think that fully half the girls who choose to stay on
here do it just for your bread.”

  “Don’t try to distract me,” her friend complained. But Brynne could see the pleasure she took in the compliment. “Tell me about the duke.”

  She shrugged. “He’s everything you’ve said. He definitely has his domineering moments, and he seems continually willing to take control of any given situation.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Callie asked with a sneer. “I’ll wager he was more than eager to put his own interests first, as well.”

  Brynne sipped her tea. “Well, in this case we have to be fair. His interest was all regarding his brother’s welfare.”

  “And yours is in your future. Don’t forget that. Don’t make the mistake of placing yourself second again—behind anyone.”

  “I won’t.” She scanned the tray in search of a letter. “Speaking of which, has there been word from the land agent?”

  “Not yet.” Callie poured for herself and sat back. “You have a good plan, Brynne. Oh, there will be talk when you first set up your establishment, if only because of everything that’s happened to you. But you’ll have time. While the first children prosper and grow, while they train and choose a new direction for their lives, you’ll have time to win people over. And you’ll do it with your vision and hard work and your obvious wish to help.”

  Brynne pushed the duke’s dissenting voice from her head. “I hope you are right.”

  “The worst thing you could do would be to continue to swim in the scandalbroth.”

  “I have no plans even for dipping my toe in.”

  “Good. For you are no Hestia Wright. You don’t have the backing of princes and powerful friends. You’ll have only your passion and your character. And like it or not, your character will inevitably color that of the girls you wish to help.”

  “My character has already been shredded by hundreds of people that I’ve never met,” she answered sourly. “Society rejected me when I failed to live by their rules. So guess what that means, Callie—it means that I no longer have to live by their rules.”

  Her friend folded her arms. “That’s the first wholly naïve statement I’ve ever heard you make.”