Into the Hall of Vice

by Anabelle Bryant

  ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’ She whispered her answer, unsure if she sought to convince herself or instead prod him to dissuade her a jot more.

  ‘And do you always do what is proper, Gemma?’

  He angled in again and this time she caught the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and earthy and incredibly male. A fresh prickling of gooseflesh dotted her arms and she licked her lips for no reason. Still, she would not have him think her a coward.

  ‘I snuck out and ventured to your hell dressed as a boy.’ She smiled in triumph. ‘Do you truly need an answer to that question?’

  ‘Aah, impertinent as well as beautiful, an intriguing combination.’ He quirked his lips, his smile there and gone before she could truly appreciate it.

  And so she waited, stalled by his playful insult and gracious compliment.

  ‘Pity you’re hidden back here with your perfectly turned nose stuffed into a dull book when you could be walking the strand, enjoying an ice or partaking of the fair weather.’

  Was that an invitation? It was highly improper. No one could see her out and about with Mr Hewitt and that realisation caused her heart to stop altogether before it drudgingly thudded along. How incredibly unfair to segregate people, quite handsome, likeable people, because of the rules of society. At a loss, she lifted her shoulder in a slight shrug her brother would remind was terribly unladylike.

  Chapter Seven

  Could the lady be more enchanting if she tried? She stood before him, a portrait of loveliness, and offered him an endearing shrug that bespoke of mischief more than decorum.

  ‘But then there’s the issue of your sister’s gift.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Does she favour Shakespeare? May I recommend one of his sonnet collections?’

  She looked surprised by his suggestion, but then most would never suspect he’d taught himself to read with Maggie’s assistance, and gradually come to love Shakespeare’s eloquence. Somehow, he believed it would make him a better man, to understand the classics and rise above his beginnings.

  ‘You read poetry, Mr Hewitt?’

  She seemed insistent on keeping their conversation formal; either that or she delighted in saying his name.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Then we have something in common, don’t we?’

  More than you know.

  ‘Do you dance?’ She appeared delighted with their conversation.

  ‘Around most subjects.’ He smiled with the rejoinder. ‘Do you gamble?’

  ‘Never with my emotions.’ She returned his grin, pleased with their witty repartee. ‘Do you indulge in the delicious ice you mentioned on an overheated day like today?’

  Indulge, delicious, overheated. His mind processed every third word, his focus lost to her bewitching smile, the few wispy strands of hair escaped near her neck and high full bosom. What would she look like without all those blasted layers? He groaned low and forced himself to answer. ‘Yes. It’s a wonder the relief an ice can provide.’

  Especially when applied to the groin.

  He caught himself before he chuckled and swiftly changed the subject. ‘Now…’ He pushed away from the shelf and extended his arm to indicate they should move towards the poetry collections within the shop. ‘Let’s see what’s in store.’

  With only the slightest hesitation, she followed, but when he rounded a cart stacked tight with dusty books, she shrank back as if stung by a bee, her expression one of alarmed warning.

  He followed her gaze to where a gentleman stood at the front of the establishment, his manner of dress and arrogant composure telling of his demeanour. Cole knew him from occasional visits to the Underworld. Lord Winton was a wily one and certainly not a gentleman to trust.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She withdrew further into the shadows. ‘I’d rather not look at poetry today.’ She cast her eyes downward as if she hoped he’d allow the matter to drop and, without a thought, he acquiesced.

  ‘Nasty fellow.’

  Her eyes shot up to his with the utterance and they eased back into shadowy seclusion.

  He followed her departure until his body all but obstructed others who might wander behind the shelf, a scant few inches between their persons. ‘No need to elaborate. Sometimes it’s how they are born.’ He smiled, hoping to reassure, while his mind spun with the irony in his statement. So many privileged gentlemen embodied a black heart and greedy soul. At Second Chances, he knew several men who possessed a kind heart and generous spirit no matter they’d fallen on difficult times. It’s what made his work rewarding and reaffirmed his birth despite his less than desirable beginning.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled and something inside him quaked but he resisted the immediate wish to fall further into her charms. He may as well become a lovesick fool, worthless but for daydreams and the sentimental poetry he claimed to appreciate if he volunteered for heartbreak. Harbouring feelings for Gemma Amberson could lead to no good end, but how his heart fought otherwise and his body… well, whenever he caught her honeysuckle scent or gazed into those crystalline eyes, his went rock hard, a most inconvenient condition.

  ‘Shall we scurry out the back door?’ He nodded towards the rear wall. Straight to my apartment where I can kiss you senseless and satisfy this misplaced desire.

  ‘I could never.’ She almost giggled and he prided himself on cheering her. ‘Let’s wait another moment in hope Lord Winton leaves. I can’t imagine him an avid reader, his mind anything but enlightened. As a matter of fact, I find it an impossible image to conjure.’

  Now he knew her to be an enchantress. True enough, Winton looked like the type to admire the cheval glass more than the written word.

  ‘I suppose there are worse things than enduring my company a bit longer.’ Like not having your attention, sweet Gemma. ‘Suits me fine. Why would I wish to share your charms when I can selfishly enjoy them by myself, here in the dusky chaperone of Parliamentary Law?’

  Her soft giggle whispered against his chin. ‘Why are you here, Mr Hewitt? Were you also interested in the poetry selections?’

  Aah, a difficult question to answer. He’d intended to read about the current Poor Laws and better prepare himself for the political conflict brewing, and thus the store steward had pointed him in this direction. Now, what explanation could he possibly offer if he told her the truth?

  ‘Does one truly need a reason to enter a bookstore? I find I’m drawn here by the knowledge of its existence.’ He hoped she accepted his romantic ramblings without probing further.

  ‘I am of like mind.’ She went up on her tiptoe to peer over his shoulder, though any goal of accomplishing the height was futile. With the motion, her bosom brushed against his forearms, which were folded over his chest in an effort to keep his heart locked in place. There was no hope in accomplishing the feat now. Epic failure, in that.

  ‘Oh.’

  She staggered back as if she’d been burned. Perhaps she had. His blood ran hotter than Hades.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Deuces, she coloured a fetching shade of pink and smelled absolutely delicious. Like the fancy flower gardens he passed through before climbing into bed. He’d never be able to shoulder the hedges again without thinking of Gemma. She’d fill his dreams, drench his senses. Blast, she already did.

  ‘Let me secure our path is safe.’ He couldn’t stall longer despite he’d like nothing else than to tell her how luscious her breasts felt crushed against his arms or how delicious the tips would taste on his tongue. He should whisper wicked promises of all the secret pleasures he could offer. Deuces, he needed to kiss her again. He discarded the errant thought as soon as it formed. Lust blinded reason. He couldn’t think straight. ‘It appears our escape route is clear. I will bid you good day, Lady Amberson. Thank you for improving mine in an immeasurable manner.’

  ‘You’re leaving? You offered to lend your expertise with my poetry selection.’

  She looked disappointed, or
did he imagine the emotion? He didn’t imagine the accusatory tone of her words.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do fine without me. You can always question the steward.’

  Her smile fell away. Dammit, he’d only meant to distance himself and the raging issue in his smalls. One minute longer in her presence and he was sure to say something foolish, or worse, act on the randy mental images demanding attention. ‘Off with you now. You wouldn’t want all the better volumes to be sold.’

  Unconscionable behaviour. Unforgivable. He regretted it already, bloody moron that he was.

  ‘Very well.’ She paused for one last breath, her smile gone, expression unreadable. ‘Good day, Mr Hewitt.’

  Cole.

  ‘Good day.’ He turned to study the bookshelf, not wanting to see her leave.

  Gemma prepared for the Bardsleys’ Friday night card party with equalled measures determination and trepidation. Sophie would be there, as confirmed through an exchange of messages, and Gemma expected Winton would be present as well. She refused to wear the specific gown he’d requested, his assistance thus far worthless. Furthermore, she had no intention of allowing him to lay a finger on her person. Still, a niggling hope that he could provide insight into the evening her father died tempted she comply with his wishes. How dare he request a kiss?

  Kissing. Mr Hewitt was an accomplished master, no doubt. He’d certainly turned her world upside down with nothing more than a single kiss. Nothing more? Not at all. It was indeed much more. She’d begun to wonder at the power of it, the memory of that kiss able to permeate every waking moment of her life since.

  ‘Will you wear the peach silk?’ Nan draped an embellished evening gown across the foot of the bed where Gemma sat woolgathering.

  ‘I feel a child in all those flounces and ruffles.’ She shook her head in the negative.

  ‘It isn’t so much how you feel as how you look,’ Nan chided. ‘And His Grace prefers you in this style.’

  ‘If that was meant to persuade me, you’ve accomplished the opposite. My brother would like nothing better than to see me married and out of his hands.’ A beat of silence followed the declaration. ‘Rosalind would be lost without me and I have it in mind not to marry until I choose a husband and not when His Grace arranges a match.’

  ‘Very progressive thinking, my dear, although you may not have that amount of control.’ Nan eyed her with the comforting knowledge of many years shared. ‘I know you’ve been through a difficult time and things haven’t eased as of yet, but your brother cares for you and you must respect his wishes.’

  Gemma nodded slightly, forced to agree. ‘There lies the rub. Is it so very wrong to marry for love? My parents were a love match. At least that’s what Father told me. How I wish Mother had lived long enough for me to discuss matters of the heart.’

  ‘Your mother’s untimely passing cannot be undone and I will not have you remembering sadness and dashing away your dreams. Your brother is a strong challenge, but finding the right gentleman will happen once you seek a husband in earnest.’ Nan squeezed her hand with affection. ‘I love you like you are my own and I’m aware how your mind works, Gemma. You will need to compromise. Speak to your brother. Regardless of his daily behaviour, I believe he wishes for your happiness. He has changed significantly since your father’s passing. I cannot imagine the weight of responsibility he bears through his title and duties in Parliament. Your father’s death is a grief he cannot reconcile, much the same way you mourn your mother’s cruel passion, and Kent immediately assumed the duchy. Do not forget how close the bond they once shared. He mourns, you do, and with Rosalind’s silence…’

  ‘That may all be true, but he likewise loves Parliament dearly and wishes to have less familial responsibility. It’s complicated. Yet I have time before committing myself to a lifetime of marriage. I am only two and twenty.’ She crossed to the wardrobe and removed an emerald gown, a mixture of silk and taffeta with an underskirt of satin. ‘This will do fine.’ She didn’t mention the colour would reflect her ill stomach if forced to kiss Winton this evening.

  ‘What are you doing here, Cole? It’s unlike you to visit so often. You’ve often reminded me how important it is to keep your two lives separated. Not that you’re unwelcomed or that I’m unhappy to see you, you know better than that, but there’s a look in your eyes that has me concerned. Is everything all right?’ Maggie kneaded the bread dough on her wooden table and cast him a glance of troubled curiosity. ‘And you didn’t take time to dress as Goodworth tonight. You’re never that careless. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I should know better than to keep anything from you.’ He settled in the wooden chair and huffed a breath of frustration. ‘I never wanted to be one of them, you know.’

  ‘I do.’ She turned the dough and folded it over, content to continue kneading, aware she’d work the problem out of him the same way she worked the bread.

  ‘No matter a blueblood made me, I’m a bastard and proud of it. I do honest work and help others. I’m intelligent and wealthy, more accomplished than anyone believed possible, especially my father.’

  ‘You’ve no need to list your redeeming qualities. You’re a fine man, Cole, and I’m lucky to know you.’ She dusted flour off her palms before setting the dough in a bowl to rise, her attention on the mess left on the table.

  ‘Then why do I feel like I’m not enough?’ He never gave the unsettling emotion a voice, but needed to now.

  His words, heartfelt, froze Maggie in her actions. Then slowly she wiped her hands clean, pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

  ‘You’ve never allowed anyone’s opinion to rattle your confidence before. Who has done this? What’s her name?’

  ‘Her?’ His eyes shot up to find Maggie watching him. ‘No one casts stronger judgement than I.’

  ‘Can you hear your own words? Through your generosity, you’ve helped more people than I can count: hungry children, unwed mothers, men who are infirmed, out of work or down on their luck, all who have lost hope and pride. Your work restored their belief in kindness and understanding and, most of all, affirmed the confidence that, given the opportunity, one can improve hopeless circumstance. You are a good man, the best man I know, and you don’t need some fancy title to realise any woman would be happy to take your name.’

  He scoffed, his name a lie like everything else. ‘My name?’ He shook his head. ‘In Charing Cross names change like the weather and no one remembers what yesterday brought, isn’t that what we always say?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’ She shook her head and eyed him warily. ‘Then what do you want? Who has you twisted in knots? I’ve never seen you like this and you haven’t told me enough to make sense of it all.’ She leaned forward to take his hand but he stood before she reached him.

  Maggie had saved him and offered him a future; still, the experiences derived from surviving on the streets would never be forgotten. It lived in his blood, the filth and fear, and most of all the desire to be loved and wanted; an indelible stigma of longing created by being discarded by the one person who should have cared. No, the imputation would always be there, no matter how hard he worked to bury it.

  ‘Never mind, Maggie-girl.’ He walked to the front door and only turned back when he had it unlocked. ‘Too many thoughts crowding in on me tonight. Forget what I said. It wasn’t important. I’ll keep to our schedule. I won’t show up here or at Second Chances for a good long while.’ And then he left, feeling worse than before he thought to visit.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘A lovely, if not unexpected, selection in dress.’ The murmur was meant for her ears only and as with most intentions Winton perpetuated, he’d succeeded. No one at the table batted an eyelash.

  ‘It’s your turn, Lord Goddard.’ Impatient and uncomfortable under Winton’s scrutiny, she sent a pleading look in Sophie’s direction, though her friend appeared engrossed in conversation at the next table and Gemma doubted she noticed.

  ‘I’m o
ut.’ Lord Goddard flipped his cards over with a look of disgust.

  ‘Milady?’

  Winton smiled in her direction and Gemma chose a card from the deck he offered. She could feel his eyes assessing her every move. Her stomach churned. Any moment he would propose a walk through the garden or stand and announce his need for fresh air, and then she would be obliged to follow him outside for any crumb of information he would offer, despite she’d never established the first tidbit’s truth.

  But as luck would have it, Fate intervened. Sophie appeared at her side and saved her a moment later. At the least, it was a temporary reprieve.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Sophie met the curious gaze of all four members at the Loo table. ‘Pardon my interruption, but I need to speak to Lady Amberson for a short while.’

  She didn’t offer anything else in way of explanation and Gemma had already risen. She avoided Winton’s eyes as she hurried after Sophie and out onto the terrace.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Gemma exhaled with gratitude.

  ‘Oh, were you in need of rescue?’ Sophie’s brow furrowed with the question, clearly confused.

  ‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t aware of your distress. I wanted to speak to you about Crispin. Lord Gurts mentioned he may have seen my brother in London two weeks past.’

  Gemma’s eyes flared wide. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was collecting coins from the centre of the tablecloth when he glanced to me and politely enquired how my family fared. I let it slip that I missed Crispin terribly, although I didn’t panic at the fault of tongue, for my parents and I have agreed to spin a tale of travel whenever enquiries concerning Crispin’s whereabouts persist.’ She set a hand to her forehead and gave a nervous laugh. ‘My brother will have travelled the world thrice over before he returns. Anyway, in my hurry to ask Lord Gurts more, I placed Crispin in France. For all I know, yesterday my mother may have told someone he’s visiting Portugal.’ She gestured towards Gemma with a nervous shake of her head.