Almost completely in front of the shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.
Her throat burned.
His gaze sharpened. Homed in on her.
Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He began walking towards the door.
“Isn’t it just awful weather, Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”
Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.
The tiny bell tinkled as he entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.
As he approached, he looked down at her arm. She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned. She winced.
His expression softened. “My darling, are you all right?”
“Dearie, is he bothering you?” Mrs. Mason asked in her grandmotherly tones.
“We have something to discuss,” he answered.
Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave the first plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him money. He thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”
The gentleman gaped at her, his eyes gone wide with shock that quickly transformed into raw-edged hurt.
His pain sliced into her. She began rubbing her hands together. As though iron bands constricted her, she could barely breathe, so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”
She couldn’t think of what else to say.
His expression hardened, his eyes frosted.
“That’s just about enough.”
At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s voice, Jeanne turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes. She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.
Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood on end and she gasped. “Oh, please don’t—”
“Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take care of this,” Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the gentleman.
“Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun away.” Jeanne forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can handle him.”
“I know how to deal with these uppity nobs. They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy clothes, and they think they are the lord of the manor.” Mrs. Mason said, keeping her pistol aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better leave.”
He frowned. “Madam, do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”
“To whom am I speaking?” Mrs. Mason asked.
The gentleman stared at her blankly. He lost that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.
Jeanne’s chest tightened again.
“You forget yourself, where you are at. You’re not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the gentleman. “I left my home in Pennsylvania over forty years ago when I married. And I have lived here among the British and made my husband’s home my own. But I have never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”
“My kind?” The gentleman asked.
Mrs. Mason jabbed the gun into his chest. “I am sixty-seven years old. I’ll be damned before I cower to one such as you.”
The gentleman held his hands up. “I mean no trouble.”
“What else could you be about, coming here and terrorizing a sweet young thing like this?” Mrs. Mason harrumphed.
“I thought we had something to discuss.” He gave Jeanne a cold, hard glance. It was so full of sadness, bitterness that it made her heart jump. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”
“Yes, you certainly were,” Mrs. Mason said.
He turned on his heel and left the shop. The little bell rang in the wake of his departure.
Jeanne returned to the window and watched him staggering and veering down the street. The wind gusted again. It was such a cold day. He had no hat. Where would he go? Who would watch out for him?
He wasn’t her responsibility.
It was dangerous to reach out to others. Someone like him, with a disorder of the mind, would be a bottomless pit of need. Sucking her dry.
He was turning the corner. She put her hand to the glass. Her throat began to burn again.
A light touch settled on her shoulders. She started and twisted around.
Mrs. Mason smiled. “It’s all over, dear.”
It was over. She was safe now. He was gone and gone in a way that didn’t involve doctors treating him with all sorts of barbaric, useless torture. She should be relieved. She was relieved.
He might still encounter dangers between here and reaching Esau. But how much was one person required to risk for a stranger?
“Oh, you are shaking.” Mrs. Mason patted her shoulders. “Now don’t you worry. I know his type, a craven fox preying on the weak. But he’ll think twice about harassing you, now that he knows you’ve got some friends in this town.” Mrs. Mason pulled her away from the window.
“I am so tired. I need to go home.”
“No, you must wait. Be sure he is gone. You should finish your pie and have some more tea.”
“Yes, of course you’re right.” Jeanne followed her back to the table and chairs. She took some coins out of her reticule and placed them on the table.
Mrs. Mason shook her head. “My treat today.”
“No, I insist.”
Mrs. Mason waved dismissively. “I have to attend to the baking but you stay here and rest yourself. Ben will drive you home later. If that coxcomb comes back, you just call for me.”
Mrs. Mason hurried away to the backroom.
Jeanne stared into the steaming cup.
Tap, tap, tap.
She looked up. Raindrops pattered the window. No, not rain. Sleet. The drops stuck to the glass, then melted and slid down.
What if the gentleman were truly ill and delirious with fever? Not insane at all? He had no hat. Was lost. Alone. The burn in her throat swelled into a sob. She slapped her hand to her mouth and pressed it back.
A touch on her shoulder brought her into the moment. “Why don’t you just stay here tonight?”
Jeanne shook her head furiously. “No, no, I have to go.”
She tore from Mrs. Mason’s touch, arose from her seat, and hurried to the door.
“Wait, wait. The gentleman may be waiting—”
Jeanne jerked the door open and exited the shop.
She ran faster than she ever had in her life. But she didn’t have far to go once she’d turned the corner. The gentleman was leaning against a wall. He looked as pensive as ever.
As she approached his expression eased and he reached a hand out. “My darling, let’s go home.”
The wind gusted, sending ice cold straight to her bones, and she pulled her pelisse closer to her chin. A passing coach rattled by, its wheels sending a sluice of cloudy grayish water up in an arc which came dangerously close to drenching them.
She forced a smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”
She’d get him into a carriage and on his way back to where he belonged. Surely that was enough. A gentleman like him must have servants who would watch over him. Her responsibility would be discharged.
“Where the devil is the carriage?” Deep offense resounded in his voice, as though he’d never had to wait for a carriage before.
“Didn’t you tell your driver to wait?”
“Of course I did.” His voice rang with indignation.
“Come,” she said firmly. “Let’s go back to the mews and see about your carriage.”
The groom at the mews nearest the coffee shop said that t
he gentleman hadn’t left any carriage there.
“Where did you come from before you arrived at the coffee shop?” she asked once they had walked out of earshot of the groom.
The gentleman just stared at her with that highbrow look and compressed his lips. So, he didn’t know where he’d been or where he’d left his damned carriage. She sighed. “We’ll walk a bit and a hackney will come along.”
He looked down from his lofty heights, almost sneering down his aristocratic nose. “We’re certainly not going to take a public carriage.”
“Well, the carriage is—” She drew her brows together. “—being repaired.”
“Being repaired?” he asked, as though such a thing were a complete impossibility.
“Yes.”
Her heart fluttered a series of frenzied beats. Shaky, panicked energy quivered down her legs. She drew in a deep, hitching breath. Calm, she must remain calm. If she stayed calm, he was less likely to have any sort of fit or rage, right? Perhaps she might play the loving mistress? “Darling, don’t you remember?”
He stared at her then blinked several times.
“Don’t you?” She made her voice very soft.
He released her hand. “Blast it, I don’t remember.” His expression went blank yet his eyes widened. “I don’t remember anything.” He frowned. “Except that you were angry with me.”
“Angry about what?”
“Everything.”
There was that devastated, desolate look again. The burn returned to her throat and she had to turn away. “It’s terribly cold. We’re being soaked. Let us find a public conveyance and sort all of this out later, shall we?”
He jutted his chin and his features took on an annoyed expression. Apparently, he was not used to listening to others or taking their advice. He blinked once or twice and then he took her hand again and strode determinedly ahead, pulling her with him.
When they found a carriage for hire, the gentleman stared blankly at the driver.
“Sir, where shall I take you?”
“Darling, tell the man.” Again, she tried to make her voice soft. Loving.
He turned to her. His eyes, now glassy again, reflected sheer fear. Her throat constricted. Again, she wondered if he were really ill with a fever. He didn’t remember where he lived. Or he couldn’t remember how to give directions to where he lived. Heavens, it was worse than she’d thought. Oh Lord. She did not want to deal with any panicked hysterics or self-defensive rages like with Papa. She swallowed hard and smiled at him in a hopefully reassuring manner.
He jerked his gaze away.
“Give him directions, Thérèse.” The resentment in his voice made her heart contract. She was intimately familiar with a man not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting to need help.
Wetness pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from the rain but from frustration.
All right, yes, mostly she cried from sympathy.
She did not want this. This couldn’t be happening. She quickly gave the driver directions.
She’d have to take him to her garret for now. The other women frequently entertained men in their rooms. Mrs. Pillmore required her percentage, of course. But it wouldn’t seem amiss to anyone. Oh, just imagine how Mr. High-And-Mighty was going to respond to being taken to her garret. But what else was she to do with him? Good heavens, he wasn’t a stray dog.
The driver rushed to aid her into the carriage but the gentleman pushed him away, then poked his head inside.
He began peeling off his greatcoat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“It is appalling in there. You shall have to sit on my coat.”
She stuck her head inside and caught the odor of mildew and a touch of stale urine. Well, clearly not the best but she’d come across worse. On a rainy day, this close to east London, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Please put your coat back on.
“You cannot sit on those seats.”
“You are becoming soaked through. Please, put your coat on.”
His frown deepened. “Thérèse, why are you suddenly so disagreeable?”
“The longer we stand here, the more thoroughly soaked we get from the sleet.”
Was that a hint of a smile on his lips? “Your new bluntness is a refreshing.”
He reached out, as though he were about to help her into the carriage. Then he swayed and listed backwards. His eyes rolled until only the whites showed. He pitched forward.
A startled cry pierced the silence. Hers. She leapt forward, hands poised to catch him. He fell upon her and his weight overwhelmed her to the point her knees buckled.
Then his weight eased. The driver was lifting him. “Let’s put him inside, milady.”
Milady.
She could have laughed at any other time. But the reality of her situation came crashing upon her. She was now responsible for an unconscious, mentally unstable gentleman. Together, they got him inside. She settled beside him and took a deep breath.
The driver closed the door with a slam. The finality of the sound resonated deep in her chest.
What a fine situation she’d willingly trapped herself in.
Her nostrils began to burn. The connivance didn’t smell any nicer with the door shut. She wrinkled her nose. Thank God she didn’t live too far away.
It began to move. To put it more bluntly, it began to rock hard enough to rattle her teeth. His unconscious form shifted and fell against her shoulder.
“Thérèse—” His deep voice sounded sleepy. “The channel is so choppy this time of year. You mustn’t be afraid. Think about Paris. We shall have a grand time in Paris.”
He locked an arm around her waist and drew her near. Sheltering her from the jarring motion with his body.
His very solid body.
The hackney rattled along and another strong jolt hit. She found her face pressed ruthlessly against his chest. The scent of his shaving soap was certainly better than the odors in the carriage.
He pressed the curve of her waist then slid down to the swell of her hip. “You have gained some weight.”
Heat suffused her face. Of course, his Thérèse must be a slip of a thing. No one could ever accuse Jeanne of being slender.
“You never ran from me before.”
“No?”
“No.” He found her hand. “Can you forgive me? Will you come home and stay?” He didn’t plead. But there was a sincere, earnest, urgency underneath his calm tone that made her believe his sincerity. His remorse. It held her spellbound, unable to resist as he lifted her hand to his cheek. The stubble there was a faint rasp against her fingers.
His skin burnt her like live coals. She gasped then jerked her hand out of his hold.
She tore her glove off and put a hand to his forehead. Moist, blistering heat.
Thurmp, Thurmp. Thurmp.
Her heart pounded her ears with sudden, jarring violence. Her mouth went dry. God above. She’d been so focused on her dread of insanity, it had clouded her perception. Clearly, the man was dreadfully ill and delirious with fever.
Totally her responsibility.
She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in silence for long moments. Silence but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Chapter One
Adrian Sutherland, Earl of Danvers, surveyed the crowded ballroom. Soft lamplight shone on walls draped in yards and yards of rich crimson velvet. The twang of someone warming up a violin cut above the steady rumble of deep voices. A faint miasma of smoke from those gentlemen who favored the habit lent an acrid edge to the scent of a little too much cologne in the packed ballroom.
But something else crackled just beneath the surface, the energy of barely-contained male anticipation that marked a courtesans’ ball.
And not just any courtesans’ ball. This event showcased the cream of available impures of the Season. Only the wealthiest and titled gentlemen were allowed entry.
&nbs
p; Adrian circled the crowd, scanning the swarm of male bodies clad in dark evening clothes. To his left, a man shifted, and the wall of bodies parted. His gaze caught a glint of fiery copper highlights in a luxuriant profusion of glossy, dark auburn curls.
Flawless, pale ivory skin.
The flash of white teeth against lush, blood-red curving lips.
His heart began to thud, and the buzz of conversation faded.
Miss Miranda Jones.
He couldn’t stop his gaze from following the curl that trailed her bare shoulder down to the curve of generous breasts above the bright scrap of sapphire velvet adorned with sparkling beads.
A mental picture flashed of her lying on white sheets wearing nothing but the silver locket that rested within the generous valley. Her chest expanded with every breath, and he held his own in anticipation of a peek of pink nipple barely covered by the scandalous bodice.
Had his father felt this way? For the first time, Adrian understood his father’s disastrous actions. What man wouldn’t ruin his life for a woman like her?
And not just any woman. She was the niece of the very woman who had stolen, then feasted on, his father’s heart.
What a complex and tragic coil life could be.
Christ, why had he let Dorothy coerce him into confronting Miss Jones?
After the death of her protector, the Duke of Carrville, Miranda had disappeared from society for months. A seeming eternity during which he’d been unable to keep from scanning ballrooms, opera boxes and carriages in the park, some traitorous, senseless part of himself hungering for just the sight of her. That, he realized with disgust, was why he’d agreed to speak with her. He wanted her.
Exquisite courtesans like Miranda Jones had expensive tastes and emotionally demanding natures. Worse, they insisted on long-term contractual commitments from their protectors.
And they usually got whatever they demanded.
He had no time for such nonsense. He preferred less demanding women, with clean scrubbed faces, modest clothing and grateful, generous natures.
Women like Dorothy, dowager Lady Chadwick, his late wife’s sister and his lover of several years. He was quite fond of her, but owed her no particular faithfulness.
A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) Page 18
