She nodded frantically and turned to give him easier access.
His hands moved to the sides of the now exposed corset and she felt him tugging at them a little. “Just to be clear, you want me to cut the laces of your corset here in this alley?”
“Yes!” she gasped, her head pounding with her pulse. “Stop stalling!”
He chuckled softly and the sound sent ripples up her spine that had nothing to do with her lack of air. “I just wanted to clarify. I would hate to be compromised and forced into marriage.”
The tension around her torso started to fade as he cut the laces and she found herself dragging in deep gulps of air with the release. “Is that… likely?”
He sighed heavily. “It would shock you how often it is attempted. Women practically fall at my feet all the time, and I never go out into Society alone. I really am very sought after.”
She managed a weak laugh and lowered her head as the air rushed back into her lungs. “Well, you are rather helpful. Probably would make a… most convenient husband.”
“Oh, I am a perfect gentleman, I would be the ideal candidate, I am sure, if ever I was snatched up.”
He cut away at the last of the laces and she felt the stiff fabric give way and fall against her arms, tightly pinned to her sides. His hand pressed lightly on her back, as if soothing her.
“Better?” he murmured, all teasing gone from his tone.
Slowly, Margaret nodded, letting her lungs remember how to function properly. “Never again,” she whispered. “Never, ever again.”
“What was that?” he asked, leaning forward. “Never what?”
“I am never wearing a corset ever again,” she vowed. She sniffled once then sat back and turned to face him, suddenly aware of the precarious situation she was in with this man… this glorious, charming, heroic, absolutely perfect man who had just cut the laces of her corset and could see every inch of her disheveled undergarments and exposed skin. Her cheeks began to heat and she covered herself as best as she could without letting the shreds of her corset fall completely away.
He raised a brow at her, his eyes staying on hers. “You normally don’t?”
She bit the inside of her lip, debating the propriety of having a conversation about undergarments with him, but considering her state, there was not much left to the imagination, and absolutely no propriety here. Slowly she shook her head and exhaled heavily, then winced at the sharp pain in her ribs.
“Interesting.” He eyed her with concern. “You need a physician, I think. Can you stand?”
She started to nod and shifted her feet, then hissed as her ankles reminded her of their state and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He took one of her ankles in hand, his touch surprisingly warm and she squawked a little at the sensation. He turned her foot gently one way, then another, his eyes flicking between it and her face, noting her reactions and sounds. Then, without warning, he wrenched the horrid shoe from her foot, then did the same with the other.
“Bad corset and bad shoes?” he said as he rose, a hint of a scold in his voice. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Someone clearly does not like you very much. Or they have very poor fashion sense. Which is it?”
Margaret wriggled her now free toes with a sigh of relief and rubbed at her ankles. “Honestly, I think both.”
He barked a laugh and stared down at her, looking her over with thoughtful attention.
Self-conscious and painfully aware of her indecency, she cowered a little. “What?”
He pursed his lips a little. “I’m trying to decide what to do about covering you. There’s some material draping crates, but I wouldn’t trust it to not be infested with things.”
She shuddered and shook her head. “Thank you, no. What if we tear some of this horrid fabric off my skirts?”
He shook his head at once. “I think not. Ill-advised ruffles or not, it still leaves your legs covered, and I dare not tempt fate further by exposing them, fetching picture though it would make.”
Margaret wondered if her cheeks would ever cool again and looked away, putting a hand to one. “Well, I suppose I shall go without, then.”
He made no sound and she glanced up to see a thunderous expression that surprised her. “Not on your life,” he said in a voice so low she felt it in her toes. “I’ve already fought off two blackguards for you, I’ll not take on the rest of London too.”
After she managed, eventually, to swallow, she found herself snorting in derision. “Hardly the whole of London, and I take no compliment in the attention, I assure you. It is not personal, merely a bit of female flesh, and that can be got anywhere, I expect. Nothing to do with me at all.”
“You expect rightly, but I think you underestimate your charms.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “I have it. Don’t go anywhere.”
She gave him an incredulous look as he dashed back down the alley. Where, exactly, did he think she was going to go?
He appeared a moment later with a gentleman’s coat, poorly mended and hardly in good condition, but it was clean and it was large enough to cover her top half completely and entirely.
He grinned at her and her heart hammered against her ribs. “One of your admirers wore a coat, if you recall. As he is not currently in need of it, I thought it the least he could do to offer it up in recompense.”
Ah, so not precisely a gentleman’s coat then. No matter. “Rather thoughtful of him,” she mused softly, smiling for the first time in what seemed to be years.
He nodded sagely and shook it out. “I thought so.” He tilted his head at her, his smile softening into something that tickled her insides. “So you can smile. I thought perhaps you had lost that gift.”
She thought about offering up a teasing quip, she thought about blushing and being demure, she thought about changing the subject… She thought of a hundred and three things she could, or should, have said in response that would have been appropriate and polite, and perfectly suitable to any such compliment from a man.
But he was different.
And with him, so was she.
She lowered her eyes and swallowed. “So did I.”
For a moment, neither moved, and she could almost hear the measured breaths he took in the silence of the alley. Then he moved around her and the coat was gently placed across her shoulders.
Margaret slid her arms through the sleeves and pulled it tightly closed, buttoning it where she could, but still gripping it with one hand across her gaping bodice. “Thank you,” she murmured.
In response, his arms came around her and she was hefted up in his hold. She gasped in a mixture of shock and pain, clamping down on her lips hard to keep from making a sound.
“Sorry,” he said with a hiss, shifting her a little to move his arms to more comfortable places. “Is that better?”
She tucked her chin, mortification washing over her again. “It is fine.”
He did not move, waiting, and she glanced up to find him pinning her with a hard look. “Fine is not exactly descriptive,” he grunted, raising a brow rather imperiously.
She managed a weak smile. “To be perfectly frank, I am not sure any position would be comfortable at this moment. I hurt everywhere. Quite fiercely.”
His shoulders dropped a little and his hold tightened, but not painfully. “I am so sorry. I’ll take you somewhere to help. A friend of mine.” He started out of the alley, his hold secure, yet gentle, and he carried her far too easily.
“Is he a physician?” she asked weakly, suddenly feeling fatigued and limp.
He made a noise of either amusement or derision, she couldn’t tell. “He’s something. Close enough, I expect. Less pompous, though.”
Margaret gave up any idea of pretense and allowed herself to lay her head against his broad shoulder, tucked against his very firm, very warm, very impressive chest, and let herself feel the strength in his arms along her back and beneath her legs. She rather hoped he would carry her quite a long way, as
this was all rather perfect. “It will do well enough,” she replied, fighting the temptation to close her eyes.
The man of her dreams was carrying her through London and being a perfect gentleman about her horrid state. She was not going to miss a single second of staring at him or living in this moment, no matter how embarrassed she was.
He was so attractive it nearly hurt to look at him. Dark eyes that always seemed to laugh and could see everything a person might try to hide. The strong jaw that her fingers itched to touch and stroke. The scruff that she knew would scratch and tickle her skin, and she suspected even when he shaved the shadow of it remained. A profile that a sculptor would weep over.
She recalled his hands on her face, slightly calloused but somehow clean. Strong hands that held her tightly now, yet had been gentle enough to soothe her. Powerful legs that did not strain at lifting or carrying her, and, she had to admit, filled out his trousers sinfully well.
And if she did not stop recollecting every detail of his figure and appearance, she was going to become shamefully scandalous and her face would flush and he would know it.
If he did not already, the way her free hand had crept to rest on his chest, and would probably become permanently fixed there, as it was so perfect a place for it.
“So,” he suddenly said, breaking through her thoughts of him with ease, his voice rumbling through his chest and consequently through her, “these friends of yours who don’t like you and have no fashion sense… What exactly were they aiming for with this?”
Her hand on his chest stiffened and the rest of her followed. She closed her eyes and slowly inhaled through her nose, then exhaled much the same. “They wished me to be compromised and forced into marriage,” she told him, keeping her voice low as she echoed his earlier words back to him.
His step faltered for a moment, and his hold on her flexed. It hurt a little, but she would die before saying so. It felt impossibly good, and the way his jaw tightened and his throat worked made her heart sing, just a little. A brief, but rough tremor coursed through him and she bit her lip as she felt it.
He cleared his throat lightly and shook his head a little. “Not to worry, pet. There will be no compromising here, unless you are doing it. I am a perfect gentleman at all times.”
She snorted softly, but smiled.
He gave her an amused look. “I am,” he insisted. “That is why they call me the Gent.”
Margaret tilted her head back a little. “Who is ‘they’, exactly?”
He leaned closer and whispered, “Everyone. I am at once the best and worst kept secret in London.”
She bit back another smile and let herself lean on him more.
He most certainly was.
And he was her secret as well.
Reading her attention as weariness, he sighed a little. “Just a few more blocks, sweetheart. Then you’ll be set to rights.”
She nodded against him, but said nothing.
She was already feeling more to rights.
But that, too, was a secret.
Chapter Eight
How Rafe was not exploding with the rage within him was a complete mystery.
Well, perhaps not, as he suspected it had everything to do with the delectable woman in his arms, but even he was impressed with the control he was managing, and he was almost never impressed with himself.
It was entirely too arrogant.
But now he very much wished that he had been far more brutal with those louts he had thrashed in the alley. Before he’d thought they were merely some lowlife scoundrels trying to make trouble for a poor girl in a sorry state, but he fully expected her to be a prostitute, or at the very least, some fool’s wandering mistress.
Not his Margaret.
Not her.
He should have killed them.
He hadn’t killed anybody in a long time, and only then had done so with good reason, and this seemed like a damned good reason to do it again. He would have been out of practice, but entirely justified.
He hadn’t managed to ask her if she had actually been harmed, or if they had touched her, but he wasn’t sure he could bear it. The haunted, terrified look in her eyes had shaken him, and his only thought had been to let her know she was safe, to chase the shadows away and bring back her smile.
That had been challenge enough.
Now that she was curled against him so trustingly, he was two seconds away from beaming like a fool. She fit perfectly in his arms, and despite her injuries, he was beyond delighted to hold her thus.
He did feel the slight twinge of guilt at the rather base recollection of how she had looked before, and he had done his utmost to remain respectful and polite, but…
He sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness, but she had been the most alluring sight he had ever seen, and every one of his more wicked fantasies had suddenly sprung to mind. He took no pleasure in the extremes she had been forced into, or the pain they had caused her, but her already lush figure on such display had triggered some impulses he’d had to fight hard to tamp down. Her hair had long fallen out of its hold and was tousled and tumbling all around her narrow shoulders, looking for all the world like a woman roused from her bed.
And that was a place he absolutely could not let his thoughts wander.
He’d distracted himself with reciting various philosophical musings in Latin in his mind, but the most perfect distraction of all, what had wrenched those thoughts almost completely away, had been her eyes.
Wide, translucent eyes of an almost violet shade, weary and worried and pleading.
He could have happily drowned in those eyes, and wanted, more than anything, for them to look at him with the trusting, teasing light from before. Those eyes would have driven him to ends of the earth on only the whisper of promise from her, and he would have thanked her for the privilege. He had to help her, fix her, save her from anything and everything.
No primal surge of masculine attention was going to let him do anything less. And he absolutely would not leave her exposed like that for more predatory eyes.
She was his, no matter what state she was in. His to protect, his to avenge, his to cherish.
He’d have her in any and all states, if only he could.
And she didn’t even know his name.
Rafe found himself twisting his mouth a little, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
And blast it all if he didn’t have the answer.
He rounded another corner, the streets more narrow and dank than before, and Margaret seemed to curl against him more.
He bit back the urge to smile and only patted her a little. “Steady on, pet. I’ve got you, you’re safe.”
“I know,” she replied quietly, keeping her eyes averted.
Well, now, how was he to respond to that? He swallowed with difficulty and picked up his step, pretending that his heart wasn’t racing just a little bit faster.
He sidestepped into a smaller street and stopped when he reached the thick, well-worn door with ancient hinges. He kicked it three times with his boot, and stepped back, glancing up and down the empty, cramped street.
“I could have knocked,” Margaret offered in a very soft voice.
He looked down at her, letting one finger toy with a strand of hair near it, safely out of her sight. “And have you loosen your death grip on the coat shielding you? I think not, pet.” He shook his head and set his mouth firmly. “Pritchard will already think he’s died and gone to heaven when he sees you, best not to actually send him off to rapture before his time.”
Margaret choked out a burst of surprised laughter, then covered her mouth with the hand that had been holding his heart in his chest for the last several minutes.
He grinned at the sound. He’d not heard her full laughter yet, but the hints of it were positively divine. He vowed to himself right then and there that he would make her laugh with enthusiasm and joy, naturally and completely.
“Are you trying to make me blush?” she
asked, raising her eyes to his.
He shrugged, enjoying the brush of her body against his as he did so. “I might be.”
Those eyes flickered with life and so did his heart. “I thought you were a gentleman,” she replied, narrowing her eyes even as her mouth quirked.
He smiled and let himself look at her, long and hard. “I am,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “But sometimes I like to pretend otherwise.”
He saw her delicate throat work for a swallow and thought she might lower her eyes once more, as her cheeks flushed, but she surprised him by keeping her gaze on his. Her breathing grew unsettled, but her eyes were steady and clear.
And her lips…
Lord have mercy, those full lips would torment a saint.
And he was no saint.
He heard the faint rush of air pass through those parted lips and almost ducked his head to taste them when the door opened and he jerked like a guilty schoolboy.
Pritchard himself stood in the doorway, scratching his almost hairless head and peering up at him as though the sun shone directly into his eyes. His bushy greying brows shot up in surprise. “Gent? What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
Rafe grinned at the wiry old man and ducked his head a little, hefting his precious bundle slightly. “It’s not me, Suds. A damsel in distress this time.”
Pritchard wheezed a chuckle even as he rolled his eyes. “Lord above, they’re all damsels in distress, my boy.” He cast a bawdy wink at Margaret. “No offense, milady.”
“None taken,” Margaret replied with a warm smile. “And I’m no milady, nor any sort of damsel in distress. Simply a bit unlucky, and out of sorts.”
Now Pritchard grinned, his yellowing teeth on full display. “Fair maiden with real manners and no need of flattery? Oh, Gent, you shouldn’t have!” He cackled another laugh and waved them in. “Come in, come in, and let’s see what we have here.”
Rafe ducked through the small door, taking care with Margaret in his arms, and followed Pritchard through the cramped apartments. Though the house should have been large enough for him, with his daughters having moved on in life, he seemed to collect odds and ends to such an extent that one could barely sit down on the faded furniture. The windows were smeared with dirt, as though someone tried to clean them and found the task too daunting, but light still managed to stream through, however tainted it was.
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 9
