"You'll recover fully," she said, squeezing his hand, "and then you'll see that everything will turn out fine."
He didn't open his eyes. "I'm tired. Leave me to rest."
Blinking back sudden moisture, she tucked the coverlet over him and said, "Yes, Father."
She closed the door behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. From the thin crack, she kept watch over him. And worried … about everything.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Paul didn't return until after ten that evening. Charity rushed from the front parlor to greet him. He looked as handsome as always, though a bit worse for wear. Dirt smudged his left cheekbone, and dust dulled the shine of his boots.
"Hard day?" she asked.
Taking off his hat, he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Sparkler's makes working the coal mines seem like child's play. Between that and a grueling session at Jackson's, I'm starved and in need of a bath." Removing his jacket, he sniffed at himself and grimaced. "And not necessarily in that order."
"You don't have to choose," she told him. "I had the tub readied, and supper's on a tray."
"Always said you were an angel." He leaned in to kiss her.
"Actually," she said a few breathless moments later, "you called me a mouse."
He grinned. "You're an angelic rodent. An adorable one who scurries about doing acts of kindness for mankind. And, in particular, me."
"I'm not sure I can handle such flattery," she said wryly as she headed for the stairwell. "Let's go upstairs before the water cools."
"See? Always with my best interests at heart—ergo, my angel."
His boots thumped behind her. When his hand clamped on her bottom and squeezed, she squeaked, nearly missing a step.
He steadied her, said with a catch of laughter, "And she makes the most darling sounds and has a very lovely tail, both attributes of our four-legged friend. Therefore, I give you Madam Guardian Mouse."
Her lips twitching, Charity continued up the stairs with him close behind. They entered the snug guest chamber where Paul was staying, and his presence dwarfed the space further. Besides the narrow bed, there was only a tiny desk and cabinet. The tub had to be squeezed in between the foot of the bed and the hearth. At least the fire was built, warming the room and imbuing it with a cozy glow.
Paul snagged a chunk of mutton from the supper tray and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he loosened his cravat and disrobed with a casual grace that she could never aspire to. He was so comfortable in his own skin—and what a skin it was. The layers fell to the ground as he carelessly shed them.
Oh my.
Her mouth watered a little as the firelight licked the taut ridges of his manly form. His hard-paved chest and torso looked deliciously out of place against the faded floral wallpaper. The sleek muscles of his thighs flexed, his male equipment swaying as he lowered himself into the tub.
With a tingle, she recalled how his rampant instrument had moved inside her, filling her so completely that there'd been no room for thought or worry. No room for anything but him and the glorious pleasure they shared.
She hoped for such intimacy tonight.
"Ah, that's better," he sighed, leaning back. Although he was too big to fit entirely in the tub—he had to bend his knees—he looked like a king in repose.
She smiled and, out of habit, went to pick up the heap of clothes he'd left on the floor. As her father's home was not large enough to accommodate Paul's valet, Mr. Bromley came for daily visits to dress Paul and pick up soiled garments. She folded the dirty clothes into a neat pile … and noticed a stain on the lapel of the waistcoat.
Inspecting the jade jacquard, she rubbed at the spot. "Oh dear. Ink can be terribly difficult to remove from fabric as fine as this."
"Don't worry your head over it," Paul said from the tub. "Just have it tossed in the rag bin."
She looked at him in surprise. "But it's a beautiful waistcoat. Not to mention costly."
"It's last year's fashion." He yawned, stretching his arms. "Bromley was going to dispose of it anyway."
He will tire of you and toss you aside as carelessly as he does last season's fashion.
Her grip tightened on the waistcoat. "There's no need for such wastefulness. I'll get the stain out. If I can't, I'm certain I can reuse the fabric."
"Suit yourself, sweeting." He gave her a lazy smile. "Now would you mind coming over here and helping me bathe?"
Her pulse unsteady, she chided herself for being silly and went over. Perching on the stool next to the tub, she poured a handful of his soap—an aromatic blend of lemon and sandalwood specially formulated by his valet—and lathered it into his hair. Paul moaned as she massaged his scalp with deep strokes. The way, she knew, that he liked it.
"By Jove, you've got the magic touch. Don't know how I got along without you." His eyes were closed, his head resting against the towel she'd placed on the edge of the tub.
She worked at the tight muscles along his neck, the pleasure of his words, of touching him, slowly dispelling some of her anxiety.
It's just an old waistcoat. Don't overreact.
Letting out a breath, she said, "You're stiff."
"I'll say." Though his eyes remained shut, his lips took on a wicked curve. "It's a problem I seem to develop whenever I'm around you."
His flirtatiousness filled her with relief. She loved it when he bantered with her in this manner. Especially now that she understood the naughty innuendos. Her fingers dug deeper into his tight muscles and he groaned, water sloshing against the tub's edge. She worked at his neck and shoulders, reveling in her ability to give him pleasure.
"How was your training?" she asked.
"They're toughening me up." He lifted his left hand from the water, and she gasped at his bruised and swollen knuckles.
"Does it hurt? I'll get the salve—"
"Don't fuss, sweeting. It just stings a little. Can't be a prizefighter with soft hands."
She couldn't shake off the sudden fear. If practice resulted in such injuries, what would happen in a real fight? "Will you be safe in the ring? Are you certain this tournament is a good idea?" she blurted.
"You know this is what I want." She caught the edge to his voice. "I'll be fine. Don't worry, alright? Let's change the subject. Ask me about the shop, for instance."
Afraid to press him further, she swallowed and said, "How is the shop?"
"We're making progress." His voice warmed with satisfaction. "Cleaned up the display cases. New carpets came in today as well."
"That sounds lovely." But what she felt was more worry. Hesitating, searching for words that wouldn't sound ungrateful or managing, she said, "You're not changing things too much, are you? Father's quite particular and set in his habits, you see, and—"
"He'll approve, don't fret," Paul said, yawning again. "My greatest triumph has been to cure Jameson of the tendency to salivate like a butcher's dog over every customer. Surprisingly, he's proving the adage false: old canines can learn new tricks, and we're reaping the rewards. He's doubled his sales in the past few days."
As changes to the shop went, that didn't sound too outlandish, Charity thought. And if Paul's new approach improved the profits, then surely her papa would approve.
"'Tisn't Mr. Jameson's fault. Father trains the clerks to be attentive to the patrons," she said. "His motto has always been, The customer always comes first."
"That strategy may work well amongst certain classes, but not the one you want patronizing Sparkler's. Trust me, you must fight fire with fire. Or, in this case, snobbery with snobbery."
"I don't understand."
"If you kowtow to the ton, they assume you're beneath their notice. If, on the other hand, you act as though you're doing them the favor by giving them the privilege to shop, they'll be tripping over themselves to buy up the merchandise."
"So if you treat someone badly, they'll want your goods more? That doesn't make any sense," Charity said with a frown.
Paul snorted. "Since when
do logic and the upper class mix?"
She rinsed the soap from his hair, contemplating his words. The times she'd entered a fashionable establishment—usually with Percy—she had noticed that the clerks seemed, well, uppity. Their noses had been elevated to such high altitudes that it was a marvel they didn't bleed. She'd found their attitude intimidating and hadn't wished to return.
Of course, she was not of the upper class and didn't understand their sophisticated ways. And she couldn't deny that the snobbier the shop, the better they seemed to be doing.
Could it be that her father had it wrong all this time?
She was about to question Paul about it further, but seeing the relaxed lines of his face, she decided not to bother him and fetched the kettle from the fire, adding hot water to his sigh of satisfaction. She poured out more soap and ran her hands over his chest. His eyes grew heavy-lidded as she skimmed the hard contours, searching out knots and rubbing them until they loosened.
The task eased some of her earlier worry. He was so strong, so quick and powerful—surely he could take care himself in any fight. She must trust in his judgment.
Resolved, she concentrated on soaping and massaging his bent legs. Beneath the water, she worked on his calves and large feet, rubbing the arches as he murmured with pleasure. Through the patches of foam on the water's surface, she could see the shape of his cock lying against his thigh, and a wicked impulse stole over her. Her palms itched to touch him there again. To run her fingers along that thick length, to explore every inch of him from the fat tip to the heavy sac beneath.
With great daring, she reached between his legs and wrapped her hand around his member. Even at rest, the girth of his cock exceeded her grip. She glided her hand along his length, and to her delight, the column stiffened, burgeoning within her fist. Her pussy dampened, fluttered.
He mumbled something, and her gaze flew to his face.
She blinked.
He was ... asleep. Eyes closed, he was slumped against the edge of the tub, his chest rising and falling in steady surges.
The memory of another time crept like frost over her insides. He doesn't even know you're here. She removed her hand, surprised to find it was shaking.
Swallowing, she said, "Paul. Wake up."
She had to repeat it before his lashes slowly lifted.
"Did I drift off?" He yawned.
"I'll help you towel off so you can get to bed," she said quietly.
By the time she tidied up after the bath, he'd fallen asleep again. She stood by the bed and watched him as he slept, his face as beautiful as an angel's. She brushed a damp, gilded curl off his forehead. When her touch failed to rouse him, she lingered a few moments longer before she doused the lamps and left unnoticed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Three days later, in the gloom before dawn, Paul made his choices from the scanty pickings on the sideboard and plunked his plate on the dining table. The grimly drab parlor seemed to reflect his own foul mood, which he could pretty much blame on his host. He bloody hated Uriah Sparkler. Yes, hated. There was no disguising the matter. His father-in-law's animosity was like a slow-acting poison, trickling into and tainting every aspect of his life.
He'd compromised his training to help the bastard, and what did he get for his troubles? Nothing but hostility. Sparkler took jabs at him at every opportunity; just yesterday, he'd ripped Paul's hide for wasting water on daily baths, for crying aloud. For Charity's sake, Paul had gritted his teeth and walked on. He didn't know how much longer he could maintain the moral high ground—not his preferred real estate. He despised every second living under the skinflint's roof. The miserly lack of heat and good food ... not to mention the separate sleeping quarters.
He hadn't plowed his wife for ages. Alright, perhaps it had only been ten days, but still ... it was like Siberia compared to the balmy tropics of their wedding trip. It seemed his life had gone topsy-turvy: for the first time ever, he was working too hard and not having enough sex. How could anyone live in this fashion?
He hadn't even been able to frig himself for fear of the maid discovering soiled sheets and his father-in-law somehow learning about it. His thinking verged on paranoia, he knew, but Uriah Sparkler seemed to be watching his every step, waiting for the moment he made a mistake. It was unnerving—not to mention dampening to the amorous spirit.
Paul pushed the thought aside; he didn't want to mull over Sparkler any more than necessary. Better to think of more pleasant things—like how to get back the Charity from his honeymoon. His sweet, hot bride who had been so eager to discover the intimacies of lovemaking with him. Her courses should be over by now. There was no reason they couldn't resume where they'd left off.
In fact, he thought as he chewed on rubbery eggs, perhaps he could arrange for them to get away for the night. Now that her father was on the mend, surely she could spare an evening for her husband. Paul could get them a room at an inn, she could wear that negligee for him again so he could take it off. With his teeth ....
Even as his cock perked up at the notion, the niggling unease returned. Would she be so abandoned with him again? Had the bliss of their wedding trip been a temporary state? After all, nothing that good could last forever. Somehow, he always managed to squander any fortune that fell into his lap. He wasn't oblivious to the unfolding events. Since their return to London, his wife had grown increasingly distant, withdrawn, more like the Charity of old. The one he'd made the mistake of not noticing.
The parlor door opened, and the object of his musings appeared. His pulse quickened, with desire and ... dismay. Not because her hair was once again bound in a knot or even because she was wearing one of her colorless, shapeless gowns. He couldn't give a damn about her appearance because he saw the true Charity now, the beauty that shone through everything else.
No, his anxiety was due to the expression in her moss-green eyes: the guardedness that hadn't been there during their wedding trip. That coolness that raised the hairs on his nape.
He rose automatically to greet her; she curtsied.
Like a pair of damned wooden marionettes.
She smiled, yet the tentativeness of her expression didn't escape him. "Good morning," she said. "You're off to an early start."
"I've been up early every day since we returned."
His response was sharper than he intended, and her shoulders stiffened as she turned to the sideboard. Damnit, she should understand that he didn't mean anything by it. She, of all people, should know how exhausted he was trying to balance boxing with saving her father's shop. He was toiling his bleeding arse off.
The embers of resentment he'd kept tamped down began to smolder. For all his hard work, what did he get in return? A father-in-law who treated him like dirt. A wife who was growing more distant toward him each day.
"Have you started interviewing for a lady's maid?" he said curtly.
Her lips pinned together. An expression of the old Charity. "No."
"Why not?"
"I've had my hands full. Vanity," she said primly and, he thought, pointedly, "is the least of my worries."
Enough of this madness. He stalked over to join her at the sideboard, which she was inspecting as if there were a grand buffet there instead of the paltry dishes of overcooked eggs, gristly sausage, and toast not fit for birds.
"Did you sleep well?"
She looked both startled and relieved at his non sequitir. "Yes, thank you. And you?"
"Poorly," he said.
"I'm sorry to hear it. Is the bed uncomfortable? I could have—"
She let out a squeak, most likely because he'd hauled her up onto the sideboard. There was plenty of room given the paucity of food offerings. He wedged himself boldly between her thighs and leaned in.
"The bed isn't the problem," he told her. "The lack of you in it is."
"Oh." The syllable fluttered from her lips. Relief flooded him as he saw desire reflected in the brilliant facets of her eyes. "Oh Paul, I—I've missed you, too," she whisper
ed.
He kissed her. Their mouths met hotly and eagerly, and there were teeth as well as tongues, but he didn't give a bloody damn. It felt so good, a return to Eden. Primal need rushed through him: to reassert his claim, to remind his forgetful little wife of just how much she needed him.
"I'm bloody randy for you." He nipped her ear, loving her shiver, and wanting even more from her. Needing her to feel the dark edge of passion, to respond with the wantonness he knew resided within her. "You little tease," he murmured in her ear, "we haven't fucked in days."
Her pupils dilated, her breath coming quicker at his naughty word. "But we can't ..."—she gasped when he plucked away her modest fichu, bearing the milky skin of her décolletage—"anyone could come in ..."
"Then you'll have to be very quiet, won't you?" He slid his hand inside her bodice, managed to make his way to one perfect breast. His finger and thumb worked her hard nipple mercilessly as she bit her lips, clearly trying to muffle those sweet sounds she made whilst in the throes. "Don't worry. I won't torture you too much."
"T-torture?"
"Hmm." He yanked her skirts up, exposing her slim white thighs to his greedy gaze. He reached for her sex and nearly groaned to find her ready, so plump and lush. He drove his middle finger in to the knuckle. "What a hungry little pussy you have. Has it missed me?"
Her eyes were glazed over, her cheeks flushed. The slick clench of her cunny was driving him wild. Yet she clearly hadn't learned her lesson, for she whimpered, "We mustn't here. It isn't decent—"
Her words faded to a moan as he thrust into her again, two fingers this time, curling to find the secret spot high inside her. His thumb rolled her pearl. Her neck arched, her lips parting on a soundless cry.
"You're my wife. I'll have you wherever and whenever I want, decency be damned," he growled. "Now I repeat—has your pussy missed me?"
He fingered her harder, deeper, determined to have the answer from her.
"Yes." Her eyes were dazed with pleasure.
Her Prodigal Passion Page 19
