by Nina Rowan
He lowered his head to look her in the eye, forcing himself to go on, to confess the unvarnished, crude truth so that she would know exactly what kind of man he was.
“I’ve dreamed of thrusting so far inside you I can’t tell where one of us starts and the other ends,” he bit out. “I’ve imagined your voice begging me to plunge inside you again and again until you cry out and shatter with a pleasure so intense the world spins off its axis. I’ve dreamed of you on your hands and knees with me taking you from behind. I’ve dreamed of you riding me, of us copulating on the floor, on the table, in the goddamned bath…”
He pried his fingers from her wrist and stepped back, his chest heaving. His heavy erection still pressed against his trousers. He pulled air into his lungs and tried to calm the fire raging in his blood.
“So if you have imagined sweet, romantic kisses and courtship,” he said through gritted teeth, “you will not get them from me.”
He turned away, unable to look at her glittering eyes and reddened lips. The air, thick with tension, vibrated between them. James dragged a hand across his face and through his hair, thinking that any one of Talia’s brothers would do well to beat him to a bloody pulp. He wished they would.
“I…I haven’t,” Talia whispered.
James turned, apprehension piercing him. “You haven’t…”
“I haven’t imagined sweet kisses…” Talia swallowed. A blush swept up from her throat to sting her cheeks. “Or, I have sometimes, but mostly I…I’ve dreamed about…about what you just described.”
Her voice trailed off into a husky murmur. Though her blush deepened, she didn’t take her eyes from his.
James’s fists clenched as he suppressed yet another wave of undiluted lust. Goddamned bloody hell. How did Talia, of all people, know about such things? And in the face of that confession, how would he ever muster enough self-control to protect her from himself?
Coward.
The accusation burned his brain. He straightened his shoulders, infused with new resolve. He’d muster the self-control because Talia deserved better. Because he’d had his chance when she’d declared her love, and he’d all but thrown the gift back at her. Because even though he knew they would generate unimaginable heat together, he could never give her all he wished he could.
“I will not do this with you,” he snapped.
“That’s also what you said last time.” She paused, pulling her shawl around her shoulders as a gleam of triumph lit her eyes. “And yet you haven’t forgotten that first kiss, have you, James? Neither have I.”
James clenched his jaw and strode to the door. He pulled it open, trying to ignore the trembling of his hand as he gestured for Talia to precede him.
“We’d best return before your colleagues wonder what became of us.”
For a moment, she didn’t move, that gleam still in her eyes. Then she moved past him, her arm brushing his in a caress laden with a thousand longings. James sucked in a hard breath before he followed her from the room.
They returned to Sir Henry’s office, where the director and Mr. Fletcher were consulting over some papers. Both men looked up at their entrance, Fletcher’s gaze going directly to Talia. Unease clenched James’s chest, dispelling the remnants of his lust.
“Sir Henry.” He spoke in a sharp tone and removed a card from his breast pocket. “Be assured I am at your service for the next fortnight.”
He tried to ignore the cold look Talia threw him. Somehow he’d prove to her he wasn’t a coward, that he wasn’t running away as she seemed to think. Somehow he’d prove he was the man she once knew. A man of honor and decency.
Talia went to speak to Mr. Fletcher, the furrows on her forehead easing as she approached him. James gritted his teeth, forcing down a wave of jealousy that he shouldn’t feel. He would never have Talia as he’d dreamed—as they’d both dreamed—but that didn’t mean another man wouldn’t.
And James could do nothing to stop it.
William Lawford’s uncle, Lieutenant George Lawford, sat in a chair by the fire, his ruddy face damp with perspiration, the buttons of his shirt straining against his belly as he stared at the papers in front of him. The air was stale, thick with smoke and the smell of brandy.
William shifted in his own chair, impatience nipping at him with sharp teeth. When the new Shipton Fields prison was funded, plans would be made to shut down Newhall. And William would eventually be named governor of Shipton Fields.
He couldn’t wait. He already had plans to send his uncle off to live with a distant cousin, thereby getting rid of him and cutting off his contact with everyone in London. William did not want rumors about his ailing uncle to threaten his pursuit of Alice Colston. Even more, he did not want his uncle to remember anything about what had happened with that bitch Elizabeth in Lewes.
“There will be separate blocks for felons and vagrants,” he said, gesturing to the prison specifications. “And depending upon the juvenile population, we might open up a wing for adult prisoners.”
Lieutenant Lawford grunted and tossed the papers onto a nearby table. “Waste of time and money. Ship the lot of them off to the colonies, like we used to. Put them to work.”
William sighed and stood to collect the papers. “There are some transport ships still in use. One or two are leaving this month, I believe.”
“Not enough,” Lieutenant Lawford muttered. “That was a worthwhile system, not like letting the bastards rot in cells.”
“I’m planning several workstations at Shipton Fields,” William assured him. “No reason the juveniles can’t labor. Most of the work will be treadwheels, cranks, and shot drills, as I’ve found the boys are more docile if required to engage in hard labor.” He paused. “May I count on your support, Uncle?”
“Don’t owe you nothing, do I?” Lieutenant Lawford’s face twisted with dislike. “You’ve always hated me, wantin’ to get rid of me so you can have your glory…”
He reached for his glass of brandy and downed it in one swallow. William’s mouth compressed. He took a step toward the door. The sooner his uncle was out of the picture, the better for all involved.
“I’ve another appointment with Lord Thurlow tomorrow,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice friendly and even. “I expect his commitment, so we can be assured of funding.”
Not even his worthless uncle could stop William from pursuing his goal. He promised to return in a few days’ time and went back to his carriage. He knew how to deal with his uncle, but he still didn’t know what to do about Peter Colston. If the boy stayed in Wapping and worked at the docks, disavowing any contact with his father and sister…that might be enough to keep him out of the way.
Might be.
The only sure method was to lock the boy back up again, but even then William would have to keep a close eye on him. Pity he had such a solid plan for his uncle, and such a tenuous one for Peter.
Unless…
It wouldn’t be difficult to learn when the next transport ships were leaving for the colonies. It certainly wouldn’t be difficult to ensure that Peter Colston was on board one of them, especially if he was arrested and convicted a second time. The superintendent of the prison hulks had no qualms about transporting juveniles, and if Peter were in the colonies, he would no longer be a threat.
Buoyed by the idea, William sat back and reviewed the plans for the prison. His prison. He wondered if they might expand the governor’s lodge, perhaps add an enclosed kitchen garden separate from the prison yard.
Picturing Alice Colston…Alice Lawford…working in such a garden, William descended the carriage in front of the Colstons’ house. Alice greeted him with her usual offer of tea. She looked lovely in a lemon-yellow dress that made her blond hair gleam.
“Has Peter returned yet?” William asked, settling beside her on the sofa. A bit closer than he had last time.
“No, but I offered Lady Talia my assistance with Brick Street school,” Alice said, twisting a stray lock of hair around he
r finger. “I thought perhaps if I were more involved, I could better understand why Peter is so resistant to the idea.”
Lawford had no desire to discuss that wretched boy again, but he made a few more concerned remarks before telling Alice that he’d visited his uncle that morning.
“He’s going to support my plans for the new prison,” William said. “Once it’s under way and proven beneficial, I expect it will draw the attention of the court.”
“Do you think so?” Alice didn’t look as impressed as he’d hoped she would. “I hope you’ll receive the recognition you deserve, then.”
William edged closer. A pulse thrummed through his entire body as he caught a whiff of her scent. He paused, watching her, waiting to see if she would retreat. She didn’t. He moved closer, then lifted a cautious hand to her face.
“You have quite extraordinary eyes, Miss Colston,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” A pink flush colored her cheeks, her gaze sliding down to his mouth.
Warning himself to be restrained, William lowered his head and brushed his lips gently across hers. Heat flared in his blood. Alice didn’t move, though her quick intake of breath nearly undid him. His mind flashed with images of her naked beneath him, her legs wrapped around his hips, her skin hot under the clutch of his hands…
He curved his fingers around her arm, unable to stop himself from increasing the pressure of his mouth. Her lips softened beneath his, the taste of her so sweet he was gripped by a craving for more and more…
Alice broke away with a gasp, rising to her feet. “Mr. Lawford, I—”
William tried to rein in the lust coursing through him. He held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “Miss Colston, I do apologize. I find your beauty so compelling that I’m afraid I allowed it to overrule my reason.”
He forced himself to stand. “I shall…begging your pardon, but I shall take my leave.”
Though he ached for her to protest his departure, Alice nodded in assent and followed him to the foyer.
“I hope my attentions do not offend you,” he said, grabbing his coat and hat.
She reached a hand up to toy with the brooch pinned at her neckline. Her cheeks were still pink, her gaze averted.
“No, Mr. Lawford,” she murmured.
His heart hammered. “Then you will not refuse future visits?”
Not giving her a chance to respond, he turned to the door. “We shall see each other again soon, Miss Colston.”
Chapter Seven
Here you are, milord.” The housemaid Polly stepped into the study, balancing a tray with a teapot and a plate. In her mid-twenties, she had a plump, youthful face and a faint air of worry. She set the tray on the desk in front of James with a flourish.
He eyed the offering—what appeared to be a stale crumpet and a slice of potato bread—dubiously. “Isn’t there anything more…substantial?”
“I’ve got a mutton pie leftover from me supper last night, if you’d like.”
“No.” James sighed and reached for the teapot. “Is there sugar, at least?”
“We’ve run out.” Polly twisted her apron between her fingers. “Ought I run out to fetch some?”
“No, never mind. Thank you, Polly.”
The girl gave an awkward curtsey and departed. James sipped the lukewarm tea, thought wistfully of sweetening it with sugar, and returned to his letter. He reread the four pages he’d already written, then added his signature at the end before blotting the ink and sealing the page.
He set the letter aside and spent the next hour reviewing the ship’s logs, the equipment lists and crew roster, and the navigation routes. He studied the budget, crossed out a few unnecessary items, and wrote a note to one of the financiers that they should arrange a meeting before his departure.
All business that he didn’t particularly enjoy, but that needed to be done. Such dealings were the reason he returned to London between journeys—though he employed a secretary and solicitor, as well as a skeleton staff to maintain the family seat in Devon, James still preferred to oversee the details himself. He’d long ago learned not to rely on anyone else to execute necessary matters.
“My lord?” A knock came at the door and his solicitor, Graham, peered in. “A moment?”
James nodded and gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “I’d offer you tea, but—”
“Er, no bother.” Well acquainted with Polly’s lack of tea-making skills, Graham offered a smile of understanding. “You wanted to know about a Mr. William Lawford, deputy governor at Newhall. His uncle is the governor, but rumor says he’s incapable of managing the place, so Lawford does it for him. Lawford is supporting a proposal for a new prison in Shipton Fields.”
“Why?”
“Because Newhall is too small and rather dilapidated. And Lawford hopes to be appointed governor of the Shipton Fields prison.”
“How long has he worked at Newhall?”
“Nine years. His father was a warder at Birmingham Borough, where the governor went to trial for mistreatment of prisoners. Several cases of men dying there as well.” Graham studied his papers. “Lawford was born and raised in Lewes.”
“Married?”
“No. Stays at the governor’s lodge in Middlesex and with his uncle when he visits London.”
James rubbed his jaw and tried to think of a reason Talia would associate with such a man. He knew all too well why Lawford would want to keep company with Lady Talia Hall, and the very idea made his blood seethe with jealousy.
Not that he had any right to feel possessive of Talia.
But clearly Talia’s interest in prisons, of all bloody institutions, extended beyond the convicted fathers of ragged schoolchildren.
Maybe it did have something to do with Lawford himself?
“What of the House committee?” he asked.
“They’re addressing the issue of prison reform and inspections of juvenile facilities,” Graham said. “And Lady Talia has been asked to give testimony on the efficacy of reformatory schools in lieu of prison sentences for juveniles.”
James turned that information over in his mind. It made sense that the ragged schools would somehow be associated with juvenile delinquents, but that still didn’t fully explain why Talia would be called for her testimony.
“Very well then, Graham. Thank you for the information.”
“I’ll keep you apprised should I learn anything more, my lord. It seems Lawford is quite committed to seeing the Shipton Fields prison built.”
“Lady Talia isn’t one of his supporters, is she?”
“I don’t believe so, no. I haven’t heard that she is trying to prevent it either.”
James nodded and saw Graham to the door. Then he picked up the sealed letter from his pocket and went out to procure a cab. He didn’t bother keeping a carriage and horses in London, owing to the fact that they would rarely be used.
He instructed the driver to go to Piccadilly, not glancing out the window until the brick façades of the King’s Street town houses came into view. The cab slowed halfway down the street in front of Rushton’s house. Narrow windows blinked out onto the street, the shutters opened to the morning sun. James’s heartbeat accelerated as he imagined Talia behind one of those windows.
He took the letter from his coat pocket and smoothed it between his fingers.
Just as the driver bounded from the bench, the door of the town house opened and Talia stepped out. Several books were cradled in the crook of one arm. Her father’s carriage was not waiting at the curb, which seemed odd, considering she was dressed for an outing in a bonnet and cloak.
James gestured for the cabdriver to wait. Talia closed the door behind her and walked down King’s Street, then turned the corner toward St. James’s Square. With a frown, James instructed the driver to follow at a slow pace, then stop at the end of the street. The man nodded and climbed back to the bench.
James dropped the letter onto the seat beside him and leaned forward to peer out the
window. He caught sight of Talia approaching a cabstand. After she engaged in a brief discussion with one of the drivers, the man opened the door to let her into the cab.
“Follow them,” James called up to his driver, who tugged on the reins to spur the horses forward.
The carriage jolted into motion again. James looked out the window to see which direction Talia was heading. The streets of London passed on either side, filled with the clatter of wagons and carriages, the cries of street vendors, the permanent layer of smoky fog. Everything was unchanged since the last time James had frequented London. Stagnant, like a puddle of filthy water.
He experienced a sharp longing for the vast, untouched plains of the Australian wilderness and the near-perfect solitude. Or the endless expanse of the sea, where the salt air filled his lungs and dissolved the tightness in his throat.
James hated that London still made him feel like this, pulled back to the abyss of his childhood where normal things took on the cast of evil. Sometimes they were innocent—chairs in a dark room looked like skeletons, hanging coats like monsters. Other times they were not—his violent father, his mother transformed from a warm, quiet woman to a hollow shell devoid of life. The stark indifference of people who ought to have given a damn.
James unclenched his hands, twisting his neck from side to side to ease the tension. He’d leave London again soon enough. Fall back into the world and chart new territories, carve paths on land where no man had set foot before him. Places so remote that not even ghosts could find their way to haunt him. And if they did, they were swallowed by salt-laden winds and endless terrain.
He shook his head and looked out the window again. The wider paved streets of Piccadilly gave way to narrow alleys lined with tenement houses and dilapidated buildings. Torn brown paper and rags covered broken windows, and unkempt urchins and vagrants huddled in the doorways.
James frowned, unease pulling at him as the cab rolled through streets coated in coal smoke. They came to a halt in front of a smithy. The noise of iron striking iron rang in the air. James reached for the door handle the same instant Talia stepped from the cab in front of them and entered a door beside the workshop.
