by Darcy Burke
He pushed past the criminal into the room. “Philippa?” He couldn’t keep the concern from his tone. Didn’t even try.
“Sevrin?” She stepped from behind the door and he heard something clatter to the floor.
Ambrose slammed the door in the faces of the criminals and then gathered Philippa in his arms. “Are you all right?” He pressed his lips to her temple, unable to stop himself. Somehow they’d gone from complete strangers to something else in the span of a few hours.
Her arms came up around his neck and she pressed into him as if she meant to join her body with his. Need and want speared through him. He clasped the sides of her head and kissed her.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss, but a savage claiming borne of fear and danger and soul-shattering relief at finding her whole. His lips slanted over hers and demanded entrance into her mouth. She opened for him and he devoured her. She tasted of desire and courage. He licked and ate at her mouth as if he’d die without possessing her in this moment.
That she kissed him back with open-mouthed hunger should have shocked him, but he reveled in her response. She clutched at his neck, her fingers twining into the hair at his nape. Her tongue met his with probing, delicious strokes. Her lips moved with increasing urgency. Her body cleaved to his perfectly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her breasts against him until his body was shamelessly aflame with lust.
“Ye want us to leave ye alone?” came a voice from outside.
Ambrose slowed the kiss with great reluctance then ended it with a soft brush of his lips against hers. He knew he had to let her go, but couldn’t. Not yet.
He rested his forehead against hers as they breathed into each other. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you sure you’re all right? I’ll kill them all if they’ve hurt you.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light. She looked a bit dazed, and he hoped it was from the kiss and not anything else. “I’m fine.” She shuddered, but it was much different from the spasms she’d suffered in the hack earlier. Her body thrummed with energy, and it was all Ambrose could do not to prolong their embrace. “I’m just glad it was you, though I was prepared to defend myself.” She glanced at the floor where a piece of wood lay.
He followed her gaze. “What’s that?”
“Part of a slat from the bed in the corner. The furniture’s in horrible condition, but it provides a ready weapon.”
He laughed, as much to release everything pent up inside him as to see her smile in return. And she didn’t disappoint him. “You’re the bravest girl I know. No other woman could’ve endured tonight.”
“Is it over then?” The hope in her voice drove him to squeeze her tightly against him.
“Yes, we’re going to Herrick House now.”
“What did he want from you?”
“I’m to help him find a prizefighter.” He wouldn’t tell her about the threat to her reputation. There was no need for her to worry over something that would never come to pass. He wouldn’t allow it.
She blinked at him, her ale-colored eyes wide. “That’s it?”
He pulled her against his chest to avoid looking in her eyes. “Yes.”
“And you can do that?” At his nod, she clutched at his shirtfront and rested her cheek against his pounding heart. “Thank you.”
A quarter hour later they were ensconced in the hack that had brought them and were traveling back the way they’d come.
“What time do you think it is?” she asked.
They sat together on the forward-facing seat. She leaned against him, and he curled his arm around her shoulders.
“I’m not sure, but morning can’t be too far off. Will your mother be home already?”
“I don’t know. Last night—rather, this morning, no I suppose that was yesterday morning now—she didn’t return until after I’d risen.”
“I imagine the servants will inform her of your late arrival. I’m sorry this will cause you trouble.”
“It won’t.” She yawned behind her hand. “The night footman is half-blind and typically too sleep-addled to remember what time I came in, and my maid will say whatever I tell her to.”
“Convenient.”
“Very. Though I’d trade the convenience if it meant my mother would cease her scandalous behavior.” They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. The wheels of the hack rattled over the cobblestone streets; street lanterns glowed at intervals. She yawned again. “You never answered me about why you let others think the worst of you.”
Her head rested against his chest and he gave into the urge to stroke her hair, which had all but come out of its elaborate style. “Because everything they think is true.”
“I don’t believe it. Especially the part about you liking men.”
“God, no. At least that isn’t true.”
She gave a single, lethargic nod. “Everything you did tonight was heroic.”
He couldn’t allow her to credit him. They couldn’t be friends. They couldn’t be anything. He stopped stroking her hair and ought to have set her against the squab, but couldn’t bring himself to dislodge her—an utterly unheroic gesture. “Philippa, I’m not some knight meant to rescue you. I’ve done many things that are far beyond the pale.”
She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Such as ruin a girl and not marry her.”
“Yes.” And so much worse.
She laid her head back down and snuggled against him. “Next time I see you, you can tell me what really happened because I don’t believe the story is that simple.”
He was unnerved at both her faith in him and her ability to vault the carefully constructed wall around his past. He ought to say there wouldn’t be a next time, that when he saw her again, he would turn and walk away as if he didn’t know the luscious feel of her body, or the heartwarming sound of her laugh, or the delectable taste of her mouth. Instead, he listened to the deepening sound of her breathing and caressed the gentle rise of her shoulder.
All the anger he’d felt, all the self-loathing drifted away. His body relaxed in time with hers, and he surrendered to the comfort of just being next to her. He would cherish this moment of absolute peace, knowing it was the only one he might ever have.
Chapter Five
THE following day, Philippa nervously paced her mother’s sitting room. She’d tried to complete her morning’s correspondence, but penning letters to her married friends couldn’t hold her attention. Letters to her aunts and cousins even less so. She was far too consumed with her mother’s outrageous behavior. Leaving Lady Kilmartin’s with Booth-Barrows. Going to Lockwood House. Engaging in some sort of illicit activity with Booth-Barrows and two other people.
She shuddered to think of the scandal if anyone discovered her mother’s perversion. Her pace quickened along with her pulse.
Mother wouldn’t appreciate Philippa taking up residence in her personal chambers. However, Philippa was determined to see her as soon as possible. Assuming she came home.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, announcing the time to be nearly half past noon. Noon! Mother had never stayed out so long.
Philippa wished the window overlooked the street instead of the rear garden. She supposed she could go down and wait on the doorstep.
Was that the faint sound of a coach? She stilled and listened intently for the sound of the front door opening. There it was. At last. She perched on the edge of the burgundy damask settee and composed herself, mentally rehearsing what she meant to say.
A moment later the door opened, but it was her mother’s maid, Ellis. She inclined her head. “My lady.” Her soft, crinkly face—Ellis was well past middle age—was pinched, showing a bit of displeasure.
Philippa doubted Ellis’s expression was due to her presence in Mother’s sitting room. Rather, the maid was disturbed by Mother’s staying out all night. Ellis was nothing if not staid and proper. “Good afternoon, Ellis. I need to speak with my mother privately.”
“Certainly. I’ll
just wait in her dressing chamber.”
Philippa nodded. The maid disappeared into her mother’s bedchamber and presumably the dressing room beyond. A few minutes later, the door opened again. Philippa’s heart rate increased.
Her mother closed the door and turned. Her face was lined, exhausted, but a smile lifted the edges of her mouth. She stopped short upon seeing Philippa, and the smile faded.
“Mother, I need to speak with you.”
“It will have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m simply dead on my feet.”
“It can’t wait.” Philippa refused to be pushed aside until a more convenient hour. She pressed her damp palms against her lap. “Mother, you can’t continue to behave like this.”
Rather than react to what Philippa had said, her mother had the audacity to stifle a yawn. Perhaps that was her reaction. “Like what? Really, I must insist we discuss this later.”
“No, we’ll discuss it now.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed and her mouth drew tightly into an expression of disapproval. Her tone dripped ice. “I do not appreciate your disrespect.”
Philippa stood, her legs quivering in anger. “My disrespect? I’m not the one cavorting about Town with a man who isn’t my husband!” Not to mention attending orgies, but she couldn’t bring herself to verbalize that.
Her mother stepped toward her bedchamber, giving no indication she registered—or cared—about Philippa’s outrage. “Your insinuations are insulting. I’m a grown woman. If I choose to stay out all night with my friends, it’s none of your affair.”
Philippa shouldn’t have been surprised by her mother’s indifference. She’d long ignored any concerns her daughter might’ve had. Her primary goal had been to see Philippa married, and the longer Philippa took to find a husband, the less interested Mother became.
Weary of her mother’s selfishness, Philippa blurted, “I followed you to Lockwood House.” Immediately, she wished she could draw the words back into her mouth.
Her mother’s gasp filled the chamber. She turned abruptly. “Never say you were there.”
No point in refuting it now. She forced her quaking frame to still. “I was.”
Mother stepped toward her, the exhaustion stripped from her features. “Why would—”
Philippa notched her chin up. “I’m afraid I deluded myself into thinking I could talk you into coming home with me and honoring your marriage to Father. Only think, if I’m aware of your activities, who else is?”
Mother’s lips disappeared into a tight line. “I don’t love your father, and he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t care what I do.”
While her parents’ marriage had never been one of passion or love, hearing Mother plainly say so made Philippa’s heart ache. She’d spent years—a lifetime—convincing herself that behind closed doors her parents shared some sort of feeling for one another. What a fool she’d been. Even now, she searched her memories for happy times, love-filled moments, care and consideration, but there was nothing. Just a cold void where a family ought to have been.
She forced her pain into her anger. “I’m certain Father would care you were at Lockwood House.”
Mother smoothed her skirt with quivering hands. “No one knows. Lockwood House is private, and I can’t imagine you’ll tell anyone.”
Philippa struggled to accept that her mother wasn’t just her mother, but also a woman who was apparently trying to find happiness. Even so, her mother’s actions affected her. How could they not? “Of course I won’t, but doesn’t it matter to you that I know?”
Her mother came to stand before her. “You mustn’t be disappointed. Your father wouldn’t be. Our marriage has never been based on love or affection.”
“What was it based on then?” Philippa’s voice sounded as small as she felt.
“A marriage must be based first and foremost on a shared regard. A husband should be kind and likeable, if at all possible.”
Philippa had heard all of that before, but had never thought to ask her mother, “Is that how you found Father?”
Silence descended, and her mother stared at some point beyond Philippa’s shoulder. “No,” she whispered. “I loved your father, but I was a fool.” She blinked damp eyelashes then looked at Philippa. “I don’t want that for you.” Her features tightened. “But neither do I want you at the center of an outrageous scandal. Tell me exactly what happened last night. Did anyone see you?”
Only one of England’s most notorious scoundrels. Just thinking of Sevrin sent a pleasant shock through Philippa’s frame. She forced her thoughts away from her handsome rescuer and contemplated how to answer her mother. Obviously, she needed to lie. “Once I realized I was at Lockwood House, I returned home.” She had to trust the eyesight-challenged footman and her loyal maid wouldn’t reveal the actual time of her arrival at Herrick House—which was of course several hours later.
Her mother exhaled audibly. “Thank heaven for that. Philippa, if you’d been seen… you’d be finished. No decent man would wed you.” She pursed her lips. “Since you decided to call this tête-à-tête, I must remind you that you will marry this Season.”
Philippa ought to have realized her mother would turn the conversation around. Her defenses prickled. “You’ve made it perfectly clear.”
“I hope so. However, after rejecting—what, six?—offers in the past five years, you need to make it known that you’re serious now. That you will accept an offer.”
“I’ve always been serious.” Serious enough to risk rejecting suitor after suitor because she hadn’t loved any of them. She knew how her repeated refusals appeared, but she couldn’t enter into a marriage that might be as cold and stilted as her parents’.
Mother sniffed. “I can’t imagine what you’re waiting for.”
To fall in love. However, Mother’s revelations now gave her pause. Mother had fallen in love, and it had brought her nothing but misery. Suddenly Philippa’s dream seemed childish and all but impossible. “Why didn’t Father love you back?”
Her mother blanched just as they heard a commotion from downstairs. It sounded like an arrival, but they didn’t have any appointments today. Philippa would know since she’d managed the household the past few years after her mother had simply stopped doing so.
Her features drawn, Mother went to the door of the sitting room and opened it a hand’s width. Multiple voices from downstairs carried into the chamber. Then a louder voice, just outside the door. “My lady, his lordship has returned from abroad.” Pigeon, their butler paused a moment, then added, “He’s brought guests.”
The door closed and Mother turned. Her face had been pale, but now bright flags of red stained her cheeks. “You want to know why your father didn’t love me back? Go downstairs and see for yourself.”
A thunderous pounding on the door pulled Ambrose from sleep. He opened his eyes, squinting at the daylight working its way around the edges of his curtains, and guessed the time to be well past noon.
The noise stopped a moment then started more vigorously. Ambrose forced his aching body from his bed, cursing whoever had roused him. His head throbbed in time to the smacks on the door as he made his way across the sitting room. At last, he pulled open the door and then had to jerk backward as a massive fist came toward his face in mid-knock.
“Where the hell were you last night?” demanded Hopkins, a wide, heavily-muscled man a decade older than Ambrose’s twenty-eight years. He was Ambrose’s right hand man at his fighting club, which met nightly downstairs in the back room of the Black Horse Tavern, and was one of three people Ambrose tolerated speaking to him like that.
“I was detained.” For the first time since he’d started the club more than two years ago, Ambrose had missed an evening of bouts.
Hopkins eyed Ambrose’s battered face. “I can see that. Tom take care of you?”
Ambrose nodded and then stepped aside to allow Hopkins to come in. Tom was the owner and operator of the Black Horse Tavern, though Ambrose owned the actual building.
In addition to making the best ale in London, Tom was a skilled healer, but he confined his “practice” to the members of Ambrose’s fighting club.
Ambrose closed the door. Hopkins went to the table situated at one side of Ambrose’s sitting room. His apartment consisted of two chambers. The first was the sitting room where he greeted very few guests, and the second was his bedchamber, where he greeted no one save Tom’s daughter who cleaned it. That a viscount lived in such lodgings was scandalous. Or it would be, if anyone knew.
Hopkins deposited himself in one of the four chairs that surrounded the table. Covered with letters from his steward, correspondence from his secretary, and various other business materials, it was rarely used for dining. Ambrose piled the papers in a corner. “You want a drink?”
Hopkins nodded. “Ale, if you have it.”
Ambrose always kept a jug of Tom’s ale in his cupboard. He poured two cups and handed one to his friend before joining him at the table.
After they’d both taken large draughts, Hopkins shook his head. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you were last night.”
Ambrose preferred to keep his private matters private, even with Hopkins, who was his closest friend in London. Despite that, he recognized he’d have to tell him what happened. He needed Hopkins’s help. “Actually, I would like to discuss it, and in fact I require your assistance.”
Hopkins had been raising his cup to his mouth, but now his arm froze in mid-drink and he peered at Ambrose disbelievingly. “You want my help?”
Ambrose grinned at him even as he knew Hopkins’s reaction was genuine. “Surprising, I know. I’m to fight in a prizefight in less than a fortnight.”
Hopkins clanked his cup onto the table. “Thought you gave that up.”
He had. Though he could have sought the championship, he couldn’t bear the praise. Even so, he missed that kind of fighting. His club was a decent replacement, a necessity for his sanity, but a truly visceral bout where winning or losing was everything? Nothing could compare.
