The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  “Thank you, no.” She held a pencil ready to take notes, hoping he would catch the hint.

  “Ah, well. I have decided against the Laurent-Perrier for the wedding. It lacks distinction.”

  He went on to list the distinguished guests attending his wedding and requested some imported champagne from farther around the world than a two-week voyage, all while his line of sight strayed to her bodice. She angled the papers to block his view and promised every effort to procure the obscure elixir he couldn’t do without.

  She wanted to kiss Christian, Andrew’s twelve-year-old brother, when he passed by and paused in the doorway to chat. It gave her the perfect opportunity to slip away.

  Alysia was cross with herself for giving in, but she held out only a few hours before tucking her hair into a serviceable chignon and confiscating the lists from a bedraggled Lady Courtenay. “Miss Villier to the rescue”— a refrain she had heard so often, the honor of the praise had tarnished. Lord Courtenay had said his wife would either sink or swim in the matter of domestic management when Alysia departed, and her ladyship was supposed to learn what to do these two weeks. The odds favored the bit about sinking, then.

  Alysia corralled the mastiffs in the west wing to keep them from eating the Pomeranian, and sent the peacocks to a neighbor so the Pomeranian wouldn’t chase them. She wired for a wine steward to take over the wedding libations, and bribed the staff with exorbitant bonuses to keep them from quitting.

  She heard from Lady Courtenay thrice more before lunch, and the lists grew longer. Alysia resorted to commandeering Andrew’s personal telegraph, to his chagrin. “Empires may rise and fall in your absence, Lord Preston, but heaven help you if Lady Elizabeth’s wedding falls behind schedule.”

  Managing a household: that was what Alysia did best, and she had been doing it since age sixteen. The oddity of having the daughter of Lord Courtenay’s late mistress act as lady of the house had long ceased to bother everyone involved. Keeping herself occupied made her forget it was not her family and not her home.

  She passed through the gallery for the dozenth time that day and noticed someone had forgotten to rotate the east-facing tapestries—

  A strong arm grasped her waist and pulled her into an alcove. She gasped and dropped her lists. Andrew yanked the curtain closed.

  “You failed to mention my mother has become a deuced convincing candidate for Bedlam!”

  “It is just the wedding, my lord. Her nerves are—”

  “And you should have told me the baroness was coming.” He scoffed. “I would have run the other way!”

  “Come now, Lord Preston. Is that any way to speak of—”

  “With one stray word of encouragement I fear she would call the banns.” His nostrils flared and he edged closer, towering over her.

  “Be reasonable, my lord—”

  “Lisa, stop that. And why is the Duke of Belmont always leering at you? Never tell me you are—”

  “Stop interrupting me!” She beat her fist on his chest, and it startled them both. Alysia had always done that — hit his chest — to get his attention when he was being a stubborn, hot-headed troll. The reminder of how it had been between them drained the angst from their argument. His expression softened.

  A dozen alarms went off in her head. She stepped outside the curtain, but he caught her arm, turned her to face him, and restrained her against his chest. Had it been any other man who held her so, she would have kicked him in the shins.

  “I had forgotten how volatile your temper is, Andrew.” She peeked around the curtain to be sure no one else was near.

  He pulled off her lace cap with his free hand and loosened her chignon with his fingers, his hands gentle despite his scowl. “How long have they been dreadful to you, Alysia? It was not like this when I left.”

  “They aren’t dreadful. On the contrary, I have been treated with utmost generosity, considering…” She wriggled an arm free and took his hand, toying with his fingers while she tried to explain. “You do me a great honor in behaving as though my society is equal to yours, but now we must fulfill our respective duties. I don’t resist it, and neither should you.” She dropped his hand, shamed by her own words.

  Without warning, his mouth came down on hers. A long, deep, pull frozen in time. Long enough for shock to shoot through her veins then circulate back through as fire. She was lost until he released her, and then she felt dizzy.

  He cursed under his breath; then he grasped the nape of her neck and drew her against him, capturing her mouth in a hard, angry kiss. She shoved against his chest, but she might as well have pushed against the stone walls of the house. His lips punished, his kiss hungry and ill-behaved.

  Her rebellious fingers gripped the hair on the back of his neck and pulled hard, but she knew he liked that. For a few sublime moments, she kissed him back. A dance with a longtime partner. Lazy afternoons in their soaked underclothes, chatting in the cave behind the waterfall. Napping on his shoulder in the library window seat where sunshine baked through the glass.

  His thumbs stroked up and down her throat and his lips gentled, but then he angled her head so he could slant his mouth over hers and stroke his tongue along the side of hers.

  Pure bliss. The alarm bells in her head waned as though sinking underwater.

  Andrew made a humming sound that vibrated in her mouth. He traced her upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and in turn she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and sucked on it. He groaned and tightened his arms around her, breaking away to trace his mouth down her throat.

  She was too far gone to stop him when he exploited her vulnerability, did what he knew made her delirious with pleasure: he sank his lips into her neck where her jaw met her ear then kissed deeply down the side of her throat. She sighed, helpless and pliant.

  He teased and tormented her, a sensory overload she succumbed to in less time than it took to sing the alphabet song. Completely seduced, she yanked his collar open and dragged her hands over his skin. She let him rake his hands down her sides, molding them together from shoulder to knee. With an instinctive stroke of her hips, she brushed against him in a plea for more.

  He bit down on her lip and shouted in surprise, shattering the thrall.

  Alysia startled and darted backward. Staring numbly at him, she raised her fingers to the place on her lip he had bitten. Every nerve in her body prickled as though burned.

  The unspoken truth loomed between them: separation had done nothing to weaken their attachment. That seemed a trite word for the tumultuous feeling squeezing her chest and throbbing in her pulse like an end-of-the-world storm. How could she be so stupid? Asking for torture, tasting the forbidden fruit one last time, before banishment from Eden. She smoothed her tussled hair with a trembling hand and gathered her papers, an excuse for not looking him in the eye.

  Andrew fixed his collar and started to speak. They heard voices and clicking footsteps — his mother and Lady Remington. Alysia opened the curtain and whispered, “Quick, Drew. I think I should faint. Now.” She let herself drop, and he had no choice but to catch her. He found her fan and opened it.

  The women approached in time to see him haul Alysia to the window seat by the tops of her arms, trying to fan her and looking distressed. Thanks to Andrew, her skin was genuinely flushed.

  Alysia revived as the baroness and Lady Courtenay rushed to her aid. She blinked weakly and sat up. “Oh, dear. It seems I had a swoon.” She pretended to notice Andrew for the first time. “Lord Preston? Oh. Thank you. I suppose I am fortunate you happened by at the right moment.”

  “What? No. Do you not remember, Alysia?”

  She shot him a glare for not calling her Miss Villier. So did his mother.

  “We were chatting by the window there, and you fell laughing near to fits at something I said. I suppose the heat through the window overcame you, because then you fainted.”

  He ignored her covert look of incredulity.

  “Either I am overwhelmingly clev
er, or your corset laces are too tight,” he added innocently, without releasing her from his arms, though he should have done so several moments past.

  The women gasped at his outlandish remark, and Alysia punished him by digging her nails into his arm until he righted her on her feet and released her.

  Lady Remington looked between Lord Preston and Alysia with unmistakable jealousy and disdain. Lady Courtenay wore her usual expression of displeasure.

  “I am much obliged, your lordship.” Alysia gave him a curt nod, retrieved her lists, and left him to his mother and Lady Remington, satisfied by his martyred expression.

  Perhaps now she could finally visit the blasted water closet.

  Chapter Two

  Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

  Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

  Andrew retreated to the abandoned west wing salon and didn’t bother switching on the lamps. The piano bench creaked as he sat. He watched out the window, soaking in the view of the fountain gardens bathed in moonlight. He had been away from home too long. Nothing was as it should be.

  He had wires to answer, stocks to trade, and papers in Mandarin to scour. London, Milan, and Shanghai would have to wait. Hours later, and still Alysia monopolized his thoughts, leaving no room for time zones, silk imports, and steamships. He scrubbed his forehead, cursing the war between logic and nostalgia raging in his brain.

  He remembered another time he had sat in this spot in the dark; it still whispered with the memory.

  “Lisa.” He had rested a hand on her shoulder, her entire body stiff with tension. “I am so sorry.” He wished she would turn around and let him hold her. He would let her yell at him or hit him — anything was better than her sitting still as a statue.

  He rubbed a hand across the back of her shoulders, waiting for her to respond. Despite his limited experience with grieving, he didn’t think her stoic silence was healthy. Alysia became an orphan that day. She was probably scared out of her wits on top of her devastation. What would it be like to have no one at all in the world?

  “You belong here at Ashton. You won’t be sent away. You do know that?” He peeked over her shoulder. “Right, Little Sister?” She should have reacted to their secret joke — he only called her that in front of his parents to disguise their romance. “You have me, Lisa. I will take care of you. Always.” Still nothing from her.

  Andrew had waited several long minutes, staring at the piano keys. He picked out a melody familiar to them both, Lady Mercoeur’s favorite piece. She had taught him to play. She had taught all of them to play, sing, and draw. Alysia’s mother had laughed with them, disciplined them; she answered questions he wouldn’t dare ask anyone else, had been the mother he wished he had. And now she was gone. Consumption was an ugly disease, and Alysia had suffered as much as her mother, trying in vain to save her.

  A tear rolled down his nose and splashed onto the keys. The simple Mendelssohn piece had always seemed romantic to him, but now he only heard melancholy tones. Alysia dropped her head onto the back of his shoulder. He turned and gathered her in his arms, tucking her into his lap. He rested his forehead on hers and found that she had been weeping silently as well.

  They both lost control, sobbing and clutching each other. Alysia gasped and clawed at the skin over her heart as though she had just heard the news and couldn’t bear the sudden pain, then crumpled in his arms, wailing as she struck his chest and cursed. Then she burrowed her face in his shoulder and shook her head as she wept softly. That was the worst — her resigned, pitiful weeping. He had never heard a more terrible sound in all his life.

  Finally Andrew had the presence of mind to comfort her. He stroked her back and talked in a low voice. Brushed his fingers through her hair. Smoothed his hands over her face and wiped her tears with his handkerchief. He would never forget the vulnerable, trusting expression she wore as long as he lived. He was her hero, and they both knew it.

  He lifted her, stepped back into the window seat and reclined against the cushions. He laid Alysia on his chest and held her until she wept herself into exhaustion. Once she had drifted into an uneasy slumber, he closed his eyes and let the gradual slowing of her pulse against his throat lull him to sleep as well.

  ****

  Alysia knocked quietly and entered through twelve-foot tall, gilt-trimmed double doors into Lord Courtenay’s study, preoccupied with her lists.

  “But I am not you.”

  Her head shot up at the sound of Andrew’s voice. He sat across from Lord Courtenay’s desk, his posture lazy.

  “Precisely, Preston. Do not make the same mistake I did! And by Jove do not make a worse one—” Lord Courtenay stopped short as he glanced her way.

  She muttered an apology and turned back toward the door. Their startled, guilty expressions left no doubt they were speaking of her. Their argument was an old one. The mistake was her mother, long-time mistress to Lord Courtenay, and Alysia being left as his ward.

  She heard the men at the desk exchange low comments before Lord Courtenay called her back. She didn’t allow her gaze to stray to Andrew, though she felt his eyes boring into her. She was still shaken from his horridly inappropriate kiss the past day, and she feared it would be obvious if she dared look at him.

  “Shall I return another time, my lord?”

  “No. Please sit, Miss Villier.” Lord Courtenay took up a pen and opened a ledger. He impatiently waved her into the seat opposite the imposing mahogany desk then glared at Andrew, clearly dismissing him.

  Andrew vacated the chair so Alysia could have it but didn’t leave the room. He leaned against the bookcase and folded his arms across his chest.

  The close comparison of sire and son made it apparent from whom Andrew had inherited his dark Gallic looks. The marquess had the same deeply set chocolate eyes and pepper-black hair, though streaked with silver. The sharp masculine chisel of his features, and his hale, elegant build belonged to a man two decades younger.

  He cleared his throat, so she began. Alysia made an effort to disguise her self-consciousness. The tall, echoing ceilings did nothing to help. She began with the news from his steward. “Heyer expects to return from the Hampshire estate by the weekend, my lord. The flooding was not severe. He replaced the wood paneling and rugs in the gallery and sent the expense reports.”

  She set the top paper aside and pretended to discern her notes, Andrew’s silent disapproval embarrassing her.

  “Garver overheard the upstairs staff discussing their wages; it is now known that some are pensioned while others are not. Since it is contrary to their terms of employment, I agreed to relay the information to his lordship.”

  She set the second sheet down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Andrew bristle. His fingers squeezed and released his arm, as if restraining himself.

  “The wine steward has arrived from London. He wants to see the cellar. If you wish, I will delegate it to the Ashton steward—”

  “Oh. So my father has a steward?” Andrew interrupted. “Fascinating.”

  Lord Courtenay ignored him. “Ask Belmont to do it. His Grace should enjoy that, I think.”

  Alysia evaded the accusing stare she knew Andrew leveled at her, but that did nothing to help the prickling sensation on the back of her neck. “The rest is correspondence that needs sorting for acceptance or decline. I will send the replies this afternoon. The missives from Parliament are unopened in this bundle.”

  Lord Courtenay noticed her clasped hands. “You have something to add, Miss Villier?”

  “A personal observation. I thought his lordship would wish to know.”

  “Go on.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but it has come to my attention that the quarter’s rent was collected, but work on the drainage canal has not yet begun. The low fields south of the village are still bogged from the May storms. The fetid water is being blamed for illness in the village, and there is—” she glanced at Lord Courtenay, who listened passively. She bit her lip. �
�Unrest among the tenants. They disparage his lordship, and they fear a cholera epidemic. I will make visits this week to ascertain whether it is indeed cholera or a common malaise.”

  “Over my cold, dead body!” Andrew exploded. He stormed to her side and gripped the back of her chair. She shook her head in warning. He glared back, then turned his ire on his father. “Where is the steward? Who is the mistress of the house? Is my mother so addle-brained that Alysia must manage your estate?”

  Lord Courtenay was thoughtful for a moment then addressed Alysia, “Arrange to send doctors to the affected families, and double the charities this month and next. I must know right away if I have an epidemic on my hands. Inform Dr. Smythe I request he investigate the illness and report to me. You may continue your visits to unaffected tenants as usual.”

  Andrew scoffed and raked a hand through his hair. Lord Courtenay turned to him. “Make yourself useful, Preston. Ride out with Donner today and decide what must be done in the south fields. That expensive Oxford brain of yours should be able to manage the engineering, and Donner will hire the labor. Inform him that I want the canal finished by the end of next month.” He looked at his son and his ward. “You are dismissed.”

  Alysia stood to leave.

  Andrew leaned, planting his clenched fists on the desk. “A word, if I may, sir.”

  She was relieved they waited for her to shut the door before they began shouting.

  ****

  In her desire to escape Andrew’s wrath, Alysia changed into her riding habit and sneaked out to the stables. The groom had nearly finished with the tackle on her roan mare when she heard Andrew’s voice, calling impatiently for his black gelding. Frantically she secured the saddlebags and led the mare out the opposite end of the stable.

  She had nearly passed the gate when Andrew caught up. He circled in front of her and reined a halt, blocking her way. His tense riding posture and fearsome expression conjured again the impression of a wild Gallic warrior.