The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  Alysia set up a pastoral scene on Olympus with Zeus and Hera, with Hermes arriving to deliver an urgent message.

  “Which was really a potion, and it turned all the gods on Olympus into babies,” Madeline interjected.

  Jacob watched, entertained. They wove their strange story for baby Jacob, and finally his eyes dropped closed and his lips parted in a tiny O-shape.

  Madeline glanced at the doorway and narrowed her eyes. “Philip! How long have you been spying on us?”

  He flashed a smile, the charming dimpled one. “Since baby Zeus sucked on his thumb and got a shock from the lightning bolt.” He chuckled, looking sheepish.

  Alysia stood and gathered Jacob in his blankets, bundling him. She looked down and tried to recover from her embarrassment. Philip caught her behaving foolishly so often… “I suppose you have come to fetch him.” She started to pass Jacob to Philip, but the baby stirred and whimpered, his head searching for a place to rest. “Perhaps I should take him to the nursery.”

  “Would you, please?” Philip whispered as the baby burrowed his face contentedly into Alysia’s bosom and settled back asleep.

  Madeline looked back and forth between Alysia and Philip as though on the verge of panic. “I will come too—”

  “Not this time, my sweet. But thank you.” Even in hushed tones there was a note of finality in Philip’s voice which Madeline obeyed. Alysia smiled apologetically at her, assuring her she planned no mischief with her brother.

  Wordlessly, Philip walked with her up the stairs, careful not to make noise with his boots. He waited while she rocked the baby until he was so deeply asleep he didn’t know she laid him in the crib. She stepped back and found Philip close behind her. She had backed right into his chest. He steadied her at the waist then dropped his hands.

  She turned to meet his gaze but couldn’t decipher his expression. They stood too closely; she should step away. Acting on impulse, she playfully rubbed the shallow cleft of his chin with one finger. “Your boy looks just like you. All Cavendish, right down to the dimples.” She smiled, and he smiled back with his own famous, endearing pair of Cavendish dimples.

  He stood only half a head taller than she, but his broad shoulders and proud straight posture made him formidable. Mindlessly she reached to brush away a dark curl from his forehead. He closed his eyes at her touch, so she grazed her fingertips down his face. Moving slowly, he took her hand and turned it over once, then pressed it to his heart. Gently he drew her into an embrace and kissed her temple before resting his face in her hair. He accepted her affection without escalating it, giving her time to think it through while he no doubt did the same.

  Could she be in love with Philip?

  He would be the sort of husband a lady happily grew old with. If she had Philip, she would be spared the life of a courtesan. She already adored his family. If he was as devoted to his wife as he was to his sisters, it spoke well of his character. And how rare to find a man who inspired feelings of both affection and attraction…

  But would she make him happy? Experimentally she moved her hand to the back of his neck and tousled his hair with her fingernails. She pulled his collar loose to reach more of his neck, and he stiffened. Did he think she meant to undress him? Andrew was always eager to open his collar and shed his necktie. He seemed insatiable, as though he wished she would touch him more. To stop before crossing the line was always an act of restraint for him.

  How long until I quit comparing Philip to Andrew? It was neither fair nor useful. High time she grew up and moved on. She certainly wouldn’t find another man half so wonderful as Philip, so perhaps she should take a chance with him.

  Then it was time to try her so-called wiles on him. She turned her face to rest on his neck and smiled so he would feel her lips moving on his skin. She moved her hand to tousle the hair near his ear, taking care to stoke his earlobe as she did it. His arms tightened across her back, meaning she was neither unwelcome nor ineffectual. She drew a deep breath, letting her chest press against his.

  He finally responded with shallow strokes across her shoulders then down her to her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her back, like one would pet a horse, she thought. Andrew was like an overgrown cat; he liked kneading and caressing, and prompted her with what he wanted—Stop it! Concentrate on Philip.

  She answered him in kind, stroking her fingertips from his temple to the nape of his neck, following the lines of bone and muscle, showing that she admired his strong, masculine form. His evening whiskers were coarser than Andrew’s. She grazed her fingers along his jaw, acquainting herself with the foreign sensation.

  He hadn’t spoken a word since they had left Madeline’s room. She felt his pulse thundering under her hand, but it could very well be from anxiety and not arousal. She had never tried to seduce a man on purpose before. It didn’t seem quite sincere to act out of calculation, but how else was it to be done? Should she not try to please him?

  She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned back to look at him. He smiled, appearing both amused and enigmatic. Hands resting on her waist, he mimicked her pensive expression. She cocked her head and raised a brow, unsure of what to do next.

  Finally he chuckled, a soft, delighted rumbling sound. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Are you trying to seduce me, Miss Villier?”

  “Why? Is it not working?” She had such serious thoughts only moments ago, but now she and Philip were teasing.

  “Of course it is. I have been yours for the taking for some time now,” he admitted with a shy smile. “It seems a sudden decision for you, that is all.”

  “I like you, Philip Cavendish. You are easy to admire.”

  “There are many forms of admiration, Miss Villier. I might as easily admire a fine stallion, a tightly rigged ship, or a lovely face.” He placed a warm, strong hand on her cheek.

  He seemed to have more to say but went still. He often spoke with one corner of his mouth pulled up in a near-smile, and she had been observing it. His lips were full and shaped sensuously, while the rest of him was dashing and lively. Andrew’s mouth was artistically perfect — pouty and classical and supple, and she knew how he moved when he kissed. Philip, on the other hand, was a mystery.

  Slowly she leaned in, and he met her halfway. For a moment they lingered with their lips parted, only an inch between them, leaving the choice for one of them to close the space. Alysia did it. Thinking of the way he moved his lips in speech, and also considering his reserved and steadfast nature, she kissed him gently, the way she guessed he would like it.

  Alysia was unprepared for the entirely singular experience. He was tender and decorous. She recognized a hint of aggression; he seemed to confess that inside him was an ardent lover. And he was lonely. It sparked her empathy, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to delve deeper. The warm feeling he usually gave her spread into blissful contentment, like the sun on a summer afternoon or a full delicious meal.

  She didn’t realize she had quit moving the way he liked and had reverted to her own combative, ill-behaved style until he pulled away, short of breath. He regarded her warily, but kept his hands on her waist. She had been too forward and probably unladylike. Her hands had strayed to his chest. Sheepishly she slid them back to his shoulders.

  He gasped for breath. “Miss Villier! You mustn’t do that again if you expect me to behave myself.” His easy smile reassured her he wasn’t upset.

  Embarrassed, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh. “I apologize, Philip. I am too forward, I know.”

  He gathered her into a snug embrace. “No, not at all, darling. But I don’t think you understand your own power.” He lifted her chin and kissed her sweetly, his warm lips covering hers with soft, gentle strokes. “Tell me, how does this feel to you?”

  “Warm. Comforting and pleasant, like the sun.”

  He nodded, his eyes searching hers.

  She knew what he meant to get at. “Tell me then, how often do you compare me
to her?” He winced, and she added, “I ask only because I can’t seem to refrain from thinking of my own past, and I wondered if…”

  “You feel different to me, but pleasing, in a foreign and wild sort of way. I like it, of course, but my mind isn’t clear, as you say.”

  Alysia took his hand to try out the feel of his fingers laced between hers. A strong, muscled hand. Larger than she expected, and warm. “Who could fault you for that? You are far too young to have lost your wife, and it was not long ago.” His expression fell and he ducked his head. “Don’t be ashamed — I am not insulted. On the contrary, I understand completely.”

  He didn’t meet her gaze, looking past her shoulder. “Since we are being candid, tell me if you can imagine yourself with me.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. It is a pleasant thought, Philip.”

  “But can you imagine us on our wedding night?”

  Touché. “I suppose not,” she admitted without looking at him. She had imagined Andrew that way, countless times. If she tried to insert Philip into the vision, it faded away and felt strange.

  “What about being Lady Cavendish, a captain’s wife, and mother my children?”

  “I cannot see it, not now.”

  “I understand.” He raised their clasped hands to kiss the back of her wrist. “That doesn’t mean it won’t ever work, but I think you still love Andrew Tilmore. And apparently I am not so ready as I thought either.”

  She resisted hitting his chest, as she usually did with Andrew when she felt frustrated. He always let her, but Philip would likely think her unruly. “I don’t want to miss the perfect opportunity because I am pining like an idiot over someone I can’t have.”

  “If you truly want me, Alysia,” he used her given name for the first time, “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to turn you away. We understand each other, and I would be content to wait until we are both ready.” He kissed her lips gently, conjuring that lovely warm feeling again.

  His gruff voice lowered in gentle tones was as soothing as his touch. “It wouldn’t be so bad, you know, and in time I believe we would be happy. I need a mother for my child, and I know you are in need of a protector. I would propose marriage right now if you desired it.”

  He made perfect sense, and as a perfect gentleman, he left the choice in her hands. But his words made her identify the problem: It was so logical. Could they be satisfied forever with comfort and amicability? What about love and passion?

  With Andrew, her heart sang, her skin tingled, and every moment he touched her she burned for more. It wasn’t merely pleasant, it was consuming. She couldn’t expect another man to love her with the heart-and-soul intensity Andrew did, but she would always make the comparison. A recipe for disappointment.

  No, that was unfair to Philip. She hadn’t known him long. It also wasn’t fair to write him off as less passionate — since when was gentlemanly restraint a vice instead of a virtue?

  “Philip. I want you to kiss me, the way you would if I were your wife. As though you were not concerned with behaving yourself.” She watched him decide, looking at her as though he imagined it.

  She knew he would try it when his charming façade fell into a serious expression. He studied her slowly from her hair down past her waist then met her eyes again. He circled her ribs then slid his hands down onto her hips. He pulled her against him, and warmth melded into heat as he embraced her with his entire body.

  His eyes flashed stormy gray, and his lips came down hard on hers. He was dominant and deliberate, his mouth showing her what he wanted; long, deep strokes in a rhythm he dictated. His lips felt as sensuous on hers as she thought they would be, and she was taken aback with his strength unleashed. Indeed, she had underestimated him: intrepid, skilled, and definitely passionate.

  Her hands roamed onto his chest again and he allowed it. He was solid and broad, and she appreciated the secure feeling of being tucked protectively in his arms. But after a while she knew she didn’t like being led and dictated to. And although she could imagine this escalating into something gratifying, she was far from being consumed by it. She broke the kiss and watched for his reaction.

  He surprised her by smiling again. “I gladly stand by my offer, Alysia, but don’t look so forlorn. I don’t feel it either.” He kissed her hand. “Take some time to think. There is no hurry.”

  She knew what he meant by not feeling it. If she were truly in love, she would feel it. And since they both knew what it meant to love someone, they also knew when they did not.

  “Meanwhile, I will watch over you.” He teased, “And only call you Alysia in private. I think I must, since I have kissed you.” He flashed his dashing dimpled smile again, and it was comfortable between them once more.

  Her eyes flashed sideways to the cradle to be sure they hadn’t awakened the baby. Jacob was sound asleep.

  “You would be a good mother and a lovely wife. I may kick myself in the morning for not pushing myself on you.”

  “You are wise. If it is right, I think we will know it.” He was so endearing, she followed the impulse to lean into his chest again. “Meanwhile, I am honored if you will remain my friend.”

  “First one more, for good measure.” He smiled and kissed her gently on the lips. “I have been wanting to try that with you for a long time. Very well, now we are only friends.”

  She spoke her thoughts aloud before considering them, “Philip, I have an idea. Forgive me if I am too bold, but I must ask it anyway.” She kept his hand. “If you have any photographs or plates of her; even a good portrait or sketch would do…” She knew his wife’s name was Olivia, but she didn’t dare speak it aloud. He knew what she meant, judging by the clouded look in his eyes. “At any rate, I would love to paint the three of you as a family. If you would like it.”

  He was silent for too long, and her heart sank. She had offended him. She looked down, wondering how to let him out of the situation gracefully. His finger raised her chin, and she saw his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  “Yes. I would like that very much, and thank you.” He kissed her sweetly on the forehead, and she let him hold her while he recovered himself. “I have a small piece here, but I will send for something better from home.”

  She sighed in relief.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If this were play’d upon a stage now,

  I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

  Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare

  Alysia smiled, she laughed, she played with babies, and taught lessons. When she couldn’t smile any longer, painting portraits served as an excuse to lose herself in a two-dimensional world of color and shadow. She found satisfaction by sheer force of will, even if her latest sketchbook was filled with abstract, macabre images made with violent, saturated strokes that scored the paper.

  Her failure with Philip made her confront a long-suspected truth: Andrew had ruined her for any other man. Irrational to blame him, but her empty bed had seemed wrong ever since Paris. Without the rescue of distraction, the night stillness of her room seemed to leech her willpower; she felt herself turning into the melancholy, bitter spinster she dreaded.

  In the foggy state between consciousness and slumber, she dwelt on the most meaningful moments she had shared with Andrew: Their first kiss evolving from a volatile argument. The way he always slid his fingers between hers, even before company, to declare he wasn’t ashamed of her. The first time he said aloud that he loved her and every time after that. The obsidian fire in his eyes as he pushed his way through the crowded ballroom in Paris to claim and rescue her. The sight of him lounging naked and aroused, challenging her with his bold stare as she captured him on paper.

  This evening she had drifted to sleep amid a scattering of chocolate truffle wrappers, evidence of her dark mood. Not only had she dreamt of Andrew, but she imagined his warm, heavy arms around her. Leather-ink-balsam scent on his skin. His humming in her ear while he played with her hair.
He made her so warm she felt as though wrapped in a wool blanket, lying in a patch of sunlight.

  She imagined his chest pressed against her back. You like this, Lisa? He brushed a hand down her side then kneaded and squeezed his way back up. She leaned into his hand, making an embarrassing moaning sound. She imagined his breath on her neck, a dark chuckle and his chocolate-liqueur voice, Yes, my love. I want you too. Shall I wake you?

  No, she groused then sighed as he stroked across her ribs, heating the fabric. Yes, she amended to the Andrew in her dream.

  He found a particularly erotic spot inside the curve of her hip, coaxing lazy moans from her throat. As always, he knew just how to work over her neck, first with feathery kisses then deep, hungry nips and tugs that shot lightning down her spine and made her toes curl.

  Who does this to you, in your dreams? he demanded.

  She drifted into a state straddling sleep and drowsy awareness, not unlike rising to the surface of water. Her mind tumbled into a disoriented mess. Feeling the delicious dream slipping away, she worked to hold it in her mind. She would compose the rest of the scene for herself if she could no longer dream it unrehearsed.

  She reveled in his lips tracing her jaw and kissing the corner of her mouth. He leaned over her side and gathered her close, enveloping her in a domineering embrace. Underneath his patient, deliberate kisses came a hint of wildness and near-desperation. She sensed it in his heavy breath, the slight trembling of his hands, and his pulse pounding in his throat.

  Groggily she registered the touch of his tongue on her neck and the rasp of his evening whiskers. His scent had altered; she noticed hints of kerosene, roast beef, and starch.

  Lisa? Who makes love to you in your dreams? He raked his fingers down the silk of her nightgown. She whimpered in protest of his rough treatment; then his thumbs rubbed soothing circles. His voice dipped low. Tell me who.

  Fighting the floating sensation of waking, she clung to the dream, even though she didn’t care for this agitated version of Andrew.