The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  “No, of course not!” He sounded indignant. “And that was less than a quarter of my cash holdings. In assets alone, I—” He lowered his voice, “I net over thirteen million, Lisa. That was pin money. And your fortune is secure as well. Cheers.”

  Her head spun. His voice seemed to come from far away. She was supposed to reverse the past year, just like that? Every miserable, worry-ridden month, day, minute?

  “Well, I donated the profits to charity — my share, at least. Lord Devon’s United Soldier’s Fund. For orphans and schooling, and even prosthetic limbs, and such. It seemed the right thing to do, considering those daft investors who lost val—” He paused, taking in her expression, and furrowed his brows. “Honestly, love, how could you believe I would fail at my own game?”

  So jocular, so pleased with himself. Shards of heat stabbed her temples. His cocksure smile sent her over the edge. Alysia drew her arm back and slapped him hard across the face. He blinked once, twice, nonplussed.

  “That is not the reaction I expected.” He didn’t rub the spot she hit, as though she hadn’t even bothered him, and that fueled her fury.

  “You! You let everyone believe you ruined yourself over me!”

  “I had no choice. There was a chance Lady Langton’s father would have prevailed in court, and you¯” He raked a hand through his hair then thumped the stone beside her shoulder. “You would have let my father push you into marriage with the first bounder who smiled on cue.”

  “I would never.”

  “You believe in duty and obedience.” He made it sound like a character flaw. “And my father threatened you. Not to mention shiny, perfect Philip Cavendish, whom you do not love but would marry anyway out of guilt—” He caught her hand before it connected with his face again and glared a warning. His voice came strangely calm, “It was only a matter of time. I had to act.”

  “I have been miserable, Andrew! You were broiled in the papers, and I have been scorned. How could you?” She hit his chest, and he let her. “I am The Great Whore. Parliament wants your head. Does none of this bother you?”

  Andrew infuriated her by chuckling. “No, my love. None of it matters. I was beginning to despair I had lost you.” He huffed. “And to think you were with the Montegues. I should have known.”

  Alysia shook her head. “You are out of your mind. I don’t know what to say.”

  “In two weeks you come of age. Nothing stands in our way now. Can’t you see why I am beside myself?” He kissed her, undaunted she didn’t return it. “Please say you will forgive me.”

  She caught him unawares with a sharp right hook to the edge of his jaw — payback for long months filled with distress and humiliation. He righted his head and stared back, his gaze slightly unfocused. Her knuckles and wrist burned then started throbbing, but she didn’t care.

  “I deserved that, I suppose,” he said as she retreated.

  Wise of him not to follow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Go to your bosom, knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.

  Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare

  Alysia lowered the book in her hand and gave the butler a sheepish smile. She had expected Andrew to come through the door, and she was going to knock him in the head with Jules Verne. She gave the butler silent appreciation as he feigned indifference.

  Belatedly it occurred to her that she might have hurt Andrew had she thrown a book; then she thought it might knock some sense into his head, aggravating man.

  “A parcel for you, my lady, just delivered express.” He cleared his throat. “I shall set it on the desk, ma’am.”

  She gave him a knowing smile, which he returned. “Thank you, that will be all.”

  Who would send her a package? Only a few people knew she was there…

  She untied the string then peeled away the brown wrapping paper to reveal a leather-bound volume; the size of a small ledger, or a journal, it seemed. The pages were filled with the most symmetrical, beautiful print she had ever seen. Then she saw the letter, from Lady Devon.

  Dearest Alysia,

  We are so relieved to hear everyone at Dunsbury is alive and well.

  Forgive me for interfering, but these past years I have watched you serve the interests of everyone except yourself, and I fear you will do so now. In the absence of your mother, whom I adored, might I advocate for your happiness?

  You and I have much in common. Not long ago I found myself in a situation similar to yours, facing the same decision before you now. Not until Wilhelm lay bleeding to death in my arms did I fathom that he needed me as much as I needed him.

  Never underestimate the power of a determined man. Wilhelm cleared the way for me, and I believe Andrew will do the same for you. He loves you, dear. It frightens me, in truth.

  May I ask you to read this journal, if you will, with an open mind? It is Wilhelm’s. Never fear, this is his idea. He hopes understanding the point of view opposite yours will influence you to accept Andrew.

  True love is so rare, and when found, it is worth fighting for. It is in this spirit we offer you our assistance by any means necessary, regardless of any disapproval you may field from the Tilmores.

  All my love,

  Sophia

  Alysia hadn’t even begun reading the journal, and already she was weeping. With trembling fingers she opened the fragrant leather cover of the book. She felt a change of heart as she read Lord Devon’s honest expression of longing, his heart-breaking panic over losing Sophia, his torment at being kept at arm’s length when he knew she cared for him in return.

  Alysia’s throat ached in tandem with her heart — it was too familiar.

  She had already perceived Lord Devon worshipped his wife, but experiencing it through his eyes was overwhelming. Her every touch was the breath of life to him. He would have gladly died for her, and he nearly did.

  Utterly moved, her heart thrummed in sympathy. By the time she finished reading, she had to admit she agreed whole-heartedly with Lord Devon and felt like shaking some sense into Sophia.

  Could it possibly be the same with her and Andrew?

  It was easy to see how right the Montegues were, but it wasn’t so clear for her. Lord Devon didn’t have angry parents to disappoint and betray, and she didn’t think national economies depended on his wise judgment.

  Alysia already knew there would never be any man for her but Andrew. Heaven knew she had tried to replace him. Philip Cavendish was the closest match, but even then, she had to admit what she felt for him was like primary colors, while Andrew was the entire spectrum of color in every chroma, saturation and hue.

  “I love Andrew,” she confessed aloud, and it made her breathless. It seemed Gabriel himself should have alighted and taken record of surrender, but the only sign was a playful breeze through the open window that turned the newly painted shutter on its rusty hinge and lifted the corner of an ancient, valuable tapestry hanging nearby.

  This was his house, his old romantic castle he renovated with his own hands. She loved Andrew so dearly it wrenched her heart and burned in her veins. Overcome, she dropped her head onto her arms and stared at Lord Devon’s beautiful journal and Lady Devon’s letter.

  She would give Andrew whatever he wanted. Mistress, schoolmaster to his brother — anything — he would have it. And if Andrew ever asked her again to be his wife and truly meant it, she wouldn’t push him away.

  And devil take the rest, is what he would say. And she would agree.

  Wicked and selfish as it was, she would quit thinking and worrying, and simply trust him.

  Had she been observed, she would have puzzled her onlookers, because now she laughed. First a deranged twitter, then hearty, joyous peals that echoed along the beams striping the vaulted ceiling. For the first time in years, she felt free.

  ****

  Andrew’s staff reported he was out, whatever that meant. He was possibly keeping his distance, allowing time for her anger to cool. Alysia spent the rest of the
day in Christian’s room. Good to see him much better, though still weak. She read to him when he was awake, tidied the room when she felt the urge to be productive, and stared out the window when she didn’t.

  After she fed Christian supper and tucked him into bed for the evening, she went downstairs to the kitchen. Finally, just after sunset she heard Andrew’s small army of laborers coming down the stairs, and she watched in vain for him. Cook distributed bowls of stew among the dusty and weary men, and Alysia had nearly given up waiting for Andrew when she finally heard the distinctive rhythm of his boots echoing on the stone stairs. He called over his shoulder to someone she couldn’t see about moving the east fence for excavation tomorrow. She understood why he came in through the kitchen with the servants — he was as dirty as they.

  His gaze met hers. Without looking away he answered Cook, “I will take my supper upstairs.”

  The men at the tables paused over their bowls to watch the master staring at the woman they had no doubt heard rumors about.

  Andrew trudged to the mudroom and stripped down to his drawers, leaving his dusty clothes in a heap. He gave Alysia an unmistakable invitation with his eyes and went up the stairs. She heard him ask the maid to start the water for his bath.

  That made Alysia pause. She waited a quarter hour after she saw the maid deliver the soap and towels, then went upstairs.

  She found him in his sitting room before the fire, wrapped in a maroon silk dressing robe and sipping brandy from a snifter. Her eyes were drawn to his glossy hair, damp and sweeping low across his brow. He regarded her with a half-hooded gaze. Flames from the fire reflected a salacious glint in his black eyes that made her breath catch.

  After sitting on the ottoman in front of his chair, with his predatory gaze watching her all the while, she lifted his ankles into her lap. She removed his slippers and rubbed the tight knots out of his feet. He groaned and nudged where he wanted her to rub next. Not a word passed between them as she kneaded his sore muscles until his eyelids dropped. He had teased her hands up his calves, and she sat between his ankles to work over the bulky muscle of his legs.

  Had he fallen asleep? He leaned forward and snatched her against his chest with his arms wrapped across her back. Yesterday it would have been an act of war, but today she would give him whatever he wanted. She settled against him, noticing a great difference in his build since she had last seen him months before, but held her questions for later as she massaged his neck and shoulders.

  He cracked one eye open, and his voice came as a low rumble, “What, no scolding?”

  “No. I am through with that.”

  He took a deep breath. “What are you about?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “You cannot mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  He hummed, a delicious bass sound that tickled her spine. “Truly?”

  She let a half minute pass while she rubbed the sides of his throat. “Truly.”

  After a few sharp moans when she started on the sore spot where his neck joined his shoulder, he nestled into the overstuffed armchair and fell asleep. He must have been utterly exhausted. She relaxed against him, perfectly comfortable. She would stay the night that way unless he sent her away.

  Confident he was deeply asleep, she said, “I love you, Andrew.” She pressed a kiss on his neck. “More the fool, me. Someday you will regret it.” She read Shakespeare, and Brontë, and the Bible; she knew how the story ended for the woman who brought the man low. Inevitably, he despised her. The thought of such ugliness between she and Andrew…

  She caught a rebellious tear before it slid down her cheek then pressed her lips to his. She lingered, relishing the familiar, arousing shape of his mouth.

  Startling — he kissed her back, slowly and deeply. He mumbled, “Never.” Then with a faint, smug smile drifted back to sleep.

  ****

  “Andrew, for the last time, no!”

  “Please, Lisa? I am desperate!” He swatted the hair from his forehead.

  “Go to London, then.”

  “I can’t. And no one here could possibly do it any better than you.” He placed the pair of shears in her hand. “And do it now, before I dress, and spare me a shirt full of clippings.”

  “But all your beautiful hair, Drew. I am not a barber!”

  “But you’re an artist. It should be similar to sculpting.”

  She tried to give back the scissors, which he ignored. He pulled a chair onto the balcony then sat, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Alysia, I look like a collie. I can’t see. My only other choice is to pin it up like a woman or shave it all off — yes, that’s it. Where is my razor?” He rose, looking ready to charge, and she panicked. A shaved head? With his big ears? Mercy.

  “All right! Fine. I will do it. Stop, please.” He held his hands up in surrender and sat, wearing a victorious smirk that meant she should have called his bluff. “You indemnify me, whatever the results?” She approached his chair from behind.

  “For better or worse, darling.”

  Alysia balanced the scissors on his shoulder then held out sections of his hair to study the ends. “Perhaps I could mimic the style you had, but trim it shorter. Follow the same lines…”

  “Clever girl,” he teased. “I knew you would think of something.”

  “Praise me later, when I have finished without cutting off your ear.” She leaned in to nip his ear with her teeth. He jumped then chuckled. Alysia ran her fingers through his hair, admiring the dark glossy locks. Most of the beauty in the world was wasted on men; long eyelashes, thick hair, supple and sensuous lips. No, the latter had its uses.

  He made a purring noise and leaned into her hand. Amused, she scratched behind his ears as she would do to a cat, teasing him.

  “No more stalling. Cut.”

  She gave his hair a playful tug. “You know, I might plead distraction, Drew.”

  “Hmm? Why?”

  “How is it possible you are so burly? And taller, I think. And you are as bronzed as a sailor. What have you been doing all summer long?”

  “Working on my land, as you know.”

  “You mean you are out digging and plowing with the laborers?”

  “Why not?” He was clearly defensive about it.

  Alysia aligned a row of hair in the comb and gingerly made the first cut. She found that if she held small vertical sections straight out, it made an even line, from which she supposed she could merely trim off an inch or two. Hopefully.

  “Well, my lord, it isn’t behavior one expects from the Earl of Preston.”

  “Since when did I ever care about public opinion?”

  “Never. But perhaps you should, a little.”

  “Do you disapprove, Lisa?”

  She paused to hold up his hand and saw it weathered and callused. He used to have elegant, masculine hands. Now they were plainly masculine. “I suppose I can’t call you a spoiled brat anymore. But can you still play the piano?”

  He snatched his hand back. “Of course. I think so. I haven’t had the instrument here tuned yet, that is.”

  “Hold still. Unless you really do want to be bald.”

  “At any rate, I prefer to oversee operations here personally, and it helps me blow off steam.”

  “Oh?” her voice slid from low to high, meaning he should expound, but she wouldn’t ask.

  “Yes. I think you like hearing me say it. So, I am a healthy man in my prime, deprived of an outlet for my energies, if you will. Thinking of you at night when I am alone is bad enough. Do you think I could maintain my sanity if I dawdled about indoors all day pining over you? Or is that what you want?”

  Alysia stifled her laughter. “You nearly spout poetry, in a vehement sort of way. I find it rather touching. And my original intent, if you remember, was to pay you a compliment.” She resumed cutting his hair, glad he couldn’t see her flush. “I remarked that your physique is very impressive, and while I am not precisely complaining, you are h
alf naked, and it is rather difficult to concentrate. That is all.”

  “That is a rather wifely thing to say, Lisa.”

  “I said it from the perspective of an artist who admires good form and proportion.”

  “You desire me still.”

  “I shouldn’t feed your insufferable ego. Besides, was it not more what a mistress would say? It seems a wife would be more modest, and a mistress eager to please.”

  “Then you should be both to me. That is what happy men manage. They marry the one they love and save themselves a world of trouble.” Andrew sobered his voice, “Marry me, Lisa, and I will never stray. I swear it.”

  Alysia tried to swallow over a suddenly swollen throat. That didn’t help the stinging behind her eyes, threatening tears. “How did we come to that from arguing over your hair?”

  “If you weren’t wielding a sharp pair of shears, I would attempt to persuade you.”

  She ignored him and triple-checked the ends long after she had finished in order to delay facing him to trim the front. When she had herself under control, she walked around the chair and found Andrew dozing. She worked through the hair framing his forehead and temples, and had no choice but to stand between his knees and lean in to accomplish the task.

  Andrew’s soft groan meant he had opened his eyes and found her décolletage in his face. He pulled her into his lap, and she sat with a mild sound of contempt, then resumed trimming his hair.

  “Is that better?” she taunted.

  “Marginally.”

  Alysia was stalling again, rechecking the lines and trimming in small adjustments. His hands gripped across her back, keeping her balanced. She set the scissors down and brushed the clippings from his shoulders, then his chest, and kept her hands there even when she had no excuse. The trail of hair across his chest and down the center had grown thicker than before, and she brushed her fingers in it curiously.

  The past spring and summer had aged him beyond his years. He was as warm as ever, his embrace felt the same as she remembered, and that gave her comfort. But he was so excessively masculine, it made her a bit anxious. His demeanor had lost its capriciousness, wisdom and sobriety in its place. That made him seem a completely different man.