He’d gladly attend, especially if doing so meant the possibility of seeing Seraphina in a low-cut gown. Showing off her smooth, graceful shoulders would be enough. More than her day gowns, at least.
First, both duty and ambition required that he make it through the day. He woke late, since so much of his work demanded evening hours to match his clientele, but that left time yet to fill. He marched down to his office, meaning to sort through reams of correspondence—bills, requests for aid, an invitation to a club that sounded more like a whorehouse. After a while he realized he’d only moved a single sheet of paper in the last twenty minutes.
He was too busy listening to the noises in the hallway. Bustling, knocking and quite a bit of calling back and forth. The thick wood door muffled the voices so that he couldn’t tell what they were saying—no matter how hard he listened, nor how he tilted his head.
Finally unable to stand it any longer he threw open the door. One maid industriously dusted the decorations on a side table, while another held a rag and a pot of polish, scrubbing at the wainscoting. Both jumped to their feet and bobbed quick curtsies. Rough words about distracting him died in his throat.
He couldn’t particularly fault them for doing their jobs, now could he?
However, he wasn’t convinced they must do so in the hallway outside his office, while he attempted to ensure the gambling hall on Dean Street turned a profit.
Directing his displeasure at them would serve nothing. He knew to whom he needed to apply for rectification of this situation. “Where is Miss Miller?”
The maid with a smudge across her cheek bobbed another curtsy. He was fairly sure one didn’t curtsy multiple times in a single conversation. “She’s in the blue parlor, sir.”
“The blue parlor?”
“Yes, sir. The third door on the left from here.” She curtsied yet again.
Fletcher shook his head as he walked away. He was beginning to think he preferred the previous disastrous state of his staff to this ballocksed-up attempt. At least then he hadn’t needed to worry that his maids were clockwork automatons in disguise.
He could see why the maid called it the blue parlor. Royal blue curtains framed the windows and paler blue upholstered furniture was scattered through the room. Fat, overblown roses decorated the carpet’s dark blue background. Odd that he hadn’t noticed before. He’d always thought of it as “that other parlor.” Considering he didn’t use either very often, the distinction hadn’t seemed to matter.
A bustle of activity swarmed the room. Maids came and went, receiving instruction, while footmen carried random pieces of furniture and a few paintings. Seraphina stood in the middle, directing her troops with the aplomb of a general. A voluminous white apron swallowed up her slim curves, and a woven snood covered her hair.
She beamed when he stepped over the threshold. Absolutely beamed, pleasure of purpose putting a pink in her cheeks and lighting her brown eyes.
“Mr. Thomas, I’m glad you’ve joined us. I need to know in what manner of regard you keep these pieces.” She waved toward a stack of paintings slanted against the near wall. Small, large, in gilded frames or wood, they had all been piled with the same lack of care.
He tucked his thumb in his waistcoat. “I rightly couldn’t give a damn about any of them.”
“Please mind your language,” she admonished, but her heart didn’t seem in it.
Mrs. Farley presented a list. She and Sera bent their heads over it and conferred in voices too low to carry.
Beset by the very strange position of petitioning for attention in his own house, he rubbed the back of his neck. Begging for Seraphina’s attention in particular perturbed him. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course. I’ll have plenty of time when we dine. I plan to have the day wrapped up by six of the clock.” She looked up from the all-important list with a swift smile. “Though I’m sure this project will continue for several days.”
“No.” He’d been too long on his own to take direction from a snippet of a girl, no matter how tasty. “Now. I wish to speak with you now.”
Mrs. Farley stood straight and tucked the confounded list behind her back, as if it alone had put the harsh edge in his voice. Seraphina lacked the grace to be at all cowed.
Goddamn it, but he liked her more for it.
By all logical accounts, she shouldn’t be so self-assured, not when she’d been raised a foundling, nor when she occupied what most would consider a precarious position in his home. Without purpose beyond what he created for her.
Pride snaked warm strokes through him. He’d created that self-assurance. Built her. Given her the secure life from which she could grow. When she sat at his side, as his wife, she’d shine even brighter. Everything worth it.
“As you like,” Sera said. “Mrs. Farley, please see that things continue as planned.”
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Farley clapped to gain attention, as if every servant in the room hadn’t frozen stock-still to stare. “Let’s move along. We’ve tasks to do and jobs to finish. See to them now.”
Everyone filed out, most stopping to drop curtsies or bob rough bows as they drew even with Fletcher. Every fiber in his body strung taut with the urge to snap at them all.
Finally, no one protected Seraphina. She spread her hands wide. “Here you have me. How can I help you?”
A loaded question, wasn’t that? So many possibilities. So many avenues one could venture down. Well-lit avenues where the pretty people milled or the dank. Dark alleys where he tried to confine his vices.
“You’ve turned this place upside down.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
Artistic goods stacked precariously high on a large table. Bell jars, small statues and piles of books layered the tabletop. He flicked open the cover of one unnamed book. Tristan and Isolde, A Love Story curved across the title page. Nothing remarkable about that. Good society long celebrated Tristan as the example of chivalric love—the poor sap. Why the poor book had been singled out became unfathomable.
“You failed to inform me of your schedule,” he said.
“Perhaps if you had responded to any of my requests for your time, you’d have known it.” Her little hands curled into fists for the briefest moment and just as quickly released. She steepled her fingers together instead.
“I’ll be at dinner this night.” He leaned a hip against the table, only to topple a small porcelain figure. He scooped it up without looking at it. “As you requested.”
“Wonderful. I can apprise you of the progress we’ve made today. I’ve been here more than two weeks, Fletcher. I couldn’t afford to delay any longer.”
He bobbled the small statue from hand to hand, the cool surface soothing his palms, which itched with the urge to take. Take her. “There’s no rush.”
“I cannot stay here forever,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. “Please do put that down. You’re going to drop it.”
He’d found a measure of peace knowing Seraphina lived in his house under his protection.
He was surprised at how deeply he felt the threat of her departure. He’d spent the last week avoiding her, true, but he’d still been able to enjoy seeing her in passing. He’d known she was safe and well taken care of in his house, in his territory. No one would dare harm her while under his protection. At least now his money could buy the sort of safety he’d been unable to provide when they were young.
“What, this?” He held up the figurine. It turned out to be a milkmaid, but her pale pink skirts were intriguingly short. Combined with her saucy pose—both feet together as she leaned over—it revealed a surprising display. Her thumb-sized bottom gleamed an even paler pink than her skirts. “She’s a naughty little minx, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” A fine blush spread over Sera’s cheeks. Even her full lips turned a duskier rose. “And she’s inappropriate in the public rooms of your house.”
“But I can keep her in a private room, can I?”
�
��That’s one of the matters I intended to speak to you about at dinner.” She seemed to be having a hard time maintaining her decorum. Her color heightened and her breathing pushed roughly against her clothes. Even through the swaddling of that ridiculous apron he could see her bosom rise and fall.
Fletcher set the figure back down on the table and inspected the goods more closely. An element of bawdiness tinged everything. At least he now understood Seraphina’s criteria for culling his artwork. He particularly admired a set of six-inch brass figures of three couples.
He picked up the sitting pair, only to find they separated and revealed quite a secret. “Well I’ll be damned.”
When Seraphina failed to correct his language, he looked over his shoulder. The blacks of her eyes blew wide, leaving the chocolate brown a slender ring. Slackened lips had been slicked with moisture.
He wanted to sample her. See if she tasted like the sweet hallmark of refined English women, tea and crumpets—or something more. A tartness to match her surprising wells of fire. He curled his fingers around the female of the set and clenched hard enough that her small brass elbow bit into his tendons.
“I have quite the collection and didn’t even know.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement.” She sucked in a deep breath and slowly blew it out through pursed lips, obviously trying to regain control of herself. “Some of the things I’ve found… Suffice it to say members of the Hellfire Club would think themselves lucky to own them.”
“Is that so, Seraphina?”
Fire crackled in her, but it was like the carefully banked embers of a chimney. Controlled. Contained. He wanted her to blaze out of control and reckless. Like him.
“I’ve asked you previously to call me Sera.”
He stepped near to her. Too close. He was a child playing at dipping his fingers in a candle’s flame. She burned with heat far beyond any simple candle, even if she tried to deny it. “But I like your name. An angelic name for an angelic woman.”
Her throat worked over a swallow. “I’m no angel.”
“No?”
Loose from her snood, a sleek lock of hair fell over her shoulder. He took it between his fingers. Raw silk, warm with the heat of her body. Her hair wasn’t as dark as he’d first remembered. All brown and richness, but with elements of honey woven through. He wondered what he’d find if he ever saw it down, with the right to bury his hands in the length.
“Then tell me. Which is your favorite?”
She shook her head at near-frantic speed, pulling the lock of hair out of his grasp. “None. It’s not… I couldn’t… They are scurrilous.”
“You’ve uncovered such a large selection. Only an angel would be pure enough to deny a favorite. Tell me, or I’ll keep calling you Seraphina.”
Her eyes turned up to him, wide and a little glassy, befuddled in a manner he’d love to see again and again. “The one in your hand.”
“This one?” He held up the brass couple. When fit together, the woman sat in the man’s lap facing outward, her head bent back to rest on her lover’s shoulder. “Is it the novelty of the mechanism? I assure you in real life it’s quite easy to maintain.”
Her blush upgraded to an inferno. As she reached up to run a fingertip over it, she trembled. “No. It’s her face. The artist must have been a master to craft her so carefully. She looks so…happy. Free.”
Fletcher snapped. Lost control. She looked wistful and curious, and if he could do anything at all to fix that, he would.
He kissed her.
A soft sliding of his lips over hers. A taste of her sweetness. Beneath that was sun-kissed warmth. She pulled in a quiet gasp. Something within him thrilled that she took his air. Only right. He wanted her to take more from him, everything she wanted or needed. Sustenance and survival.
He lifted one hand to frame her face but shook with the growl he held back. Tenderness poured through his mouth, slicking over her bottom lip. She would draw away if he hinted at more.
Even with the gentle samples Fletcher snatched, she’d turned as frozen as the statue still weighting his hand. He drew back with one last stroke, trying to see her, trying to understand. Her eyes were dazed, her mouth slack.
She grabbed hold of his coat hem. She didn’t tug him closer, not like his previous women. They’d all been bold and assured, confident in what they wanted. A rough fuck to a fare-thee-well, please don’t come again. The passion streaming between them seemed to leave Seraphina bewildered.
He could sympathize. In all his careful planning, he hadn’t expected anything like this. Not when he wanted to delve under her skirts and show her the end of this journey. Expose her to the possibilities of the body between man and woman.
Encouraged by Sera’s unflagging grip on his coat, he lowered his head slowly, giving her more than enough time to run away. She didn’t move a fraction. Even her eyes remained wide and locked on his until the last moment, when her thick fringe of lashes fell shut.
He kissed slow and easy, sipping over and over. Placed kisses at the corners of her lips. Worshipped at the altar of her mouth. Stole her innocence like the thief he’d always been.
Eventually he pressed harder. Took more. If a lad could nip a shilling, why not try for a whole pound? He stroked along the tender inside of her bottom lip and was much heartened to feel her shiver under his hand. He curled his fingers over the curve of her jaw, angling her for his possession.
He licked deeper into her mouth. She opened under him. Her sugared mouth took flight, kissing him back.
The kiss went incendiary. Taking and giving and the absorption of each other’s essence. Fletcher lost all sense of finesse.
He forgot the statue in his hand altogether, but then he tried to wrap his arm around her slender back. The figurine tumbled to the floor, splitting into two separate pieces of man and woman. The lovers looked vulgar once apart.
Seraphina ducked out of his reach and scooped them up. Her fingers clutched the couple until her skin went white.
“No more,” she said in a low, frightened voice.
“Seraphina.” There was nothing to say when she ducked away from his reach.
“It’s Sera. I told you my choice. Keep your bargain.”
He inclined his head in agreement, even as he knew it would be a difficult adjustment. She’d always been his angel, kept pure by her distance from him and his dirty world. Giving her everything she wanted meant agreeing to her choices. A name seemed a silly thing.
More important would be comforting her obvious distress. Her eyes darted frantically. She lifted a hand toward her mouth, only to seem surprised by the brass figures squeezed in her fingers. With overly careful movements, she set them on the table. She ranged near enough that he scented her, like an antelope come too close to a tiger.
As if sensing the danger, she flicked a glance over her shoulder and backed away.
Meanwhile, Fletcher had wrapped his hands around the edge of the table in lieu of the right to grab hold of her once more. His bones creaked from wrenching too tightly, but the sensation did nothing to abate such pure want.
Even when Sera shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the parlor’s scrambled mess, he didn’t move for long minutes.
Discovering that she possessed a font of untapped passion changed everything. Part craving, part salvation. Two years began to seem like an eternity that he hadn’t the fortitude to wait out. Fletcher wouldn’t be able to resist kissing Sera again—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to try.
Chapter Twelve
Sera fled to her room. No other word for it existed. Fled. She swept up her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. But she couldn’t outrun the all-consuming fear.
Not fear of Fletcher. She wouldn’t be so stupid.
Fear of herself. Of what she was and wasn’t and what she could become if she released her control for just a minute.
She slammed the door to her room and fell against it. Digging her shoulders into the hard wood wasn’t eno
ugh to bring her back to earth. Oh-too-much still pounded through her chest. Hard, fast breaths and a heart that would never calm. Her lips tingled from his kiss.
The kiss she’d fully participated in. Reveled in, if she were to be honest.
She’d spent the first ten years of her life hiding, trying not to be noticed by her mother’s acquaintances. Only the months she’d spent as Fletcher’s shadow had felt safe. The next ten she’d still hidden, armored by the proper behavior Mrs. Waywroth had instilled. She’d thought herself shielded against censure.
With one endless kiss, Fletcher had stripped her bare.
A pale white note card leaned against the mirror on her dressing table. She crumpled it and threw it into the corner. Undoubtedly Fletcher wished to inform her that he’d be at dinner as requested. She couldn’t stand to read such innocuous words from him.
She threw herself face first across the bed. The soft down mattress and piles of finely woven coverlets absorbed her groan. What in the world had she done?
Lost every scrap of her armor, that’s what. The rules that protected her were no use when she discarded them at the first opportunity.
Fletcher’s mouth… The reverence with which he’d kissed her…
For that, she was devilishly tempted to throw away so much more.
She rolled to her back then scrubbed cold hands over her face.
She could leave, she supposed. Nothing but her own prickly pride kept her there. Her determination to not be the charity case meant nothing when confronted by raw lust.
Giving in to the lust, even to the point of forcing her to run, produced the same effect. Besides, she felt protected in Fletcher’s presence. Even when he crossed a line and kissed her, any irrevocable risks would be her fault. No one else’s.
In his sphere, she only had her lust to fear.
Sitting up helped center her. One always felt more focused on an upright keel. Taking deep breaths eased her further. She was not a pawn to her urges.
That easily, she dismissed the raw edge that had ripped her insides. She was better than that. Believe in the rules of society and they would see one through.
Wayward One Page 11
