Wayward One

by Lorelie Brown

  The hair that dusted his thighs had been crisp under her palms. The vee of muscles from his waist to his groin, the ones she’d never seen in light since that morning she’d burst in on him dressing, had leapt to her touch.

  And in the morning, she’d slipped away.

  It was easier to do when he slept on and she could sneak out the door on half-held breath.

  He’d given up on trying to talk her into staying. He watched her with something shadowed in those pale blue eyes. The weight of them bore into her back as she opened the door and left.

  “Mrs. Thomas.”

  Her spine jerked straight, away from the window. She knew before she turned around who stood in the parlor doorway. No one had the same deep, rumbling quality to their voice. No one else made her scalp tingle with their nearness.

  “Mr. Thomas,” she greeted him. Somehow they’d drifted into cool formality during the daytime hours. She mourned the loss of his teasing, but she didn’t know how to get it back.

  Or if she should try. The walls she bricked thick every morning would become more and more difficult to shore up. They didn’t eat meals together, as she was off to give lessons at Lottie’s school most evenings. The nights she stayed home he departed earlier for his clubs and haunts and dirty business. As if he were complicit in her attempts to keep their lives separate.

  Sera could so easily hand over her soul to his keeping. Except she still didn’t trust him—or anyone else—to keep it safe.

  Sometimes she wasn’t sure she trusted herself.

  She laced her fingers together before her belly in an attempt to hold herself back from reaching out. She wouldn’t know what she was reaching for, anyway. “Was your day a pleasant one?”

  He strolled into the room. On the surface, he looked every inch the gentleman about town. His coat was precisely cut to his wide shoulders, and the waistcoat on display was a tasteful dove gray. A gold watch chain draped from a button to dip into his pocket.

  She saw the reddening of his knuckles.

  “Pleasant enough, I suppose.” He watched her out of the side of his eyes as he walked to the sideboard.

  “Did you spend it in business pursuits or something more enjoyable?”

  For long seconds the only sound in the room was the quiet gurgle of liquid into his glass. He was turned away from her, head bent over his task. A minute sliver of skin flaunted itself between his neckcloth and golden hair.

  Last night, she’d put her mouth over that skin as she’d stretched out naked across his back. He’d shuddered, then thrown her over and covered her. Entered her.

  He turned, then leaned against the hip-high table. His eyes gleamed as he watched her over the raised glass, but if he actually took a sip, it was miniscule.

  “Do you care?” he asked in a deadly soft voice.

  Pain lanced under her ribs. She winced. Unbidden, her hand rose to rub her palm across the top of her chest.

  She’d thought that getting married would ease the day-to-day tension between them. Instead, the ceremony had made their lives both more terrible and wonderful.

  “I do.” She lifted her chin and forced her hands to her side. “I’d be a poor helpmeet if I don’t know your daily tasks.”

  His gaze dropped to the liquid he swirled. “If I want something more than a helpmeet?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t understand him. What more could there be than what she gave him? In less than two months she’d reorganized his entire household to meet the most exacting standards. At night, she became a wanton cipher of herself.

  “Never mind,” he growled. He tossed back the remains of his drink and made as if to leave. She wouldn’t see him again until night, if today followed the pattern of the rest.

  “Wait,” she exclaimed, before she could decide what she would say.

  He froze and turned to her. Hot anticipation lived in his gaze. But she couldn’t give him that, not when it was bright and sunny and she’d be forced to examine the darkest pieces of herself. Her inclination toward madness over him.

  “Please don’t forget the Marchioness of Aubrey’s ball is tonight. The carriage will be ready at eight.”

  He inclined his head in a nod that wasn’t so much agreement as acknowledgment. Then he disappeared into the hallway. Sera was left to herself. As it should be. Separate lives during the daytime.

  So why did she feel as if tiny shards of herself stretched between her feet and his as he walked away?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sera snipped carefully at the piece of paper laid out before her. Her tongue dipped out the corner of her mouth, as if that would help her concentrate.

  She didn’t want to ruin it.

  She’d been working for weeks on the card she’d painstakingly constructed. All she had left was the last furl of paper lace meant to wrap around the front edge and frame the hand-cut heart in the center. She’d layered it so that it was beautiful to the touch as well as the eye, and inside she’d inscribed a passage from Tristan and Isolde—the proper, chaste version, not the scandalous one that had been moved from its display table in the morning room. Since she’d been unable to decide what to do with such a manuscript, the age and efforts of which were enough to counter its depravity, she’d simply tucked it in an empty drawer in her work desk.

  She shook her head free of the thoughts of the manuscript and pushed a miniscule scrap of red paper away from her work.

  She had to concentrate.

  Fletcher deserved a present, and she’d decided that a hand-crafted card would be the perfect symbol of her efforts on his behalf.

  As if a card could elevate their tumultuous relationship to a higher plane all on its own.

  She couldn’t help but smile at her foolhardy attempts, but that didn’t keep her from snipping away with the heavy shears.

  The hairs across the back of her neck crawled.

  She jerked up from her intense concentration.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were here, sir.”

  Mr. Raverst stood in the doorway of the small morning room. He was dressed perfunctorily in a suit that didn’t quite fit across his boxlike shape. He inclined his head. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Mrs. Thomas.”

  Her hands set to work on their own tidying the surface of her desk. Though she didn’t know why, she tucked the almost finished card under a spare sheet of paper. “Please don’t worry. But if you’re looking for Mr. Thomas, he’s already left.”

  “Mr. Thomas,” echoed Mr. Raverst. “How formal for someone who is still a newlywed.”

  A hot blush burned her cheeks. She gathered up a few scraps of detritus and stood to toss them in the fireplace. Spring was just touching the city, and soon it would be too warm for the reckless abandon of filled grates that Fletcher allowed.

  “I’m sorry you missed him,” she said, ignoring his insinuations about formalities. She couldn’t expect him to know better, but such discussions were not the thing.

  “I am as well.” He didn’t seem particularly saddened. His cool gaze was more calculating than anything else. “Please allow me to congratulate you once more on your marriage.”

  “Thank you.” She wove her fingers together before her stomach. She had the oddest wish she were wearing her gloves. Despite his absences lately, everyone said Mr. Raverst was welcome in Fletcher’s home as if he’d been a brother rather than an employee.

  And yet, there was something about the way he watched her.

  All the little things that had been strange in her room took on a sinister cast. Her perfume bottles left out of order, her silver hairbrush on the wrong dresser. Silly things she could have done herself. Nothing had been on the order of the warning note she’d been left.

  A chill worked down her spine. Had someone been stalking her all along?

  “Hey now.” His mouth smiled, but it went nowhere near his eyes. Only his cheeks pulled up. “I didn’t have a chance to give them yet.”

  She’d realized. She only i
nclined her head.

  “Many felicitous bounties upon you both.” He bent into an elaborate bow that would have been better served fifty years ago.

  She couldn’t help but laugh. Here was the man she remembered from her childhood, all brash teasing. “Thank you, kind sir.” She scooped her skirts and dipped into a curtsy.

  He ambled into the room to lean one hip against the end of a settee. “Do you know, way back in the day, you were the only little girl I knew who could curtsy properly. Without seeming like they were about to tip over like a teapot.”

  “Mama was quite strict that I learned. She said one never knew who would be encountered in a single day.”

  “A smart woman, your mother.” He slanted a sidelong glance at her. “Maybe not toward the end though.”

  The smile slid off her face like fresh creamed butter off a hot crumpet. “No, I don’t suppose she was. Your kindness knew no bounds though, sir.”

  He waved a hand. “I did nothing.”

  “No, I won’t believe that. Mac Thomas wasn’t one for advances on earnings yet to be accumulated. I feel certain you had something to do with that. You were always so sweet to Mama, despite the times she felt…out of sorts.”

  He had been. When Mama’s head had been in the clouds, he’d sat with her and talked for long hours though he was a busy man. He’d been the one who’d convinced Mama to try to go back to Mac, saying that though the work was unpalatable, at least Sera would be well fed and they would have money for a better room.

  “It was nothing. Please don’t mention it.”

  The strange tension that had been dwelling between her shoulder blades melted away under her remembrances of his interventions. He’d always had a little cake or treat for her tucked in a handkerchief. They had been the tastiest things she’d eaten in months and, even better, had filled her belly for hours.

  She felt bold enough to tease. “I don’t know that I can agree. Perhaps I should tell Fletcher what a soft touch he has working for him.”

  His countenance darkened abruptly. The florid flush his nose carried went nearly crimson. “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I know why Fletcher still owns Mrs. Kordan’s establishment.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Why, to keep children from working there. I’m sure he’d be sympathetic to know you were kind to me as a young girl.”

  His gaze flicked across the room, but the windows were curtained. “Still. Do not tell him.”

  She wanted to laugh. He’d likely spent a lot of effort in ensuring he was seen as an intimidating figure. It wouldn’t do to undermine him by telling anyone how kind he’d been to a fatherless girl. “King’s cross,” she said, matching gestures to words as she traced over her heart. “I won’t say a word.”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “Good.” He didn’t look much assured. His mouth was still drawn into a scowl.

  “Mr. Raverst, I really do promise. If it’s important to you, I won’t say anything.”

  He lifted a single eyebrow in patent disbelief. “Even to Fletcher.”

  Describing to this man the tenuous tight walk that she and Fletcher maneuvered would be nearly impossible. Even if she carried warm memories of Mr. Raverst from her childhood, that didn’t mean they were now anything more than acquaintances bound by their relation to Fletcher. She and Fletcher talked mostly of facile, easy-to-speak-of topics…at least in the daylight. At night, it was all about their fierce passion.

  So all she said was, “Even to Fletcher.”

  With the appeasement, his features eased. He nodded. “Thank you. On that note, please let me bid you good night. You must want to return to your task.”

  She blushed hot at the reminder of her mission. To join together the two halves of her marriage with a card seemed silly, but she couldn’t think of any other method. “Good evening, sir.”

  With one last bow, he departed.

  It didn’t take Sera long to finish the intricately cut paper and affix it where it belonged. As she cleaned away the last bits of her mess, the card seemed to hover in her peripheral vision.

  She chewed on her bottom lip as she aligned it precisely in the center of her desk. Now that it was finished, she wondered if she had the courage to give it to Fletcher. Her insides clenched with a high-strung nervousness, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

  Yes, Fletcher deserved a gift.

  When he’d said in such an offhand manner that he couldn’t remember getting a present, it had been one of the saddest things she’d heard.

  But the card. The effort she’d put into it. The flowery, descriptive quote she’d written inside. How she’d deliberated on which words to use, what could possibly convey her tenuous hope at the taming of their relationship and what she believed could come from that. True allegiance and a mature growing together into better people, if only they could subsume the wicked want that grew between them.

  It would be tantamount to placing her heart in his palms.

  Her vision washed black for a second. She had not the courage.

  With short, sharp movements she snatched the card up. Dropped it in the drawer with the copy of Tristan and Isolde. The drawer slammed shut with a sharp click.

  Handkerchiefs. She would buy him silk handkerchiefs.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fletcher couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended a ton event without an ulterior motive. Wooing Lord Linsley into allowing him to participate in the railroad syndicate—as if he were some young boy begging for a bit of trim. Other times he’d been enticing specific toffs to come play in his club after they were done with the stifling boredom of a ball. Once or twice he’d even worked the back rooms, taking book in pretty parlors meant for relatively innocent card games.

  At all of them he slunk around the edges of the room. Clung to the shadows. Became more acquainted with the wall hangings than the wallflowers.

  Never had he been established at the side of the hostess, a duchess no less, for nearly an hour and introduced as one of the guests of honor.

  The very idea seemed absurd.

  Of course, never before had he the perfect specimen of English womanhood at his side.

  She hadn’t wanted the expensive dress he’d insisted upon, but he’d loved the idea of seeing her in a color chosen for display rather than invisibility.

  Sera wore a deep green dress that skimmed snugly over her bosoms. Beneath those lovelies, at her hips began swags of fabric and furbelows that only concealed the beauty of her shape. Sure, her waist looked tiny enough to circle with one hand, but as much as he liked that part of her, her waist wasn’t what his hands craved. Her cool, porcelain skin framed by the top of her bodice, its low shoulders and the choker of emeralds he’d presented her with earlier in the evening was what he wanted to touch. And taste. And nibble.

  He had not a snowball’s chance in the fiery pit of being allowed to.

  Even as she wore his emeralds, she’d also twined her mother’s locket through the necklace, so that the etched gold oval hung from beneath like a teardrop. She touched it now and then as if it were her talisman for keeping him successfully at arm’s length.

  Certainly, once they were home, he could visit her in her chambers, but only after she’d scrupulously prepared herself for bed. While completely enjoyable, it wasn’t the same thing as having the right to touch her while still dressed in her fineries.

  A few days prior, she’d declared it his birthday since he’d been unable to provide a specific day beyond naming the month of February. She’d ordered a meal that included all his favorites, such as beefsteak, and set a carefully wrapped package at his place setting. He’d had to hold back shakes as he’d unwrapped it—only to find a small stack of silk handkerchiefs inside. Though expensive and well made, they’d seemed…impersonal. As if they were one more of her attempts to mold him into something other than himself. As if she’d judged his wardrobe lacking.

  Fletcher shoved away his re
stless discontent. He had no bloody right to be upset about something that was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

  Now, Sera worked her gentle magic, greeting everyone with aplomb and grace. She’d described herself as an outsider—someone never quite a part of this world. He could see that was untrue. She knew absolutely everyone. She inquired after a Baron Willohby’s hunting dogs, then encouraged a Miss Hallifax to describe her most recent watercolors.

  The entire while, she kept Fletcher actively engaged in the conversation, subtly implying he was already involved in railroads and dry-goods shipping rather than the truth.

  “It’s such a marvel how quickly we’ve become adjusted to travel by rail,” said Miss Hallifax. She held an ivory-stemmed fan that she fluttered over her heaving bosoms. Railways apparently transported the girl to heights of ecstasy. Or perhaps it was more about the emerald necklace Sera wore and the speculative glances Miss Hallifax kept sending it, before turning her gaze to Fletcher. “Why just last week I went to Bath and returned again in a matter of days. It’s positively dizzying.”

  “Yes, I’m very proud of Mr. Thomas’s efforts.” Sera curved her hand around Fletcher’s elbow.

  A shock jolted between his shoulder blades as he first thought it felt proprietary. One glance at her face put lie to it. A carefully controlled smile tilted her mouth to a precise degree. Fletcher was sure any more would be perceived as crass, and any less as rude.

  “If you’ll pardon us,” Sera continued, “I see someone we must greet.”

  Fletcher sketched a bow and departed with Sera on his arm. He could feel Miss Hallifax’s gaze crawling over him. If he wouldn’t think himself delusional for it, he might have even supposed she stopped on his arse.

  “What is wrong with you?” Sera’s tone lodged some confusing place between spitting and a whisper.