Tomorrow, he'd walk with her to church, if she wished to go. He'd buy her lunch again and find some other activity to keep her by his side. He'd make a picnic for the cliff, just like she'd done as a child with her husband's family. Monday, they'd go to the draper. He'd want to talk with the stone masons. And what would he do with her Tuesday? Take her dancing. If they had dance halls open on Tuesday nights, would she allow his arms around her? Would she waltz? Would she remain in his arms, her luscious body, firm and strong, lining his, luring his? He grew hot, filled with the urge to press her near. But if he crossed the carriage to sit beside her, she'd withdraw.
Tomorrow, man. Tomorrow. Or the next day, he'd kiss her, embrace her, show her that she fit him physically, emotionally. And after that, he'd ask once more if she'd come to Paris. For business. For pleasure.
"Come spend the week with me," he'd offer. Let me pamper you and please you as you deserve to be. She'd stay at the Grand Hotel near the Opera Garnier. Not with him in his house in Boulevard Haussmann. That was not appropriate. Not for what he ultimately wished for them.
Which was...marriage?
Marrying anyone had not entered his mind. Not in all these years since Aileen died. Why now? Why this woman who had eluded him? Why this woman who gave him conflicting signs that she cared for him, but didn't care enough to wish him close?
She challenged him. Thwarted him. Few women ever did. For her strength, he valued her. For her tenacity to build a profession, he admired her. For her generosity to his family, he praised her.
But did he love her?
He might. He might.
"Thank you for today, Killian," she said, intruding on his reverie. "I've never drunk so much beer."
He'd taken her to a pub where women were welcome and the beef and mash went down all too easily with beer from the keg. "That pub has been in business since your King Charles."
"How do you know?"
"When I was here, first looking at properties, I toured the town. This pub I like a lot. They know a bit about feeding the masses. Even inviting women inside the back parlor."
"I'll have to let out my corset tomorrow."
Or leave it off entirely. Lest his lecherous thoughts show on his face, he nodded at the street. "Almost home."
She cast her eyes to the floor of the cab.
"Would you like to go to church with me tomorrow morning?"
She got that haunted look in her eyes. "No. Thank you."
"Well, then afterward. I shall call for you. Noon." He couldn't allow her to dismiss him one more time. "We'll go to dine at the Albion."
"No. You'll come to my house for dinner."
The surprise of her intimate offer overjoyed him. "You cook?"
She cocked a brow at him. "I do. Quite well, actually. What do you like?"
"Roast beef. Potatoes, carrots. Anything. Everything.” You.
"All of that?" She was chuckling.
"When did you learn how to cook? Did you do it when you were married?"
"Oh, no. Ladies do not cook. Or I didn't. David would not have allowed it."
"He restricted you? From cooking?"
"Ah," she said and raised a finger in the air. "A viscountess does not cook. She has staff. A cook and a scullery maid. A kitchen big as a stable. No, when I became Lady Savage I did not cook and I missed it. I'd done it, you see, when things turned sour at home when I was young. Before I was married. And I—" She came full stop, staring at him.
"You cooked for your parents?" Unusual. What did she mean, 'when things turned sour'?
"I did. My father lost his income. We were quite without funds. He was...inconsolable. My mother was...undone. She took to her bed and took her bottle of laudanum with her."
"Liv!"
"Oh, don't be sad. She'd always been moody. It was easy for me to take charge of one housemaid and I became the cook. When I was a child I'd spent so much time in the kitchen that returning to one, alone in peace and quiet, was a boon." She gave him a whimsical smile. "I was an only child and knew how to amuse myself in the kitchen, in my father's library or at the piano. I learned early the difference between being alone and being lonely."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I’m conjuring up awful memories."
"I don't mind recalling my past...or most of the time, I don't." She rallied, straightening her back against the squabs. She concentrated on the scenery. "You've reminded me of what I had to learn, what I had to endure. In times of peace, it's important to remember when you were in turmoil. When things were difficult and people were...unhappy. The past gives you perspective and hope."
He liked her positive attitude. "I agree. My own childhood was poor. Ireland then was no place for man or beast. Maybe it still isn't. My sister was rabid to leave. She saved her wages just to put us on a ship to America. And we both prospered. She waited tables in a pub near the docks of Baltimore and she made me go to school."
"I wondered how you became educated. How you went from a scrapper in the streets and lost your Irish brogue and learned about the sea and trade and railroads."
"It helps to be curious. I was. School fed my jumpy mind." Newspapers had made him famous. Gossip made him notorious. The first printed the truth. The last elaborated lies. For a woman to hear of his reputation seemed unusual, but Liv was in business herself, albeit it was true she was a noblewoman. "You had heard I was a boy from the streets, eh?"
She nodded. "I did. Many marvel at how you've done so very well financially."
"And socially?" He snorted, mocking himself. "I know many don't care for me."
"Ignore gossips," she said vehemently.
He frowned at her. "You pay them no mind? The gossips?"
"I try not to."
That didn't make sense. Why was she concerned about being seen with him if she dismissed those who told tales?
"But sometimes,” she said with sorrow lining her brow, “I fail. But I tell myself they’re mean. Of you? They're only jealous of your success. Or must compare themselves to feel superior. My father was like that. A needy man. Troubled. My mother, too. Looking for approval from those who couldn't give her the time of day. Did you like school?"
"I did." He pushed away his concern about her conflicting emotions. "I was all boy. Wanting to be out, dicing, fighting. So I hated a classroom at first. But when I skipped, my sister'd catch me and haul me right back by the ear. I learned to love my lessons and my sister's demands I learn."
"And where is she now? America?"
"She died more than fifteen years ago. But she had the good life she deserved, married to a man who was worthy of her. Hard-working and honest, he was."
"I like to hear of lives well lived," she said on a sigh. "My husband was such a man. He should have lived to a ripe old age. But he learned he had a...condition for which there was no cure. He suffered. So we had only eight years together."
"You miss him."
She met his gaze, and it took her a minute to respond. "He had his...foibles. But he was a fine man. So different from you."
That stung. He tried to ignore it, but couldn't.
She recoiled. "I didn't mean to be rude, Killian. Please don't take it that way."
He tried to brush it off. "Tell me how he was different."
"Oh, I—well..."
"I need to know." He pinned her with his gaze. "If you and I are to be friends, you must tell me."
"Yes." She bit her lower lip and fidgeted with the brim of her hat. Then she looked up at him. "He was thoughtful. Gentle and not at all—"
"What?"
"Aggressive. He'd never had to be. All that he had was inherited, given to him, nary a question as to his right to it. He was the most pleasant man to be near. Never fought. Never argued."
That sounded like a condemnation of Killian's own past, damning criticism of his own behavior. "I see."
She reached across the coach and took one of his hands. Neither of them had on their gloves and her skin was warm, her touch reassuring. "No, you don't."
"You consider me opposite of him?"
"In many ways, yes."
He could take umbrage at that. "But it's clear, my dear, that you loved him."
"Oh, I did. How could I not? He did save me from poverty and my family's poor reputation. He introduced me to the business of decorating. Showed me how to tell the authenticity of a Chippendale chair or Pugin's wallpaper. I can tell you if mahogany is from Honduras or Mexico and if the French polish on it merits the highest price. I owe him much." She had tears in her eyes.
He rose and sat beside her. Looping one arm around her shoulders, he drew her to him. "I've made you sad. I didn't mean to."
She nestled her face in the crook of his neck. Holding her was heaven. She was supple—and trusting.
He stroked her hair. "I'm glad to know you loved him. He sounds like he was a wonderful man and a good husband. He must have been exemplary to have gained your love."
She sniffed and pulled back. Her fingertips caressed his cheek. "You are a good man, too."
He dropped a kiss into her palm. "I learned to be."
She rested her head on his shoulder and gazed up at him. "How?"
"I fell in love with a woman who would bear no shenanigans from me. No cards. No dice. No fancy ladies."
"Your wife?"
He nodded once. "She helped me see that some actions of mine needed reforming. I needed, she said, principles."
"I like her."
"She was right. I...was lax in one negotiation. And the man suffered."
Liv went still. "How?"
"He died. Took his own life."
"You knew?" Her voice was a whisper of horror.
"I heard from my banker in London. After his death." Killian hated to recall it. "I force myself to recall the details. It keeps me...focused."
"And your wife knew?"
"I told her. I shared everything with her, especially my remorse over this."
"That's the way a marriage should be," she said with a watery smile.
He considered this woman in his arms, so sensitive and yet so strong. "I would have liked your husband."
She traced a fingertip along the outline of his lips. "And he would have liked you."
He caught a breath. Waited.
She cupped his jaw and with her eyes on his mouth, she put her lips to his. Her kiss was fierce and hot, a brief brand of frantic bliss.
She tore away.
He groaned and brought her more deeply into his embrace. She came so easily. His tongue danced with hers, ravenous. This is what he'd craved for weeks. This is who he'd wanted for months.
She pushed back, shock in her wide eyes. But in the next blink, she returned, her fingers sinking in his hair. This kiss was decadent fire.
He'd not known demand like this in ages. He kissed her once and again, stunned at her desire, mindless of his own, his whole body ablaze.
She broke away, panting. "This isn't supposed to happen."
"Why not, Liv?"
"Because you're different than I imagined."
"The gossips you reject labeled me one way—"
"And you are quite another," she admitted.
Could she forgive him? Was her father's death the one that reformed him? If he had changed then, that was wonderful. But it hadn't changed her own life.
And to what extent was he responsible for that? Wasn't her father the one who bore responsibility for his own actions? His own decisions?
Yet, here she was face-to-face with a different man than the one she'd thought she hated. Certainly a different man from her husband.
He was dark, where her husband had been light. Blond, jovial, delicate David. As tall as she, slender, elegant. Agreeable. With nary a word of hate or anger. Lover of horses and dogs. Birds, too. He'd been as close to an angel any man could ever be. Too kind, too serene, he could not fight the disease that ate him from the inside out. He'd died as quietly as the morphine would allow, and on his lips praise for her, hope for her and rules to live by for Camille.
"Find a love to fill this void," he whispered to their young daughter who cried her eyes out that her precious papa was leaving them. "And help your mama to do the same."
Camille's promise to him had been one she quickly fulfilled for herself. Her writing was her insurance that what she loved, she'd do each day. Who she loved would come later. When Camille loved, she would choose a man on animal instinct and blind devotion.
But for Liv, no man had beckoned her to leave the walls of her self-imposed cloister. To emerge was to face society. A task she avoided if and when she could.
The memory of David and the way he had loved her so blithely rippled thought her like a fast-flowing stream. He had been gentle and wise. No commander of ships or savior of slaves. No conqueror of opponents. No tycoon of railroads and real estate. No wizard with money. No lover of women. But a lover of men.
This man who held her was the living, breathing, blood red opposite. Dark to light. Swift to slow. Bold to mellow, soft and sweet. A man who desired her.
The hackney rolled to a stop.
To have Killian, to possess the fire that he embodied, to fuel the flames of passion that sparked in her veins, she had to have him now. Here. In Brighton. In her sweet little house where no one else could say her nay. Or carry tales. Or ridicule her for her choice.
"Come inside with me."
Killian shook his head. "Liv..."
"Come inside." She put one finger to the corner of his firm and tempting mouth. "Don't you want to?"
"I came to Brighton to hold you, kiss you, but Liv, if I go inside your house..."
"I promise you'll come out intact," she said, hating that she sounded like she teased him. But she couldn't stop. Couldn't find seductive words. "I have brandy. No cigars, though, I'm afraid."
He gave a laugh and clutched her closer.
She needed him closer still, skin to her skin, heart to her heart. His lips were no longer enough.
"Liv, I'm not in the habit of having a lady for one night—"
He was refusing her? Her whole body ached with the loss. He feared she would trap him? No, he couldn't. And she wouldn't. "Killian, I'm not young. Not a debutante in search of a beau. Or a husband."
He circled his big hand around the back of her neck and spoke on her lips. "I want you for yourself, but not—"
"Forgive me." She jerked away, gathered her little reticule and her straw hat, then got to her feet to leave the carriage. At that moment, the coachman pulled open the door. "Thank you for the day, Killian. I must go. Monday, I'd say, we see the draper on Water Street."
He snatched her hand.
She shook him off. On unsteady feet, she marched the three steps to her little portico. In the light of the gas lamps, she fished her latch key from her reticule. Her lower lip quivered so badly, she had to bite it. Fumbling, she fit the key in and pushed open the door.
A vise circled round her, her breath left her lungs. An arm to her waist, another under her knees, and suddenly she was off her feet, in his arms and inside. Killian had her and with a foot, he slammed her front door closed. The sound reverberated in her little hall.
She grinned at him.
"I presume we're climbing the stairs?" he asked her with a tinge of anger and a hint of the rogue.
"We are," she said tightening her arm around his shoulder. "I can walk."
"Like hell you will."
"I'm heavy," she declared as he took the stairs up and she thrust her arms around his massive shoulders.
"I'm not letting you go," he bit off the words as he trudged upward.
"You'll sprain your back. Then where will we be? Not in bed."
"Trust me, my lady." He took the last two steps up. "That's where we're going."
He stood in the hall, looking from one closed door to the other. "Which?"
She pointed.
"Open it."
She giggled and turned the handle.
He pushed it open with a shoulder and whirled her inside
to press her against the wall.
Chapter 13
“Now," he whispered to her as he cupped her face, "we're here. You're mine. And before I take all these clothes from you, I need to kiss you once more."
"Why is that?" She spoke on his lips, her body lush and limp against the length of his own.
"Because I need to feel all of you. Soft as butter in my hands." He stroked her throat, her shoulders. "I want you melting."
Her eyes drifted closed. Her mouth fell open. "I've been a puddle of impatience since you first looked at me."
He laughed, but nothing was funny about the hard points of her nipples against his thumbs. Or the way she rubbed one leg up his and hooked it around his thigh. "I've wanted my hands on you, all over you—"
"No time," she whispered on a moan, circling her arms around his waist. "Now, now. I've waited too long."
So have I. "But rushing you would be a crime."
She ground her teeth. "Cursed man."
Chuckling, he cupped her shoulders and turned her to the wall. "I hate buttons," he said as he dispensed with hers. Her gown slid to the floor.
"And tabs." He tore open the one at her petticoat and as it pooled at her feet, he worked at the ties. "I vote that women discard bustles and drawers."
"And corsets?" she asked laughing at she whirled to face him.
In the rays from the street lamplights, he admired her perfect skin, elegant shoulders, her rounded breasts…her naked hips and long lean thighs. He gulped, frantic, a boy with his first lover.
She was attired only in her frilly white corset, her nude femininity covered in a froth of auburn hair, and the long suspenders from her corset that held up her fine white stockings. He swallowed the lump in his throat at how damn curvaceous she was. How he was going to love every inch of her.
He set to work on the ties that bound up her breasts while she unhooked her garters. When he peeled the corset away, all air left his chest. Her breasts—round firm healthy orbs—were the loveliest he'd ever seen. Her nipples, too, were lovely, large, hard pink nubs. He put his palms up, but his hands shook. He checked her eyes.
Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3 Page 12
