Kissed at Midnight

by Holt, Samantha

  Ivy’s grip proved to be surprisingly strong, and his arms gave way and he found himself tucked against those breasts again. Lord, she smelled good. Like soap and violets, clean and pure.

  Yes, pure, which was why he had to extract himself as hastily as possible before he did something that made her un-pure.

  “August,” she whispered, her voice breezing over his hair.

  He froze.

  Had she awoken? He craned his head up and saw her eyes had closed. She remained asleep. Did she dream of him then? Whisky-like heat curled into his blood.

  August drew in the scent of her again through his nostrils and steeled his courage. Did it matter if she did? He would not break his promise. He smirked to himself from his position between her breasts. It was a little too late for keeping his promise. The only way he could make it worse would be to strip her, and bury his face against her bare breasts.

  He rose up a fraction—as much as her grip on him allowed—and eyed her profile. She was lit only by a thin strip of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Those lush lips practically begged to be kissed. Her long lashes skimmed her elegant cheeks. Each rise and fall of her chest pounded through him like a demand. Up. Do it. Down. Do it. Up. Kiss me. Down. Please.

  Fingers curled into the bedding beside her, he stared at her for endless moments, fighting his internal war. The battle raged on and his heart sounded like cannon fire in his head. He couldn’t.

  But he wanted to.

  He shouldn’t.

  He let his lips hover over hers.

  He tore away, wrenching free of her grip and caring not a damn if she awoke. He wouldn’t. Every woman he’d kissed had been willing and awake. He wouldn’t tarnish himself and her by kissing her.

  Jaw tight, hands on either side of her head, he pushed himself up. Her eyes flew open. This time she was certainly awake.

  “Mr Avery?” Her voice, husky from sleep, tangled deep inside him.

  He brought his gaze to those tempting lips and back up. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice, “you were sleepwalking.”

  “Oh dear. I haven’t done that in a long time. Not since... well, since I lived at home I suppose.”

  “You feel safe here perhaps.”

  How wrong she was. Safe? With his mouth a mere inch or so away from hers? Hardly.

  “Yes, I think that’s it,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  “I only wanted to make sure you did not hurt yourself,” he said, his tone far too gritty for his liking. His throat still felt clogged with desire.

  A sharp intake of breath echoed through the room and pounded through his skull. It was her taking the deep gulp of air, he realised. He wasn’t even sure he could breathe. He felt like he was underwater and was wading through it to get to her, yet he didn’t move—he couldn’t.

  Honour bound.

  Ivy’s lashes fluttered as her gaze dropped to his lips. Every part of him remained tense but for the life of him, he could not push away. He dug his fingers into the pillow beside her. The moment might have been mere seconds but it went on and on, endlessly stretching out, making the room grow hotter by the second and making him impossibly hard.

  She moved. Just a fraction of an inch but it was enough. It was the invitation he hadn’t realised he’d been waiting for. Her lips pursed and she lifted her head a little.

  With a great rush of movement, he brought his mouth to hers. He wasted no time on niceties, on carefully moving his lips over hers. This kiss claimed and burned, singed him to his soul.

  And Ivy—beautiful, luscious Ivy—she kissed him as though he was the only man alive, as if she’d been waiting for him for a lifetime. Her hands flew around his shoulders and pinned her to him. She made noises too. Sweet, agreeable noises that reached deep down inside him and clutched at his heart.

  August ached to taste the sweet warmth of her mouth but something prevented him from doing so—perhaps some fragment of his honour remained. Instead he pressed the kiss harder so neither of them would mistake the fact that they had indeed kissed.

  A cry shattered the foggy lust crowding his mind. He jolted away and twisted his head to listen. Another cry. He pushed back and scrubbed a hand across his face.

  “I should see to her,” Ivy said softly, still lying exactly as she had been when he’d been kissing her. Her lips were fuller and in better light would be rosy from his kisses. She looked a little stunned.

  “I’ll go,” he offered.

  Part of him needed to hold Elsie and feel her soft baby warmth against him. If it helped him remember his duty to her and to Ivy—an employee in his home—so much the better. August drew in a breath and found himself patting his nightshirt, hoping his cigarettes would be there. Which they weren’t.

  Bugger. Why did he stop smoking again?

  And there she was sitting primly as though he hadn’t been kissing her and just had his face flattened against those beautiful breasts.

  “Well, good night.”

  Elsie’s cries began to reach the point where they’d shatter crystal.

  “August?”

  He stilled, his hand to the door handle. He clenched the metal before turning to face her. “Yes?”

  She stared at him, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. Vulnerable, delicate, giving him every reason to hate himself. But he still hung on the way she said his name and prayed she asked him to kiss her again.

  “It does not matter. Good night.”

  He gave a formal nod. As if manners could somehow salvage his honour tonight. Pushing through the half-open door, he turned his attention to the wailing infant, cooing to her and lifting her from the crib. Breathing in the scent of her soft crown, he hoped it would erase the lingering fragrance of the woman in the next room.

  Chapter Nine

  “Hush, little one,” Ivy cooed to Elsie, rocking her in her arms, but the child was having none of it. She squalled and cried and released little sobbing sounds that wrenched at her heart.

  Ivy swept a hand over the baby’s hair and put a hand to her rosy red cheeks. They weren’t naturally rosy, however. Bright, ugly patches of colour marred her pudgy cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, little one?” she asked. Oh how she wished babies could talk. It would make things so much easier.

  She paced the nursery, singing, talking, swaying—anything to comfort the child. Elsie had been restless all night and Ivy’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. Of course, she hadn’t slept properly for two nights since that moment with August.

  August. She had begun to think of him that way. It was hard not to when they had shared such a moment. Very well, not a moment—a kiss.

  A beautiful, sensual, heart-destroying kiss.

  She’d kissed a few boys in Surrey. They were silly kisses she concluded. Nothing like August’s kiss. His lips had been firm, hard, his breaths heavy and intense. Everything about the kiss had made her want to beg for more at the same time as filling her with a sense of utter satisfaction.

  Two days ago, and she had barely seen him since. If he wasn’t out, he was locked in his study. He took the occasional moment to see Elsie but he hardly acknowledged her. Either she was an awful kisser or he simply did not like her and regretted it.

  What a shame for she could never regret it. Her first proper kiss.

  Ivy studied the red-faced baby and drew in a breath. That was it. She would not tolerate this any longer—for Elsie’s sake at least. He could ignore her but he wouldn’t ignore Elsie. She had grown fond of the dear child, and seeing her suffer was more than she could bear.

  With a determined stride, she carried the baby downstairs and rapped on the door of the study. By the time the door was open, Elsie had calmed, apparently happy with her new surroundings, but her skin was clammy and her cheeks still red.

  August scowled when he saw her. She spotted ink stains on his fingertips and a dark smudge on his forehead. “Miss Davis, what can I do for you?”

  He stepped back
as she strode in. The air smelled slightly stale, like old cigars yet she knew he didn’t smoke. Lamps lit the study and the curtains were drawn. She shook her head at the stacks of paper covering almost every surface. He had three desks in total and a large mahogany bureau to the left. A bookcase spanned the opposite wall. Facing her were books of several colours—green, red, brown—all with gold lettering.

  Elsie wriggled so she put her to the floor, allowing the child to crawl and explore. Arms folded across her chest, she eyed August and saw annoyance flicker across his face. His jaw flexed.

  “Miss Davis?” He leaned against the desk. “Ivy?” he tried more softly when she didn’t respond.

  She could not quite pin down why annoyance made her skin heat more with every second, as though someone had lit a furnace inside her. Did she expect the master of the house to take the time to talk to her? Not particularly. Yet he behaved as though that kiss had done nothing, as though it had not burned him to his soul. Her lips still tingled at the mere thought.

  She pursed her lips and pressed down her annoyance. It was folly, these emotions, but she’d never been one to keep emotions to herself. Her mother claimed she would never get anywhere in life if she always showed everything she was feeling and perhaps she was right. Not that the observation changed anything. Ivy was who she was.

  “Elsie is unwell.”

  He swung a glance at the child who had picked up an errant piece of paper and was sucking on the corner. He huffed and snatched the paper from her, causing her to let up a little wail before something else of interest caught her eye and she crawled off once more.

  “She looks perfectly fine to me.”

  “You heard her last night, did you not? I know you don’t sleep heavily. You rarely rest as it is.”

  “Are you my keeper, Ivy? Do you take note of my sleeping habits? I hired you to look after Elsie, not myself.”

  He was right of course. For some reason it bothered her that he went to bed so late and rose often. She heard the bed creak sometimes and his light footsteps as he prowled around like a beast in the night. Her breathing hitched every time she saw the glow of candlelight sweep past her door and she waited, clutching her sheets with the ridiculous hope he might press open the door and steal into her room. Dreams of him drawing off her bedding and slipping in beside her made her as restless as Elsie. How would it feel to be in his embrace? To feel his clever lips elsewhere?

  Ivy secured her gaze on him and forced aside these thoughts she had no place thinking. He was her master. And she would be gone as soon as she found a singing role. Nothing could come of it even if she thought he was interested.

  Which, from the glare he gave her, he definitely was not.

  “She is restless and hot, August.”

  She had to suppress a grin when his eyes flared at the use of his name. They might have agreed to drop formalities but it still felt foreign to say his name. And he felt the same about hearing it apparently.

  He bent to scoop Elsie up and she plucked at his necktie. It was the most content she’d seen the child all week.

  “What’s wrong, sweeting?” he murmured. She caught the softening of his gaze on the child before his expression shuttered. “She is hot.”

  “She has missed you I think.”

  Seeing the child content in August’s arms, she wondered if she had been wrong. Perhaps Elsie was fine and just needed the comfort of her guardian. After all, he was all she had known for quite a while until Ivy came along.

  Hand flat to the infant’s forehead, he released a sigh. “You may be right. I think she is unwell.”

  Gulping, Ivy nodded. She hadn’t wanted to be right but she really still did not know what she was doing. She needed August’s assurance that her suspicions were correct.

  He stared at Elsie for several moments and that soft expression was back. It made Ivy’s heart do a strange dance in her chest. She longed for a look like that.

  The notion shocked her. It never mattered her parents weren’t affectionate, it didn’t matter no man had paid her much interest. She had singing. That filled her world. But now... what if singing was not enough?

  “Take her,” he said, handing the child to her. “I’ll fetch the doctor. Mr Whitworth is but ten minutes away on foot. Easier than trying to take the carriage.”

  She nodded eagerly. August had taken charge and would make everything better. To share the responsibility with him brought her more relief than she thought possible.

  For the past year, she had been alone, trying to survive and make her way in the world. Determination governed her every move and forced her to strike out on her own, but to have someone there to simply offer reassurance lifted a great weight off her shoulders. It was a weight she hadn’t been aware she’d been carrying around. What else could the man do?

  August strode out of the study, leaving her holding the baby as she peered at the stacks of paper that signified his life, his work. How very out of place she was in this life of his.

  ***

  August groaned aloud when he spotted Mrs Pepperwhite hastening towards him along the street. Today it was a bright blue concoction. The entire population of peacocks must be naked of their feathers now thanks to her hat. Odd how Ivy wore some fairly ghastly colours yet never failed to look utterly striking.

  “Mr Avery,” she greeted him breathlessly.

  “Mrs Pepperwhite, forgive me, I am in quite the hurry.”

  “Of course, I simply wanted to check all was well with the child, particularly given the girl you’ve taken on. You know a nursemaid is no replacement for a mother.”

  This statement never failed to amuse him, but not today. Mrs Pepperwhite had been dropping hints of marriage and motherhood since her husband had passed. Yet the woman did not have a maternal bone in her body.

  This woman, a good five years older than Ivy, might have maturity on her side but he wouldn’t trust her for one moment with Elsie. She’d have her handed over to a nursemaid within minutes.

  Not that he would wish her to be in such a position. He masked a shudder. The woman was attractive in a way but her stiff manners and forceful attitude did not appeal one bit. Perhaps, he thought, she was too similar to him. He’d never considered himself so stiff until he met Ivy. Now he felt like an iron rod next to a summer flower blowing in the breeze when standing with her.

  “Miss Davis is doing quite well,” he assured her, “but I must be getting on.”

  “I’m simply saying you should keep a close eye on her. I hear all sorts of tales about these girls. Theft, seduction, scandal. All sorts.”

  The temptation to tell her that Ivy was more at risk of seduction from him than the other way around burned on his tongue. But Elsie’s red cheeks and heated skin flared in his mind and pushed the words aside. “Mrs Pepperwhite, forgive me, but I need to fetch Dr Whitworth.”

  “You are not unwell I trust?”

  “No, but Elsie is.”

  Understanding swept over her face. “Ah, that does not surprise me. A girl like that is not suited to looking after a child. For the baby and for your sake I would watch her carefully. Better yet, find someone who knows how to take care of an infant.”

  August tightened his lips. He refused to believe for one moment Ivy was guilty of neglect. If anything, he was the one who could be accused of such. He trusted Ivy. She had proved herself if not completely capable, at least trustworthy and hard-working.

  “Good day to you, Mrs Pepperwhite,” he said curtly, catching her astonished expression before striding past her.

  He moved hastily, ignoring the dipped heads and the occasional greeting. His palms grew clammy. Mrs Pepperwhite was wrong. He knew people and he trusted his instincts. They had allowed him to get where he was today.

  But he also relied on numbers and measurements, and he had never really had any facts to back up his assertions of Ivy. Her references were well enough but hardly spoke of experience, and she had admitted herself she was no nursemaid. What if he had been to
o blinded by her beauty and vibrancy to realise she was not suited to looking after Elsie?

  The doctor’s house took him less than ten minutes to reach according to his pocket watch. It felt longer. Similar in style to his own house, albeit slightly smaller, the cream facade held a plaque that indicated the occupant’s profession. He strode quickly up the stairs and knocked several times, feet tapping impatiently.

  A tiny grey-haired woman answered and he might have felt like quite the oppressive giant had she not held a steely cast to her gaze. This was the gatekeeper, he realised, and should she deem his emergency not so urgent, she would likely send him away with ease.

  “Is Dr Whitworth in, ma’am?”

  “No, sir, he is calling on a few patients.”

  “I have a sick child. I fear she needs urgent attention.”

  “Of course. If you could leave your card, I shall have the doctor call on you as soon as he can. Are you local?”

  “Yes, Elm Street.” He drew the card holder out of his pocket and handed one over. “Will you please inform the doctor it is quite urgent?”

  “Naturally.”

  Her pursed lips told him he’d insulted her with his impatience but he cared little. Elsie’s health was more important than manners at this point. “When shall we be likely to see him?”

  “After lunch most likely. He has several calls to make.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for your help, ma’am.” By some miracle, he sounded like he meant it.

  As he began his walk back to the house, at a pace that made his skin hot, he pondered Mrs Pepperwhite’s words again. Was she right? Did he need to think about a wife? Certainly not Mrs Pepperwhite but someone else? Work allowed him little time to court women and he doubted many would understand his busy schedule. However, he was rich enough to appeal to some gently bred ladies. And Elsie needed a mother.

  Unless he heard from his cousin in America. His only other relation aside from an uncle in India, he believed. She would surely have an interest in knowing the child. Perhaps she would want to be a mother to her.

  Ivy was right, he had been ignoring them both. Work kept him busy and, truth be told, he could not face the governess.