by Tanya Wilde
“I don’t owe you an explanation for my life or my choices, and you can call yourself what you like. I have already told you that it’s not my opinion.” Claire scowled down at him. He seemed astonished, horrified even. Still, she added, “I paid for a service.” Because the word “whore” did not sit well with her—it cheapened what they had shared. And what they had done had felt marvelous.
He shot her a dark look. “I understand.”
Claire flushed. She gazed into his eyes and witnessed a bevy of emotions that both alarmed and thrilled her.
But wait. Why did he care what she did with her life? And what did she care what he thought of her?
A pox on this entire morning!
Being so close in proximity to him teased her senses and muddled her thoughts. It was simpler to believe him dim-witted because ultimately, it made it easier to walk away from him and this affair. What she would never admit was that there had been a moment the previous night, amid their lovemaking, that Claire had wondered how she would ever go back to being the same again. For one brief second, she had entertained the notion of remaining with her rogue forever.
But that was just silly.
What he had done to her, all the pleasure she had received from his hand, he did for a livelihood. To stay with him, even if she was so inclined, meant she would share his advantages. A depressing thought, that.
Claire skirted around her writing desk to evade his thundering expression as he rose and with jerky, irritable movements, gathered his clothing and dressed. He wasn’t shy either, giving her plenty view of his chiseled form.
A breath of regret stole over her, mostly because she would never feel the rasp of his magnificent body against hers again. Claire almost felt bad for having angered him. She wasn’t certain what she had done wrong, other than mention Madam Dexter and fees. He seemed to have changed after that. She wished she could return to the moment she had woken up to his mouth on her. Her body still tingled from his tongue’s magic.
“Was I at least worth your pennies?” he said sharply, eyes aglow, slipping into his shirt and buttoning it up.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but she swallowed her answer and instead served him with a look of scorn. The beast did not deserve a reply.
“Was it pleasant enough for you?” he pressed, his rush of words reflecting the harsh pull of his upper lip.
Claire rolled her eyes. Surely the man was aware of his godlike qualities in bed. Did he truly need her to wax poetical about it? She supposed when in that line of business, one had to stay on top of one’s game in the form of compliments. The thought pinched her lips tighter together.
His teeth clenched at her continued refusal to speak. And honestly, what more did he expect her to say? He had taken her virginity. Surely he must know words failed her.
A hard set of eyes stared at her as he crossed the room and snatched up his cravat. He inclined his head, almost sulkily, before he muttered “Angel,” and strode from her chambers, impervious to the thudding of her heart, the powerful urge to call out and ask him to stay.
A deep, trembling breath blew from her lips, and Claire clutched the back of her neck, her eyes still fixated on the door. She didn’t know how long she stood there, unable to move, wondering whether she would ever cross paths with him again.
Chapter 5
“I still can’t believe the bastard married.”
Roland stared at his longtime friend, Dalziel Piers, as he swallowed a good amount of brandy. Like him, Dalziel remained unwed; unlike him, the man was as uncorrupted as a newborn babe. He also fought crime and evil villains as a Bow Street Runner. And if that wasn’t enough, he healed people, too. A bloody saint.
He tossed back the glass. As the burning liquid eased down his throat, so did some of his troubling thoughts. He had hoped to bury the haunting reflections of his Angel with drink, but the images of her crying out in pleasure had latched onto him with birdlike claws.
“Do not tell me you are next to fall into the parson’s trap,” Roland drawled.
“Me?” His friend laughed. “I may not be a rake, but I am sure as hell not marriage material.”
“Blackcress wasn’t either. Look at him now, nauseatingly happily married from what I hear.”
“He married his wife to save her life.”
“Look at you, rhyming. He could at least have invited us to the wedding.”
“They eloped.”
He snorted. Blackcress could have sent a bloody card. In any event, soon Roland would be left without any cohort. He frowned at the disturbing thought. “Care to wager that you will be wed before the year is out?”
Dalziel scowled at him. “I am no titled fool.”
“You can’t afford a wife; that is your excuse?”
“I can afford one,” his friend said with a shrug. “But my profession is dangerous.”
“Yes, of course, balancing sleuthing and medicine—it is the stuff of horror.”
Dalziel raised a brow, unperturbed. “What chit has got you so twisted up?”
“I have never been twisted up by a woman in my life.”
“That’s my point.”
Roland shot him a glare. At times he did make light of Dalziel’s abilities, but the man was as sharp as the edge of a blade. His eyes missed nothing, and the man’s brain examined everything he took in at an alarming rate, disregarding the things he found irrelevant. And once Dalziel saw something, heard something or read something, he never forgot it. But there was a vast difference between grouchy and twisted up—of which he was neither.
“And let’s not forget,” his friend continued, “you are a grouch when some chit you are after does not give in.”
“They always give in.”
“Not always at first.”
“I assure you, I am not having difficulties with a woman,” Roland said. The problem wasn’t with the woman, it lay with his brain, which refused to relinquish its hold on pictures of her tangled up in the sheets. A constant reminder of how she had been the one to awaken his desires.
“Too bad, it’s high time you took a suitable wife.”
“Plenty of time for that, old chap. I am still sowing my oats.”
And dreaming of a provocative angel whose name I don’t know.
“At this rate, you’ll have no oats to sow when you take a bride.”
Roland offered his friend a hard look. Between the three of them, Dalziel had always been the most levelheaded. He was supposed to be the likely one to find matrimonial bliss. But the man had surprised them all with his not one but two career options. “Must you put a damper on the night? I was just starting to enjoy the effects of the brandy.”
“Going out tonight?”
“Staying in.”
The admission startled his friend. “You never stay in.”
Roland shrugged. It had been four nights since he last saw his seductress and it still maddened him to think she had believed him a bloody whore. Needless to stay, with her delectable curves and pale, generous breasts at the forefront of his mind, the Town had lost all its appeal. But he was happy enough to sit and stew over her actions while waiting for this madness to pass. She had told him she was new to the scene, but she’d also hired him. Obviously, she had romped with the wrong man, of which she was not aware. His lips curled downward. He should have told her the truth; it would have served her right. And still, it did not make sense that he had spent five days stewing over it, puzzling her actions over in his mind.
Why the hell would a woman hire a man for sexual sport? Men paid them for their charms, did they not? It befuddled his brain. Hell, if she had demanded a thousand pounds for the night, he would happily have paid the sum.
Instead, she had paid for him. Or rather, some other him.
He glanced at his friend. “Tell me, why would a woman, new to demi-monde, hire an escort?”
His friend raised a curious brow and crossed his legs. “I suppose that would depend on where she hired the gentleman.�
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“Madam Dexter’s.”
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Madam Dexter caters toward fulfilling fantasies for those willing enough to pay her price.”
“What sort of fantasies?” Roland asked.
Dalziel shrugged. “Anything really. Why?”
That wasn’t bloody helpful. Nonetheless, he replied, “I met a woman.”
When his friend said nothing, only grinned like a bloody fool, Roland rubbed his brow, taking a swig of his brandy. “I’m not twisted up over the chit.”
“Of course.”
“But I did spend the night.”
“You spent the entire night with a woman?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Roland muttered. “This was a unique case.” But his tightened muscles had loosened at the admission and a weight had lifted.
“Ah,” Dalziel murmured, lifting his hands in surrender. “Do go on.”
“She tossed me out at dawn,” he admitted. “Going on about Madam Dexter and her bloody fees.”
Dalziel threw back his head and laughed. “She decked the halls with you, heh? What a grand sight it must have been.”
“There was nothing grand about it,” Roland growled, the lines on his forehead deepening at the reference to the season. He hated this time of year. Everyone was so damn happy and festive and he, well, he was not. But that may be attributed to the fact that he had never known a happy Christmas as a child.
“Perhaps she is a widow who wanted a good tupping.”
“Maybe,” Roland murmured but remained unconvinced. “But widow or not, there is no need to pay for it. The chit could have her pick of the litter.”
“Some women are shy.”
Not his Angel, Roland mused. At least, not with him. But then, she had believed him her escort. Could it be that she was just too reserved? So modest, that she had hired a man to pleasure her? Roland’s chest burned with curiosity—and other things, as well. Such as lust. At times, he wanted her so badly that he thought himself in physical pain. So much so, he had almost gone to her earlier that day. Which, of course, was madness because he never returned to a woman. Never. But he also never remained the entire night. Maybe he had lost his marbles. Best he gathered them quick.
Perhaps he should go out tonight.
His gaze drifted down to the brandy clutched between his fingers. Perhaps not.
He was in the mood to brood.
Chapter 6
Claire inhaled deeply, the scent of fresh pastry and jam teasing her nostrils. Her eyes devoured the delicious array of treats before her. There was something about Christmas season that added flavor and spice to the air. And by far, her most delightful indulgence over this period was gingerbread cake with clotted cream. While not the traditional plum pudding, which Claire had never developed a taste for, she still enjoyed some traditions from her childhood. Like gathering mistletoe and attempting to bake her grandmother’s mincemeat pie, though she could never get it quite right. Old comforts, to be sure.
“Miss Northrup,” Nathan Piddington greeted her with a welcoming grin.
Claire returned his warmth with a gracious smile of her own. If ever there was a man she had wished to fall in love with, it was he. Unfortunately, her affections had never deepened beyond that of friendship. A shame, really. He was a passable man of average height and build, his countenance always well-disposed, his face free of pockmarks, and he was in possession of a good set of teeth—an impressive feat for a man of their class. He also shared her love for pastries. And let’s not forget he owned a bakery. Mr. Piddington truly possessed magic fingers when it came to dough.
Claire thought of other, more intimate fingers and how they had brought her untold rapture. A flush crept up her cheeks, and she glanced away from him, pointing at the selection of delights.
“What have you baked today?” she asked, willing her mind away from thoughts of her passionate night of scandal.
“Cream puffs, custard puffs and the ones with chocolate glaze. I also have strawberry jam tarts, apple crisp, pumpkin tarts, pear tarts and some meat pies.”
Sweet heaven! She could taste the variety of flavors on her tongue.
Another tongue popped into her head. This one slipping into her.
Honestly, Claire! Stop it!
This really ought to stop. She could not continue to daydream about her night with her breathtaking man. What if it became perilous, say by her striding into the path of an oncoming carriage? And how was she supposed to move on from the affair, if she did not halt thoughts of him from stomping through her brain? And why was she thinking in terms of moving on? The entire reason she engaged Madam Dexter’s services was to walk away from the gentleman the Madam chose for her.
Detachment. Easier said than done.
Claire relived the images of that night in a constant fashion: the memory of them, limbs entwined, carved into her brain, scorched into her bones, and molded into her soul.
Her gaze flicked over the selection. But even the custard puffs reminded her of him. They were sweet on the lips, she recalled, but not too sweet. And they melted on the tongue.
Lord!
“Miss Northrup?”
Claire pointed to the custard puffs and strawberry jam tartlets. “I will have four of each and an apple pie.” Claire loved apple pie, second only to her much-beloved gingerbread cake. Come to think about it, apple pie reminded her off…
No. Do not think it. Purge him from your mind.
Besides, there was no way to ever get in touch with him again, not without consulting Madam Dexter and that Claire would not do.
Nathan Piddington nodded.
She studied him below her lashes as he gathered her order. He was such an ordinary man, not extraordinary like her stranger. In a way, her mystery gentleman was a once in a lifetime experience: a man she would never see again, nor did she wish to. And she rather doubted Nathan Piddington would snatch her by the waist and ravish her between all these pastries. He was much too good for that. Or unassuming. And regardless, her goals had not changed. If Claire could not find love, she wanted the next best thing—within reason. To tread down the path of her stranger was dangerous. Almost too dangerous.
Belatedly, she wondered whether Nathan Piddington had brought any woman to such heights before.
She rather doubted he had.
Why could Claire not be content with an ordinary life?
Perhaps because a mundane life came along with an equally unimaginative marriage and that would be a shame after she now knew what she could have. Even though Claire had fallen into a comfortable routine since her rogue left, she still hungered for what they shared.
“I heard from Mrs. Jeeves that you had a visitor earlier this week,” Nathan Piddington murmured, and Claire’s head perked up.
Mrs. Jeeves was the seamstress across the street from Claire’s shop and a gossip of note.
“I beg your pardon?” the words shot out before she could think better off it. Inside she stilled. Nathan tilted his head to the side, regarding her with curiosity and inwardly she swore. “Yes, of course, a distant cousin was in town for one night.”
Good lord, was her face as hot as it felt? And a distant cousin? She bloody hoped her family history wasn’t common knowledge. Of course, one’s business was never private in one’s neighborhood. Her father had once told her that if you wished to discover how happy you were in your own life, all you had to do was ask your neighbor. Her father might have been right. And the last thing Claire wanted was people questioning her character and becoming fodder for gossip.
Nathan regarded her skeptically. “I was not aware you had any family left.”
Point in fact.
“Yes, well, I was not aware my life was any of Mrs. Jeeves’s concern,” Claire murmured, allowing censure to filter through her voice.
What a rude thing to say! She considered Nathan a friend, of sorts. And while it was none of his business, she was not so naive as to believe his
statement had been insignificant. Speculation would now run rampant, she was sure. Had anyone else seen them? If rumors started to spread about her, it would cause more trouble than good. For one, she would become a target for unsavory gentlemen. She would also lose customers if her reputation was harmed.
“I meant no disrespect, Claire.”
Of course he did not. Nathan was a dear man and they’d been acquainted a long time, ever since she opened her little shop six years ago. At one time, she had even imagined they might be more than friends. However, after one failed slobbering kiss, Claire had decided he was not the one. One ought to feel some attraction toward the man one wished to marry and Nathan felt more like a brother. Lucky for her, he had taken her rebuff better than she had hoped. So good, in fact, she had known she’d made the right choice. Desire ought to dominate a relationship, should it not? Equally, one should love with a passion. And she and Nathan shared none.
“Thank you, Nathan.”
Claire took her parcel of pastries, handed him the right amount of coin and hurried down the busy street back to her shop. While Nathan was not one to gossip, many other people were and any number of them could have witnessed her with her escort. However, there was nothing to be done about it now.
Three minutes later she reached her store and paused, her extended arm hovering over the lock. Claire stared at the entrance, transfixed. Her pulse stuttered and then leapt into her throat. Her stomach knotted tightly.
The door was slightly ajar.
Claire always made certain the lock fell in place. She would test it, turning the knob repeatedly before she departed. Without exception.
Her fingers touched the wooden aperture, her palm flattening on the surface before she pushed. With a deep inhale, she popped her head through the door.
What she found stopped her heart.
Chapter 7
Roland stared at the reddish-brown smear staining his breeches, suffering the disapproving look of his valet, who had moments ago pointed it out. A tell-tale sign that his brain was slow these days. He felt dimwitted, staring at the discoloring, and he’d never been dimwitted in his life. He was a rake. Yes, he enjoyed the charms of women but this one? What the hell had she done to him? Even now, as he quivered at the memory of their night together, his thick-headed skull circled back and forth between the stain and his Angel. What did it mean? Was it blood? His valet certainly seemed to think it was. But it wasn’t his.
