The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

She merely looked at him, waiting and trying not to appear like she was pleading.

  “You did ask me to watch for when you start a storm to brewing.”

  She didn’t appreciate the reminder.

  “Something tells me there is a tempest forming in that pretty little head—and you are trying to distract me from it.”

  He was right, damn him. She sighed. “It’s Letty.”

  “Ah. Still worried that she’ll kick up a fuss?”

  “Oh, I know she will. She’ll spit piss and vinegar. She always does when I ride in to rescue her from trouble.” She rubbed her temples. “The things I’ve helped her out of over the years . . . Just once you’d think she would thank me, instead of pitching a fit.” She sighed. “But I learned a long time ago that I cannot make her decisions for her. Even if she consistently makes the wrong ones.”

  “Would you like me to talk to her, when she arrives?”

  ‘No!” She narrowed her gaze at him. “I warned you once and I’ll remind you again to leave her to me.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “I’m deadly serious, Tru.”

  Hands raised in capitulation, he asked. “Then that’s not what’s troubling you, is it?”

  “No.” Callie tucked her feet up under her gown and leaned back to look up into the sky. The sunset’s colors were fading. Evening was setting in. “I suppose I should have said it’s me, not Letty.”

  He leaned back on his elbows beside her and waited.

  “The whole notion of cutting the bonds between us. It is freeing, as Hestia said. But it’s frightening, too.”

  He still waited.

  “You won’t understand,” she complained. “No one can.”

  He shrugged. “Then explain it.”

  She heaved a great sigh and watched a bat wing its way about the open sky overhead while she gathered her thoughts. “Letty learned how to get into trouble practically with her first step. I’ve been saving her skin just as long. Scalded fingertips, skinned knees, broken hearts, thwarted prospects—I’ve hauled her out of it all.”

  “Her mother was an actress—isn’t that what you said?”

  The light was fading fast. A star winked awake right above them. Callie felt a certain gratitude for the growing dark. It made it easier to share the things she’d always thought she’d keep to herself.

  “Yes. My father took her mother for a paramour, but he moved on from her, just as he always did. She’d heard the story of my mother, either from him or perhaps in their fast circles. After he left, some sort of fever made its way through the theatre she worked in. It was closed down and when she found herself without a position, seriously ill and with a newborn babe, she must have had nowhere else to go. She showed up on our doorstep, with Letty in tow.”

  “Your mother took her in?”

  “Yes. She took them both. You could see the beauty that Letty’s mother had once been, but the fever had ravaged her. She didn’t last a week. Letty was such a tiny thing, so pink and adorable.”

  “And you kept her.”

  “What else could we do?” Her mother’s words still echoed in her head, along with all the worry, love and resentment. She’s alone now, save for us. We’re all she has.

  “She was just over a year old when my mother gave her mostly into my charge.” Watch over her, Callie, and keep her safe.

  “How old were you?”

  She frowned. “Six, perhaps?” She stared bleakly upward. “And now I’m going to just let her go.”

  He made as if to speak, but she interrupted him. “Yes. I know. It’s better for both of us. But it’s going to be so hard! My mother sacrificed so much. She gave me everything, taught me all she knew—and this was the only thing she ever asked of me.”

  Abruptly, without precedence or warning, she burst into tears. She was horrified. Never had she meant to show such weakness. But part of her was glad, so glad that he was there to gather her up and hold her tight.

  He said something against her hair, but she couldn’t hear it. It was all right, though. She didn’t need to. She clung to his chest and buried her face in his shirt. He smelled like sunshine and hay. He was as solid and strong as a wall, yet he held her with tenderness. And she might never have the chance to be held by him again.

  His thumb brushed her cheek, wiped away a tear. “It does sound difficult, but you’ll get through it, Callie. I’ve yet to find an obstacle you can’t breach.” His tone lowered. “And setting Letty free does not mean you are letting your mother go.”

  Tears welled fresh and so did the old instinct to pull away, to avert her eyes and throw up the barriers that came so naturally to her.

  But no. It was too late for that—and she didn’t truly wish to, in any case. They had such a short time left, so few chances for honesty and she wanted more of it—from both of them.

  So she drew a deep breath. She’d been bare before him last night, but now she was going to make herself truly vulnerable.

  “It feels like I’m letting her go. And that’s not the worst of it.” Her chin dropped. “I know you want to go back, but I shy away from the thought of it. I can’t picture it, can’t imagine myself alone. And if I’m not Letty’s keeper, then who am I?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was as hard a blow as any Lord M— had ever struck me. I was despondent, lost, alone.

  --from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  That aching little whisper sent Tru’s every feeling into revolt. “You are who you’ve made yourself, Callie Grant. And you will stop being ridiculous right now. Alone? I do not believe so. You have Hestia. The girls in Half Moon House. Your closest friend is now the Duchess of Aldmere.” His heart raced a little as he gathered her in. “And you have me.”

  Her grip on his shirt tightened. “I think Brynne is part of the problem. She’s so happy—not just with your brother, but with her new foundling enterprise. It makes me wonder if I’ve stayed put too long, gone stagnant.” Her voice grew muffled as she buried her face. “I don’t know. I just feel . . . adrift. I’m not the same Callie. I’m certainly not Chloe Chaput. I feel as if I’m losing my moorings with the past and can’t quite see where I’m drifting into the future.” She leaned back and he could almost feel her straining to see his face in the dark. “Do you remember what you said about Penrith and Rackham and those like them? Suddenly I feel the sort of empathy you spoke of.”

  Bitterness choked off some of his softer feelings. “Don’t waste too much emotion on those men. You’ve seen enough of the ugliness and truly terrible things that life can bring. There are horrors out there—and people rise above them every day. These are men of privilege—and they’ve let envy and disappointments tempt them onto a path towards treachery, villainy and treason.”

  “Is that the reason for all of your urgency, then? You don’t want people to think the same of you?”

  Her quick insight pierced him. He stiffened, his first thought to fend off such a clear view into the heart of him. But there was only curiosity in her voice and encouragement in the soft brush of her hands. Understanding, not judgment. Slowly, all of his tightly clenched muscles began to loosen.

  She nodded and gave a little smile. “I know. It’s nerve-wracking, isn’t it? Letting someone peek through the cracks?” She traced her finger over his false sideburns, right where his scar normally showed.

  “Yet I’m oddly comforted too,” she continued. “When this is over, I think I will like knowing that you are out there, carrying it around with you.”

  “It?”

  “The truth of me. The image of who I really am, tucked away somewhere safe inside you. The picture of all the contrasting bits of me—struggles and foibles, goals and dreams and follies.”

  “When this is over,” he said quietly. “That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?”

  She sighed and bent to lay her head against his shoulder. “It’s no wonder we’ve got along so well,” she whispered. “We are cut off from the world, from our old
selves, and we’re seeing all the bits and pieces that might normally be hiding away. We’re both contemplating, sorting, deciding, trying to discover which version of ourselves will be going back.”

  Good Lord, she was right. Right about every damned thing. Worry and panic lurked somewhere at the realization. She couldn’t know how close she’d hit to the core of his misery. He’d harbored so many doubts about himself over the years, suffered so much uncertainty about his place and purpose in the world—but no one had ever known of it. He’d used everything at his disposal to craft his facade. The world looked at him and saw only privilege and wit, his skill at sport, his charm and his easy way of making friends—and he worked hard to keep it that way. Society’s doubts about him, Prinny’s hesitation, they had driven him into a frenzy because he didn’t ever want anyone else to see his flaws and uncertainties—and now she was staring right at them.

  He pulled in a breath. But she wasn’t recoiling in shock or horror. Perhaps she didn’t see all the cracks and inadequacies. She must not, in fact.

  He would agonize about the why of it later. Because right now she was pressed all along his side. Right now the heat of them lying together was warming the night.

  He let worry go and allowed desire to move in, swift and unsubtle. “I want only to contemplate you.”

  He rolled up beside her and laid his hand on her waist. She’s not your lifeline. It was a timely reminder. The safety she offered was only temporary. But he wanted it anyway.

  “My hands on you under the starlit sky. That’s what you said last night. Is it still what you want?”

  Her head shifted so that she could look up at the night. She breathed a sigh. It sounded happy to him. Anticipatory. He hoped to God he was right.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s what I want.”

  He shivered as all of the small hairs on the back of his neck rose. In gratitude, perhaps.

  He sent his hand drifting upwards, over the long, graceful sweep of her arm. Paused for a moment at the collar of her dress, where he could feel her pulse beating as swiftly as his own. And up further still, to rub a thumb over soft lips.

  She reached up to bury her fingers in his hair and trace slow, tortuously sweet circles on his scalp. Why did that feel so damned good? It made him want to arch like a cat.

  He breathed in her scent. Rosemary again, and the flowers she’d collected, and just the faintest whiff of starch. It called to him, tugging at his cock. God, she should bottle that smell. She could sway armies with it.

  Slowly, with all the gravity and care that she deserved, he bent down to press a kiss to her mouth.

  Almost a kiss. The slightest, sweetest promise of one.

  She moaned. Her fingers trailed along his neck and across his shoulder. She lit tiny fires of desire everywhere she touched. Her palm slid under his arm and urged him down to her.

  He went, scoring her lips, branding her mouth. Restraint disappeared. He abandoned subtlety. Mine. Mine.

  His hand crept unerringly to her breast. He wanted to touch her all over. Mark her. He erect nipples teased him through her gown and he began to work all of her layers loose.

  His fingers fumbled and he stopped. He would not act the randy, impatient boy today, no matter that his entire being was on fire, remembering the utter completion of last night’s climax.

  At last he had her dress draped open, her stays undone. “No corset,” he said against her nape.

  “Just in case.”

  He heard the smile in her voice.

  Practically afloat with lust, he gripped her shoulders and rolled, landing on his back with her astraddle him—and those magnificent breasts right there, just waiting for his touch.

  “If they were making a list today,” he vowed, “your breasts would be declared one of the wonders of the world.”

  She laughed. He filled his hands with her, then settled in to bestow upon her the worship she deserved. With fingers and thumbs and lips and teeth he pleasured her, while she gasped and moaned and threw her head back, giving every evidence of her approval.

  “Tru,” she said at last, urgent.

  “I know.” He sat up. “Take off your drawers.” The whisper sounded harsh in the dark.

  She scrambled off of him to comply and he took the opportunity to shrug out of his coat and waistcoat.

  “Oof.” She was back, pushing his shoulders, climbing right back over him. He pulled at her skirts until they were hiked up high.

  He stared. Her form looked dark and shapely against a backdrop of stars. That porcelain skin had been gilded with faint moonlight, just a sheen tracing the curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulder and the beautiful mounds of her bosom. “You are beyond compare. I could stare at you all night.”

  “I can barely see you,” she answered. Bracing one hand on his chest, she reached behind her to run a swift caress along his thigh. “I can feel you just fine, though.”

  “I want to watch you ride me,” he whispered.

  She stilled. “Ride you?” For the first time he heard uncertainty in her voice.

  He answered by burrowing a hand under her skirts. She flinched when he brushed the soft, bare skin above her garter, then sucked in a breath when he slicked a finger through her wet folds.

  She melted against him. Both hands came back to clutch his shoulders. Her skin was satin and she was helpless against the slow exploration of his fingers. Gently. Softly. Long, slow strokes. Her hips moved with him and his cock strained against the confines of his breeches, aching to be where his hand roamed.

  Deliberately, he let a finger slide up, to lightly brush her swollen, straining nub.

  Her moan was instantaneous, low and guttural.

  Her began to stroke her in earnest.

  Her hips were rocking now. Her movements grew wilder—and then she stopped.

  “What?” He couldn’t even form a coherent question.

  She was too busy fumbling at the fall of his trousers to answer. In a moment his cock sprang free.

  She grasped him. Firmly.

  He made a noise. “Easy.”

  She made a sound of apology and gentled her grip. Soon she began to stroke him with a steady, gentle rhythm. The tip of him rubbed the soft skin of her thigh with each pass of her hand.

  Every article of his being focused on that spot, that soft caress. His cock hardened again, his belly tightened in anticipation.

  Her hips nudged him.

  He was lost. Only the pump of her hand existed, the next soft brush of skin.

  “Tru,” she said urgently, rocking again.

  “Oh, yes.” He reached for her once more, slid his fingers to her warm and welcoming center.

  “Ahhh.” Her back arched on the sigh. Tru gazed at her in wonder. She looked otherworldly, shadowed desire and exquisite wanting come to life. He’d felt so uncertain for so long, yet now he felt as if he must have done something right, sometime. Why else would fate give him the gift—even temporarily—of Callie Grant?

  She began to move faster, her breath catching on a hitch. The pace of her stroking matched the rocking of her hips. His own breath began to sound like a bellows. My God. She’d coaxed him into a towering cockstand.

  Quickly now, they moved together. His fingers teased, her hand stroked. Her hips rocked.

  Suddenly she stiffened, her head thrown back. She was a gloriously erotic image of passion—and he followed her over, pumping endlessly as his hips bucked and their cries mingled before piercing the quiet night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Pearl who told me that I was not lost, but free. Free to choose. Free to be whomever I wished, whatever I wished. I could take a new name. Go anywhere.

  --from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Letty climbed into the carriage, her spine straight and her gaze averted from the unrelenting glare of the stout housekeeper. On no account was she going to show her nervous excitement at leaving the villa.

  Rackham and Penrith climbed in a
fter her, still bickering, as they had been all morning.

  “Of course you think all will be well,” Penrith complained. “It’s not you who has fallen on his bad side. And all over a few waistcoats! Who could imagine such fury over the shipment of a few waistcoats?”

  “No outside communication,” Rackham replied. You know that’s what we agreed to and you know why we—” He stopped and gave Letty a wan smile, then directed a pointed look at his friend.

  Penrith sat back, straightening his coat. “It was only my valet,” he muttered. “A man who has shown his loyalty and discretion a hundred times.” He crossed his arms. “You say it was not you who tipped me out, but who else would know? And who else would ascribe a moment’s importance to such a small thing?”

  Letty knew. Frau Bosch, that’s who. The sour old woman claimed the title of housekeeper, but the villa had come with a Frenchwoman in that position. Frau Bosch had arrived with Marstoke and Letty knew she was more than that to the marquess—something far more menacing.

  Letty had first run afoul of her at that cottage in the woods. Once Marstoke had gone, the knowledge of the place, the certainty that that screaming girl was likely still trapped there, had haunted her. She’d finally worked up the nerve to investigate. She’d plotted and planned, found a time when she could escape the villa unnoticed, and had been searching for a back way into the cottage when she’d been caught by Frau Bosch. The hateful old relic had marched her back to the villa and taken up residence with them there as well—the better to keep an eye on Letty. The woman kept her distance as long as Penrith or Rackham were about, but on more than one occasion, Letty had found herself locked in her room when both gentlemen were away.

  She shivered. Those rats had been disgusting—and huge—but they just might be her salvation. She looked out the window at the villa as they pulled away and vowed not to come back.

  Rackham called for the carriage to halt at the end of the drive. He put down the window and had words with the arriving rat catcher before they moved on.

  “Are all of the estate buildings infested?” she asked. “Or is it just the main house?”