Burning for the Baron

by Alyson Chase

  She scooted to the edge of the mattress and slid off, her skirt falling into place. Except for her hair falling loose and her feet being bare, she could have been on her way to work. Walking to one of her wardrobes, her stride a bit wobbly, she shrugged out of her spencer and hung it within. Still without speaking, she made her way to the far side of the bed. The thing had scooted out of place, sitting diagonally to the wall. Leaning her hip into the mattress, she pushed, trying to get it back into position.

  Max grabbed the bottom post and pulled it straight.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped, as proper as a fucking queen.

  Max crossed his arms. “Are we going to talk about this?”

  She sat on the bed, her shoulders drooping. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Max. I was right before when I said we should remain business associates. We’re not right for each other, for so many reasons.” She pulled out her pocket watch and gripped it in her hand. “And yet, when we’re together, I don’t want to think on those reasons. Or worry about the immorality of my actions. I feel like we’re going round and round but not getting anywhere.”

  He sank down beside her. “Where would you like to go?” he asked quietly. Was she asking about his intentions? He wiped his palm on his trousers. Was he ready for a commitment?

  Her lips twisted. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not expecting you to ask for my hand.”

  Max frowned at the tone in her voice, like it was the most absurd thing in the world to think of a permanent attachment between them.

  “In fact,” she added, “it might be just the opposite.”

  His frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

  She rubbed her thumb across the face of the watch before tucking it back in its pocket. “I married when I was quite young. I’ve only been with my husband, and now you. You’ve opened my eyes to new experiences and maybe …” She sucked in a large breath, her chest heaving. She closed her eyes. “Maybe I need to explore more to figure out what I want.”

  Max clenched his fists. “Are you saying you want to fuck other men?” No bloody way.

  Her face blanched. But she didn’t deny it.

  “From little Miss Morality to an adventuress? That hardly sounds like the Colleen I know.”

  She knotted her fingers together and pressed them into her lap. “You don’t know the real me,” she whispered.

  “Apparently.” He stood, his stomach knotting, turning to stone. “Isn’t it fortunate you run a whore-house? Plenty of men available to you. Go find one to fuck and tell me how your explorations fare. See just how well your body responds when it’s another man’s hands touching you.” The second the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage her to find another lover. Have another man trail his fingers down her spine. Squeeze his prick into her tight—

  Max’s vision blurred. He blinked away the tiny red spots that had formed.

  “Perhaps I will.” She jumped to her feet and planted her fists on her generous hips.

  “Good,” he bit out.

  “Fine.”

  One benefit to not undressing to tup, Max didn’t need to waste time looking for his clothes before getting the hell out of there. With a curt nod, he stormed from the room and pounded down the stairs. He flung the door open, and it bounced against the wall.

  The three-piece band he’d hired was practicing in their raised alcove above the main room. Only a couple girls were out, chatting with the footmen before the customers arrived. A servant walked about with a candle in his hand, lighting the lamps along the wall. The man turned down the hallway to the back rooms, the corridor becoming brighter with each wick he set ablaze.

  Molly sidled up to Max, a drink in her hand. She trailed a finger along his sleeve and cocked her head coquettishly. “Greetings, stranger. You’re looking awfully tense. Anything I can help you with?”

  “Yes.” He took her glass and threw back a swallow of port. His tongue twisted at the cloying sweetness. He handed the glass back to her. “Thanks.”

  “Not quite what I had in mind.” Playing with a heavy red stone dangling between her breasts, she raised a plucked brow. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind. Too many worries aren’t beneficial to a person’s health.” She smoothed her palm down his cravat. “I can make you forget. At least for a while.”

  Rolling onto her toes, she whispered in his ear. “I can take the heat. Anywhere you want to burn me, you can. Anywhere.”

  Unwillingly, his cock thickened at that invitation. Molly was a beautiful woman, but he’d never played with her before. She was too practiced. Malicious, even. To truly enjoy working with fire, a bond of trust needed to exist between the play partners. Something in Molly’s eyes warned she could never be trusted.

  “Not tonight. But thank you for offering.”

  She laughed, a musical tinkle. “So polite. Enough to make a lady wonder.”

  Max looked back at the stairwell. Would Colleen be coming down tonight? Would she make good on her threat? “Wonder what?”

  “If perhaps you might have a longing to try something different. At least for one night.” She stroked her hand lower, over his waistcoat. “Haven’t you ever wanted to lose yourself, Sutton? Let go of the reins, just for a little bit?” She stepped close, pressing her breasts into his arm. “Let me take control for the night. Relieve you of your burdens. You won’t have to think about anything except how hard I make you come.”

  He grabbed her hand before it dropped lower. Blood pulsed through his length, and he was torn between pressing her palm into his groin and tossing it off of him. He knew what his cock wanted. Finding release in a woman who wanted nothing more than to make him happy. And he couldn’t deny that the novelty of taking orders from a domineering woman as skilled as Molly didn’t hold its appeal.

  But this time, his big head won out. “Afraid not. That doesn’t interest me.” At least not with a woman he couldn’t trust. If Colleen ever wanted to play the strict nursemaid with him, perhaps crack a ruler along his palm, that could be another story.

  His stomach sank to his toes. Colleen wouldn’t be doing anything with him anymore. His shoulders slumped, and Max desired nothing more than to be alone in his sitting room, with a book in his hand, and a gallon of whiskey by his side. There was another way to forget aside from a back room at The Black Rose, and Max intended to drown himself in it.

  Molly shrugged, the wide strap of her gown slipping off her shoulder. Max was sure it had been intentional. “Your loss,” she said. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be waiting.” She turned. “It’s the least I could do for my new employer,” she tossed over her shoulder and sauntered away.

  Her employer. Max strode from the club. Ignoring the footman, he hurried down the block and hailed his own hackney. Clambering inside, he blew out a breath. At least that was one worry he didn’t have about Colleen. She would never have slept with him just because he employed her. Or to try to seduce money and gifts out of him. No, she was so damn honest she informed a wealthy baron, a man who could give her anything she desired, that she wanted to sleep with other men.

  He slumped in his seat. He couldn’t fault her. Just because his emotions had become involved in their affair didn’t mean hers had to. And she was right. She’d only been with two men. How could she know from such a small sampling where her passions truly lie? He’d hoped—

  He ground his fist into his thigh. It didn’t matter what he hoped.

  The carriage rattled towards his home. Large and empty except for his plants and his servants. Colleen deserved better than him. She’d been remarkable enough to forgive his greatest transgression. She was a goddamn saint.

  And he was a lonely bastard, still trying to figure out right from wrong. He needed his work with the Crown to end. He’d waded through the swamps of England long enough; he needed to get out before he sank. Once he was home, at his country estate, working with his plants, everything would make sense again.
It would be easy to not cross certain lines. Easy to not have to hurt someone for the greater good.

  Life would be undemanding. Trouble-free. Simple.

  And he would be alone.

  Solitude, something he’d always loved, no longer seemed easy.

  He’d taken from Colleen, taken something precious.

  But she’d taken from him, too. His comfort with seclusion. And he didn’t think it was something he’d ever get back.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Another sodding wasted day.” Dunkeld picked up a horseshoe and tossed it at the upright handle of a sledge hammer. It hit the wood and bounced off. “Why won’t anyone try to kill this bounder?”

  Max and his friends had been following Pinkerton around for hours, waiting for an attack that never came. Montague and Summerset had shadowed the American to his bank and to the docks. Pinkerton had asked about the cost for tickets back to America. Rothchild trailed their man to the butcher and again to the bakehouse. How many baguettes could one man eat? Hoping to draw out an attack, they’d instructed Pinkerton to stroll to the outskirts of town. See if the isolation would inspire an assault.

  It hadn’t.

  The six of them lounged in a blacksmith’s hut, its owner called in to tea by his wife. They hadn’t been invited. Looking at their dusty, motley group, Max couldn’t blame the woman.

  Montague took off his hat and wiped his cuff across his forehead. “Pick this up again tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to need new shoes if you want me to walk ten miles again tomorrow.” Pinkerton sat on a crate, his legs stretched in front of him. He broke off a wedge of bread and chewed.

  Dunkeld swiped the baguette from the American. He took a large bite off the end. “You’ll walk barefoot if we want you to.”

  Perched on a sawhorse, Summerset wiped a spot of dirt from the heel of his white, leather boot with his silk pocket square. “We might be in the country, but must you act like an animal?” He glared at Dunkeld. “Keep your mouth closed when you eat.”

  Dunkeld opened his mouth wide, showing Summerset the half-chewed bit of bread.

  Montague sighed. “Gentlemen, can we focus? Our current plan of attack is leading us nowhere. Any new ideas?”

  “Aside from Pinkerton’s and Zed’s threats against Mrs. Bonner, we don’t know what Zed is up to.” Max had left men posted around The Black Rose to watch for anyone unknown entering the club. And to follow Colleen if she was daft enough to leave on her own again. “The Teresa May should be pulling into port in a day or too. We can try finding Dancer again at The Boar’s Head.”

  Rothchild picked up a stone and flung it against the wall. “I’m tired of being lead around by our noses. My wife still has nightmares because of this arsehole. It’s time to put him in the ground.”

  Montague squeezed Rothchild’s shoulder. “It will happen. Be patient.”

  Dunkeld picked up a large haybale and tossed it over his shoulder like it was nothing. “We’re all a bit on edge. Let’s say we take a breather.” Kicking the gate open, he strode from the hut and flung the bale against the side of the wall. Everyone else drifted out as he stacked two more bales on top. Pulling Pinkerton over by his collar, the Scotsman told him to hold some boards against the stack. Dunkeld wrapped rope around the hay, fixing the wood to the bales.

  He wiped his hands. “There. A target.”

  A smile danced around Montague’s lips, and the duke bent down and slid an eight-inch blade from the inside of his Hessians. “Shall we make this interesting? Closest to that knot in the center board wins fifty pounds from the losers?”

  “Agreed,” Rothchild said. Everyone else nodded.

  “Why don’t we make it even more interesting?” Dunkeld disappeared into the hut and emerged with a red apple that the smithy had kept in a basket for his shoeing clients to nibble on. “Pinkerton, sit before the boards and we’ll put this on your head.”

  Scowling, the American grabbed the apple and marched back into the hut, slamming the gate shut behind him.

  “Humorless fellow, that one.” Dunkeld took off his coat and unwound his cravat. “I don’t know why we’re bothering to keep him alive.”

  Montague stepped forwards, took aim, and threw his knife. It spun in a tight spiral and sliced into the board, three inches from the knot. “Pinkerton is a victim, too. We can’t lose sight of that.” He strode forwards and yanked the knife from the wood.

  Max took his own knife, a five-inch blade, and threw. The point slid into the wood an inch closer than Montague’s. He smiled. Max gestured for Rothchild to step up.

  Rothchild shrugged. “I’m not carrying.”

  Dunkeld pulled out his knife, flipped it over so he held the blade, and presented the handle to Rothchild. “What’s mine is yours.”

  Circling his throwing arm, Rothchild took his place in front of the target. “For the record, Pinkerton has been less than useful.” He loosed the knife, and it hit the outside edge of the wood. He grimaced. “Zed must know we’re trying to trap him. I think we should send the American on his way.”

  “I agree. I’m tired of feeding and housing that man,” Summerset said, bending to adjust the lace that trimmed his boot. Quick as a whip, he flicked his wrist. His small blade flashed in the sunlight and buried itself on the other side of the knot from Max’s mark. “I’m closer.”

  “Like hell.” Max tramped forwards and peered at the boards. “I’m clearly closer.” Probably. Shit. Summerset always made it easy to forget. With his ruffled shirts and obscenely bright clothes, it was hard to remember that of all his friends, Summerset was the deadliest. As elegant as a Bengal tiger, and as vicious when provoked.

  “No need to bring out the ruler.” Yanking an axe from a tree stump, Dunkeld stomped next to Summerset. In one graceful swing, he brought the axe around his shoulder to his back, gripped the handle with two fists, and heaved.

  Max dove out of the way, the sound of wood exploding behind him. He rolled onto one knee, panting. “Son of a bitch!” The blade of the axe had severed two boards in half, digging into the hay behind it. The handle quivered with latent energy. The target knot was nowhere in sight.

  A wide grin lit up the Scotsman face. “I win.”

  It was hard to argue with that, although Summerset tried. Max found Summerset’s knife and plucked it up. He handed it to his friend. “Concede defeat. I’d say obliterating the knot counts as getting closest.” He turned to Dunkeld. “I’ll send over a bank draft when I get home.”

  Summerset grumbled but nodded. With two fingers, he plucked his lime-green handkerchief from his pocket and waved it at Max. “There’s a trough of water for the horses over there. You might want to clean yourself up a bit so you don’t resemble one.”

  Rothchild snorted. “I always thought he more resembled a bear. Now one that’s rolled around in the muck.”

  A rumble built in Max’s chest, but he smothered it. With a glare at the arseholes who were supposed to be his friends, he brushed out his beard, dirt sprinkling down. Taking his blade, he angled it, trying to catch his reflection. “The beard isn’t that bad. Is it?”

  Montague coughed discreetly into his fist. “It’s a unique look. Makes you stand out in the House of Lords.”

  “So, you think I should shave?”

  “Absolutely,” Summerset said.

  “I didn’t want to say anything,” Rothchild demurred.

  “About damn time.” Dunkeld picked up his axe. He tossed it into the air, let it revolve once, and grabbed the handle. “Your face is as unfashionable as a bit of Haymarket ware at Buckingham Palace.”

  “You’re one to bloody talk!” Fisting his hands, Max glared at the Scot. “No one has had hair that long since Louis Fourteen.”

  “We’ll worry about Dun next,” Summerset said.

  Damn and blast. First Colleen, now his friends. He tunneled his fingers into the bush and rubbed his jaw. He liked it when Colleen tugged on his beard, drawing his head down for a kiss. But perhaps a clean
cheek would be best. He pursed his lips. Since Colleen didn’t seem to want to see his face right now, perhaps a new one would soften her.

  Decision made. “I’m shaving it off.”

  “Excellent.” Summerset tucked his handkerchief away and clapped his hands together. “Now, my man will not only give you a clean shave but can do something with the rest of your hair, as well.”

  Max eyed the earl’s perfect coif, with two locks artfully coiled at his brow. As pretty as a woman’s. “No, thank you.”

  Dunkeld slapped the flat end of the axe-blade into his palm. “Don’t need a valet. I’d be more than happy to take care of it for you myself.”

  Not liking the glint in the Scotsman eye, Max took a wary step back. “Thanks, Dun. But I’ve got it covered.”

  “Nonsense,” Montague said. All four men advanced on him. “You can always count on your closest friends to get the job done right.”

  Bloody hell. Max stepped back, stumbling over a broken wheel discarded in the weeds. His friends saw their advantage and made their move. Max spun on his heel and ran as if his life depended upon it.

  Like dogs chasing after a fox, the sots efficiently hunted him down. Their laughter drowned out his fruitless curses.

  ***

  “It was a clear question.” Colleen rocked back in her chair and laced her fingers across her stomach. She pinned Molly with a stern stare. “Did you lock Suzy in the necessary and take her standing appointment with Mr. Harper?”

  Of all the problems with being the manager for a Venus club, suffering from boredom wasn’t one of them. In the last three hours Colleen had fired her wine dealer, freed a couple from the ropes they’d tangled themselves in, and stopped Suzy from tearing out Molly’s hair.

  She’d been busy putting out fires. Fingering the chain to her pocket watch, Colleen’s shoulders sagged. But not busy enough to help her forget the words between her and Max. The anger in his eyes.

  “There isn’t a lock on the outside of the door to the necessary.” Turning in the chair, Molly draped one leg over the chair’s armrest, swinging her foot.