The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  Instead, he ignored her dig and tried a different tactic. “On the topic of employable skills, that was why I went to the mop fair in the first place. To see what jobs were available.”

  Kitty stared at him—then threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Corby, pull my other leg, eh? It’s shorter.”

  “I’m not joking,” he said curtly. “We need the money.”

  She sauntered up to him, trailed a finger down his chest. “You do know how one advertises one’s trade at the mops, lover?”

  Though he might have lived his whole life in London’s underbelly, he wasn’t an idiot. “One walks around with a tool from one’s trade. You hold a mop if you haven’t any specific skill, but you’re willing to learn.”

  “Exactly,” she drawled. “So how will it look for you to prance up and down the fair—waving that giant cock of yours about?”

  His jaw clenched. “I can do honest work, Kitty.”

  “You say that because you’ve never done it before.” She smirked. “Other than fucking, what are you good at, hmm? You’re far too good-looking to be a field hand, and your skills don’t qualify you to be even a second footman.”

  His face burned; he had no reply.

  “Self-delusion is for the stupid and weak.” She suddenly palmed his crotch, her rough squeeze driving a harsh breath from his lips. “Besides, can you imagine being in service day in and day out? And for what? Twenty-five pounds a year,” she scoffed. “You’ve made four times that in a single night—and enjoyed yourself far more in the process. No, Corby, drudgery wasn’t meant for the likes of us.”

  His mind knew she was right, yet something in him resisted.

  He shoved her hand away. “Perhaps in your dotage,” he drawled, knowing how much she hated any reference to her age, “you’ve given up hope for change, but I’m a young man. I’ve a whole future ahead of me.”

  “You’re a whore,” she said flatly. “A pretty one, to be sure, but your future lies between your legs, and don’t you forget it.”

  Anger roiled; he held it ruthlessly in check. “My future is mine to decide.”

  “You wouldn’t even have a future if it weren’t for me. I made you, Corby: I gave you your manners, your clothes, your fine accent. Without me, you’d be nothing but a whore’s bastard.”

  The reminder pitted his anger against his sense of loyalty—his greatest weakness. Because despite everything, he couldn’t forget what Kitty had done for him. Where he might be now if it hadn’t been for her.

  Dead, probably.

  “It’s because of you that we have nothing.” His hands curled in frustration. “If you hadn’t gotten mixed up with Black, we’d still have a roof over our heads, a thriving business—”

  “We can have that again.” In a blink, Kitty went from petulant to seductive. Manipulation was the tool of her trade, and even knowing that didn’t make him impervious to the tears that glimmered in her fine grey eyes. To the hitch of remorse in her voice. “I know I’ve made mistakes, Corby, but I can fix this. I have plans to get us out of this mess.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What plans?”

  “London’s still too close, clinging to us like a hangnail. We need to make a clean break—get farther into the countryside,” she declared. “Shropshire, maybe. Or Dorset.”

  “Sheep and pigs,” he said with a snort. “What in bloody hell are we going to do there?”

  “Start another business. It doesn’t have to be a bawdy house, although,”—she slid him a look—“that would be the obvious place to begin. Given our areas of expertise.”

  “Let us not forget those. I fuck for money, and you spend it as if it grew on trees.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

  He lifted a brow. “Was I being sarcastic?”

  “Just think of the advantages we’ll have over the local competition,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “We’ll bring panache, class, exotic tricks—”

  “We?”

  “To start. All hands on deck and all that. Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said crossly. “I was plying the trade whilst you were in your nappies. I suppose I still know how it’s done.”

  “I suppose.” He wondered if it ought to bother him that his lover planned to bed others… but he was no hypocrite. And, truthfully, he didn’t give a damn.

  Possessiveness wasn’t part of his nature.

  “There is one small problem, of course.”

  He didn’t like the glint in Kitty’s eyes. “What problem?”

  “Primrose.” As his gut chilled, she said, “Now that she longer pays for herself, we can’t afford to keep her. To embark on my plan, we’ll need to cut all unnecessary expenses—”

  “Primrose stays.”

  “Be reasonable.” Kitty trapped his face between her palms, her beautiful face pleading. “This is our future we’re talking about.”

  “Where will she go? She’s only four, for Christ’s sake. You can’t throw an innocent out on the street—”

  “You and I are living proof that you can.” Kitty dropped her hands, her steely gaze pinning him. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

  “I’ll pay her way,” he gritted out. “You don’t have to lift a finger.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. You’re no hero, Corby.”

  “I know that,” he snapped. “Just let her stay, and I’ll do what it takes to make your bloody plan work, all right?”

  Kitty studied him, his heart pounding out the seconds.

  “All right,” she said finally. “But if you can’t manage her, she goes.”

  He gave a terse nod.

  “Well, it seems we have a bargain. Best strike while the iron is hot.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I spoke earlier to a fellow traveler. A widow staying at this very inn.” Kitty smiled thinly. “As it turns out, she’s in need of consolation this eve.”

  He knew then that he’d been had. From the start of the conversation, this was what Kitty had been angling for. But he couldn’t turn back… not with Primrose’s future hanging in the balance. And given how far down this path he’d gone, maybe the only choice was to soldier on.

  What difference did it make anyway? Another customer, another fuck. He’d trained his body to go through the motions while his mind remained uninvolved. Detached. He could make a patron climax again and again while he planned for the day when he’d have his own club and determine his own future. When he shot his load, it would be to the ultimate fantasy: success.

  So let them buy his cock, his hands, his mouth—his mind was his own.

  “After the fuck, I’m not sleeping with her,” he clipped out.

  “I haven’t forgotten your rule, lover.” Now that she’d gotten her way, Kitty’s manner turned conciliatory. “You never sleep with customers. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “Widows can be clingy.”

  “For the twenty pounds she paid, I told her she’d get an hour of your time and no more.”

  He went to the battered washing stand and cleaned himself up. He did a final inspection in the cracked looking glass: the eyes that stared out of his youthful face were cool, flat. Ready.

  Straightening his cravat, he turned to his bawd. “Take me to her.”

  Chapter Six

  Heart hammering, she raced down the shadowy corridor.

  She didn’t know what she was running from, only that it was close, too close, and she needed to hide. She arrived at a dead end, three doors surrounding her: which one should she choose? She grabbed the closest handle, her clammy hands fumbling to get it open. Stumbling inside, she slammed the door shut.

  Silence. Darkness. The carpet beneath her slippers was thick as a bog, slowing her clumsy steps toward a flickering in the distance. A fireplace? As she got closer, she saw the back of a massive wingchair. Someone was sitting there. Smoke rose in ghostly spirals, the distinct fruity scent churning her stomach.

  A man’s disembodied v
oice floated to her. “Come here, my little flower…”

  Sweat leaked down her palms; on shaky legs, she ran from the room, through another door.

  She found herself in a garret room, small, bare… at least no one was there. Her feet took her to the only window: through the glass, dawn’s first rays spilled over the rooftops and streets below. She blinked as the light grew brighter and brighter, a strange orange glow glazing the buildings and blazing into the sky…

  Then she smelled it. Smoke.

  She whipped around: the room was aflame.

  Fire swirled, advancing hungrily toward her. Terror seized her as flames rose higher and higher, thick black smoke choking her lungs. Only one way to escape. She turned, threw open the window, stepping out onto the ledge. Her belly lurched as the cobblestones spun dizzily in her vision, so far away…

  The fire exploded, a fist of air punching her out the window, and she screamed as she plummeted backward through darkness…

  “Open your eyes, little one.”

  Blinking, she found herself staring into the face of a god.

  “Wh-where am I?” she stammered.

  “You’re safe now.” His brown gaze was warm, his deep voice reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

  She was on a bed, she realized, and he was on his side next to her, a wall of masculine strength.

  “Who are you?” she murmured.

  “You know who I am.”

  “I don’t…” Yet staring into his beautiful countenance, she felt recognition stir. Like an autumn wind, it swirled through the leaves of her memories: feelings without images, familiarity without facts. I know you. She reached up, her hand curling against his jawbone.

  His eyes smoldered. He bent his head, and her eyes closed in anticipation.

  His kiss was like coming home to a place she’d never been. The touch of his lips, soft yet firm, threw open the curtains, dazzling her. So this is desire. Longing flooded her. His taste made her crave more, the disciplined forays of his tongue making her shiver and shake. She arched closer—

  “Rosie, darling, are you awake?”

  Rosie’s eyes flew open. Her heart thumped in her ears, and it took her a moment to recognize the chintz canopy and buttercup yellow walls, the cabinet of dolls. Her bedchamber. She touched her still-tingling lips, the dream slow to recede, ethereal tendrils clinging to her mind.

  Beneath her nightgown, her breasts surged, achy and full. The tips were stiff and throbbing, a syrupy warmth gathered between her legs. Shame and horror collided.

  Dear Lord, what is the matter with me? Why did I have such a wanton dream… about him?

  “Rosie?”

  “Coming, Mama!” Jumping out of bed, she hurriedly donned a flannel wrapper, took a breath, and opened the door.

  Mama stood there in a lilac promenade dress.

  “Good morning, dear,” she said pleasantly. “Odette said that you were not yet up, and I thought I’d check on you myself.” She made her way inside, the dark-haired maid following in her wake. “You may set the tray down, Odette. I’ll help my daughter with her ablutions this morning.”

  Odette bobbed a curtsy and left after drawing open the curtains.

  Mama waved Rosie to the rosewood vanity.

  Obediently, Rosie took a seat. “You’re up early, aren’t you?”

  “I have Sophie to thank for that.” Mama’s smile was rueful as she poured steaming water from the ewer into the basin. “Libby brought her to me at dawn.”

  “You ought to hire a wet nurse like other fashionable ladies.”

  “I like nursing Sophie. I did the same for Edward and…”—Mama lined up the grooming implements with undue care—“as long as I could for you.”

  The reminder of their separation was there, always. Rosie knew it wasn’t her mother’s fault: Mama’s late and unmourned husband, Baron Draven, had stolen Rosie from her. Nonetheless, Rosie couldn’t squelch her bitterness at the infamous start to her life. Unlike her half-siblings, she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and she’d been kidnapped by that bounder Draven, and God knows what else had happened in the period before Sir Gerald Coyner had become her guardian.

  Darkness rose from the depths of her dream, bringing with it that nameless dread that made her pulse throb at the base of her throat. Don’t think about it. Shut it out.

  She washed her face with a towel and managed, “Is Papa out already?”

  Mama nodded. “Since he was up helping with Sophie, he thought he might as well get an early start at the office.”

  Sophie again. “I’m surprised you’re not with her now.” The minute the words slipped out Rosie cringed at how petulant she sounded and hoped her parent didn’t notice.

  “Libby took her for her daily outing earlier than usual.” Mama selected a silver-backed brush, running it through Rosie’s hair. “I thought I could have some time with you. We’ve not had much of late, have we?”

  Relieved, Rosie returned her mama’s smile in the mirror. “No, we haven’t.”

  “As a matter of fact, Helena paid a call yesterday while you were out shopping, and it made me realize that you and I have not discussed the Harteford masquerade.”

  Despite the soothing strokes of the brush, she tensed. Aunt Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford, was Mama’s bosom friend, and the two were as thick as thieves. Had her aunt noticed her absence during the ball?

  “There’s not much to share,” she said cautiously.

  “Helena said that you were radiant in your swan costume.” Mama set down the brush, placing her hands onto Rosie’s shoulders. “Any prospects, dearest?”

  Rosie contemplated confessing about the stranger (not that he was a prospect) and instantly rejected the notion. If her mother found out that she’d been unchaperoned in the presence of some mysterious man twice and she’d shared a kiss with him, she’d be subjected to a lifetime of sermons. Not to mention, she’d be kept under lock and key henceforth.

  Fear of those consequences had led Rosie to withhold the truth even from Polly and Revelstoke. When they’d found her in the rotunda, she’d skimmed over the details of what had transpired, saying simply that Daltry hadn’t showed. Although she’d sensed the couple’s skepticism, she couldn’t very well confess that she’d kissed a stranger in a public place. And that she’d experienced desire for the first time.

  And that she was an utter trollop.

  “No one of consequence,” she forced herself to say lightly.

  “Hmm.”

  She was unnerved by the astute gleam in Mama’s eyes. “Hmm… what?”

  “You know I only want the best for you, dearest.”

  The phrase that always preceded a lecture. Her jaw tensed. “But?”

  “Well, Helena mentioned that Mr. Fellowes, a nice young man, asked you to dance and you refused—”

  “Because he has no title and no position in Society,” Rosie burst out. “He was only invited because his father does business with Lord Harteford. There was no point in encouraging him when marrying him won’t help my situation at all!”

  “There’s no need for dramatics. Your situation, as you put it, isn’t as dire as you believe—”

  “Not dire?” Rosie shot up to face her mother. “After that poem, my reputation is hanging on by a thread. If I don’t marry soon and well, I’ll be an outcast, a nobody—”

  “You’re not a nobody,” Mama said sharply. “Why does the ton’s opinion matter so much?”

  “Because it does.” Her hands curled at her sides. “I want to belong, Mama. Why is that so dashed difficult for you to understand?”

  “I do understand. I just don’t agree. Rosie, my darling,”—Mama touched her arm, but she pulled away—“desperation doesn’t become you. You are better than this.”

  She wasn’t. Why couldn’t anyone get it through their thick skulls?

  “I am a bastard,” she cried. “I was kidnapped, and no one even knows how I ended up in Gerry’s care. I was damaged goods even before I got p
ublicly branded a flirt!”

  Pain—and awful guilt—seized Mama’s features.

  “Those are my failures,” she said in a stilted voice, “not yours.”

  Ashamed and angry in equal parts, Rosie lifted her chin. “Regardless, I have to live with the consequences. I have to find some way to hold my head up. I have to prove that I’m just as good as other debutantes!”

  “That’s my point: you don’t have to prove anything. You think I don’t understand, but I do. I’ve experienced more of the world than you have. When I became Mrs. Ambrose Kent, the ton thought I’d married beneath me, and they could not have been more wrong. In that match, I was the lucky one. It was my great fortune to win your papa’s love, and Society’s opinion matters not a whit.”

  “Papa is a prince among men,” Rosie said impatiently, “but you had the opportunity to make your choice to leave the ton—and that’s where we’re different. The beau monde won’t let me in, and I want a place there, more than anything.”

  “More than love?” Mama frowned.

  Who’s going to love damaged goods? All those failed flirtations had made the truth clear. Rosie had lost her faith in romance long ago, and as for her foolish reaction toward the stranger—hadn’t she learned anything? Like all the other men, he’d merely been dallying with her. Why, he’d taken off like a shot at the first sign of trouble. And that claptrap about protecting her?

  Hah. Gentlemen were always chivalrous until they got what they wanted.

  He said you were a hussy… and he proved it, didn’t he?

  Humiliation oozed through her. Her encounter with the bounder was proof positive that she needed the protection of a high connection: a marriage that would make her untouchable. A locked cabinet that put her out of the reach of gossip and rejection.

  She returned her mother’s direct gaze. “More than anything.”

  Mama sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you.”

  “I know.” The panicky feeling returned. When the sounds of crying broke the taut silence, Rosie was relieved. “Sophie is back. You’d best see to her.”

  “I suppose I should.” Mama paused in the doorway, turning. “By the by, your father and I were thinking that it might be nice to spend some time in Chudleigh Crest. Sophie’s early arrival kept us here in Town, but I think we could all use a sojourn to the country.”